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Qifrey had spent the night in the Argentgard before. People left him alone for the most part, for two reasons: His guardian was Beldaruit, and his entire aura radiated PISS OFF—a trait he relished and honed and wielded. So if he wanted to skive off, to mess around and drive Beldaruit up a wall without actually doing anything dangerous, he hid himself among the roots for a night or two.
So what?! he’d snap at his agitated guardian when he returned, glaring at him from the doorway. Why does it matter where I was? Why do you give a shit? I’m not hurting anyone, so why can’t you just leave me alone?
Not hurting anyone yet. He hadn’t found the ones he wanted to hurt. To really hurt…
Qifrey shifted under his enchanted tarpaulin, stifling a yawn, glaring through its opaque folds. The ocean pressed in, squeezing the high ceiling between undulating swells of midnight blue. It looked like it might be dawn. Who the hell knew down here. He’d shove off in a little while—head up to the surface—
“Hello?”
Qifrey froze. Someone was here. Someone had heard him, somehow, over the great rustling of a million leaves, over the cracking wood and bubbling fountains. He held still.
Whoever it was stepped nearer, crunching over foliage. The tip of their hat bobbed into view, a long, sleek, blue-and-white feather. Brand new, and unmistakable.
“...Alaira?”
The feather swung in his direction. “Who’s there?!”
Qifrey dragged himself up and yanked the tarp out of the branches, showering himself with twigs and leaves. It was Alaira (thankfully), standing alone between the tangle of roots and the shimmering water, one indignant hand spread over her heart.
“Geez, you scared the crap outta me!” she cried. “What are you doing here so early?!”
“I could ask you that,” he said, brushing debris off his trousers.
“Hm…fair enough.” Alaira hoisted a stack of papers into the air. “Got a mountain of paperwork to do—they don’t go easy on the interns. And it’s quiet down here.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Usually.”
He swept back his hair and affixed his hat. “I’m hardly noisy,” he said. “I’m leaving, anyway.”
He maneuvered over the roots and made to walk past her, but Alaira caught him by the shoulder in a grip distinctively hers, confident and gentle.
“Stick around,” she said. Her gray eyes were soft. “Till the morning rush dies down, at least. I could use the company.”
He shrugged off her hand. “...Fine.”
They sat down together on a thick, sturdy root, a comfortable distance between them. Alaira unfolded her lap desk, spread a form over it, and filled an ordinary quill with ink; and with a wink to Qifrey she began her banal task. She was always so nonchalant, so easygoing, and yet was always working, too. She worked harder than just about anyone Qifrey knew. He never counted himself; he would always be making up for lost time.
Qifrey suddenly felt empty—almost bereft. Here was Alaira, making strides and moving forward. He hated the envy he felt toward her. They’d all graduated at the same time, months ago now, and what did he have to show for it? Still harassing Beldaruit, still shadowing Olruggio, like a wayward child. He hadn’t taken a single step. He was stuck.
“...Alaira,” he said.
She kept writing. “Mhm?”
Qifrey grasped his hat’s ribbon and spread it over his knee. He smoothed one side, then flipped it and smoothed the other, over and over, over and over, indulging one of many nervous habits. Alaira didn’t press him; she knew him by now.
He flipped the ribbon; said, “...I’ve been thinking about the Fifth Test.”
“Oh, yeah?” Alaira said. “What about it?”
“Taking it.”
Flip. Flip. He heard Alaira’s pen fall still; felt Alaira’s eyes on him.
“You want to be a teacher?” she asked, her tone terribly neutral.
“Maybe.”
“Hm...”
Qifrey tensed. He pinched the ribbon, choked it between finger and thumb. He’d known this would be people’s reaction…
“What do you think?” he forced out. “Be honest. Is it nonsense? Perish the thought?”
Alaira snorted. “Did you just say ‘perish the thought?’ ”
Qifrey frowned. “So what?”
“I’ve only ever heard Lord Beldaruit say that,” she said, grinning. “You must’ve picked it up from him.”
“Shut up,” he grumbled, fighting his blush.
“Hee hee—I think it’s cute.”
“It’s awful.”
“The Sage is a great man,” said Alaira. “I’d be flattered to take after him. Have you asked him about it?”
Qifrey knit his fingers together. “Not yet.”
“What about Olruggio?”
Qifrey twisted his hands, knotting his fingers further. Answer the question! Why this damned interrogation?! “No, not…yet.” He huffed in frustration. “Because he’d…he’d jump all over it. He’d make me swear to take it…” His eye traced the ribbon from his knee down to his scuffed boots and the tangle of roots under his feet. “...I want to decide on my own. Before I tell him.”
“You’re right. He would.” Alaira lifted her own eyes from the ribbon. She splayed her fingers, balancing her quill between them, examining her nails. “And you should decide for yourself.”
“I know,” said Qifrey. “But I’d still like to know what you think.”
Alaira crossed her arms and swung to face him, waiting for him to make eye contact. When at last he did, she said matter-of-factly, “I think you’d make a great teacher.”
The blush he’d buried erupted to the surface before his mind caught up. A great teacher? She—she flattered him. She was simply lying. But her expression held no irony. But how could she possibly know that he’d—
“I’ve seen you around the Hall, helping out with the Sage’s new apprentices,” Alaira said, answering his choppy thoughts. “You’re patient with them. You seem like you enjoy it.”
Oh, yes—Beldaruit’s “open-air” study sessions, held smack in the middle of the busiest courtyards. Some recent experiment of his, something about exposing his apprentices to the “ever-flowing stream of culture,” about fostering socialization or some such rubbish. Alaira had spotted Qifrey with them there, no doubt—they were impossible to miss.
“They’re brainless, the lot of them!” Qifrey spat, red as a poisonous mountain apple and not fooling anyone. “They’d flunk out completely if I didn’t hold their hands through every page of their primers! They’re hopeless!”
He aimed a hard kick at a stone. It hit the lake with a flat sploosh. “Beldaruit certainly knows how to pick them, doesn’t he,” he hissed.
“You graduated,” said Alaira lightly, unphased by his rancor. “You’re your own witch. No one said you had to make their learning your problem.” She tapped the tip of his nose with her quill; he flinched, indignant, listening. “But you’ve gone and done it, anyway, haven’t you? All on your own.”
…He hadn’t thought of it in those terms.
“I suppose,” he murmured.
“Well, I mean what I say, Qifrey, whether or not you believe me,” said Alaira with a sigh, folding shut her lap desk, pocketing her quill. “I think if it’s something you really want, you should go for it. But either way—” She knocked a knee against his. “I support your decision.”
Qifrey flinched again at the contact. He knew these constant prods and nudges were Alaira’s way of saying she cared. She had many friends, and she caught them all in headlocks, pulling them under the umbrella of her affection. Qifrey was always as rigid and abrasive as one of the gnarled trees of the Argentgard, and yet Alaira had always made room for him, too.
He was very grateful for her.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, cradling the ribbon in his lap.
Alaira reached behind his right ear and pulled a twig out of his hair. She gave a playful salute with it. “Any time, Professor.”
Qifrey’s blush was permanent, it seemed. “Has that been there the whole time?!”
Alaira’s smile was cheeky and warm. “You bet.”
The house was empty when Qifrey returned. He doubted Beldaruit was looking for him yet; there was probably some business with the Council or some field trip with the apprentices. He hung his hat and cloak on the empty rack and collapsed into a sitting room chair. He’d wait.
The only sounds were the heavy, hypnotic swing of the grandfather clock and the gentle flicker of candle flames. It was wretchedly calm; it might’ve soothed him to sleep. But he was incorrigibly restless, and he hated naps—he always woke up in a panic. Before he could fall victim, Qifrey skulked down the cavernous hall to the library.
He flung an incendiary spell at the fireplace, throwing sudden light and steep shadows over towers upon towers of books. He inhaled, briefly taking them in—their smell, their weight, the worlds they contained. He’d read a great many of Beldaruit’s books, but today Qifrey sought the ones he knew that Beldaruit himself had written.
Beldaruit had penned a considerable oeuvre—books on magical theory, on teaching methods, on the history and reasoning behind the Pentacle of Proving. Up till lately, Qifrey figured he’d endured too many of his professor’s flowery lectures to possibly stomach additional material. Now, though...he at least ought to check.
There was a cabinet behind Beldaruit’s desk, a fine antique of polished wood; and in it every work of his was displayed. Qifrey tugged open the doors. The thin panes of glass trembled. He skimmed the corny titles: Drawing from the Heart, Spells to Edify and Inspire, No Rune Has Been Ruined, until he found the one he wanted. He eased it off its stand.
The Pursuit of Adventure: Reimagining the Pentacle of Proving
Introduction
Beloved Reader,
Consider that the relationship between a witch and their magic is akin to the bond of marriage. The signs represent their vows; the sigils, their traits and habits; and the ring, their eternal promise, breathing life into their bond, sealing their love with brilliant ceremony…
Qifrey cringed. Definitely Beldaruit. He rifled through the latter half of the book.
…The witch who would become a teacher must love magic before all else. For the love of magic not only inspires the witch to learn and pursue its infinite forms and expressions, but it also enables the witch to remember that perfect joy of learning—an act which in itself contains a special kind of magic. The Fifth Test, or “The Words of the Wise,” was designed with such a witch in mind…
Qifrey sat cross-legged on the rug, neck bent at a dreadful angle, and read by firelight for a long while.
Positive feelings—feelings of hope—rarely visited him. When they did, as now, they crept up his neck, filled his chest, nearly choked him. These passages, these descriptions…all of it articulated what had been swirling in his head and heart for months. Yes, he did love magic. He did want to make the world vibrant through others, to pour out all he’d learned and share it with whoever would listen. Qifrey’s hand leapt to his throat. Alaira was right. He took genuine pleasure in helping with the new apprentices. It was more than a pastime; it was a delight. It was…dare he think it—
It felt like it could be a passion.
Qifrey snapped the book shut and returned it to the cabinet. His neck twinged with pain; he rubbed it absently. He wished Beldaruit would come back, already. He wanted to talk to him right away…
Qifrey blinked and noticed what his eye had settled on: On the cabinet’s lowest shelf, pushed to the very back, lay a discreet stack of journals. Had he not been kneeling, he wouldn’t have spotted them. Curious, he slid the topmost journal from the pile. It was of faded blue leather; its cover was blank. Qifrey undid the knot of twine.
Beldaruit’s loopy, gratuitous handwriting lilted across every page, as flamboyant and intentional as ever. Every entry was dutifully dated. Some entries bore scribbled glyphs or spell notes. Hardly a trove of clandestine love letters; they appeared to be research notes of some kind.
11 May
I’ve not had much success with introducing the elemental signs. While they are no more complex than the letters and symbols of our alphabet, the boy resists committing them to memory. He watches as I draw them, seemingly with keen interest; and yet when I pass him the wand and parchment, he refuses to draw. I will ponder what might be the trouble…
Something began tugging at Qifrey’s insides. He swept to another entry.
18 June
There is little indication that the boy derives any joy from magic. I will continue to teach him, at the very least to try, and share my findings as they become clear to me; but for now, I fear it is rather hopeless. If I have made an awful blunder, my only prayer is for the boy to remain ignorant of it…
Another.
8 July
Happy news! Qifrey has announced the advent of his first friendship, struck up with a young apprentice called Olruggio. He has seemingly come alive—he wishes with frenetic fervor to spend more time with the boy. I shall observe his progression, making careful notation—
Qifrey’s hands shook. His vision muddied. Was he damned…was he damned to be a fucking test subject—no matter where he—
Rage ripped through him and he tore fistfuls of pages from the journal and kicked piles of them into the fire. He slashed a violent spell into his quire and the glass doors of the cabinet exploded, shards cutting him, littering Beldaruit’s desk, flying everywhere. He seized every book and threw it to the ground and crushed it under his feet, and he left the library, left the house, left the Hall, and he never—
He never wanted to think about magic ever again.
After several ravaged hours, Qifrey used magic to start a fire. His wild roving had led him to a familiar spot; he’d never be rid of himself and his sentimental habits. It was rare, though, for him to be here alone.
He ground his palms into the rough stone floor of the small cave, more like an enclave than anything. The pain helped him focus, permitted him to breathe. The setting sun slanted through the entrance, falling in slats along the walls, bars of rich red and gold. A brisk gust of wind animated the flames. Birds called and sang to one another as they roosted. There were no birds under the sea…there were no songs.
Perhaps he was hiding. Perhaps he felt bad. He may have overreacted. He ought to go back, to salvage, to repair what he’d broken…
He rested his head on his knees. What a coward he was. What good came of salvaging things that were really too far gone? Why bother endeavoring to repair what was beyond broken, what was mangled and burned and tread upon—all that careful work for such a flawed, hideous, limping thing, for a failing half-life?
It made so much more sense to cast it out and start over.
The new apprentices were a little vapid, but they meant well. They were more than capable. They had all the makings of good witches; they only needed to stay the course. Beldaruit could start over with them. ‘I fear it is rather hopeless’…perhaps he already had.
A tear stung the cuts on the back of Qifrey’s hand.
“Everybody’s lookin’ for you.”
Qifrey jumped.
Olruggio leaned against the cave wall, arms loosely crossed, a shimmering silhouette against the red sky. His shoulders looked so broad. In the wake of Qifrey’s overnight explosion, Olruggio’s growth spurt still lumbered along, slow but sure.
Qifrey disguised wiping his eye with an adjustment of his glasses. He disguised a sniffle with a scoff. “By everyone, you mean…”
“Lord Beldaruit called me,” said Olruggio, stepping into the cave. He was frowning at Qifrey with weary bemusement. “All out of sorts. Asked me to ‘fetch’ you.”
Qifrey’s eye narrowed. “Like his dog ran away.”
“He seemed worried.” Olruggio inspected the dirt, brushed the ground with his toe, and sat down on the other side of the fire. “He can wait, though. You can stay at my place if you want.”
Qifrey made a disgruntled noise. Of course he wanted that. But for how much longer could he bear to dump his problems onto Olruggio? Hiding in a different spot was still hiding.
“You guys get into it again?” Olruggio asked, rubbing his nose, working to keep his tone casual. But unlike Alaira, Olruggio was ever hounded by anxiety and was dreadful at concealing it. Qifrey was responsible for no small part of that; he grimaced, shaking his head.
“I wrecked his library,” he admitted in a very low voice.
“Why?”
Qifrey shrugged. He wasn’t sure he could admit more.
Olruggio watched him for a minute. Then he sighed, pulling off his hat and setting it in his lap. From its point hung Qifrey’s old tassel, faded and frayed. Qifrey felt the urge to hold onto his ribbon, and he reached up for it, but with a sinking stomach he realized he’d left his hat behind. His fingers curled, quivering, over his collarbone.
“Olly, do you—” He cleared his throat. “Do you—are you happy you’re a witch?”
Olruggio peered at him through his too-long hair, immediately skeptical. “...Yeah," he said. " ’Course I’m happy. We can share our magic with the world now…” Instinctively his eyes fell on the fire. “Make our own way with it.”
“Can we?” muttered Qifrey.
“Qifrey,” said Olruggio, approaching aggravation. “What happened that’s got you worked up like this?”
Qifrey’s face tightened—damnable tears. What hadn’t happened? What could possibly keep this ocean of bitter, abject hopelessness at bay?
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
A rustle of fabric, and all of a sudden Qifrey felt Olruggio beside him, leaning into him, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. He stared at his friend, who only glanced back before returning his gaze to the fire, not pressuring him with eye contact. The cave, heavy with smoky twilight, was abruptly too warm.
“Well,” said Olruggio, laying an open palm upon Qifrey’s knee. “Wanna know the way I see it?”
Qifrey’s heart swelled. He nodded once, crookedly—all he could manage.
“Lord Bel can prob’ly fix whatever you broke,” Olruggio went on. “He won’t be mad, I don’t think. If you just talk to ’im about it.” He tilted his head, resting it feather-light on Qifrey’s wiry shoulder. “That’s all he wants.”
That’s all Beldaruit wants?
“Qifrey, you know…whatever it is…” Olruggio’s small smile was a bit desperate, a bit wry, framed by firelight. “I got your back. Okay?”
Qifrey had never, would never deserve Olruggio. He closed his eye too late, for another tear escaped. He tilted his head and found Olly’s hand, threading their fingers, squeezing them tightly.
“Yeah.”
Night had fallen, although the ocean floor knew no practical difference, and the windows of Beldaruit’s chambers glowed. Qifrey was the only apprentice (former now) who lived here. The others stayed in dormitories. An image of the wrecked library lurched through his mind; why he was the only one was not hard to discern. He swallowed the latest surge of guilt and let himself in.
Beldaruit’s usual spot in the foyer, from whence he’d spring and accost Qifrey with Where were you’s and How many times have I told you’s, was vacant. So were his other haunts: the end of the long dining table, the corner of the sitting room. Qifrey risked a peek around the library door; it was dark. He couldn’t tell if the mess was still there. He hovered in the hallway, wringing his hands, wondering where to look. Perhaps…He backtracked, slipping down an obscure corridor.
Beldaruit’s windowway hummed with active magic. He’d left the settings in place. And Qifrey could see him through the open portal, could see the back of his chair and the loose strands of his cascading hair catching the moonlight, the wind. Fragrant flowers unfurled all around him. He was on the surface, in his midnight garden.
Qifrey had come to the garden before; it was a place he loved but rarely asked to visit. It was private; it was fragile; it was Beldaruit’s escape, not his. What had brought Beldaruit here tonight, of all nights, to a place of such exceptional peace? Surely he was still angry and upset?
Qifrey stepped over the threshold and crept down the wide stone path, flanked on either side by gentle lanterns. He stopped a careful distance from his teacher, hesitating. Hiding.
“It’s a lovely night,” said Beldaruit without turning around. “Won’t you sit with me?”
Qifrey held his breath. He pushed back a low-hanging branch, dodged the spider it dislodged, and started forward.
Beldaruit sat beside a wrought-iron table and chair in the center of the courtyard, and he dipped his head in greeting as Qifrey pulled the chair out. His expression was contained, inscrutable. Qifrey immediately squirmed in his seat. Where to start? How to start?
“...Beldaruit—”
But Beldaruit held up a hand. “May we sit in silence for a little while?”
Qifrey grit his teeth, embarrassed, confused. “I…I guess.”
“Thank you.”
Vivid white blooms ensconced them—jasmine and orchids, moonflowers and primroses. Moths and gnats whizzed back and forth; crickets and frogs sang their unabashed, eternal choruses. It was chilly, but not cold. The lantern lights were mild. They weren’t painful for Qifrey to look at.
Maybe Beldaruit knew that.
Qifrey turned to Beldaruit, who was already watching him, smiling sadly.
“Although it is no excuse,” said Beldaruit, “I abandoned that research several years ago. I’ve held onto it for no good reason…” He reached a pale hand toward a fluttering moth, coaxing it back from the lamp on the table between them. “I am glad it was destroyed. I…” He released a quiet sigh. “I am sorry.”
Qifrey fixated on the moth. Its powdery wings were already singed. It would not be dissuaded from danger.
“You may refrain from answering, of course, but…” Beldaruit withdrew his hand, resting it under his chin. “...I am curious as to which of my books you were searching for.”
The moth yet teased the lantern. Qifrey stared at it. It teased and flitted, teased and flitted—then it made a sudden dive for the fire, and Qifrey hastened to deflect it, plunging his own hand into the flame.
“Ow! Dammit…”
Beldaruit gasped. “Are you alright?”
“The one about the tests,” said Qifrey, wincing and shaking out his hand, searching his pack for his quire. “Y’know. ‘The Adventure Reimagined’ or something—that one.”
“The Pursuit of Adventure,” murmured Beldaruit, leaning in, plainly surprised and pleased that Qifrey was sharing this with him.
Qifrey set his palm over his quire and closed the ring of the soothing spell. Cool water rippled over the burn, instantly easing the pain. He always prepped a bunch of these; you never knew with Olruggio around. He flexed his fingers. You see, Olly? I’m talking about it.
“Yeah, that one. What you wrote about the Fifth Test,” Qifrey said. “...It was good. I thought.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Beldaruit’s hand fell over his heart; his eyes welled with gratitude. All of this because of one half-assed compliment—god, he was embarrassing. But there was no one here except the two of them. Qifrey was sheepish for another reason. He shut his quire and turned it over and over in his hands, a ceaseless, jerky motion.
“If…” He tried to keep looking at Beldaruit. “If…just…ugh!”
He groaned aloud at himself. Beldaruit only listened, waited.
“Say if I wanted to take it,” said Qifrey, the words tumbling out of him as he pushed them one by one, “Just say I wanted to, I don’t know yet. But if I took it—could I take it? Since you came up with it—or revised it, or whatever—and I wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed—”
“Oh, dear boy,” cried Beldaruit, reaching across the table, grasping Qifrey’s hands. “Of course! Of course you can!” He shook his head, quickly amending, “Of course you could. There are alternative tests, designed by others for those with close connections to the creators. Ah—”
Beldaruit raised his head and gazed at the stars in wonder. When he looked back at Qifrey, his smile radiated warmth.
“Let me know when you decide, and I shall set things in motion at once,” he said. “A way will be made for you, Qifrey. You are more than welcome to forge such a path.”
Qifrey nodded, blinking back another tear. What the hell. He’d been so emotional today.
“Sorry,” he said. “About your books.”
“No trouble, no trouble,” said Beldaruit, waving him off, still smiling. “Have you eaten today? You ought to go in. There’s a helping of supper left over for you, in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” said Qifrey. He hadn’t noticed, but no, he hadn’t eaten—he felt his hunger rise up all at once. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” said Beldaruit. “Go on ahead.”
“Alright.”
Qifrey rose, pushing in his chair, and found his way back through the garden to the windowway. From behind, he caught snippets of Beldaruit's voice as he talked to himself:
“Qifrey, a teacher…a teacher, with students! Who would ever have dreamed…had I been told this in his youth, I’d never have believed it—perish the thought! My Qifrey…”
A-ha…Alaira was always right! And despite his hunger, Qifrey needed to pay a visit first. He’d sleep on it before he confirmed with Beldaruit, but he needn’t wait to tell Olruggio. This was something he could tell Olruggio. Something he wanted Olruggio to know, more than anyone else.
Qifrey couldn’t keep the bewildered smile from his face, and he knew—he could picture it now as he slid on his hat, tossing the ribbon over his shoulder—that Olly’s answering smile, wide and weird and wonderful, would illuminate the whole world.
END