Scalvoris University
71st Vhalar, 717
Parchment rustled.71st Vhalar, 717
The candle had guttered low, as if the flame dimmed in shared boredom.
His eyes drooped.
An Empirical History of Domain Magicke Throughout The Ages was a challenging read: dense, meandering, and utterly humorless.
He stifled another yawn. What a miraculous cure for insomnia. Tonics be damned. One need only read a chapter of Aurelius Valen’s tome and be sent to the brink of death.
The redhead pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. It was a talent, truly, to make sorcery sound so boring.
His mind wandered to his travels. A performer in Melrath who claimed he could become a parrot, and turned the audience’s laughter into shocked gasps. Silvers and coppers had rained in his bowls that day. How his eyes had widened in delight. He’d stolen away from Father that day, pocketing as much silver as he dared from their profits, determined to spend the day in the vivid markets and mummer’s stages.
He remembered women who could enchant water, weaving it like ribbons; his jaw had gaped at mages who could summon and spew green flames, charlatans or not; he’d shivered at stories of those could raise the dead and looked longingly at alchemist’s stalls, buying odd enchantments and recipe books.
They say transmuters can make stones that turn lead into gold, he babbled once, and his father’s copper eyes had turned to him with disdain.
Remarkably convenient, came his droll voice. He scratched another sum into his ledger. And I imagine they are adept at turning coin into whores and fine houses. I wonder how many fools have bought their lies.
The boy stayed quiet after that, ironing his lips shut and returning to the work of cataloging pelts and spices. Nothing was so boring; eventually his mind had wandered again, and he’d miscounted, as he often did when he wanted to steal under Father’s nose.
He learned quickly not to bring up University to him.
You are a Calathes, he returned sternly. And you will carry on the business. You’ll give up those dreams soon enough. Do you want to die a beggar in rags?
I shan’t die a beggar, he’d snapped. Alchemists and performers make plenty…
Charlatans, the man cut, cold as ice. Liars. Thieves.
It often felt like it had happened to someone else, that the memories were not his own, but stolen from some book or story. Already Father’s face was fading; the only thing that remained sharp were his eyes, the iron of his mouth, the greying auburn hair around his temples.
Soon he would be a ghost. A hollow in his heart.
And yet the memory of her remained as sharp as ever.
The shadow-woman’s stare, the unnatural stink of her breath in his ear. Every detail of her had been carved as if of stone; her glossy black hair fell in tumbles, framing a dark face like an anvil, tattooed from chest to jaw. She did not smile; he imagined she never did. Her dark kaftan hugged the formlessness of her body, thick with age, yet she moved like a slender arrow. At points she seemed not to move at all, gliding across the marble floors of the manse. And the eyes. They had seared into his memory; he saw them in dreams still, those black pools full of a hunger like nothing human.
He knew, with a bolt of instinct, that she could kill with a touch.
I wonder if she shall, he thought, when he dined with Qaharo, sitting across from the shadow-woman and other visitors and suitors. He could not taste the peacock at all; it had crumbled to ash in his mouth, a brick hard to swallow. Qaharo laughed beside him, a quivering mound of flesh. But despite his mirth, his green eyes were nervous, he noticed, quickly flitting away from the shadow-woman and to his other guests.
I wonder if she shall kill him, the boy had thought, oddly cool, abandoning his food in favor of a goblet of wine. Kill him and take his wealth, kill everyone in this room…
Perhaps she had sensed his thoughts. For her eyes often drifted back to his, opening a sick pit in his stomach, and when at last the guests had gorged themselves and stumbled out blind with drink, she was the last to leave.
He noticed she had not touched her food or wine at all.
But she did not speak to Qaharo; instead she drifted over to him and whispered in his ear, her voice sending a shudder down his spine.
And then she was gone, melted to the shadow, and his heart flipped. Was he mad? Did she—?
But he had no time to ponder. His Master had stumbled over, pawing at him with a familiar lust, and he had closed his eyes, and the whole time that night he thought of the shadow-woman.
In the present, his eyes glazed. He’d re-read the same passage ten times, surely.
DEFIANCE HAS MANY PRACTICAL USES, FROM GUIDING THE WIND IN TRADING GALLEYS TO KEEPING FIRES FROM SPREADING IN VILLAGES…
Miyar blew out a sigh. He rubbed his forehead and eyes, getting up with a grunt and stretching.
Was this what University was like? The thing he’d fantasized about so often? I wonder if I would have been excited to know that half of University was sitting, and the other was wondering at what point in the lecture the doddering old professors would die. When, when would he be taught magic? Trained in practicals? After he’d withered and crumbled, bent as the men that wrote those tomes?
The mage looked at the candle. So quiet, you are. He picked it up, wiggling it out of its bed of wax, and the flame seemed to glow brighter in his touch. It seemed wrong to simply put it out. And so he walked over to the hearth in the study room, kneeling and extending the candle. It flickered shyly.
“Go on then,” he muttered, giving it an encouraging prod.
The little flame leapt off the wick and joined its brethren. It seemed to him that the others danced and jumped in welcome, stringing the tiny candle flame into their whirling celebrations. A faint smile played on his face.
For the hundredth time he wondered if he was getting a better connection to his Art, or if he was simply going mad. Aren’t they one and the same? Father warned me.
He felt a sudden, gripping need for company. It was miserable here in this dim study, stuffy with heat and mustiness, the sun struggling to light the room. Miyar got up and dusted off his pants, stabbing the candle back into its metal post and abandoning Aurelius’ ramblings for now.
The old man could wait, surely.
It surprised him that it was still light outside. He blinked to adjust to the sunlight, squinting at a dial. Not even lunch time. How is that possible? It feels like I’ve been in there for days.
Perhaps he had. He often lost track of time in this place and its surrounding, lively taverns full of students; there was very little for him at home, and he returned to it only when he had need of a bath or sleep. As he walked down the hall he sniffed himself surreptitiously—no, no, he smelled fine—and dodged groups of laughing students and professors laden with scrolls.
The courtyard was a fine place today. The weather was agreeable: cool in the dappled shades of the trees and stretching columns, but quite warm in the late morning light. Students were sprawled in the grass, chattering idly or sleeping under the banners of red trees. Fat clouds drifted like galleys in the deep blue of the sky.
It would be a slap to the Fates to spend the day inside. But neither did he wish to idle; he hadn’t quite made friends yet, new as he was to the University, and didn’t think napping would be conducive to that.
No, today was one for adventure.
Miyar bypassed them all, walking down the colonnade and to the doors that led to a common area. There was a great bulletin in the center, impossible to miss; professors, students and citizens alike posted jobs and rumors there, and a small crowd milled around it even now. He walked up to it, wondering if the job he’d seen some days earlier was still posted.
Catalogue of Flora. Mind numbing, to be sure; it had paled amongst calls for exotic expeditions and creature hunting, and he often noticed it only in passing. But today was a fine day, and the wind Defiers predicted a fair week as well. No better time to stroll through the island and pick plants. And be paid gold for it, most importantly. His pockets were suffering, and he needed something to fill them.
After all, how hard could it be?
A presence stirred beside him. The mage turned his head to see a pale blonde man staring at the same notice. The fellow was comely, with fine features and twinkling blue eyes, something like amusement playing on his face. Altogether quite pleasant to look at.
One fiery brow arched. A feline smile quirked his lips.
“Ah. Are you an aspiring botanist as well?” Amusement shone in his amber eyes. “Or a hunter? I’m afraid all the jobs for great beasts and rogues are taken. That leaves the petunias, I suppose.” He clucked, lifting up the parchment with a pale finger and letting it flap down again. “A formidable enemy. Worse are the marigolds and roses."
