Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse rubbed his eyes, still not entirely sure he hadn’t inhaled too much channel residue during the Skybrace match.

“W–why are you back?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be off . . . I don’t know, fighting off goblins in the Redscape or throwing fire at warbands in Jorhest?”

Two years older and coming from the same commune of Itakonra as Fabrisse, Tommaso had trained his entire life to become a combat mage. The pay was tremendous, at least before the border skirmishes with the goblins ended, and he’d always felt an urge to ‘smash those evil goblins’ heads in’ (his exact words). Those green creatures had always been a nuisance near the frontier as they had no concept of borders and demarcated lands.

Tommaso threw his head back with a theatrical laugh. “Goblins? Man, please. That was last month’s hobby. I’m on vacation now.” He shot finger arrows at nothing in particular. “Synod rules say I’m technically an ‘adjunct fire resonance observer’ until further notice. So yeah—paid break under the glorious sun and free dining hall lunch. Also, I think I still owe you a concussion from the breadstick duel of ‘22.”

Fabrisse gaped. “You are a what?”

“Anyway!” Tommaso cut in, grinning wildly. “Wanna see my newest trick?”

Before Fabrisse could answer, Tommaso rolled his shoulders, flicked both wrists outward in a crisp spiral, and channeled.

A burst of orange-gold fire ignited midair, spiraling into shape like it was being drawn by a drunk, excitable artist. The wings of the thing flared, and its beak opened but made no sound. It pecked the air with glowing ember eyes and let out a screech like someone setting dry hay on fire. The mint sparks surrounding the creature were much more pronounced in color than that of Miro’s.

It was unmistakably, and unfortunately, a chicken.

Fabrisse stared.

Tommaso beamed. “Can’t do a phoenix yet,” he said proudly. “But we’re getting there.”

The fire-chicken flapped once, caught a breeze, and very nearly charred a passing tree branch before Tommaso snapped his fingers and popped it out of existence.

Tom would probably have been his class’ best graduate had he not spent his time on conjuring wacky spells like that. Fabrisse remembered he used to enchant the lecture lanterns to dance to tavern tunes during symposium week. He was a wildfire with legs, powered by zero impulse control. His resounding success during and after his time in the Synod was probably the reason why Lorvan still kept his job despite his failures with Fabrisse.

Fabrisse couldn’t stop himself. “You’re still ridiculous.”

Tommaso grinned wider. “Ridiculously talented, maybe. You’re welcome, by the way. This chicken saved a caravan last month. Goblins don’t like poultry, or fire. Oh, also, I want you to meet somebody.”

“There’s more?” Fabrisse asked.

“There’s more?” Lorvan asked.

Tommaso jabbed his thumb behind him. “You see the snowman over there?”

Fabrisse turned. “What snowm—?”

Then he froze.

About twenty paces from the scorched training ring stood a snowman. Not a conjured snow effigy or an illusion of one, but an actual, physical snowman—round and compact, with triple-stacked spheres, little pebbled eyes, and a crooked pine cone for a nose. It even had twigs for arms.

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It was also surrounded by a faint circle of hoarfrost, frosting the surrounding grass under what was, by any reasonable measure, twenty-degree sunshine.

“Since when has it been there?”

Tommaso shrugged. “Since love entered my life.”

“What?”

A crystalline snap, like ice cracking under pressure, popped into the air behind him.