The classroom was already crowded by the time I stepped inside. Students filed past me carrying leather satchels stuffed with notebooks, rulers, compasses, and instruments I couldn’t identify. One boy carried a wooden case filled with brass measuring tools. A girl had several silver instruments shaped like forks tucked beneath one arm. Another student carefully balanced a stack of star charts nearly as tall as his head. For some reason, I had expected something more, I don't know, magical? Like those glowing crystals I first saw coming here. Instead, there were books, a lot of books. I slipped into an empty seat near the back and immediately realized I brought nothing except my class schedule. Fortunately, parchment paper, pencils, and wooden rulers had already been placed on every desk. Apparently the academy provided the basics. Good. I didn't want to start my first class asking people for a pencil. The room looked like an old university lecture hall. Tiered rows of oak desks overlooked a circular stone platform at the center. Chalkboards covered nearly every wall, already crowded with geometric diagrams, anatomical sketches, columns of numbers, and unfamiliar symbols. An enormous brass instrument hung from the ceiling. Several rings rotated around a smaller sphere, each moving at a different speed. Now that I knew what it was called, the name felt strangely familiar. Armillary sphere. I couldn’t tell whether that was because I had just been told the name outside or because some hidden part of me had already known it. That seemed to happen a lot. In my mind words and facts would just conveniently appear when they were needed. In some cases even entire movements would appear. Of course getting my body to do them was a different story. And I had no idea where that well of information was coming from. I looked up. The rings continued their slow revolutions, catching sunlight from the high windows and scattering it across the room. It was admittedly beautiful. Before I could study it further, the room fell silent. An elderly woman had entered. Her silver hair was tied neatly behind her head, and she wore simple emerald robes without embroidery or jewelry. A pale streak of chalk already marked one sleeve. She carried a stack of books beneath one arm. Not much of a dramatic entrance. She crossed the room, placed the books on her desk, and adjusted them until every edge aligned perfectly. Then she picked up a piece of chalk. Without introducing herself, she wrote three words across the largest board. UNDERSTANDING PRECEDES POWER She set the chalk down and turned toward us. “Good morning.” “Good morning, Professor,” the class answered. I was slightly late joining them. No one seemed to notice. “My name is Professor Aurelia.” Her eyes moved slowly across the room. “I am not here to teach you magic.” Several students looked confused. Professor Aurelia continued. “I am here to teach you the things that make magic possible.” She walked to the edge of the circular platform. “You have all heard stories. Fire thrown from empty hands.” She walked around the platform calmly speaking. “Men walking through the air. The wounded restored and the dead returned to life.” She turned back to face the class. “Forget them.” The room became still enough that I could hear someone shifting several rows ahead of me. “If your understanding of magic comes from nursery tales, traveling performers, or stories told by drunken soldiers…” A faint smile touched her lips. “…this will be a difficult year.” A few students laughed. Professor Aurelia picked up the chalk again. “What causes an apple to fall?” Hands immediately rose. “The earth draws it downward.” “Its weight.” “The natural tendency of heavy objects.” “Gravity,” I said. The answer escaped before I had even raised my hand. It was obvious. Professor Aurelia looked toward the back of the room. Several students turned with her. I regretted speaking outloud. She studied me for a moment. “An unfamiliar word.” Unfamiliar? Gravity is unfamiliar? “What does it mean?” “The force that pulls things toward the earth.” “And what produces this force?” “The earth.” “How?” I hesitated. “Because it has mass.” The word came just as easily as gravity had. Professor Aurelia tilted her head slightly. “And what is mass?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I knew the word. I knew it mattered. I had absolutely no idea how to explain it. Professor Aurelia waited. The silence became increasingly uncomfortable. Wasn’t this supposed to be obvious? “It’s…” I looked at the board as though the answer might be written somewhere behind her. “It has something to do with how much matter is in something.” “What is matter?” That was becoming irritating. “Everything?” A few students laughed. Professor Aurelia did not. “And how does the amount of this matter cause one object to draw another toward itself?” I stared at her. “I don’t know.” She nodded. There wasn't any amusement or disappointment in it. It just felt like she was taking note. “A name can preserve understanding.” She turned toward the board. “It can also conceal the absence of it.” Damn, that felt unnecessarily directed at me. A few students were still looking back. I went to lower my hand, only to realize I never raised it in the first place. Professor Aurelia drew a circle on the board. “What causes a wound to heal?” Fewer hands rose this time. “The body repairs itself,” someone answered. “Provided?” The student hesitated. “Provided the wound is clean?” “Among other things.” She drew a second circle. “What causes fire to burn?” “Heat.” “Fuel.” “Air.” Professor Aurelia nodded after each answer. Then she turned toward us. “What causes magic?” Nobody spoke. She smiled. “That is why you are here.” Professor Aurelia crossed to her desk and placed a candle on its surface. “The common man believes a mage creates fire.” She struck a piece of flint. The wick caught. “No.” She lowered a glass jar over the candle. The flame weakened. Flickered. Then died. “I did not kill the fire.” She removed the jar. “I removed one of the conditions that allowed it to continue.” She relit the candle. “Everything that occurs in creation depends upon conditions.” She pointed toward the windows. “A plant grows because certain conditions permit growth.” She gestured toward the stone walls. “A building remains standing because its weight is distributed through particular relationships.” She touched two fingers to her wrist. “A body lives because thousands of processes remain in sufficient balance.” Her gaze moved across the classroom. “Magic is the deliberate alteration of those conditions.” Nobody moved. “A mage does not command reality to abandon its laws.” She let the words settle. “A mage understands those laws well enough to influence which result they produce.” She returned to the board. Beneath the words she had already written, she added three more. KNOWLEDGE INTENTION CAPACITY “Knowledge identifies what can be changed.” She underlined the first. “Intention determines the change you are attempting.” The second. “Capacity supplies the pressure necessary to accomplish it.” The third. “Power without knowledge is uncontrolled force. Knowledge without intention accomplishes nothing.” She tapped the final word. “And intention without sufficient capacity remains only a wish.” My eyes remained on it. Capacity. When I came here, they had some strange magical device with what looked like a crystal ball When I stood under it, it turned completely blue. Apparently that meant I was a hundred percent suited for this class. Everyone in the testing chamber had reacted as though the result were extraordinary. But I had no idea what magic even was. For some reason I didn't think it was real until just a few hours ago. Either all three of those contraptions were broken Or whatever they had measured was not nearly as spectacular as everyone's reaction would suggest. Professor Aurelia continued drawing my attention back to class. “And do not make the mistake of believing those three words explain magic completely.” I looked up. She tapped KNOWLEDGE with the chalk. “They are a model.” A student near the front frowned. “A model?” “A useful explanation.” She glanced around the room. “Not necessarily a complete one.” That seemed to bother several students. Professor Aurelia appeared pleased by that. “If our understanding of every working were complete, no spell would fail unexpectedly.” She paused. “They do.” The room quieted. “Understanding precedes power.” She tapped the words above everything else. “It does not imply that understanding ever becomes perfect.” Professor Aurelia erased part of the board. “This academy teaches through the Seven Liberal Arts.” She wrote them in two groups. GRAMMAR LOGIC RHETORIC Then, separated beneath them: ARITHMETIC GEOMETRY MUSIC ASTRONOMY A boy near the front raised his hand. “Professor, are those our seven courses?” “No.” She tapped the chalk against the board. “They are seven methods of examining the same reality.” Beside Grammar she wrote: WHAT IS IT? Beside Logic: WHAT IS TRUE ABOUT IT? Beside Rhetoric: WHAT DO YOU INTEND? Besides Arithmetic: HOW MUCH? Besides Geometry: WHERE, AND IN WHAT FORM? Besides Music: IN WHAT RELATIONSHIP? Besides Astronomy: WHEN, AND WITHIN WHAT GREATER CYCLE? She stepped aside. “Grammar identifies.” She pointed downward. “Logic tests.” Again. “Rhetoric directs.” Her chalk moved toward the remaining four. “Arithmetic measures. Geometry gives form. Music establishes rhythm, resonance, and relationship. Astronomy places a working within time and greater cycles.” She returned the chalk to its tray. “You will spend years discovering everything I have left out of those sentences.” A few students began writing faster. I hadn't written anything at all, but I should probably take note of this. I quickly copied the seven words before she erased them too. Professor Aurelia walked toward the girl carrying the silver forks and took one from her desk. “A spell is not merely a sentence.” She struck the instrument lightly against the edge of the table. A clear note rang through the room. “It is a sentence that must also be true.” She held the vibrating fork in the air. “This is why some mages chant.” The note slowly faded. “Not because creation is impressed by singing.” A few students smiled. “Rhythm matters. Resonance matters.” She returned the instrument and picked up a brass compass. “This is why circles, lines, and sigils are constructed precisely.” She opened it slightly. “Geometry establishes boundaries.” Then she lifted a tiny measuring spoon from the boy’s case. “This is why ingredients are weighed rather than thrown carelessly into a bowl.” She placed it back. “And this is why you will learn the movements of the sun, moon, tides, and heavens even if you have no intention of becoming an astronomer.” Professor Aurelia looked up at the rotating rings overhead. “Conditions do not remain still simply because you would prefer them to.” One of the rings shifted. Something inside the mechanism chimed. Professor Aurelia watched it for a moment. Then returned to the candle. “Consider fire.” She placed a second candle several feet from the first. “Grammar.” She pointed toward the lit candle. “What is it?” “The flame,” someone answered. “You have pointed at it.” Professor Aurelia looked toward him. “You have not defined it.” Another student raised her hand. “A reaction involving heat, air, and fuel.” “Closer.” Professor Aurelia nodded toward the second candle. “Logic. Can this candle burn?” “Yes.” “Why?” “It has a wick and fuel.” “And what condition does it lack?” “Heat.” “Good.” She turned slightly. “Rhetoric. What do I intend?” A student near the window answered. “To light the second candle.” “And?” He looked confused. Professor Aurelia raised one eyebrow. “Not to burn anything else?” “Better.” A few people laughed. “Precision matters.” She looked toward another student. “Arithmetic?” “Enough heat to ignite the second wick.” “And no more.” She nodded. “Excess is not mastery.” The way she said that last line felt important, so I wrote it down. Professor Aurelia pointed toward the space between the candles. “Geometry?” “A path between the two wicks.” “How wide?” The student hesitated. “Only as wide as necessary?” “Good.” “Music?” The class became less certain. Professor Aurelia tapped one finger against the desk in a steady rhythm for four beats. “Sequence.” She tapped again. “Duration.” She glanced toward the armillary sphere. “Astronomy? The time? And greater conditions influencing that time.” She gestured toward the windows. “The sun is warming this room. The tide is changing below us. The air outside is moving inland from the sea.” She looked back at the class. “None of those conditions cease existing merely because my attention is on two candles.” She faced the desk. Her finger tapped again. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth beat, the first flame bent sideways. I leaned forward. The fire stretched. Not like something being blown by wind. It narrowed into a thread of incandescent air so thin I could almost see through it. The wax beneath the first wick collapsed inward. The thread crossed the space between the candles. The second wick caught. At the exact same moment, the first went dark. Several students gasped. Professor Aurelia lifted the first candle. Its wick had burned lower, and a hollow had formed in the wax beneath it. “I created nothing.” She set it down. “I transferred sufficient heat to alter the conditions surrounding the second wick.” She pointed toward the first candle. “This supplied the cost.” Then toward the board. “Knowledge gave the change structure. Intention gave it direction.” Finally she placed one hand over her chest. “Capacity allowed me to impose it.” A student raised his hand. “Could you have lit both?” “Yes.” “Could you light every candle in the academy?” “Possibly.” His eyes widened. Professor Aurelia’s expression didn’t change. “But the required energy would increase. The geometric structure would become more complex. Maintaining every working simultaneously would demand greater concentration.” She folded her hands behind her back. “And the probability of setting the academy on fire would increase considerably.” A laugh moved through the room. “Magic does not free you from consequence.” She drew a line beneath the seven arts. “It makes you responsible for understanding more of it.” Another student raised her hand. “What about healing?” “The conditions are more numerous.” “And bringing back the dead?” The room went silent. My attention sharpened as I thought back to my conversations about Lynne's father. Professor Aurelia looked toward the girl. “Far more numerous.” She allowed the silence to remain. “Death is not a single condition.” Something in the way she said it changed the room. “It is the collapse of many relationships.” I thought about Victor Daniels’ portrait. About Lynne telling me, almost casually, that her father could restore people who had died. Professor Aurelia walked slowly across the platform. “Circulation, breath, heat.” She counted out each one with her fingers. “Nervous activity. Tissue integrity. Memory. Whatever relationship exists between the body and the animating principle.” She lowered her hand. “And those are merely the relationships we know how to describe.” I couldn't help but be enthralled despite not fully understanding what she was saying. “Anyone who claims death is simply a door that one opens and closes is ignorant, dishonest, or dangerously familiar with only one piece of the problem.” Her expression gave no indication which possibility was worse. A boy near the front raised his hand. “But people have been restored.” “Yes.” Professor Aurelia didn’t hesitate. “That does not mean we understand resurrection.” That caught my attention even more. “Successful practice often precedes complete theory.” She glanced toward the board. “People navigated by the stars long before they understood the heavens.” Her eyes moved back toward us. “Do not confuse the ability to do something with understanding everything you have done.” I thought back to when I was fighting those people chasing Lynne. Professor Aurelia continued. “Elementalists, healers, artificers, ward-makers, diviners, and those who study the boundary between life and death do not practice entirely different magics.” She paused. “They specialize in different conditions.” A boy frowned. “My family has practiced fire magic for six generations.” “Then your family should be relieved that you will finally learn why it works.” Laughter spread through the room. He sank lower into his seat. Professor Aurelia waited for us to quiet. “Every first-year student studies Natural Philosophy.” She walked toward one wall. “The path into which you have been placed determines how you will eventually apply these principles.” Her hand closed around a wooden practice sword resting against the stone. “It does not excuse you from learning them.” She stepped onto the platform. “A blade is geometry.” She shifted one foot behind the other. I straightened without meaning to. Her stance looked a little too real for a demonstration. She did not look like an elderly professor pretending to know how to hold a sword. Her weight was centered, her back heel came off the ground and she looked springy, but her shoulders were loose and her body was relaxed. The point aligned directly toward an imaginary opponent. Professor Aurelia slightly altered the angle of the blade. “A stance is proportion.” Her front foot shifted half a step. “Distance determines what is possible.” She raised the sword. “A feint is rhetoric.” The blade moved toward one line before cutting abruptly toward another. She didn't move with extreme speed And yet, I flinched from the first moment. If I were seriously defending against that attack, she would have tricked me with the feint and struck me. Professor Aurelia looked directly toward the back of the room. For half a second, I wondered if she had noticed. Then she tapped the wooden blade twice against the stone. “Combat is rhythm, distance, timing, balance, and pressure.” Professor Aurelia returned the sword to the wall. “The student who believes these arts belong only to mages will remain mediocre with both spell and weapon.” She walked behind her desk and removed a small wooden box. Inside were dozens of smooth river stones. She carried the box between the rows and placed one on every desk. The stone she gave me fit comfortably in my palm. It was a completely ordinary stone. Dull gray, with a thin white line across one side. “This is your first practical exercise.” Several students straightened. Professor Aurelia returned to the front. “Today, we begin with Grammar.” Someone looked down at his stone. “We’re going to name it?” “You are going to observe it.” A few students appeared disappointed. I was just confused. Apparently, I had come here to stare at a rock. Professor Aurelia seemed to notice the general change in enthusiasm. “Before the end of this year, some of you will be permitted to influence heat, motion, pressure, light, sound, and perhaps living tissue.” Everyone immediately paid attention again. “Today, however…” She gestured toward the stones. “…you will look at a rock.” A few people groaned. Professor Aurelia ignored them. “What color is it?” “Gray.” “Under which light?” The student hesitated. “What temperature is it?” “Cold.” “Cold in itself?” Silence. “Or colder than your hand?” Nobody answered. Professor Aurelia continued. “What is its weight?” She picked up one of the remaining stones. “Is that weight distributed evenly?” She rotated it. “Is it symmetrical?” Her thumb passed over the surface. “What produced its shape? Why is it smooth? Is every part equally smooth? Is every visible material part of the same stone?” She set it down. “You will record only what you observe.” She pointed toward the board. “Inference must be identified as inference.” Another tap. “Assumption must be identified as assumption.” A boy in the front raised his hand. “When do we make it move?” “When you understand enough to know what must change for it to move.” “What if I already know?” “Then your observations will demonstrate that.” Professor Aurelia gestured toward the clock. “You have thirty minutes.” The room erupted into movement. Notebooks opened. Brass calipers clicked around stone. Rulers scraped across parchment. One girl examined hers through a magnifying lens. Another student tapped his stone lightly against the desk and listened. The girl with the silver forks struck one and held the vibrating metal close to hers. I looked down at mine. It's gray, smooth, and cold. I wrote the three words. Then set down my pencil. That's good enough I guess. Alright, I guess I'm done with class. That wasn't too bad. Professor Aurelia appeared beside my desk. I hadn’t heard her approach. She looked at my page. Then the stone. Then my page again. “Is that all?” “I mean yeah, it's gray, smooth, and cold.” “Turn it toward the window.” I did. Sunlight passed across its surface. The color changed. What I had thought was gray now carried a faint green tint. Professor Aurelia waited. “Ok, maybe not all grey,” I admitted. “Run your thumb across the white line.” I did. It was rougher. “Is it smooth?” “Not on the line.” She pointed toward my hand. “Place it on the desk.” I set the stone down. She waited several seconds. Then gestured toward it. I touched it again. It didn’t feel as cold. Professor Aurelia raised one eyebrow. I looked down at what I had written. Gray. Smooth. Cold. I crossed out almost everything. She nodded once. “You rushed.” “I didn’t think there was much to see.” “You believed the purpose was to finish.” She moved toward the next desk. “The purpose was to notice.” I stared at the stone that I now found slightly annoying. Mostly because she was right. I picked it up and turned it over. My mind went back to when I threw that giant man through the greenhouse glass wall. Even though it felt unbelievable later, at that moment I didn't just see him as bigger, and stronger. I watched where he placed his weight. How his shoulder tightened before he struck. Which hand was dominant. His stance, or lack thereof. Where his eyes were looking. Which way he leaned. Even how his breathing changed I didn't really think about it at the moment it was all happening. But looking back, I absolutely did pick up on all those details. It just happened so quick. I didn't actively think about it or look for it. Those details just felt so loud I couldn't ignore them. It felt like my body just reacted from how loud all those details were. Like they were telling me what I had to do and I just instinctually followed. Yet I had looked at the stone for less than a minute and decided there was nothing else to learn. The problem wasn’t that the stone had nothing to tell me. It just wasn't trying to hit me. I had no urgency to really observe it. I picked it up again. The white line didn’t pass straight through it. It curved near the edge. I turned it over. One side was flatter. I placed the stone on the desk. It settled with the flat side downward. I turned it and placed it on another side. It rolled slightly and settled onto the same side again. Interesting I rolled it across the desk and It curved left. I turned the stone around and rolled it again. Still left but not as sharply. I wrote that down. I lifted it toward the window. Tiny specks inside the surface reflected the sunlight. I hadn’t noticed those before. I tapped the stone gently against the desk. A dull sound. Then I tapped closer to the white line. It sounded different maybe? I wrote that down too. Then stopped at “maybe.” Does that count as an inference? I crossed it out and tried again. Sound appears higher when struck near white line. Repeated three times. Better. I pressed my fingernail into a small groove near the edge. Something dark had collected inside it. I scratched at it, maybe it's dirt? But I couldn't get of it to come off I wrote: Dark material visible within narrow groove. Then beneath it: Possibly dirt. Inference. The page slowly began filling. Appears gray beneath indoor light. Faint green tint visible beneath direct sunlight. Surface mostly smooth. White line rougher than surrounding material. Feels colder than hand at first contact. Temperature difference decreases after prolonged contact. One side flatter. Stone repeatedly settles upon same surface. Rolls in curved path rather than straight line. White line may be different material. Inference, not confirmed. The more I observed, the less certain I became. My first three words I wrote began to look almost embarrassing. I mean it was grey, smooth and cold. But I had accepted those descriptions as being correct enough for me to stop asking questions. I looked across the classroom. Students were measuring. Listening. Sketching. Arguing quietly with themselves. One boy had apparently decided his stone required an entire drawing from six different angles. Maybe that was excessive. Then again, I had just spent several minutes rolling mine across a desk. I turned back to my notebook. By the time the bell rang, I had filled almost three pages. Professor Aurelia returned to the front. “Bring the same stone tomorrow.” A chorus of groans moved through the class. “Tomorrow we begin Logic.” She lifted the box containing the remaining stones. “You will attempt to distinguish what you know about your stone from what you merely believe about it.” Several people looked down at their notes. “Lose your stone,” Professor Aurelia added, “and you begin the exercise again.” I immediately slipped mine into my uniform pocket. Then checked that it had actually gone inside. I had already gotten lost enough times today. Let's hope this rock doesn't get lost too. Students began packing their instruments. I closed my notebook and stood. Professor Aurelia spoke before anyone reached the door. “Some of you arrived believing magic was the part of creation that could not be explained.” The room gradually quieted. She looked toward the seven arts still written across the board. “You will discover the opposite.” I looked once more at the rotating rings overhead and at the candle. The stone I spent the whole class playing with now sat heavily inside my pocket. I had imagined magic to simply be a word used to explain away the parts of this universe that made no sense. Apparently, magic was what happened after everything finally did.

Chapter 16 Understanding Precedes Power