The guard led Bacchus past the second floor, which appeared to have classrooms and dormitories, to the third, where they traversed a long hallway in which the portraits of English royals hung across from those of famous aspectors. Bacchus’s limbs began to grow weary despite the early hour, but he stood straighter, refusing to let the fatigue show. Sunlight filtered in through the large windows to his left, illuminating the portraits of the aspectors. All English save for one with a French name. All male. Women, the lower classes, and foreigners hadn’t been allowed access to spellmaking until the early seventeen hundreds, after the riots. Even so, society was slow to catch up.
His guide took him up one more flight of stairs. This place is a labyrinth. One more stairwell and Bacchus would know something was magicked; the atheneum wasn’t that large.
But the stairs ended, and Bacchus found himself in a narrow corridor facing doors even heavier than those at the entrance. Two more sentries stood at attention. As they approached, one of them retreated back down the stairs, perhaps to take up the position vacated by Bacchus’s guide. The guide then knocked thrice, opened the door, and made his announcement.
“Mr. Bacchus Kelsey, advanced aspector of the physical alignment, Barbados, to meet with the assembly.”
There was no reply. The guard stepped back into the hall and gestured for Bacchus to enter.
He did so with his shoulders squared and his head held high.
It was a cold room, though not so much in temperature as in aesthetics. A few draperies adorned the walls, but they were cast in shadow and seemed little more than caves of ink. There were no chandeliers, sconces, or candlesticks; all the light came from the windows in one wall. The only rug was a long red strip that led directly from the door to the raised row of seats protected by an overly tall stone partition. Bacchus stood six foot three, but the assembly sat ten feet above ground level.
Eleven aspectors in all, the youngest being perhaps in his forties and the eldest holding on to his health in his seventies. They very much matched the portraits in that long hallway, save for the single woman in their ranks, who sat in the second-to-last chair on the right.
Bacchus knew all their names, but not all their faces. He could, however, identify the man sitting in the center of the assembly, his seat jutting forward. His hair was a pale gray, his face deeply lined as though he’d spent his entire life scowling. Master Enoch Phillips, a titled earl, and head of this atheneum.
Bacchus bowed deeply. “My thanks that you have agreed to meet with me.”
“You’ve traveled far,” Master Phillips said, his tone both impressed and disgusted at the same time. “Welcome to London.”
Bacchus nodded his thanks.
“Your portfolio is most impressive,” said the woman. Her name was easy to place: Master Ruth Hill. She shuffled a few papers Bacchus could hear but not see. She was in her fifties and carried her age well. White wisps of hair streaked the blonde tresses pulled back at the nape of her neck. “You started at a good age and progressed well, despite your limited resources.”
Spending half his life in Barbados, she meant. The island was small, and its magical community was even smaller.
“And all of your testing has been performed here,” added the man to her left. “A wise choice.”
“England is my second home.” Bacchus laced his words with as much politeness as he could muster. He needed this, and not just for his mastership. “I have much respect for the country as well as this atheneum.” Not to mention the tedium of getting his records sent back and forth across the seas.
“Yes,” interjected Master Phillips, rubbing his pointed chin, “that is evident. And a pure spellmaking history. I do appreciate a man who knows what he wants. Purity is essential for longevity.”
Master Phillips cast a pointed glance at the man beside him, who gave no reaction other than the tightening of his mouth. That was Master Victor Allen, then. Although he had become a master regardless, he’d spent his first two years of apprenticeship under a spiritual aspector before switching to the physical alignment. Such a thing was not uncommon, but the magical strength a man earned in one alignment could not be transferred to another, and it would hinder him for the rest of his life. Indeed, most men would not have the capacity to reach masterhood in a second discipline after expending some of their abilities in a first, which only went to show Master Allen was a very powerful man. Perhaps that was the real reason Master Phillips seemed to dislike him.
“I have known my desires since I was a boy, even before I showed promise,” Bacchus explained. “I have not faltered from my chosen path.”
He fought the desire to twitch under the scrutiny of eleven pairs of eyes.
“Indeed. Another admirable quality.” Master Phillips nodded. He folded his hands against the edge of his pedestal wall. “Your résumé and references speak for themselves, Mr. Kelsey. The assembly has discussed your petition previously, and we have agreed to approve your promotion to mastership.”
A bubble of pride swelled in Bacchus’s chest. All he had to do now was learn a master spell—prove he could absorb it—under the eye of an assembly member, and the title would be his.
“However, your request for the master ambulation spell is denied.”
The bubble popped, and it took every bit of Bacchus’s will not to let his shoulders slump. Not to look as though he’d been punched in the gut. Not to show his anger.
His throat tightened as he said, “I thank you kindly for the approval.” He bowed, if only to buy himself a few seconds to sort out his tangled thoughts. “Forgive my impertinence, but why have I been denied the requested spell? I do not ask for any others.” Desperation drove him to ask. It would be virtually impossible for someone to guess the words to a spell, which were both lengthy and in Latin. Certain spells could be acquired directly from spellmakers or opus collectors, but master spells tended to be dangerous, and were thus much more closely regulated. There was, of course, the illegal route, but the punishment for misusing magic in any way was hard and swift, and any aspector caught doing it would immediately lose his license, assuming he didn’t lose his head as well. “I will not drain any of the atheneum’s resources. I will not share the knowledge with any, save on the bed of my death.”
His mastership meant nothing if he did not have that ambulation spell.
His future would mean nothing, too.
“It is a powerful spell. Rare, valuable. As you know,” Master Phillips replied. He appeared to be looking just over Bacchus’s head rather than at his eyes.
“I am aware.” Bacchus carefully measured out his words. He could not unball his fists, so he stowed them behind his back. “But I do not request it for the sake of its rarity. It would prove very useful at my estate.” Not a lie. “I will compensate the atheneum generously and the drops, of course, will come from my own pocket.”
One could not master even a novice spell without paying for it in aspector drops—the universe’s wizarding currency—but Bacchus had been saving a long time. He was prepared for that.
“I do not doubt its usefulness, young man,” Master Phillips replied, “but the master ambulation spell is a treasure of the atheneum. It must stay among its people.”