Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent [A Magical Academy LitRPG]

"This whole operation," Draeth thundered as he paced alongside a line of whispering tomes, "has been a resounding failure."

His voice struck the chamber's silence like a flintstone on firewood. Draeth's study was, as always, more theater than office—vast and cavernous, with intentionally disorienting proportions. The room descended gently into a recessed floor, steps wrapping down along the sides of the same centerpiece—a broad and shallow plinth—like the edges of a forgotten amphitheater. The aether light came from no source Fabrisse could name, and each corner of the chamber radiated with a pressureless glow, casting everything in hues of gold and pearl.

Kaldrin leaned forward from his place at the long, rune-etched table. "Failure? We caught the saboteurs. We secured the Eidralith. We protected our prospect. What exactly would you call that, if not a success?"

Draeth turned on him sharply, robe flaring like a shadow. "You failed to capture High Instructant Ratuk Mustafa." The name rang out like a gavel. "Allegedly, Ratuk Mustafa. You don't even have confirmation! Even after we involved the Bureau into our mess! And if he returns to the Kingdom of the Dunes, we'll have no legal means to retrieve him. Not even the Order dares provoke a diplomatic fracture with the Dune Court."

Kaldrin raised his face. "And yet," he said slowly, "we achieved everything else you demanded. If a single slip—alleged though it may be—erases the merit of the whole, then perhaps the bar was never set for success, only for your ire. Not to mention that there is still time to achieve your demand. We must arrest Ratuk Mustafa now while we still have the authority to do so."

Draeth's scrutiny descended upon him, deliberate and exacting, like a lecturer poised to correct an errant student. "Ah, 'alleged,' indeed. As it was with Mustafa. As it was, some might whisper, with the attention you so . . . conspicuously directed toward my daughter."

There was a pause. Even the aetherlight seemed to still.

What? Fabrisse turned to the professor. Did he actually . . .

Wait. Is this what Aldith meant by 'family business'? There isn't any family member here. Unless Professor Kaldrin is . . .

"You know I would never have done such a thing," Kaldrin's mouth tightened.

Draeth continued, "You allegedly courted my daughter while you were in post, and should I have decided to do anything, you would have been fired. But my judgment, though severe, is not blinded by impulse or petty vindication."

Regardless of whether that's true or not, casting insinuation like that just to shut down an argument is a little . . . unprofessional.

Lorvan, seated quietly at the far end, shifted a single ring on his finger and murmured as he treated his other arm with his aetherically-lit palm, "We still have his proxies in custody." The wounds along his arm had yet seemed to heal.

"So what now? You think those people will volunteer names? You think they'll so much as breathe a clue in our direction?" He stabbed a hand toward the air, as if gesturing at phantoms only he could see. "Who might it be? Dir? Sil? Someone within the Synod itself? You must know yourself how the Order has been looking for a reason to suspend all artifact research within their reach, and by extension, you and me, Kaldrin."

"But—" Kaldrin objected.

"No," Draeth continued. "They've been waiting for this. All of them. To tighten their hold and centralize power. They want to swallow this institution whole, use every scandal as leverage. Today, the Eidralith. Tomorrow?" He gave a bitter snort. "Tomorrow they'll be citing this as reason enough to reabsorb the South Westris Branch entirely. To write me out of existence. And they'll have the gall to do it in a tone of bureaucratic concern."

His words moved like chisels against granite now. "You'll see them in the next Assembly, baring their fangs under all that polished deference. Whining about how we've grown too erratic, too politicized. About how our Synod grounds have grown so 'compromised' we can't even protect one student."

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Fabrisse sat quietly on one of the upper rows of the recessed floor, perched at the edge of a step that wasn't meant to be a seat. The lip of it dug into his spine slightly, but he didn't move. He kept his head down, eyes on the floor tiles. He wouldn't get to speak in this game of titles and thresholds and long-standing vendettas disguised as procedural oversight. His presence was tolerated, not included. Yet, he had so much to say.

But when Rolen came to you, Headmaster, your first instinct was to announce a public persecution of darkness practitioners. This has been a much better plan, with a much lesser immediate backlash.

"Headmaster, if I may," Lorvan spoke. He had not raised his voice, but the clarity in his tone made the others fall still. "You must invest in Mr. Kestovar now. The Eidralith has finally awakened, and I've seen Kestovar's progress myself. You know they didn't want the Eidralith, Headmaster. They wanted him gone. If they had succeeded, they'd be at the Assembly right now declaring your decade of research a misguided farce."

It did seem like Rubidi wanted me gone . . . She wasn't even trying to shut down the Eidralith, if what he felt was correct. She just wanted to take away every bit of affinity with magic he had, so he'd become irreversibly useless.

"It is not yet the time," the Headmaster's voice was grim.

"Then when is the time?" Kaldrin's voice was exasperated.

"You think I want the boy to die? I have risked my standing with the Order itself by involving the Bureau! If that meddling boy hadn't bonded with my artifact, none of this would've happened!"

None of this makes any sense. If the Headmaster truly cared about his safety, why hadn't he acted until now. He didn't even show his face once, as if Fabrisse were a liability he'd hoped would quietly disappear. And now he did all this to . . . protect his liberty for artifact research?

Fabrisse could hold back no more. There were too many questions that needed answering. "If I may, Headmaster. Didn't you publicly vote to keep me under the Research chamber?"

"These are matters you don't need to comprehend," Draeth's voice echoed.

"Headmaster." Kaldrin's voice dropped to a tone so low it barely rose above breath. "I also propose that you no longer treat Mr. Kestovar as expendable. He's the binder of the Eidralith, whether you like it or not. You may still rally support from House Montreal in one form or another."

"The boy collects stones in his free time, under the very nose of the Synod!" Draeth smashed a nearby floating tome. At Draeth's outburst, his palm struck its cover with a sharp crack. The spell holding it aloft faltered for an instant, and the tome jerked midair, tumbling end over end like a wounded bird before righting itself with a shudder and retreating toward the shadowed rafters in offended silence. "Do you think the Order will hesitate to gut this institution if I publicly endorse a gravel-gazing apprentice with a talent for the worst kind of attention?"

"If I may, Headmaster. They will shut down your projects. There will be no Eidralith replica." Lorvan tried to stand, but winced at the strained effort. "Mr. Kestovar is the only bet you have."

Hold on . . . Are they insinuating that the Headmaster deliberately did not protect me because of political scrutiny? The Order hates rocks and artifacts. And Draeth, a person who's this passionate about his artifacts, to the point he's ready to fight tooth and nail against the institution, should've been into rocks. Aldith said he was into rocks.

Then has he been acting all this time?

Draeth did not reply.

For a long time, he stood motionless, hand still slightly raised from where he had struck the tome, sleeve settling like the aftershock of a spell.

Seconds stretched.

Finally, the Headmaster turned his gaze to Fabrisse. There was no fury in it. Only cold, bitter knowledge. "Kestovar," he said, quietly. "Do you truly believe Stone is a dead-end element?"

The silence that followed was not uncertain. It was intentional.

"Does it matter what I believe?" Fabrisse asked.

"Tell him, Headmaster," Kaldrin spoke. "He deserves to know."

"Know what?"

Draeth's gaze lingered on Fabrisse. Then, with a breath like he was reciting a footnote from memory, he said, "In the Order's official record, the highest confirmed achievement in Stone Thaumaturgy belongs to a Rank VI practitioner: Magus Exemplar Ronza Margenholt. She turned dust into a fortress wall during the Fourth Border Siege. A trick they still teach as the pinnacle of the craft."

Fabrisse gave a small nod. He had read that account. Margenholt of the Quiet Foundation, Stratoglyphic Pattern 9-F. Her stratoglyph patterns were still circulated in archived form for study, though rarely.

Draeth's next words were quiet. "Behold. This is Rank IX."

He stepped slowly toward the heart of the amphitheater's floor. One hand extended—no incantation, no sigils, no prepared substrate. He reached into the slate-colored plinth right at the center.

The plinth groaned. The floor quivered.

Then columns of quartz and metallic filigree smashed through the plinth as they erupted from the ground.