Fallen Magic

If my instincts are right and Mildred is in fact up to something, she doesn’t show it for the whole of the lesson. In fact, she’s remarkably friendly and has no problem helping me where the hour or so of magical theory I taught myself last night isn’t enough for me to understand the current lesson.

Fortunately I’m not that far behind, since our teacher, who shares with me the dark skin of those whose ancestors were born on a continent far across the Ocean, has an almost poetical tendency which means he spends a substantial amount of class time musing without conclusion on what concepts really mean.

I don’t mind it, though. I’m no poet, but I try to understand things in a way that isn’t as the mass of equations it seems most magical theory involves. Mildred tells me learning and understanding the mathematics involved is harder than the theory itself.

Maths has never been even close to my favourite subject, but I’m passable enough at it that I can understand most of this lesson’s material at least, and even find myself enjoying it a little. The work helps me feel a little more grounded, now that I’m actually doing something. A little more like I belong here.

In that spirit, I accept Mildred’s invitation to spend the half-hour break before our next lesson with her and Elsie. I haven’t worked out the best places to spend breaks here yet (I make a mental note to find and explore the library once I have time) but they seem to know where they’re going: out into the Academy’s gardens and an unseasonably sunny morning.

I should probably have expected the gardens to be grand, this being a former palace, and grand they certainly are: they stretch almost as far as I can see, with a vast lawn in front of us on which several students are relaxing in small groups, and in the distance what appears to be a small lake. Flowerbeds run along the sides of the building next to us, though whatever’s growing in them isn’t blooming at this time of year.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Mildred says.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Yes, even my father’s estate isn’t quite so large. I do enjoy it here.”

I do my best to hide a wince at my father’s estate, but I’ve never been good at concealing my feelings so I ask quickly “Where are we going?”

“The café,” Mildred says, setting off down a gravel path across the lawn. Elsie and I follow.

I raise my eyebrows. “This place – no, of course it has a café, it has everything else. Why is there a café attached to a school?”

“The Royal Academy is more a university than a school, really. Its more advanced courses are certainly comparable to degree-level in their difficulty and specialisation, and many magical researchers work here as well. And that many people working and studying need a steady supply of snacks and drinks nearby. The catering staff are excellent, but providing meals is a full-time task and they can’t be expected to produce smaller things as well. Hence, the café.”

“It’s not officially run by the Academy,” Elsie adds, “the couple who run it work for themselves. So we have to pay ourselves, but it’s not that expensive.”

“Anyway,” Mildred adds, turning right onto a stone path set a little above the grass, shortly before we reach the lake, “yours are on me today.”

She means well, I’m sure, and she can certainly afford it, but I can’t help feeling a little resentful anyway. I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own snacks, cakes and drinks.

The path leads down a slight hill towards a round stone building, which looks small compared to the sheer scale of the Academy itself but is still at least the size of my house.

“It used to be the servants’ temple, back when this was a palace,” Mildred explains. “It wouldn’t do to have a prince and a scullery-maid worshipping together.”

I scrutinise her tone for any trace of sarcasm and find none.

“The main temple is still in use for its original purpose,” she goes on. “Services are at sunrise and sunset every day – you do worship, don’t you?”

“I – yes.” Though not as often as I should. It’s hard to persuade myself to take an hour to listen to a service or find a sense of inner peace and communion with the stars when I have three essays due in as many days. Besides, it’s never really moved my spirit in the way people say it does.

Years of unanswered prayers mean I don’t have much faith left. If the stars really are watching over and guiding me, wouldn’t they have helped me before it was too late?

“Good. We could go together tonight, if you want?”

“Maybe,” I reply, and then move back to conversational ground I’m more comfortable with and interested in: “You know a lot about the history of this place.”

“Only a little,” Mildred deflects. “Mostly about how the Royal Academy was founded and why this site in particular was chosen. I could recommend you a few books if you want to find out more?”

“That would be great,” I reply, smiling a little.

Much refreshed by our drinks and cakes, the three of us arrive at my first Conjurations and Transformations lesson together, a couple of minutes early. There’s no sign of the teacher, but about half the class are already seated, including Edward, who’s alone. He looks up as the door swings shut behind us, and I can see the disappointment in his eyes before he snaps his gaze back to the papers he’s spread out on his desk.

“I won’t split you two up any more,” I say to Mildred and Elsie. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re welcome,” Mildred replies. “Just let me know if you want to do that again at some point.”

“Thank you, I will.” I leave them and walk over to Edward’s desk.

He looks up with narrowed eyes as I lower my bag onto the floor and pull out my chair. “You had a nice break, then?”

I can’t quite work out what his problem is, but it’s clear that he has one with the idea of me, Mildred and Elsie entering the classroom together, smiling and laughing. “Yes, thank you.”

“I didn’t take you for the type to spend time with Mildred Cavendish.”

“I didn’t take her for the type to spend time with me,” I reply. “But she’s…” I hesitate, trying to find the right word. “Friendly.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, finding to my surprise I’m angry. What business is it of his?

“I know her,” Edward says. “Not well, but we’ve attended a few of the same events. Mildred Cavendish is a natural-born politician.”

“…and?”

“And that means she’s more than capable of being friendly to anyone, regardless of how much she actually likes them.”

“I – She’s not – “ I take a breath to calm myself and find words. “People aren’t always scheming and trying to use you, okay? Sometimes they just want to be nice!”

He sighs and looks away, and I’m about to say something I’ll probably regret when our teacher appears. Literally: one minute the space just in front of the blackboard is empty and the next it’s filled by a tall woman with pale brown hair and an unfortunately large nose that I can’t help staring at.

“Isn’t this place warded against teleportation?” I ask Edward quietly.

“It is, but it has a Garnett network set up – basically that means you can teleport between specific locations within the building, if you have the right ward permiss – “

“Hello, everyone!” the teacher interrupts. “For those of you who don’t already know me, I’m Alexandra, the fact I have the same name as the High Princess is a coincidence and I do not appreciate people joking about it. Now, recall that last lesson we began to work on the conjuration of water…”

The conjuration of water is easily harder than any other magic I’ve tried so far. Edward has a ready explanation for that, unsurprisingly: “Conjuration requires the ability to be able to precisely envisage and understand what you create, which is extremely hard even for experienced magicians. There’s a reason that magicians don’t live in palaces they conjure. Other than legal restrictions, that is.”

Not that all of that prevents him from entirely filling his glass with water by the end of the lesson, while I’ve only managed a few drops that cling sadly to my glass’s side.

We’re given permission to drink our conjured water at the end of the lesson; Edward offers me his, but I stubbornly refuse. Several of my classmates smile or make noises of pleasant surprise as they sip.

“The water we take from rivers or skies is necessarily impure,” explains Alexandra, “even that from the highest mountain springs. Often to the extent that it can carry illness and must be heated or strained before being safe to drink, but even when water is relatively safe its impurities will affect the taste. Conjured water, in contrast, carries none of that impurity. A lot of magicians have quite profitable side businesses conjuring water for those rich enough to afford it. I should warn you that first, excessive conjuration is one of the easiest ways to achieve magical burnout, and second, it is strictly illegal for unqualified magicians to make any profit through use of their magic.”

I’m enough of a lawyer to recognise the obvious loopholes in that last statement, and assume that Alexandra is oversimplifying because magical law isn’t part of what she teaches rather than that the law actually has those obvious loopholes. At least, I hope that’s the case.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” says Edward as we set our lunch trays down at the end of one of the tables, as far away from the larger groups as we can get.

“I – oh.” The intense focus demanded by conjuration has stolen my anger.

“I should clarify that I don’t think people in general are always scheming and plotting. I think Mildred Cavendish in particular is always scheming and plotting. There’s always been a rivalry between our families – one-sided, of course, none of my ancestors would have ever considered her ancestors anything close to equals. And for almost as long there’s been talk of settling matters with an alliance, so when there happen to be a son and a daughter of about the same age… well.”

I’m not an idiot; I know marriage among the nobility is most often for politics rather than love, but it’s quite different when it’s two of your sixteen-year-old classmates concerned. I say nothing, trying to pretend this is a perfectly normal conversation for me to be having.

“So I know her,” Edward continues simply. “Most likely she saw me sitting with a strange woman and decided to try and find out who you were and what there was between us.”

“You mean she thinks I’m some sort of rival for you?”

Edward shrugs.

“Are you going to marry her?”

“I can’t tell you.”

I blink a few times. Right. Politics. He probably can’t just say what he thinks of her in a public place if there’s some sort of… negotiation going on.

“Sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s okay,” I lie. “I understand.”

“Thanks. I – don’t mind if you want to keep spending time with her, but… be careful. Okay?”

“Okay.” I would have been careful anyway; once I set aside the anger about his interfering, his warnings add to my own Genford-trained social instincts. He might even be right about Mildred.

But she’s been nothing but friendly and nice so far, and just because I know she could be up to something doesn’t mean I’m going to start turning down all her invitations to socialise.

We talk about lessons until we’ve finished eating, but Edward stands to go as soon as we’re done. “I have a project to work on,” he says.

“Oh? What fundamental law of magic are you breaking now?”

“No Blackthorn – no-one since the Mages – has ever broken a Fundamental Law. They’re the ones that have been proven to be actual limitations that exist because of the nature of reality, not because people believe they do.”

My lips twitch in amusement. “All right, what non-fundamental law of magic are you breaking?”

He laughs. I might be imagining it, but it sounds like there’s a faint note of bitterness to it. “None of my family have invented new magic before their eighteenth birthday, and I hardly think I’m a better magician than all of them. No, this isn’t a magical project. It’s – “ He hesitates.

“What?”

“Actually,” he says slowly, “would you be prepared to help me?”