Irina Syromyatnikova - My Path to Magic

‘You’re probably wondering why I left home to come here.’

What if she got offended? I spent just three days at home before leaving for the island. It was worth it to add a bit of candor: ‘Joe’s new hobby caught me by surprise.’

It was a gross understatement!

‘Please get me right, I do not want to limit his self-expression. I just need time to prepare for it mentally.’

And physically, if the dark Source could be considered a physical phenomenon.

‘I am sure that by the end of the expedition I will be able to control myself sufficiently.’

…And to control my power too. At least, Uncle Gordon was confident about it.

‘I guess I should have warned you in advance about my coming back.’

Unfortunately, some things you understand only in hindsight. It was good that I hadn’t asked them for money via telegram! My mother would have sold everything and left my little bro and sis without their sweets. How would their older brother look in that case?

Deciding that my duty was fulfilled, I signed the letter and went to look for Mrs. Clements; Mr. Smith was not in the right mood to play the role of a mailman. The rest was simple: in the mailbox there was a whole pack of letters with Alex’s neat handwriting. The white mage had probably written to all of his acquaintances whose addresses he was able to recall. I added my modest contribution to his titanic work and lightheartedly went to poke around in the dump.

Meanwhile, the war between the mages was flaring up. In the evening Uncle had attempted to recruit me into his army but was sent to hell. In the morning Mr. Smith went to the beach with us and, instead of training, we were forced to actually swim. During the day Uncle had caught students in an attempt to get into the basement of the watertower, and for a while criticized Mr. Smith for not watching them properly. In the evening—at midnight—the security expert showed up to verify the integrity of the protective spells on our window. With his own lamp.

The nerves of the audience broke down first.

“Why are they doing this?” Alex asked plaintively. The white mage still shared our room; he was in no hurry to leave us.

I sighed heavily: “They are the dark.”

“You are a dark as well, yet you do not behave like them!”

“I am not just dark, I’m… smart.” When I talked about myself, I didn’t sell myself short in front of the audience.

What sense did it make to turn this into a circus, confirming the scandalous reputation of the dark magicians? I’m not talking about how much worse it made things, but those two removed any room for maneuvering, clashing head-to-head like a pair of mules. Now they were left with no other way to solve the conflict but banal fisticuffs; the question was just how soon they would overcome the aversion to violence diligently drummed into every magician’s head. I made a bet on Mr. Smith: he was a military guy, they were taught differently, and he could give Uncle a decent head start both in physical shape and in magic power. So far, they both still remembered that fighting was not good, and that kept them angry and others anxious.

The return of the ship calmed the brawlers down for some time but did not solve the dilemma—someone’s blood had to be spilled. I waited with interest; I had never seen a fight between adults, let alone between initiated magicians. Would they risk using magic? And what would the island’s response to it be? I’d better prep the lifeboat, just in case…

And then came the day that promised to be “the one”. Noticing the signs, I quietly took Alex aside and asked him not to talk with Uncle, not even to say hello. Actually, there was no need to alert people. Uncle disappeared in the morning, and at lunch both magicians looked so spiteful that even the meanest of the students, Pierre, did not dare to screw around. During the day, Uncle Gordon was digging furiously, muttering something inaudibly (he was probably counting the offenses he had incurred), and Mr. Smith was milling around the shore looking dispassionately at the sea (probably doing the same thing as Uncle Gordon, but silently). For the final collision they had to be brought closer. Alex wanted me to help them, right?

Seizing the moment when Mrs. Clements called Mr. Smith over to inspect some findings, I dropped my basket next to them as if by chance and asked, as though making small talk: “If we find any bones, will we be able to figure out what had killed their owners?”

“No,” Mr. Smith muttered over his shoulder.

Uncle’s snort was deafening: “They can’t do anything now, but in my time this could be done very easily.”

“How?” I took a lively interest in it, since I didn’t know the answer.

“Raising the dead and asking who had killed him and why! There is no such thing as an unmarked grave in Krauhard.”

“Shut your maw!” Mr. Smith snapped at once. “Are you going to teach necromancy to a child, you old fart?!” And addressing me, he shouted, “Don’t you dare even to think about it, it’s illegal!”

The old magician broke into a cheeky grin: “Excuse me, I forgot! The capital fools had invented rules for themselves in their infinite wisdom, and now they are all like a bunch of castrates—understand everything, can do nothing.”

Mr. Smith tried to pull himself together: “One more word, and you will continue your speech in front of your watch officer at NZAMIPS.”

The threat did not even faze Uncle: “Naturally, you know them so closely—same office, tea breaks together! It’s true what I was told: the dark cannot serve in NZAMIPS. Their brain leaks out of their ass in the course of their duties.”

Mrs. Clements, who listened to the squabble perplexedly, did not understand Uncle’s attitude toward his superior. She was outraged, “Watch your tone!”

I sighed in frustration—she could have been the last straw. Why was she trying to get into the middle of this?

“Let them bark at each other, Mrs. Clements! This is a kind of dark magic sport. As they say, being fools is in the darks’ nature.”

The lady crocodile seemed to understand what I was talking about. She snorted disdainfully and walked away, sashaying her hips. Mr. Smith coughed in embarrassment, glanced at me gloomily, and hurried after her.

As soon as he had passed out of sight, Uncle also started coughing, “You know you shouldn’t treat magicians like that!”

“What have I done?” I was genuinely surprised.

“That… You know.”

Damn it! Both were mature, initiated magicians: what could I tell them about dark magic that they would not know already?

After the incident, the conflict sharply died down, as if a bucket of water was dumped on brawling cats. I did not know whether it was the role my words had played, or Mrs. Clements had managed to cool down her subordinates’ souls, but common sense unexpectedly prevailed over magic. They began treating each other in a formal manner (“Mr. Ferro”, “Mr. Smith”), speaking in a jaw-twisting literary style. I sighed furtively; other members of the expedition stayed quiet. Yes, that’s what happens when the number of dark magicians per square meter goes overboard. Will I grow up the same? How sad that would be.

After a week of digging in the dump, we found a variety of items, but they were all related to the period of the prison’s construction and didn’t have any historical value. Talk started that there were no sand gnats on the island or they were apparently not associated with Capetower. Mrs. Clements categorically disagreed with that view.

“We need to expand the boundaries of the excavation,” her eyes burned with fanaticism. “The commission’s report talks about ruins five kilometers to the south. There we will surely find something!”