Chương 6: One could almost hear the rewriting of academic treatises in real time

Severa's robes scintillated with thousands of minuscule interwoven wardthreads as she ambled up the dais. She bowed before the floating Eidralith with exacting reverence before commencing the Invocation of Concordance. Unlike battle spells, Eidralith invocations weren't meant to do anything practical. They existed to demonstrate perfect alignment. They even made sounds! Which were, by the way, completely unnecessary and impractical in battle.

There were three elements to a Thaumaturgic spell: timing, intent (including emotions and mnemonics), and innate resonance. Headmaster Draeth had explicitly commended Severa on how her innate resonance was the best he'd seen in a long time, which basically meant she was born to be good at magic. All that was left was to nail the performance. And she was doing so, flawlessly. Her first spell, a golden luminance tracing the mnemonic 'That which burns remembers its shape,' unbarred with perfect symmetry.

Her second spell, Spiral of Veneration, mirrored the Second Moon's ancient orbit. The damn moon. Of course, anything celestial had to be a 'high-level spell,' carefully choreographed, emotionally attuned, and ritualistically perfect. This… this is the essence of magic? Aether streamed from Severa in trailing bands that tailed the sweep of her hands, layered in gold so finely interwoven they looked like a single sheet of luminous fabric.

Then gold bled into indigo, indigo fractured into blue, then violet, cobalt, and a razor-edged line of argent that cut clean through the rest. Soon, prismatic sheets of aether braided over one another like spinning silk veils. Severa stood at the center of it all, unhurried. Her movements were so precise that the excess resolved into elegance. Fabrisse squinted. There were… a lot of colors. Too many, actually. The gold was too bright and the indigo was too saturated. Everyone else looked transported.

Fabrisse only saw color. This was the beauty of magic? Color and motion and light doing very impressive things while accomplishing absolutely nothing he could quantify. The resonance was clean, the containment elegant. But… to what end? Did it store power, sustain a field, anchor a construct? Could you siphon it into a luminite core and run a bank of glowlamps for a week? Could it reinforce a ward or stabilize a bridge span? Everyone stared at Severa's perfect performance. Yet…

Despite some of the most beautiful spellwork Fabrisse had ever seen, the box didn't open. A ridiculously low subharmonic tone vibrated through the sanctum, enough to send a few banners swaying. Everyone else waited, and waited. Nothing else happened. Severa's poise of victory gave way to something just barely short of disbelief. Archmagus Draeth's expression didn't change. Neither did Rubin's. Draeth waved Severa off, and she retreated with her head down, before seemingly realizing she needed to keep her chin up.

Rubin stepped forward and offered her a ceremonial clasp of forearms.

"You have brought honor to the Synod," she said, just loud enough for the entire chamber to hear. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"The Eidralith has responded," Draeth's voice was heavy with gravitas.

"Enough to confirm that its slumber has ended." He lifted his chin.

"Not since Thaumarch Iriadel of the Ninth Flame—two full spans ago—has the Eidralith acknowledged any entreaty. And now, after forty-seven years of silence, it has answered." A murmur rippled through the congregation. One could almost hear the rewriting of academic treatises in real time. A few of the elder magi nodded, as if this partial resonance were exactly what they'd predicted all along. Maybe beautiful wasn't the answer. The spells were too clean.

Natural pyrite shouldn't have formed at that size without catastrophic internal strain. Yet the fractures hadn't propagated. Something inside the artifact was arresting them. If its structure relied on restrained instability, flawless spellcasting alone might never wake it. Maybe it needed something rougher, like a wild spell; a spell with no rigid casting sequencing. However, that was never accounted for in a trial like this. Draeth's voice rang out once more, regal and absolute.

"Let all those of high distinction and rank among their peers come forward. Let them, too, be granted a trial, if the Eidralith sees fit to acknowledge more than one." Severa bowed once more, gliding to the side of the dais like a queen graciously allowing others to try her crown. There were more in line, of course. Each of the Branches had sent their best. And each, in turn, had entrusted a pupil to the Synod—the sacred academy charged with preparing them for resonance. Now, they would be tested.

A third name was called. Then a fourth. Then countless. The Eidralith, ever unimpressed, continued its cosmic silence. Fabrisse stopped paying attention. The answers clearly weren' t on the dais anymore. Draeth, unshaken, stepped forward.

"The Eidralith has chosen. Let us proceed to the next phase of—" This was, of course, the part of the ritual where incense would be lit anew, the votive glyphs recharged, and the irrelevant bystanders escorted out of the sanctum. The Eidralith stirred. A minute tremor passed through its geometric spine, like a key testing unfamiliar teeth in a lock. He stared, fascinated. The core of that artifact definitely had some pyrite-like qualities. It wasn't inert. It was stable under pressure and chaotic under intrusion.

If he could have just a second to tinker with it, to look at cleavage planes, stress seams, microscopic faults, maybe he could find something special within that big rock. But this was a thaumaturgic artifact. It would never be his. There was a very small chance something with properties like that could react unpredictably to unsanctioned disturbances. All the more reasons for him to retrieve his rogue Stupenstone and get out of the sanctum.

He'd already imagined what he would say to Cakil, how he'd word his quiet withdrawal from the Synod—and, with far less precision, how he'd eventually disappoint his Mother. His eyes once again found the warty piece of Stupenstone nestled awkwardly between the ridged tiles and the obsidian pedestal. He glanced around. No one was looking at him now. All eyes were on Draeth, who had turned toward the altar's far side to summon the attendants for the rite's transition. This is my chance. Fabrisse inhaled.

And executed the ancient, forbidden technique known only to a select, desperate few. The Scoot of Dire Retrieval. He ducked behind a column, did a shuffle, then finally, after a silent forward crawl, timed with the sway of incense smoke and murmurs of the magi, his palm landed on the stone. His worst-looking Stupenstone, so ugly it brought a tear to his eyes. A thrum shook the rafters. The Eidralith smoldered like a white fireball, then screamed.

Aether chains that had not so much as quivered in forty-seven years snapped loose. The velvet coverings were flung back. Compatible Artifact Connected A few of the bystanders joined in on the screaming. Rolen ducked behind his podium. Artifact Link Confirmed Fabrisse gasped, "Oh no, my rock—" The ancient reliquary lurched from its pedestal. Gasps erupted. Then it flew straight at Fabrisse.