If you stepped outside Maister Elrik’s Age of Magistry class, you’d find a courtyard as green as grass should be. Not a single dirt patch besmirched the scene of a glade trimmed with enough precision for a geometry game. The center held a sculpted fountain of cherubs pouring jugs of water more pristine than fine glass. All along the rounding walls, colorful tapestries rendered the corridors worth a wander. These ever-lasting works of art maintained the imperfect faces of history’s imperial heroes.
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One of those heroes, on the other side of the courtyard, was a burly, robed man riding a dragon. Maybe not so historically accurate. Aye? Impressive as it was, you’d get used to it by the second week.
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The perks of being a student involved more than pretty halls. Attendance at Cinderfall came with your very own bed. Furthermore, being born a pleb, the luxury of a personal bookshelf made the place paradiso. But even as far as the bourgeoises were concerned, the founders outdid themselves with the amenities. As wonderous as it may seem to visitors, the huge institution slowly lost much of its luster after the first ceremony.
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My circumstance might have been unique. Trudging from lesson to lesson, I felt forced to appreciate the... atmosphere. The only subtlety in the school came from the uniforms: offwhite and streaks of red. You could see many fancy jerkins and tunics idle on the ivory road to Demonology. However, everyone followed the same dress code, an incoming mass bleach bearing the burning red crest of Cinderfall on their breast. Blending in was no chore. Life was simpler that way. Any break in regulation clothing invited stern retribution from the faculty. No gilded stitches or silk weaving. None of that shit. Oh, but the silver spoon boys and girls, they found a way. Trust me. They found a way.
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Outside my next class, an influx of students stood down the hall and waited – a parade of leather and rainbow-woven book covers. Rage, faction, rage. Though it was hard to imagine what it felt like, the velvet fabric, in the desaturated light, their texture made a gaudy canvas of the campus. Glimmering greens and vibrant violets on knapsacks and satchels rendered the children of noble houses distinct.
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This peculiar feeling, anxiety, the inability to reach my lesson quicker, made the trek worse that it had to be. It took a bit of a sweat.
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One particular passing maiden walked by with golden locks brighter than a fairy glow. I contemplated how in Herod's Hell it was possible before she sank into gossip with a tall, blonde boy whose chin stubble was growing faster than my gait. Those eyes of his; they were as blue as an ocean that was very blue.
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I love poetry though I am no good at it, and I have never actually seen the ocean.
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Cinderfall’s young lords and ladies walked with arms in the form of whitty remarks, especially when they saw me. I felt their eyes knead into my tunic and cast. Even if it didn't apply to them, I knew they were thinking it: I can commission a better cast than that. I know it got under their skin, my being a scholarship child. Don't associate with the orphan girl. While they flaunted their luxuries and made art of idleness, my awkward posture flaunted nothing more than insecurity. So I just kept my head down, resenting the fact that I couldn't walk faster.
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Abandon hope, all ye… Someone had written an ominous message in front of Maister Calum’s class again. The letters were written as fading embers, a hot joke from some of the students who fancied themselves jesters. They’d turn to sand if Calum actually caught them. The nerve of some of these people seldom made sense to me. The bullying was another matter, but that was easy to read.
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Luck favored me, and the students who made it to Cinderfall Academy without connections would never say otherwise. I tried hard. That’s it. I lived in study because if not for arcane pursuits, there would be nothing to bury myself into. It doesn’t matter the topic, whether it be admonitions, history, or symmetry, I’d dig my heels in deep. That said, I could never dismiss reality through busywork, and I would be reminded of this as I opened the black door to Demonology.
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The Demonology chamber was as spacious as it was suspicious. Admittedly, a lecture hall bedecked with dark drapes and strange idols would stir anyone's curiosity. The sun could hardly shine. And in this crescent class of cascading steps, the rows upon rows of students all but poured their attention on the ground floor in anticipation of non-boredom. From there, every other day, stalwart Maister Calum would orate lessons with no jokes that were not grim.
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"Otherworldly entities are unpredictable until their singular intent is laid bare. When they venture into the material realm, the curiosities of the medium's mind manifest. As a consequence..."
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Fascinating... So why didn’t I pay attention? Because I was distracted, of course, enthralled by his remarks at the beginning but somehow floundering over the corner of my eye until my eyes fell. My problem was that the boy of my immortal admiration was sitting directly below and to the left. Warren was his name, and ‘twas a strange coincidence that I memorized his name after the first day of class. He was always in present before I stepped through the door. I was always behind him… Not on purpose.
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A boy like him would never notice me. He was a portrait of the gods. I mean, have you ever seen emerald eyes under fair and sturdy brows? The kind that seems ready to smother you as their smothered by warm locks of like gold chimes. Oh, how they danced on sculpted cheekbones, all the way down to his chiseled chin of pearly skin that hearkened to the beach somehow. A warm beach where the sand has been ground into cream. The way one might dig their fingers into the sand, I would run my fingers through his hair and imagine...
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"Lux!"
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My elbow tumbled off the desk, nearly taking my face with it. A quick reflex, and I darted to Maister Calum. I felt his eyes; they were like brown torches. Did he cast a spell on me? Would I know if he did? Shit! I played dumb and dazed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Warren staring. Either I was provocatively attractive or the look on my face was entertainingly stupid because my entire class had the owl gaze. You know the one.
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"Pollux!" Maister Calum practically shouted. "What is the most potent channel to demonhood?"
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I panicked. "Umm..."
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His heavy fist slammed the table with a thump, and his facial scars contorted at me. "That's four seconds, Pollux!"
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I'm not that good at numbers! I mentally retorted, jumping back in my seat. The other students poked their heads out for a peek at the awkward girl...
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"You are dispatched," he finished, disappointment engraved in his voice.
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Expediently, Maister Calum stood back upright and peered around the marvelous room of shadows. It was as if his scowl had cast darkness in every direction. "What is the most potent source of Demonhood?" he repeated the question, this time to the entire class.
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The red-haired boy who sat directly beside me raised his hand.
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“Flaming mane,” Calum called him. “What is your answer?”
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“Children!” The boy said.
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"Correct!" Calum's posture straightened, accompanying the graveness of his veteran tone.
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How did I not know the answer was 'children'?
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"A magister who meddles in the realm of our dreams may wreak all manner of havoc and seduce paltry horrors into the real world. The danger is directly proportional to the arcane potential of the host. However, …" In mopping the floor with his robe, Maister Calum's eyes and bearded face glossed over me in pity. "The victim's mind may part the waves of horror and bliss and transmute the demon into its material state. Every mind is its own, but the infantile imagination is nothing if not a promise land from which strong magic makes desolation or paradise. It is new and, more often than not, unspoiled. Unspoiled until the earthly world populates it with... what? Class?"
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I felt the unfettered desire to answer. I already made a fool of myself, so it seemed like the moment for redemption. I raised my hand.
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He looked right at me but refused to call my name. He pointed behind me. Back and above, 'twas a short-haired blonde girl whose leather straps shouted money. Oh, no. It's her! Seeing her face respond to Maister Calum, I wondered if I had looked as stupid when I was called on.
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"Ideas?" she eventually muttered. Not a terrible answer. Still, Calum bit his cheek in irritation.
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"5 seconds, Madame Goireman," he said rather spitefully. "Five seconds for a vague answer."
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If he slammed his fist on her desk, I bet there'd have been a grievous letter from lord so-and-so about his daughter's treatment. Instead, Maister Calum sighed, fatigue bothering his gaze as he once again panned across the classroom. Just as his mouth opened for another expository lecture, I saw Warren's hand rise. Calum's dark pink lips clasped together, and he nodded for the handsome student.
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"Maister," he started soldierly, his cool and calm voice massaging the air. "Speaking generally, education, such as the curriculum of the Imperial Opus, must enlighten us of the difference between evil and virtue.”
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Strange. He didn't mention parenthood.
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"There's your answer," Calum replied. "Acceptable. In a sum, epistemology is a filter."
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That was not bad.
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"Consider wisdom and willpower," the Maister urged. "Consider the veils between the real and ethereal; what comes in, what comes out. When magic meddles with the dream world, the foreign entities morph proportionally to the degree of chaos. Since a child's emotions reflect raw spirit, whatever escapes the dream world may grow as pure bliss or nightmare incarnate.
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"As child's fear may spawn the most tyrannical of demonic entities, meddling with an infant's mind is forbidden and punishable by schismatic execution." Ah yes, schismatic execution, removing the spirit from the body and leaving a vegetable.
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