Chapter 36 Nyx
NYX
When I wake up the next morning—Butthead, as I’ve come to call the formerly-mangy white cat now that it’s become clear he’s determined to stick around—is sleeping on my head.
Locked doors and windows don’t seem to deter him.
Before I gave up on thwarting his breaking and entering, I got the distinct impression that he was actually insulted by my attempts.
Over the last few weeks, we’ve come to an agreement: I feed him, give him a warm place to sleep, brush him, let him drink fresh filtered water from the sink in my room, and in exchange he doesn’t shit on my pillow.
When I’m working at my desk, he likes to sit in my lap and watch the screen as I type.
Sometimes I’ll talk to him absently, and he chirps back at me.
Today though, I peel him off my face, shove him under the blankets, and hold him like a stuffed animal as I fall back asleep.
That’s where I stay for the rest of the weekend, tucked in my bed, numbing my mind with shitty reality TV re-runs.
When I don’t feed him quickly enough, he licks my eyelids until I get up and get food for the both of us from my stash.
He’s partial to the organic free-range strawberry granola bars from the Great Hall.
It’s probably the antioxidants or something.
My phone occasionally pings with a new message, but I don’t read them.
When I get a slew of messages—memes from Milo, most likely—Butthead takes matters into his own paws and lays on my phone to muffle the sound.
He flattens his ears every time it goes off and glares at me in disappointment. Yeah well, join the club.
I pass Thane without a word when I walk into class Monday morning and take a seat at the front of the classroom. I ignore his texts, too.
My stomach churns with dread at the thought of seeing Killian in Chemistry, and I skip lunch.
It’s for naught though, when I see someone else in his usual seat at our desk.
Instead, he’s holding court at the front of the class as his audience hangs on his every word.
And yet, I still feel the sting of his rejection a second time when he doesn’t even glance my way.
When class ends, I’m first out the door, hurrying down the hallway to put as much distance as possible between me and the reminder of my mistake.
Mistakes. Plural.
In Divination, Professor Chamberlain tasks us with using our chosen medium to reflect on this past year, and divine guidance in preparation for the Crypteia ahead.
Since my epiphaneia, my creepy tarot deck has gotten even creepier, because when I take the cards out and begin to shuffle them methodically, it comes…
awake. Meanings are clearer, answers sharper.
And honestly, it’s kind of a dick.
When I told Chamberlain how I really felt, she gasped in horror and launched into a ten minute monologue about respecting divine forces and heeding the messages we receive.
I tuned most of it out, but it triggered the memory of Celestine and Augustine ambushing me in my apartment so many months ago.
Of Celestine making magic seem like this deus ex machina miracle that would fix everything.
Hindsight’s a bitch.
Just like this tarot deck.
Brandt merely chuckles when I complain to him after class during the first of our nightly wielding practice sessions.
Now that he’s confident my power won’t try to kill me—or anyone else—he’s insisted on teaching me as much as possible to prepare me for the Crypteia, since there’s no one else qualified to even attempt it.
No pressure or anything.
“We have very little time to teach you what you need to know if you want to achieve the Practitioner level of mastery. Otherwise, there are those who would make the case that you repeat this past year. I would argue that you’ve already demonstrated your ability to recognize not only the source of power within yourself but the presence of primordial magic in the world, having connected the two during your epiphaneia.
But we need to hone your ability to consistently control it. ”
Damn. No more exploding bathrooms for me.
“We’ll start with your ability to wield primordial magic while I continue to research your bloodmagic. Now, wielding primordial magic safely and effectively requires three things: a source of power, a method by which to channel that power, and a way to direct that channeled power.”
“But I didn’t do any of that with the wards.”
“Which is why I’m teaching you how to do it now.” he looks at me with a wry smile. “There are three conventional power sources wielders draw from: their own innate strength, the world around them, or an artifact that’s been imbued with power, similar to a battery.”
“Is that like what you used that first day we met in Church’s office?”
“Yes—a design of my own making. To channel primordial magic safely, you’ll need at least one of three conduit mediums—a talisman, amulet, or potion. Talismans are typically man-made—think swords, wands, rings—metal is the most conducive and generally preferred to amplify and concentrate power.”
“I’m sorry, did you say wands? I get a wand?! When the fuck were you going to tell me about this?”
“And miss that look on your face? Not a chance.”
“I’ll remember this.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he smiles ruefully. “Amulets are typically organic in nature—crystals, gemstones, bones—and are mostly used for protection. While artifacts, talismans, and amulets can be used continuously so long as the power source and medium remain intact, potions are more temporary, essentially acting as carrier liquids for magic. The ability to heal or harm makes potions the most versatile medium by which to channel primordial magic.”
“Wait, does this mean I get a cauldron? Oh my God, this is like a Hogwarts starter pack.”
“Excuse you, this is much cooler than Hogwarts.”
I put my hands in the air and smirk. “Whatever you say, Dr. Grandmaster of the Fourth Order.”
He grumbles good-naturedly. “All of this said, without a way to direct that magic, power and channeling are meaningless. Imagine turning on a car, putting it in drive, but having no way to steer it. Spells, runes, and sigils—or combinations of all three—make that possible. But there’s nuance to this. ”
“Light wielding versus dark wielding, right?”
“In part, yes, very good. Light wielders, as I mentioned, bend and tame primordial magic to their bidding—it is a battle of strength and determination. Dark wielders, in contrast, wield by intent.”
“How is that ultimately any different? You’re still telling the magic what to do, right?”
“Put simplistically, yes—but it is the way you command the magic. It is the difference between ordering the magic to follow your intent, and giving it no other option but to follow your intent. To use the same analogy, light wielders press the accelerator of the car to move it forward, whereas dark wielders pave the road it travels.”
“And this is where spells and stuff come in.”
“Correct—spells, runes, and sigils are the catalysts by which our intent becomes tangible, much like elemental affinities where the wielder uses their power to transform primordial magic into a tangible force: air, earth, fire, water—blood, in your case. Speaking a spell imbues words with power. Writing a rune imbues symbols with instructions. Drawing sigils communicate identity and purpose. More complex magic involves combining elements of all three methods, each having their own sub-specialities.”
“I’m going to need a Venn diagram or something,” I murmur, as my imagination runs wild with possibilities.
He chuckles. “Most students have benefitted from decades of study and instruction with their families before their epiphaneia. If you had had that, you would be leagues beyond your peers, I’m sure.”
“That’s a terrible pep talk.”
“Yes, well, you should be used to it by now.”
“You know what, fair.”
He smirks and shakes his head. “Latin, ancient Greek, and English have survived the diffusion of language and knowledge to become the lingua-franca for spells and incantations. Germanic runes are most commonly used today, though I know of one Runewitch whose mastery of ancient runes is beyond even me.”
“No,” I gasp in mock outrage.
“Yes, as she likes to frequently remind me,” he says drolly.
“Sigils are more complex constructs mostly used when summoning. When used to communicate purpose, the outcome depends on the subjective intent of the wielder creating it: two wielders might use the same symbol for different meanings, or different symbols for the same meaning. When communicating identity, that is reversed, and the sigil becomes objective. Say you were to attempt summoning this table here.” He knocks the coffee table separating us with his knuckle.
“The sigil you would use to summon a coffee table would be different than the sigil used to summon this coffee table specifically—that which belongs to Dr. Wolfram Brandt, Grandmaster of the Fourth Order, purchased from a local woodcarver in 1983, located on the east side of the third floor of the Dreadhurst administration building. You would need to know things like its origin, location, size, any distinguishing marks, etcetera, for the magic to identify it. The more specific you are, the more powerful the sigil. Adding to the complexity—if I were to sell this table tomorrow, the sigil to identify it would change to reflect that of its new owner and location, for example.”
“This is making my head hurt.”
“Why do you think I made us my favorite tea?”
“Make more of it next time.”
“I’ve already ordered it in bulk. Now, let’s get started on spells and runes. We’ll save sigils for after you pass the Crypteia.”