by David Meyer
I tore my eyes away from the mirror and my senses returned to the present. The air tasted of dust and grit. A cool breeze chilled me to the bone.
Leandra gave me a funny look. “Are you okay?”
“Huh?”
“You stopped answering me. It was almost like you’d been hypnotized.”
I nodded at the mirror. “I was watching that.”
“What’d you see?”
“Well, it was supposed to be a speech, given by Boris Hynor. Only the speech never happened.”
Piper cocked her head to one side. “Why not?”
“Boris started to talk about Chaotic magic, but the crowd shouted him down. Then a guy attacked him and Boris fought back.” I shrugged. “That’s when I stopped watching.”
Leandra studied the frame. “It says here that this memory was removed from Womigia.”
“Let me see that.” Piper gave the mirror a close look.
I frowned. “How is that even possible?”
“I’m not sure,” Piper said slowly. “But if I had to guess, I’d say the mirror took possession of the memory and somehow extracted it from Womigia.”
“What does that mean?” Leandra asked. “That it’s impossible to remember?”
“Not necessarily.” She stopped to think. “I imagine anyone who was actually there would still remember it. But the way they remember it might have changed.”
Now, Leandra looked really confused. “Huh?”
Piper glanced at me. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I gave them a quick rundown of Boris’ speech. “Of course, I don’t know the context,” I said. “But the crowd shouted Boris down before he even had a chance to speak. Then an audience member attacked him.”
“How do you feel after watching it? Are you more or less sympathetic to Boris?”
“The audience was rude and the attacker made the first move. On the other hand, Boris was polite and defended himself. So, I guess I should feel a little better about him.” I shrugged. “But I don’t.”
“I thought so.” She nodded sagely. “Here’s how I think it works. If we’d been in that audience, we would’ve remembered everything that happened. But it wouldn’t have changed the way we felt about the Philosophical War. In other words, it would’ve had no impact on our feelings toward the Structuralists or the Chaotics.”
“I get it.” Leandra looked troubled. “But what’s the point? Who cares if Boris comes out looking good once or twice? He was still a lousy Chaotic.”
“I don’t know,” Piper admitted.
I recalled Tad’s instructions to me. “Do me a favor. See if you can find a memory dated February 1, 1930.”
“This one is dated February 1, 1930.” Leandra began studying the many embedded mirrors. “This one, too. That’s the original Victory Day, by the way.”
That was true and a curious observation. Apparently, a bunch of memories, maybe even all of them, had been extracted on the very day that the Structuralists had won the Philosophical War. “I don’t mean when the memory was removed,” I replied. “I mean when it actually took place.”
Splitting up, we scoured Womigia. Hundreds of mirrors stuck out of its surface. They looked like crude, unnecessary additions to a gorgeous masterpiece.
Leandra cleared her throat. “This one is pretty close. It says, ‘Boris Hynor denounces protestor violence and vows to carry his message forward. April 18, 1929. Collected at the Tuckhouse School of Magic. Removed from Womigia on February 1, 1930.’”
“That’s interesting,” Piper commented.
“What’s interesting?”
“I’ve always thought of the Philosophical War in a certain way. That is, the Structuralists were the scrappy underdogs, trying to achieve victory through peaceful means. Meanwhile, the Chaotics brutalized them at every turn. But these mirrors show a different side of the conflict. One where the Structuralists weren’t always so innocent.”
“If memories of Structuralist violence were removed,” I said, slowly, “but memories of Chaotics wrongdoing were left intact …”
“… then that’s all we’d know about today,” Piper said, finishing my thought.
I continued walking, checking mirrors at every step. They came in all shapes and sizes. Many sat in luxurious, fancy frames. I saw numerous types of glass, ranging from thick to thin and from cloudy to clear. The only thing they had in common was that none of them were broken.
The inscriptions, for the most part, pre-dated Victory Day. They dealt almost exclusively with events pertaining to the Philosophical War. I saw plenty of names, but few that I recognized.
As I worked my way around a corner, I noticed a mirror off by itself. It was long and thin, with bubbly glass. Its inscription read, February 1, 1930 Battle at the Roderick J. Madkey School of Magical Administration. Removed from Womigia February 1, 1930.
My heart seized in my chest and I found myself barely able to breathe. “Over here,” I announced.
Piper and Leandra beat a path to my side. We exchanged uncertain looks, then turned our attention to the mirror.
The glassy surface began to swirl before our eyes. A large crowd of witches and wizards appeared. They were crammed onto a hoist. Their cheeks were severe, their jaws were hard as rock. I recognized some of them. Lanctin Boltstar. George Galison. Angela Tyca. Deej MacPherson. Beatrice Norch.
The hoist jolted to a halt, the gate opened, and the witches and wizards stepped outside. They gave quick looks at Boltstar.
He gave them a nod and they returned it. Then they headed off in various directions.
Leaving the hoist, Boltstar entered the Upper-Torso section of Madkey. The floors, walls, windows, and elevated bridges were all the same. The doors and hoists were the same as well. And yet, this version of Torso still looked quite different compared to modern times.
The open-air section was empty, completely free of tables and chairs. A single walkway, originating at the Lower-Torso bridge, extended out into the middle of the space. It was abutted by waist-high railings, mounted on steel poles. Swirling, black mist hung over the entire area, shrouding it in beautiful, regal mystery.
It wasn’t just the looks that differed, either. Torso felt different, too. I’d always felt a weird vibe within it, part wild and carefree and part stressed to the edge of insanity. But this older version was neither of those things. It didn’t seem like the type of place where students would go to blow off steam or study for a big exam. Instead, it had a mystical, almost reverential feel to it.
It took me a moment to put it together. Madkey Station Grille didn’t exist at this point in time. Instead, I was looking at Madkey Station itself, the infamous conveyance portal that led to the Floating Abyss.
Lots of people were gathered upon the bridges. They were, I realized, Chaotic witches and wizards. They looked nervous and on edge. More than a few of them kept their hands near their wands. When people spoke, which was rare, they did so in quiet, reserved tones.
I watched as Boltstar joined a small group of people, whom I took to be Chaotics. They greeted him politely, if not amicably, and everyone chatted for a few minutes. Even in those days, he was eminently likeable and everyone seemed to warm to him rather quickly.
He moved from one group to the next, engaging people at every turn. After a bit, the palpable tension began to fade. Bizzlum and other drinks began to flow. I heard a few chortles and guffaws. Before long, laughter and chatter rang out, loud and clear.
I spotted a petite woman circling the edges of a small group. She carried a tray of champagne flutes in her right hand. With a sweet smile, she offered them to all in attendance. Some waved her off. Others took flutes with gracious gratitude. Afterward, she moved on to another group. But my gaze was still directed at the witches and wizards she’d just served. For although they hadn’t noticed it yet, they’d been robbed.
Of their wands.
Shifting my gaze, I watched the woman offer more drinks to more unsuspecting people, all the while pil
fering their wands. And she wasn’t the only one doing this.
All across the bridge, waiters and waitresses were slipping from group to group, relieving magicians of their wands. What was going on? And was this happening on the other bridges as well?
Turning back to Boltstar, I saw he already had a flute in his hand. I couldn’t see his wand. And that was when it hit me.
This was it. This was how it all went down. For it was on this day that the Chaotics launched their sneaky ambush. Boltstar and his allies took the initial lumps before managing to turn the tables. They had won the day—Victory Day, as it was now known—and at long last Structuralism became the dominant magical philosophy.
I didn’t recognize any of the affected magicians. But it was pretty easy to figure out what was happening. Madkey’s staff consisted of Chaotics. They were meticulously disarming the Structuralists in preparation for the battle.
My heart began to thump against my chest. It was so weird, watching this monumental event, and being unable to do anything about it. I wanted to warn Boltstar, to tell him everything. But all I could do was watch. Watch as history unfolded before my very eyes.
Smiling broadly, Boltstar rapped a silver spoon against his flute. Conversation died out and all eyes turned his way.
“Good evening,” he began. “For those of you who don’t already know, my name is Lanctin Boltstar. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you—our hosts—for your gracious hospitality.”
There were a few smiles here and there. I heard some polite applause, too.
“This conflict of ours, the so-called Philosophical War, has taken a terrible toll on all of us,” he continued. “Whether you’re a Chaotic or a Structuralist, I think we can agree that it needs to end.”
The applause grew a little louder. But I also saw plenty of frowns amongst the gathered Chaotics. And why not? They were about to launch the most important battle in all of magic history.
“We need a clear and lasting resolution.” Tipping the glass to his lips, Boltstar downed the champagne. “And we need it now.”
Soft rustling rang out as magicians stepped away from their respective groups. They—Galison, Tyca, MacPherson, Norch, and others—went for their wands and took aim at surprised witches and wizards. Those people, in turn, went for their wands only to find empty holsters.
“Say, what is this, Lanctin?” a man shouted.
“This, my dear Corbin, is how the war ends.” Boltstar’s wand shifted. “Drodiate.”
A blaze of cyan careened into Corbin and the man froze up stiff. I blinked, astonished and confused. This wasn’t right. The Chaotics had attacked Boltstar and the Structuralists, not the other way around.
Panic ruled the day as the Chaotics tried to flee. But the Structuralists were ready. Colorful light filled the room. The effect was disorienting and I had trouble keeping track of everything.
All my life I’d heard about the epic brawl that had taken place on Victory Day. How Boltstar and his allies had hunkered down, regrouped, and put on a dazzling display of magic, the likes of which had never been seen before. But the fight I was watching was short on heroics. In fact, it was just plain short, lasting a mere three minutes.
As the spells died off, I got a good look at the bridge. What I saw made my skin crawl. Some Chaotic magicians, infected with the Gratlan, writhed from side to side. Others had been drodiated and remained utterly still, their bodies frozen in contorted positions.
When the last spell had flown, Boltstar hiked across the bridge. The waiters and waitresses, armed with wands, greeted him at the halfway point. The petite woman stepped out in front.
“We owe you a hearty thank you, Cherry.” He took hold of her hands. “Because of your bravery, as well as the bravery of your peers, the violence has finally come to an end.”
The woman looked a bit shaken. Turning her head in either direction, she stared at the fallen magicians.
“You look troubled,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s just …” She exhaled. “They were good people, you know. Good, decent people. My people.”
“I understand.” He gave her a soft smile. “Give it time. I think you’ll remember them very differently in a day or two.”
She offered a slight bow, then stepped away. I got a good look at her. She was younger then. More petite than skinny and severe. But I recognized her all the same. It was Cherry Wadflow, esteemed Numerology professor. If I understood this correctly—and that was a big ‘if’—she’d originally been a Chaotic. Then, at Boltstar’s urging, she’d betrayed her people.
Boltstar walked over to Galison, Norch, and MacPherson. They held wands to an unarmed man. He was a few years older, but I still recognized him as Boris Hynor.
“Hello, Lanctin,” he said in a cool, crisp voice.
“Hello, Boris.”
Hynor’s gaze drifted to his defeated allies. “Using violence to stifle debate, I see.”
“You left me no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Lanctin.”
“You speak to me of choice?” Boltstar shook his head. “How convenient, considering your entire philosophy eschews choice.”
“Chaotics allows magicians to reach their fullest potential.”
“But not their deepest desire. Under Structuralism, anyone can be anything.”
“One doesn’t preclude the other. As I’ve said many times before, the two philosophies can coexist.”
“If only that were true.”
“It is true.” Hynor arched an eyebrow. “And that’s why this little power play of yours will fail. Once people learn what you did—”
“They won’t. For you see, we’ve crafted an alternative narrative about what happened here today, one in which your side launched the initial attack.”
Horror dawned on Hynor’s features. “You wouldn’t.”
“I must. This ‘power play,’ as you put it, must be pure and pristine if it’s to last the test of time. There can be no doubt as to who was right and who was wrong.”
“No one will believe you,” Hynor said, his face growing pale. “I’ve devoted my life, my very being, to peace.”
“You forget that we’re now in control of this entire institution, Boris. That includes Madkey Archive and more importantly, Womigia.”
His eyes bulged.
“Starting today, we can shape the collective memory any way we like. We can remove memories of Structuralist wrongdoing. And we can remove memories that shine a positive light on your people. By the time we’re done, society will have a very different viewpoint of the Philosophical War.”
“This is madness.”
“This, my friend, is progress.” Boltstar’s wand shifted. “Drodiate.”
The resulting spell smacked Hynor square in the chest. Shock registered on his face as he stiffened up.
I could take no more. With a yank of the head, I tore my eyes from the mirror. Instantly, Torso vanished and I was back in the archive, standing in front of Womigia.
I thought about Tad, about what he’d told me of Womigia. He’d said it was at the center of everything. It was why he’d come to Madkey in the first place, why he and his people had staged the invasion. Now, I was beginning to understand what he’d meant.
The Chaotics had been wronged not once, but twice. First, the leaders had been disarmed, then killed or drodiated. Second, the followers had been uniformly and unfairly portrayed as monsters. Many had likely converted in the aftermath. The holdouts had been hunted down and taken out of commission.
Piper, jaw agape, turned to look at me. “Was that … real?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, it was.”
Chapter 33
“I can’t believe it.” Leandra stepped back from Womigia as if it might burn her. “Boltstar’s a jerk. But he wouldn’t hurt people for no reason.”
“He had a reason,” Piper pointed out. “He was trying to end the Philosophical War.”
“With violence? And murder?
”
“It probably seemed essential at the time. Remember, Chaotic magic is dangerous, lethal even. He must’ve figured an ambush was the lesser of two evils.”
“Not just an ambush. A cover-up, too.” With a sigh, I glanced at the floor. “All our lives, we’ve been told that the Chaotics attacked the Structuralists that day, not the other way around. And it was all just a lie.”
“How’d they get us to believe it?” Leandra studied the mirror, especially the end sticking into Womigia. “Do you think they planted a fake memory in there?”
“They wouldn’t need to,” Piper pointed out. “Boltstar killed or drodiated anyone who might disagree with him. After that, he was free to spread his story far and wide.”
“So, it entered Womigia on its own accord?” I asked.
She nodded. “Exactly.”
Leandra exhaled. “Well, what now?”
“We tell people,” I said. “Today. Right now.”
They stared at me.
“It’s the right thing to do,” I argued.
“Yeah,” Leandra said. “If we want to end up like the Chaotics.”
“She’s got a point,” Piper said. “What about Boltstar?”
“What about him?” I snapped.
“I’m on your side, Randy. You know that. But you saw the mirror. You saw what he did to those people. What do you think he’ll do to us if we cross him?”
“What if we just break all of these mirrors?” Leandra wondered. “The collective memory would go back to normal, right? I assume the effect would be instantaneous, with everyone suddenly realizing we’ve been wrong about everything.”
Looking thoughtful, Piper gave the frame a good yank. But it didn’t budge.
I studied the mirror. It was sturdy, but I’d yet to see a glassy substance that could survive a good beating. It made me wonder why Tad hadn’t tried to break it. Had he been unable to do it? Or unwilling?
“If we broke it, Boltstar would just fix it again,” I realized. “People would have a sudden awakening, only to have it snuffed out again.”
“Maybe we could—” The sudden sound of grinding gears caused Piper’s spine to stiffen. “What was that?”