The day the towers fell, I attended my first class at Mayakov Academy. It was eight years ago to this very day that we all heard a titan crash into the earth. The ground shook and blood poured from our ears. Twin monoliths of stone, climbing into the heavens, ripped holes into the sky as they fragmented apart, pulverizing a city of fifty million strong. Boulders broke upon the city, the houses cracking apart like eggs.
Luckily, Mayakov Academy was already destroyed the year prior. So its new location was established toward the city's outskirts and we were not in immediate danger. We witnessed it coming down, a tide of dust rushing into the streets; flowing like water through a gutter, debris rushing into an aquafer, liquefied stone, dust and ash swirling and skating uphill, fighting gravity; a mushrooming plume suspending particles into the air.
Eyewitnesses and survivors described the dust cloud as an overwhelming, choking presence that filled the air and obscured visibility. The dust was so thick that it reduced visibility to just a few feet in some areas making it difficult to breathe or move around. Many people who were caught in the dust cloud reported feeling disoriented, confused, and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of detrus in the air.
People still talk of the granulated stone, glass, and metal shards that covered every square surface for months afterward.
Like many, I'll always associate the first day of fall with that calamity. In many ways, it was the heralding of more tragedies to come.
Today is a special day, too. I am returning to Mayakov Academy after four long years away. I graduated from this intrepid institution when I was eighteen. Cum laude. Adversity had driven me to succeed, you could say? Or perhaps in spite of it.
It says a lot about my unfortunate situation that I am returning, however. It's not exactly prestigious to be a professor of magic. For many, it is simply something done close to retirement. Until recently, it technically wasn't even allowed for one so green. A professor as young as me would be seen as antithetical to the academy's history as an ancient and venerable institution. Necessity breeds change, however. At the rate things are going, there won't be any tradition left to uphold, anyway.
I get off the monorail. It is the only way in and out of the university. Its perimeter is composed of numerous concentric geodesic watchtowers and a dense, steep forest. These barriers are not an accident and were erected relatively recently. Mayakov Academy's original palatial estate, with many romantic spires and star-observing pylons, was destroyed completely at the start of the war with Avalonia. In order to harken back to prior days, the outer perimeter was raised to create a facsimile of safety and stability.
Yet, the same efforts have not been enacted elsewhere. The school today wouldn't look out of place next to a dockside warehouse. The "courtyard" is just a wide-open lot with rows of freshly churned brown dirt. White columns of a fake marble (some hardened, waxy resin) are decorated with leaves and scrolls, the slender and fluted shafts emulating some simpleton's idea of ancient grace and character. An amateur must have put them down, but whomever it was had the wisdom not to sign their name anywhere (or make them responsible for supporting any real structure).
Beyond the courtyard are several rectangular buildings. Each building has three floors. It's the building furthest from the entrance where some of the school administration live and work. It is characterized by a gargantuan dome and gazebo in the middle.
Much like that fateful day eight years ago, I remember the clear blue skies and serene weather on campus. I am standing in the courtyard and not much has changed. A few students are trickling in from the monorail behind me, weaving around someone lost deeply in their own painfully pitiful nostalgia.
...my nostalgia isn't so fondly remembered, of course. Rather, being here makes me sink into the soles of my boots.
I hobble slowly toward the administrative building to pick up some personal affects, a few passing students watching my funny gait, but they are mostly nervous to be arriving for the first day of classes this year, so I am not stopped in my narrow-minded pursuit--
I speak too soon.
"Xander, my dear boy."
I stop and turn. That familiar voice does not startle me, but it does bring me to a halt.
"Professor Windsor."
"Please, please, I've heard the good news. I'm sorry we did not cross paths at all last week during your orientation. You simply must call me Callahan. We are both instructors, after all."
I nod.
His good humor does not rub off on me. Almost immediately, the man's jolly smile quashes into a sour mire of wrinkled skin.
"Is something the matter?"
"Yes, but I must thank you for bringing to mind memories of time gone by. It is always good to see one's successful student's up and about, making their mark on the world. It's rare sort of pride, like the raising a good son."
I don't know what to say to this man. His words make me want to dissolve into sludge. I simply nod.
"Actually, this is good timing. I was meaning to speak with you anyway. Come with me to my office."
"Excuse me? I'm sorry P--" a force of obsequious habit, "Callahan. Sir, I have class to teach in twenty minutes."
"You do, yes, though this is also related to that. You haven't been informed, but there's been a shuffle. Come on, I will explain."
His forcefulness is a whirlwind. I am the fire that licks at his heels, following in his old speed and vigor. The backs of his chiaroscuro robes unfurl like a white star in the abyss of night, or white sun in the black mirror of the looming ocean. His magic makes them flaunt around with that distracting holographic flow. His gaudy fashion makes him stick out sorely.
We walk in silence until we reach his office which is located in the aptly named, "Building II". The walls are lined with sturdy bookcases and overburdened with dusty tomes, magical artifacts of dubious purpose and expired alchemical reagents. The office's floor is littered with scrolls and papers submitted by students - just left like that, in a pattern of organization no other could reason with. The air is clotted with dust. I don't know how Professor Callahan even breathes in this space. He instructs me where to step and where to walk, his magic animating a seat. It screeches back, gently backing up papers from one pile into another.
When the door shuts behind me on its own accord, he takes a seat. He is wearing a powdered wig, the white flour against his skin absorbing the nasty oils and sweat on the top of his bald head. To further offset any collected "fragrances" to the tiers and tiers of rolled white hair, there's a distinctive lavender perfume applied that positively sticks to the must air inside his office. Some say scent and memory are deeply connected and I will agree that I do not enjoy Professor Callahan's fluorescent "essence". I can only imagine a bouquet of textbooks, the scent of old paper and melting candle wax coagulating in the air, and my much younger lips moving - reciting in desperate attempts to memorize all matter of arcane minutiae. I remember vividly his lectures where he swore none of us would ever cast a single spell worth being proud of. This man and all his barbed delivery dared us day in and out to learn; and while a few of us succeeded, I have nothing but the trauma of this man's cruel and arbitrary tests in my mind right now. His hateful exhortations, his bigoted minimizations of our toil.
It's only that I have the patience of a mountain that I can sit here and imitate a smile. (Or, perhaps it's just my painfully obsequious nature.)
"Headmaster Bazalgette finally received a letter from the Ministry of Education pertaining to that mess of a board meeting last month," he explains without any preamble, as if I am intimately seasoned with the school's machinations already, "As we feared, they wish to conduct an inspection of the academy."
I don't know how this involves me right in this very moment, but I draw in a deep breath and put my analytical mind to the task.
I raise an eyebrow, "An inspection? What for?"
"To ensure that we are complying with their "regulations", of course. The declarations made to safeguard and maintain the structure of the imperial state the very nation of Laplace," the professor flicks his eyes askew, unable to stifle a grimace, "But that's simply the stated text and a bloody excuse to meddle in our affairs. For years now, the Ministry of Education has been receiving complaints from concerned parents about the safety and security of their children here
at Mayakov."
He gnashes his words, becoming more and more irate as he describes it to me. I'm grateful he is at least explaining himself, I was afraid he would just talk over me like he was wont to as my instructor.
"What complaints?"
"Too many to name explicitly. They're all without substance and as such, the details are irrelevant. All that matters is the Ministry has reason to believe that certain... activities have been taking place within our walls," he admits reluctantly. "Impermissible activities that are strictly forbidden by Laplacean law."
He's being awfully vague. We are a nation at war, there are many "impermissible" things that might be in violation of the law. But somehow, I don't think he's referring to students illegally practicing or experimenting magic without supervision or some mundane matter like that. Surely the accusations are more grave than that.
"What kind of activities?"
He gives a long suffering sigh. I've never seen this man so uncomposed, especially not someone as overly pedantic as Professor Callahan normally is. He has rehearsed himself for many years. His lectures are as old as his way of living.
"You were a bright student, Mr. Barnes. Professor Barnes, now," for just a candle's flicker, he smiles again.
The fury etched into his wrinkled face abates with the pleasure of nostalgia. I don't remember him ever being pleased with my work. I struggled in his classes. I don't think I received the highest scores, either. He expected just that much out of us.
I wonder if, in his old age, has he confused me with another one of his students? Perhaps, there's another Xander Barnes that graduated in the last decade? Does he realize how I may be the youngest professor at this school?
"I'm assuming the accusations are groundless rubbish then."
He shakes his head, "Of course. You know that none of the faculty here would choose to work against the government. Or any arm of the military. This institution is, and always has been, an honorable institution for research and study. Curiosity, is tolerated, of course. Perhaps, speculation and experimentation go a little beyond our judicious guidance-- But certainly, strict adherence to the letter of the law has always been maintained and I do consider it an inviolable beatitude to not question imperial will or the wisdom of our honorable generals. This too is drilled into our students as soon as they begin at the academy. From start to finish, all research is approved and meticulously examined by our staff. We do not tolerate anything less, I do not support teaching heresy."
"Right." I hope he's finished, but he's just finished drawing in a deep breath.
"I do not teach heresy. I do not condone it. I do not want heresy to invade this school. I have worked hard to safeguard us from it. Few have worked harder than me on that front! There is no heretical magic at this academy. None. I would know, I have designed things extensively to identify and prevent it. We have a zero tolerance policy. I abhor it! It is...maddening. To think that I? Or would anyone here betray that spirit and commitment to our pupils, or especially this school's legacy?"
Okay. We get it!
When he says nothing more, I wonder if he's finished ranting and needs another break to swallow oxygen or whether I should speak. So, I raise my voice.
"Surely, you aren't accusing another professor of anything?"
"No, absolutely not," he shakes his head, "But that's just it, isn't it, Xander? Accusation is dangerous. Accusation alone is enough to kill. It doesn't take much. Simply...spreading rumors or doubt is enough to wreak havoc on this school. It is this continued, baseless accusation made by an influential few that fuel this nonsense," he mutters under his breath, "And it's coming to head, finally."
I nod at him, the older man's face intensely creased with more of that fury, the dome of his skull mapped in old, stretched-out veins. Professor Callahan looks to be at his wit's end. He squeezes his pudgy, pasty fists. His black and ivory robes swell at the apex of his breath. As he exhales, his shoulders slump.
"I am not some frivolous, daft boozer that abuses children, I have no time for their games and no patience for that-- that-- poppycock," more anger leaks out, finally giving into exhaustion. He sags, "I completely agree that there is no room for heresy. Goodness, I think you couldn't find a stronger advocate for it than me in this school. And yet... doubt. Endless doubt and scrutiny. Is there nothing I can do to convince them that nothing is being hidden from them?"
"I don't know. Is there?"
I don't, in part, because he still hasn't explained what's going on in enough detail for me to form an educated opinion. The man is clearly confined to his own ego. But, I'm patient. (If I keep telling myself that, will it make me feel any better about myself?)
"What would you have me do?"
"Right. Well, that's precisely it, isn't it? There are things that can be done. It's not your problem, Xander. You're new blood here. You will give the Ministry a good showing, won't you? I'm positively convinced of that. You will do well in my stead."
"I will? Your setad? I mean, of course. I am an instructor here--"
"Professor, Xander. You are a Professor. Capital 'P'. You Profess the truth and nothing less. You must remind yourself of that. I know you know your magic."
Yes, I know it so well I have taken this job which barely pays a living wage. But, glad to have your glowing support sir.
"Of course."
"I have the utmost faith in you. Which is why you will be teaching my classes this semester, instead of what you were assigned."
"I was afraid you would say something like that..." I had started to dread what he was going to reveal, the moment he confessed his utmost faith in me, "So this is the shuffle you were referring to."
He nods. Getting up, he passes me one syllabus after the other. Five thick folders full of lecture material that date back forty years of this man's static career (yes, they have not changed in all that time). Just glancing at one, my mind immediately recognizes it. I seared this man's dogma into my gray matter to pass his classes. And now I'll be subjecting another generation to it? Fantastic. Brilliant.
Disbelief must show on my face, but Callahan can only see it as joy, I presume? He is smiling like a fox.
"Yes, I can see you're elated. I'm glad I chose you, Xander. You will do my work justice," he nods sagaciously, "You will be instructing two year classes by yourself. This is in part due to the staffing shortages that I'm sure you're no doubt aware of already. It is a difficult task for a new Professor, but if there is anyone who can do it, it is you, Xander."
I grapple my skull. Cold sweat collects under my arms. I prop my body up against the wall of his dusty office. My one knee quakes under the load. Two? Why you doubling my workload? Does that mean I get double pay? Double time off?
"Rest assured, I will work with the Ministry and the Department to prevent this school from coming under direct oversight. I should be able to convince them that they are mistaken, but it will take a considerable effort. They wish to audit everything. It will take a concentrated effort to satisfy them."
"I see. I understand, sir."
Painfully sycophantic, I don't push back at all. I'm a worm. No spine. I should be outraged. Where's the pushback? Don't I have leveraeg?
I could protest this? I could demand a raise? Say it's ridiculous? I could even quit, right? That is always an option. Defeat and retreat aren't unknown fellows to me. I just need to find another job before I starve. Easy. I've got more opportunity than sense, don't I?
...there is a reason I came back here. I knew they wouldn't be able to refuse me.
I sigh. "I have a few concerns regarding this, but I must be going. I'll be late for class," I tell him, "I'll discuss my concerns with the director later today."
He chuckles, "The director won't be available this week at all I'm afraid, but there should be a secretary who can handle that on your behalf."
"I see..." I trail off, unsure of how to sort this out in my head.
"But, you took the words right out of my mouth. Thank you young Xander. Let's speak again soon. Ah, if you have any difficulty, my assistant is available this evening. You will find her milling about here. Also, You will need this."
His pudgy fingers brush against mine, giving me: a standard book on The Principles of Magic, a silver key, and a small box of beautiful, pure, all-white chalk. How thoughtful.
"If that's all? I'll be on my way."
And as quickly as he came to me, the man is gone. He is still so fast on his feet, it's like he hasn't aged a day.
----------------------------------------
The classroom is not that far, but my gait is slow (luckily, I am patient). I'm one to "drag my feet", rather, a specific foot. In polite company, it's excused as a "birth defect", even though such things are normally quite curable with a steady enough application of recuperative spell workings or even just a magical exo-brace. My chronic injury's actual nature is one of powerful arcane origin, which makes healing it out of reach for me.
The muscles are all locked up and have atrophied since I acquired the injury. I have barely any sensation in it, as well. My right knee barely responds to my will, resulting in me over-favoring my left side, which in turn causes a chronic imbalance of bulging muscle and atrophic sloughing. Not a pleasant topic, but it comes up often in places like these until people acclimate to my presence.
People I pass give me a wide berth, their eyes tracking me as I hobble past. My dark, outer robes part down the middle, revealing a plain green tunic and brown slacks. A drab pairing. I would prefer a suit to be honest, but the dress code for teachers is as specific as it is unnecessary. The robes themselves are expensive and embroidered with Mayakov's venerated M. They set me back several week's wages, which is a wonderful start, but at least the academy is "kind" enough to simply garnish them instead of requiring the impossible sum up front.
I was just given this class and its entire curriculum, it will be my first time teaching too. Almost anyone in my position would be positively sweating, I imagine, wracked and nagged by worry and the creeping gyre of anxiety.
When I enter the classroom I am not nervous. Instead, I am sick with nerves. There is a difference - it being that I can handle being sick quite well. The sickness merely pools and seeps in me as I face them all. Like any novel danger I've ever faced, I simply put on a brave face and move forward. Luckily, I'm unlikely to die from this kind of quarry.
It is a narrow classroom with no ornate or distracting features. Windows cast the gray light of morn into the room, large streaks laminating the desks in a polarizing glare.
In contrast to the tranquil stillness, every second-year's eyes swivel to me. Their gazes are not glazed-over and glossy, but sharp and attentive. They range from fifteen to sixteen in age I surmise, with a little deviation from this standard. I can estimate that at least eighty percent of the class is from well-established families, with a few poorer folk granted special passage to this school (though, I will say from personal experience few of that stock complete all four years of offered instruction).
"Salutations," I gather volume to my voice, projecting it at them like I would at any wild arcanous beast, "There has been a sudden adjustment. Professor Callahan Hanrahan Windsor is not going to be teaching this class, this semester. I will be taking over for him, I am your Professor and not a substitute you can idly ignore. I'll be in your care."
I lift a hand. The box of chalk hidden in my pocket opens. A single specimen of chalk orbits me as I make my way to the beautiful chalkboard. It is wiped bare, pristinely cared for; its dark surface stoically stares back at me. I could hang this weary piece in a museum.
My name is evoked in a rigid script. My handwriting was quite poor starting at this school, but through attrition, it had improved into a minimal legibility. My invocation follows the very lyric of my hand, for all magic is lyrical in nature.
Professor Xander Barnes. No elaborate middle-name. The surname is borrowed, even. Only my given name lingers from my parents.
"You may address me as Professor or Professor Barnes and nothing les--"
I notice a hand is up already. A few faces in the crowd stare at me dumbfounded.
"Yes?"
"P...Professor How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"With the chalk..."
I glance over my shoulder. The chalk piece floats by the board. I recall it to my hand. It takes its time sailing over to me, lodging lazily between two fingers. Its soft, smooth surface is like a lover's cheek. I think. I haven't had one of those. (Kissless virgin? Heck yeah! But that's supposed to make you a better Professor, right? ...right? I'm glad my self-deprecating humor stay quietly hidden inside my internally musing monologue.)
"Gravitation magic is a primary, foundational skill grouped within the Earth cluster. You should have learned it in your first year...? Writing one's name requires Sympathetic magic, which is taught in the first year as well. It is also a foundational skill within the Anima cluster."
"You aren't using a focus!"
Ah. Right. I see.
"Pardon me...sir, your name?"
"Kael, Professor. I'm Kael Joelma."
I nod. My eyes sweep the others. They are at least quiet. Respectful. I haven't lost control of the classroom in my first sixty seconds. That's good? Good start.
Perhaps I imagined it. A mirage of my past here. The classroom is vaguely familiar. Perhaps I set foot here once before? In a dream? I don't know, but I was seeing double before. This hastily-fabricated school was very new back then, perhaps they've reconfigured it some.
There are only nine students in this classroom. Very manageable. Quite small. Half the size of my own second year class, at least. But it makes sense, of course. With the war having ground on as it has, our city-state has dwindled from fifty million to twenty five million or so. Last week during orientation, they had spoken at length about how desperate they needed teachers, so it seems many instructors have passed on or left as well?
I must not be distracted. The students are hanging on my reply.
"Well, Kael. While a focus is normally required to learn magic, once you mature, it becomes less so. Some practitioners are able to conceptualize their spells with their mind, with their faith, or with the aid of a familiar. Certainly, some complex evocations require multiple practitioners, or they may require a specifically prepared medium to channel through, but for elemental spellcraft, a degree of practice and familiarity is all that's absolutely necessary to cast them."
Another student has their hand up.
Kael, a lithe boy with black hair, is contrasted by my second student speaking up. She has olive skin like my own, a jagged "weeping" scar in the middle of her forehead. Her hair is a soft white.
"You. Yes, you may go."
"I am Sidonie Petronas, Professor. I must protest your explanation. Professor Babel specifically instructed us last year-- over and over again I may add-- that what you just did is strictly impossible and that to even try is heretical -- but more importantly, suicidal."
Excuse me? Heretical? What?
My expression reveals my shock, but she holds her head proudly, without any deceit. I am quite familiar with untruth, so I feel confident that this isn't some planned school prank.
I take a moment to gather myself. I take the syllabus for this class and thumb through it. My eyes examine every page of the lesson plan provided. Every diagram and paragraph are intimately familiar to my eyes. I spent countless nights "worshiping at the altar of study" to the detriment of my own health. Every lesson is like its own iconography with charts, graphs, tables and footnotes that I had to copy over and over again. As much as I despise Professor Windsor, he was always technically "correct" and as inflexible as his teaching was, it was strictly, as correct as it could be.
After sweeping through the pages, I come to a stunning conclusion right there in the classroom. There is a conspicuous portion of the curriculum carved out. The foundation for silent, focus-less casting is removed, for one.
"Thank you, Miss Petronas. I will clear everything up in a moment. I am getting ahead of things."
I pass out the syllabus to the class, "Please take one and pass the rest back."
I rock in place, tapping my fingers while I wait for them to finish.
"Very good. Thank you. Please glance at the syllabus at your own leisure. You may ask questions next time. Welcome to Elemental Theory. In this course, broadly speaking, you will learn to shape the elements. Of course, this class is heavy in theory, but the way testing is conducted is largely practical. By the end of this class, you will come away with the confidence that given enough study, every primary element will obey your command."
These are the words that Professor Windsor said to us years ago. They are the words he repeated for many generations before mine. They are his words, as much as I would disagree with them in totality. Elemental magic is not about obsequious subservience or rigid dominance, but rather their very interchange. Though, I get ahead of myself.
My introduction calms the slight friction I sensed, which allows me to continue teaching without issue. I do neglect to bring up my lack of any history teaching. I refrain from stuttering and long pauses in my lecture by pretending none of the students are there at the moment, though I fear this tactic will not work for very long. I do well "staring past" people when I speak to them, so I may default to this tactic to stay focused.
"With regard to what you witnessed a moment ago, you could clearly see with your own eyes that elemental magic is possible to practice without a focus. I cannot take that back. It is true you were instructed otherwise in the past, but this likely won't be the last time you discover something you assumed or were told to be true just isn't the case in reality." I hesitate, "As for its status as heresy, that may or may not have changed recently. I have been away. I will review the current advisement on what is considered too dangerous to be taught any longer. I will endeavor to inform you all tomorrow." I bow slightly, "However, the world changes around us all the time. We must stay constantly vigilant. This is something to keep in mind when studying, as well. There are many reasons why you might learn something one way at first, only to unlearn such things as you get older. Inherently, although this is a topic more advanced than this class, at its very core, all magic is..."
Am I really going to do this? Just stand up here and talk at them? Certainly, I could remember many pointless hours spent listening to my professors wax philosophical, only to have our assignments and tests unhinged altogether from that indulgent, egotistic blabbering. Will I choose to be just another Professor Windsor?
I would rather not waste my students' time with the sound of my own voice, I find. While I will teach this man's class, I won't simply subject these children to the same misery I endured.
"For all of us, I imagine, it has been some time since the end of spring, class. I'm sure you're all a little rusty in one manner or another. I need to learn your names and predisopsitions. I want you to briefly introduce yourselves to me, while also explaining to me the four foundational principles of magic as you were taught. And perhaps, if you like, the animal or element you were associated with in your first year's trial."
I point to the front-most student before me, setting off their begrudging obedience. Clearly, they were hoping they could stay quiet and doze off.
"Ben Sears, Professor," he has a resonating clarity to his voice and broad, dark brows, "Heir of House Sears. My element is the number six. The four foundations of magic are... earth, wind, fire, and water?"
Ben does not sound like a dumb child. He looks quite mature, even, with a defined chin. To be chosen by a number is also fascinating. However, that answer is exceptionally dim and dull for second-year students.
"That is incorrect."
I won't excoriate him for it. Professor Windsor would try his hardest to discourage us and tell us to give up on ever graduating. He told us we would never learn how to wield true magic. He dared us to continue to learn. I will not repeat that same mistake. Though, I won't encourage lazy answers, either.
I incline my eyes to the boy behind him.
"Walter Willis," he says, a slight snide bemusement in his tone. His eyes dagger Ben from behind, who seems almost unconsciously agitated by it, "Chosen by the Star and heir of Willis Industries. Perhaps you've heard of us, Professor?"
I would peg the Willis family as being in the top five, in terms of the most wealthy families in all of Laplace. Their largest holdings would probably be in the manufacture and procurement of magical ordinance. The Star tends to select a pupil or two every year, it's not all that remarkable.
"Yes, I have. And, your answer?"
"I'm not sure that it's simply four, Professor. I could name six? There's a magic's propensity - that is, its natural inclination to be one thing or another. There's the principle of persona, where it is one's id or ego that defines the shape projected by an invocation. There's the principle of autonomy, which states that one's own spirit actively suppresses and rebels against the influence of foreign magic. Then, there're the principles of liminality, entropy, and causation - what is known as the noble triangle - things which magic cannot affect virtually at all without becoming violently destabilized."
"All future topics of discussion, Mister Willis, but not what I was looking for. Thank you. Next?"
"H...hello," she looks up, as if hiding in Walter's shadow.
"Your name, please."
"..."
She swallows, "C...Colette Skytree...Persimmons."
I can recall timid classmates, but by second year you really ought to toughen up? I cannot remember anyone surviving Mayakov like this. Poor Colette looks like she might drift away like dust motes, shrinking away under my sustained eye contact.
"Well met, Miss Skytree. And your answer?"
She is perhaps the thinnest of the girls; her limbs are gaunted and pale. There is no inherent weakness in her body, she seems well nourished in some sense or another. Her high cheekbones (and overall bony face) are not ugly; her hair is a radiant crystalline blue, quite unique. Ornate diamond-white earrings decorate her lobes, sparing no expense. Pure diamond is a coveted material for casting.
"M...Mine answer is. That. Mine...mine answer. That is to say, Mineself..." she struggles for a breath, "L-Love? Temperance? Faith? And...i-inviolable Ch-Chastity?"
The room breaks out in a nervous giggle. I allow it to ruffle through the students. Poor Skytree averts her gaze, a shattered smile squirming its way onto her petite, pink lips.
I can't bring myself to bludgeon her with even an ounce of criticism. But it is just the worst answer so far.
I recognize her "delicate" manner of speech. She is a high lady, which is quite pitiable. She will likely be married off at the end of her third year, if not sooner. The war has necessitated that all children grow up quicker and quicker.
"...next."
"That would be me, Professor."
She is put together. Her brass hair is like an angelic raiment, pristinely arranged on her forehead in a twin-tassel, long braids down to the middle of her back. Her posture and poise are befitting her status.
"Milizie-Maecenas Eiffel, or just Milizie, if you prefer, Professor. I humbly decline to elevate myself. I am simply privileged to be among your students, Professor."
"Miss Eiffel will suffice in most circumstances. But very well, please continue."
"The four principles of magic are self-regulation - also called homeostasis, efficiency, rationality, and natural selection."
I nod, relief unconsciously dropping my shoulders, "Textbook answer, Miss Eiffel."
She cuts a wide swath of a self-satisfied smile.
"With that question answered, I will ask the next person to expand a single principle, if they are able. Next."
"I will go," a boy with a rigid jaw raises his hand, "I'm Kader Meridian," from his accent I can detect he is low-born, perhaps near the northern slums of Laplace, "The chariot is my symbol. Also, I like long walks on the beach." He makes a deliberate look at Miss Skytree, who shrinks away. The class laughs. I endure it when perhaps I should nip it in the bud, "I don't really know. I would have gotten the previous question wrong, Professor. But if I had to guess, magic which is efficient doesn't tire you out?"
"That's more a consequence of a properly evoked spellform than a principle, Mister Meridian." I glance to Kader's friend -- judging by how comfortable they are in the same column, the echoed body language.
"Gideon Giza. I don't have a sign, or anything like that. They could never get it to work for me, not that I'm bothered," he waves his hand, "Based on the phrasing, I imagine homostasus is about melding, like, two complimenting elements to create more magical power?"
More laughter. I restrain a sigh.
"Homeostasis," Milizie corrects.
I'm starting to wonder what happened. These children know almost nothing about magic. Well, I suspect Miss Eiffel has had private tutoring. But, could it be, the sustained lack of teachers at this school has caused everything to collapse? How could I be expected to pass on these children to the next instructor? What a complete mess. Really, truly.
I wave my hand. Next, please. Next.
"Sidonie Petronas."
The girl with olive skin and weeping scar. I don't even look at her again. I can tell from the very cadence. Every enunciation. The gait and candor. The timbre and "fletching" of her melodic voice, that she is only going to be trouble for me. I do not do well with noblewomen like this.
"I am chosen by the noble Dandelion. To answer your question, magic is highly stable when it meets the four primary qualia of magic: Self-regulation, efficiency, rationality, and natural selection. For example, illusion magic may operate without external intervention through the virtue of self-interest and the interaction of supply and demand when it is efficiently cast, supported by the rational universe, and utilizes the principles of creative destruction. In times of waxing energies, you should work a spell that can catch so-called updrafts of magic. Putting too much of your own strength into such a spell will make it unstable. In times of waning energies, you must exert yourself to overcome the natural tendencies for a working to come to rest. A spell which is rational will choose its shape to survive and leave its mark on the world. And should your spell be shaped intelligently, over time, you will learn to advance it and empower its work. As much the world can be shaped by spell work, spell work is also shaped by the world."
I nod, recalling such an explanation from a book, though not any textbook springs to mind. I can't place the author at the moment, but it has me curious whom she was tutored by.
"If you are conceptualizing your magic with wind or celestial bodies, then such an explanation is accurate, Miss Petronas. Certain details can be altered, mutatis mutundis, for various elements, though I may have to consult with my understanding today's definition of heresy to expand further," that earns me a nervous chuckle.
Indeed, I look past her as I speak. It makes talking at her easier. My words are stiff and overly formal-sounding even to my own ears.
"But yes, very adequate answer," I conclude, flicking my eyes down at her, staring at her far too intently, my eyes boring through her and into the floor behind her desk, "There is only you left, miss, but I will give you a final question, though it may be unfair to have no time to dwell on it."
"It's fine," the last child says.
There is a subdued, brooding quality about her. If she were to apply some eyeshadow, the nocturne of her voice will be brought out and create a saturnine glow in her raven hair. She is quite tall and thin.
"My name is Zana Empire. The Willow and the Waxwing, Professor."
It's not rare to have two signs if they are closely related, though given that one child said they have "none" I wonder if their first year trial was even conducted correctly.
I decide to give her an easy question. Being last is always hard, right?
"Hello, Miss Empire. To you, what is magic? The very essence of it, from a theoretical perspective. Putting aside individual differences in conception or spell work. Just a high level answer."
Zana's wide, black eyes dart across the room, then back to me. Her long, slender lip coil very sharply.
"Professor, to me, magic is a poison."
I'm not alone in staring at her. Zana's words are not only disturbing in their morose delivery, but in their curtness. Is that disrespect or rebellion I taste? I don't have quite a handle on her.
"Interesting perspective. I can't say I would have guessed that. Though, one must wonder why one would choose to study a poison at...an academy for poison," I struggle to make my thought work. My wit is rusty.
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She smiles. It's sublime.
"Well, it's personal, Professor."
I nod. I choose to leave it at that, for now. Goodness, how long do I have these students for? I am teaching "two classes" which is a deceptive way to put it. A class isn't a course, but rather a body of students, such as the nine children present here.
At this academy, there is a brief homeroom followed by two primary lecture courses, with each class separated by a brief recess. After a lunch break, two additional courses are taught. Because of the strenuous and taxing nature of magical instruction, a Professor teaches two courses sequentially for roughly a four hour period each day (in my case, Elemental Theory and Basic Bestiary). I will be teaching this class until noon, followed by a second class in the afternoon...which is really rather unfair. I should have time to gather myself, rest, and plan for tomorrow's instruction. Especially when you consider the pitiful amount of talents of silver I'll accrue for my toil.
It's easier to soldier on when you don't do the math. Just keep moving and have patience, I suppose.
Before I can take what knowledge I've gathered and restart today's introductory lecture, Zana interrupts me with her raised hand.
"Yes, Miss Empire?"
She tucks the dark ribbon of her long bangs behind one ear.
"We know your name, Professor, but if I may ask, what is your sign?"
"The Tower," I admit, after a short pause.
That doesn't have the effect I thought it would. Perhaps things really have changed. Granted, it was more symbolic back then. People were shaken up by any sign that could be related to that disaster. It made life at Mayakov rather challenging for me.
"I wonder how much you've been instructed on the significance of signs, class. However, that's not exactly the topic I wish to delve into today. But it does feed into what I wish to talk about, rather, what does The Tower symbolize? What does it have to do with the principles of foundations of magical theory that this particular course is all about?"
Since I'm apparently forced to write by hand for now, I walk to the board and illustrate with chalk. I draw a tower and segment it into four slices.
"The Tower symbolizes the struggle of mortality. To reach for the heavens and abscond from everything. Some say this means casting off the physical, vulnerable shell and becoming one with magic. Others hypothesize other methods of transcendence. Magic, at its most fundamental, can be broken down into four tiers. There are the primary elements - fire, earth, wind, and water. At the base of the tower, they represent the easiest to mold and shape. As magic is refined, less fundamental concepts emerge. At the second tier spell workings already become too numerous to list out, we choose to broadly classify them into another four sets for symmetric reasons... Life and death, Rational and Irrational. The third tier will be beyond us this year, but we can broadly characterize them as time and space. The final tier is called the Spell of Ascension, which many believe can only be cast by those who have broken the bonds of mortality-- many cultures have described this spell work in different ways, which will be the topic of more advanced courses. In this course, we will only study the fundamental theory behind this. But broadly speaking...you may look forward to a mastery of the primary elements, to at least give yourself some confidence that what you're learning isn't simply ivory tower bu--" I catch myself, "I mean, poppycock."
I wish I had some water with me. Man, am I rough at this. My throat is dry and I'm teetering-- wobbling-- almost into stammering. Close, but catching my rhythm in the nick of time.
"The tower is not just a useful schematic for arranging magic into a hierarchy, of course," I explain, "The tower is something we use at this academy to...convey a vital lesson: Never. Ever. Lose sight of the tower. When you are practicing a spell for any reason, you must center yourself on this "concept". We will work on the exercise of doing this, but for the moment, take to heart the seriousness of what I am saying. While you were first years, the dangers of magic were largely kept from you. That changes now."
Sidonie seems to approve of my lecture. She smiles brightly. Her hand is raised.
"Yes, Miss Petronas?"
"If you lose sight of the Tower, then you risk becoming lost in magic itself. Isn't that right, Professor?"
"In so many words, yes, though that's perhaps a misunderstood euphemism," that I would rather not explain at the moment, in-fact, when I have so little confidence that I am up to speed on what "heresy" entails right now, "While ascending the tower, it is possible to feel it tug on you. It can be euphoric to ascend, but what will await you is either death or madness. Careful ascension is required to properly leverage the secrets that lie at the next tier. You must never ascend too quickly or too ignorantly. Honestly, even four years of instruction is scarcely enough to safely utilize all manner of tier-two magic. It's only after many years of further mastery that you will maturely understand your own limits."
I think the grave tone in my nasally voice gets through to them. That's good. They will need this lesson most of all during their trials.
"Tomorrow, I will be assessing each of your affinities for the tier-one elements. You may be surprised to learn you are naturally more attuned to one over the others. This will help you get a better feel for how to more perfectly cast any magic that you learned last year. I hope that tomorrow's lesson will be illustrative in what this course has to offer you."
As I continue my lecture, trying to stoke curiosity and questions from the fairly subdued classroom, I watch and assess their body language; the telltale signs of the elements. I almost get giddy with the notion of making a difference in the lives of these students. I've always felt like I could tell people how they could best optimize their time and talents.
But I temper my excitement. These are kids are people first, not experiments. While I could guide the growth of their magic, I need to listen to their desires first and foremost. I also need to take into account the limitations of being a simple professor. I'm not taking on an apprentice, here. Still, I've traversed all of Laplace. We desperately need more healing and constructive magic. People in general are too inclined to master the destructive and the myopic. If I can steer just one of these kids to become accomplished in that vein of the arcane? It should have a lasting impact, especially on those that manage to survive this awful conflict...
My first two courses end without too much ceremony, Basic Bestiary going by in such a blur I struggle to recall what I even taught them. I hope to be more lucid tomorrow. The kids wander out of the classroom, their chattering fading away, even though my introductions to the various types of arcane biology enthused them.
I'm completely exhausted; left completely spent. I didn't bring any food with me, either. I use the wall for support, rubbing my forehead in a self-soothing gesture -- to convince my body to heal! My spirit to rest!
To my embarrassment, not everyone left. Zana lingers in her seat.
"Yes, Miss Empire?"
She's like a cat. Her eyes blink shut. Slowly, deeply. Closing fully shut and opening in languid peace. I'm sure if she had a tail, she'd be slapping it against the floor.
She has an inscrutable look as she rises out of her desk. The tall girl almost matches my height.
"Nothing," she concludes, turning heel and walking out.
All right.
The students' uniforms are crisp, dark brown robes fluttering. Underneath, slacks and long skirts tussle in the breeze of an open door to the outside world. I guess the students these days prefer to eat outside in the shade, rather than stay cooped up in these drab copper-toned halls.
My brain reminds me I need to retrieve some personal items I had left behind during my orientation last week, so I make my way to my original destination this morning. My stomach contracts in protest, but tough luck I suppose.
"Building I" is quiet. Most everyone is also gone out to lunch. The paper-thin walls create no sense of privacy in here though. Waving my finger, I scatter a little breeze through the entire first floor. I can detect minute vibrations in the air to help me discern the presence near by life.
This is a basic Sympathetic spell. You could say that I rely on tier-one spells a lot because of their simplicity.
I wander into an office, finding a poor secretary hard at work. She is a middle-aged woman in a dull brown dress, her black hair up in a bun.
"Yes? Hello?"
"Hello. I'm Professor Xa-- Barnes, I mean," I'm out of it, can't even get my name right, "I left behind a satchel and a duffle during orientation last week...?"
She gives me a deeply unhelpful look.
"I'm sorry, I don't know. You should try speaking with Miss Tyre. She's just beyond. If you hurry, you'll catch her before she's off to lunch."
I thank her and leave. I do manage to catch Miss Tyre. She's a friendly, portly woman with a slow gait. She doesn't know where my affects have gone, so she sends me to Miss Thatcher. Thatcher has a bouffant hair style and is wearing a canary dress. She confirms quite rudely she has no idea who I am or what I am talking about and sends me to the furthest end of Building I, to speak with...the same secretary I started with, who's now out to lunch.
Frankly, I'm hungry and drained. I give up for now. There's something all too familiar about being given the run around. The last few years, I had to learn to be assertive, or I'd just get cheated out of getting paid. You would think being a mage means wealth and power, but I am a bit of a special case.
Firstly, with my defective leg. Secondly, with my defective name. Perhaps thirdly, is the fact I have never served. It is a bit odd for a young man of my age to escape service abroad, though some people incorrectly attribute my injury to contact with enemy mages from Avalonia... And I suppose, it's that fact most of all which makes me suspicious and a dubious hire. People seem to get the idea they can swindle me!
With nothing to eat and only so much time left to recharge my mental fortitude, I sequester myself outside. I walk out of Building I and into the adjacent, sparsely furnished "woods". The trees are too far apart to provide much foliage for creatures to live, so it's more a slipshod, monoculture garden. But I do find a comfortable enough rock to sit on and rest my mind meditating.
I close my eyes, centering myself within The Tower.