8 : 264 : 14 : 12 : 32

Over bumpy, grassy hills goes a narrow footpath, stomped hard. It’s already December but the temperature hovers above the freezing point and what little snow there was earlier in the morning has melted away. A damp, bone-chilling gale blows from the mountains, wipes over the sopping earth and seems to pass straight through to the bones. I pull my fur cloak tighter on and try to keep up with the other two marching ahead of me.

Mages and muggles don’t mingle.

Since I happen to have the makings of a magical girl, and it's pretty much my only selling point at the moment, it was reluctantly agreed Master Teresina would take guardianship of me and drill the essentials of wizardry into me. That’s about half the reason.

The other half is likely how the normies would be at a disadvantage in case I went haram on them. Not that they’d say it to my face, but I’m not that stupid. I did kill people. Nobody above twelve would unconditionally trust the word of a monster just because it made a pinky promise. If they did, I'd walk out, as clearly they'd have no idea what they're doing.

“Try keep up, weasel!” granny grunts back at me.

A right bundle of joy.

And you think I’m going to call this old lemonface “my master”? Psh. Granny is good enough for her.

Granny doesn’t live in the castle. She has her own villa a stone’s throw north, which is where we’re headed. A big, two-story main house stands among the barren hills, a bunch of smaller detached buildings around it, all grouped behind a safe stone wall maybe two meters tall. Must pay off, being a Court Wizard. You’d be looking to pay eight million pounds for a house like that around London, I bet. But we’re not in London, not even in Kansas.

Far in the south, on a tall, flat-top hill, rises another, even bigger mansion, which belongs to Master Gunlau and his kickassery school. Past that, even further on the horizon, I can make out a drowsy little town, Morelieu. The only major population center within a 150-km radius. Sprinkled here and there around in the roomy valley stand small farmsteads and cottages. It’s like a scene from the goddamn Sound of Music. But the Von Trapp children don’t play, they march.

We come to the villa's gate.

Through the stone arc, we step into a tidy, cobbled courtyard with an oldschool stone well in the middle. Around the well in the house’s shadow grow short fruit trees. None have leaves now since it's, you know, in the heart of winter, and it makes the air feel more like a sepulcher than home. Where doth hide the King of Gondor? The entrance is to the right, just an inconspicuous oak door in the corner of the yard. We head to it without ceremonies. There’s not a soul there to greet us.

Where are the servants, anyway? I was really looking forward to meeting the maids.

“There’s nobody else,” granny says.

Did she read my mind again? Or did she just see my head spin?

“Isn’t this house kind of big for one old woman?” I ask.

It’s not too accessible either. Tall stone steps rise in front of the house door. Not getting a wheelchair up those. I just worry it might be a concern in the future.

“I wasn’t born an old woman, thank you,” granny reveals. “And on that note, it’s the youngest disciple’s number one job to keep the place in shape. Meaning that from today on, it’s the purpose of your sorry life. Hope you know how brooms work, ‘cos you won’t be flying one.”

Aw fuck.

“And mind the language.”

“Geez, is nothing holy in this place?” I ask and cover my ears. Maybe that keeps the thoughts from spilling out?

Then I direct a cautious glance at the second disciple. “...Are you in my head too?”

Earlier, granny said there were three among the masters who could read my thoughts. Being a witch’s apprentice, this chick had to be one of the three, right? But we all have awkward things inside we wouldn’t want to share with the rest of the world, right? Especially concerning cat girls.

“I’m not interested in your thoughts,” Vysania says without even looking my way.

Dayum. That hurts in a different way. It’s like being told, “I’m not interested in your body!” when you’re in the bath together. You could at least peek a little, for my self-esteem’s sake. People get issues for less than that. Actually, stare all you like! Why wait for the bath? I can strip right now!

“If it makes you feel any better,” granny tells me, “my ostentatious pupil is no less terrible at hiding what she's thinking. How about it? Want me to tell you what's on her mind now?”

My ears perk right up. “For real?”

“Depending on the price, of course!”

I look at the kittie. Vysania makes no comment. She doesn’t even flinch at the threat of full disclosure. Are you telling me there's not one dirty thought in your head? Does such a person even exist?

“Well, thanks but no thanks,” I turn back to granny and decline the generous offer. “Unlike somebody I know, I do respect other people’s privacy.”

“Bullshit,” the old bag snorts. “Hate to break it for ya, but you’re not winning any points with that move, twerp.”

Wow, language.

“Will I learn the trick too?” I ask the crone. “How to probe people’s minds against their will? It looks like that’s the key to winning friends and influence in these parts.”

“How should I know? But when you get to my age, what other people think gets pretty damn obvious even without any magic.”

Is that a fact?

Inside the house is surprisingly clean and classy. We step into a square room with clear air. No cobwebs or roaches or princes turned frogs, or anything too weird. Clean carpets on the floor and artworks on the walls. It’s not one bit witchy. Thinking again, granny’s a Court Wizard, not Baba Yaga. An easy mistake to make.

On the side is a long stairway and we climb after granny to the second floor.

Since I’m so close behind her, I can’t help but stare at Vysania’s—ears. They’re silvery like her hair and look incredibly soft and smooth. Will I get another lightning bolt on the nose if I touch them a little? I already know what she'd say if I asked nicely, even without telepathic skills. She’s got a real cat tail too, which automatically adjusts balance as she walks. It's stupidly addictive to watch.

Vysania’s ears are different from mine, but she’s the only other person I’ve met so far with non-standard hearing aids. That seems a little too fitting to be only a wild coincidence. Maybe she knows what I am…? But how do I ask?

“Vys is a lynxian.” Ahead, granny answers my quiet ruminations again.

“A what?” I reply by reflex.

“I know you don’t know,” she says and goes on to explain. “Long ago, when the gods were still in the world, humankind was lorded over by Hamaran, the God of Agriculture. But Hamaran was a poor manager and didn’t understand his creation too well. Humans need strict leadership and rigid rules to live by, which he didn’t want to give us, preferring us to live free, as we please. So humankind ended up scattered, split into numerous tribes that roamed aimlessly over the planet in search for meaning. Some took refuge in the domains of the other gods, such as Filamin, the Goddess of Beasts. The great deities are no more, but certain races of man still retain traces of the ancient blessings. Lynxians for one. The memory of their chosen god is still strong in them.”

“But that’s just a story, right?”

Like Pinocchio's nose, or the one with the pumpkin cart. Or the one where the kid goes sleighing and gets a piece of glass stuck in his eye. Wait, that sounds weirdly real.

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“Sure, if that helps you sleep better at night,” granny says. “But you’re not a lynxian, kiddo, I can tell you that much for free. You want to know what you really are? Let’s see if we can’t find out.”

On top of the stairs opens a larger room. The ceiling is low, but the space is wide and deep and looks like a joined kitchen and a dining room. On the left stands a tall, hefty baking oven with a stovetop, a multitude of cupboards and drawers beside it. Dried onions and herbs hang off of hooks on the wall. Garlic and thyme and rosemary. Their faint smell gives the cold villa that desperately needed touch of homeliness. I see jars of dried fruit, seeds, and nuts. Not eyeballs or bat wings. Damn. We had lunch at the castle, but I’m getting hungry again.

On the right is a big, darkwood dining table and two long benches for seats. The wide stone floor in the middle is barren and in the center of the floor is carved a pale magic circle. Many, many tiny letters run around the circle’s limit, inside and outside the thin curve. It looks complicated, but there are no currently active rituals.

We leave our cloaks at the rack by the stairway, though it's not very warm indoors either, and go deeper in.

“Stand in the circle,” Master Teresina orders me, “and let me put on my glasses.”

Is it safe? It’s not a trap ring is it?

I do as instructed and go pose in the circle of markings, just a little worried about my well-being.

The old woman picks up huge grandma glasses from the table and proceeds to walk slowly around me, examining me critically from every angle like I’m a piece of modern art. Vysania goes to stand in the back, leaning on a pillar by the table. She stares somewhere through me without a word.

As usual, I have no idea what she’s thinking.

Despite all those nice words she said back there about me being the new Skywalker, or whatever, she doesn’t seem to care all that much. But now that I think about it, how does that tail work with the clothes? Is there a custom-made hole in the pants? Or are they just cut lower than standard? How do you explain the order to the tailor? I need to have a closer look. For research purposes.

“Where are your eyes, you little she-devil?” granny interrupts my reflections.

I face forward. “Just ‘miring the…cups.”

“Keep your hormones in check for a minute, will you?”

Yeah, yeah.

The examination goes on, for a bit longer than a minute. The scribbles on the floor at my feet are lit to a faint glow, starting from slightly blue, going then green, and then yellow, and finally white, and then they just fade.

“I see.” granny murmurs in thought, tongue in the cheek, arms thoughtfully crossed. “Right, right. Looks like Endol had it right…”

Which means what?

“Give it to me straight, doc,” I tell the old woman. “Is there still hope for me?”

I’m not getting the box treatment, am I?

“You want an honest answer?” she asks me back. “I haven’t got a clue!”

That’s it!? What are those glasses for? Are you sure you're even looking?

“The more I stare at you the less I understand,” granny continues. “You look like a hellion from the Netherworld, and yet, in strictly physical terms, you are an ordinary human. No mistake about that. Your cellular structure, bone structure, musculature, organ placement, blood composition—there’s nothing at all remarkable about you. In fact, it's remarkable how unremarkable you are. If not for this one small detail: your body is less than a year old.”

“And that’s not…something that commonly happens in these parts?” I ask.

“Afraid not.”

Well. Shit.

“And that’s all you can see?”

“Well, there are a couple of other things I could tell you,” she says. “About how you came to be. But let’s be real now. Are you entirely sure you even want to know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Master Teresina takes off her glasses, puts them in her robe pocket and looks at me anew.

“As the senior citizen here, with a slight advantage in experience, allow me to give you a friendly word of advice, tumbleweed. There are things in life you’re better off not knowing. For example, I didn’t particularly care to know how my mother got knocked up by a nobleman nearly thrice her age while she worked as a maid at his house. Nor how she got kicked out on the spot when the nobleman’s wife found out, sold her baby for bread, and went on from there to earn her living as a prostitute, and enjoyed her job, until dying of a merry mix of tuberculosis and diarrhea, never knowing what became of her daughter and never asking. But that's life for you. When you learn something, it can't be so easily unlearned.”

That’s really too much information, thank you.

“I get the point,” I tell her. “What matters isn’t the past, but what comes next. Live in the moment, right? I know. I've made up my mind. I'm the captain of my soul. From today on, this ship is set for finding happiness. I'm fully committed to living it up any way I can till the day I croak. Nothing else matters. That's what you wanted to tell me, isn't it?”

The old woman pauses.

“...Well, I was mainly thinking what a pain it'd be to look after you if you went even crazier than you already are. But sure, whatever floats your boat.”

“Ehh...”

Granny goes to sit down at the table. “Now cast some magic for me, runt.”

“Magic?” I blink.

“That’s right, do you have those hugeass ears for nothing? Anything will do. Cut loose. Blow up the house while you’re at it. I’ve a mind to renovate.”

What did they tell her I did?

I haven’t pulled the moves in a while and the old bat has a knack for messing up my pace. I take a moment to gather my splintered focus and go through the list of spells I know, which is short and pitiful. Making a big mess would be pretty dumb of me, after she just told me I’m in charge of housekeeping, so I opt for the least destructive trick in the book.

Then I draw a deep breath and raise my hands.

By now, I’m getting pretty good at this. In no time, the semisphere of frosty, blue-glowing tiles arranges itself in UHD in front of my outstretched palms. Every time I see the shield, I remember the childish awe and thrill I felt when I first discovered the power of magic. It really is dang cool. The barrier is just a bit frayed on the edges. I try to extend it sideways, but when I do, it shrinks down at the top and bottom. Looks like full coverage is beyond my skill level, at least for now. But I think it’s still plenty awesome enough, even if I say so myself.

“Bleeding Hel,” Master Teresina mouths as she stares at my handiwork. Even her apprentice in the background is showing momentary emotion, a frown.

Is it that impressive? My magic? The cat girl did say something about an “enormity of potential”…

“Don’t kid yourself,” granny snorts. “The shield’s pathetic. It’s not what you did that’s weird, it’s how you do it.”

“How?” I echo, not seeing the meaning.

“That’s right. You're not expending any of the mana inside of you. You're manipulating natural prana remotely.”

“I’m doing what?”

The old witch groans. “And you don’t even know it.”

“Look, I don’t know what the hell this thing even is, really,” I tell her. “I’m just winging it. Sometimes shit happens, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it almost makes sense to me, but most of the time not so much!”

“Oh, I’m too old for this.” Granny heaves a heavy sigh and leans against the table. “Pupil! Explain everything to this idiot!”

Vysania obediently takes a step forward and proceeds to recite in her unemotional, purring tone,

“There exist unstable subatomic particles throughout the universe, called talions. On Ortho, talions naturally bond with the elements to form a sort of proto-energy we call prana. Magicians have the skill to draw in and refine prana within their own bodies to create pure magical energy, mana. Mana may then be used to manifest information structures in the phenomenon commonly referred to as magic. That is the standard procedure. You, on the other hand, are interfering with prana directly, based only on your cognition. Prana in its natural state should be too diluted and mixed to be harnessed in any meaningful way. Forcing the eidos to materialize without a medium defies the prevalent understanding of thaumaturgy.”

“Okay.” I slowly nod. “So what does that mean, in English?”

“It means, punk,” granny tells me, “that you are essentially a walking philosopher’s stone.”

“You’re making me sound like a broken record here—but what the hell?” You just said I’m human, not a rock!

“And the first thing we do is get you an encyclopedia. A real big one.”

“What my master means,” Vysania rephrases, “is that similarly to the alchemy ingredient of legend, you appear to have the ability to catalyse events without undergoing any changes in your own metaphysical state. Which should be impossible.”

“Gosh. So in the end, what the hell am I, really?”

Her face hard and grim, granny stares me in the eye and says,

“You weren’t born with that ability, kid. No way. That’s no longer something we can dismiss as mad luck, or talent. And like it or don't, you need to be aware of that. Somebody out there has made you the way you are, on purpose. And I suspect they’re eventually going to want to either take you back, or erase you.”

“Okay. That was easy enough to understand. And there’s no way for me to stop being this...stone?”

“You’re not literally a rock, dumbass. You are what you are. And the only way to stop being you is to die off, as far as I can tell. You into that? I can lend a hand, if you like?”

“Eh, no thanks.”

My life may not have started out too rosy, but now that it’s finally starting to get better, I’d rather not lose it.

“Thought so,” granny quips. “I suppose that means you’re stuck with us. And on that note, I have another question for you, shrimplet. A question of utmost importance regarding our shared future from here.”

“What’s that?” I ask, more than a little alarmed.

“Do you know how to make tea?”