Page 48 of Fractured Fates
“Then pay attention. You of all people have the most to learn.” Several people swivel in their seats to glare at me and the professor frowns. “In fact, let’s test how much you do know.”
Internally, I groan. I was taught enough to survive, to get by. Okay, I didn’t have a conventional schooling, and okay it’s becoming clear that there was a hell of a lot my aunt missed out. But she did the best she could while keeping us safe and fed. She didn’t have a whole lot of time for reciting the various fucking battles of what stupid wizard attacked which dumb witch. We were too busy feeding chickens, harvesting vegetables and keeping our true nature hidden.
“You’re wrong, Blackwaters. She failed you. She left you ignorant and exposed.”
“Tell your friend that.”
The gazes of the other pupils swing between the professor and me as if they’re watching a tennis match.
The professor leans back against his desk and surveys me.
“All right then, Miss Blackwaters. Please tell me how we consider ancient magic to differ from modern?”
I stare at him, opening and closing my mouth like a goddamn fish, then I smirk. “One’s old and one isn’t.”
No one laughs.
“Summer?” the professor asks.
Summer stands up addressing the professor directly. “Ancient magic is considered the base of all other magic. It is the most powerful and fundamental. A magical who doesn’t understand how to wield such magic is likely to fail.” She peers over her shoulder at me with a look of self-satisfaction.
“Some examples of ancient magic, please, Blackwaters?”
I glare at him.
He sighs. “Summer?”
“Life, death, love, sex.” She practically winks at the professor. “Some examples would be the creation and destruction of life. The giving of one life to protect another. The donation of magic from one magical to another. The combining of two lives together to create a fated b–”
“Yes, thank you, Summer,” the professor says with sudden irritation. “Take a seat.”
The chalk continues to scribble notes on the board behind him. “Summer is right. You may never wield ancient magic but you need to understand what it is and how it works. You need to understand the marks it will leave on this earth and on your soul if you ever do choose or need to use it. You need to feel it thrumming in your fingers if you hope to ever successfully perform more modern and complex spells.”
His words seem to spark electricity in my fingertips and I close my eyes and see the knife lodged in that man’s head. I wish I’d never done it. I wish I turned away and left the man in black to his fate. Although, as I think those words in my head, I know that isn’t true. I couldn’t leave him. I couldn’t let him be killed. That hook in my stomach had driven me straight to him and in that moment I would have done anything to save him.
The magic in my fingertips sparks more violently and I feel that tug now deep in my gut.
When I open my eyes, everyone is bent over their desks copying notes from the board. But the professor, he’s staring right at me.
I drop my eyes immediately and pick up my pen, attempting to follow everyone’s example. The words I’m copying seem meaningless though and I can’t think of anything but that man and my knife.
I’m relieved when finally the class turns to something more practical.
The professor splits the class into four groups and hands out several old artifacts – a mirror, a purse, a book and a pipe.
“Each of these objects,” he explains, “were used in the wielding of ancient magic. All have been marked with magicals’ fingerprints. I want you to examine the artifact and see if you can find the fingerprints. Bonus points if you are able to identify the magical who used them.”
Some muttering follows. The other students clearly believe the professor has set an impossible task. But as I sit back and let the others work, I’m not so sure. Somehow over the last two days, I’ve managed to subdue that power of mine that senses the presence of other magicals. After all, now I’m surrounded by other magicals 24/7, the alarm in my head would be ringing off the hook if I didn’t.
However, as I sit watching the others turn the mirror over in their hands, that sense stirs into life and for a moment I almost imagine I can see the hand that held the mirror, that wielded the ancient magic.
The mirror’s glass is dull and the frame made of a white porcelain that’s lost its shine and its decoration. The handle starts thin, growing fatter by its base and the hand that grips it is young, bedecked in several golden rings, the fingers long, and the nails short and well kept.
“How are you doing that?” the professor asks right by my ear, and I jolt, dragging my gaze from the object to him.
“Doing what?”
“Are you imagining that hand or seeing it?”
