Sorcerer of Centuries

3. spells

That Thursday, I dragged myself to my first Spells class.

The Academy insisted that all sorcerers take Spells, even though most families began training their children in the magical arts at a young age. It was understandable: bad things happened when sorcerers didn't learn to harness their magic.

My mother realized when I was five that my magic was too great to be bound into a spell. After that I was sent every week to be mentored by Áillun Aikio, the most powerful sorceress in the West Midlands, if not all of England. Áillun taught me to shape my shadows into tendrils, and to command these tendrils as if they were my own fingers. Your magic is not better because it is greater, she'd said. It is simply different.

Now I stood in Olden's largest courtyard with a dozen students who expected me to be the best of them, knowing next to nothing about spells. To make matters worse, Noah had followed me here, claiming that he didn't have class and wanted to see everyone's magics. He sat on one of the stone benches a few yards away, squinting under the bright sun at a dull-looking book.

"Alright," called Professor Billingsley. "Would everyone please find a partner and form two lines? I'd like to see where you are with your defensive spells."

The students milled about, pairing up with greetings and nervous smiles. No one dared meet my eyes. Finally the only student left was a short, stout boy who looked pale and shivery as he stared up at me.

"P-P-Professor," he stammered. "I don't feel well. I-I think I'm sick."

"Well then," Billingsley sighed, "off to the infirmary with you." She glanced around at the partnerships. "Which of you will take Mr. Ellington into your group?"

Utter silence. And then a voice from behind, which was becoming far too familiar for my taste. "I'll be his partner!" Noah jogged over. "I'm not a sorcerer, but—"

"Excellent idea!" Billingsley looked relieved. "Take your places everyone, go on. We'll start with a simple Pushing spell—gentle Pushing, mind you—and, if you can counter the spell with a Push of your own, go ahead!"

"I don't know how to do any of this," I muttered.

"That's fine," Noah said. "Just wave your hands all fancy, and I'll pretend you've Pushed me."

Down the line, students indeed began waving their hands and muttering words under their breath. Some looked laughable; others executed the spell quickly and flawlessly. One girl gave a perfect counter to the Push directed at her. The air shimmered as their magics collided.

"Well done, Ms. Ghebo!" came Professor Billingsley's voice from over my shoulder. I turned and found her waiting expectantly for me to make my move.

"Professor..." I began.

She seemed to understand. "That's quite alright, Mr. Ellington. I figured this wouldn't be your forte. Nevertheless, it's a skill every sorcerer's got to have. Here—twist your fingers like so, and say, Yperaspízo!"

I gritted my teeth. Áillun had tried to teach me Greek—a number of spells were in that wretched language—and I'd hated every minute of it. "Ee...per...asp...eezo," I tried lamely, ducking my fourth finger under my thumb and flicking my wrist.

Nothing happened.

"Good try!" Billingsley clapped me on the back, moving down the line. "Keep at it!"

The next time I tried, I got a weak tendril. I looked furtively around to see if anyone was witnessing my pathetic attempts, but only Noah watched. I felt suddenly disgusted with myself. Surely he was pitying me. I wasn't smart like he was, wasn't kind like he was—and the one thing I should have been better at, I couldn't do.