Contrary to popular belief, magic was not the sort of thing that was studied in universities. It was not a skill that could be taught to entire classes of wide eyed young children eager to take on the world and change it for the better. It was too much of a science to be an art, and too much of an art to be a science. If one was to learn magic they needed not only to learn about the world around them, how to properly perceive it and bend the vicious currents of the Wyrd to their will but also to learn themselves. One had to spend much time in introspection and deep thought as they attempted to master turmoil within, for if they did not they could be lost to the magic and doomed to ignominious madness.
Magic was a skill that could only be taught by a wisened teacher to one or perhaps two devoted students at once. It was certainly true that the most prodigious of Mages would have scores of acolytes handling minor business, learning the most minute of magical tricks and all vying for the chance to be bestowed with more esoteric knowledge, but only a select few would be given the privileged rank of apprentice.
And every Mage had a different way to teach their students, their own unique methods. Some would bury their underlings in mountains of treaties and essays on the theoretical aspects of magic before ever touching a wand or stave, others would send their students out into the world to delve into ancient ruins equipped only with the scant amount of training needed to grow and succeed.
The Sorceress Svenja had perfected her own method of training over the decades. Pain.
Renard had only the haziest memories of his life before he was taken as an Apprentice by the Sorceress, sold away as a chip in some political bargain he had no knowledge or understanding of. He could remember first seeing Svenja, being taken in with the sophistication she effortlessly exuded, by her youthful beauty, and by the contrasting age hidden deep behind her amber eyes. He remembered first seeing the city of Vatan, marvelling at the size of the marketplaces and the exotic trinkets they sold there. He remembered how Svenja had caringly rubbed at his back that evening in the highest tower of the Emperor’s Palace after he had started sobbing at the shock of leaving his family. He remembered meeting Sigismund, the pale and introverted northern child he shared a room with and would come to call his brother, in circumstance if not in blood. And he remembered the lessons.
She had started them both with history. How Once-Great Chandthira had been the greatest civilization in the plane, their Empire standing on the foundations of magical power their Gods had handed down, magic that they did not truly understand. Their usage of slavery to prop up the decaying timbers of their nation when their wonders began to fail. And how many of those slaves had fled bondage to found Telavingia.
The punishments for failure had been light then. A wrap on the knuckles with a weighty stick if he couldn’t recite the lineage of the Silver Prince, or name the last Triarch of Chandthira.
When they were older, in their early teens, the studies transferred to more occult matters. The nature of the Wyrd - that unfathomable mist that separated the Five Planes - and the beings that resided within it. They learned the names and natures of countless spirits, deities and fae, all useful tools for a Mage. Or dangerous enemies. The subject matter was more complex and the punishments escalated. Once, when Renard had been unable to explain the magical principles by which the Patrician guilds of blinded inter-planar navigators guided naval craft through the Wyrd he had been forced to spend half an evening in a claustrophobic dungeon oubliette.
It was only after years of preparation that he actually began to practise magic. Beginning with minor mystical illusions, the creation of alchemical solutions and potions, and the summoning and binding of the most basic spirits. He worked alongside Sigismund at all times, and despite the fact that where his brother excelled he made only the most moderate gains, they were still close.
A particularly vicious punishment - he had fumbled at one of the syllables of an incantation meant to bind a minor spirit of flame - saw one of Svenja’s senior acolytes descend upon him with a savage beating at her command, it was a beating which left his left eye hanging out of the socket.
The Sorceress had soothed him the evening after by presenting a clear glass eye of the finest make, and assuring him that his training was going as she had planned. Despite her assurances, things began to change after that. Sigismund was taken for separate, more advanced lessons with Svenja. His brother was introduced to high society at a ball marking the anniversary of the Empire’s victory against the Insurrection of the Hand and then started to delve into the deeper mysteries.
Renard was left to deal with minor incidents that Svenja wanted kept out of the public eye, or that were too complex for a mere Acolyte yet not important enough for her favourite servant. At night he awoke in cold sweats, fearful that he had failed to become even a middling practitioner of magic and that Svenja had replaced him with a younger, more competent Apprentice. Sometimes he dreamed of leaving the city and this life behind, but the truth was that it was all he knew. The truth was that no matter how far he ran Svenja would have been able to find him.
When she had sent him off that morning to ‘assist those feckless watchmen’ he had been given barely any information. Another favour at court she was using him to pay back or earn, another thankless task. He hadn’t been expecting to find himself at the site of a murder, dry heaving at the smell of decaying, bloated, ocean damp flesh. And a smell only he could recognise, that rank odour of tickling ozone, the smell of a spirit.
“I’m sorry, he was murdered by a spirit? You mean by magic?” He thought Vespia looked more like a military officer than a member of the Watch, standing there in her button up jacket.
“By an ocean spirit of some kind. I can smell the traces it left behind, it’s all over the room.” Renard motioned around and immediately regretted the act, feeling queasy.
Ulbert’s beady eyes darted around the room like he thought the spirit might jump out from behind a bookcase and drown him right then and there. Doctor Tyghul let out a hum of interest before speaking. “Is there any way to tell why? Or, perhaps more importantly, who sent this spirit?”
“The why I cannot answer, but the who I may be able to assist with. It would not be easy, but I may be able to track the spirit back to where it was first summoned. This particular spirit has a strong aura, it’ll be easier to track than most other spirits are.” Renard took a deep breath of fresh air from the broken window, before venturing closer to the cadaver.
“Why would a mage use a spirit that’s easier to track?” Vespia questioned.
“Well. That’s assuming it was a mage. Perhaps they thought no one with magical knowledge would investigate. Or maybe they’re an amateur.” The Mage revealed a long, tapered reed from his cloak and Ulbert squinted, muttering under his breath about ‘reedheads’. “The Chandthiran wyrd reed has uses other than the recreational, my friend. There’s no need to clap me in irons. Does anyone have a match?”
“An amateur, going around trying to control spirits? Bloody hell, that’s the last thing the city needs. That’s what they think caused the last dock fire. Maybe this person was stupid enough to summon it at home, too.” Vespia made a ‘gimmie’ motion at Ulbert, and the watchman reluctantly passed one of his own personal matchsticks over toward her. He used them only for tobacco, like a good Telavingian should. She lit it with a flick against her boot, and held the flame out toward Renard.
He dipped the reed into the flame, beginning to recite mumbled chants that she couldn’t quite understand. At first she thought he was speaking Telavingian, but it was like trying to focus on a conversation in the middle of a bustling room, all she could understand were snippets. It put Vespia in mind of the chanting of clergy at the Cathedral of Undine, but it lacked any of the comfort of faith.
Renard started to circle the body, blowing onto the reed every few steps and filling the room with smoke. He always felt a shiver tingle up his back whenever he worked any magic, even something as minor as this. Always felt his irises open wider, the hair on his neck rise. Renard breathed deeply of the smoke, and when he opened his eyes he saw it. Scintillating sparks of blueish white that twinkled where the spirit had once stood above the body, and a trail of blueish white that led out of the study. He started to follow it. “This way. It came from this way.”
“Ulbert, stay here and look after things. Doctor, I’ll leave the body to you. A coach should be coming by for it. Oh, and tell the Captain I said thank you.” Vespia picked her cap up from the desk she had left it on when first arriving at the study, fixed it firmly upon her head, and went after the wizard. “They know how much I love wizardry.”
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Vespia had to scramble to keep up with the mage, his eagerness leading him out of the manse and stomping out into the back garden with a swiftness she had not expected him to possess. He led her out of the garden, through a discreet little gate meant for servants and illicit lovers, and into the criss-crossing shadowy alleyways behind the mansion.
“So, it came in through the back. I don’t suppose a gate would do much to stop a spirit, would it?” Vespia asked.
Renard shook his head, still clutching the burning reed between both hands like it was a prayer candle. “No, physical barriers don’t usually mean much to them. There are other ways to stop a spirit though; you put silvermistle up at night?”
“It’s tradition, yeah. My mother always insisted on it, but I haven't made much of a habit of it.” Vespia knew more than a few old crones who claimed silvermistle was a blessed plant that could ward off evil spirits, but she hadn’t put much stock into their words.
“It can prevent spirits from entering a building. I would wager that the servants used to put it up each night, before our victim fell into debt.” He explained.
“Really, now? I thought that was just an old wives tale.” The Lieutenant made a mental note to stop by the local market that evening and pick up some silvermistle for herself, better safe than drowned.
Renard continued to lead her through the dampened alleyways of the Merchant District, dodging smashed bottles and tipped over rubbish pails. The Watch didn’t come into these narrow corridors often, and for good reason. At most you could stand two abreast, and with how often Vatan had been rebuilt or built over these sorts of places had a thousand and one bolt holes for vagrants and vagabonds.
“By the way, what are we actually following here? I know you said it was the spirit but…Is it a smell, tracks?” Vespia questioned.
The wizard looked at her like it was the most foolish question he had ever heard. “All spirits leave a sort of indent in reality. They pull at the edges, like stretching at the canvas of a painting. That leaves a trail, and with the help of a small amount of mistreed I can see it.”
“Stretching at the canvas of a painting? What happens if they rip it?” Vespia didn’t like the thought of unknowable creatures lurking beyond her perceptions. It was one thing to pledge offerings to benevolent spirits under the guidance of clergy, another entirely to be confronted with the fact that such creatures could be employed for murder, and any manner of other foul deeds.
“I sincerely hope you never have to find out, Lieutenant.” Renard’s voice was cold and serious at that, but he forced himself to offer her a tight smile. “I should be able to follow this trail back to where it was actually summoned, if we’re lucky. Better if we’re quick about it though, it won’t last forever. And it gets harder to follow the older it is.”
Vespia frowned at that, before simply opting to roll her eyes. That hadn’t made her feel much better.
Fortunately he didn’t drag her through shadowy alleyways for the next few hours. About fifteen minutes later they arrived back out into a main thoroughfare with the sun on their skin. The trail had led them to an obvious place, in hindsight. The Street of a Thousand Gods.
Though Undine was the patron Goddess of the Empire, that didn’t prevent countless cults and religions from popping up around the Empire. As long as they weren’t inherently destructive - or vehemently anti-establishment - they were generally accepted. Their practitioners were allowed to carry out their rites, and their priests granted the right to proselytise in certain designated areas. In the capital, this area was a part of the Merchant’s Road that ran between the Dock District and the Merchant District.
All manner of clerics, monks, priests and priestesses lined the street, only kept in line by the watchful eye of plated members of the Order of the Mace. The Watch had relinquished authority in this particular area of the city, instead order was kept by the Empire’s official clergy. Gleaming knights in armour who would crush any serious disorder under their maces with a moment's notice. It had been these shock troops who had brought order back to the city when the last great fire ravaged it, and when panicking crowds had rampaged through it.
Renard blended in well with the packs of pilgrims that crowded the street, still thrusting that smoke spewing reed out like a light in the darkness. There was always a low lying mist around the Street of a Thousand Gods. From swinging censures, flickering tapers of incense and swathes of candles lit in deference to one spirit or another. Vespia pulled down on her cap, shadowing her face. The last thing she wanted was one of the Maces thinking she was here on official business and reminding her that this wasn’t her jurisdiction.
They passed by ragged priests in tattered robes, extolling the virtue of poverty and their own personal philosophies, blond haired clerics of Sol Invictus, god of the sun and victory, who looked more like warriors from a storybook ready to vanquish evil than humble clergy, even tanned monks from the plane of Muzdahir, spreading the word of their peacock god Melek Taus, and his living prophet who ruled their desert lands from his floating brass city. A hundred different churches lined the street, some nothing more than wooden shacks while others were towering stone edifices of faith.
There was only one cult that didn’t seek more worshippers here, and that was the Crow’s. The spirit of death was more feared than loved by the people and its followers didn’t feel a need to seek new acolytes. In the end, they reasoned, everyone ended up under the Crow’s beak.
“In through here. That’s where the trail leads.” Renard had weaved a path through penitent pilgrims, merchants haggling for religious relics and helmeted Knights with Vespia in lockstep behind him. They ended up in front of a modest, squat little stone building that looked more like a warehouse than a place of worship.
Vespia had kept a hand on her cap as well as her coin purse. Many a pilgrim had left the Street of a Thousand Gods and immediately come to a new understanding of the repercussions of a vow of poverty, she didn’t plan on being one of them. “Seventh Church of the Lancer.” She pointed with thumb and forefinger to a plaque bolted to the door before them. “I’m not familiar with it. God, or a spirit?”
“The Lancer is a spirit of vengeance. If I remember correctly he was a warrior who was betrayed by his own men. He returned from the grave to hunt them all down. He’s popular with soldiers.” The reed had burned down almost to Renard’s fingertips then, and the effects of the mist were starting to wear off. The trail was starting to look dimmer, duller. “Come on, we should have a look.”
He tried to open the door, only for it to rattle and not budge an inch. “It’s locked. Should we look for a way in through the back?”
Vespia tutted, moving him out of the way. “Cover me.” She ducked down next to the door, and with the application of a piece of wire hidden away at the back of her boot and a trick Ulbert had taught her, she had the door opened with a click. “The Watch has its ways, Mister Voclain. Let’s get inside before one of the Maces sees us.” She wrapped her hand around the grip of her hefty blackjack as she entered the church, prepared for some Priest to start yelling about intruders.
Instead she entered a humble room entirely empty of life. A simple altar flanked by a set of crossing lances dominated the far end of the room, situated before lines of wooden pews and dimly lit by the shafts of sunlight that filtered in through narrow slits carved into the walls. She crept down the centre of the room carefully, “Is there anyone here? Hello?”
“I have a feeling no one has been here for a while, Vespia.” Renard ran a finger over the top of one of the pews, bringing it up to reveal dust sticking to his dark blue glove. “The Lancer isn’t very popular in peacetime.”
“Let’s hope he stays unpopular then. There should at least be a priest or something here. Can you still see a trail?” Vespia asked, stowing her blackjack away and trying the handle of a door behind the altar.
Renard shook the last few ashes of his tapered mistreed onto the floor, shaking his head. “No. The mistreed only helps me see these sorts of things for a little while. But the trail definitely led in here.”
“I never did ask why you had that stuff on you.” She shot him a bemused look. The door was unlocked, and she followed it back into an enclosed little storage area. Someone had cleared the centre of it out, shoving crates of incense and sacrificial knives off to the side. Vespia set about searching the room for clues. “As long as it is just for professional use.”
“I would never even think of crossing the Watch and I’ve never felt the need to use it recreationally; mist dreams can be a dangerous place for a Mage.” The smell hit Renard the moment he entered the room, it made his eyes water. This was the spot, he could still feel the magic of the Wyrd in the air, it tasted like ultraviolet and smelt like nostalgia for a time he couldn’t quite place. “They summoned the spirit here.”
“Someone summoned a spirit in the middle of the Street of a Thousand Gods and the Order of the Mace never even caught wind of it? I thought that was their job.” Vespia tutted, shaking her head.
“If anything this is the best place to summon a spirit. Every ranting mad man on this street has the touch of the Wyrd about him. Some of them even have real spirit patrons. That sort of thing tends to mix, it makes it hard to detect anything out of the ordinary. They all converge around noon. A thousand rituals, all for different gods and spirits.” Renard removed his left glove, leaning down to place the palm of his hand against the floor. It was cold, and when he concentrated he swore that it felt slick with damp. “I think I might be able to summon the spirit again. Force it to appear.”
“Will that be safe? I’ve never been much of a swimmer.” Vespia questioned dryly as she rooted about the crate beside the sacrificial knives. It was a moment before something caught her eye.
“I wouldn’t be a very good Wizard if I didn’t know how to summon a spirit safely, would I?” Renard fought the urge to rub at his glass eye, “I’m going to need some components though, and I’ll need to make up a summoning circle. The hard part will be compelling it to tell us who last summoned it, mind you.”
Vespia took a moment to respond. She had found something. She turned toward Renard and brought a hand up.“Well. Whoever it was, I don’t think we’ll like the answer.”
Between her fingers she held a scrap of fine purple silk.