The Sorcerer of St. Mary’s Abbey
“This hearing of the Central Council of Wizards will now begin on this day the thirty-sixth of September in the year one-thousand nine-hundred and twenty-two at eight o’clock. Will the subject please rise to the podium.”
He was by far the youngest person in the chamber. Though they were deep underground, the light of the morning sun shone brilliantly through the gaping windows upon his youthful face, only just displaying the first signs of adulthood. Dressed up in his most formal clothes – a brown suit with a grey mage’s robe – the young man stepped down into the recessed dais at the centre of the ring of tables that surrounded him. The faces of the nine Council Wizards loomed over him from around the circle, unfamiliar and uninviting. Once the young man had squirmed enough, the herald and Chair of the council, Mr. John Solomon, a wiry and unpleasant man, continued his announcement from the tenth seat in the room at a small desk at the edge of the ring: “The boy in question this morning is Stephen Grayson, colloquially called the Sorcerer of St Mary’s Abbey. The question: should he, a sorcerer, be allowed to continue this affront to wizard society, or be punished capitally for his transgression against the civilised world? Those in favour of his destruction say—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Chair, but ought we not hear from the boy before voting?”
The interrupting voice had come from Mu. Andrea Sullivan, a severe-looking wizard in a green gown that was frequently found to be stopping the antagonistic Mr. Solomon in all his ‘due process.’
“Andrea, we—”
“Mystic Sullivan,” she corrected him, not for the first time.
“Mystic Sullivan, we haven’t the time nor the need to question the rat,” continued Mr. Solomon, now visibly frustrated. “Sorcerers like him are a threat to the education system that we – you – have struggled to establish! We can not allow Mu. Ivanovic to set an example such as this.”
A few murmurs of assent reverberated across the room at this. Sorcerers are illegitimately trained wizards who inherit (or at least, attempt to inherit) the political position that most Court Wizards lay claim to. Meanwhile, a wizard invariably has completed several years of formal education and social climbing to reach their well-revered position.
“Nevertheless, Stephen has a right to be heard,” contributed another voice from across the table. Mu. Black, an odd-looking wizard in a sky-blue robe and a cream suit, always spoke with a deep, rumbling voice that could penetrate the murmurations of any room he was in.
“Yes, let the fellow at least defend himself,” was the final decision of Archwizard Antonio Bonaci, the most powerful wizard on the council and its head. He sat in a regal-looking chair carved of a single piece of oak, his silvery beard seeming to blend into the white and gold robes he sported.
A silence fell on the room, but eventually, Stephen found the strength of will to speak.
“After the Great War,” the boy began, “Fort Gavli was stricken with famine, it was. Well, to be frank, me and some of the other lads had heard that Mu. Ivanovic’s tower in the Abbey had a small store of provisions in its cellar. So, we set out to sneak in and take some.
“In hindsight, we were foolish to think we could steal from a wizard, but we were all too young to enlist in the War, so we didn’t know the extent of atrocities a wizard was even capable of. Well, many of those boys died at the threshold of the tower, its metal door simply turning them to dirt in the forest.”
He spoke with a matter-of-factness that displayed a disproportionate understanding of magical violence for someone his age, especially by the 20s, when the younger generations were already starting to forget the violence of the Great War.
“Me, I was quick enough to steal my way in,” he continued. “And sure enough there in the cellar was a whole treasury of fresh fruit and bread and whatever else you’d like! But before I could get my hands on it, I found myself bound by an invisible force… and face-to-face with the ugly mug of Mu. Vasiliy Ivanovic!” Stephen began to relax now, allowing the rhythm of his tale sweep him away. “He spoke real calm-like, and said,” [here, the boy adopted a deep, curt voice, which merited some chuckles from select members of the Council], ““Young thief, you have wronged me for the first and last time! But I see you have wit, and you have spirit. I will let you live if you become my apprentice. You have need of food, and I have need of a student. What say you?” Well, needless to say I knew when I’d struck gold. But I also had made enough shit deals in the streets of Fort Gavli to know to set out terms. “I will agree to your terms, Mr. Wizard, but I want your written word that you will never attempt to destroy me and that I will gain all the usual benefits of apprenticeship.” Always the dramatist, Ivanovic took it a step further, producing a magical contract in which he swore to the terms provided. He then proceeded to teach me that spell, at least in theory, before commanding me to fetch him his slippers.
“Well, over the next five years, Ivanovic instructed me in magic, explaining how to control the flow of my mana and how to direct it into specific spells. I spent much of my time in meditation in his Arcanaeum, attempting to expand the limits of my soul. The rest of the time, I was fetching him water from the well or sweeping the courtyard. I’m not really sure what made Fort Gavli so important, but the old wizard always seemed to have powerful visitors that I had to prepare tea for. Something about Meteoris, I think, whatever that is. That was how I met Mu. Black.”
Black gave a wiggle of his eyebrows at this before reporting: “I can vouch that the boy had potential and that Vasiliy was not wrong in taking him as his student. Why, he even practiced his spell on me at one point. Yes, there was—”
“Do you mean Oath of Binding, or some other spell?” Interrupted Mu. Angelo the Orange, a wizard with an orange robe and a permanently furrowed brow.
“I don’t know any other spell…” Piped up Stephen, suddenly sheepish again.
“The boy needed practice, so I swore an oath to continue his teaching should Vasiliy ever pass. I never expected the fool to get himself killed in a duel!”
All eyes now turned to Mu. Ana Salamanca, who had been silent all morning. She wore a black, hooded cloak that obscured everything save for her eyes, which reflected the morning light with an uncanny brightness. She did move as the gazes of her colleagues bore into her.
“So then, our solution is clear,” spoke Mu. Sullivan, breaking the tender silence at last. “He will become apprenticed to Mu. Black, and in the meantime, he will fulfill his academic requirements to become a full wizard. He is hardly old enough to be a novice mage; it is not unfathomable for him to begin his education now.”
“He can not become Black’s apprentice,” another Council Wizard interjected, this time Mu. Daria Smith, a raven haired linguamancer. The wizards now turned to face her, awaiting further explanation. Even Archwizard Bonaci cocked his head quizzically at Smith, eager to resolve the issue and unsure of the cause of this barrier. The young sorcerer explained for her:
“Mu. Ivanovic swore that I would receive all the benefits of being his apprentice. As soon as the wizard died, his oath was fulfilled, and I assumed the mantle of the Court Wizard of St Mary’s Abbey. Or I guess really, I should say the Sorcerer of St Mary’s Abbey. Unless you lot are willing to condemn your friend’s soul to annihilation, I reckon you won’t go against his word.”
Silence stretched between the council members once more. The stone mosaics coldly tessellated the light of the ever-rising sun outside. The rolling hills of the external scenery seemed to reflect their true distance now, hundreds of kilometres away in the countryside. A single windmill turned on the horizon.
Eventually, Archwizard Bonaci gauged the faces of his colleagues and made his judgment on their behalf, simply stating, “you may go.”
Stephen turned slowly, inspecting the now cold faces of the wizards around him. Even Mu. Black seemed to avert his gaze as he passed him.
When he walked past Mr. Solomon at his little desk, the man smiled at him with uncharacteristic friendliness. “I am sure Mu. Black will be in touch about further instruction at a later date.”
The sorcerer stopped at this, turning to meet the unblinking eyes of Mu. Salamanca. Moving for the first time since the start of the hearing, she shook her head once, very slowly.
Smiling himself now, the sorcerer turned to fully face the Council once more. “I want assurance of my safety,” he announced.
“Do you really think we would kill you boy? And condemn Mu. Black’s soul to annihilation too? Do you think Black would allow that?” A vermilion-robed wizard questioned.
“Mu. Black only has to instruct me so many times before his oath is fulfilled,” responded Stephen. “Then, even one of you could easily destroy me. I know the game. I also know that I would have enough time to ask the other councils for help. Are you willing to start another war for this?” The boy was expending all the leverage he could think of, unaware of its complete weight.
“Do you really think the other councils would start a war over you?” Was the response from Mu. Smith.
“He’s right,” answered Mu. Sullivan. “The Eastern Council is eager for any cause to start another war. If we were to strike first, well…”
“Very well, we will allow you to go free.” Archwizard Bonaci was clearly growing tired of the entire affair.
“No. I want your word. All of you. Swear an Oath by it.”
“…”
A spell was cast in that room that day. Well practiced and fluid, the movements of the wand were swift and clear. The boy repeated the incantations ten times, the whirl of mana binding the souls of the wizards in that chamber to a promise. Though it did not protect him unquestionably, it bought him time. Time to train. Time to grow. Time to garner resources.
Stephen Grayson would go free from that meeting and continue in the world unimpeded by the Central Council as the Sorcerer of St Mary’s Abbey.