“Still round the corner there may wait
a new road or secret gate.”
The flame flickered and danced, taunting the beads of wax that clung to the sides of the candle in a desperate plea to stay whole. Beside it, quill scratched on paper and left ink traces of the mad machinations of the Bucket School’s foremost expert on obsession.
Thavma Sanguine could do anything. And if she couldn’t, it was only a matter of time until she could. As she told her students, all of magic (and therefore all of life–all of existence) could be explained and controlled with just the right proofs, the correct components. If you were smart enough–which she was–you could make it do anything you want. Sometimes you just had to burn a few candles to get there.
The fox dozing in her lap cocked an eye open. His tail flicked in annoyance as he broached the subject to his master: Someone’s at the door.
Thavma opened her mind to respond to the fox before her focus could switch to the conversation, exposing him to a brainful of Abyssal incantations so harsh and hypnotic he felt a migraine coming on. Then he felt a sensation like someone was shoving a box closed in his brain, and all was silent.
Sorry, she answered. Tell them to go away.
I did that, thought the fox. But this one won’t take no for an answer.
Thavma rolled her eyes, shut her notebook, and waved her hand. Twenty feet away, the heavy door to her office swung open to reveal an older elf, slack-jawed and mid-knock.
“Fainsled,” she said blankly.
“Headmistress,” the elf answered, recovering quickly and striding into the room. He passed her clutter of ancient magical artifacts with practiced grace, taking care not to bump into anything strewn on the ground or hung on a mannequin. Touching the wrong one could kill him–or worse, ruin the magic contained inside.
“I wondered if you’d be making an appearance this evening, at the Abjurers’ Club league match, but then it ended.”
Thavma’s brow furrowed. “That’s…you’re their advisor, are you not?”
Fainsled pulled out a pipe and lit it. “Yes, well. You’re their hero.”
The room was silent as Fainsled took his first pull. When he finished, he added: “You’ll be pleased to know they won, 5-2.”
“Well done,” Thavma said, genuinely, pleasantly surprised. She did not miss the way Fainsled reddened at the praise, though she’d meant it for the students. “Was that all?”
“I doubt you’d say yes if I invited you to their little party at Kevin’s Place, so instead I thought I would ask if you needed anything from me.”
Thavma pressed her lips together so tightly her mouth disappeared.
“You’re always assisting me with my research,” he continued. “I thought perhaps I could return the favor.”
Thavma could hear the affectation in his tone like nails on a chalkboard, how hard he was working to conceal his true motive. Why, then, did he want to see her work, when he knew very well she’d let no one look at it? Did he want it for himself? No, Fainsled was too proud to steal someone’s work and pass it off as his own. Curiosity, perhaps? To see what the great wizard did in her spire all alone at night, only to go back to the faculty and brag about knowing?
“The best way you can help,” she said evenly, bringing her fingers up to her temples, “is to make progress on your own research. That’s help enough, Fainsled, I promise.”
Fainsled blew out a shaky ring of smoke and chuckled. “I wouldn’t presume to know how to help you in that department, Headmistress. The gods alone know what you have written in that book of yours. But I have noticed you letting other things fall by the wayside.” He looked around at the mess of priceless, ancient artifacts on the floor, some of them covered in scrolls or playing cupholder to a long-chilled mug of tea. When Thavma saw what he was getting at she felt her cheeks grow hot.
“Take a break,” he implored. “It doesn’t have to be Kevin’s Place with the grad students. It could just be you and me. We could go to the top of the Divine, look at the stars. Amerious’s Shower is in an hour, you know. Or we could–”
“Fainsled.”
The elf stopped at the sound of his name, but Thavma noticed his eyes were still asking. She sighed, opened her book, and motioned for him to approach and take a look.
“Amerious’s Shower is in an hour,” she said. “Fifteen minutes after that, for the first time in two hundred years, the sixth, seventh, and twelfth planets will be in alignment. Astronomically, it’s the closest I’ve gotten to one-hundred percent confidence.”
He wasn’t looking at the book; he was looking at her in amazement. “Did you calculate the position of the entire night sky?”
“Every minute for the next five years,” she answered, flipping through pages and pages of her diagrams and math. “Each minute represents hope, Fainsled. A new beginning. The answer to what I’ve been looking for. That’s the variable, the one thing I’m missing. The right time. The right positioning. And when I find that, then and only then can I stop.”
Fainsled blinked. “You’re waiting around for something that might not even happen.”
Thavma grimaced. “I am waiting for something that may happen. Any minute could be the one, Fainsled. I won’t risk passing it by.”
“Passing what by?” he asked, but Thavma only shook her head. This was the secret, the one she wouldn’t share with anyone.
She watched the expression on his face cloud and wondered what kind of impression she was leaving. Not that it mattered.
At last, he took a step back. “Well, um. I’ll be at Kevin’s if you change your mind.” He strode the awkward twenty feet between her desk and the office, and the door shut behind him on his way out. Finally, Thavma was left on her own.
An hour and fifteen minutes passed. During that time, Thavma cleared the center of her office, only to scribble runes all over it in chalk and dump piles of sand in the center. She painted herself and the fox with warding runes and dipped her fingers in silver powder for augmentation. She held up the fox to watch the meteor shower out the window for a moment, and even though she knew they weren’t stars, she made a wish on them anyway. Then she sat cross-legged in front of her sand circle, took a deep breath and counted.
One minute.
Thavma spread her fingers out, calling to the sand before her. She could feel it respond and begin to shift at her command.
Thirty seconds.
With the chalk runes as her guide she shaped the sand into long nerves that pulsed with blue magic. The sand mound in the center took the shape of the door, excess sand rushing off so quickly it filled the room with the sound of time running out.
Fifteen seconds.
Thavma struck up the Abyssal incantations. The fox winced, but her wards protected them both from the migraines. The nerves pulsed even harder, and when the fox batted at one it gave him a small jolt of static electricity.
Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.
Thavma controlled her breathing, and through it magic itself. She was a conduit for magic. She was magic.
Five. Four. Three.
The sand fizzled and popped, crackled like lightning. Some lit on fire, and the fox leapt to put it out. As magic flowed from the sand nerves into the sand door, an image began to take form. Thavma thought she could see something on the other end–someplace dark and cavernous. Yes! This is it! Just a little more.
Two.
Thavma squeezed her eyes shut and pumped every bit of energy she had into what she was doing. She could feel her power escaping her, but she was nearly there. She felt the fox’s paw on her leg, feeding his energy into hers.
One.
Something snapped. Like a rope with too much weight on the end. The sand nerves, the door, the room all flashed as magic–now unsupervised–escaped through every crevice it could find. Thavma gasped for air and desperately tried to regain control, but it was over. The moment had passed, the sand was just sand in a pile on the floor, and the room was once again dark.
I take it that was not it, said the fox as Thavma continued her heavy breathing, hands pounding at the floor in frustration.
No, she answered.
So what now?
When she could stand again, Thavma returned to her desk, picked up the book, and flipped through.
Three days from now, with the full moon. It’ll take that long to draw up the sand circle.
She slumped into her chair, gave herself five minutes to grieve, and returned to work.
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