Rough Magic

by Jenny Schwartz

  It was a cold, silent trek, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  My coat was naturally waterproof and warm, but Rory had turned off the enchantments he’d woven into it for fear of how the feral magic would affect them. Consequently, it no longer protected me from magical or physical attack, or surrounded me with magical warmth. I didn’t miss the magic. I missed Rory.

  I thought of him and home as I strode along. Any path chosen by a unicorn was easily wide enough for me. The occasional stick cracked under my boots, but mostly the fallen pine needles muffled our steps.

  Maybe I should have been thinking about the orb and its unexpected effect on Earth’s magic flows, but I figured that was better attempted once I had pen and paper to record my thoughts. Instead, I thought about how recently my family had moved to Justice, and how confused they’d be by the mis-firing magic in town.

  How would the Faerene react to Fae King Harold’s emergency broadcast which would surely have to explain that the trouble had started due to humanity’s use of magic?

  I felt Rory’s absence terribly and I couldn’t afford to. Surviving the original apocalypse had taught me to focus brutally on the here and now. Worrying about what I couldn’t influence would distract me from what I could do.

  Digger, my adopted father, would have been appalled at how blindly I hiked through the forest. He’d taught me better than that. I walked as if my personal security wasn’t my personal responsibility. I followed Quossa’s rump and swishing tail, and assumed that Istvan would protect me.

  In fact, I was so distracted that our entrance into the campsite surprised me. Between one step and the next the trees parted. Unprepared, I entered the vast clearing that had housed the inaugural human familiar trials, and fear, frustration and absence punched me in the gut.

  Just a few months ago I’d been forced to train and compete on this ground. There were the firepits that we’d sat around. To my left, in the distance, were the rock fountains and bathing facilities. Over there was the cookhouse that had previously been hidden by the large food tent.

  Quossa trotted over to the cookhouse. Free of the trees he could move faster.

  Istvan moved easier as we crossed the campground. He came up beside me. With his beak holding tight to the bundle containing the orb, he couldn’t talk. He expressed his concern by how closely he walked.

  I put a hand on his shoulder.

  The last time we’d been here had been at the end of the vigil. The elven ritual had broken me open, psychologically. That was its purpose.

  In all their planning for the Migration, the Faerene hadn’t anticipated humanity gaining magic for generations. To their shock, a few hundred of us had. We were the rare human mages. Not that any of us knew what we were doing.

  I’d ridden out the apocalypse in the small Pennsylvanian town of Apfall Hill. I hadn’t guessed that the reason so many of the townsfolk survived the summer epidemics was due to me channeling my magic into healing.

  A messenger dragon had swooped in at our harvest festival and kidnapped me to participate in the inaugural human familiar trials.

  I remembered sitting in this field with ninety nine other humans, being surrounded by strange people—elves, unicorns, goblins, and so forth—and learning about the Rift and that our reckless, untrained use of magic endangered the seal over it. For the Earth’s safety, human mages were to be bound to Faerene magicians as their familiars. We had been given a choice: learn at the trials and accept the binding, or die.

  Fourteen humans had chosen to die.

  Faced with the threat of the Kstvm if the Rift reopened, the Faerene couldn’t afford mercy.

  What they hadn’t anticipated was that the vigil, which had been meant to connect us consciously to our inner selves and to our magic sufficiently to swear our magic to the service of a Faerene magician, would be a trauma too far for a third of the human mages. Those thirty people had survived the apocalypse, but not the radical challenge to their world view and psyches that the Faerene posed.

  Istvan had been present when I completed the vigil. It was the first time he’d tucked me under his wing, as griffins did with their young. He hadn’t wanted to bond with me. He’d requested someone older as his familiar—I’d been the youngest of the human familiar candidates. He’d accurately foreseen how tough our path together would be.

  But he’d helped smooth it by asking Rory to act as his second-in-command and by endeavouring to protect and include my human family in my new life.

  I pressed harder against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re my Faerene magician.”

  His tail brushed my ankle. The orb swung from his beak in its cloth bundle.

  “The magic that flows through me I gift to your service,” I repeated the vow I’d first said here.

  Months ago, Istvan had responded with, “I accept your service and will honor it.”

  Such simple language for such a profound promise and connection. Istvan hadn’t wanted my magic. He hadn’t wanted a human familiar, but the Fae Council had ordered it. He was one of the strongest magicians to have come through the Rift. He’d led the action to seal it. They’d then selected him to help prove the strategy of tying a human mage to a Faerene magician. The alternative had been to kill us all.

  Quossa waited for Istvan and me outside the cookhouse.

  It was a substantial building to rejoice in such a plain name. The Faerene were accustomed to building large to accommodate the different peoples. Istvan had to duck his head to enter the cookhouse, but he did fit, as long as he stayed parallel to the length of the building. Otherwise he’d block Quossa and me from moving around.

  Piros wouldn’t have fit; not even if we removed the table and chairs at the far end. The red dragon was massive.

  I rubbed my arms. Well-built or not, the cold and damp of the mountain winter had invaded the building.

  “Amy, you’ll require a fire,” Quossa said. “Rather than risk magic, there’s tinder there and a flint fire-starter.”

  Someone, probably a lesser magic user like a goblin, had laid a fire ready to light in the stove nearest the sink.

  Istvan gently placed the orb in the sink and positioned himself so that he could watch it, me and the front entrance.

  I devoted my attention to the simple task of coaxing the fire to life. The heat of the tiny, flickering flames stung my fingers, which told me how cold I’d gotten trekking from the bunker. I looked around. Unicorns didn’t like hot drinks, but Istvan and I would be better for one. I could boil water in the kettle hanging neatly to the side of the fireplace and make tea when Nora arrived with supplies. “Istvan, can I put the orb on the table?”

  Humanity’s orb sat on a blue cushion inside the cloth bundle.

  “Check the cupboards,” Quossa said. “Is there a basket—” He broke off as his voice raised to a shout. His ears went back in irritation. “Sorry. The magic flared.” Unicorns spoke either by telepathy or by shaping sound waves in the air for others to hear them.

  “I prefer you shouting out loud to shouting in my head,” I said.

  He scraped at the flagstone floor with a hoof. “I’ll remember.”

  “I wasn’t complaining,” I added hastily.

  “No.” He shook his head, his horn throwing sparks again. “We should be mindful of new dangers until the magic settles.”

  If it settles.

  The silence seemed full of our doubts.

  I opened cupboard doors until I found a stack of willow baskets. During the trials they’d been filled with bread rolls. I shook one basket free of its fellows and put the orb in it before placing it on the table. Paranoid, I nudged the basket to the center of the table where it couldn’t be accidentally knocked off.

  Then I stood, nervously rubbing my hands against my thighs. The orb held countless secrets. No, not secrets. Forgotten knowledge. My ancestors had recorded their stories for generations, layering their understanding as an oyster did with a pearl. What was at the heart of the orb? Should anyone e
ver seek to find out?

  Could an orb be destroyed?

  Was that an option the Fae Council might consider? It would be illogical. The orb had already wreaked its chaos by unleashing magic from the stable pattern the ancient human mages had locked it into. Now, we needed it to learn how to mitigate the effects of what we’d done.

  “Hot water,” Istvan prompted me.

  I flattened my hands against my thighs, stilling my fidgeting. “Hot water,” I agreed.

  With the fire so new it would take a while to boil water. I grabbed the hooked rod that let me lift out a disc from the hotplate. I slid it to the side, and after filling the kettle, put it over the naked flames.

  Placing the kettle on to boil coincided with Nora’s arrival. In the absence of magic and modern technology, even simple things like heating water took significant time and effort. At least we had logs inside in a wood box. That was one task less: no need to gather wood in the forest. Although depending on how long we were here and the fact that the resources we used would have to be replaced—

  Nora began talking as she unpacked supplies, and that shut up the squirrelly thoughts in my head.

  Thankfully.

  “Pen and paper for you, Amy.” Nora concentrated on us meeting our immediate, Quossa-assigned tasks, leaving the satchel of food to one side. A long stick of bread poked from it. “Slate.”

  Istvan levitated the slate to him. “I’ll be outside, dictating.”

  Nora and Quossa acknowledged his departure with abstracted nods. They were deep in discussion of the situation at the bunker.

  I dragged a chair to the stove, propped the notebook on my knee, and began writing. When my blood touched the orb…

  In their initial greeting within the orb, the ancient mages had told us so much. They’d warned us of the bathumas and mentioned the mysterious djinn. They’d explained why they’d locked away human magic. They had even described the process.

  The Faerene would study the details of the process, as captured by the memory charm that recorded the orb’s activation. I hadn’t understood all of it, possibly because I didn’t fully understand the Faerene theory of magic, which meant that I was trying to comprehend the ancient human mages via a shaky, incomplete and foreign framework.

  However, I did recall, word for word, the poetry of the orb’s story of setting the quintessences into place. It was how they’d locked down our magic in what the Faerene called a latticework pattern.

  “We took our brothers’ and sisters’ breath and gave our own. Three hundred and forty three singers each sang to a star, and when we fell silent, the song sung itself.”

  Chapter 2

  Istvan had spent the walk to the campsite organizing his thoughts. Centuries of work as a magistrate meant he could dictate judgments practically in his sleep. Reporting on the orb’s activation was different in subject, but not in form, from his usual duties. The slate was new to him, so he adjusted its settings to his preferences. Now, his report would copy in real-time to Rory and Radka, his chief clerk. By marking it “restricted” he relied on their judgment as to who they shared it with.

  Rory would be informing the core team at Justice’s magistrate hall as to recent events, and preparing a response to current disasters in the North American Territory. He was relying on Istvan to keep Amy safe.

  The black griffin muttered beneath his breath. Activating humanity’s orb had unleashed a disaster far beyond his worst imagining. Magic across the globe had destabilized. As magistrate, he should be in his territory, working to balance it. However, as Amy’s magician partner, he had to keep her safe from the feral magic while she was in contact with the orb. None of them knew how the magic would react, whether it would flare or shrink from moment to moment. He also had to prevent her from becoming a scapegoat for terrified people.

  Harold had already helped with the latter problem, but the disaster had to be contained—ended—for the Fae King’s edict and commonsense to hold sway. Panicking people couldn’t be reasoned with. And people would panic if this continued.

  Amy saw the results, but she hadn’t grown up using magic. It was different for Istvan and the others who’d migrated from Elysium. For them, unreliable magic flows were as destabilizing as if gravity randomly turned on and off. Their identity was wrapped up in their magic. Goblins and other lesser magic users would fare better, as would orcs who regarded magic as the province of their shamans. The rest of the Faerene would be struck hard.

  Many more would join those Faerene already suffering nova world burn trauma. The Migration had its casualties. Despite the rigorous screening of candidates on Elysium, everyone understood that some who crossed the Rift to Earth would find the new life shocking. Their trauma had played out on the six other planets the Faerene had previously migrated to, the symptoms consistent enough to be diagnosed as a condition.

  If Amy had accompanied him on his court circuit for the North American Territory she’d have eventually encountered people with nova world burn trauma. Her experience of the Faerene was currently skewed. Those who were coping, even thriving, on Earth were the ones who sought out the experience of meeting a human familiar. People with nova world burn trauma withdrew. Istvan had researched the condition prior to the Migration, aware that about ten percent of cases acted out their antisocial tendencies, and so, were liable to draw his professional attention as a magistrate responsible for magic and magical happenings in his territory.

  Istvan stared across the campsite at the forest. Responsibility was a heavy burden, even for those who undertook it willingly. Through the trees was the bunker and Nora, who felt responsible for the research and technology center’s staff and contents. It was a danger zone of peak magical instability and she’d be going back and forth to it.

  In an emergency like this, danger had to be contained, and that meant people in certain roles would face higher levels of peril to keep the threat from spreading and from laying down long-term, destructive consequences.

  Thanks to Rory and Quossa’s intervention, at least the bathumas caged inside the bunker were now dead. But what was happening to the living ones free in the wider world? It was the danger they represented that had impelled the Fae Council to approve the activation of humanity’s orb. The Faerene had needed the ancient human mages’ knowledge of the threat posed to magic users by the thaumivorous bathumas.

  In ordinary circumstances, Istvan would have paced the campsite, levitating the slate with him, and dictating as he paced. However, levitation was an unnecessary complication to maintain while the magic fluctuated wildly. So he crouched in the lee of the cookhouse with the slate on a patch of dry ground under the eaves of the building and divided his concentration between dictating his recollection of the orb’s activation and the information it had imparted, and monitoring and adjusting the flow of magic through him to the slate on a second by second basis so that the magical device didn’t explode or fail in some less dramatic fashion. Unlike in normal circumstances, the slate couldn’t be relied to operate independently.

  “Chad drew a syringe of Amy’s blood for her and she went around the chamber placing a drop on everyone, on the premise advised by Quossa and Nora that her human blood had the best chance of enabling us to share whatever communication she received from activating the orb. Quossa also activated a memory charm focused on Amy as a back-up strategy.”

  Istvan vividly recalled how nervous Amy had appeared.

  She’d stood alone in the center of the chamber at a table with the orb positioned on a cushion. As they’d practiced, she’d focused her magic on the fingertip of her right index finger which was smeared with her blood. Then she’d touched her finger to the orb.

  The outer layer of the orb had rippled as its seal broke.

  In the telepathic manner of unicorns a voice had spoken inside each person’s mind. Or so Istvan assumed. He’d heard it as Digger’s voice, the human male who filled the role of Amy’s father far better than her real father had done. Digger would die fo
r those under his protection. There was, perhaps, an important point to consider that as an outsider listening in to a human communication, Istvan heard it in the voice of a human he respected.

  The orb then spoke of the reason the human mages had locked away their magic, and that of their descendants. The bathumas had defeated them.

  For Istvan, the bathumas weren’t personally frightening. But he could imagine that for humans, as for goblins and elves, the bathumas were physically terrifying. At their largest, according to the orb, adult bathumas could reach twelve feet. Istvan dwarfed that, and Piros could probably snap a bathuma’s spine mid-flight. But humans were much smaller, couldn’t fly, and as capable as the ancient mages must have been to lock down Earth’s magic flows, create the orb, and hide it for millennia, the human mages hadn’t had a griffin or dragon’s training in battle or their innate command of magic.

  Amy’s ancestors had been brave. They’d fought the bathumas with what magic they could summon, and when that proved counterproductive, they’d had the wisdom to retreat, while providing their descendants with as much knowledge as they could pass on.

  The ancients didn’t know where the bathumas originated, but they first appeared in the volcanoes of Indonesia and spread across the world. Their lifecycle began as eggs incubated in the volcanoes, hatching into grubs that sought out magic-infused flesh—which meant that they ate magic users—before metamorphosizing (again, inside a volcano) into bat-like, fiery creatures that siphoned magic from people.

  All the ancients’ efforts to defend themselves from the bathumas and eradicate them as a threat had failed. Instead, the humans had killed off the weaker bathumas, leaving the gene pool stronger than ever. Inadvertently, they’d made their enemy more powerful.

  As they recognized their defeat, the ancient mages made it a pyrrhic victory for the bathumas. By locking away their magic, the humans starved the bathumas of magic-infused flesh, and the parasitical bathumas vanished from the surface of the Earth and from human memory. By the time the Faerene on Elysium began studying the planet, it was as if the bathumas had never existed. Which made their reemergence shocking.