Blake Charlton - Spellwright

“Yes, Magister,” Nicodemus said, remembering what the grand wizard had said about the sentinels watching him.

“Good.” Shannon released Nicodemus’s shoulder. “Given today’s news, no one will object to your teaching. The neophytes are all squeakers; not a one over thirteen. Your disability won’t interfere. The classroom is in Bolide Hall, third floor, western side. Outline the basic concepts of composition. After class, go to my quarters and get as much sleep as you can before the midday meal. I keep an hour bell and the passwords for my door in the classroom’s closet. Use both. You must be rested for our work this afternoon.”

Though the terrifying news had fully awakened Nicodemus, his eyes still stung with exhaustion. “Yes, Magister.”

“When you wake, eat your midday meal and find me.”

Nicodemus exhaled. He really was going to have to teach a class despite the day’s terrifying discoveries.

Shannon laughed softly. “I know it may seem impossible, but you must forget everything happening today and become lost in the lecture. If you enjoy the teaching, they’ll enjoy the learning. Are you nervous?”

Nicodemus admitted that he was, though “shocked and overwhelmed,” he said, “would be a better description.”

Shannon grinned. “Understandably so, but don’t let the students know or they’ll devour you like a pack of lycanthropes. If anything, you want to err on the side of being cavalier.” Shannon was famous for his emphatic lecture style.

Nicodemus decided to emulate his mentor’s style. That meant somehow bottling up his growing fears and hopes about the prophecy.

“Well then,” Shannon said with a nod. “Off with you, then, or you’ll be late.”

Nicodemus turned for the stairs.

“Oh, I just remembered,” Shannon called after him. “You should know that one boy raises a bit of trouble and…” The old wizard’s voice died.

Nicodemus stopped and looked back.

Shannon was frowning. “You should know this boy, he may be a cacographer.”

Nicodemus jogged through shafts of sunlight that poured in from rectangular windows. Outside the hallway shone a sky so blue it might have been enameled. The crisp autumn air smelled of smoke from the breakfast fires.

His first composition class and he was going to be late.

He tried to focus on the upcoming lecture but his mind wandered. The real world did not seem real. Northern sentinels were investigating him for murder. An inhuman killer was hunting him for reasons unknown. His lost hope of fulfilling the Erasmine Prophecy was returning. And in response…

… in response, he was going to teach introductory spellwriting to squeakers.

It all seemed insane.

Magister knew what he was doing, he told himself while turning a corner and dashing up a broad staircase. After all, he was the cacographic apprentice, Shannon the grand wizard. Clearly he should handle the thirteen-year-olds while the old man dealt with the truly fearful forces of zealous sentinels, academic factions, and inhuman murderers.

Just then he reached his classroom door and stepped inside. The room was orderly, square, filled with rows of desks. The walls were white, the arched windows wide.

However, the two dozen students dressed in neophyte robes were in chaos. The boys huddled around the windows. Some were yelling, apparently to another unsupervised class in the next tower over. Others were spitting out of the windows, undoubtedly trying to hit the sleeping gargoyles several floors below.

The girls had congregated on the opposite side of the room. Most sat at their desks, arguing or laughing. A few were playing a game that involved singing and clapping.

“Oh…” Nicodemus heard himself say, “… hell.”

The room fell silent. As one, two dozen childish faces turned toward him.

It was then that Nicodemus realized he had been wrong: Shannon was not dealing with the truly fearful. The terror that sentinels and murderers might induce-great though it might be-was nothing compared to the dread inspired by two dozen prepubescent students.

“You’re not Magister Shannon,” said a pale boy with a mop of brown hair.

Nicodemus most certainly wasn’t. The old man would have marched into the room, blustering with jokes and commands. He would have had the squeakers racing for their seats in anticipation.

“I’m Nicodemus Weal,” he announced with a confidence he did not feel. “Magister Shannon’s apprentice. I’ll be giving your first lecture on composition, so take your seats.”

Shockingly, the neophytes went to their desks. The boy with the brown hair raised his hand. When Nicodemus nodded, he asked, “Why don’t we have Magister Shannon? Where are all the wizards?”

Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Magister, like the other wizards, has been called to an important council.”

“Did he tell you the news from the North?” asked a tall girl with short black hair.

Nicodemus started to reply but then realized he did not know how much information he was supposed to share. He took in a breath and said, “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you.”

“Or maybe you don’t know,” the brown-haired boy said in a tone so earnest it-just barely-diffused his confrontational words.

“Maybe I don’t,” Nicodemus admitted. “But you bring up an excellent point: I didn’t say if I actually had heard the news; my phrase simply suggested I had.”

The boy frowned.

“That might seem trivial, but it’s a good place to start when talking about spellwriting. Why might that be?”

Silence. More frowns.

“Why would I choose words that make it sound as if I know more than I do? Why might I want to use such self-aggrandizing language?”

“Because you can’t be a teacher without it?” the brown-haired boy asked snidely.

Though flushed with embarrassment, Nicodemus laughed. A few other students were smiling.

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I was thinking more that such language encourages you to stop thinking about the news and start thinking about me, which would have helped focus you on the lecture material. Regardless, you must start thinking about such things now; if you are to become wizards, you must question how language is trying to manipulate you. What is it pushing you to assume? How is it distracting you?”

The boy raised his hand.

But this time Nicodemus grinned at him. “Put your hand down, lad. I’m not going to tell you if I actually did hear the news from the North. That was going to be your next question, wasn’t it?”

The boy nodded.

“Good lad. Persistence is spellwriting’s most important ingredient. What’s your name?”

“Derrick, Magister.”

Nicodemus widened his eyes. “Derrick Magister? You’re a wizard already?” A few of the students laughed.

The boy frowned. “I-”

Nicodemus put his hand to his mouth in mock surprise. “But you’re so young!” A few more students laughed.

“I meant you, Magister,” Derrick said in a tone heated enough that Nicodemus knew he should stop.

“Well, I’m flattered, Derrick. But as I mentioned, I’m only an apprentice.” He turned to the class. “This may be horrible for you, but today you’ll have to call someone over twenty by his first name!”

A few amused smiles.

“Let’s practice.” He pointed to the girl with short black hair. “Your name?”

“Ingrid.”

He pointed to himself. “My name?”

She opened her mouth but only blushed. Her neighbor leaned over, but Nicodemus rushed in. “No, no, you’re ruining the obnoxious-new-teacher effect.”

This won him a few more nervous laughs.

The smiling girl only grew redder.