Chapter 163: Refinement of the Nine Heavens

Chapter 163: Refinement of the Nine Heavens

Sebastien

Month 4, Day 7, Wednesday 7:00 p.m.

When Sebastien grew frustrated at her continued failure with both the journal and light-refinement, she turned her attention to one of the other esoteric spells she’d memorized. Turning the tip of her finger into a burning coal wasn’t something she could practice, but learning to leave an invisible tracking mark on something was possible.

This spell had attracted her because the items she placed her mark on couldn’t be used to track back to her unless she was actively opening up the connection to them. After her recent enlightenment, she knew that this said some interesting things about how the spell actually worked. It was like whatever sympathetic link she created had to be activated to appear, rather than existing continuously.

The process that would allow her to create these beacons actually wasn’t that difficult, as far as the magic went, but it had very specific ritualistic requirements that would extend over almost two months. It also required her to create a personalized symbol that wasn’t in use anywhere else, and a self-descriptive chant to go along with said symbol. The text she had memorized had mentioned something about being as dramatic as possible while remaining accurate, as specificity and uniqueness made the ritual more likely to “take.”

And, supposedly, if it worked well enough, one could further modify the beacon with additional functions, though the author hadn’t known more, as his own attempt hadn’t met that vague criteria.

Sebastien designed a personalized symbol easily enough, a few angled lines that evoked both wings in flight and blades. It reminded her of the Raven Queen persona, all freedom and a hint of violence, and was also a reference to the blade of enlightenment, which forever cut through to the truth.

She grinned at the idea of painting the tag on walls and claiming territory, just as the other gangs in the city did. Not that she would ever do such a thing—too much hassle to maintain, and just another way to make the Crowns hate her even more. After checking her glyph lexicon just to be sure she couldn’t possibly be copying some other widely used shape, she set that part aside.

The chant was harder. It had four parts, meant to describe the “self,” the “other,” the “fate,” and the “summons.” Perhaps there had been more description or guidance somewhere in the archive, but if so she had not seen it, nor had she memorized it.

Everything Sebastien came up with, she loathed. She was trying to be dramatic while remaining accurate, but the pseudo-poetry was so bad as to be embarrassing. Her whole face flushed with shame merely imagining reciting any of it aloud. As a preemptive safety measure, she made sure to burn all the paper she had scribbled verses on, just to make absolutely sure no one would ever read it.

As Sebastien guarded the fireplace while every last bit of paper turned to ash, she realized, ‘There must be an easier way.’ And as soon as she had the thought, she remembered that there was a potion some diviners would take to allow them to write without conscious thought. Autography, she thought it was called. How the divination from there actually worked, she didn’t care, and didn’t need to know, as long as the potion that helped disconnect the hands from conscious thought didn’t cause violent nausea, hallucinations, or the other common side effects of divination aids.

Surely, anything she wrote under its effects couldn’t be as bad as the self-flagellation she’d just put herself through.Read latest chapters at nov(e)lbin.com Only

Early in the morning on Thursday, one day before Operation Palimpsest would officially kick off, Sebastien took a hot shower to loosen her sore muscles and aching joints, and then headed out to the Menagerie to meet the sun as it rose.

There was a nice clearing a few minutes in that was sheltered from the sight of the rare person who might walk by, and well away from the areas that students taking the off-term entrance examinations were allowed to wander. Sebastien did not want an audience to her sweaty, trembling failure.

With the study and practice that had taken up so much of her time over the remainder of the Sowing Break, Sebastien had come to understand the goal of the spell a little better. It was not simply a strange song and dance.

Her core, somewhere around her navel, was the center of a Circle—or rather, a sphere—and she was drawing a complex, three-dimensional numerological symbol in the air using her hands and feet. The symbol, and thus the movements, started out relatively simple, but as she continued through the process both became increasingly detailed. The spell’s requirements for precision were exact. There were even instructions about matching her breaths to the movements, how long each were supposed to take, along with the chant of tonal sounds that accompanied certain movements. ‘More than a song, it’s like using my voice as a wind instrument.’

Exploring this kind of magic, so different than the modern sorcery she was most familiar with, should have been fascinating. And it was. But most of all, it was incredibly grueling.

She had never realized how badly balanced she was all of the time, until the tiny auxiliary muscles used to draw the symbol for this spell were so sore they cried out at any activation. This also introduced her to all the muscles she hadn’t even known she had.

Luckily, the movements themselves seemed designed to warm and stretch her, so despite the pain caused by multiple hours a day of intense effort, she believed she was in no danger of injuring herself. She wanted to try the spell at sunrise, mid-afternoon, and sunset, as there had been some vague mention about different relationships with the different “heavens.” It was possible that the third sequence would be easier at a certain time of day, or even a certain time of year.

The air was nippy, but not enough for her breath to fog, and the last patches of snow were beginning to melt from their shadowed places. Spring had come, and the whole world knew it, from the birds to the earthworms to the shoots of grass.

‘But I succeeded!’ she reminded herself, smiling brightly even as she struggled to maintain her balance on the slight angles of the cobblestone path. The aftereffects of the light refinement lingered with her, an invisible glow in her mind.

After a visit to the very judgmental and exasperated healers at the infirmary, Sebastien took a long shower, then rubbed herself down with a salve specifically meant to soothe sore muscles and dressed presentably. The Retreat at Willowdale had sent a favorable response to her overture, and whoever had written the reply even seemed to know of Sebastien—though only through her connection to Thaddeus Lacer.

They had invited her to visit in the afternoon. Sebastien splurged on a carriage with actual shock-absorbers, and then cast her own cushioning spell on a piece of seaweed paper she placed over the seat. These efforts made the ride nearly bearable, but every bump and divot in the road out of Gilbratha still seemed to punch her in some tenderized muscle or another. The muscle-soothing salve either wasn’t strong enough, or it was already wearing off.

Sebastien refrained from whimpering only out of consideration that, with the relative quiet of the countryside, the driver might be able to hear her. She alternated tiny sips of one of her regeneration potions with a nourishing draught that would provide her body the extra nutrients it needed, and the mild pain-relieving potion the healers had given her.

When they arrived, Sebastien crawled out into the circular, cobbled-stone driveway of an enormous estate. The building in front of her would have been a sizable manor house on its own, but it seemed another hulking beast of a facility had been added on. Multiple stories high, the rectangular wings stretched out to either side and some undefined distance toward the back. Altogether, the Retreat reminded her of a turtle that had laid morosely on the ground, a small head sticking out at the front as its hulking mass succumbed to gravity.

The caretaker in charge of meeting her was a woman in her twenties, quite cheerful and enthusiastic as she led Sebastien inside and got her checked in as a visitor. She was an obvious contrast to many of the other employees Sebastien saw, who were in various states of visible fatigue. They seemed unhappy, and even those who smiled seemed strained or wan. ‘Or, perhaps, it’s apathy brought on by extended periods of stress,’ Sebastien mused, watching as one of the patients in a common area threw up, and the nearest caretaker moved to clean the mess without a single word or twitch of expression.

“Most of our volunteers will read to the patients, though sometimes they bring other experiences, like music or art projects. Sometimes, we even have a thaumaturge who performs magic tricks for them! Of course, some of the patients can be frightened of magic, but many of them retain their original delight in such things.”

“How many people do you keep here?” Sebastien asked as they passed hallway after hallway, moving deeper toward the center of the huge building.

“Oh, some two or three thousand people, long-term, perhaps? We always have a good few dozen or more people temporarily admitted. I’m not sure of the exact numbers, but it does add up. We’re the best treatment center for a hundred miles around, and everyone who can afford it wants the best for their family members.”

“And people who get severe Will-strain that never recovers just...live here for the remainder of their lives?”

“We don’t only treat victims of Will-strain. Insanity and other mental illnesses or abnormalities come in a lot of different forms and from different sources. But yes. The University sponsors treatment for some of its former students, and donations from generous businesses, families, and individuals cover room and board for many other unfortunates who don’t have someone to pay their way. And, of course, those families who can afford it have their relatives hosted on the upper floors. Very nice, premium service.” The woman made an “okay” sign with her fingers and winked at Sebastien.

“Grandmaster Thaddeus Lacer, my mentor, told me that the survivors from the latest expedition to the Black Wastes were sent here,” Sebastien said.

“Oh yes, it’s very sad,” the woman said, nodding happily. “They were so brave, and if the rumors are to be believed, they actually found Myrddin’s hermitage! It’s too bad most of them won’t be able to appreciate the fruits of their endeavor. Totally scrambled, if you know what I mean. Can’t even talk coherently. Only one of them is showing any signs of recovery.”

“Oh? Do you think it would be possible for me to meet him?” Sebastien hoped she sounded perfectly normal, at most star-struck but definitely not as if she were hiding nefarious intentions. “Grandmaster Lacer told me he almost went on that expedition. They would have been teammates.”

“I’m afraid not, Deary. He’s with the rest in the severe trauma ward.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the rightmost wing. “That’s not open to the public, except for direct family members, for the safety of both the patients and the visitors. Sometimes they have ‘episodes’ of confusion, and can get violent.” The woman looked both ways, leaned closer, and murmured, “Sometimes they even try to cast magic.”

Sebastien was disappointed, but not overly surprised. Her plans never seemed to work out so smoothly, with so little effort. ‘If he’s recovering, perhaps I can wait until he’s moved into the general population, or even released entirely.’ But leaving things up to chance and time like that made her apprehensive. He was her only direct source of information, the only one who could reveal what Oliver may or may not have done, and if something were to happen to this man...

Sebastien managed to volunteer to interact with the patients in the common room closest to the severe trauma ward, hoping to gather information about how the Retreat’s systems worked and what might be needed to bypass their security.

She decided to read to the patients, and with the employees’ permission, set up an illusion spell array to illustrate the contents of the story with people and backgrounds made of simple shapes and colors. Extra practice with magic was always welcome. Splitting her concentration between reading as dramatically as possible, with different voices for each of the characters, while also improving the details of her illustration might even help train her Will for real splitting.

Sebastien cut off mid-word as Liza’s familiar voice echoed down the hallway. She looked up in surprise as the older woman came into view. On her left, one of the Retreat’s healers walked with her. On her right, a man wearing some rather flamboyant robes woven with stylistic glyphs, who carried some of the standard accessories of a shaman.

Behind them, some of the Retreat’s other employees carried several leather cases. They could have been filled with belongings, but judging by the way Liza and the healer were seriously discussing treatment methods, Sebastien judged them to contain equipment.

Liza made brief eye contact with Sebastien, who only then realized that she’d been staring, but the woman passed on into the severe trauma ward with no sign of recognition.