My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  And then, as though an invisible hand squeezed my mind, the sense of a touch on the back of my head became so vivid that I turned around.

  Surely, in this preserve of white magic, there wasn't a single NZAMIPS' office (perhaps, local farmers didn't even know what that was). For the whole county, there was one on-site inspector, and he lived somewhere in Redstone. Hardly any of the locals knew the subtleties of the licensing of dark magicians and the limitations that NZAMIPS imposed on our practice—they used to pay cash after the work had been done without asking for a receipt or invoice. You couldn't meet representatives of the government there even by accident, and a bit of competition wouldn't hurt the local "cleaning" service.

  I carefully pulled off a newspaper coupon for a free ad, took a pen from a news vendor and filled in: "A dark magician, specialist in the undead and otherworldly phenomena. Pricelist available. Warranty. Free consultation." As a contact number I provided the phone of a girl I knew who worked in the answering services. She was the half-blind girl with well-developed vocal strength who was a secretary for three or four small companies that were too poor to keep a separate office. She was valued for her good telephone manners: the girl never asked stupid questions like: "Who are you looking for?" Another advantage—she lived near the university, not far from me to check for the news regularly.

  Finally, I fell back into my old ways. As they say, you can't wash the stripes off a zebra.

  Part 2. PRIVATE PRACTICE

  Chapter 7

  Redstone University occupied two complexes or, as people said, "territories". The new territory was located on the outskirts of town, across the river, and consisted of a noisy dormitory and laboratories for the Faculty of Alchemy, as large as factories. They say there were greenhouses and stables somewhere behind the dormitory, but I never dealt with that side of the university's life.

  The old territory and the heart of the university was the Redstone School of Magic, the first educational institution to teach dark and white magicians together—the pioneering attempt to reconcile the opposites. The founders of the university discovered a magic formula for the successful preparation of magic art specialists: joint education with ordinary people in some disciplines, like alchemy and pharmaceuticals. Nowadays such arrangement is considered standard, but in the past the innovation was regarded as revolutionary. Since then, the classic "apprenticeship" has fizzled out—graduates of specialized alchemical and magic institutions lagged seriously behind ordinary university graduates in their skills. It was assumed that the joint training allowed ordinary people to actually get acquainted with the logic of magic (an important life experience was presented at the right time in their lives) and helped magicians better integrate into the society. Also, the dark, being in the absolute minority, were unable to bully the white, which was a huge bonus for the latter. The Redstone school quickly grew into a university, regularly supplying society with talented alchemists, the mightiest white magicians, and the strongest combat sorcerers. Soon I will join them. This year, twelve dark students expressed an intention to undergo the Empowerment. If you trust statistics, among them there would be at least one master, a couple of generals, and one genuine archimage.

  I sat on the square in front of the faculty building, waiting for my turn to take the Empowerment (that day there were three others scheduled for the ritual) and getting annoyed at mere trifles. My dear Uncle (kick the bucket already, you old goat!) refused to explain the essence of the ritual, despite the whole summer of my practicing with the Source. "If you know it in advance, you will fail it for sure! Just remember: you should refrain from using your power for as long as possible. Got it? For as long as possible!" That was all that I was able to shake out of him. Now my peers were preparing for the most important moment of their lives by fasting and taking special herbs (Uncle forbade me from touching them), while I stupidly sweated in anticipation of troubles.

  The shadow of the sundial had crawled to noon when I noticed a guy that was supposed to take the ritual before me. I did not know his name; the dark rarely get to know each other. The newly-made magician threw a gloomy look at me and, without saying anything, disappeared in the direction of the main building.

  I was next.

  All students learned quickly the place occupied by the Faculty of Dark Magic; this was the area where you'd better not walk in the evening. Beginners often mistook it for a utility structure—against the background of the main building with tall lancet windows and colored tints on precious finish, the three-story box looked weird, resembling the prison on the King's Island. The university's authorities regularly considered transferring the faculty to the new territory (the city municipality was all in favor of that idea), but it did not budge; to build such an institution from scratch required a shocking amount of money. The current monstrous building sported a unique magical structure that was capable of retaining and absorbing the fatal consequences of student errors and, in fact, carried that function out regularly. According to the stats, two percent of dark magicians died in the process of learning. But today the townsfolk could rest safely; for the whole week the building was at the juniors' disposal.

  A dark carpet runner was spread in front of the entrance, pennants with the wise sayings of famous combat magicians hung on the walls (could you believe it—combat mages were able to speak eloquently!), and crows, consorts of plagues and wars lined up on the roof, attracted by emanations of magic. In the lobby I was met by the dean and an instructor with two assistants. Representatives of the city authorities—the same goblin-like cop and an unknown dark mage—were silently present as well. Nothing unexpected so far.

  "You have finally decided to go through the Empowerment," Mr. Darkon said, looking a little sad.

  I was still pondering that question prior to the incident at the NZAMIPS' office, but afterwards it became a must-do thing.

  "I'm not going to quit alchemy."

  "Everybody says so."

  The instructor politely cleared his throat: "If you are aware of the risks associated with the Empowerment, please sign here!"

  That was the disclaimer—the university pledged to do its utmost to ensure the safety of the ritual, but it refused any responsibility for injuries received in the process. On top of that, there was my own written application, a letter from my immediate family (I hadn't reached twenty-one yet), a health certificate... At one time, just the list of the necessary paperwork was enough to discourage me from becoming a magician. I hated bureaucracy! But I didn't have a choice and signed the disclaimer without looking.

  I was tapped on the shoulder, wished success, and escorted to a large door that was upholstered in black leather. I tried to figure out what would happen next, but the instructor immediately began lecturing me about historical parallels and my responsibility to society, reminding me of the incessant babble of the white kids. I was not in a mood to argue on a day like this and patiently waited until his speech dried out.

  Just through the doors the corridor broke off at a spiral staircase that led down to the second underground level. That was quite logical—rituals of this kind had to be conducted in a lab with the highest safety level, and regulations prescribed that such places must be hidden in basements. I had never been there before. My imagination painted a secret temple with torches and pentagrams, but in reality the place turned out to be quite prosaic: the clanking iron staircase ended in a tiny dressing room with a single bench and a coat rack for jackets. There, I was asked to change into the ritual costume (it looked like a black pajamas), and from thereon I continued barefoot, pretending to be a seasoned mage, because a dark magician arriving at the ritual in socks with holes didn't strike me as comical.

  With great effort, the instructor swung open a door made of cast iron (like a vault), but there was no temple behind it—just a small room without sharp corners. Bluish-white lights glared on the walls of polished silver. If there were any magic wards present there, they did not stick out. One of the assistants went ahead
of me, the other breathed down my neck from behind, and the instructor showed the way, occasionally tugging me by the sleeve and annoying me greatly.

  I hated to be grabbed or pulled!

  The door locked behind us with a dull clanking sound that caused my heart to skip a beat anxiously. Why did the door need to be locked?

  "This important-for-every-dark-magician day..." the instructor monotonously droned.

  He managed to maneuver so masterfully that I noticed our destination at the last moment: it was a short iron table with four leather bracelets.

  "Perhaps..."

  As though by accident, he took my hand and started pushing me down onto the polished surface. All my instincts howled at once. I rushed to the door but was adroitly intercepted by the second assistant and laid on the damned altar. That it was an altar was as clear as day.

  "I have changed my mind! I do not want to go through the ritual!"

  "Too late," the instructor replied after catching his breath, "You'll leave this room as a dark magician or won't leave at all."

  "A-ah!"

  Damn! The walls were thick there; furthermore, it was the basement. I tried to pull myself together (figuratively speaking, because my hands were fastened behind my head). Today two other students had taken the ritual before me and both were alive and intact; I even saw one of them. Though the color of his face was..."

  "What will happen next?"

  The assistants tinkered with something in the corner, while the instructor examined me with the look of a professional surgeon.

  "You will acquire Power."

  I tried to discern what they were doing, but failed. It drove me crazy.

  "There won't be anything cruel, right? Nothing special?"

  The instructor's eyes met mine, and he declared solemnly: "There will be!"

  "You have no right!" I tried to speak decisively, but my voice trembled and broke.

  He leaned closer to me and winked conspiratorially: "We do."

  My dear mother! I had fallen into the hands of maniacs. The police persuaded them, and they would kill me right here and now and blame the ritual. What could I do? SOS!

  The assistants mounted a few black candles along the altar and lit them, murmuring indistinctly. I started feeling an uncomfortable tingling in my hands and feet.

  "The spell is called 'Odo Aurum', " the instructor told me amiably. "It will help you to call your Source as soon as possible. We'll wait until the spell starts operating."

  I instantly recalled where I had heard that name. The spell was used by inquisitors to increase the sensitivity of their victims to pain, making obtaining any confession trivial. I broke out in cold sweat at the discovery.

  Please understand me correctly: I did not hesitate to jump into a fight, and I never worried about skinning my knees. But being tied to the table, helpless...

  Wait. Helpless? I was practicing all summer!

  "Hey, freak, let off me now, or I'll slam you with a curse!"

  "Try it!" the instructor smirked.

  I hesitated for a moment, feeling a disgusting tingling that climbed along my spine, remembering pictures of the injured from the police collection, and fighting with a feeling of mercy and humanism, awakened at the wrong time. Should I try to contain my temper further? No, damn it! With familiar effort, I mentally squeezed my Source and drove the Power outward, trying to crush any malicious magic or, at least, break the damn bracelets. A white shroud flashed before my eyes for a second, and when it had faded, all the unpleasant sensations disappeared at once.

  "Not bad. Very good, actually!" the instructor's voice lost its threatening tone. "Fourth level on your first attempt. Now dismiss the Source!"

  I gently released the Source—my feet had already been freed.

  "What, is that all?"

  "Yes," the instructor announced cheerfully, "but I have to remind you that you must not disclose to anyone the essence of the ritual. If our actions lose their surprise factor, we would have to go much further, up to the actual harm. Do you understand me?"

  At that time I was ready to understand anything in order to cut and run. One of the assistants offered me water and energizers, and another advised me not to hurry, but I brushed off their help and broke through to the door. Already at the exit, I ventured to ask: "Why we are not allowed doing it ourselves?"

  "If you hadn't noticed, a modulating spell is set on the room. It directed the energy of your call and helped create a secure channel for your Power. The first time the control is very important; after the Empowerment had happened, it would be almost impossible to change the characteristics of the Source. Don't worry! The ritual took place almost without deviations."

  "Deviations?" I instantly tensed up.

  "Judging by what I've seen, you will show one particular talent."

  "Which one?"

  "If you attend your classes regularly, I will tell you at the end of the year."

  What a bastard! It must be a common feature for those who teach dark magic—the ability to drive a student into frenzy. Oh, yeah, I will be attending his lectures! And he will regret that.

  That was it—no more secret rituals. Screw that! Having climbed the steep stairs, I literally tumbled out into the hall. I was greeted with ceremonious applause. Quarters smirked brazenly behind the backs of the university authorities. Who let him in on the event for the dark? Dean shook my hand; the instructor slipped me some sort of paper to sign and a numbered token that would be exchanged for a magician's seal upon graduation. I no longer had to fear wearing the shackles of deliverance.

  The goblin in the uniform gloomily watched the process of my legalization. I smiled. A smiling dark mage is quite a sight! He couldn't do me any harm now! Officially, I had just been initiated; to prove the opposite he would have to bring the memory crystal and explain why he had not done that before. This subtle psychological point was taken into account by Uncle Gordon and me. Had the brave cop's sense of duty prevailed over his selfish interests, we would have found ourselves up a creek without a paddle. But the dark mages are quite selfish and measure others' corn by their own bushel. In short, we bet on his cowardice and didn't lose.

  The goblin waved at me, calling me over. Others sharply stepped aside.

  "How are you," I welcomed him.

  "Fine... Captain Baer."

  With some delay, I realized that the captain was him.

  "What can I do for you?" I inquired politely.

  "I... would like to offer you an apology."

  "For what?" I replied lively.

  "You know!" the captain-goblin cut me off.

  I shrugged: "I forgive everyone!"

  Goblin looked me up and down, and then pulled out a plain business card with NZAMIPS logo. "If you have a problem," he nodded meaningfully, "do not hesitate to contact me."

  "Thank you, Officer!" I grinned.

  He paused for a moment, thinking (I was prepared to use the instructor as a shield), then nodded and returned to his place.

  I looked around, trying to determine what effect I produced on others. They all stared at me somewhat strangely. Assured that there wouldn't be any speeches given, Quarters took me by the arm and dragged away. I didn't have the strength to protest. Everyone wanted to lay a hand on me that day...

  The assistants with businesslike looks tramped past us—went to search for another victim. At this point I clearly saw why the secret of the famous ritual had remained veiled to date. The thought that every past and current dark magician had been tricked into this, and that every future magician would be, filled my heart with inexpressible satisfaction. You forget your own troubles, enjoying others' misfortunes. Psychotherapy, damn it!

  Quarters wasn't perceptive enough to understand these subtleties.

  "Wow!" he exclaimed. "Do you know who he is?"

  "Captain Baer."

  "Chief of Redstone's NZAMIPS! You were rude to the inquisitor!"

  I shrugged and said what I thought about Captain Baer, generously emp
loying Krauhard's folklore and many other slang expressions. Quarters gaped after me, trying to remember the phrase that took his fancy.

  "Well, as you wish!" he concluded. "Let's have beer." Seeing me tensing up, he generously added, "My treat!"

  * * *

  A dark magician in the police uniform was righteously indignant: "As I said, it was idiocy to go there! A mage from Tangor's family is not so easy to catch! He went to the Trunk Bay for a reason. It's Krauhard! They cover for each other, all stand united; there is no tripping him up."

  Conrad Baer listened to him half-heartedly, briskly looking around. They marched to the gates of the university, and the majority of oncoming students abruptly changed course at the sight of the police officers. All were guilty!

  "Come on, stop it," the captain dismissed his subordinate. "The guy worked hard on self-control, found himself a mentor. I think he won't be trouble."

  "A nonstandard channel of power will manifest itself during his training. Two years of intensive practice, and he will be off his rocker!"

  "Hardly," the captain did not support his coworker. "Larkes examined his crystal, and the configuration was quite stable."

  The magician chuckled, "Sir, I think Coordinator Larkes has his own stake in it."

  "We'll see!"

  A student standing in a group of people that gathered at the university gates suddenly took to flight, having discovered the presence of the police. Captain Baer barely suppressed the desire to pursue the fleeing man. NZAMIPS must strengthen intelligence work at the university! So many cases could be closed at once.

  Chapter 8

  Believe me, not every magician can become an instructor in combat magic! One must have a special talent to make a gang of young dark beasts nauseate and sweat their guts out. Precisely a gang, because the university's program did not provide private lessons, and precisely to the point of sickness, because practice with the Source required incredible effort at the beginning. I, thank god, passed that stage. In my case, dearest Uncle Gordon stimulated my brain with pebbles, but a university instructor could not afford to beat up his students; otherwise, he wouldn't leave the auditorium alive. However, Mr. Rakshat coped with the task well: he cursed like a drill sergeant, thrashed his cane on students' desks (making a sudden incredible noise over your ear-- it's an unforgettable feeling), threatened to put you in the shackles, and hoarsely whispered what fate would befall you at the slightest mistake. I admit, I used to have a finger tremor after three hours of such training.