To Fabrisse’s shock, it took them less than seven minutes to contain all the remaining Clucklebeaks. They couldn’t fly very far or for very long, and they always stopped after a while to perform their multiplying ritual, which was essentially just an act of intimacy. Lorvan had warned that these creatures were aetherically imbued, though, so there was no telling what could happen once they laid an egg.
Fabrisse tried not to picture what an aetherically infused egg looked like. He failed.
Feathers were now drifting through the courtyard like post-combat confetti as they walked back toward the direction of the North Pond. A few glyphlights stuttered above them, still recovering from the sudden magical noise. Fabrisse winced at the flickering lights. It hurt his eyes when the lightstream wasn’t continuous.
Lorvan walked ahead, back straight, robes barely dusted, surrounded by thirteen softly glowing hexagrams. Each one hovered midair with a neatly contained Clucklebeak suspended inside like a very disgruntled star in a magical snow globe.
He extended a hand toward Fabrisse without turning his head. “The fourteenth, please.”
Fabrisse glanced down at the bird still nestled in his coat. It opened its eyes wide as it gazed at him longingly. Then it nibbled his collar. Then it fluffed itself and gave a soft, non-aggressive gwaark as it rubbed affectionately against his sternum like a cat that had made a very odd evolutionary detour.
[Perfect Resonance Progress: 24%]
“This one’s smaller than the others,” Fabrisse said. “And kind of cute. Can I keep it?”
“No,” Lorvan said flatly.
“I an, I’ve got room—”
“I have thirteen ducks, Kestovar.”
Fabrisse blinked. “And?”
“Thirteen is an unlucky number.”
Fabrisse squinted. “I didn’t know you believed in that sort of thing.”
“I don’t,” Lorvan said, and for a second, Fabrisse wasn’t sure if he was joking. One could never tell when Lorvan was joking.
From the side, Liene gave a short laugh. “Wait, you believe in unlucky numbers? I’m your sister, and I didn’t even know that.”
Lorvan finally turned, just enough to give her a look that could sterilize pondwater, but eventually said nothing.
The clucklebeak in Fabrisse’s arms let out a very small honk and licked his chin.
“Okay,” Fabrisse whispered. “But he’s definitely the lucky one.”
The three of them made their way toward the North Pond. Fabrisse kept pace beside Liene, who was still rubbing her forehead where a Stupenstone had made very un-magical contact.
The pond periter was surrounded by a glimring silver do, nearly transparent but laced with weaving runes along the edges. Fabrisse wondered how much inner resonance must one have to maintain this spell, or maybe if it was a collective effort. At one edge, an entire section of the aetheric do had collapsed like torn fabric, revealing a ragged tear through which threads of ambient energy leaked and swirled like spilled ink in water.
Two Magi—one in formal azure blue robes assigned to magi, the other in field gear with scorched cuffs—were working at the breach, patching runic seams with slow, careful glyphwork and clipped argunts.
But Lorvan wasn’t looking at the obvious damage.
He extended a finger toward a different section of the do, where nothing looked torn at first glance. “There,” he said.
Fabrisse followed his line of sight, squinting.
It took a few seconds to spot it: a pinprick no larger than a needle puncture in fabric, so small that it didn’t distort the do’s curvature—but once seen, it couldn’t be unseen. The edges of the hole shimred with unnatural stillness, but it seed as though nothing leaked out from there.
“That’s a puncture caused by volatile aetheric undercurrents called invisible leylines. This pond is ripe with these currents which destabilize the protective do every so often, causing punctures like that. If t by a sudden and precise force, like, say . . .” Lorvan glared at Fabrisse. “If soone were to stupidly throw a stone aetherically at one of the punctures, it could create a cascading effect and compromise the structure. So make sure not to do that.“
Liene chuckled at the warning.
Fabrisse gulped and nodded. “So . . . you’re just going to release the cluckles? Into the pond?”
Lorvan responded, “Yes.”
Fabrisse nodded slowly. “If the do can accommodate thirteen, it can accommodate twelve. That’s not a structural concern, right?”
Lorvan stopped.
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“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is this your attempt at negotiation?”
“No,” Fabrisse said quickly. “Just a thought. From soone who’s already emotionally bonded to one of them.”
The clucklebeak in his coat peeped agreeably.
“You cannot emotionally bond with a clucklebeak,” Lorvan said. “They are fundantally incapable of complex affection.”
Thaumaturgically, yes. But my glyph says otherwise.
“It’s licking right now,” Fabrisse continued.
“It is tasting your coat,” Lorvan corrected.
Liene stifled a laugh behind her wrist. “What if it accidentally wandered off during release?” she said with wide, false innocence.
Lorvan gave her a long, withering look. “If I turn around and find fewer than fourteen spheres, I’m filing a form 9-G for obstruction.”
Fabrisse crouched at the edge of the containnt line. The pond shimred beyond, quiet now save for the sound of gently paddling water and a few errant feathers drifting like spells gone soft.
Lorvan raised a hand. “Now, Kestovar.”
Fabrisse exhaled slowly. He looked down one last ti at the small, scruffy bird in his arms. It was no longer flapping or squawking.
He leaned down and whispered into its plush, sowhat damp feathers. “I’ll co back tomorrow. With so bread.”
The clucklebeak tilted its head.
Then, in an almost too-serious motion, it gently tapped its beak to his collarbone, and made a sound like a polite knock.
Fabrisse’s throat tightened a little. He opened his coat and let the clucklebeak step out.
It waddled two paces forward. Then paused and looked back at him.
Liene said, “Oh, Lorvan. Don’t be so—”
Lorvan interrupted, “Call ntor inside Synod ground, please, Miss Lugano.”
Finally, the creature trundled into the containnt field, where the rest of the flock was already being released into the pond by Lorvan’s gliding glyphs.
[CLUCKLEBEAK RELEASED: Familiar Bonding Potential — Dormant]
[STATUS: Will Rember You]
[SYSTEM NOTE: Return with offering to progress Familiar Link.]
Liene sidled up beside Fabrisse, shoulder to shoulder. “So,” she said softly, “bread tomorrow?”
“Are you buying or am I?” He asked.
Then Lorvan sidled up in front of the both of them. “The better question is . . . what were you two doing in the courtyard at 8:46 PM?”
The duckling disappeared into the shallows.
In no way that was a better question than bread, Fabrisse thought. He rubbed his shoulder. “I was practicing Stone Thaumaturgy,” he said.
Lorvan raised an eyebrow.
“With ,” Liene added quickly, folding her arms. “He was. We were doing basic synaptic channeling, specifically focus and emotional alignnt. It was legit.”
Lorvan turned to Fabrisse, sterner now, “Then why did you skip all the synaptic practice sessions before this, only to ask another student to tutor you?”
“I—” He couldn’t say it was to throw rocks at Cuman’s face. “I wanted a quieter environnt,” Fabrisse said instead, only partially lying. “The east wing practice rooms are always full of echo mages and one guy who sings all his incantations. It’s distracting.”
Lorvan’s brow twitched. “Distraction is a failure of internal discipline.”
“That’s why I asked Liene to help,” Fabrisse said, with a weak smile and a subtle gesture at her. “She’s very disciplined.”
“Yes. I am nothing without discipline,” Liene said as she bent down, plucked a feather off the ground, and promptly stuck it to her upper lip. She turned to Fabrisse, solemn. “Behold. I am the ancient wizard Feathermustache the Wise.” The feather fell off.
Fabrisse tried not to laugh. He failed. It ca out as a sharp exhale that startled even him. The bird across the pond honked in solidarity.
Lorvan closed his eyes for one long, pained mont, possibly silently debating whether the laws of magical conduct were truly worth enforcing on two theatrical gremlins with a bird problem. When he opened them again, his voice was flat, and absolutely unwilling to acknowledge the feather incident in any emotional capacity. “Fine. But next ti you need to report to if you trained this late. And do not loiter outside after the ninth bell.”
Fabrisse didn’t plan to. There wasn’t really anything to do outside that late, and it was the official curfew ti too.
Lorvan turned to Fabrisse. “I must ask, because on your own, you seem relatively stable. You don’t attend official classes, yes, but you still conduct research in your own ti.” He turned to his sister now. “But when you're with Miss Lugano, you seem to develop a tendency toward . . . unnecessary risks.”
“But we were really practicing thaumaturgy!” Liene spoke before Fabrisse could. “I won’t lie about this. Not if it concerns Fabri’s progress.”
Silence followed. Not disbelief, just that kind of stillness Lorvan reserved for reviewing either highly implausible excuses or highly implausible truths. He studied Fabrisse for a mont longer before saying, “You’re serious you want to pursue this route?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even pause to think. It wasn’t like he’d planned this answer. It had just . . . landed. Like the duck.
Another beat of silence.
Then Lorvan gave an audible exhale. “If it were another student,” Lorvan said slowly, “I’d advise them to pick sothing more pragmatic; sothing that doesn’t take fifteen years to master and still makes people laugh at the entrance exams.” Then he looked up, eyes level. “But since it’s you, Kestovar . . . any spellwork is good spellwork.”
Fabrisse’s eyes widened. “Wait . . . what does that an?”
Lorvan pulled a rolled scroll from his sleeve—how did he even store things in there?—and flicked it open with a snap. “I’ll connect you with Magus Exemplar Konan. She’s the best Earth Thaumaturge in the Synod. She’ll be delighted to finally have another student. If you do well enough, she might even refer you for a grant. However, you have to promise this one thing.” He paused for a second before looking straight at Fabrisse in the eyes. “You will take your studies seriously this ti.”
Fabrisse could not lie. He wasn’t doing this for prestige. That would be hypocritical, especially after everything he’d said about students who clawed ahead just to stack titles and win favor. But the grant—
If he earned it, his mother wouldn’t have to funnel her hard-earned coin into tuition she could barely afford. She’d trusted him to make sothing of himself here. And he had to start believing in himself, too.
“I will,” he said.
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