21st of Sifdras - 3rd Ivora

  In Magic Studies with Professor Moonshadow we are going over recitations as promised from last week. Before reading about this over the weekend, I had not a clue how to approach this topic. Since I was small, my father instructed me on spell weaving which, for the most part, has no verbal component. Thus, I find this concept of incantation to “activate” a spell completely worthless and unnecessary. Honestly, why would anyone limit their magic to just one word or a simple, narrow phrase?!

  Cira had some insight for me, though, when I asked her how one of the example words in my text was pronounced. She explained that certain old words have a deep connection to mana streams, or leylines, and the World Tree, so it makes sense that these words, when spoken correctly, can become magic. New words, like in the common tongue, do not have this link since the World Tree was shattered by the God of Destruction, known to some as Zurteus, nearly two millenia ago.

  While her explanation does makes sense in some cases, I personally don’t see the draw. Each of the words Cira told me, in Elvish, and the examples in the text, which mostly belong to an ancient tongue, are oddly specific about what magic is manifested. For example, when Cira performed the light spell in our temporary dormitory, she used an Elvish word for light. Admittedly, she said it is a very old dialect and the more modern word, which is very similar, has no magic in it at all.

  Our practical assessment today is to do much the same; form a ball of light using an ancient word in our text book. It sounds easy, right? Just say a word and light happens. Unfortunately, it is not this simple. The professor has us practice saying this word, writing it down in syllables on the board for us. Then she adds a beat, a cadence, to the word as if spoken in a rhythm. On top of that, she says that we need to imagine the correct kind of light in our mind.

  My frown deepens with every additional condition for this “magic” word to create magic. All this to conjure light? I might have struggled with this kind of thing when I was seven, but weaving light was a flick of the wrist for me now. All this noise and effort seems so excessive for such a small spell.

  I try my best anyway, sounding out the strange mixture of syllables to a cadence. Some other scribes achieve their little light source in only a few tries. I can see the threads react to the word as they do so and am fascinated, just as I was with Cira’s slightly different version. It makes it all the more frustrating when Professor Moonshadow stops by my row to assist me and the two other scribes at my table.

  I don't know their names as the pair of them are much too preoccupied with each other, giving me a wide birth. One is a maybe a human girl with straight long black hair, the other an infernai guy with a bright red skin tone and ink black horns. As a couple, they look quite intimidating and I will never know why they chose to sit next to me (because I will never ask them). They chat amiably with Mistress Moonshadow about pronunciation and the proper image.

  While I try not to eavesdrop, it is a tall order when they are discussing a topic I sorely need help on. The part on image is the most interesting to me as it sounds similar to how I call threads to be woven into reality. She talks about the bud of a flame like from a candle or a spark igniting a fire, saying that the image should be about the creation of light; not so much the light itself.

  When she gets to me, I take this to heart and having said the silly word in the particular rhythm so many times, I feel ready to try again. I think of the spark of dawn and the explosions of light in a storm and speak the word. Surprisingly, the threads move this time and I watch with enthusiasm until I realize what they are forming. Eyes wide, I jump out of my seat, narrowly avoiding the crash of lightning that hits my desk.

  I wince at the scorch marks on the table, my eyes darting back up to Mistress Moonshadow, who shows a perturbed expression. “Well, that was definitely a good effort.” By the sound of her voice, I can tell that this professor is not used to encouragement of any kind. It sounds more like she knows she should say something, but just comes out a bit rehearsed. “Next time, try using the correct word. Remember, it’s ‘lo-MIN-sah’, not ‘LEm-sah’.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I sit roughly back into my seat, trying to keep the frustration off my face, though I know I’m failing at it. This class might be tied for the worst class on my schedule this term.

  22nd of Sifdras - 4th Emder

  Prof. Lighthammer’s Relics class is quickly becoming my favorite class. His instruction reminds me not just a little of home, while under the careful tutelage of my father. He is quick to help even if all he does is listen to a scribe talk out their issue. It surprises me how often those conversations resolve themselves, without the professor having to say too much of anything. In this way, I start today’s class time by doing what he instructed me to do last week; pick one and get to know it. So I find myself with the smooth stone on my work desk.

  I run my fingers across its smooth surface focusing on how it might have become so smooth in the first place. Already thinking of home, the sound of the waves in the bay near my house comes to mind. A sense of nostalgia washes over me in that moment and I can almost feel the cool waters lapping at my bare feet in the heat of the Verdalune sun, the strong breezes tousling my sandy hair. I smile at the image playing out in my mind of finding a stone such as this and skipping it across the gently rolling waves.

  The image continues to play out as the stone loses its momentum and sinks down to the bottom of the bay. Waves roll in and out, the fine sand being churned against the gray surface of the stone. Back and forth, over and over, as the bright rays of the sun change from golden yellow, to burnt orange, and finally to crimson before the darkness of twilight descends. The pale light of the three moons drifts above it, refracted by the waters all around it before shining golden sunbeams bathe the waves in the colors of a crisp morning dawn. The cycle of light and weather of every variety play out a thousand upon a thousand times.

  I blink once and the images vanish, only the smooth gray stone exists in my vision and I shake myself visibly. Glancing around the room, I search for anyone paying attention to me that might have influenced the trance-like vision I witnessed, but no one is looking in my direction.

  Most scribes are focused on their own projects for this imbuing assignment. Even Prof. Lighthammer is involved with another student across the room. I sit back in my chair, trying to understand what just transpired. Did I received an image from a rock by focusing on it?

  I stare at the stone suspiciously. Is it me who wants to throw it into the sea or is that merely the impression I received from the image? Can an object have desires? Emotions? Wants and needs? I suppose it is true, that a tree has a need to grow, but that is a living thing. What, then, does a rock need? Should I assume that it also lives like the tree does? That is ridiculous, of course! The two things could not be more different!

  My perspective changes with the thought, all the same, to a more pointed question: if any of that ridiculous theory is true, what is it this rock is trying to show me that it needs? Upon investigating closer, I can see very small fissures, like pores, pocking the outside so finely that it looks polished. It reminds me of the sea glass I find on the beaches and other stones that wash up; smooth, flat, and dull. This rock might have come from a river bed or creek, maybe even a waterfall or the sea. Perhaps it wants to return…?

  Plucking up the stone, I close my eyes, the stone sandwiched in my palms, and I concentrate on what I think to be its desires. I think of the waves and salty sea spray as it crashes against a rocky shore. I think of a rock tumbling down a rushing stream, the fine silts kicking up and colliding in a torrent against the rock, eroding it to a neat polish. I think of one of those stones washing up on the beach, basking in the bright, warm sun as the sea breezes toss fine sands along its surface.

  I send it all these images, not realizing until I open my eyes, that I have woven a basket weave spell of water, earth and air around the stone. I gasp with the realization, the stone in my hands glowing faintly with a teal magic at its core. I finish the weave with a final knot so it doesn’t collapse and place it on the table in front of me. When I look up, I notice Prof. Lighthammer is already here looking down at what I have done.

  Before I can apologize, he gives me a smile and a nod. “Very well done, Seretra. You might have a knack for this.” The blush on my cheeks is immediate and I am rendered speechless, still not understanding what I did or why I’m being praised for it.