Author: Taxi

Once the administrative details were left to run their course, Mr Andestinic led Orpheus through the thin corridors and pleasant courts of black cobbles, all the while making plans for his new life here in the city.

“We’ll post you up in the Aurelian Building, starting tonight. During the week, I will have your student supplies sent to you; you’ll want to start studying quick sticks, since the CHISEL exams are in a week and a half. Lessons will start after midyear on the 21^st of Pentember, which is almost a month away. That should give you plenty of time to get genned up.”

“Excuse me Mr Andestinic,” Orpheus interrupted. “But what’s a chisel exam?” As they walked, he traced his hand along the rough, dark stone of the hill cliff-face, atop from which the imposing fortress of the ancient Academy bore down.

“It’s just a way for the Academy to measure your affinity for the things they deem important. It’s the state’s estimation of you, I suppose… Six letters, six numbers, and a name.” John glanced over at Orpheus as a worried look passed over the young man’s innocent face. “It’s nothing to get wound up over. They’ll just ask you some questions and before you know it you’ll be sitting in your first class!”

They soon arrived at the Aurelian Building, its white bricks glistening in the citrine light of the setting sun. They entered through the rear door, which backed right onto the black ridge, and which was endowed with carvings of floral and other natural motifs. The first atrium was handsome, and it was lined with cabinets of trophies and odd curios; the stairs that led up to the higher floors were equally lined with honour boards, frescoes, and tapestries. Beyond, a small, paved courtyard could be seen. Some young people were lounging about a tree, thin plumes of white smoke drifting from the cigarettes that they held lightly by their sides. They seemed to be laughing and so carefree that Orpheus almost thought the idyllic scene to be an illusion. Mr Andestinic led Orpheus along a corridor of closed doors and white wooden panels until they reached room number 022. The officer produced a key which he must have taken from the administration desk, and they entered into Orpheus’ new home.

The room was exceptionally small, made even more so by the plethora of furnishings. Every inch of the smooth wooden floor was well adorned with chests of drawers, plush-cushioned armchairs, and other odd items that Orpheus did not recognise. The sunshine yellow wallpaper (which seemed so ephemerally radiant in the evening light which spilled through the slats of the blinds) was concealed in certain areas by framed drawings of birds and pleasant sea-side scenes, their faded paper blending in well with the surrounding wall. A small writing desk and a cot were nestled in the corner behind the thing that really caught Orpheus’ eye – a large shelf packed with books. He turned to his guardian, who happened to be pressing his thumb against a small, dark stone embedded in the doorframe just beside the electric light switch. Oblivious to the magical effects this was having on the man and upon the room, Orpheus asked, “What is this place? Who lives here?”

“You do,” he said. With his spare hand, John pointed at the blue and gold sign which was fitted to the open door: WHITECROSS FELLOW DORMITORY. “Congratulations, Jim, you are the recipient of the 1940 Julius Whitecross fellowship prize, which includes your accommodation in this room. It’s all there in the official paperwork set up by Hrktos.” Finally, he removed his hand from the wall. He seemed more handsome somehow, and Orpheus realised that his grizzled look had become clean-shaven, the soot and sand from their travels now washed clean from his face and hair. Similarly, the film of dust and black soot which coated almost every surface of the room (especially around the fireplace) had now vanished, leaving the wooden panelling and tiled fireplace glistening with spotless purity. “This,” Andestinic pointed at the stone, which appeared inert and mundane in its mount on the wall, “is an Ūϙwοt Stone. It will cleanse you and the room in a jiffy, but I’d still recommend a proper clean when you can manage. There’s a large bathroom just down the hall. You’ll have to get used to sharing it with the other students.”

Orpheus, though initially amazed at this sudden revelation of such proximate magic coming with the news of his new home, now turned his gaze to the rug as he tugged at the hem of his sleeve.

“Mr Andestinic, I’ve lived alone my whole life, except for Father of course, who was just as private as I am. I’m not sure if my nerves could manage that, sir…”

The tenured detective smiled gently as he bent down so as to meet Orpheus’ gaze. “Son, you’ll soon find that the people of this world are really not as scary as you’ve been led to think. Just think of it like church: keep your gaze respectfully upturned, keep the chatter to a minimum, and only take practiced, precise actions – no need to get crazy. No need to make a mountain out of a molehill. If you goof it up, just know we’ve all been there, so nobody will rag on you. Got it?”

Shuffling nervously, Orpheus said, “Sometimes I don’t understand a word you say, sir.” Then, he nodded. “I’ve never been to church, but I see what you mean.”

Andestinic stood upright again, saying, “Right. Well maybe on Solday I will show you to my church if you like. In any case, I’ll come by again in a few days with some essentials.”

He moved for the door, tossing Orpheus the keys as he went out.

“It’s been a long day. You and me both could do with some shuteye.” John Andestinic winked at Orpheus Whitecross as he leaned forward to pull the door shut behind him. “It was nice to meet you today, Jim Wynyard. Try stay out of trouble.”

Having spent his entire life in solitude, Orpheus should have been more accustomed to being alone. Yet now, alone for the first time all day, the boy wished for nothing more than to be in somebody’s company. Though the books on the shelf called to him, a weight which had been growing in Orpheus’ chest all day like the swelling and crashing of a glacial river against a dam in spring now spilled over its lip, crashing down into the valley below. In a watershed of fear and panic and horror, Orpheus stood paralysed on the spot as shuddering and pathetic sobs washed over him. Warm tears shuffled down his face and wetted his collar as the events of the day overwhelmed him at last.

The worries which he had put off all day finally surfaced once again. Where is Father? Is he all right? What would he think of all this, him coming to Canon City? Why had he lied about what the world was really like? What the hell am I doing here?! Orpheus had no answers to any of these questions, and each one seemed more confusing and upsetting than the last. There was no rational way of organising any of what he was experiencing, no simple answer to his unending and terrible questions, nor was there any religious way of approaching his issues. Something told him that if he asked God for guidance on these matters, he would find no response. This thought only renewed his anxious sobs, the hopelessness of the situation hemming in on him. For a moment, he became angry, the room warping in tandem with his fury as blood rushed around his head. Vania Hrktos is obviously a powerful Wizard; why didn’t she do anything? Why couldn’t she bring him back?! Then, still angry, the blame moved to Andestinic, then to old useless powerless Julius Whitecross, then finally to himself. He should have been better. He should have been stronger. Maybe he should have been braver; what might have happened if he had gone with Hermeticus? Would he have had a chance to save his Father then?

His thoughts finally returned to Hermeticus. That wicked and dark Wizard who had presented himself to Orpheus this morning. “I shall explain all,” he had said.

Wiping his tears and fighting off the last of his shuddering sobs, Orpheus set his shoulders back and said out loud in his most resolute voice (though admittedly it was still shaky from the indeterminate amount of time he had been crying), “I shall find you Hermeticus. When I do, I shall best you and then you will explain all…”

Suddenly strengthened by his new resolution and by his hatred for the man (nay, villain) who had stolen his livelihood, Orpheus began to move himself again. He knew he had to take the opportunity now and today to memorise the scowl of that terrible stranger, to burn his face into the orchestra of his memory.

He threw off his shoes and lay flat on the bed, small tufts of dust pluming as he did so – residue from the Ūϙwοt Stone’s attempt to expunge the room of all grime. He decided that he would assign the piccolo to memorise Hermeticus, its lofty and stabbing tones calling forth his thin frame and cruel features. He began to envisage a silvery melody which set itself apart from the rest of the orchestra by way of its atonal sounds and syncopated rhythms. In no uncertain terms, he was sure that he would not let this man slip away into the recesses of his memory. The tune began with a long, drawn out note of a grey and off-putting exposition. This was his Father’s staff, wrongfully taken and maliciously wielded. Then, there was—

…

A rapping at the door interrupted Orpheus’ thoughts, the flautist having been stopped dead in his tracks. He plodded over to the other side of the room in his socks and opened the door. A young man perhaps only a year or two older than him stood in the corridor, smoothing out his well-groomed black hair. He wore a tailored suit of fine grey wool and glanced up and down at Orpheus’ simple attire as he said, “Hullo, my name is Ferris. Ferris Pavlov. I live across the hall and thought I might introduce myself. May I come in?”

He shook the other boy’s hand awkwardly as he turned to let him in. “Sure. The name’s… er… Jim Wynyard.”

A momentary look of uncertainty passed across Ferris’ face before he returned to his friendly demeanour. “Do you have a CHISEL score yet, Jim? My father had me do the test already, and I was quite pleased with the results.”

“Sorry, no. Not yet…”

Orpheus found himself suddenly awkward. The day spent with John had been easy, the detective expecting nothing of him and asking even less. Now that the young recluse found himself face-to-face with a true peer, he realised he had absolutely no experience in being social whatsoever. He stared obviously, though he was remiss to meet the other boy’s eyes, he shuffled strangely, and he fidgeted with his hands, unsure of what to do with them at all.

Ferris seemed to become quickly aware of this and took charge of the situation with practiced ease.

“This is an excellent room! May I sit down?” He said, somehow playing both the role of host and guest at once. Without waiting for a response, he threw himself comfortably into the nearest chair – a velvety number with a low back which he still managed to lounge upon. Orpheus found himself growing envious of his coolness almost instantly. “How did you come to reside here, chum?”

For his own part, Orpheus pulled up the chair from the writing desk and sat across from Ferris Pavlov, then said to him, “I’m the recipient of the Ju– the fellowship associated with the room.” He could not bring himself to speak his name. It was too personal, still too raw. He felt that if he said the wrong words, the whole truth might just come spilling out. Apparently, that would be a dangerous thing…

“Julius Whitecross took a shining to you did he?” Came Pavlov’s response, seemingly innocent of the panic twisting at Orpheus’ body. Or at least, his secretary I suppose. Nobody’s seen him in ages. Father thinks it’s a disgrace that a – well, disgraced – ‘Wizard’ could still be allowed to have a tower in the city and to be in cahoots with so many of the Council members even after everything. I tend to agree with him.”

“I’m sorry,” Orpheus began, “but who exactly is your father? And what is the Council?”

Pavlov put on a face of learned superiority. “My father is only Nikolay the Fortified, Wizard Minister of Annanvale. You do know where that is right?” Orpheus shook his head. “Gosh, chum. Where did you say you were from again? Anyway, Annanvale is the nice part of town, down by the lake and next to the Federal Reserve. It’s where most of the Council Wizards take up residence during their term in the city.”

Seeing Jim Wynyard’s puzzled expression, Ferris almost opened his mouth as if to explain further, then seemed to reconsider. “Perhaps I can explain further at dinner. Would you care to join me down at the dining hall? They’re serving plasditsij and it’s always best enjoyed piping [hot]. What do you say?”

Orpheus only nodded, by now completely lost for words. He pulled his shoes on and followed his new guide Ferris Pavlov down the corridor, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. They passed by the doors to the baths on their way to the stair, and Orpheus was about to comment on how pristine they felt and how much they reminded him of St Kilde of Arassos Isle. but, remembering Mr Andestinic’s reaction, decided against it.

They soon found themselves in the south part of the building, where a large set of doors opened onto a resplendent dining hall. At present, only about 20 students clustered in spores across the eight long tables, and the staff table had only two occupants who sat at opposite ends, but one could imagine the hundreds of students that might fit along these benches once the semester truly got under way. Throughout the room, metal footmen treaded with heavy steps as they ferried enormous trays of food that they served to each table. At one such table, a ratty looking girl in a large dress very much unsuited to the summer weather clicked her finger at one of the waiters, pointing at her glass with an expectant expression. The automaton stopped its course and turned back. Pointing its own finger at her glass, a smooth stream of liquid flowed from the point into her glass. Around them, regal portraits of old schoolmasters and -mistresses seemed to glare down upon the tables with the same expression of educated contempt that Ferris had demonstrated just minutes before, while above, countless little stone gargoyles and angels seemed to sing a silent hymn in praise of the carved-stone feast which hung suspended from the voussoir of the vaulted ceiling. Admittedly, it was only a small dining hall compared to some of the others higher up on the hill of the Academy, but how could Orpheus know any better than to stare up at this great feat of human engineering and marvel at his first true work of architectural art?

Pavlov looked about him with measured distaste, “Well it isn’t quite the Council Hall, but it is certainly better than some of the squalid housing they put the rabble in down in Waxhaven. Far less riffraff anyways. You should count yourself lucky to have ended up in the Aurelian Building, so that you may associate with a higher calibre of magical individuals.”

“Are you studying magic too, then?” Orpheus inquired as they sat down.

Ferris’s face reddened at this, but he quickly regained his resolve, his expression going flat as he said, “No, I have the luxury of studying literature and the arts, though I don’t plan on completely ruling out some magical education. However, if you plan on studying magic, you ought to get yourself familiar with how magical society operates, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

Orpheus did not know how to respond to this, and the silence of his lack of response might have drawn on longer had another boy joined them at their seats. He was introduced as Vanhim Shaw, and he bowed slightly in greeting. He seemed quite plain and dressed similarly thus, save for his extremely tall and conical mage’s cap which came to a point on a small, rounded bell. When he sat down or when he moved his head at all, the bell chimed softly, giving him a kind of pleasant melodic atmosphere or perhaps making him seem rather more like a cat than a nineteen-year-old.

“Vanhim, I was just explaining to Jim here about the Council and their doings, care to enlighten us?” Ferris poked between mouthfuls of plasditsij, which was a kind of rice dish with chicken and orange (Orpheus had to restrain himself immensely from attributing the flavours to Zirivan the Tantalising).

Vanhim spoke, his voice not quite as pleasant as the bell which joined him. “I refuse to talk about them. They’re just a bunch of grand-standing charlatans who think they can tell this city what to do and how to live when most of them only see it once every four years!”

“Shaw here’s just bellyaching because his mommy got taken off the council and reassigned to teaching. Haha!”

“At least my mother was on the council at all…” Vanhim said icily, and then, “and at least I’m doing her proud, studying magic instead of poetry!”

Pavlov soured at this, and they spent the rest of their dinner in silence, with Orpheus not finding the bravery to break the ice, and the others being too proud to speak at all. Eventually, they each finished eating and left the dining hall, Vanhim going in one direction and ‘Jim’ and Ferris going together in the other.

When they finally reached the corridor where their rooms were, Ferris Pavlov looked to Orpheus, the friendly demeanour now gone from his face, replaced with the sour look from dinner.

“I’ve met him you know.” He said, looking over Orpheus’ shoulder at the sign on his door. “Julius Whitecross.”

Orpheus’ heart skipped a beat, and his body twitched.

“My father showed me his mug once, and he told me, ‘House Whitecross is our enemy. They are dirt to us.’” Ferris continued.

Orpheus wanted to tell him that he had nothing to do with Julius. That he was just a lucky student. Yet in that moment, he could not bring himself to lie.

Before Orpheus even could register what was happening, Ferris had crossed the distance between them and then some, pressing the Whitecross heir against the door. His finger pointed at his chest, Ferris Pavlov said, “I know who you are. You look just like him. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Just know that your Whitecross blood makes you scum to me.”

Then suddenly he was gone, the lock turning in his door across the hall, and Orpheus was completely alone once more.

Having started the day with no name at all, Orpheus was about to receive the second name in a matter of hours, this time no less voluntarily than the first. His new name brought with it a certain pleasure that reminded him of the homecoming of Odysseus. Those words were real, and they had instantly become a dear possession to him, and one which could not be reclaimed now that it had been given. He had found himself repeatedly murmuring the name as they journeyed, ‘Orpheus Whitecross. Orpheus Whitecross,’ with a smile, no less.

Naturally, Mr Andestinic noticed this behaviour, but he only thought to comment on it now, as the car passed by the dense foliage of mangroves on the Interstate 5 overpass in slow procession behind a row of other automobiles. When the car came to a complete stop, the engine’s hum calming to a lesser drone, he overheard Orpheus’ muttering, and with a look of consideration said, “Well we can’t have that, now can we?” After Orpheus’ response of a confused expression, he continued, “You can’t be introducing yourself as Orpheus Whitecross to just any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Folks will have already heard what happened with your Papa, and he wasn’t exactly vocal about you around town. Word travels fast, especially around here.” He stroked his beard, thinking. “We need to give you a cover, at least until we set the record straight about a few things; and we need to keep you safe too, in case the assailant decides to find you again…”

“But I like my name!” Protested Orpheus, turning completely in his carseat to face John. Since the traffic had rended them almost stationary by now, John afforded a glance, spotting the satchel of bare possessions which Orpheus had packed. He seemed to consider.

“Do you like it enough to protect it, sonny? To keep it hidden until the appropriate time? Perhaps you remember Odysseus, when he returned home, first arrived as Aethon before he revealed himself.”

“You’ve read the Odyssey?” Orpheus responded, incredulous.

“Of course. It was required reading where I went to school…” He trailed off.

“Are there classes like that here?” Orpheus pressed, easily distracted.

“Sure there are. You should consider learning Giothien; it’s a valuable language for magic besides all the literature you can read with it.” Mr Andestinic gazed out the Panoramique window. They were coming out from the treeline now, and the city was coming into view again opposite the glimmering rice fields. He turned to face his ward as they came to a stop again. “So, Orpheus,” he said, the sombre look returning to his face, “what do you think?”

Orpheus hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Very well. What should my pseudonym be then?”

For a moment, Mr Andestinic had that same faraway look in his eyes and his hand went to his coat pocket, clutching at something. Then, he smiled softly, cleverly even, “James Wynyard,” he turned to Orpheus. “If anyone asks, you lived in a small, secluded hamlet with no name which never got any news of the outside world. When your grandparents died, I came out to investigate whether there was any foul play, and since they were your primary carers, I decided to bring you here under the protection of the State.” He glanced over at Orpheus at last, a worried frown forming in his brow, “Try to keep the details vague and don’t bring up your childhood if you can avoid it. Understand?”

Orpheus looked out on the city which finally seemed within reach. Now that they were closer, he could truly see what an absolute mountain of civilisation it was, its two peaks pointing to the sky like the hands of saints in icons; the first, the Sauer building, was glorious in the summer sun of the early evening, which still shone high even so late in the day, while the second was a dark castle atop a grassy hill peppered with spires in all manner of opulent colours: porphyry, silver, gold, blue and white, vermillion, each competing against the other on the calm backdrop of the cerulean sky. Something told Orpheus that this was the ancient heart of the Academy, with its Wizard towers sprawling from the base of the hill to the roiling lake at the edge of the city. The stone structures of the old city seemed to blend naturally where they met with the metal buildings of the modern one, creating a gentle slope of ever advancing towers from the city’s suburban edge to its acropolitan centre. Indeed, Canoniç had an immense footprint that spanned from the Federal Reserve in the east (the high-reaching trees of which were only just visible beyond the gabled manor roofs of the eastern suburbs) to the thick plumes of smoke and fog which tickled the clouds from the warehouses and power stations visible in the west. With this entire, spectacular view before him, the view of his incoming life, of his certain euphoric future, how could Orpheus have denied any request which would enable him entry into this new world of freedom? How could he not understand? A picture began to form in his mind of how he would live in Canon City, how one could choose to live visibly or invisibly in such an immense and expecting city. He realised, naturally, that he would now have to live invisibly, and he resolved that, when the chance arose, he would snatch up every opportunity he could to become visible.

Orpheus nodded, and he began to gently murmur ‘James Wynyard’ as they pulled under a little metal awning with a hut that read ‘STOP FOR INSPECTION.’ A long row of similar structures lined the span of the highway heading into the city, and just beyond the leftmost one (which John was now driving into) was a larger concrete building painted with large blue letters: U.S. ARMY / CAMP WAXHAVEN. Mr Andestinic leant out the window to address the bored young man sitting in the wooden booth. He was lean, with olive skin and close-shaven black hair under a green cap; beads of sweat were pooling around his wire-rimmed glasses as he watched the cars mill about the customs station.

“Ah, Cadet Most, a pleasure to see you” Mr Andestinic began with some familiarity. “I have a citizen in need of new papers here; we’ll need to come inside, I expect.”

A perplexed look darkened Cadet Most’s ovular face as he craned his neck to look beyond Andestinic into the passenger’s seat. Then, he stood up, waved at an officer standing by the door of the concrete building, and turned back to Mr Andestinic.

“Good to see you too, Officer Andestinic. Corporal Bollardo will see you inside.” Most smiled pleasantly, but it didn’t hide the nervous appearance that had come over him when he recognised his superior officer arriving at his station.

Andestinic brought the car to a stop in a place designated to them by Corporal Bollardo, who was a stout man whose eyebrows extended like wings much longer than his moustachios did. The two officers embraced each other warmly, and greeted each other as old friends: “How are you old chum?” “Very well, very well. Hrktos has me escorting this young fella here.” Bollardo examined Orpheus as he held the door for them to enter the complex. “Looking to enlist, son?” He asked sincerely. “Everything that’s happening on the Apsian sub-continent, we may need all the help we can get…” Andestinic shook his head as the three of them pulled up to the counter, “No, no. Jim here doesn’t know anything about that. We need to write up some identity papers for the kid.”

While the men began to speak in very official tones, Orpheus scanned the ante-room they were in, which reminded him of the salon at home, but more practical and serious. Plastic chairs lined the space, and men and women in uniforms hurried themselves through the many doors and corridors throughout. These people all walked with measured steps and postured gaits, being distracted by nothing as they resolutely soldiered forth to their duties. He watched them go by with eager curiosity and a growing paranoia.

What if one of these people somehow recognised him? It was possible that one of the men from Whitecross Mill could have joined the army. Then what? Orpheus knew the lie would stop somewhere. One of these officers would see the deception on his face and he would be ostracised from the city, condemned forever to wander the wasteland beyond and cry to himself, what if?

Luckily, Corporal Bollardo seemed to occupied with finding out if his old friend was ever getting married to scrutinise Orpheus too much, and eventually, they were allowed to leave. The newly made James Wynyard followed behind Mr Andestinic to the car with his new identity papers in hand, heart beating strong in his chest. They were made of a crisp, pristine paper and with a little photograph and all the details that the state apparently thought necessary. Name: James Wynyard; Place of origin: Ciral County; Date of birth: 24^th of Quattor 1923. They hadn’t known his exact date of birth, so Corporal Bollardo decided to make today his birthday. There was also room at the bottom of the page for more writing under the heading CHISEL, but when asked, Mr Andestinic simply said he’d explain later. From Orpheus’ first contact with the papers, they seemed heavy and dull to the touch, and seemed to emit a black, bitter atmosphere that weighed Orpheus down with shame. He wanted to tear up this vile tool of deceipt and announce his real name, I am Orpheus Whitecross, for God’s sake! But he restrained himself, remembering the pietas of Aeneas. If Aeneas could control his urges for the greater good, then so could Orpheus.

“Right,” began Mr Andestinic as he started the car, “Let’s see if we can’t get you enrolled, hey? If we hurry, we may still have time to catch the Academy administrators before they go home for the day. Otherwise, you’ll have to stay with me tonight…”

Orpheus only nodded in response. His focus had now returned to watching the city go by out the window. The great mound of modernity remained on their right the entire drive as they trailed along the street which cut through the low-seated houses and businesses of this area and when they turned right onto ‘Broadway’, the steel caps of the skyscrapers were visible directly ahead some kilometres away still. Orpheus was astounded, however, at just how many people there were in the street. The workday was now coming to a close, and the men and women of Canon City were donning their hats (which somehow managed to stay on despite the extreme winds) and closing up their shops that lined the wide street. Cable cars took up part of the middle lane, their green and yellow hulls slowly sliding along the corridor left to them by the cars as if gliding having been hoisted upon the overhead cables. At one point, they passed under a bridge of black concrete which ferried a handsome red train (he had heard of these previously from somewhere). At another, three people stood on a corner near a bakery playing sweet music from brass instruments (Orpheus smiled at this, for he had never imagined that music could come from anything but the radio and drunk factory workers). But, for the most part, the buildings slowly scrolled by like film reel, their almost identical brick facades fading into the rear windows of the cab. The shops were selling all kinds of things the likes of which Orpheus had never imagined, and they got ever stranger the closer they came to the black hill speckled with towers. Signs announced for sale radios, typewriters, and more! or more books than you could name and (further along Broadway) wands, divining bowls, psephoi, or any other magical accoutrements you may need, as well as the occasional tailor or outlet. Orpheus admired the several handsome outfits which the people on the street were sporting, between the square-cut suits and wide hats of the men and the boxy dresses and silk gloves of the women, and he imagined how each fabric must enlighten the senses. He also wondered, as they passed another magical supply store, whether he would be in need of other tools for magic (like Father had in his office) or if his wand would suffice.

Andestinic glanced over and tutted after Orpheus let out a heavy sigh. Following the boy’s line of sight to the shops and pedestrians outside, he said, “How’s about tomorrow, we go buy you some things? I bet you’re just dying to get ahold of more books than you have, hm?”

“Thank you, sir, but…” He paused. He wasn’t sure if this was a rude question to ask, and he didn’t even know where the thought came from. “Well, who will pay for it? I haven’t got any money.”

“Well, so long as you’re still 17, Archmage Hrktos will be minding your pappy’s estate, but we can still withdraw some money for you until then. So, think of it as a birthday gift from your old man.”

Orpheus seemed satisfied with this. He didn’t know what a birthday gift was, but the thought of receiving anything from his Father, even with him missing, was comforting. Still, the thought of old Julius Whitecross hidden so far off, brought tears to Orpheus’ eye, and he began to cry as the great city street brought them in between the ancient mount and the urban mound. John let the boy be as he sobbed in silence.

---

They arrived in the main office of the Academy just in time to stop the severe-looking young lady from punching her timecard. She rolled her eyes at the interruption, but allowed herself to be brought back to the admissions desk to begin processing the new student.

They had turned off of Broadway when the metal buildings on the right side of the street were nothing alike the brick ones on the left. Driving along the much older Vinipter Parade, Orpheus could now see the fantastic domed structures and quaint courtyards of the college, and the towers of wizards and spires of churches served their duty of verticality with sober indifference to the nearby towers of modernity. They eventually parked before a stout stone building some short way up the low slant of the Parade’s hill that eventuated in the castled peak of the old city. Inside was where they had managed to catch the lady they now sat with, whose desk informed Orpheus of her name, Mme Beatrice Fremont.

As before, Mr Andestinic was speaking on Orpheus’ behalf, and when Mme Fremont began to shake her head as she scanned her logbook with the end of her pencil, the officer replied with a grin, “Ah, by the way, Mme Fremont, Archmage Vania Hrktos asked me to bring this letter of recommendation for Mr Wynyard. Here.” As he said this, he reached into the inner pocket of his dark coat and procured a sharp-cornered letter labelled “For the admittance of one James Wynyard.” Orpheus was astounded by this, as not only had he not seen Hrktos give Andestinic any letter, he could not imagine how she could have learned at any point to address the letter on behalf of James Wynyard. Still, despite these impossibilities, he could identify the Archmage’s distinct dweomer on the envelope – the metallic yet roseate taste in his mouth returning instantly at the sight of it, familiar from his brief interaction with her earlier that morning. He nodded eagerly, as if to communicate all of this to the woman whose judgement would determine Orpheus’ livelihood. Mme Fremont ‘hummed’, then read the letter, her youthful eyes flitting across the page with scrutinous severity.

After her close examination, she finally looked up and into Orpheus’ eyes. For a moment, he thought that her gaze would pierce right through him, exposing all and damning him to obscurity for eternity. Instead, she said, “Very well, you will be admitted, James Wynyard. Classes start on the first of Pentember. What track would you like to enroll in, young man? We offer diplomacy, academics, ar—”

Orpheus never let her finish. He stood up from his seat and announced, over-eager:

“I want to study magic, please!”

“How does everyone know what to do when on the road?” Orpheus asked innocently. “I mean, I’m shocked these machines don’t crash into each other all the time!”

They had been driving for about four hours now, and John Andestinic had been assaulted with such irritating questions as these since the moment they stepped forth from the Mill. Hrktos had excused herself, teleporting away on other business after leaving orders with John to bring the academy’s new ward to the city himself in the analogue fashion. Orpheus had caught sight of the sleek black 1935 Panoramique automobile with its rounded square frame and elegant seats almost immediately and was totally enraptured by a sight the likes of which he had never before seen, though it certainly reminded him in its shape of the horse-drawn buggies upon which the workers came and went in search of work. He was tempted to ask where the devil they would attach their horse when he noticed a veritable hum and a certain emanation of heat in the frontmost box of the carriage, so instead he asked, “What manner of creature propels your car Mr. Andestinic?” Unawares of the consequences of his actions, Andestinic answered freely, explaining that this was his automobile in which he had arrived with Archmage Hrktos and in which they two would now be departing for Canoniç (he pronounced the name of the city in the archaic way of the Orthodoxy, with the added ‘its’ ending, further piquing Orpheus’ curiosity about the man), and all the while explaining that the machine was propelled by an engine fuelled with the very energy which Whitecross Mill and other mills like it were charged with producing. Naturally, this answer led to a multitude of other questions which excited from the young hermit like undiscovered heirlooms just now revealed in a chest of drawers just now exposed after many years of being regarded with indifference; Orpheus examined each question slowly in his mind like a fresh jewel, its hues and refractions enveloping his attention completely, before he ventured forth to ask it of his new guide. Andestinic had been tasked with the harbouring of dewy-eyed recluses many times before, and several had not had such a familiarity with the concept of magic as this one, but nevertheless answering these long unreachable questions seemed distasteful to him in this instance. Perhaps it was on account of his earlier disagreement with his superior (indeed, Orpheus could detect some animosity in Mr Andestinic’s voice whenever Hrktos came up in conversation) or perhaps he was simply tired on account of his years of experience in the field. Still, nothing could stay the young Mr. Whitecross’s curiosity from reaching its realisation.

“Why should the Mill produce this energy, and how does it reach the car?” “Where did all the millers come from?” “Does Canonic really glitter with the light of a thousand stars each night?” “Who built Canon City? When and why?” And many other such questions.

Eventually, as they ventured deeper into the wet, toxic landscape of Canon City’s hinterlands in Thel, Orpheus began to desist from his interrogation in the interest of taking stock of the scenery. He endeavoured to memorise every metre of the region as they passed the grey mounds of sodden mud and the blackened trenches and craters which mired the land as they passed – remnants of recent wars which Orpheus was sure to enquire about at a later time when his priceless memories were not at stake of being left unsealed. He even took pains to note well the interior of the Panoramique’s cab, which was lined with luxurious velvet and dark leather, with wooden panelling and metal detailing to the effect of an almost royal level of comfort which could only have been dreamed about but hours ago. This comfortable interior served well to protect them from the extreme and absurd conditions just beyond the cab’s frame as they passed from the flooded wasteland of the south onto a severely dry mesa which proved equally as barren from the lower region separated by a ledge of only a few metres. The entire terrain of the hinterland, Orpheus was beginning to notice, was remarkably flat, only faltering in its uniformity by some ruined settlement or ancient funeral mound that rose up on the horizon like sleeping gods. As they travelled further north, such landmarks became more frequent, though no less unique, and the terrain began to sport a fashionably pale grass which grasped at the flat soil with greedy roots, its imperial expansion severed only by the sealed road upon which they drove. The road, which Mr Andestinic identified as the Interstate 3, inspired in Orpheus a hope for the grandeur of the city to which it led, as he imagined the broad boulevards which would criss-cross in an orderly grid between strong, stately buildings. Indeed, they soon found themselves driving through the winding streets of a small town named Villymisti, which, though modest, boasted some rather handsome looking brick buildings, including a dignified looking (albeit small) government building. When Orpheus expressed his astonishment at the immense size of the town’s advertised population (roughly ten thousand), John impressed its absolute scarcity in comparison to Canoniç with a smile that spoke volumes.

Further, the town was large enough that one or two automobiles drove its avenues, and once the third had zipped past with more speed than Orpheus had ever imagined possible, his latest question was prompted.

“There are certain rules,” Andestinic began to explain, “which everyone agrees to follow in order to make life easier. You understand?” Naturally, Orpheus asked about who made these rules and why they ought to be followed. “Well,” Andestinic replied, now somewhat more willing to answer questions for whatever reason, “the United States government creates the laws, and if everyone finds them agreeable, then they are enforced by the police. People like me, for example. Anyone who won’t follow the laws gets locked up, you see.”

“And what if they don’t want to be locked up? What if they escape?” Orpheus said, thinking now of the terrible fate of his Father. He was imagining the poor man trapped against his will in the clutches of this Hermeticus villain, and the thought of it was making him like the idea of imprisonment less and less.

John looked across at Orpheus at last, his eyes having been trained on the road as they exited the town and rejoined the highway. “There is a certain point when enough broken rules causes the government to decide someone ought to die for their crimes, son. Men and women who well and truly refuse to follow the rules are executed by the state.”

Orpheus seemed to think about this for a while, watching the cars drive past. Eventually, he turned to the policeman beside him and said, “so the law is only upheld by violence?”

Mr Andestinic chuckled at this, “Straight to the point there!” Then his expression darkened, and he seemed to recede into his thoughts as he drove. “Violence is the only thing the world answers to,” he said softly. He put a cigarette to his mouth and lit it with the end of his wand, clearly ending the conversation.

They drove in silence now, which would never bother Orpheus, whose entire childhood was silent. As much as he wanted to ask more questions, he of all people understood Mr Andestinic’s desire for silence. The overwhelming cacophony of the outside world was already overwhelming his senses, the thrum of engines and the shout of pedestrians distracting him from his peaceful thoughts. Sure, the workers at the mill were rowdy and the millhouse itself was restless in its engine song, but such sounds were familiar, and retreating into the further parts of the manor usually dampened their impact, while the noises of the streets were strange and exciting and inescapable from the cab, padded though it was. Orpheus attempted to focus his attention on his leather seat, counting each stitch that fastened the dermis to its cushion; the sensation was pleasant, and not entirely unfamiliar. He imagined the poor creature from which the skin had come – her name was surely Kern and she had certainly come from somewhere distant, in a bright and pleasant meadow with a white tree on the horizon. Though he had never witnessed a scene like it, he tried to picture what might go on in a place like this, how Kern would chew on that grass and how old Mr Whitecross would coerce her into a barn and stab her with a long, thin knife for the slaughter.

Orpheus jolted upright with a shiver, shaking off the odd thought. John cast a glance over at him.

“Got the heebie jeebies, hey? Come on, let’s get some lunch. I’m running on empty here!”

So, they pulled into a small dirt lot next to a round looking building with a neon sign that read, ‘Anna’s Diner.’ Inside the metal swinging door, the vinyl floors and oily counters were a novel experience for Orpheus, and he smiled with eager anticipation as they settled into a little booth. With the sun now well past its apex, the diner was beginning to quiet from the lunch period, though a few delivery drivers sat at the bar drinking colas. Someone had put on a toe-tapping little tune on the jukebox and the lady behind the counter, presumably Anna, was bobbing her head as she poured another soda for a customer. As he pulled into his side of the booth, Mr Andestinic pointed his wand at the rack of paper menus, calmly speaking the word ‘Ueτæheπ.’ After a moment of hesitation, the menus slid from the counter, apparently already on the brink of falling, and glided, as if by accident, across the diner and onto the table.

Naturally amazed, Orpheus exclaimed through his agape mouth, “Wow! Will I be learning magic like that in Canonic? I always asked Father to show me, but he was always too busy. He’ll be so amazed when he comes back and I can cast spells…” The young man almost trailed off into his own thoughts if he were not eager for more answers.

“Perhaps, but you’ll have to learn some theory first. Most bubblers – that’s a mage by the way – goes through his fair share of theory classes. Can’t get your wand to pop any more than a squeak without it.” Andestinic was speaking through a cigarette now, occasionally glancing up over his reading glasses as he perused the menu. He gave a dastardly smile, lips pulled tight over the white of the cigarette. “Take your pick of the menu kid, today’s meal is on Hrktos.”

In the wild overcorrecting hunger of any starved man, Orpheus resolved to order three mains and a dessert, with a soda to spare. He was nevertheless careful in his selection, taking sober stock of each item. Anna, who had come round from behind the bar to take their order, was patient enough to answer his questions as he ran his finger down the line. Eventually, Orpheus decided on a steak frites, a cucumber salad, a lamb wrap, and an apple pie. The hostess beamed as she marked down the request, finally turning to Andestinic, “My, the young man sure knows how to order!” She returned promptly with Orpheus’s soda and a coffee for John.

“Of course, you could take on any course offered by the Academy,” John was saying. “You don’t have to be a mage…  Perhaps you might train to be an officer? Captain Hall would make a fine officer of you.”

“No,” Orpheus said, barely considering the idea. He took a sip of his soda, and quickly realised why Mr Andestinic had called mages ‘bubblers’ before – the fizz that he had felt when his assailant had cast off (and later when the Archmage had done the same) was identical to what he felt on his tongue as the sweet, dark, almost oily beverage swirled around his mouth. The young man decided he liked this feeling. Eager to get through the theory of magic as quickly as possible so as to begin casting spells, he leant forward and asked, “So, what can you tell me about magic?”

“Hm. Well, I’m no teacher, but my knowledge certainly isn’t stale. Magic isn’t quite what most people imagine it to be; there isn’t one way to approach it. Everyone connects to the aether in different ways, see. You ever been to church?”

Orpheus shook his head and John muttered something profane about Julius Whitecross the heretic. “I have read the Bible, though!” Orpheus put in, coming to his Father’s defence. This seemed to please Mr Andestinic.

“Better than most new students, I suppose. Well, think of it like the Trinity, then. Each of the three connect with God in their own way, right? Thelonius through his heritage, Kathan through his spiritual training, and Ibex through his rigorous study. They each connect to the same thing, but in a way that suits them. Magic is much the same; you have to meet it where it asks of you, but you can do so on your own terms while you’re at it. Understand?”

Before Orpheus could respond, Anna arrived with their meals. The steak frites was glistening with hot oil that enjoined with a sprig of rosemary to produce an aroma of unimaginable proportions; the cucumber looked fresh and crisp, and the entire salad was coated in a dark vinegar that was currently saturating into the pale green veins of the gorgeous fruit; the lamb wrap seemed (at least to Orpheus, whose salivatingly slow appreciation for each dish in this reasonably serviced roadside diner had received a brief glance from Andestinic, who then promptly returned to his sandwich) expertly crafted, each component serving its dutiful role in the production of a far superior whole bound by a thin prison of paper; finally, the apple pie, which was surely to be left last as the dessert portion, had a gentle sprinkling of sugar upon its densely packed surface that surely would resemble an early winter snowfall if he had only ever had the privilege of seeing one. The scene reminded Orpheus momentarily of a pleasant moment in his peaceful childhood when an old lady in bright stripes had brought for him at the house a little blueberry tart sprinkled with the same snowlike sugar that had delighted the senses as much then as the apple pie did now. Still, there was no time to dwell on such memories – the meal was afoot! The ravenous young Whitecross dined methodically, first selecting a cucumber and turning it about on his fork, then taking a well calculated bite out of the wrap (so that he might enjoy the maximum amount of flavour), then carving off a slice of steak and forcing a chip onto the end of the already stuffed fork. After each curated bite, Orpheus announced to Andestinic a name as he would at home with the elder Whitecross. After the third announcement (which happened to be ‘St Johannes of Hallad’) the detective held up his hand.

“Enough, what the devil are you saying, man?!”

Orpheus gave a quizzical look, “why, I’m simply describing what each flavour reminds me of.”

“Well, cut it out. People don’t like when a fella says odd shit at the table, okay?” Andestinic shook his head slightly, as if to rid himself of whatever odd sensation had come over him. His dark curls (now revealed from under his hat now that they were inside) shook with him, eventually settling down like the shadowed leaves of a tree in the night.

The young man shrugged, “I can’t help it if my words give you the hee-bee jee-bees, but fine,” he said, repeating the words he had first heard spoken only an hour ago with stilted inexperience. This elicited a chuckle from Andestinic, only shaking his head again as he returned to his meal.

About an hour further along the road, the landscape changed once again. Orpheus began for the first time to see picturesque meadows of green grass which stretched endlessly, dotted as it was in countless pockets of colourful wildflowers and the occasional house with a wraparound porch. The young recluse gasped aloud when this scene first came into sight, its pleasant border meeting the very edge of the low red mesa which they were just now dismounting on the shallow decline of the Interstate 5. Somehow, not a grain of sand breached the edge of the desert only metres away and Orpheus felt that the atmosphere changed slightly as they passed over the threshold of this new, impossibly nice realm. From time to time, a red column of sand was carried on the wind far above, eclipsing the white clouds like an army of tiny crimson soldiers returning to the city from the bloodshed of war. Still, not even a mote of red was detectable on the surface of the bluish-green plain besides the poppies which littered the field like pools of the spilt life-force of generations past.

Andestinic glanced about him as he drove, perceiving Orpheus’ astonishment with this new, previously unfathomable vista.

“Wait ‘til you see the Windy City; Canoniç will be totally different again to anything anyone has seen.” The tenured detective always took pleasure in this moment, when people finally got to see the beauty of the home he had come to love. It made the bothersome questions worth their while.

“But what is it, Mr Andestinic? How is it possible that these hills aren’t desert?”

“This region, called Efthea, is under the protection of an exceptionally made blessing of meadows. Damn good fizz right there. Rich folk prefer to live here over the deserted wastelands back before. Only problem is that the blessing uses up a heck of a lot of ambient magic in the atmosphere.”

“So, all the energy at the Mill was being processed… for this?”

“In some cases, yes. Most of the magic on the continent sits on the wind like sand. It all ends up in the Windy City eventually,” John said with a shrug.

After an uncharacteristically picturesque few minutes, they passed beyond Efthea (its central town was visible downstream from a river overpass, its glistening brass peaks and blue-capped houses just as resplendent as the surrounds) and up a sloping drive along a low black cliff which saw a return of the same marshy, grey wasteland that was familiar to Orpheus’s eyes. The surface of this terrain, however, was coated in a thin film of red sand that had travelled from beyond the blessed fields on the spirit winds. The effect of this red coating was a sunset-like appearance as the crimson light reflected off the pools of murky peat. From this new vantage at the edge of this wet field (where the occasional rice paddy could be spotted, and a few rice farmers raised their bent heads to observe the veritable queue of automobiles which trafficked along the highway in anticipation of what was ahead), one could observe just above the treeline of the mangroves that densely held back the flat terrain the metal peaks of the towering buildings which bundled together with militant order. Further, as they left the sanctuary of Efthea, the wind returned to the landscape, now stronger than ever, so that the tough frame of the cab began to shudder with animalistic fervour, adding to the epic, almost somatic effect which came over Orpheus as the city of the world came into view. Andestinic leant over the steering wheel and pointed at the spire of one building which reached higher than any other, its golden leaves seemingly touching the clouds like the crowning fronds of a thyrsus, “That one’s the Sauer building, the tallest building in the world.”

He leant back into the driver’s seat, content to enjoy once more Orpheus’ astonishment.