my peers were preparing for the most important moment of their lives by fasting and taking special herbs (Uncle forbade me from touching them), while I stupidly sweated in anticipation of troubles.
The shadow of the sundial had crawled to noon when I noticed a guy that was supposed to take the ritual before me. I did not know his name; the dark rarely get to know each other. The newly-made magician threw a gloomy look at me and, without saying anything, disappeared in the direction of the main building.
I was next.
All students learned quickly the place occupied by the Faculty of Dark Magic; this was the area where you'd better not walk in the evening. Beginners often mistook it for a utility structure—against the background of the main building with tall lancet windows and colored tints on precious finish, the three-story box looked weird, resembling the prison on the King's Island. The university's authorities regularly considered transferring the faculty to the new territory (the city municipality was all in favor of that idea), but it did not budge; to build such an institution from scratch required a shocking amount of money. The current monstrous building sported a unique magical structure that was capable of retaining and absorbing the fatal consequences of student errors and, in fact, carried that function out regularly. According to the stats, two percent of dark magicians died in the process of learning. But today the townsfolk could rest safely; for the whole week the building was at the juniors' disposal.
A dark carpet runner was spread in front of the entrance, pennants with the wise sayings of famous combat magicians hung on the walls (could you believe it—combat mages were able to speak eloquently!), and crows, consorts of plagues and wars lined up on the roof, attracted by emanations of magic. In the lobby I was met by the dean and an instructor with two assistants. Representatives of the city authorities—the same goblin-like cop and an unknown dark mage—were silently present as well. Nothing unexpected so far.
"You have finally decided to go through the Empowerment," Mr. Darkon said, looking a little sad.
I was still pondering that question prior to the incident at the NZAMIPS' office, but afterwards it became a must-do thing.
"I'm not going to quit alchemy."
"Everybody says so."
The instructor politely cleared his throat: "If you are aware of the risks associated with the Empowerment, please sign here!"
That was the disclaimer—the university pledged to do its utmost to ensure the safety of the ritual, but it refused any responsibility for injuries received in the process. On top of that, there was my own written application, a letter from my immediate family (I hadn't reached twenty-one yet), a health certificate... At one time, just the list of the necessary paperwork was enough to discourage me from becoming a magician. I hated bureaucracy! But I didn't have a choice and signed the disclaimer without looking.
I was tapped on the shoulder, wished success, and escorted to a large door that was upholstered in black leather. I tried to figure out what would happen next, but the instructor immediately began lecturing me about historical parallels and my responsibility to society, reminding me of the incessant babble of the white kids. I was not in a mood to argue on a day like this and patiently waited until his speech dried out.
Just through the doors the corridor broke off at a spiral staircase that led down to the second underground level. That was quite logical—rituals of this kind had to be conducted in a lab with the highest safety level, and regulations prescribed that such places must be hidden in basements. I had never been there before. My imagination painted a secret temple with torches and pentagrams, but in reality the place turned out to be quite prosaic: the clanking iron staircase ended in a tiny dressing room with a single bench and a
The shadow of the sundial had crawled to noon when I noticed a guy that was supposed to take the ritual before me. I did not know his name; the dark rarely get to know each other. The newly-made magician threw a gloomy look at me and, without saying anything, disappeared in the direction of the main building.
I was next.
All students learned quickly the place occupied by the Faculty of Dark Magic; this was the area where you'd better not walk in the evening. Beginners often mistook it for a utility structure—against the background of the main building with tall lancet windows and colored tints on precious finish, the three-story box looked weird, resembling the prison on the King's Island. The university's authorities regularly considered transferring the faculty to the new territory (the city municipality was all in favor of that idea), but it did not budge; to build such an institution from scratch required a shocking amount of money. The current monstrous building sported a unique magical structure that was capable of retaining and absorbing the fatal consequences of student errors and, in fact, carried that function out regularly. According to the stats, two percent of dark magicians died in the process of learning. But today the townsfolk could rest safely; for the whole week the building was at the juniors' disposal.
A dark carpet runner was spread in front of the entrance, pennants with the wise sayings of famous combat magicians hung on the walls (could you believe it—combat mages were able to speak eloquently!), and crows, consorts of plagues and wars lined up on the roof, attracted by emanations of magic. In the lobby I was met by the dean and an instructor with two assistants. Representatives of the city authorities—the same goblin-like cop and an unknown dark mage—were silently present as well. Nothing unexpected so far.
"You have finally decided to go through the Empowerment," Mr. Darkon said, looking a little sad.
I was still pondering that question prior to the incident at the NZAMIPS' office, but afterwards it became a must-do thing.
"I'm not going to quit alchemy."
"Everybody says so."
The instructor politely cleared his throat: "If you are aware of the risks associated with the Empowerment, please sign here!"
That was the disclaimer—the university pledged to do its utmost to ensure the safety of the ritual, but it refused any responsibility for injuries received in the process. On top of that, there was my own written application, a letter from my immediate family (I hadn't reached twenty-one yet), a health certificate... At one time, just the list of the necessary paperwork was enough to discourage me from becoming a magician. I hated bureaucracy! But I didn't have a choice and signed the disclaimer without looking.
I was tapped on the shoulder, wished success, and escorted to a large door that was upholstered in black leather. I tried to figure out what would happen next, but the instructor immediately began lecturing me about historical parallels and my responsibility to society, reminding me of the incessant babble of the white kids. I was not in a mood to argue on a day like this and patiently waited until his speech dried out.
Just through the doors the corridor broke off at a spiral staircase that led down to the second underground level. That was quite logical—rituals of this kind had to be conducted in a lab with the highest safety level, and regulations prescribed that such places must be hidden in basements. I had never been there before. My imagination painted a secret temple with torches and pentagrams, but in reality the place turned out to be quite prosaic: the clanking iron staircase ended in a tiny dressing room with a single bench and a
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