Wings are such common things,
To the airborne bird,
Yet, given to the grounded beast,
Will change the course of history.
~~ “Hope,” an oral poem by Mansi Freeman
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“We’ll need a proctor, then.”
All his fears of rejection, yet Lenora had spoken up without hesitation. Moose had been her first choice, of course, though he’d proved busy up until late afternoon. That left Callam and her with a few hours to practice their spells.
And practice they did.
“Enfir maliv sonju fi naa loem,” Callam heard her whisper as he failed to focus on his breathing. Eyes still closed, he leaned to his left and swiped a twig out from underneath him, then settled back down on the prairie floor. He worked to visualize the surroundings in his mind. To see the hearts of all the beasts lying in wait around him.
Poet’s hand, but it was easier said than done.
That he’d been under immense pressure the few times he’d cast so far mattered little to Lenora. Nor had it mattered that he was still sore from mana backlash. She’d been quick to point out that they couldn’t climb very far if he had to wait days to recover or risk death every time he wanted to manifest his magic.
“You’ll be eaten.” she’d teased. “Then I’d be. And whatever Moose makes from selling our grimoires, he’ll spend on food.”
He’d laughed at that—she did have a point.
Better yet, she seemed to have forgotten his earlier lie about his magic involving translation work. Or is pretending to, at least.
Wind whooshed up the hills, and he imagined it traveling in waves, parting the prairie grasses like a comb running through sand. He knew tower animals hid in these plains. They darted back and forth, steps sending nearly imperceptible pulses through the thicket. Each animal held a unique signature—a constellation of essence that he could sense. See in his mind, if he strained himself. They were small and large, and… and…
Callam sneezed, sunlight beaming into his eyes from the east.
“Fire and folly,” he swore, focus gone. Turning around squinting, he spotted Lenora seated high up on an oak branch, about ten paces from where she’d last been practicing. Leaves rustled as the clouds overhead drifted farther away, further dousing the tree in gold. One mote of light, then another—four in total—pulsed upward from the grimoire on her lap before starting to circle her.
Earlier, she’d been all bright eyes and large smiles as she explained what these grains were: specks of externalized mana she could charge in good weather and ignite at will. Hers was a four-star version of the spell the rest of the first-years had earned the night before and was an essential tool in fighting the prairiebeasts.
Her face had fallen when he’d inquired about the requirements to advance her quest. They were to kill fifteen of the creatures, and much as she’d seemed excited to strengthen her magic, she’d appeared saddened by the idea of slaughter.
Even now, guilt tinted her features. He could see it in the set of her shoulders and in the way she bit her lip. Concentrated as she was, he would not disturb her with questions about her progress.
Instead, he watched quietly as she collected the motes in her fingers and sent them flying to the skies. There, they spiraled around each other, twisting and turning in a race to reach the edges of his vision, then grew outwards in long ribbons of color. Greens, reds, and the occasional blue spanned the floor’s ceiling until the lights had had their fill.
In some ways, they reminded him of the flares used during the Triad Trials. Only beautiful.
When the infused magic returned home, it began diving in and out of the dark tresses of Lenora’s hair. One mote landed on her shoulder, another on her knee, as she began to weave the four strands of light into a tight knot.
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Callam allowed himself to stare. But only for a short while. Any more, and he’d risk making her uncomfortable.
Focus.
With a breath, he closed his eyes and forced himself back into deep meditation. He tried to ignore the aches in his muscles and back. Logic told him that she was right—that there had to be a way for him to cast his spells without duress. And while he might not share in her reservations around causing death, he did fear his own. Any minute now, she’d finish up and insist they start their hunt.
What would he do then? Or when the Quellers came calling and he couldn’t defend himself?
One. Two. Three. The heartbeats came more easily this time. Just like earlier, he could see them all around—hundreds of rabbits hiding in the bush, a family of paperfowl nesting in the nearby copse, and dozens of prairiebeasts lying in wait under the grove—but now his body seemed attuned to theirs and the ink within their hearts echoing his.
All he had to do to collect their latent power within himself was to murmur Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus. Incant and pull.
“Stop. Callam! Stop it!”
He heard the screams as if from a distance, and they took a moment to register. Why should he release the power he’d built up? The tendrils of ink were in his grasp now, and his body hungered for a way to expend the mana it had built up all day. This felt good. Power—
“Please! CALLAM!”
The desperation in Lenora’s voice was enough to bring him back to himself, though the allure of his magic made letting go difficult.
I…he gasped. What? What is that?
The landscape in front of him had twisted. True the trees, and hills were still there, but they were now muted in hue, greys and whites soiling what golds and greens once warmed. Dark roots led like veins to the oak where Lenora sat, her body slouched upon the bleached branch.
She’d turned a sickly pallor.
“Lenora!” He was already on his feet, racing through the overgrown grass. Seeds of panic grew within his chest. Had he caused this? Obviously so, yet he hadn't meant to hurt her—he’d only hoped to cast.
Color returned to the hills with each step he took. The tree’s bark provided the traction he needed to climb.
“I’d hold off on exerting yourself,” called out a sing-song voice from behind him. Something that sounded remarkably like the strumming of a lute reached his ears. “She’ll survive. You, on the other hand, should really consider resting before… well, that.”
Callam crashed to the ground.
His fingers burned. Then his throat did, as he expelled the morning’s meal. A wave of weariness the likes of which he had not felt since he’d trained to be a Sootskin set in. He tried to stand—to reach Lenora—but could not. Even the simplest movements required coordination beyond his means.
“Professor Oledin did mention I should fix a tonic before I headed this way. There is music to the way that man’s mind works, I swear. Here.” Callam heard Rote pull something from his bag. “Drink.”
A groan escaped Callam’s lips as he reached for the offered salve and nearly tipped over from the effort. No one… no one would cast if the backlash was always this intense.
“You know… there is a reason for the schedule we keep. Headmaster Vale might wish for all tomebound to push themselves as you have, but the body has limits the mind cannot undo. And that spell of yours is no cantrip. Felt the pull of it myself. Now, Lenora, how are you feeling?”
“Poet’s t—” she swore from above. “As if I’ve seen a barber for a headache.”
Rote’s laugh rolled through the hills. “Better than a coroner, I’d say.” A pair of worn boots crowded the edge of Callam’s vision when the man bent down to inspect him. “I’ve heard stories of children who visited a butcher thinking him a doctor—but that is a tale for another time. Well…” he added a breath later, apparently satisfied with his assessment, “You will be happy to know I've selected your proctor: a healing specialist. You two are to meet him at fifth bell.”
“We…” Callam spit to clear his mouth. “Already have one.” The words came out ruder than he’d intended, but nothing good could come from a stranger overseeing their climb. Or his quest.
Lenora came to the rescue. “He means my friend Moose, sir.” she explained.
“The guardian from my class? Won’t do you much good unless he can mask your magic. And he can’t. Any beast worth its salt will make straight for you, Callam. Best you stick with my plan.”
“Moose fel—” Lenora interjected.
“Ah, there is the problem, isn’t it? Feelings. Terrible things, in the hearts of teenagers. Lead to all sorts of stupid decisions. Though, since I’ve the sense you’ll insist on falling prey to such follies anyway, I’ll make it interesting for you. Should you reach the staircase to the second floor by nightfall, I shall allow for Moose to assist your proctor in joining you. A worthy challenge, aye?”