I sat on the square in front of the faculty building, waiting for my turn to take the Empowerment (that day there were three others scheduled for the ritual) and getting annoyed at mere trifles. My dear Uncle (kick the bucket already, you old goat!) refused to explain the essence of the ritual, despite the whole summer of my practicing with the Source. “If you know it in advance, you will fail it for sure! Just remember: you should refrain from using your power for as long as possible. Got it? For as long as possible!” That was all that I was able to shake out of him. Now 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 coat rack for jackets. There, I was asked to change into the ritual costume (it looked like a black pajamas), and from thereon I continued barefoot, pretending to be a seasoned mage, because a dark magician arriving at the ritual in socks with holes didn’t strike me as comical.
With great effort, the instructor swung open a door made of cast iron (like a vault), but there was no temple behind it—just a small room without sharp corners. Bluish-white lights glared on the walls of polished silver. If there were any magic wards present there, they did not stick out. One of the assistants went ahead of me, the other breathed down my neck from behind, and the instructor showed the way, occasionally tugging me by the sleeve and annoying me greatly.
I hated to be grabbed or pulled!
The door locked behind us with a dull clanking sound that caused my heart to skip a beat anxiously. Why did the door need to be locked?
“This important-for-every-dark-magician day…” the instructor monotonously droned.
He managed to maneuver so masterfully that I noticed our destination at the last moment: it was a short iron table with four leather bracelets.
“Perhaps…”
As though by accident, he took my hand and started pushing me down onto the polished surface. All my instincts howled at once. I rushed to the door but was adroitly intercepted by the second assistant and laid on the damned altar. That it was an altar was as clear as day.
“I have changed my mind! I do not want to go through the ritual!”
“Too late,” the instructor replied after catching his breath, “You’ll leave this room as a dark magician or won’t leave at all.”
“A-ah!”
Damn! The walls were thick there; furthermore, it was the basement. I tried to pull myself together (figuratively speaking, because my hands were fastened behind my head). Today two other students had taken the ritual before me and both were alive and intact; I even saw one of them. Though the color of his face was…”
“What will happen next?”
The assistants tinkered with something in the corner, while the instructor examined me with the look of a professional surgeon.
“You will acquire Power.”
I tried to discern what they were doing, but failed. It drove me crazy.
“There won’t be anything cruel, right? Nothing special?”
The instructor’s eyes met mine, and he declared solemnly: “There will be!”
“You have no right!” I tried to speak decisively, but my voice trembled and broke.
He leaned closer to me and winked conspiratorially: “We do.”
My dear mother! I had fallen into the hands of maniacs. The police persuaded them, and they would kill me right here and now and blame the ritual. What could I do? SOS!
The assistants mounted a few black candles along the altar and lit them, murmuring indistinctly. I started feeling an uncomfortable tingling in my hands and feet.
“The spell is called ‘Odo Aurum’, ” the instructor told me amiably. “It will help you to call your Source as soon as possible. We’ll wait until the spell starts operating.”