Chapter 3 #2
I smiled encouragingly. “That’s okay. We’re talking to anyone who might apply in the next four years. We don’t get out this way often, and if you do decide St. Unoc is a good fit for you, you can skip the psi assessment portion of the app. We’ll keep today’s evaluation on file.”
Mace glanced nervously at the small tabletop dross trap at Benedict’s elbow.
The three crossed sticks had been designed to look like unsharpened pencils, but these had a core of dross, and when arranged as they were, they not only kept dross from wandering about to break shoelaces and cell phones, but actually attracted it.
At least, that was the idea. Getting mages to put their waste in the “can” was another story.
“Ah, my mom went to St. Unoc,” Mace said.
Benedict looked up from his tablet. “As long as the grades stay where they are, there should be no problem.”
“Did you bring a lodestone?” I asked, wanting to see the kid in action, and Mace flushed.
“I’m not allowed to take one to school.”
Because he’d use it and someone might notice. Can’t lie convincingly, I thought in satisfaction. Point two in his favor. From the instant they learned how to break light into its components so as to use the energy that released, every mage had a lodestone on them. Always.
“That’s fine.” Benedict’s shoulder touched mine as he searched his pocket. “We need a demonstration of where you are. Making one will suffice.”
The hall was now silent, and the click of the glass marble meeting the table was loud.
Mace grinned as he took it. “This is so weird. I spend every day hiding what I can do, and you ask me to make a lodestone.”
“The room is secure,” I said, and Mace nodded.
“Mrs. Brans is a sweeper,” the kid said, his caution melting away worrisomely fast. “She calls dross dust bunnies and gets on our case if she sees any. You won’t tell her, will you?”
“She knows we’re testing everyone,” I said wryly. “You’re rated on time and mistakes, so when you’re ready…”
Mace’s grip on the marble tightened, and I felt the distinctive pressure of a psi field form as he inhaled.
A heat-distortion mirage flickered over the kid’s hands as he reorganized the glass at a molecular level, both to bond to it and to store energy.
It was something I couldn’t do—but Pluck could, and an icy sharpness came over my thoughts when the shadow began to take an interest.
Mace’s brow furrowed in concentration. His psi field was typical for a student—about a class one or two—and the dross began leaking out long before he was done with the spell.
That didn’t bother me as much as him utterly ignoring the haze of sparkling bad luck on the table, and my smile froze when he casually flicked the heat-like distortion away from him before it could break on him in bad luck.
Suddenly nervous, Mace set the lodestone down for Benedict to inspect.
If he’d done it right, the glass would—when exposed to sunlight—passively separate the particle portion of light from the wave, storing the wave energy for later use.
Once a stone was depleted, it could be recharged by the sun.
Spinners could do the same thing, but they used the energy from the particle portion of light.
In both cases, dross was the resultant waste.
Weavers didn’t use light at all, but dark matter.
It was everywhere the light wasn’t, but it only gathered in sufficient quantities to power magic where shadows, living shadows, rested.
Thoughts full, I fingered my collar, missing Pluck’s amulet.
“May I?” Benedict asked formally, and when Mace nodded, Benedict put a tidy field around the lodestone, setting it resonating with a thin trace of energy to gauge its quality.
“Nicely done,” he said, and Mace exhaled in relief.
“Good use of energy. Little dross residue. Have you given any thought as to what you want to focus on if you are accepted at St. Unoc?”
“Ah, I’m good with fire magic,” he said, gaze flicking up in pride.
“My dad has me boil water for him when he makes dinner and I’ve warmed up my little sister’s bottle.
But I’d really like to explore water studies.
Maybe combine it with a criminal science degree so I can find lost people or solve crimes. ”
I stifled a smile. Everyone wanted the high-profile jobs—until they found out how hard it was to become proficient in the rarer disciplines.
Still, using one’s magic to assist in their mundane job was common.
Those proficient in air studies tended to become doctors, nurses, or paramedics, where their hard-won ability to move objects through other things could save lives.
It was the rarest ability, and with a degree in that, a mage could go anywhere.
Magic users specializing in earth magic tended to go into security, where being able to cause things to attract others could freeze a fleeing person to the ground.
Water studies was sensing when something was out of place—also useful in the police force—and ether, of course, was being able to modify a person’s perceptions or memory.
It was probably the most desirable skill after fire magic as it was imperative to helping keep the silence.
Water mages were rare, and he’d have a steep hill to climb, especially with his class-one psi field. As much as mages didn’t want to believe it, it was the field strength that equated magic strength, not how big your lodestone was. Mace had a long way to go.
“As long as your fields are strong, any aspect of magic is powerful,” I said, and Mace shrugged.
I was sure his mom saw that look six times a day, and though it raised my eyebrows, it wasn’t half as bothersome as the dross still on the table.
He hadn’t made one move to put it in the trap.
And that, of course, was the real test. I didn’t care if he could make a lodestone; I wanted to know how responsible he was. Right now, I wasn’t impressed.
“And your dross-handling skills?” I prompted.
Benedict cleared his throat in a subtle warning and extended a dross-cored wand mimicking a sharpened pencil.
Mace flushed as he took it. “I thought that’s what you were here for.”
And there it is, I thought dryly, too familiar with the sentiment to be angry. We were probably a generation out from breaking the stigma of being a sweeper. Who am I kidding. We’re going to be lifetimes fighting this, I thought, and Pluck sizzed a sour agreement.
“Mr. Handon,” Benedict said formally, and Mace squirmed, knowing he’d messed up. “Ms. Grady is not here to pick up after you. She’s here looking for weavers among the sweeper population. You haven’t noticed any unusual shadow activity, have you?”
Mace looked up from where he’d been wrangling the dross. He had a nice technique, managing to hold on to everything as he paled. “Sh-Shadow?” he stammered, gaze darting to me.
My lips quirked in a smile. Pluck, you want to scare the shit out of some mage?
No, iced through my thoughts, but I could feel his irritation as well. He’s just a kid.
Despite Mace’s distressingly familiar beliefs, I agreed. Fine. The bird, then. If it was going to take generations, no time like the present to start.
Pluck slipped out from under the couch as a black haze, swirling counterclockwise to take on the form of a sleek, raven-like bird at my elbow. Green eye fixed on the boy, he flapped his wings once and a single feather broke free, dissolving with a hiss when it hit the floor.
Mace went ashen as I dabbled my fingers in Pluck’s icy presence. Once, his bird form had been ragged, ugly, with twisted feathers falling out to show pus-bubbled skin. But his image was a reflection of how I saw him, and now all I saw was grace, splendor, and above all, power.
“Th-That’s shadow. You’re touching shadow,” Mace whispered. “You’re not insane?”
Benedict smiled with half his mouth. “That depends on who you ask.”
“It’s only when a shadow enters your mind that you go insane,” I said.
“If it wants, shadow can touch a person to no ill effect.” I was trying to be comforting, but I think it failed, as the kid went paler yet.
Still, he was doing better than the last candidate I’d thought had enough potential to give the hard truth to, and both Pluck and I shared a feeling of positivity.
Knowledge was strength, and Mace Handon had the drive and potential despite his tiresome views. He deserved the chance to grow.
A cold ribbon of Pluck drifted onto the table, and I played with the strand, winding it around my finger as if I were a seer of old. He’s handling this pretty well, I thought, and my entire hand went numb with cold.
I’m not a circus animal to be paraded out to impress children.
No, you are my partner, I responded immediately. You should have been sitting next to me when he walked in, not hiding under the couch. If Mace ever does run into shadow, I want him to remember a smart, intelligent presence who can be reasoned with, not the raving monster he’s been taught.
Pluck was silent, and then warmth returned to my hand in a wave of painful pinpricks. Benny may touch me to prove shadow can be reasoned with. Not Mace.
Fair enough, I thought, then tore a small drift of dross from the desk trap, lip twitching at the heated jolt of connection. The painful shock was one of the tells that I was a weaver, but I hadn’t known that when I was growing up. I’d only thought I was different.
The heat vanished when I formed a field about it, my mind instinctively shifting electrons from shell to shell until the energy expressed was completely different and yet utterly the same.
I’d made the dross inert, and I handed it to Benedict knowing Mace could see the heat distortion—knew what it was.
“You want to…” I prompted, and Benedict jumped, his nervousness a quickly hidden flash.
“Sure.” Benedict extended the dross to Pluck. They weren’t exactly friends.