Winter in Atheria was very unlike the winters Sam was accustomed to. For one, it was colder-a lot colder, he realized, as he pulled his cloak around him tighter. He gripped his staff tightly in his right hand, attempting to project a field of warmth around him.
After weeks of study, even just this small feat was nearly beyond him. The theory behind thaumaturgy was all well and good, but actually putting it into practice… Sam puffed a sigh as he made his way to the main lecture hall.
“Ah well,” he mumbled. “Last one for the week.”
Keeping his head to the ground, he steadfastly ignored the bustle of students seething across the pathways. It was easy to pretend they didn’t exist for Sam. After all, they did the same to him.
At that moment he chose to glance up, and caught the eye of an incredibly strange looking man. He wore gloves of silver that shimmered in the reflection of sunlight off snow.
The man wore a cloak with a hood that cast his face into deep shadow. For just a moment, he looked up at Sam.
Sam stood stock-still. The man smiled. It was an odd smile; it was almost menacing, but then almost friendly at the same time. A flicker of a frown flashed across Sam’s face. He blinked, sure that the field he was casting had caused a mirage.
When his eyes opened once more, the man was gone.
A true frown creased his pale brow.
“I’m seeing things,” he grumbled. “What next?”
But like a wisp of cloth caught in the wind, a shred of doubt floated in his mind. He was sure, certain even, that he had seen the man before. He shook his head; the late nights were getting to him. Of this he was certain.
The tip of his staff gave a feeble splutter. Faint puffs of smoke emerged from the tip.
“Oh, crap,” he moaned. “Not now, please.”
Sam quickly performed percussive maintenance on the thin rod. It coughed one final time, and then ceased to emanate anything.
“Typical,” he groaned.
With that, he walked through the double oak doors of the Aetherium, the hooded man all but forgotten.
Through a significantly smaller set of doors, Sam entered the main lecture hall and took his customary seat, at the corner farthest to the back of the theatre and away from the doors. He eased himself onto the hard wooden bench and slipped his bag onto the desk in front of him. With a grunt of irritation, he placed his staff on top of the bag and glared at it. He’d known what he was buying when he purchased it, but hadn’t honestly expected it to be this infuriatingly terrible.
A poor worker always blames his tools, as his father would say. Sam shook his head as though the thought was water in his ear.
Down at the podium, the professor of thaumaturgy had taken his place. Silence fell on the theatre in moments.
Even from the back of the class, Sam could see the professor’s radiance: it burned like a fire in a hearth, flickering and roaring. It hurt to look at, and not even closing his eyes worked. Only cold stone could block out the radiance of a thaumaturgist. That, and flesh, but Sam somehow doubted that he could get away with covering his face with his hands unnoticed for long.
The professor, William Wescott, cleared his throat quietly. Even from here, Sam could make out that spark in his eye that symbolized his enthusiasm. He leaned forward slightly, suddenly curious about the day’s lecture.
“Aether.”
As he said the word, a wave of anticipation rolled across the room. This was what they had come here for. Not miracles or basic Weaves. No, this was it.
“Known by the Godai Monks as both Sora and Ki; by the followers of the Nine as ‘miracles’. Completely and utterly denied by the Solarans-“ a titter of laughter burst out-“on ‘scientific grounds.’ And,” he said gravely, “Referred to as ‘heathen paganism” by a certain organization we shall not name.”
A collective shudder clenched the students. They all knew, of course, whom Professor Wescott referred to. But none of them was fool enough to blurt it out.
“But here, it is known simply as Aether. It is a fundamental aspect of all our lives. Indeed, Atheria itself is named after Aether. We all know of it. We all understand that it exists. But who, here, can tell me exactly what Aether is?”
Here he paused, staring at his audience. As his gaze swept across them, he stopped for just a moment on each person, his eyebrows raised, asking: “Well?”
As he alighted his sight on Sam, he twitched his eyebrow up a notch. Sam hesitated-then nodded. Wescott grinned, before turning back to address the audience in its entirety.
“What is Aether?” he asked, throwing his arms out in a mammoth gesture. “Aether is everything. The air we breathe. The light we see, the sound we hear, the food we eat. It is the boundless, untamed potential. And yet, at the same time… it does not appear to exist.”
Several of the students were scribbling in their notebooks, frantically attempting to keep up with their note taking. Wescott glanced at them, smiling slightly.
“Aether is not merely an academic thing that can be understood with notes and hard work. It requires… application.”
They looked up and flushed, sliding their books into their bags.
“Much better,” he said, not entirely condescendingly. “Now, where was I? Ah. The questionable existence of Aether.
“May I ask you all something? Can any of you, in any way, shape or form, sense Aether? It could be anything-synesthesia, something like a breeze brushing across your skin… Bright lights that radiate from things and people.”
He waited, looking at all of them individually and simultaneously. Again, his thoughtful stare swept over the students, querying. As his eyes passed over them, the students nodded in turn. His eyes rested on me. Sam felt the hesitation catch at his thoughts. He raised an eyebrow at Wescott. His lip quirked.
“In urban myth, it is said that there are some with an innate ability known as The Sight. No-one knows quite how people gain The Sight, but there are, naturally, an astonishing amount of ideas. For the purpose of this exercise, we shall assume my theory is correct.”
The class chuckled. Wescott’s sense of humour was one they understood, as opposed to other lecturers with their stories of cookie-nibbling novelists.
“Yes, yes, you may all laugh, but have you ever heard of the spit of a Taint giving someone the power of Sight?”
What was quite obviously meant to be a serious joke hushed the students. Mention of the Taint was rare, and not easily forgotten.
“As I was saying. The power of the Sight is indeed a useful ability, but what does it really help us to understand about Aether? I’ll tell you: that the ability to see it, let alone use it, is rare in humans. It is rarer still for a human to be able to exert any great control over the Aether, and nigh on impossible to survive such a feat.”
He stopped speaking, allowing his words to sink in as he sipped at his glass of water. “How, then, can we be sure that this energy exists? If we cannot see it or touch it, how can it exist?”
Precisely the argument a Solaran would use, Sam noted dryly.
Wescott pulled out his staff with a flourish.Sam screwed up his eyes, knowing it would do nothing. The jade tip burned brighter and brighter, searing at Sam’s Sight.
With a faint pop, the light stopped. Sam opened an eye a fraction.
Floating in the air in front of Wescott was a minute orb of soft white light. Around its edges, a rainbow danced in full bloom.
“This,” Wescott murmured, “is our proof.”
A polite smattering of applause echoed throughout the hall. Sam rolled his eyes. He hated clapping.
“Aether is, as I said, an untamed energy. In its raw form, it exists all around us, subtler than light. It is here, but not quite, exerting only a little of its full force on the world. The higher one goes in the world, the higher the density of Aether. The Godai Monks, incidentally, made a very informed choice when they chose to erect their monastery in the Honshitsu Mountains. But I am getting sidetracked.
“Out of humanity, there are only a small number of us with the Sight. The majority of those gathered here today have the gift. If you don’t, I admire your tenacity in making it this far. Unfortunately, however, there really is no hope for you. Best you go off now and get some Taint to spit in your eyes, and return promptly if you survived.”
Another wave of laughter rolled through the tiers.
“It is a commonly accepted theory that the Sight is required to work thaumaturgy. Whilst not strictly true, it is… recommended. The affinity your body has towards Aether is innate, if you are a Seer.”
As he finished this sentence, several of the students seated stood up and left. Sam noticed that they were the note-takers from earlier, their bags swung sullenly over their shoulders. He glanced down towards Wescott, who was watching the students leave with a pained look on his face. He turned back to the remaining students.
“You all have a gift. Don’t squander it. Now, enough of my philosophizing. What have we established so far?”
A lazy silence buzzed around the room. Wescott stood patiently, resting on the podium. Sam fiddled with his pencil, pointedly looking away from him.
“Well? How about you, Sam?”
Sam sighed. “We’ve established that the Aether exists, although to the average human it has no tangible qualities.”
“Correct,” he smiled.
“And we’ve also established that Aether is a raw energy.”
Wescott smiled wider. “Good,” he said cheerfully, dragging out the ‘o’ sound. “But what does all this actually mean to a thaumaturgist?”
Sam frowned. He wasn’t quite sure if the question was directed at him, or the class in general. He tilted his head slightly at Wescott. Wescott nodded slightly in response.
Months of studying deserted his mind in a flash. Sam sat blankly, trying desperately to sort through the silent cacophony of suggestions in his mind and shrugged at Wescott. His cheeks burned in embarrassment.
The professor took the hint. “Well? No one?”
Enraptured silence. For the first time since he began lecturing them, Wescott had the entire halls attention. His dark grey eyes burned bright. “Allow me to ask but one more question. Have any of you hear ever seen a thaumaturgist without a staff?”
A muttering of confused ‘no’s’ echoed throughout the seats.
“A response! Hurrah! Then I shall continue. Have any of you seen thaumaturgy performed without a staff?”
The negative reply was much more confident this time. At last, even the dullest of the class could see where Wescott was going.
“The reason for this is thus: humans do not have the power to manipulate the Aether with only their mind and body. We physically cannot shape power in this way.”
Wescott threw his staff into the air. His hand pulsed with dappled silver light that streamed between the staff and his hand. It ceased falling instantly and floated, shimmering in the light of the lanterns.
“Humans are but conduits of Aetheric energy. We can draw the flow of Aether out of the great sea and transmit it into a physical form. Without a way to shape it, however, this ability is nigh on useless.”
He tugged on the rope of light. The staff dragged through the air back into his hand. Then, with a flourish, he drew a simple pattern in the air. The shape he drew glowed and flickered, bouncing softly in mid-air.
“There are five things a thaumaturgist requires to work his art. One: Aether. The subtle light. Two: Himself. The living conduit. Three: His staff. The paintbrush of his work. Four: Thought. The comprehension of what he wishes to shape. And Five… Sigils. Like the one you see before you.”
Sam, no matter what Wescott said about note-taking, scribbled furiously in his book, scribing every word.
“These five things are the most important things I can teach you. Consider this a short summary-and an introduction to our new topic: Mysteries of Aether.”