by Stefon Mears
Magister Machado gave a sweeping wave of his hand to let Donal explain.
“Magicians tend to have a lot of ideas. We’re always researching something. Like right now I’m—”
“Getting off track,” said Captain Jacobs.
“Right. So. A few years back,” — he doesn’t want the history, give him the crux — “someone came up with a kind of ... thought holder, for giving yourself little reminders that you either can’t or don’t want to write down, because of your circumstances.”
Donal dug through his pockets and pulled out a small vial. “This is a sample of the paint I used to paint the circle, and that paint has never been used for any other purpose. So through the principle of contagion I can send ideas home to myself with a quick spell, and the circle traps them and holds them until I get back.”
“The pulses aren’t your thoughts,” said the captain. “Won’t that pose a problem?”
“Let me,” said Magister Machado, coming over to sit in the other guest chair beside Donal. “In a word, yes. He’ll have to take the rest of the paint in that vial and use it to cast a connecting circle around the package. He’ll lose use of his memory circle until he can cast another, but it should shunt the pulses to the circle for the rest of the voyage.”
“And if they’re linked to the pulses,” said Donal, “then their link will lead them to my apartment in San Francisco.”
“They won’t follow that far,” said Captain Jacobs. “When the pulses disappear from their immediate proximity, they’ll figure that we’ve found a way to neutralize it and abandon it as a tracking device. Could they still complete their spell and accomplish something else?”
“If they can complete the spell at a distance, I doubt this will stop it from happening,” said the ship’s mage. “But it will add a layer of difficulty, and I’m not convinced they can complete a spell that would cause us a major problem. They would have to have made a leap forward in that process, and getting a magician to make a discovery like that and keep it to himself, well, that’s all but unprecedented.”
“‘All but’ means it can happen,” said the captain. “So we’ll have to be ready anyway. When you do this thing, take the package to Promenade Ten, all the way aft. That should keep any potential fallout away from any passengers or important systems.”
Captain Jacobs gave Donal a deeper and more searching look than any that Donal’s professors had ever managed. The Morrigan herself would give a general such a look, before deciding whether to aid him in battle. The captain said, “Can you do this, Cuthbert?”
“No, Sir. Not by myself.” Donal meant to only provide a simple statement, but the details came pouring out before he could stop them. “I’ve never managed the connection through deep space. I’ve tried three times and—”
“I’ll assist, of course,” said Magister Machado. “As an IIX courier, you have authority over the package. That’ll help.” The Magister began enumerating details on his fingers. “But you’ll still need a full circle, incense, and for this I think—”
“Keep it between yourselves.” Captain Jacobs pulled the package out of his desk drawer.
Donal looked from the package to the captain. That package was supposed to be in the ship’s safe. Nothing from the ship’s safe was supposed to be retrieved, except—
“That’s right,” said Captain Jacobs rubbing a spot between his eyes. “I took the liberty of having it ready. You’re not enchanting the whole safe, so I interpreted your offer as a request. And yes, Chief Goldberg approved. Do you want to see the paperwork?”
Something about the way the captain said that made Donal think he had actual paperwork, instead of an entry in a memoboard. Still, Donal shook his head.
“Then take your package and make this happen. I am going to bed.”
“Captain?” said the Brazilian magician. “He should have a full night’s sleep before attempting this.”
“No. Mash, if you need a reason, ask Saul. Cuthbert, you’ll just have to take my word that the need for this may be pressing.”
“Of course,” said Donal, who would have liked that night’s sleep before attempting so complex a working. “We’ll get on it right away.”
Magister Machado’s lips turned down as though he wanted to argue, but he said, “Aye, Sir. We’ll make this happen.”
◊
Donal followed Magister Machado into a stateroom on Promenade Ten that reminded Donal of the room he had had on his last flight aboard the Horizon Cusp. Passably large and comfortable, it had seemed spacious for helioship accommodations, except that now Donal had his suite to compare it to. This whole stateroom, including closet and bathroom, could have fit in the social area of Donal’s suite, with space left over. And the bed Donal would enjoy in his suite later that night had to have cost more than all the furniture in this stateroom combined.
The air didn’t move as well here either. It felt still, and smelled vaguely of mothballs. Donal wondered if the cabin’s air freshening system conserved resources by shutting down when unoccupied.
I better make it as a Hierophant, thought Donal. I’m getting used to all this posh living.
“We’ll have to move that table,” said Magister Machado, indicating the small table and chairs under the meter-wide porthole. “The bed would be too much hassle.”
The two of them wedged the table and chairs along the wall opposite the bed, chairs against the wall between the prefab desk and simple chest of drawers and the table cutting the walking space down to a thin tunnel between the table and the bed.
As they did this, their familiars, fae deerhound and spirit panther, went over the perimeter of the room, cleansing the space of any psychic odds and ends that might interfere with their working.
Donal started a piece of charcoal burning in the incense censer the ship’s mage had loaned him. It was brass chased with silver, and had a loop that could hang on a matching tripod or be held if the ritual required that the incense be swung. In this case, it needed only to burn so Donal kept it on its hook.
Meanwhile, Magister Machado ground together the blend of chicory, eryngo, eyebright, horehound, and star anise that they would burn.
When the ship’s mage declared the incense blended, he handed the mortar and pestle to Donal who gave mixture three clockwise twists, then both magicians touched the result with a hint of power.
Donal took a generous pinch, held it above the smoldering charcoal, and rubbed his fingers together to trickle the incense onto the charcoal, while saying three times softly, “Burn as here, connect as there.”
Pungent smoke rose, and both magicians inhaled deeply. Donal caught a handful in each hand, and pushed the smoke at the two familiars, whose nostrils flared as the smoke reached them.
Donal lifted the censer off the tripod. Magister Machado held up a hand as though to intervene, but pulled the hand back down without saying a word. Donal walked once around the area they had cleared, smoke gently wafting in his wake. He replaced the censer.
Donal pulled from his pocket the vial of vermillion paint. With one hand he held it. With the other he took hold of the stopper, ritually sealed with wax.
On an out breath he broke the seal.
Donal knelt on the carpet, and, one middle finger stoppering the vial, he tilted back and forth, then used the paint left behind on his middle finger to begin painting the circle, adding power with each drop, focusing his thoughts on the circle he had cast this way in his apartment near Golden Gate Park.
The process was slow, but the circle had to be drawn this way and Donal had to draw it. But his attention wanted to drift. The hour was too late, the day too stressful for the precision demanded by such work. His mind wanted to review the coming steps of the ritual, but more than that his mind wanted to imagine the waiting comfort of his bed. He could feel an aching tingle in his skin where his body yearned to slip into those sheets...
Fionn’s nose, in front of Donal, snapping Donal’s focus back to the present. Fionn’s mind,
touching Donal’s, not with words but a general sense of support, helping Donal stay where he had to be: in the moment.
Donal returned all his attention to the drops of paint, the touch of power, and the circle he drew on the thin carpet. His familiar moved along the circle, just ahead of him, helping Donal keep his resources where they belonged: on the spell which Donal would have exactly one chance to get right.
Centimeter by centimeter he constructed the circle, seeing little sign of his passage, but feeling the presence of his magic every step of the way.
When at last the circle connected, the sudden flare of power jarred Donal. He fell backwards into the waiting hands of Magister Machado.
“Always be ready for the connection,” he said in soft tones that seemed to augment his Brazilian accent. “Don’t let it catch you off-guard.”
He helped Donal back to his feet, and Fionn looked up from assessing the work so far and gave a single nod of approval.
Donal drew a deep breath, but his mind was already deep in his magic. He could see his power flow deosil along the simple circle, ready for the second stage.
Magister Machado handed Donal his courier pouch. The Magister could not have entered the circle without breaking it, but Donal could. A magician’s magic always knows the magician.
Donal reached across the barrier of power and felt it tingle, not in his skin, but in what some called his aura or his aetheric counterpart, that portion beyond Donal’s skin that was still Donal. He set the pouch in the center of the circle, then withdrew to stand just outside the circle.
Despite the evenness of the flow of power, he could even see the starting point, the place the first drop had been applied. Not that this spot represented a flaw. It represented the beginning, from which all things must flow, including the cycling green power of his circle.
Donal stepped to the spot just outside that beginning point. He spread his arms, as though to encompass the whole of the circle. Donal gathered the feel of the circle within himself, the flavor of the power — his own signature, modified by the nature and alchemy in the paint and the blend of herbs and powers that formed the ritual incense.
When he felt that he had it, Donal chanted Gaelic words of connection and union, and drew his hands together to cup them in front of his face. In his hands he held a linking spell, and he breathed warm air onto it through his wide-open mouth, sealing the links.
Magister Machado stepped up to Donal and held up a small pot of viscous, iridescent brown fluid, an alchemical blend Machado had concocted himself to aid in forming connections between spells that must separate by very long distances. Donal merged the power of his linking spell into the Magister’s unguent, and both magicians said five times, “Link one to one, one through one, one become one.”
Donal staggered back a step, reflexively wiping sweat from his forehead that he had not realized was there. He sat on the bed as the Magister performed the next stage, anointing the circle with the oil at seven key spots, chanting musical words in Portuguese.
Donal wanted to watch the Magister work, study the dance of his power as he amplified Donal’s spell so that the next stage would be possible. But Donal’s mind reeled from his efforts. His thoughts ran to his waiting bed, and wondering what Li Hua was doing, and whether she had a similar bed of her own, and what her place on Mars was like, and what Donal’s graduate student housing would be like. He only had his U.C. Santa Cruz dorm rooms and apartments to compare to, but he had heard that the doctoral students got accommodations comparable to the faculty. Donal started imagining a split level condo, maybe with a loft...
◊
Fionn’s nose, right in front of Donal’s face again. Fionn’s mind, gentle, but present, pulling Donal’s thoughts right back to the present, right back to this stateroom where Saravá stood just behind Fionn, checking on Donal. Where the Magister had completed the second stage of the spell, and stood ready to join Donal for the third stage.
“I’m still here,” said Donal.
“Believe me,” said the ship’s mage in a gentle voice. “If I could tie this spell off and let you continue it in the morning, I would. But if the captain says time is of the essence, then you better believe it is.”
Donal didn’t remember the captain using those words, but decided not to point that out. Right now, he needed to stand, didn’t he? Yes. Stand. Standing was good. He was standing right now, maybe teetering a little, and wasn’t teeter a funny word?
A sharp shock jolted through Donal’s system, snapping him back to wakefulness as though he had been slapped ... everywhere at once...
Donal looked at Magister Machado, who held one closed fist high.
“You ready to cast now?”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did. Now are you ready to work, or do I need to do it again?”
Donal rubbed his face, trying for more alertness. “You’ve done more today than I have. How do you stay so ready?”
Magister Machado grinned with anticipatory malevolence. “Donal, if you think grad school in Thaumaturgy is just learning new spells, you’re in for quite a wake-up call.”
That statement gave Donal a thousand questions, but he knew that this was not the time to ask them. Further, that grin told him that the Magister had phrased his statement to test Donal’s focus. So Donal rolled his shoulders and swept his arms out wide, bringing his hands together in front of him and gathering his focus as he did.
“All right, let’s finish this.”
Donal returned to the circle’s beginning point and the ship’s mage took up a counterpoint position on the other side. Fionn stood behind Donal, while Saravá stood behind Machado. Both magicians raised their arms, met each other’s gaze to key their timing, and stretched their power together to form a circle outside the circle, blending both their power together. The Magister’s power hit Donal like a kick to the head, but this time he was ready and channeled that kick into the flow, clockwise like the inscribed circle.
The two familiars began to pace a third circle, perfecting the arrangement: one interior circle that was mostly Donal’s power and would connect to his memory circle in his San Francisco apartment back on Earth; one center working circle, more Machado than Donal for the practical reason that the Magister had so much more power to contribute, but it balanced the disparity of the first circle; a final circle equally Donal and Machado, balanced and maintained by their familiars to contain the working and ensure that all energies used went to the goal and did not dissipate, wasted.
Donal and Machado began to pace their circle in tandem, chanting spells of connection and binding together in Gaelic. After three repetitions, Donal could feel sweat matting his hair and dampening his armpits. After five repetitions, Donal felt heat rising under his collar. His focus was here, but his steps grew unsteady, his words not quite slurring, while the Magister continued as though he could do this all day and night. Donal’s attention almost slipped to wonder if Machado ever had...
Seven times, and Donal’s feet shuffled now, tried to trip him. His arms had grown heavy, and he had to work to pronounce every word of the chant right. Only his parents’ insistence on speaking Gaelic around the house as Donal and Bran grew up kept the harsh syllables of Donal’s chant from clashing together and losing their meaning.
Eight times, and Donal’s arms had drifted down from parallel to the floor to a forty-five degree angle, and shook to stay even that high. His eyes blurred from sweat, and his shirt and pants felt glued to his body. His feet trudged, slowing his pace and forcing the Magister to slow to match him.
But Donal kept his thoughts on his spells, forming each word as clearly as he could manage.
As they finished the ninth cycle, Donal fell to his knees, his head spinning, but he knew he was not finished.
Nine times, in all, they had circled. Nine times they repeated their spells. Nine, and then the final seal had to come from Donal.
Fionn’s cold nose on the back of Donal’s neck, and Do
nal felt some semblance of sense return.
Not enough. Donal began to drift...
With a sharp crack, the Magister’s open hand slapped Donal back to awareness. Awareness of stinging pain through his cheek and neck, but awareness all the same.
“Finish it, Journeyman! Finish it or this has all been for nothing.”
There, before Donal, he could see the perfect construct of the spell, waiting for the final words that would key it, would connect this circle to his memory circle and transmit all thoughts and pulses of power that went through it across the blackness of space and to Donal’s little apartment.
“Two circles ... one cause...” Donal forced his exhausted arms to raise, digging deep within himself for one more surge of power. “Remember for me. Carry for me. Hold for me. Mine to mine. So ... mote ... it ... be!”
With that last word, Donal snapped out everything he had left, and for a fleeting instant he could feel his memory circle with its waiting idea about Lunar magic and Air aspected Earth...
But then it was gone and Donal was on his knees in the stateroom, Fionn pacing him and examining him.
“Good work, Donal,” said the Magister. “You can rest now. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
◊
Donal awoke stiff and sore, unsure of where he was. But then he saw the circle and realized he had fallen asleep on his stomach, fully clothed, on top of the bed in the stateroom where he had been working with Magister Machado.
Donal tried rolling his neck, but felt it kink, seizing somewhere in his right shoulder blade. He managed to roll onto his side and saw Fionn, seated beside the bed, chin resting on crossed forepaws.
“How long have I been out?” Donal’s voice came out a strained croak.
“Ninety-two minutes. Ronaldo Machado said that you would do better to rest first, then move to your own bed.”
