Bereft: Demise

26 | Of Pragmatic Magic

Days eased by with surprising alacrity. September breathed its last and summer was forgotten in the misty marshes and grey heaths of England's moors. October's autumn hung upon the land in a dreary cloak of tenuous rain storms—not that I was able to experience much of the weather.

For the most part, I spent my days in the dungeons of the manor's depths, sitting on the cold floor as I read books by torchlight with my incarcerated mage instructor. The page margins were always full of Cage's surprisingly tidy and well-penned annotations. I would puzzle through his old notes while the mage lectured or just talked about past events or items that caught his attention. Cage spoke often and yet never really seemed to say much. 

He never asked about me, about the world outside his homey little cell or the murder I had confessed to. Nor did the mage ever say another word about his own crimes. We spoke only of magic and the strange, mystical things that populated this world and the next.

Today I sat with a blackboard balanced on my knee and a nub of chalk pinched between my fingers. The chalk hadn't begun as a nub, but two hours of attempting to draw constructs had worn the stick down to almost nothing. My black jeans were pattered with white fingerprints and my teal blouse was equally dusty.

I stared at my newest attempt, trying to discern any defects in the smooth lines of the nesting circles. Finding none, I spun the board and held it up to the bars, clearing my throat to get Cage's attention. The mage had left me to my work, drifting off to his own experiments and activities. He returned from his burnt table, brushing soot from his fingertips.

"Hmm...." The mage took the blackboard and held it up to his face, studying my work. I waited with held breath, exhaling only when Cage lowered the board and shook his head.

"By the King below," I exclaimed, vigorously rubbing at my tired eyes. I was covered in chalk dust from head to toe and could feel the small granules grate beneath my fingertips against my skin. "What's wrong with it now?"

"The space between your rebound line and the distal arc is exaggerated too heavily." He pointed to the line of the outer circle, then to the line of the middle one. "The curve is too extreme and will never be able to set." He held his branded hand through the bars, fingers wiggling and palm upright. "Allow me."

Grumbling, I slapped the chalk into the mage's out held hand. Smirking, Cage used the nub to quickly sketch a new construct alongside mine. He completed it in a matter of seconds and spun the board to display a perfectly formed set of nested circles. Next to his work, my painstakingly crafted construct was wobbly and off-kilter. 

"You're trying too hard," Cage said as he handed the blackboard back to me along with another stick of chalk. The nub was flicked somewhere into the darkness beyond the torchlight. My frustration must have been evident, as the mage spoke slowly in a calm, even tone. "Magic is a practice, like medicine—but, in many respects, it is also an art form. Allow the natural pull of your muscles to guide your hand. Magic is all about your intent. Stop trying to make perfect circles and simply create an unending line." 

That was undoubtedly the most unhelpful thing he had said all afternoon. I puffed out my cheeks as I tugged at my hair and spun the skinny stick of chalk between my fingers. Magic was a practice, magic was an art, magic was hard, magic was easy. I had heard many opposing definitions from the mage during our time together. As far as I was concerned, magic was a mystery that defied solving.

I had memorized terms and had copied runes until I understood their basic meanings—though, when they were thrown into constructions and combined into scripts, those meanings became as convoluted as the most difficult of foreign languages. It was time to try my hand at setting a construct—but it was proving to be a daunting task.