by Layton Green
“I believe he died a few years ago, and I’ve no idea what happened to his estate.” She crossed her legs, her mouth curling into a determined smile. “But we’re going to find out.”
Adaira informed them that a trip to Bayou Village, a community of eccentric nature lovers just outside the city limits, would require a full day, and that they would have to wait until the following Sunday, as she had functions to attend. Both Dida and Gowan were busy the weekend of the planned excursion, so Adaira and Val decided to trek to Bayou Village by themselves.
Val was frustrated, as he was hoping to corner Gowan about the Planewalk. He grew even more frustrated over the next two weeks, when Gowan brushed him off whenever Val offered to introduce him to spiritmancy. Val had come to believe that Gowan knew he didn’t have the power to become a spirit mage, would always be bitter about it, and would never attempt the Planewalk.
Which meant he was going to have to find another way to pressure Gowan to reveal what he knew.
In the meantime, Val poured everything he had into preparing himself for the upcoming trial, studying and practicing his magic to the point of exhaustion. His cross-discipline studies accelerated, and he began catching up with the others, earning sour stares from Gowan and looks of admiration from the rest.
During the Friday spiritmancy class before the planned trip to Bayou Village, Val found himself again trying to produce a spark of spirit fire—the only thing the class had been doing for weeks. No one had succeeded, and Professor Azara kept watching over them with folded arms, murmuring words of wisdom as they struggled.
Find the smallest point possible. Split that in half, then half again. Deeper, now—deeper, deeper, deeper. Reach, students, reach. Reach until it burns, until you quiver from the effort, until your mind feels ready to explode into a million shards.
Val stood on his dais, shaking from exertion and lack of sleep, determined to reach the source of spirit. He broke off staring at his fingertips and closed his mind to the Professor’s voice, closed it to everything except the raw power he knew seethed within him, waiting to be unlocked.
Dig, Val. Dig as you have never dug before.
He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined a ball of energy inside his head. He kept shrinking that ball with his mind, forcing it to an unimaginably small size, ever smaller, ever denser, infinity in a thimble, in a speck of dust, in an atom, squeezing so hard he felt a blood vessel pop in his eye, didn’t matter, had to keep going, smaller smaller smaller smaller smaller
Val fell off the dais at the same time he saw a flash in his mind and felt his power ripping apart the air around him. In a panic, he lashed out with his mind to stop his fall, trying to push against the floor with a limited Wind Push. Instead, three arcs of black lightning erupted from his fingers, two of them narrowly missing Lydia and one of them striking an invisible shield protecting the air around Professor Azara. The shield crackled with lines of black energy as it absorbed the bolts.
Val landed on his back on the floor, the fall knocking the air out of him. Despite gasping for breath, he felt giddy from the rush of endorphins the magic had released, a triple shot of pure adrenaline.
He struggled to his knees, dizzy, still trying to catch his breath as he saw the astonishment flickering in Professor Azara’s eyes, the look of undisguised jealousy from Damon, and the pale visage of Lydia cringing on her dais.
“I’m sorry,” Val finally managed to say as he took a step towards Lydia, realizing he had almost killed her. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Dazed, Lydia took a step back and swallowed.
“Again,” Professor Azara said evenly. “This time with control. I’ll erect a Spirit Shield.”
Val tried again, swooned from the strain, and remembered no more.
He woke in the infirmary, to the welcome sight of Adaira sitting in a chair by his bed, smiling as Val blinked sleep from his eyes. She was wearing a V-necked blue dress and calfskin boots, most of her hair in a topknot, a few strands spilling across her chest.
“You don’t look too worried,” Val said, “so I must be okay.”
“I heard what happened in class—the entire school knows—and I hurried over. The nurse says you fainted from exhaustion.”
“That . . . might be the case.”
“Tsk tsk.” She pressed a hand to his brow as if feeling his temperature. “You must take better care. You’re killing yourself.”
He managed a weak smile. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“And let’s keep it that way, shall we? Full-fledged spirit fire in the first month?” Her eyes gleamed. “Impressive.”
A soothing warmth spread from her hand to his forehead, then flowed through his bloodstream and invigorated him. “Are you practicing cuerpomancy on me?” he asked, wondering how much of the tingling he felt was magical, and how much was a response to her touch.
“Indeed,” she said, checking his pulse and then feeling his forehead again.
“Thanks,” Val said. “You didn’t need to come here.”
“Actually, I did. I have something for you.”
“Is that right?”
She handed him a gilt-edged envelope. Curious, he opened it and saw an invitation to a dinner party on Saturday night—the next evening—at an address on St. Charles. His eyes roved downward, then clamped onto the name of the host.
Lord Alistair, Chief Thaumaturge of the Congregation.
“You’re my date for the evening, if you’re willing,” Adaira said, her smile expanding like a cloudless sky. “I trust you can attend?”
“Lord Alistair, eh?” Gus cackled the next evening, clamping down on his pipe as the horses trotted down oak-lined St. Charles Avenue. “Movin’ up in the world, ye are. All the way up.”
“I’m just his daughter’s date for the evening,” Val said. “Nothing more.”
“Ye just remember the little people when yer livin’ at the top o’ one o’ them spires, laddie.” He turned and pointed the pipe at Val. “Now let’s hear ye practice again.”
Val started talking in his best imitation of the accent of the Kenefick clan of Talinmar Village. Claiming residual exhaustion, he had skipped his Relics class to spend the entire day with Gus’s relatives in a poor section of town, absorbing the speech patterns, watching the body language, and inquiring about the customs of the Keneficks. He wasn’t about to have a repeat of the Rucker experience; Lord Alistair marking him as a fraud would be a disaster, and might even land him in the Fens.
Val didn’t ask Gus what he had told his family, appreciative of the fact that no one asked any questions. Most likely, the salary Val paid Gus kept his family in good stead, and they weren’t about to jeopardize the income.
As dusk approached, Gus reined in the horses outside a beige stone mansion that covered half a city block. Two live oaks shaded the front of the residence, their moss-laden branches extending to the bay windows and portico balconies jutting outward from the house.
Thickets of topiary demarcated the front lawn, as well as fountains streaming multicolored liquids. Remembering the magical defenses secreted within the landscaping of Lord Alistair’s fortress in the Wizard District, Val stepped nervously along the pebbled path, taking care not to touch anything. Two majitsu watched with folded arms from a balcony.
“Don’t forget where ye came from,” Gus said in a low voice, cackling as the horses trotted away. Val chuckled at Gus’s double entendre. He was a shrewd one.
Adaira opened the door before Val could knock, looking resplendent in a full length silver dress with crimson trim that accentuated her slender waist. Her hair was unbound, kept back with a golden circlet.
Gus had helped Val purchase a dinner jacket for the occasion, guiding him to a tailor on Canal. Val felt comfortable in formal attire; he was used to bespoke suits and thousand dollar accessories.
“My my, what a handsome gentlemen has appeared,” Adaira said.
He bowed and offered his arm. “Surpassed, by far, by the beauty
of his escort.”
She beamed and led him through the stone foyer, down a hallway covered in oil paintings, then past a succession of lavish rooms to a dining hall dominated by a diamond chandelier.
Three wizards Val knew on sight, and two he didn’t, were seated with their consorts at a long table of polished mahogany: Professor Azara, Dean Varen, a petite and beautiful blond woman wearing a high-waisted white dress and matching tiara, and a handsome dark-haired man dressed in a brown suit with coattails, fingers glittering with jeweled rings.
At the head of the table loomed Lord Alistair, wearing a sleek, blue-white robe with a high collar and buttons down the front. Except for a gloved hand, he wore no jewelry other than a thick azantite bracelet. He and Professor Azara were the only two present without a consort.
Lord Alistair swept his palm outward, ushering Val and Adaira to the table. “Welcome, Val. My daughter speaks very highly of you. As do,” his eyes flicked to Professor Azara, as if sharing a pleasant secret, “your professors.”
Val knew in an instant he had been invited to this dinner party not just because of Adaira’s attentions, but because of the future promise he saw reflected in the eyes of the elder mages. He had seen the same look in the eyes of the partners who had conducted his first evaluations at his law firm.
The wizards wanted to groom him.
Val gave a half-bow, working hard to calm his nerves. “I’m honored to be here,” he said, with just the right notes of humility and confidence.
More greetings were made. Adaira introduced the blond woman as Kalyn Tern, High Aeromancer, and the dark-haired man as Braden Shankstone, High Cuerpomancer.
“I must confess,” Kalyn said to Val, her eyes sharp, “I was expecting a different accent from someone from the far North. My family is from Whiterock Junction, a few hours south of Talinmar.”
“Ah, yes,” Val said, switching to the soft and elongated vowels he had heard the Keneficks use, “perhaps you would prefer if I talked more in the manner of my forebears?”
Kalyn nodded and gave the hint of a cold smile, as if Val had just passed a test which could have been unfortunate for him to fail. Kalyn continued, “I see that, like myself, you’ve chosen to adopt a more neutral accent in your professional life. It’s for the best, lest your city-bred peers,” her gaze warmed as it swept the room, “judge you for your provincial ways.”
The room chuckled, and Val breathed a huge sigh of relief. He couldn’t have started with the Talinmar accent, of course, or Adaira would have found it suspect. Kalyn had provided the perfect opening.
A dinner party of this caliber, Val knew, was akin to war. So he went into battle playing the part of the aspiring wizard, affording his elders the respect they deserved, silent for most of the meal, chiming in when necessary to let everyone know he possessed the requisite intelligence and ambition to one day join them as a peer.
Of course, being from another world made it hard to blend, but Val was a master of assimilation, and he chimed in with cogent observations whenever he had an opening. He had already learned the dining customs of this world by watching Adaira at the coterie.
He could feel everyone observing him, evaluating, judging. When Adaira mentioned the growing incidents of unrest tied to the Devla Cult, he felt the air in the room stiffen. The elder mages seemed to exchange a collective glance, and Lord Alistair addressed Val. “Tell me, if you were a member of the Conclave, what action would you take in response to this cult?”
Val felt his palms grow warm as the attention of the room shifted his way. He met Professor Azara’s implacable gaze for an instant, and he said, “A difficult road to navigate. If the response is too weak, the cult will be emboldened, and attract new members. And if the Congregation reacts too strongly, one risks alienating the more . . . moderate . . . factions of society.”
There were murmurs of agreement. Kalyn said, “What would you propose, then? Leaders cannot afford to occupy the middle. Hard choices must be made.”
Val liked Kalyn least of all—the woman’s every word was calculated, and he sensed an animosity towards him. Maybe he was being paranoid.
“True,” Val said, as his lessons from History and Governance flashed through his head. He thought he knew what they wanted to hear. “The Congregation is extremely powerful. Yet despite this power, wizards are still—and always will be—in the vast minority. Religion is akin to an infectious disease, and we must never allow it to regain a foothold. The common born must believe that we are their hope for the future, for a better life. A movement like the Devla cult must not just be defeated, but discredited. Not allowed to be martyred. Best of all if the cult self destructs from within, demonstrating the disastrous results of a return to a superstitious belief system.”
Braden nodded his approval, and Lord Alistair leaned forward, the most engaged Val had seen him.
“Goad them,” Val said. “Trick the cult into an act of violence that puts innocent lives at risk—common-born lives. Plant a mole that destroys the leadership from within. Challenge their prophets to display the power of their non-existent god, to feed the poor with their religion.” He spread his hands. “Of course, the Congregation could scorch the Realm and wipe the Devla cult from existence. But a far better outcome is to use the cult to bolster your reputation. Secure the will of the people for the future.”
Val leaned back and reached for his wine glass, resisting the urge to glance around the table for validation. He saw Adaira’s hands tense in her lap, could feel all eyes on him as they waited to see how their host would respond.
“Bravo,” Lord Alistair said slowly, raising his glass, “to a most measured and intelligent response.”
Everyone toasted, Val felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. After a time, Val excused himself, asking for the washroom.
Adaira led him up a wide staircase, pointing down a hallway at the first landing. “It’s the second door on your left,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Excellent showing. You impressed them.”
On his way down the hallway, Val passed a study lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. On a hunch, he peered down the corridor in either direction, then stepped inside and perused a few of the titles, all of which pertained to the history and use of magic.
Lord Alistair’s personal library, he realized. A potential gold mine.
He wondered if the library was warded, and debated slipping on the Ring of Shadows. He discarded the idea, reasoning that if the wards or one of the mages caught him using the ring, then he would really be in trouble.
Scanning the titles as fast as he could, he padded across the thick rug, knowing he should get back to the dinner party.
There.
The title jumped out at him like a striking cobra: Manual of Pedagogy for Spiritmancers.
His heart slapped against his chest. Ears cocked for sounds of an approach, he checked the index.
Walk of Planes......... 257–258.
With trembling fingers, he flipped the gilt-edged pages and read the entry on the Planewalk.
As established in 1325 P.R. by a joint effort of the spirit mage thaumaturgical coalition, at the behest of Lord Myrddin and in furtherance of the need for a more rigorous and uniform standard of entry, completion of the Walk of Planes became a prerequisite to initiation as a spirit mage. Designed with the help of the renowned spirit architect Corinn Leginthius, this final and most rigorous hurdle is a test of each applicant’s ability to work with spirit, as well as a measure of fortitude, will, and mental constitution.
According to coalition regulation 17.5k, the only instructions to be meted to students attempting the Planewalk are the following: (1) Utilizing solely the student’s individual reserves of spirit, the Spirit Bridge must be walked in a continuous motion until the portal is reached; and (2) stopping or leaving the Spirit Bridge will result in certain oblivion.
Due to the high number of past casualties, it is recommended that a member of the
faculty oversee each attempt at the Planewalk, such that the prospective spirit mage, should he or she feel unable to push through or remain attached to the Spirit Bridge, may conclude the test at any time by accepting the assistance of the elder mage. Incomplete negotiation of the Planewalk will terminate the student’s candidacy. Note, however, that according to recent regulations established at the Council of Highridge, a student who has failed his or her attempt at the Planewalk may choose to undertake another Discipline Exam. This exception is exclusive to spiritmancy students.
It is further recommended that the entrance to the Planewalk remain under the sole jurisdiction of the spirit mage faculty, lest any unfortunate accidents result.
Pedagogical suggestions for navigation of the Walk of Planes include the following: rigorous application of
A voice from behind interrupted him. “Are you seeking a particular tome, or just browsing?”
Val whipped around. Standing at the entrance to the library, petite arms crossed against her chest, eyebrows arched in suspicion, was Kalyn Tern.
-43-
Riding the darrowgar through the Darklands was a surreal experience. Unlike the precipitous descent into the Great Chasm, the lithe creatures sped through the rough-cut tunnels and hollowed-out lava tubes, climbed walls to avoid piles of rubble, leapt over crevasses, darted through low passages with their riders hugging them tight.
“All this time, I thought the darrowgar were the monsters,” Caleb said.
Yasmina stroked the back of her mount. “I believe this species—note the shorter tails and more powerful legs, made to carry riders—has been domesticated by the darvish.”
“Ah,” Caleb said. “So we could have been eaten after all, back in the first battle. Speaking of combat, you’re becoming quite the warrior, little brother. I saw you hold your own with that delver.”
“Becoming?” Tamás said. “I believe he has arrived.”