by C. M. Hayden
“Repairing the Arclight isn’t enough. We’re way passed that. You all need to be taught a severe lesson in suffering.”
“And how do you plan on doing that while locked up in here?”
“Come here, and I’ll tell you.”
Ross took a few steps towards her.
“Closer, come on,” Vexis insisted. “You won’t want to miss this.” Ross leaned in, and Vexis coughed into her ear.
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
Vexis rolled her eyes. “God, you’re thick.”
Ross went to leave. “Maybe another week down here will loosen your tongue.”
Vexis raised her voice before the cell door shut. “You will wish the recruits good luck on their trial, won’t you?”
Chapter Nineteen
The Boy and the Music Box
It wasn’t until the door shut behind her that Nima realized she wasn’t going home. The heavy iron latch clinked and Mathan removed the burlap sack from her head.
She was in a rather upscale house — at least, it had been at one point. The windows were sloppily boarded up and the hardwood floor splintered from months exposed to ice. The tattered walls had dozens of maps plastered to them; diagrams of the Magisterium and layouts of the lower city in remarkable detail.
Despite the circumstance, Mathan’s tone was overly pleasant. “Please, have a seat, there might be a bit of a wait.” He pointed to a crooked chair, the red padded top had lost all its stuffing.
“I thought you were taking me back to Ashwick,” Nima said.
“I fully intend to, if that’s what you want. But you know me well by now, I take pride in seizing business opportunities, and you present an interesting one.”
“How?”
Mathan patted her on the head. “I’ll let the good doctor explain. Sit tight.”
Mathan left the door open a crack. When his footsteps were far enough away, Nima peaked out into the hallway. It looked as though a fire had burned through the building years ago. The walls were scorched black and the paint bubbled. Except for bits of sunlight peeking through the boarded windows, the only real light came from a door at the end of the charred hall.
A soft sound carried on the air, so silent that Nima had to hold her breath to hear it clearly. It was a glittery metallic music like a lullaby, the notes danced ominously through the air and drew Nima towards the door.
The bedroom inside was small, with only a bed and an elm side table. Laying with a blanket up to his neck was a sleeping boy about Decker’s age. The covers were free of any creases or wrinkles like he hadn’t moved in ages. He seemed well cared for: his clothes were new and his loose curly hair was recently cut.
The music box beside the bed was worth a fair bit. There was no crank handle, rather the runes on the side suggested it was powered by magistry. In the Artificium, such a device would take at least thirty hours of work to complete even for an experienced artificer. On the top was a tiny aluminum circus clown balancing on one finger.
When Nima closed the box the music stopped.
“His name is Tom.” Nima jumped at the sound of Mr. Mathan’s voice, and when her hand jerked it pulled the music box off the tabletop. Mathan caught it just before it hit the floor.
Nima fumbled her words. “I'm sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Mathan placed the music box back on the table and opened it. “Let the music play, though. He enjoys it.”
“He’s your son?”
“My daughter’s son. Unfortunately she's no longer...” He trailed off as if his mind was somewhere far away.
“Is he sick?”
Mathan shook his head. “Not exactly.” Nima sensed that this was as far as he was willing to explain. He pushed some of the curls out of the sleeping boy’s eyes and kissed his forehead.
Mathan led her through the charred hallway and into a strange room. It looked as though it didn’t belong in the house. It was an alchemy lab, and its cluttered tables were packed with half-full vials and beakers connected with plastic tubes. The walls were so covered with pages torn from books that they may as well have been wallpaper.
Dr. Halric placed one hand on her back and scooted her onto a chair. “Pardon the condition of my workroom,” he said as he took a seat.
Nima stared intently at one particular pages of the wall. It had caught her eye the moment she entered. “Why are you so interested in the Arclight?”
His wrinkled cheeks contorted into a grin. “You’ve got sharp eyes. Victor told me the unfortunate circumstances regarding that fiend Rashkal. I must say, the levels to which your brother is willing to go to protect you is admirable.”
“I didn’t need his help. I would’ve found a way to escape.”
“And how would you have done that?”
Nima pointed a finger at the leg of the chair Halric was sitting on. The center smoked and warped, and finally snapped. Halric stood onto his walking stick before the chair collapsed.
“I’m not helpless,” Nima said indignantly.
Halric examined the break. “Your templary is impressive for one so young. But Rashkal’s a kitten compared to what’s out there. Permit me a demonstration?”
“A demonstration of w—”
Before she could finish, Halric raised a single crooked finger and it felt as though an entire ocean of water had been dropped on her body. Her chair shattered like its wood was rotten, and her tiny body struck the charred floor. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t bring her face to turn, or beg Halric to stop.
Dr. Halric hobbled towards her flattening body. “I’m no stranger to magic. Back in my day, I was considered quite formidable. That was many years ago, and I’m afraid my templary isn’t what it used to be.”
The crushing magic dissipated and Nima was once again able to move. She pushed her hands against the ground half-way into a push up while she caught her breath.
“I apologize if that was unpleasant,” Halric said.
Nima met his eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Perish the thought. If you wish, you can walk out that door right now. Victor will take you back to Ashwick, back to that tiny home on Walder’s Lane. Back to your dying parents, squabbling brothers. Back to a father that belittles you. Back to the room where he hit you so hard you had to your friends... to your brother.”
“How do you—"
“What if I told you that I could give you power beyond anything the Magisterium could offer. You’d never be weak or helpless again.”
“Why me?”
“The ability to unlock a templar is a well-guarded secret amongst the magisters,” Halric said. “It’s an ability that eludes me. Now that your templar is open, you’re very... valuable to me.”
“What’s the catch?” Nima said.
“’Catch.’ What a nefarious word. There isn’t one. When the trial is over it will be time to rescue Vexis from the Magisterium dungeon. I have no doubt Taro could do it on his own.” Halric pointed to himself, then to Nima. “But you and I could help him succeed.”
“How?”
“Have you ever heard of summoning magic?”
Nima shook her head.
“I’m not surprised. Not something they’d teach at the Magisterium. I’d be happy to tell you all about it, but first I must know if you’re with us.”
Nima started for the door. When her fingers grazed the knob, Halric placed his bony fingers onto her shoulder. “I can understand if your answer is ‘no.’ Great power and great deeds are not for everyone. If you hurry, you may even be able to pick up a job sweeping floors.”
Nima glanced sideways at him and pulled her hand back.
Halric’s toothy grin spread wildly across his face. “That’s my girl. Don’t be afraid, I’m here to help.”
Chapter Twenty
Frame of Mind
To say that Taro was happy with Nima out of the way would be incorrect. He adored his sister, and having her at his side was a comfort in m
any ways. Still, her absence was like a huge weight being lifted off his chest.
With Nima gone, he was free to delve wholeheartedly into his studies and prepare for the trial ahead.
His debt to Moira continued to be a source of anxiety. Access to the Librarium was an absolute requirement, but he was nowhere close to having the money to buy back her book from Leek. So, instead, he memorized Moira’s work schedule and did his best to work around it. This was easier said than done, as she spent at least fifty hours a week cataloguing books.
Between eight hours of lessons and seven more at Crissom Foundry, Taro quickly learned to function with minimal sleep.
The Librarium was packed full of information on every subject, and in addition to his magistry research, he hoped to learn more about the creature he’d seen in Mathan’s cellar or the reach between worlds. Unfortunately, information was sporadic at best.
In Helia Historia, the Reach was a physical location inhabited by one’s long-dead ancestors. This belief was backed up with supposed first-hand accounts of people who briefly died, but were resuscitated. The Tale of Iset and Coset was written as a fairytale and described the Reach as a torrent of pure light. Of note was that not one account agreed with Leorin’s story.
One particular evening, well-past midnight, Taro fell asleep with his nose on a particularly boring chapter of Aethas Lothrien’s The Wars of Gods and Men.
“If Moira saw you drooling on one of her books, no magic on earth would save you,” a voice called from the entrance to the reading alcove. It was Magister Ross. She must’ve been on her way to her workshop.
Taro scrambled to his feet. “Imperator.”
Ross straightened her glasses. “As you were.”
Taro relaxed. “I must’ve dozed off.”
“I can see that. Be more mindful of Librarium property.”
“Yes, imperator.”
Ross turn the book to face her and glanced briefly at its cover. “Do you have an interest in history, Mr. Taro?”
He wasn’t quite sure how much he should say, but he’d gotten nowhere with his search, and with Aris long gone this was the first time he’d had a magister’s ear outside of his lessons in a long while.
“Kind of,” he said. He flipped to a pen-sketched illustration of the Magisterium. Rays of light from its tip were striking monstrous figures on the ground. The creatures were frightfully similar to Aris’ sketch. “Do you know what these are?”
Ross leaned in and gave the sketch a significant look. “Their depiction is to show the corrupting effect of void magic.”
“Void magic?”
Ross looked as though she’d said too much. “This is a subject you won’t delve into until your third year as an artificer.”
“...would it be inappropriate for me to ask what it is?”
She sat on the chair opposite of him. “Curiosity is never inappropriate.”
The enormity of the situation took a moment to strike Taro. Here he was with the most powerful magister in the world, in many ways the de facto ruler of Endra, and she was sitting across from him like with an almost casual look to her.
Ross placed her hand on the side of his neck, and it looked as though she was staring at him. In fact, as he soon realized, she was staring into him.
“You have a remarkably open templar for someone who’s been through so much pain,” she said.
“How do you—”
“You can tell a lot about a person from their templar. Their frame of mind, their self-control, their feelings for a certain tribune.” Taro blushed at this. “Some powerful templarists can obfuscate their motives.”
“Did Vexis?” Taro asked.
Ross seemed momentarily surprised, but settled into a somber nod. “One can hardly expect those events to stay secret for long. May I ask you what actions of hers are common knowledge?”
“Just that she somehow killed Magister Briggs trying to reach the Arclight. That she was executed shortly after.”
Ross seemed happy with the idea of people believing Vexis was dead. Taro, of course, knew the truth.
_____
“She actually sat and talked with you?” Suri said, more than a little surprised. Suri was helping him practice his runic calligraphy in the mess hall. This ‘help’ involved her scarfing down mouthfuls of bean soup while periodically correcting his sloppy handwriting.
This particular enchantment was a dispel meant to cancel out other lesser forms of magistry.
“Not for very long,” Taro said, finishing off the loop on his ‘cin’ rune. “She checked my templar too.”
Suri looked up. “That’s either really good, or really bad.” She pointed to the rune Taro had just scratched onto the slate in front of him. “That, however, is definitely bad. Try again.”
Taro groaned as he erased it. “It’ll do the job.”
“Finishing off a dispel with cin is sloppy. Magister Briego would be all over you if he saw it,” Suri said.
“But it would work,” Taro mumbled quietly.
Suri glared at him. “Do you want banality or do you want excellence?”
“I want... soup.” Taro pushed the slate away, stood, and went to get himself a bowl.
“Sure, go ahead. Nothing important happening here. Just trying to keep you alive for the trial is all,” Suri said as he went to the food line.
“You’re starting to sound like a friend of mine,” Taro said, glancing back.
The trial was a month away and the recruits were in cramming mode. Taro was lucky to have friends like Suri and Ven, who’d trialed before and understood the sorts of magic required.
Taro learned a remarkable amount in a relatively short period of time. Enchantments that could seal a box without a key, magistry that could make a motor turn, even the ability to cool himself with nothing but his templar. (This made his Crissom Foundry much more bearable, and confounded the overseer to no end.)
As the trial date neared, Taro couldn’t help but be confident. He had an advantage: he’d seen the trial plans mapped out in stunning detail. He thought he knew what to expect. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Trial Begins
Trial Day began like any other. Taro got breakfast in the mess hall and played a relatively short game of Hilto with Pipes. Despite his often simplistic demeanor and penchant for getting into trouble, Pipes had an incredibly keen mind.
This manifested in ways outside of Hilto, most notably in Pipes’ skill at making various small constructs. The tiny birds didn’t have a long life to them, some only survived a few hours, but the fact that he could will his templar into an inanimate object was a skill that even most magisters couldn’t do with his ease or grace.
The recruits were told to report to the airship hanger on the thirtieth floor. There was a single ship hovering inside; it was much like a wooden sailing ship, but its sturdy wooden frame was braced with metal supports. Its engines and much of ventral fuselage were tempered Crissom Steel, and steam bellowed from the engines like dropping a hot iron rod into a pool of ice water.
They were shuffled aboard by Magister Briego and told to wait in the cargo bay. Taro struggled not to throw-up from the constant swaying of the ship, or get crushed by the shifting crates.
He peered through a tiny porthole in the curved wall. The prep crews were hard at work unlatching the mooring lines.
Ven sat with his back to a wall and cleaned his inscriber with a metal brush. “Guesses on where we’re going?”
Pipes fiddled with one of his tiny hummingbird constructs, and twisted its wing into place. “No way to know until we get there.”
The wheel on the cargo bay door spun and it creaked open. Magister Ross entered carrying a smooth stone sphere about the size of her fist. The recruits’ first instincts were to hurry to attention, but she ushered them to remain sitting.
“There are many types of magic in the world.” She stood in the center of the cargo bay, and the recruits scooted into a c
ircle around her. “Magisters devote our lives to understanding it, but the truth is that we’ve barely scratched the surface. Take this, for example.” She held the stone orb out in front of her. “Can anyone guess what it is?”
The sphere had no writing on it. There were a few evenly-spaced notches running in an oblong curve around the center, as if it was actually two pieces stuck together.
The room remained silent.
“Make an effort to answer,” Ross said.
Pipes spoke first. “Some kind of sundial? The notches could be for telling time.”
“A fair answer, but no.”
Yoresh raised is hand. “Lor poru dashuri raheel?”
Ross shook her head. “No, no, not even close. In fact, this is a map.”
The sphere rose into the air and the sides separated, exposing clicking gears and crystalline inner workings. The sphere projected a moving image of the Magisterium tower in stunning detail. The image turned and panned along one of the roots.
“This is the magic of the Old Gods. One small part of the wonders that lie hidden away within the Magisterium.”
Taro tried to touch the glowing lines floating over him, but his fingers passed through them.
The image circled around one of the Magisterium roots and zoomed in onto a set of crumbling ruins surrounding it.
“These ruins are a part of the original structure,” Ross said. “They’re built around Waystations wherein heat from the earth is converted into energy for the tower. Years ago a blizzard damaged the root that runs through this particular Waystation and a team was dispatched to repair it. Only one man made it out alive. Their ship — the Titan — remains there to this day.”
Pipes turned paper-white and dropped his construct.
The projection centered on a ruined archway. “This is the landing site of the Titan. Inside the nearby Waystation is a chamber with a rather powerful defensive artifact that prevents our repair crews from entering. Your mission is to retrieve the artifact.” The sphere closed and the projection disappeared. “Those of you who wish to quit now may disembark. The rest of you, join me above deck.”