Fallen Magic

It’s not as hard as I expected it to be, in the end. It takes me a while to slip into the right frame of mind for casting, but once I do the illusion comes smoothly. This spell is the kind that you can spend hours playing around with, exploring its limitations and potential, and that’s what Edward and I do.

I remember watching a puppet-show when I was seven or so, and being entranced by the way the wooden figures seemed to dance of their own volition – until I saw the strings that held their limbs and jerked them around. This spell, used by a sufficiently good magician, could create performances with not a string in sight.

I am not a sufficiently good magician. Not yet, I amend my thought.

Edward, unlike me, doesn’t see magic as a thing of wonder that can be used to amaze children. I bet if you’d shown seven-year-old him a magical performance of the kind I’m imagining he’d have criticised the quality of the illusion-work. That’s also why rather than trying to create realistic illusions of people and make them move naturally, he’s testing the spell’s limitations.

Whirling circles of colour, rotating faster and faster until it makes me dizzy just looking at them. Thin discs that seem to roll through the table legs, briefly replacing the wood before reappearing on the other side. That goes against my intuition: the table leg is already filling that space, the disc can’t be there at the same time. But of course it can, because the disc doesn’t actually exist.

It’s easy to tell myself that, but somewhat harder not to flinch as another disc, this one a deep sky-blue, rolls slowly along the ground and into my foot. “Edward – “ I say, feeling somewhat disconcerted at the lack of sensation as I watch the disc move without resistance through my shoe.

“What?” he asks. He knows perfectly well what.

“Could you at least warn me before the next time you decide to do that?”

“It’s not as fun that way.”

I sigh. “Okay. Lesson in how normal people think: most of them aren’t going to be too happy with you when you decide to attack them with illusory discs.”

“That wasn’t an attack. You could have easily dodged it. I’m still working on improving the agility of the discs, so chasing you down isn’t an option just yet.”

One of the most annoying things about Edward is how hard it sometimes is to tell whether he’s missing the point because he just doesn’t understand how normal people think or whether he’s deliberately missing the point because he enjoys messing with me. This one could go either way, but I think it’s more likely an instance of the latter.

“Most people aren’t going to be too happy with you when you decide to insert illusory discs into their bodies in a completely non-offensive manner, either.”

“Why not? It’s not as if it’ll have any real effect.”

Yeah. Definitely messing with me. Calling him out on it seems unlikely to help anything, though, so I don’t bother. “Can you walk up and down?” I ask instead. “My illusion isn’t walking right, and I – “

“You’re relying on conscious understanding rather than instinct,” Edward interrupts. “Fully overcoming that limitation is practically impossible, though, so I’ll let you off.” He paces back and forth obligingly, and I try to focus on the way his legs are moving rather than his words.

My observations are useful, but my curiosity gets the better of me after half a minute. When Edward calls something magical practically impossible, that means something. “When you say practically impossible…” I ask.

“I could count the number of people publicly known to have done it on my fingers.”

I give him a look that tells him firmly he can’t just leave it at that without listing them.

He sighs and spreads out his fingers. “The Mages, obviously. Clara Blackthorn the First. The first two Grand Wizards of Thalia. Simone Wilde. Jason Tanner – “

“Who was he?”

“Oh – yes, I suppose that isn’t common knowledge. He was the first true spellsinger, and according to scholars the only one ever to have achieved true mastery of the art. Anyway, Christopher Blackthorn is the most recent name on the list. My great-great-great-grandfather.”

I am not particularly surprised that two of Edward’s ancestors appear on a list that prestigious. “You said publicly known as well. Does that mean…”

“A lot of the greatest magicians there have ever been didn’t like to advertise that they appeared on that list. Especially those who wanted power of other forms.”

“Including a few more of your ancestors?” I guess.

“All the old Siaril families of any significance probably have one or two lurking in their history somewhere.”

That’s his way of saying yes without technically revealing any family secrets, I suppose. “Are you going to be one of them?”

He shrugs. “It’s dangerous. The more limitations of that nature you overcome, the closer you get to truly wielding magic, the harder it is to maintain control. Becoming Malaina rather ruined a few long-term plans of mine.”

Because of how much harder Malaina is to control compared to Siaril, and because the consequences of failure are much more severe. He doesn’t sound bitter about it, but I can tell he is. Malaina doesn’t care about your long-term plans, though, as I’ve found out the hard way. “Being multi-School has its advantages, though.”

He nods. “Simultaneous casting is a nice perk. Or it would be, if I could make it work fully.”

“More conceptual limitations?” I guess.

“Yes. While I’m still reliant on the gesture-and-incantation method the best I can get is casting one spell while maintaining another. Probably doesn’t help that I support the Whittaker-Blackthorn Interpretation.”

For once I recognise the concept Edward is referring to. It was discussed in one of our early Magical Theory lessons, when we were speculating on the general nature of magic. It proposes that the five Schools, on a fundamental level, draw on the same source of power and that the differences between them merely affect the individual magician’s method of using it. I agree with Edward that it’s a preferable explanation to the alternative that there are actually five separate systems of magic existing independently, but I can see why it would make simultaneous casting more conceptually difficult.

We practice for a while longer. It’s fun and absorbing; at times like this it’s easy to understand why someone would want to invent new spells. But then suddenly it’s dinnertime and I haven’t made any progress on any of the things I really need to make progress on.

That’s okay, I tell myself firmly, but I’m not sure it is.

Edward suggests the privacy wards as an evening project while we’re eating, much to my relief. It’s a struggle not to show how eager I am. “Sure,” I say casually – too casually? I hope not – “I’ll probably need them at some point, unfortunately.” And if the point I’m thinking of is a lot closer than the one Edward is thinking of, he doesn’t need to know that.

He solemnly presents me with what appears to be a perfectly ordinary stick of chalk. I turn it over in my hands, trying to work out whether it’s worthy of the way he’s treating it, and even resort to a detection spell (which comes up negative).

“Okay, I give in. Is this special warding chalk, or just…chalk?”

“Just chalk, but finer quality than you’ll get from your average shop. Enchanted warding chalk is a risky business. Only worth it if you’re going for a very specific ward and know you won’t need it for any others. Anyway, I suppose you’ve grasped the basic principles from seeing me work?”

I’ve picked up something from it, but I doubt it’s the thorough understanding of theoretical wardwork that Edward means when he says basic principles. Still, it should be enough to begin.

It is most definitely not enough to succeed, as I discover a few minutes later. No matter how carefully I chalk out the circle and copy the pattern Edward shows me, every test shows that the circle has no effect. “Conceptual limitation?” I ask, sighing.

“Conceptual limitation,” he agrees.

“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong, though. It’s not really casting, only channelling magic at the end of it. How am I messing that up?”

Edward shrugs. “We should probably test to make sure that is the problem rather than the circle being drawn incorrectly.” He erases my last failed attempt at a ward circle from the floor of the meeting room with a wave of his hand. “Draw another.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute mockingly and obey orders, taking as much care as I can. I’m near-certain the last one was perfect, and Edward agreed with me, but I can’t be certain.

“Wait,” he says as I finish my drawing with a flourish, before I can press my hand to the pattern. “I’ll do it.”

I narrow my eyes. “You can activate a circle you haven’t drawn yourself?”

“It’s a little harder, but since I know you and I’ve seen it drawn… I can do it, yes.”

I move aside and let him kneel beside the pattern and close his eyes for a second. “There,” he says, sounding satisfied. “I’m reasonably sure that – “ he steps into the ward circle, and the rest of his sentence vanishes. Which is exactly the intention: the particular ward we’re working on is designed to prevent any sound passing from inside to outside.

“Reasonably sure that works,” he finishes, stepping back over the boundary. “So that’s one possibility eliminated.” He crouches down to smudge the chalk with his hand and break the circle. It’s safer to do that the mundane way, apparently.

“So it’s the channelling itself that’s the problem.” I narrow my eyes. “I know how to channel magic. I can activate enchantments perfectly well. So why…”

“It’s more… the form of intent required is different. Not the same as an enchantment – that just absorbs your magic to power itself.”

“And what this ward is doing is different?” It seems identical to me. Magic being what it is, that’s likely the root of my problem.

“It seems the same on the surface, but it’s really not. Wardwork is a derivative of ritual magic.”

He says that as if it explains everything. It doesn’t. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh. Right. Theoretical ritual-work isn’t taught that much any more, so I guess you wouldn’t know. Rituals are a guide and aid to allow a magician to perform more complex and powerful spells than they would be capable of alone. The problem being that they make it much easier to try and cast something too powerful.”

“And wardwork is based on that. How do I know I’m not going to…”

“Oh, any wards you’d be casting aren’t going to be too powerful for you. The analogy isn’t perfect – with wards, it’s mostly to prevent the caster having to constantly maintain them in the way a spell would need. But it should explain the difficulties you’ve been having a bit better.”

“So you’re saying I need to channel magic… but as if I’m casting a spell, not activating an enchantment?”

“Pretty much.”

“And… how exactly do I do that?”

Edward smiles. “That’s the part you have to work out for yourself.”

“…I hate you sometimes.”

“Welcome to the club.”

I start to laugh before realising I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if there was a shadowy organisation devoted to hating the Blackthorns. Probably not funny, then.

“What?” he asks, seeing my expression change.

“It’s not really a joke for you, is it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I make it into one. Only way to cope, sometimes. You can go back to laughing, if you like.”

“That’s not how laughter works,” I tell him, but I do find myself smiling.