Sworded Affair

Chapter 55 : Man in the Mirror

[Pacifism debuff applied. On this floor, you are unable to perform any act inflicting direct harm upon another. Good luck!]

A familiar message greeted Emma as she stepped through the threshold, exchanging endless snow and ice for a small, cosy office as the door vanished behind her. Looking around, Emma felt a strange sense of familiarity in her surroundings; whether it was the pale pastel wallpaper, flaking at the corners, the chandelier hanging low from the ceiling, or the whiteboard covered top to bottom with arcane mathematical equations, all of it a poignant reminder of her frequent visits to the Head Teacher's office.

"Welcome, aspirant," The office's sole occupant spoke, having noticed her presence at last. "If you don't mind, please take a seat in the visitor's chair. Sorry for the wait, but we're a bit behind on the paperwork as it is, so I'll be just a few more minutes if that's alright."

Sinking into the soft leather armchair without complaint, Emma took the time to examine her opposite closely as he worked. A prisoner at his desk laden with a dozen ring binders filled with documents, brown folders and loose sheets of paper, he was the very image of a harried academic even before taking into account the featureless blue robes and greying hair, or the heavy bags under both eyes and bloodshot pupils barely hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles.

"Damn it," The man hissed, frowning at the name he'd just written, the ink from his fountain pen yet to dry.

Placing his thumb upon the word and scraping left, a faint glow erased the word as written, leaving unmarked paper behind. It was the first hint of magic Emma had seen in the room thus far, though she wasn't overly surprised by the display as a whole, given his title.

[Magus Marcus the Misfortunate - Level 26 Illusionist]

Polishing off the form, Marcus placed it in a pile with at least a dozen more, moving onto the next, and the next, and the next after that. Emma didn't mind the wait; the armchair was far more comfortable than the days she'd spent riding after all. Fifty minutes later, Marcus signed his name to one final document and set it down with a sigh.

"Sorry about that," He apologised again. "The period between Ostara and Litha; the Spring Equinox in March and the Summer Solstice in June, this is traditionally a long break in the academic year. Students go on holiday, faculty do the same or depart to pursue their own passions in research, and Scholomance is left largely empty save for the automated servants which see to repairs and restoration.

The terminus changes everything though; a flood of mana to such a degree means everyone at a bottleneck is going to break through. You're lucky you got here so early; another week or two and there'd be a rush of aspirants, having practised enough with their newfound power to dare brave the tower. At that point, you'd be waiting in a long queue; and the numbers we're expecting means additional resources have to be tapped to sustain the tower's operation during that time. Anyway, that's the last of the requisition forms sorted, so onto you now. Seventh floor trial, right?"

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Emma nodded, unsure if she should say anything else.

"Most trial selections are random for each participant," Marcus began. "This one is an exception; everyone who gets far enough will find themselves here for their seventh floor, unless they've already been screened before entering the tower. This is as much a matter of national security as it is a test for the aspirant, because it allows the administration to filter out those who are magically powerful but lacking in other crucial matters; such as common sense, for example, or sanity.

A Practitioner is more than just a fancy word; becoming one grants access to substantial privileges under Empire law, ones not easily rescinded. The death of one is accordingly also a substantial matter, drawing attention from many powerful individuals; so taking all this into account, it was deemed expedient to have a method of filtering problematic individuals before they earned the title, rather than cleaning up afterwards. You can see my name and level, yes?"

"Your title as well," Emma couldn't resist adding, drawing a groan from the examiner.

"Yes, that damnable title," Marcus sighed. "Word of advice, if you ever visit Ireland, listen to your guide and don't say anything stupid to the local fae. Seventy-two years since I was there as an apprentice, and that curse still follows me everywhere I go. There's a rota of examiners who oversee this trial, you understand, we take a month each every ten years as part of our conditions of employment. I'd thought myself lucky for once, getting assigned during the quiet of the holiday period; well now I know better."

"My condolences?" Emma offered, feeling more like an occupational therapist than an aspirant at the moment.

"Thank you," Marcus sighed. "Moving on from the tales of my misspent youth, it's time to talk about yours. You've noticed the restrictions upon yourself, I trust?"

"No acts inflicting direct harm," Emma dutifully recited.

"Right, that's because this is purely an interview, with the proviso that the interviewer, myself in this case, is always an experienced wielder of mind magic. As a rule, we don't tend to be much good in direct combat; you'd flatten me in seconds at arm's length, hence the protections. What we are very good at is sifting through lies, spotting alterations and false memories and generally detecting anything that might have been planted in an aspirant, with the goal of causing harm. Magic is dangerous enough as it is; the Empire has no tolerance for Manchurian Candidates."

"That actually happens?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow. "Outside of spy movies, that is"

"Demons bound to the aspirant," Marcus nodded seriously. "Possession by ghosts, infiltration by changelings and fellow illusionists, or even the deployment of entirely mundane double agents, compelled not by any magic but simple, deep-seated loyalty, bought and paid for from foreign coffers. Stolen secrets, political embarrassments, and even deaths have come from such attempts; a Magus is still ultimately a mortal, they can and have died to treacherous knives in the night. These days, the Empire is very careful with human resource management. Now, are you ready to begin?"

"I am," Emma nodded, unbothered by the warning given she hadn't known any of this existed even two months ago; she was very much unaffiliated with any of the above.

"Very good. Then please, do not resist as I weave the rite of truth. Let's begin with your birth, and trace the lines of the past unto the here and now."