Antics at the Arcane Academe: Pt. 01

Disclaimer: All witches in this story are 18 years of age and older, for that is the age of admission to the Academe. This story contains elements of mild fantasy, embarrassment, and some reluctance. Do pardon the slow burn.

On a hill overlooking the forests and grounds of the Academe for the Arcane Arts grew an ancient black willow, in whose shade sat Elise Montaigne. The young initiate came there often, and from that vantage she could see clearly the weathered stone walls of the Academe, perched high upon a rocky bluff, where within loomed the dark keep with its spires and crenellations. Far below the castle, a dark river wound its way through green forested banks down to a glistening lake, whose waters coursed further on and down to the hamlet below where the novices took lodging.

From here Elise could carefully observe the footpath and each passerby in detail, mostly earthbound novices as they trekked to class each morning and evening. She lounged serenely, but her blue eyes were as sharp and assessing as those of a hawk. She had a noble air, lips the color of peach teased into a slight self-assured smile, a long graceful neck, her cheeks dappled with freckles, and her skin sun-kissed from hours spent in broomflight. She was prideful, without doubt, but there was also a dark undercurrent to her, a deadliness below the surface. The blood in her veins could be traced back to the old magics, from the time of the stone mavens and woodland sorcery, and she was a worthy heir to her antecedents and had become unparalleled among the initiates at the Academe.

On the path below, the passing girls gave her nervous sidelong glances and quickened their pace. For though not outright cruel, there was a coolness to the blonde beauty that chilled them. Elise was not to be trifled with, she did not suffer contenders, and no girl that crossed her forgot those facts. But she was not interested in them today. She sat patiently as the late summer sun began to set and the shadows stretched long and dark over the countryside. Her attention was elsewhere, attuned to some faint sensation. Of something to come. A chill was creeping into the world as the sun departed, but Elise did not mind.

At the edge of the Academe grounds stood a pair of ancient sentinel stones, roughhewn boulders carved with faded runes to ward off intruders from the shadowy lands of man. And beyond them, the forest stretched interminably into the horizon. As Elise waited watchfully, two figures emerged from the woods and passed between the stones. Elise sat upright, cupping her chin in her hands.

She recognized the Beldame, the tall sinewy priestess in the resplendent red robes, solemn and poised. But beside her walked a smaller figure, bundled in a black rough-spun cloak, its hood obscuring their features. They drew nearer, walking down the winding path, and the Beldame turned her head slightly towards where Elise sat, her wise, deep set eyes examining her. The stranger turned too, lowering the hood, and Elise could see clearly see the girl gazing fiercely back at her. The stranger's dark eyes shone brightly in a face that was pale and luminous like the new moon, framed by hair black as midnight. There was a youthfulness to her features, a graceful curve to her jaw and chin, but her expression was sharp and brooding. Her neat brows were knit in focus and her eyes, ringed by dark lashes, were deep and unending. She stared at Elise, through her, assessing what she saw and more. A long moment passed, and then the stranger turned her attention back to the path and the Academe ahead.

Elise watched them as they walked away, and smiled to herself. So that was the premonition. A new novice. New arrivals were common enough, but there was something about this girl that made her...wary. Even at a glance Elise could tell she was unlike the haughty daughters of noble spellbinders or those flatterers from the aspiring class of hexweavers. No, there was determination in her, a fire, perhaps even a danger. A competitor at the very least. The thought brought a smile to Elise's lips, and with that she stood and made her way back to the Academy.

***

During her first few weeks at the Academe, Moira said little and learned much in doing so. In the mornings she trooped from the hamlet to her lessons along with the other novices, while above the treetops the initiates soared gaily past, flaunting their broom privileges. She saw the way in which those girls of the urban wicche looked at her. There was amusement in their glances as they eyed the pretty pale-skinned beauty, with her bobbed hair and blunt bangs, her dark countenance, her antiquated robes and tunic. Her poverty.

Moira did feel out of place here, in this place of sunlight and grandeur. She had been raised in the distant north, in the misty moors and desolate mires where few found reason to tread. She was accustomed to the perpetual gray twilight, the twisted limbs of oak trees that obscured the sky. It was a place that teemed of old magics, of wandering spirits, mournful wisps, curse and hex. She found the Academe to be...decadent by comparison, and decadence bred passivity and weakness. She harbored no ill will towards the other girls but she thought them soft, and took solace in the knowledge that their vanity made them all the weaker, and she could not be shamed by those weaker than her. What mattered most was to be certain, to be capable, and to be in control. Moira was all these things.

But despite her misgivings, each day was fresh to her when the trees along the path parted, and she could see the Academe rise majestically on its rocky outcrop. The path rose steeply, and she would pass through the ivy coated gatehouse, through the courtyard and into the grand hall with its high vaulted ceilings and magical braziers that flared and danced with heatless blue flame. Then the unseen chimes would toll, resounding through the cavernous corridor, and the novices and initiates would hurry to and from their lessons in the adjoining classrooms. Sunlight streamed through enormous enchanted windows, each colored pane depicting a scene, a legend, a history. Glass sorceresses conjured ruin on crystalline soldiers, witches battled aloft on broomstick, life, death and magic played out in each image, alive shifting and morphing, casting dazzling light on the seamless black stone floor.

It was unlike anything she had ever seen, and each time she had to fight hard to contain her wonder, to keep herself grounded and not get carried away by her awe. The chance to prove herself at the Academe, to earn her hat and broom, was a great honor and not one so easily granted to a fen-witch. There had been a time when the old names and covens of the fenlands had held great esteem in the arcane world. In centuries past they had been witches of unrivaled power, held wondrous domains, fought against and were feared by the kingdoms of men. But as generations passed their dominion had waned, petty squabbles and the rise of the urban wicche hastening their decline. Now they were relegated to the mists and swamps, little more than augers and midwives for the peasantry.

But magic is magic and strength is strength, no matter where it is derived from. And the Beldame, the priestess chief among all others, had heard of the promising girl from the fens, and gave her coven a chance. Moira would not blow it.

Moira poured herself into her studies, and passed silent judgment on the aptitude of her peers, taking care not to reveal the extent of her knowledge. If there was one thing she embraced it was the principals at the Academe. The mavens were exacting and just, and did not fuss over or indulge their pupils. A witch was judged solely on her abilities, and she alone was expected to settle her conflicts with others, regardless of whether they ended in contest, conquest, triumph, or defeat. Individual strength joined together made a coven strong. A coven of weak witches was weak by extension. It was a philosophy that took many of the new novices by surprise, and they learned either to adapt or depart.

The weeks passed without event, until at last the end of the moon's cycle brought about the first of the Conjuration trials and the novice witches were summoned for examination. Moira took a seat with her peers, the dim auditorium filled not only with novices, but also scrutinizing mavens, curious initiates, and the Beldame herself. Before them all, on a lone dais, flickered a solitary candle, the faint light making the room seem even darker and expansive.

One by one each novice was called before the flame to demonstrate her aptitude in conjuration. It was a test of genuine spellcrafting, distinguishing those with innate ability from those who could only perform by rote incantation. Moira was not impressed as she watched one girl after another conjure their specters from the flame; burning sparrows, blazing and coiling serpents, fiery lidless eyes. Gimmicks, she thought disdainfully. Parlor magic. Time passed imperceptibly in the dark room, but at last Moira's name was called from the rolls, and she too approached the candle flame.

She looked deeply into the feeble fire, the light waxing and waning, illuminating her stern features, the rest of the room gone, lost in blackness. The darkness that surrounded her was comforting and familiar, and in that moment there was no Academe, no verdant forest, no dazzling summer sun. Only darkness, memories of the gloam and moonless nights in the fens. Home. And lost in those thoughts and memories, Moira unconsciously began her invocation.

Her wand danced, and the flame snapped to attention at her command. It grew larger and brighter like a torch, surging and flashing, and in the shifting flames strange shapes materialized. Lumbering fel-beasts, tortured faces, clutching and grasping hands, burning treetops and cities on fire, things lost to human memory, things that were and never were, nightmares from unknown abysses, legends and myths of the fens. The fire had become an inferno now, illuminating the faces of the onlookers, who gaped in both amazement and terror.

She swept her arms up, the blaze bending to her will...and then slowly she brought them down, the flame retreating as she did so, retreating and diminishing, smaller and fainter until it was nothing more than a simple candleflame, which she then extinguished. Light returned to the room, murmurers and hushed voices sweeping through the assembly. The light and noise brought Moira back from afar, and she cursed under her breath for having forgotten herself and revealing too much. But the chimes rang, giving her the opportunity to escape the attention of the other students.

Moira exited into the great hall and found the Beldame already waiting.

"That was magic of your coven?" she inquired.

"Yes, priestess."

"Impressive. You were taught well it would seem." She looked at Moira for a long moment, evaluating her with glinting eyes. "I personally instruct the initiates in the Malevolent Magics. If you think yourself capable, I would have you join us tomorrow afternoon. If you display aptitude I will permit you to join the upper ranks."

"It would be a great honor, priestess." said Moira, bowing humbly.

The Beldame studied her, and gave a faint smile. "Very good. Tomorrow, at the standing stones. " She turned to leave, and like the morning mist burning off at sunrise, she fade-walked into nothingness.

For the first time in a long time, Moira smiled, unable to contain her excitement. But the feeling was soon dampened when she heard a proud voice call out behind her.

"You are Moira, is that right?"

She turned and there was Elise, the initiate whose reputation Moira knew well. She was taller than Moira, her skin lightly-tanned, her blonde hair dancing at her shoulders in wavy curls. Her perfect lips were smiling ever so slightly, as if she were in possession of some compromising secret. And those calculating blue eyes weighed Moira, and had already found her wanting.

Moira scowled. "There isn't a need for games, you know who I am."

"That is true," Elise smiled emptily. "I saw what you did back there. With which coven did you learn that spell?"

Moira shook her head, the false pleasantries bored her. "Is it tricks like that you care to learn? I am sure that even you could learn such a thing, but there is a wide gulf betwixt being learn'd and being talented."

Elise's brows twitched, betraying her ire at the fen-witch's insolence.

"I do suppose that coming from the wilds one must make the most of what little can pass for talent, given the poverty of everything else." Her eyes flickering appraisingly over Moira's garb; her scuffed boots, coarse woolen stockings, long creased tunic.

"And I suppose you urban witches need all the advantage you can get, is that why you put so much stock into appearance? So as to conceal your deficits?

"I can assure you, novice, you'll be hard pressed to find such deficits."

Moira, scoffed. "Not too hard pressed I think."

The chimes interrupted their exchange, summoning the students to their studies, and Moira turned her back briskly on the girl and departed. Elise watched her go, and if her cool expression betrayed any hint of emotion, it was one of delight in what was to come.

***

The morning sun was just beginning to climb, but Elise had risen long ago, waiting in anticipation under the great willow. From their quarters in the hamlet the novices walked in scattered groups along the footpath through the sprawling forest on their way to the Academe. Elise waited in the stillness, until she spied Moira's dark figure making her way up the path. She contemplated the pretty raven-haired girl in her dark attire; her simple robe, her long and conservative button-down tunic, thick and unstylish wool stockings. Then she stood, and drew her slim willow wand from her jacket. She paused for a moment, focusing on the silence of the morning, the briskness of the air, the warmth of the sun. And then she chanted:

Needle sews and seam mends,

Pay attention to loose ends

Wool is woven, flax is spun,

What is made can be made undone.

With a final flourish of her wand, the hex was cast. She laughed wickedly and loudly, which was quite uncharacteristic of her, and then set off for the Academe.

***

Moira was walking, absorbed in her thoughts, when she heard a whisper of leaves behind her. By the time she turned, the whisper had become a roar, and she saw the branches of the trees bend and bow before a great gust that was surging through the forest and up the path toward her. She instinctively drew her robe about her, covering her face as the wind blew around her, over her, through her. Dust and leaves bombarded her robe and her legs. But just as quickly as the wind had arisen, it blustered up the path becoming fainter and fainter until it dissipated altogether.

Odd, she thought. She paused to glance around her, at the surrounding forest and the other novices continuing to the Academe. But there was little time to delay, and soon her thoughts were preoccupied once more with the Beldame's lesson later that afternoon, reviewing in her mind all that she had been taught by her coven. She was not nervous (Moira was not a nervous girl by nature) but she believed in being prepared. She strode up the hill to the Academe, and then suddenly stumbled. She caught herself, looking down to see that her boot had lost its heel.

"Blast," she cursed under her breath. She glanced back down the path to the hamlet and thought about returning to her chambers for her other pair, but she would certainly miss her first class before she would make it back. "Blast," she muttered again, and hobbled on.

She joined the throngs of other novices in the warmth of the great hall, and hung her robe along the wall along with those of the other girls. The chimes had begun to sound in warning, and as she weaved her way through the crowd she stumbled again. Annoyed, she glanced at her feet. The seams of her boots had split severely, and her stockinged toes were protruding from the open toe-box. Moira trudged her way over to a secluded alcove, away from the clamor of the hall, and from her satchel she withdrew her gnarled oak wand. She glanced around nervously. The use of magic for menial labors was disapproved of, especially by novices. But she chanced punishment and quietly recited words of mending:

Leather stitched and seams repaired,

Fix this decrepit footwear.

But as she uttered the spell, her boots began to wither and split like burning parchment, wilting away until only her feet touched the stone floor. "No!" she gasped. Had she bound the spell wrong? Had she been lazy with the wand-work? She didn't have enough time to think it over, she was nearly late for Cosmology. Moira hurried down the long hall, entering into the classroom with the rest of the stragglers. She had hoped to take a seat at the back so that no one might notice her bootless feet, but she was much too late and instead found space in a row near the front.

The maven brought the class into session, and meandered over the topics of portents, omens, and powers that fluctuate with the lunar phases. Moira momentarily forgot about her boots as she listened intently to the lecture...so much so that she did not notice the sleeves of her tunic beginning to recede, the fabric fraying at the cuff before disintegrating altogether. As she turned to her parchment to make a note, she glimpsed her forearms sticking out of the ragged sleeves. "Gods be!" she hissed in bewilderment. She could actually see the fabric unraveling and disappear. Her thoughts began to race. Was this a counter-spell? Some punishment for her earlier misuse of magic? She reached into her school-bag to glance nervously at her time-glass. Not long to go, once the lesson ended she would be able to put a stop to this madness.

As the minutes passed slowly by, Moira watched helplessly as her sleeves crept further and further up her forearms to her elbows, exposing her thin snow-white arms. By the time the chimes announced the end of the period, she had no sleeves left at all. Moira bit her lip, anxiously waiting for the last of the students to leave, and once the maven had fade-walked from the room and she was finally alone, she leapt to her feet, wand in hand, incanting:

Clothing, heed my words alone,

No more will you be unsewn.

Moira looked herself over. Her tunic had ceased unraveling, and with trepidation she ran her hands over its buttons and her stockings, but everything was intact. She sighed in relief, the feeling short lived as the tolling of the chimes reminded her to hasten to her next class. She gathered her satchel and made for the hall, pretending not to notice that her sleeveless tunic and shoeless feet drew looks as she hurried on her way.

By the time she entered through the door into Comparative Conjuration Systems, most of the seats had been filled. She made her way as far to the back of the room as she could, finding an empty desk near the middle of the class. Relieved, Moira took a seat, and as she did so the buttons of her tunic burst loose in a shower of brass, scattering over the desk and onto the stone floor. She instinctively threw her arms around herself, hunching over as her classmates looked around at the sudden commotion. Her pale cheeks blushed pink, and she stared toward the front of the classroom desperately avoiding her peers' gazes. The maven cleared her throat in a threatening manner, and Moira was spared some embarrassment as the class turned its focus to the lesson.

Once she was less mortified, Moira unfolded her arms to examine the damage. Every button had fled her tunic save for three that kept it pinned together at her midriff. Now her threadbare linen slip was visible at the wide gaps above and below, and she moved her arms away slowly, afraid that even grazing the buttons would send them flying. Her situation was compromising, but still manageable. The day was halfway over, all she had to do was bide her time and she would be free. Moira slouched down lower in her seat to draw as little attention to herself as she could, and shivered as her naked soles touched the cold stone floor...