Further education in the courses wasn't much different in structure from the first day. At two o'clock, there was a lecture on general magic theory, followed by a short break, and then a class on ability development. The duration of the lessons wasn't fixed. Depending on the complexity of the material, the lecture could last an hour and a half, two, or even two and a half hours—the practice time shifted accordingly. As for studying Arcane Arts, it depended entirely on the students' individual abilities. Some, though lacking in talent but with a large reserve, spent an hour or more on practice, while others, albeit well-prepared but with a scant energy supply, exhausted their powers in hardly half an hour.
By the way, Malk was one of the latter. Having breezed through the first level of the Art he was given and immersed himself into the mental desert—Spirit Palace, using Mr. Lok's terminology—he got stuck trying to overcome the second level's boundary. The Heart, the very thing that gave the Art its name, stubbornly refused to form. Perhaps if he could perform more practice cycles, something would click, and quantity would turn into quality. But it all came down to his limited Force reserve. Malk was draining his energy in mere minutes, forcing him to stop training. And thank the Saints, he had the sense and patience not to repeat the mistake that almost cost him his health, or even his life.
The situation was further complicated by the fact that Malk's Force couldn't fully replenish in a day naturally. Even with his small reserve and decent absorption rate, he was still coming to the next class not fully recovered. And this was cutting his training time even further. Using Force sources could rectify the situation, but then the problem of money would loom large. And solving it quickly was impossible.
Heck, Malk even stopped practicing at home, preferring the more advanced public artifact from the courses over his trusted but outdated Mirror! After all, his old tool wasn't going anywhere, but he couldn't afford to miss the chance to get the most out of the device, access to which could be withdrawn at any moment. And he wasn't missing it...
The only thing he had no trouble with was the general magic theory. Laws, formulas, diagrams, and schemes—there was nothing in the lectures he hadn't faced before in boarding school. Sure, back there it was math and mechanics, here it was magic—so what? Until they started teaching subjects that required a developed Spirit, Malk could give any Adept from aristocratic Houses a run for their money.
Anyway, studying—whether at School or in the Society's courses—wasn't just about attending classes and gaining knowledge, but also about making new connections. Maybe meaningless now, but ones that could later develop into something more significant. And valuable. As Tolfan often said back in the boarding school, "If you ain't got money, you can always earn some. But if you ain't got the right connections, no money will help you!"
And some people clearly held similar views on life.
While the snooty noble didn't condescend to the rest, only paying some attention to the couple of girls, and the others limited their interactions to greetings and rare study-related questions, Serge, despite being a bumpkin, turned out to be remarkably sociable. He "befriended" everyone. Treating the "gendarmes" and "grunts" to cheap booze, exchanging pleasantries with the "civilians," flirting with the girls in his rustic way, and even trying to get along with that bastard who fancied himself a high aristocrat. Heck, he even got along with Malk, regularly having lunch with him at the tavern across from the Society's building.
And Malk couldn't say their talks annoyed him.
"You know, Malk, you really know how to surprise. Your Gift isn't exactly a blessing from the Saints, and you don't get access to all the knowledge, yet you haven't fallen behind!" came unexpectedly from Serge—calling whom a good student would be quite a stretch—after the first sennight of studies.
"You mean the Gift development classes?" Malk asked, having expected something like this for a while.
"Yeah, those damn classes! Blast them to Yorrokh..." Serge grumbled. "You're not the best in the whole batch, but in our group, you turned out to be the quickest. While some are just figuring out how to enter their Spirit Palace, you're already trying to storm the second level of your Art. I'm jealous!"
"Better be jealous of Shark," Malk said, referring to that snooty noble and shrugging with disdain. "He's already mastered his Arcane Art and now trains further on his own schedule."
The mention of their most unsociable classmate made Serge gloomy.
"You might as well compare us to some Cheringar scion. Nobles are nobles because they have talents... and resources!.. we can't even dream of. Do we know why the heck he ended up in our group? We don't. So let's not speculate about the reasons behind his achievements," Serge said instructively. "Anyway, what's your secret? 'Cause I'm sure you have one! Otherwise, you'd be negotiating with Mr. Lok for paid meditation lessons along with me and not... Yorrokh knows what you were doing all morning!"
Such directness didn't even anger Malk—he'd gotten used to his classmate's borderline rude bluntness already.
"Prying into mages' secrets? Are you a Heimdarch spy?!" he asked in a menacing voice but couldn't help but chuckle at the end.
"Oh, Malk, what secrets? Whoever wants to dig up your dirt can just check your personal file. And I'm sure it won't cost much!" Serge said condescendingly. "Come on, spill it! I'm curious..."
"Curious, huh... Somehow, I don't recall you sharing much about your own Forbidden Techniques. And if I remember right, Lamara hinted at something like that!" Malk tried to deflect, but it didn't work.
"She hinted..." Serge snapped, rubbing his chin. "She should've just said it straight! I developed my olfaction, the ability to detect human and demon magic. Not like most experienced mages do, but deeper and clearer... It's said that if you master this skill before initiation, by the time you're a Bachelor, you can sense the appearance of any otherworldly visitors from a mile away. And let me tell you, that's a great step toward becoming a demon hunter!"
"Interesting..." voiced his surprise Malk, having never heard of such a thing. "What are the downsides?"
"Unpleasant ones." Serge's face fell. "A reduction of the initial reserve by almost a whole erg, overall weakening of the subtle bodies... If not for that, why the flur would I bother with paid meditation lessons?! I'm no worse than others!" His irritation broke through his mask of friendliness, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm down before continuing. "Alright, I've shared mine. What's your secret?"
The question intrigued Serge so much that he leaned forward toward Malk.
"There's no secret. I had a good mentor at the boarding school who knew a lot and wasn't afraid to share his knowledge with kids. Thanks to him, I entered my Spirit Palace long before initiation." Malk spread his hands as if apologizing. "See, it's simple."
"And the price?" Serge asked, not without disappointment.
"Total loss of affinity with the Elements," Malk said with a crooked smile. Honesty was one thing, but he wasn't about to talk about his Authority and "dud" label.
But even hearing this much was enough to appall Serge.
"Total loss?! Yorrokh can shove such techniques up his ass!" he voiced his opinion and never brought up the topic again.
That conversation might have faded from Malk's memory, like hundreds of other pointless chats, if not for the thought nagging at him about Serge's speech, which was unexpectedly articulate for "a simple farmer's son," as he introduced himself on the first day. It was unusual and strange, making Malk scrutinize the topics they discussed and... stay alert. However, he didn't see any reason for more serious actions or precautions. Besides, he had enough to worry about, even without his classmate's suspicious behavior. Like, for instance, the weak, pulling pain that randomly wandered around his body, appearing and disappearing without any pattern or apparent cause.
No, Malk, hardened by his Forbidden Technique, wasn't afraid of pain. What worried him was its cause. The symptoms were too much like practice deviations, which all mages, from Adepts to Archmages, feared and tried to prevent. And that wasn't something anyone could just brush off.
Trying to get help from Mr. Lok was fruitless. He didn't even listen, just suggested Malk endure it until he completed his practice of the Arcane Art. And although the teacher looked quite convincing when he said this, Malk didn't believe him and decided to investigate on his own. Though "investigate" might be an overstatement. Given his limited options, all Malk could do was talk to some classmates about problems with practicing Arcane Arts and spend a couple of days digging through the public sections of the Society's library. The result was predictable. He couldn't find the answer he needed. Simply because no one had encountered such symptoms.
Now, the lack of information didn't mean there was none at all. Some talked about colorful hallucinations when using misinterpreted Art formulas, others blamed the emerging body transformations on the poorly prepared transition to the Apprentice rank, and some even thought the main issue with practice-induced distortions lay in inadequate nourishment of the Spirit and body... The last point, though, Malk still took into account. Who knew if his deviations were related to this, but he really hadn't taken any elixirs or undergone strengthening rituals. Mr. Lok had mentioned the need for such things in one class, but only in passing, tying it to having jingling drachmas. And Malk, tight on funds, had let his words slip by. But it seemed like that was a mistake.
In short, he couldn't find the needed information in the library, but the search wasn't entirely useless. Nor were the talks with classmates. It turned out everyone had their own issues. Compared to some unfortunate souls, Malk's bouts of pain seemed quite bearable. One of the "grunts," practicing the Art of Three Shields—a more complex version of the Saint's Shield—developed an intolerance to alcohol. One sip, and he was puking his guts out, a fate worse than death for a guy who loved his drinks. Another, focused on some unnamed fire Art, started getting small burns on the backs of his hands after each practice. Weak, nothing serious, but quite annoying. The third, who turned out to be Serge, got a nice-looking pattern on his back, mimicking the design of meridians and collaterals. No pain, burning, or anything unpleasant—just lines under the skin that looked like tattoos.
So many problems made one wonder: was Mr. Lok that wrong in advising to wait? Maybe Malk was worrying for nothing, and the pain he was experiencing was just part of the norm?
He shared his concerns with Helavia. They hadn't seen much of each other lately: both came home late, only having enough energy to grab a bite and crash. So, for this talk, Malk had to catch her in the morning near the bathroom.
His girlfriend, however, didn't offer any understanding.
"If the teacher says to endure and wait, then endure and wait. Stop fussing over nothing!" she said, a bit irked.
Not surprising, though. In their conversations, scarce as they were, Helavia now almost always looked irritated.
"Something tells me Mr. Lok isn't someone whose opinion you can trust so blindly," Malk said thoughtfully.
"Well, you chose your courses yourself. No one forced you, no one twisted your arm. You weighed all the pros and cons, so if something doesn't suit you, suck it up. It's your own fault," she said, almost absentmindedly, focused more on applying her makeup than on talking to her boyfriend.
"I'm not backing down from my decisions!" Malk snapped. "But I won't just sit around either."
"Oh, and what are you planning to do?" Helavia turned to Malk for the first time in their conversation.
"I want to understand how well I grasp Crystal Heart. Maybe I'm really missing something," Malk explained. "The guys from the courses already filled me in on the details of their Arts practice. Even though I couldn't read the original instruction texts—there's a direct ban on that, as you know—I got to hear their descriptions. And that's a big help in studying my own practice..."
His classmates were quite willing to talk, and no one had any issues with the topic. That's why Helavia's reaction to his words caught Malk completely off guard.
"Malk, I must've heard you wrong... You first badgered the losers from your courses for their entrusted secrets, and now you came to me for the same thing?!" Helavia nearly shrieked. "Tell me I'm wrong!"
"What secrets?" Malk frowned, quickly overcoming his confusion. "The School statutes only prohibit sharing formula records and giving a full description of the training process. Sharing practice impressions isn't forbidden!"
But Helavia seemed not to understand. Or didn't want to.
"Malk, to close this topic once and for all. I love you, and you're my boyfriend, but... I also really want to become more than just a dumb girl from Colhaun. And the School of the Three Saints is that once-in-a-lifetime chance for me. I don't want to lose it because of your need to figure something out. And I will not!" Helavia said coldly, enunciating each word. "And besides... what makes you think studying others' Arts will help you? You think you can grasp the principles behind different formulas? Well, let me disappoint you. You're no longer the top student in a backwater boarding school; you're in Andalore, and your talent... you simply have no talent at all! No offense, but if you had any potential in magic, you wouldn't be studying your yellow-rank Crystal Heart—you'd be aiming for at least blue rank like my Four Thunders."
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The force of Helavia's outburst left Malk flustered. His first instinct was to snap back, but... Yorrokh's seed! She was right about some things. In Mritlok—no matter which country—it wasn't customary to share the knowledge gained from Schools or masters of magic. Information about Arts and Techniques, spells, rituals, runes, and ceremonies was valued far more than gold or even energy. And everything had an owner. The principle was simple: reveal someone else's secret out of stupidity or greed, and you've caused offense. If it was someone weaker, fine, the poor sap would just take it, but what if they were stronger—or much stronger?!
Sure, Malk hadn't asked for any secrets or broken any rules, but... Helavia was also right. His request had intruded too deeply into a zone every mage considered highly personal, one that even parents and lovers weren't allowed to enter. It required a special etiquette. An etiquette that people from Malk's background couldn't care less about, but Helavia's circle valued immensely.
Achont scroch it! It seemed the hairline crack in his relationship with Helavia was growing. Malk suddenly realized this clearer than ever, and so... he decided to say nothing more to her. Any words would just make things worse.
Still, damn it, no matter how reasonable her arguments sounded, the situation pissed him off immensely!..
Ultimately, Malk didn't manage to sort out the painful symptoms in his body and put it off for later. Meanwhile, four weeks had flown by since the first introductory lecture, and there were the first changes in the class schedule. An additional practice session was added, closely tied to the "Introduction to the Basics of General Magic Theory" course. And in it, Lamara Gorzhan, already familiar to the adepts, began teaching them wizardry. Not high-level spells or flashy, beautiful magic, and certainly not dark and scary witchcraft, but much more primitive things. Like how to create a closed figure with one's will and fill it with energy, how to draw a closed line with spiritual attention and maintain it for at least a few minutes, how to detect the presence of magic in an object, and how to assess its intensity.
Yes, artifact activation methods, which Malk had long mastered on his own, were studied here as well. And it turned out that not all his classmates could manage this simple action on the first try. Even Shark— despite all his arrogance and success in mastering his Arcane Art—ended up among the laggards, whereas Serge showed a result well above average. He still wasn't up to Malk's level, but then again, his Authority was nowhere near the middle of the red level either. At best, it was just at the beginning, though even that wasn't bad for a novice Adept.
However, remembering that in normal Schools, students got comfortable with Defender spells and basic technomagic tools on the very first day, there was no reason to rejoice at his classmates' meager progress. If it took them a month of practicing their Art to get a grip on such a basic skill, how long would it take them to learn something more complex? How much effort would Malk himself have to expend, given that his achievements were pretty scanty and didn't compensate for the overall weakness of his Gift? There was only one answer—an unfathomable amount. And the scale of the work ahead was daunting.
Still, so far, his Gift—especially compared to the others—didn't seem as bad as it could have been. And Malk could quietly enjoy how easily he completed Lamara's assignments, savoring the calm and steady life of a student... Though, even here, there were hidden pitfalls; moreover, the trouble came from a direction he didn't expect at all.
It started off harmlessly enough, with a lecture on how to lift objects using Authority. Not through spells or rituals, but with Authority itself. With that very ability of a mage to influence reality, that forces energy flows to change direction, warps space, and manipulates the very essence of life. But directly affecting objects with it was impossible... Or so Malk thought until a clearly not strongest in the world mage began lifting the items laid out before her on the table. A feather, a box of hunting matches, a pack of fragrant soap, a couple of steel plates, and even a hefty-looking silver goblet—the last one Madame Gorzhan managed to lift with great difficulty, but she still did it! And throughout all this, not a single word of the magical language was spoken, no gestures were made, and no complex rituals performed. She would shift her gaze to the desired object, concentrate, and it would first shoot up, then slam back down onto the table.
"A mage's Authority doesn't work like that. What's the catch?" Malk exclaimed without realizing it.
"There's no catch, just a little trick. I'm not lifting the object but moving the magic force I 'wrapped' it in using my Authority. Get the difference?" Lamara said with some pride.
Something told Malk that she hadn't mastered this trick as easily as she tried to show.
"Try it yourself..." Lamara suggested, but even without her prompt, Malk was already staring intently at the fountain pen in front of him.
He focused on that part of his Spirit, which he increasingly perceived as either a hand or some other, much more versatile limb. Then he "pulled" on a thin strand of energy stored within his subtle body and... not wrapped it around, but seemed to surround the pen with it.
It wasn't perfect; the Force leaked through the fingers of his invisible hand like through a sieve. And Yorrokh knows what the reason was: maybe Malk lacked Authority, or skill, or both. Still, he managed to achieve some result. The pen didn't shoot up into the air like Lamara's, but at least it spun around its axis like a top.
Malk sighed loudly and looked at the adjacent table, where Serge was sprawled. The latter, unlike him, was trying to affect a small piece of paper, and the effect was somewhat more noticeable. The crumpled sheet rolled across the table like tumbleweed, sometimes bouncing, sometimes stopping and forcing Serge to concentrate again.
"I see many of you managed," Lamara suddenly reminded them of her presence. "And now you should guess the downsides of this approach to using magic. Anyone?"
"The costs are huge! I burned through half my reserve just to move this Yorrokh's scrap of paper!" loudly said Serge, gloomy since he suddenly remembered he still had abilities development classes ahead. And attending them without energy reserves would be useless.
"Correct!" Madam Gorzhan replied with satisfaction. "Even if we account for the general weakness of your Authority and inexperience in manipulating Force, the costs are still huge. With a spell, you could do the same thing much cheaper and without such high demands on the Authority level."
"Then why study such inefficient techniques?" someone from the "gendarmes" asked.
Lamara immediately reacted with a crooked smile.
"And how do you plan to train your Authority? This way may not be the best, but it's still better than nothing. Or do you have a suitable development technique handy?" she asked the student who voiced the dumb question. Not waiting for an answer, she continued much more calmly, "A mage can use their Authority to move things, light fires, dry clothes... There are many applications for this ability, and our library is full of textbooks describing them. I strongly recommend not neglecting to familiarize yourself with them. If only to make your life significantly easier."
"Seems kind of inefficient..." Shark chimed in, adding his two obols.
"On one hand, yes, but on the other... imagine how many spells you can replace with this skill. A dozen, at least. And that means saving the time you could spend on training your Arcane Art or learning much more important spells." Lamara spread her hands as if apologizing. "A mage's time is too valuable to waste on nonsense. You always have to choose."
"Can we see how it compares?" Malk couldn't resist asking. "I mean, compare the effectiveness of using Authority for... I dunno... throwing stuff and a telekinesis spell?"
"Sure," Lamara laughed, tucking a stray lock of hair back in place.
She stepped back a few steps from the table and turned to the wall opposite the entrance. There stood a mannequin, resembling a chopped-up log, used by teachers to demonstrate spells, and it was into it that Madam Gorzhan hurled one of the plates from the table with her Authority.
It didn't go very well, to be honest. The metal plate, purpose unknown, rose into the air with jerky movements, as if Lamara lost her grip on it several times, and then, following a visibly noticeable trajectory, hit the middle of the mannequin's chest and bounced springily into the corner.
"And now the same thing with a spell!" Lamara said a bit louder than necessary, her cheeks turning red with embarrassment.
Then followed two simple gestures, a barely audible word, and the second plate flew like an arrow toward the mannequin. Mentally, everyone had already prepared to hear the sound of steel biting into wood, but half a meter from the target, the piece of metal suddenly veered to the side and, as if pulled by an invisible leash, rushed into the hall. It flew over the students' heads, reached the last row, and... at the last moment, Malk still managed to shift to the right. The plate didn't lodge in his eye but, grazing his cheekbone, flew past him and helplessly clinked against the wall.
It all happened in a matter of moments. The spell, the trajectory change, the injury... And if Malk had been less nimble, it could have ended in his death!
Of course, the lesson was ruined. Lamara, despite her higher rank, was even less prepared for what happened than Malk himself. Like an ordinary girl, not a mage, she froze in shock, only repeating, "How?! How?!" It got to the point where one of the "grunts" went for help to the neighboring classrooms, and five minutes after the incident, the Junior Magister Malk knew from the admissions committee showed up.
And he, unlike his colleague, sorted things out with lightning speed. With a single gesture, he stopped the bleeding and closed Malk's wound, then calmed Lamara down, and even gave all the present students a good scare by scanning them with some spell that looked like a translucent wave. It didn't bring any pain, but left behind peculiar sensations: everyone's stomachs started to cramp from hunger, and their heads ached. According to the Junior Magister, it only checked for recent use of complex spells, and the scan showed their innocence in affecting Madam Gorzhan's magic. At least, that's what the fourth-rank mage said, and no one dared to argue.
Even Malk, after being told straight to his face that it was a tragic accident caused by a manifestation of demonic energies in the world and that no one was behind it—in other words, being fed a pack of lies—could only nod submissively. Later, he did think about demanding compensation, but didn't pursue it further. Fighting the Society and a powerful mage, even in court, was something he absolutely didn't want.
And so, the incident was added to the collection of other equally strange occurrences...
That day, it wasn't the last unusual event. When Malk returned home, he suddenly got the idea to check the perimeter of the "Colhaunian" protection he had set up. Not because he had much faith in it, but because his heart was uneasy, his mind was a mess, and he wanted to sort out his feelings and thoughts. And he couldn't think of a better way than to repeat the ritual he'd memorized since childhood.
He slowly walked around the apartment, checking windows and doors, whispered a prayer to the Nine—pointless and meaningless in his delivery— then took down the pouch with the bear fang and crystalline sand from the shelf under the likeness of Achont, and... usually, that was where the check ended, but Malk suddenly realized he no longer felt any energy in the sand. The Force that should have lasted a whole season was completely exhausted. Not trusting his newly acquired mage senses, he quickly untied the pouch and poured some of the contents into his palm... Only to curse a moment later and dump it all back. The usually transparent and sparkling grains now looked dull and drained of energy. The sand, meant to feed the runic fang with magic, was completely depleted.
Malk exhaled another round of curses through his teeth and, now properly, not just formally repeating the ritual steps, checked all the key points of the perimeter. And this time, he found small scorch marks around the silver nails he'd driven into the doorframe. The protection hadn't been just a silly whim—it had actually repelled something. So much so that it completely drained its energy supply.
Yorrokh screw it, what the heck was going on?!