A Practical Guide to Sorcery

Chapter 221: Properties of Dark Materials

Siobhan

Month 8, Day 28, Saturday 12:00 p.m.

Liza reached up and drew out one of her decorative hair-sticks, partially loosening her mass of curls. She held it like a battle wand, her grip steady and practiced. Her left hand, bearing three chunky golden rings, came up in an outward facing fist, hinting at some kind of shield spell.

The sight jolted Siobhan into action. She drew out her own battle wand, the weight of it suddenly comforting in her hand. ‘Oh gods,’ Siobhan realized with a start, ‘someone might have actually killed him.’ The idea made her blood run cold.

Without a word, Liza began to sweep through the house, her movements precise and controlled. Professional.

Siobhan followed behind, trying to keep her attention focused wherever Liza wasn’t looking to provide a better range of cover. ‘That’s how the Red Guard or the military squads do it, right?’ She felt like a child mimicking what she had seen at the latest popular play. ‘I’m not trained for this!’

They moved from room to room, checking closets, under furniture, and behind curtains. ‘The front door was unlocked when we arrived,’ Siobhan remembered. However, there were no obvious signs of forced entry or struggle. The house seemed undisturbed, almost eerily so, given the circumstances.

As they progressed through the bathroom and bedroom, Liza paused to examine seemingly innocuous objects like a half-empty glass on the bedside table and the positions of Renaldo’s pillows.

Siobhan half-expected someone to jump out at them from every shadow. But the small apartment was empty. They made their way back to the living room where Renaldo’s body lay.

Liza knelt beside him, her hair-stick wand still at the ready. She began to examine his body more closely, her expression grim and focused.

Siobhan stood back, her own wand lowered but still gripped tightly. She tried to keep from staring at Renaldo’s eyes and tongue. ‘Aren’t we supposed to close his eyes as a sign of respect to the dead?’ she wondered.

But perhaps Liza wasn’t bothered. The woman visually and then physically inspected Renaldo’s neck, wrists, and ankles for any marks. Presumably, she was probing for any hidden injuries or signs of struggle. “No obvious wounds,” Liza murmured. She leaned in closer, examining Renaldo’s face. “No discoloration around the mouth or nose. No signs of strangulation.”

“Signs of magic?” Siobhan asked softly.

Liza gave a single nod. She pointed to a polished wooden pipe that had fallen to the ground, spilling its ashy contents over the rug. “I could cast a diagnostic spell, but I’m pretty sure that’s a combination of dreamwort, ghost flower—also known as elcan iris, and cat’s cough.”

Siobhan recognized two of the herbs Liza mentioned. Cat’s cough, notorious for its addictive properties and the way it deepened one’s voice with prolonged use, and elcan iris, a plant known for its bloodthirsty nature and soporific pollen. Also addictive. ‘What was Renaldo doing with those?’ Aloud, she asked, “Dreamwort?”

“Dreamwort is a psychoactive,” Liza added, her tone matter-of-fact. “Though that might not be the official name for it.”

That explained why Siobhan was unfamiliar with it. She had kept far away from anything that could make her lose control of her mind, her body, and especially her dreams.

Liza leaned closer to Renaldo’s face, pulling up his lip to examine his teeth. “He drank a potion, too. Recently.”

Siobhan’s gaze swept the room, searching for clues. As Liza moved aside, Siobhan noticed the thick lines of a Circle peeking out from beneath the intricately patterned throw rug that covered most of the floor. A spell array had been painted on the floor beneath. Siobhan moved to lift up the rug, but then noticed the small carved bear figurine that had been placed near the wall, just inside the bounds of the outer Circle, and inside a much smaller component Circle.

“A magical…fetish?” she asked, pointing it out to Liza. She thought that was the right term for it, though they were rare in modern sorcery.

Along the other walls were three more components. What appeared to be a tiny bone wind chime, a finely woven cord made from human hair—‘Renaldo’s own?’ and a small bowl of what looked like dirty salt, certainly not fit for human consumption. ‘Could it be dehydrated directly from the Charybdis Gulf?’

Careful not to disturb anything, Siobhan and Liza worked together to lift the rug far enough that they could get a better look at the spell array without unduly disturbing the contents of the room.

The symbol inside was a cross—a tetragram—meant for transmogrification, focused on stability, foundation, strength, and authority.

Liza knelt to examine the array more closely. Siobhan understood the glyphs, which seemed to be about dreams, barriers, and protections, but their significance in this context eluded her. ‘Is she looking for breaks in the Circle? Or some other flaw?’

Liza stood abruptly, her eyes sweeping the room one last time. “We’re leaving,” she announced, her tone brooking no argument.

Siobhan blinked in surprise. She had expected more from Liza—a thorough investigation, perhaps, or some arcane ritual to uncover hidden truths. But as Siobhan stood there, staring at Renaldo’s lifeless form, she found herself at a loss. The room was beginning to smell. As corpses do, this one had released its waste on death.

Without waiting for a response, Liza strode back outside.

Siobhan hurried to follow, her thoughts whirling but never quite landing on anything solid, like falling leaves caught in a twister.

Rather than return the way they had come, they walked through the back alley and exited onto the next street over. Liza had tucked most of her wand into her sleeve, but her fingers were curled around the tip.

The pair covered significant ground at a rapid clip. Though Siobhan could tell that Liza’s tension remained beneath the surface, and noticed that she was searching for potential threats in dark corners and on the edges of roofs, outwardly the woman’s posture had lost all hint of paranoia. Finally, after some unknown criteria had been met, Liza hailed a covered carriage.

Within the shaded interior, Siobhan hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in her mind. “How... how did Renaldo die? What killed him?” She kept her voice low, just in case the driver might be able to overhear them past the sounds of the street and the carriage itself.

Liza’s jaw clenched. “He was walking in the spirit realm,” she said tersely, offering no further explanation.

Siobhan noted the worry lines etched deep around Liza’s eyes and mouth. There was more to her distress than just the shaman’s death. ‘What will this mean for Liza? Does she know something I don’t?’

As the silence stretched on, Siobhan’s mind began to wander down darker paths. ‘Could the Red Guard have assassinated Renaldo?’ She had no evidence to support such a theory, but after everything she’d learned about the hidden workings of the world, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of paranoia.

She thought back to the scene they’d left behind—the spell array, the magical fetishes, the herbs. It all pointed to some kind of shamanic ritual gone wrong, but was that the whole story? ‘How deep does the worm hole go?’ she wondered cynically.

Siobhan hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly above Liza’s. Without meeting the older woman’s eyes, she reached out and grasped Liza’s fingers. Liza stiffened, her initial instinct to pull away evident in the tension of her muscles. But after a moment, her grip softened, and she squeezed Siobhan’s hand gently.

“You’re a good child,” Liza murmured, her voice barely audible over the clatter of hooves.

The unexpected tenderness in Liza’s tone made Siobhan’s chest tighten. She swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. ‘I’m not a child,’ she wanted to protest, but the words died on her lips.

As the carriage rattled on through the darkening streets, Siobhan felt Liza’s tension gradually ebb away. The older woman took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Renaldo died of natural causes,” Liza said at last, her voice low and controlled. “Will-strain, it looked like.” She let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Shamanry is dangerous, and Renaldo was always a little too adventurous.”

‘Will-strain.’ The words echoed in Siobhan’s mind in a chilling tone. She didn’t know why it surprised her to see the effects of magic played out once more. Really, it was much more likely than an assassination. Being a thaumaturge was like being a hunter who kept a slavering, hungry wolf at their bedside.

“There’s no need for you to worry,” Liza continued, her tone growing firmer. “But you shouldn’t give any hint of being involved with Renaldo. That could lead to interest in you, and under any investigation, the Amelia identity will fall apart.” She paused, her grip on Siobhan’s hand tightening momentarily. “You should lay low for a while.”

The carriage slowed, and Liza gently disentangled her hand from Siobhan’s. “This is where we part ways,” she said, gesturing to the door.

Siobhan alighted onto the sun-warmed pavement, the sweltering air enclosing her in an unwelcome embrace. As the carriage pulled away, she found herself rooted to the spot, a sense of weightlessness washing over her.

Siobhan shook herself from her daze. She couldn’t afford to stand still, exposed and vulnerable. In the shadow of an alley with no windows, she tied up her curled hair and put on a wig. She was becoming more practiced and efficient with the elaborate disguises. As a child, she might have been excited with the thrill of secrecy. As an adult, it was an unpleasant hassle.

She set off on a meandering path through the city, her steps purposeful but unhurried. Every so often, she hailed a carriage, riding for a short distance before disembarking and continuing on foot. The routine was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. ‘Just another day of paranoia,’ she thought wryly.

Finally satisfied that she had shaken any potential tails, Siobhan arrived at her room at the Silk Door. Again, she stopped, unsure what to do next. ‘What’s the most pressing issue?’ she asked herself, trying to impose some order on the chaos. ‘Myrddin’s journal. I should at least finish skimming through it before the meeting with Professor Lacer.’

The urge to delve into the journal’s pages—to escape from reality into Myrddin’s world—was almost overwhelming, but caution held her back. Her divination-diverting ward remained dormant, but that offered little comfort. The Red Guard shouldn’t have been able to locate her the last time, either.

Sebastien considered her options, each one seeming more convoluted than the last. Warding her attic apartment might help, but would it be enough? Reading the book at Liza’s place as Siobhan could work, but the logistics of transferring ownership without being tracked made her head throb.

‘There’s only so much I can do against an enemy with unknown capabilities,’ she realized, frustration building in her chest. In the end, she settled on a plan, and sat down to wait out the rest of the day.

Siobhan remained in her tiny closet room at the Silk Door, her mind split between two tasks. One part of her focused on the books Tanya had procured for her from the secret thaumaturge meetings, while the other part of her Will played increasingly difficult games of control with her shadow.

As she flipped through the pages of the first, a stray thought crossed her mind. ‘If only I could split my eyes like I can my Will. I could read both books at once!’ Unfortunately, it wasn’t humanly possible to unpair the eyes from one another. Not without magical modifications, at least.

The image of Renaldo’s eyes, blood-burst and empty, flashed through her mind. She shuddered, immediately abandoning any desire to do such a thing to herself.

The first book, a general introduction to shamanry, tried to clear the common assumption that shamans were only another type of diviner. The craft was far more complex, and more dangerous, than simple divination.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

A shaman’s true talent lay in using altered states of consciousness to interact with the spirit realm. They used various techniques to achieve these states, including meditation, various types of physical deprivation or pain, and plenty of mind-altering substances.

The book explained that shamans acted as intermediaries between the physical world and the spirit realm. They could communicate with “spirits,” to seek guidance or channel their power for healing or other purposes. Siobhan found herself fascinated by the descriptions of spirit journeys, where shamans would leave their physical bodies to traverse the otherworldly landscape of the spirit realm.

One woman recounted traversing a shimmering forest where the trees whispered ancient secrets, their leaves made of starlight. Another told of soaring through endless skies filled with floating islands, each home to different spirit beings. A particularly vivid account described plunging into a bottomless ocean teeming with luminescent creatures that sang melodies of creation.

The book warned that such journeys were not without peril. Some shamans spoke of encountering malevolent entities that sought to trap or devour their essence. Others described becoming lost in labyrinths of their own fears and desires, struggling to find their way back to their physical bodies.

Shamans insisted that these were more than vivid dreams—that there was truth and knowledge to be found in the spirit realm, if one knew how to interpret it.

This sounded rather like something Ennis would say while running a scheme, and Siobhan remained deeply skeptical.

But it was a fact that spirits could temporarily possess a shaman’s body in the physical world, lending their unique abilities or knowledge to the host. This possession, while potentially dangerous, allowed shamans to channel otherworldly powers for brief periods.

‘Otherworldy powers? What does that mean?’

The book went on to give some distinctly disappointing examples: extraordinary powers of deduction, as if the shaman were merely a clever detective with a penchant for theatrics; hallucinations that miraculously led one to crucial clues in perplexing investigations; and even one spirit that allowed the shaman to “smell the truth,” whatever that meant.

Siobhan scoffed, but quickly checked herself. ‘There must be a reason Professor Lacer mentioned them,’ she thought. ‘And probably an even more interesting reason the Red Guard restricts their practice.’ Hopefully, the latter was because of something more than just how dangerous it must be to cast magic while under the effects of a psychoactive drug. So, trying to be more open-minded, she continued.

Their magic could untangle the knots of confused or forgotten memories, coaxing clarity from the murky depths of the mind. Some, with the right training as mind-healers, could even heal mental wounds and soothe the lingering effects of trauma.

The craft, the author insisted, was “a bridge between the conscious and unconscious, the seen and unseen realms.”

The spirit realm was a place of raw magical energy. It was described as a vast, ever-changing landscape filled with spirits of all kinds—from nature spirits to ancestral guides to powerful entities beyond human comprehension. Even the flora and fauna were types of spirits, and could not be relied upon to remain static. Navigating this realm was fraught with danger for the unprepared or unwary.

In the spirit realm, where the boundaries between thought and reality blurred, summoning was much more powerful. There, the summoner’s will could shape reality more directly, luring spirits with startling ease. Friendly spirits could be summoned for protection or guidance, and more powerful entities for aid in specific tasks.

Siobhan’s discomfort grew as she read about induction rituals—a practice that seemed almost the inverse of summoning. Instead of calling something to the caster, induction rituals called the world to move the caster toward a goal. The magic reached into the caster’s mind and the surrounding environment, nudging people and events to create “signs” that the caster could follow, and which would eventually make the long-term desired outcome more likely.

Siobhan’s skin crawled. The idea of surrendering her agency, even to the ephemeral forces of her own magic, allowing it to subtly manipulate her actions and those around her, felt fundamentally wrong. This had to be at least partially transmogrification. ‘How much of the common consciousness, that vast sea of shared human experience and belief, would leak into how the spell reacted?’

She was untalented with divination. If she struggled with simple deductive spells, how could she hope to navigate the complex currents of an induction ritual? The potential for disaster seemed overwhelming.

While summoning frightened her—the idea of calling forth an entity with its own will and motives was daunting—at least she could fight against it if things went wrong. But induction... that felt like willingly stepping into quicksand, slowly sinking as unseen hands guided her path.

Siobhan’s back was still prickling with unease as the book ended on a flowery note.

The second book’s pages were worn and slightly discolored with age. Unlike the first, this one was clearly meant as a practical guide.

Unfortunately, it began with lists of omens and their potential meanings. She scoffed, remembering a study she’d recently read about the uselessness of omen interpretation. Even trained diviners barely managed to predict outcomes more accurately than untrained commoners guessing blindly.

As she skimmed through the pages, her skepticism grew. ‘A black cat crossing your path means impending doom? How specific,’ she thought sarcastically. ‘I’m sure that’s never led to false panic.’

Supposedly, forms within the spirit realm were more descriptive of intrinsic nature, but Siobhan felt that omens would still be entirely open to interpretation.

The book then delved into exercises for preparing to safely navigate the spirit realm. Siobhan’s interest piqued despite her skepticism. The techniques seemed sound enough. Several focused on mental discipline and visualization, such as imagining a sphere of white light surrounding oneself, or picturing complex geometric shapes rotating in three dimensions.

Others were exercises to increase awareness of one’s body. These included methodically tensing and relaxing each muscle group, tracing the outline of one’s body with the mind’s eye, or learning to isolate and activate obscure muscles.

The book also delved into techniques for exploring and solidify one’s sense of “self” and strengthening the psyche, such as meditation on one’s core beliefs and values, visualizing a mental landscape that represented different aspects of personality, and exercises to strengthen the barriers between conscious and subconscious thought.

The author’s favorite method of preparation was to become lucid while dreaming, then ask some specific questions about oneself—calling on the guidance of the subconscious—and then interpret the “signs” that resulted. Some shamans used hallucinogens to do the same thing without the need to achieve lucidity in a dream. A dangerous shortcut, according to the author.

Then they moved on to exercises meant to help one realize when things were not as they should be—several were techniques Siobhan remembered as ways to become lucid while dreaming, and which had to be practiced while awake until they became habit. One involved regularly checking one’s surroundings for inconsistencies or impossibilities, like text that changed when looked at twice, or trying to push one’s finger through the palm of the opposite hand. They had never helped her.

And finally, methods to maintain one’s mental stability and sense of self while fighting against the spirit realm’s inherent corrosive effect. These ranged from simple mantras to be repeated under duress, to more complex visualizations of anchors tethering one’s consciousness to the physical realm. A tether made of one’s own hair was one of a few components the author suggested could help in anchoring spells.

The importance of protection and grounding when working with the spirit realm could not be emphasized enough.

‘It didn’t save Renaldo,’ Siobhan thought. ‘Do these techniques actually work, or are they just fancy ways to fool yourself into believing you’re protected?’

But as she read further, a chill ran down her spine.

Actually accessing the spirit realm generally involved altered states of consciousness, with specific actions taken while lucid dreaming being one of the easiest entry points, if unreliable. Siobhan’s hand unconsciously moved to press against her chest where her grandfather’s medallion hung underneath her clothes. It was small comfort.

‘What would happen if I tried to enter the spirit realm with this thing inside me?’ The thought made her stomach churn. Will-strain was one thing, but the idea of losing control in a realm where thought could shape reality? With an Aberrant sealed inside her, waiting for any opportunity to break free? Siobhan shuddered.

As night fell, Siobhan tucked away her books and made her way to the attic apartment. She approached the building cautiously, scanning the area for any signs of surveillance. With some effort and discomfort, she climbed up to the roof and began to work on the window lock.

‘This feels ridiculous,’ Siobhan thought, slipping through the window like a thief in the night. ‘But at least no one will think I’m Sebastien. He would have no reason to break into his own apartment.’

Once inside, she settled in to continue her exploration of Myrddin’s journal, which she kept inside the warded chest even as she unlocked and began to read it. She picked up where she had left off last week, turning a small chunk of pages at a time so that she might have a better chance of skimming her way to the end before her Will gave out.

After abandoning the wing suit, Myrddin had apparently moved on to a more ambitious project. Siobhan traced a finger across the page as she took in the intricate designs for a flying balloon-carriage. The hollow metal frame resembled nothing so much as a fat shark or some kind of small whale.

Accompanying the sketches were notes on a propulsion spell that was actually quite simple, just a modified and incredibly powerful version of the gust spell.

As she delved deeper, she found a study on sky kraken. Myrddin’s notes were meticulous, detailing wing structures, hunting patterns, and defensive capabilities. At the bottom of one page, a hastily scrawled note caught her eye.

Do not attempt to create air-borne vehicles without stealth spells and heavy shielding. Artillery spells strongly recommended.

The study on sky kraken took on new meaning, and Siobhan suppressed a snort. She was tempted to keep reading within this section, as her imagination quickly filled with other flying predators he might have encountered, or other notes he might have made about his attempt to fly the hollow whale, but she forced herself to continue farther forward.

The map that greeted her as the next pair of pages resolved looked…wrong. She peered at it for a while, and then realized it was because it stretched beyond the boundaries of the known lands, and the size and shapes of things were significantly different than what she had seen on maps while traveling with Ennis. Decent maps were expensive, though. Perhaps she had never seen a really good one.

The familiar regions were rendered with startling precision, far surpassing the crude sketches from earlier in the journal. Siobhan made a mental note to compare these maps with the most detailed ones available in the University library. She was curious to see how much had changed—or remained the same—in the thousand years since Myrddin’s time.

As she turned to the next set of pages, her breath caught. It was a map again, but Myrddin had marked specific locations with X’s and stars. Siobhan leaned closer, her eyes darting from mark to mark, committing each to memory. One even sat in the frozen tundra north of Silva Erde, far beyond where people had managed to explore. There were no labels, no explanations for why these spots held significance. ‘What did you find in these places, Myrddin?’ she wondered, her mind spinning with possibilities.

Siobhan forced herself to turn the next set of pages before her Will grew too tired to continue. The page she turned to was titled at the top.

Attempt 21: Too chewy. Alkaline solution too strong?

Below was written a heavily annotated recipe for alkaline noodles. The whole page had been angrily scribbled out, along with an angry note in large letters.

Wrong, all wrong!

The next turn of pages was the last, as Myrddin’s journal drew to a close. Siobhan’s eyes widened as she recognized the familiar shape taking form in ink lines.

‘Carnagore.’

There weren’t many details on Carnagore—presumably Myrddin had continued in one of his other journals, so Siobhan returned to the section where the legend of a man was developing personal flight spells.

This time, she read each page closely, making notes of what she needed to research to get closer to actually understanding. The idea of being able to fly around under her own magical power made her a little giddy. This knowledge wasn’t entirely lost like some of Myrddin’s other accomplishments, but it certainly wasn’t the kind of thing the average thaumaturge would ever have access to. Professor Lacer could probably fly around at will. If so, she marveled at his restraint in acting so reserved and walking everywhere.

As the sun began to rise, Siobhan realized she had gone over the section several times, and understood less than she initially thought. The complexities of the spells were far beyond her current level of comprehension. Determined to bridge the gap in her knowledge, she left, transformed back into Sebastien, and made her way to the University library.

Sebastien spent the day poring over texts on advanced aerodynamics, energy conversion principles, and the intricacies of gravity manipulation. The more she read, the more she realized how much she still had to learn. It was humbling, but also invigorating. Each new concept she grasped felt like a step closer to unlocking the secrets of flight.

With a big pile of books in her arms, she passed one group of particularly miserable-looking students. They stared at her. One of the girls hiccuped, and then began to cry silently.

Sebastien belatedly stamped out her huge grin and dulled the bright sparkle in her gaze. Looking away, she shuffled awkwardly back to the small table she had covered in research.

As Sunday evening approached, Sebastien reluctantly closed the books and prepared to leave. At midnight, she returned to the caves off the inner docks at the base of the white cliffs, once again as Siobhan. As she made her way through the dark passages, she groused silently about the limitations of her transformation amulet.

‘It’s nice,’ she admitted, ‘but it would be even nicer if it had more built-in forms. Going through hours of disguising and re-disguising myself all the time is exhausting.’ She sighed, imagining the convenience of being able to switch between multiple identities at will. Perhaps there would be a hint to it in one of Myrddin’s journals. If so, she would definitely work on it once she had mastered the art of personal flight.

Siobhan arrived at the designated cave, her footsteps echoing softly in the damp darkness, but quickly fading into the distant sounds of water. The focused beam light of her lensed lantern illuminated the rough-hewn walls, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance and twist with each step. As she rounded a bend, she saw two figures waiting for her—Professor Lacer and Grandmaster Kiernan.

Both squinted, and she hurried to point the light of her lantern at the ground between them. With her other hand, she turned off her dowsing artifact. She wanted to know—to feel it—if a divination attempt was made against her.

Professor Lacer’s face was an impassive mask, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. Kiernan, on the other hand, looked distinctly uncomfortable, his gaze darting between Siobhan and the professor with barely concealed anxiety.

“Miss Naught,” Professor Lacer said, his voice low and controlled. “Follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and began to lead the way into an upward-sloping tunnel.

Reminding herself to embody the persona of the Raven Queen in thought as well as in action, Siobhan fell into step behind Thaddeus, with Kiernan bringing up the rear, despite the fact that she in no way trusted the man to watch her back.

After several minutes, the sound of the water below faded away, leaving only their own footsteps, breath, and the rustle of their clothing, which all seemed offensively loud. Finally, they emerged into a small, circular chamber.

Thaddeus turned to face her, his expression inscrutable in the dim light of her lantern. “Miss Naught,” he began, his voice low and measured, “I believe it’s time we have a private discussion.”

Siobhan tensed as she recognized the spark of anger in the depths of his gaze.

“Is this necessary?” Kiernan cut in, his voice adopting an overly friendly tone as he attempted to ease the mounting tension.

“Very,” Thaddeus replied. He lifted a hand and cast his favorite sound-muffling spell. “Would you do the honors? It would not do to have him read our lips,” he said, gesturing to her shadow.

Warily, Siobhan created a dome of darkness around the two of them, which soaked up any reflected light from her lantern.

Thaddeus’s lips were pressed into a firm line of displeasure. “What are your intentions toward my apprentice?” he asked challengingly.

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