Chapter 1 Draft (incomplete)

The rain had started two thousand feet above Nova Royeaux, collecting in swollen clouds that drifted over the city. The clouds had formed on the eastern seaboard, fueled by the Atlantic Ocean and propelled by the jet stream. High in the Appalachian Mountains, the city was surrounded by a thick fog without exception. Its industrious population of eleven million had leveled mountain peaks and filled in valleys, turning decrepit mineshafts into subway lines and carving homes into the cliffs they allowed to remain. And now rain sluiced over their fair city. Each light was given its own nimbus in celebration. Here, a pair of headlights shot gold through the falling water. There, a neon sign, words in red and green obscured by the colorful haze. Phones were revealed and hidden again, wiped off and stowed carefully. Magi scurried from alcove to alcove, only allowing themselves the most meager uses of magic. A student, brown hair matted above green eyes from a jaunt in the streets, flicked water from the tread of his shoes with a murmur before striding across a granite floor with no more racket than usual. A taxi driver sat in his livelihood, listening to the heater roar, a spoon stirring his cup of coffee seemingly of its own accord. The pavement puddled and glistened, reflecting an inconstant image of the world above. Skyscrapers warped and rattled. Signs wavered in their reflections. Faces were obscured, only grey outlines remaining of them. Hoods were thrown against the rain, umbrellas erected in a semblance of barricade. It’s what people did when there was rain, magic or not. Getting wet was still unpleasant. Being cold was still unpleasant. Wind tugging at your collar, mussing your outfit- still unpleasant.
Unless, that is, you were Augustine. She walked through the streets as if it was a sunny day in July, not this mid-May deluge. Raindrops fell in droves. Past skyscrapers and trees they hurtled. Off windows and columns they skittered. They cut through the cold, alpine air. And just when it seemed they must hit her, soiling hair carefully curled, they stopped. Held in place by the fabric of the universe, they waited for her passage before gently ending their journey with a disappointed plop. Augustine had places to be, and she did not plan on showing up to her Academy induction ceremony looking like a waterlogged rat. She didn’t have looks to spare for those she strode past. If she had, she might have seen the scorn in their faces. She could have watched distaste turn to surprise with the shock of realization. She might have heard their mutterings follow her down the sidewalk. Glances thrown like daggers might have been noticed, catalogued, recorded. Not that she would have cared. History holds no record of their interactions, and so no note will be made of it here.
The Academy in question was founded in nineteen thirty-six, making it the second newest institution of its kind worldwide. Equipping a school to teach mages is a simple task. Their shared anima pool serves both to limit and to guide them. A pupil creating ice sculptures from steam may pull the corresponding magic out of the atmosphere, but he also creates a vacuum of sorts that is quickly filled by another kind. Curriculums can be created and balanced; classrooms reinforced, teachers trained. Wizards, of course, operate under a completely different set of parameters. They pull their spells from different dimensions independently, instead of being restrained by a shared magic pool like the magi. Theoretically, this would serve to simplify matters. After all, the same lesson, with the same spells, could be repeated indefinitely. Educational planners the world over rejoiced- and architects quietly worried. A building, suffering repeated internal strain of uncertain and potentially infinite magnitude, on a regular basis, for an extended period of time?
The Academy’s foyer was banded in homogenous rolled steel for good reason. Green and white marble clashed along the floor, drawing a series of intricate geometric shapes. Columns towered upwards, inscribed with the names of a thousand pupils. Hushed conversations rose and fell like a drifting tide, austere men in starched suits exchanging details and observations while their shadows danced behind them. You or I likely would not have noticed anything out of place- not immediately, anyway. A cavernous space, oak pedestals holding aloft a variety of busts, a row of desks against one wall, two vault like doors set deep in the wall furthest from the entrance. Augustine, having lived all her life in a world saturated with magic, would not have noticed it either. A massive space, with no windows to speak of, its only access to the rest of the city a single rotating door- and not a single artificial light. Vaguely orange illumination, lacking a definite source, filled the room. Again, not that Augustine noticed- she was a bit busy trying to explain to the poor lady operating the desk that she was, in fact, an accepted student, and she was simply here to pick up her uniforms before beginning her enrollment in the Academy proper.
It was here her path intersected with another wizard of considerable merit and more-or-less equal note. The orange light without origin glared off of his glasses, giving his usually pallid skin an almost healthy glow. A canvas jacket, the cuffs worn ragged by incessantly fidgeting fingers, hung loose on a frame that would better suit a corpse. It’s not that Tiresias was cavalier with his health; he just had a tendency to forget certain things. At the moment, he was having difficulty remembering how he was supposed to find his way into the admissions office. (Other things Tiresias had difficulty remembering: how the sun looks at noon, proper etiquette for receiving a birthday present, the last time he ate, appropriate sleeping cycles.)
Admissions to the Academy had always been - and would always be – a curious process. It wasn’t simply a matter of magical aptitude, or of intelligence. Even connections and wealth, the usual culprits for nonsensical administration, seemed to have little bearing on the Academy’s choices. Wizards, being generally disposed to theorization, have come up with a variety of explanations, linking one’s chances of success to everything from the color of one’s eyes to the number of times a hummingbird whistled in the preceding five minutes. That hummingbirds don’t whistle seems to be irrelevant- both theories are equally accurate. Any other system intended to process a large volume of people would have been quickly reformed. Streamlined. Quirks would have been clipped, oddities removed. But the Academy served a special function, and so it was allowed its intricacies- what some might call its inadequacies.
Tiresias was, in general, not a very vocal person. People did a horrid job listening, and an even worse job of paying attention. Ringing a small bell and asking the attendant who hurried over required six minutes of fretting, gathering his nerve, rehearsal, and general social anxiety. This, from a boy of seventeen who had once accidentally leveled a duplex as a child.
“Yes. Uhm. You wouldn’t happen to know where the Admissions center is, would you? My name is Tiresias Deepstone, and I’m-“
“You’re a prospect,” said the attendant, with a voice perfectly capable of freezing water.
“I. Yes, actually, and I was curious about where the Admissions… center… is,” Tiresias faltered, the little courage he had gathered together withering under the glare of the attendant.
“Back across town. In the Soldenheim center, third floor,” here the attendant paused, taking in Tiresias’ sun-starved skin. In a moment he resumed, “You don’t know where that is, do you?”
“Well, no, but if you would provide me with a map-“
“Well do you one better; the Wizard must have an escort. Jamison,” the attendant barked over his shoulder, rousing a figure in the same dark green uniform, “show this Prospect to the Soldenheim center, would you?”
	Jamison’s response is not recorded, but nevertheless he and Tiresias exited the Academy three minutes later, leaving Augustine to reiterate for the umpteenth time that, yes, she had received a valid letter of confirmation. Jamison’s short, stocky stature contrasted with Tiresias, whose silhouette resembled nothing more than a skeletal scarecrow. The two were polar opposites, a study in black and white. Tiresias shuffled through the rain, head down, as if he was unaware of how the water flowed around him. His companion darted from alcove to alcove, scowling at the Wizard’s use of magic all the while. In Jamison’s opinion, it was like he couldn’t feel the way the Empyrium roiled unnaturally, frothing with rage as Tiresias pulled energy from another dimension. All to avoid getting wet! Wizards were a selfish lot, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
	Tiresias was equally perplexed, if for different reasons. Jamison had been present at the Academy. As a magical institution of higher learning, it followed that Jamison had some skill with magic. So why on earth was he scurrying between awnings? Surely he could be forgiven using a bit more than his usual ration of magic, it was raining out. Tiresias despised the rain. Really, he despised being wet and cold. It made him feel like a cold piece of asparagus. Tiresias despised asparagus.
“Are you done?” asked Jamison, whose voice was all fire and annoyance.
“If you mean to ask if I’m finished walking, then I must say no,” Tiresias mumbled, too surprised to be shy, “If you do not mean to ask if I’m finished walking, then I still may say no, but I would like clarification.
“With the magic. You’re a wizard. Powerful. Isn’t using it to just stay dry a bit insulting?”
“Ehrm. Well. Magic- magic isn’t a sapient being, so I’m not sure it can be insulted,” was the haltering reply, Tiresias now cognizant enough to be thoroughly unnerved by the interaction.
“Wizards,” Jamison spat, “No sense of right and wrong.”
	And so they entered the Soldenheim center.