Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Studying is boring if you don’t understand anything. And that’s what was happening to Fabrisse on his first tutoring session.

He was in the East Archive’s fourth-tier courtyard, seated on a stone bench that was so cold and damp it must’ve absorbed the last three rainstorms. His posture was excellent. His emotional output was garbage.

Across from him, seated on a low-wrought stool that somehow made her all the more imposing, was Ganvar Ciemnosc.

"Again," she said, voice flat. Her gloved fingers tapped against her knee in a steady rhythm, as if counting his failures like ticks on a ledger. "Close your eyes. Breathe. I want you to bring up something real this time. Don’t imagine the dead dog again.”

"I am," Fabrisse muttered. “I’m channeling resolve.”

Ganvar shook her head. “Resolve is not an emotion. It’s a diplomatic excuse for not having one.”

He frowned. “But the workshop guide said it was acceptable as a stabilizer—”

“Yes. As a stabilizer. Not as a source. You’re trying to power a resonance, not hold your breath through it.”

Fabrisse inhaled again, sharper this time. He tried conjuring frustration. That had to count as emotional fuel, right?

The tutor was already waiting when he arrived fifteen minutes late, and she had been reasonably annoyed. She had told him to meet ‘somewhere quiet with a view of the aether grid,’ which apparently meant a crumbling backlot that had exactly one advantage: a clear, unobstructed view of the visible thread of milky white aether above the Archive roof, called the leyfield.

Her name was Ganvar Ciemnosc, and he’d actually risen from his seat when he found out the last name. Ciemnosc wasn’t a common surname. Any relation to Rimmar? he almost asked, but didn’t, in case she hexed people for bringing that up. However, she had a High Distinction in Emotional Conduction and Advanced Ritual Theory, and she only charged 65 Kohns per lesson. That was 25 Kohns lower than the next cheapest with the same credentials.

Liene had warned him in advance: ‘Some people call her the Crow.’

Not because of her family name, but because of the way she dressed. The long shadow-draped sleeves, the endless layers of the blackest black, the silver thread markings stitched like plumage over her cuffs. Some of the older Archmagi deeply disapproved of her wardrobe, but Ganvar simply tucked the offending fashion under her formal robes, showed up to faculty clearance hours, and went about her business.

“Did I get it right, teach?” Next to Fabrisse, Liene extended her palm. Inside her palm was a glowing ball of sky-blue—joy.

She was actually having fun learning this.

“Good.” Ganvar nodded and smiled at her. “Is there any other thing in here that can spark another emotion in you? Any recent events?”

“Oh, yes. Recently, Fabri threw rocks at bullies without telling me.” Liene frowned. Her glowing ball of aether promptly turned into a bright orange—not quite rage-red, but it was probably the very same frustration Fabrisse was trying to channel.

“Why are you studying Emotional Tuning?” Fabrisse turned to her and whispered.

“Can I not? I’m paying for the both of us,” she grinned like a chuckling hyena.

Was that a joke? Should I laugh?

“Focus, Kestovar. I want to see thaumaturgic sparks in your hand.”

“Sorry, tutor.”

“Still nothing.” Ganvar leaned back slightly, her long sleeves draping like wings. “Aren’t you supposed to be a third-year?”

He winced.

Liene looked like she wanted to interrupt, but Ganvar had already sighed and corrected herself. “That was unnecessarily cruel. I apologize. This is a tutoring space, and I am being paid to help.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “But also—what on this dying plane have you been doing for three years?”

“I . . . I just don’t have any innate resonance.”

Ganvar studied him for a long moment, then exhaled. “There’s a method,” she said at last, “for casters like you. You said you’re good with quartz, yes?”

“Oh! Yes!” He perked up. The session just got more exciting.

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She unrolled a small cloth pouch from her sleeve and retrieved a thumb-sized quartz etched with fine, nearly-invisible spiral glyphs. “This is a low-grade tuning quartz. It doesn’t generate resonance, but it can echo what’s already there, if you can give it enough of a push.” She held it out to him. “We’ll use it as a bridge. You supply the emotion. This will reflect the waveform. Once you can see the shape of your own resonance, it becomes easier to build pathways around it.”

He took the quartz warily. “What if there’s nothing to reflect?”

“Then I’ll be forced to conclude you’re actually a decorative houseplant and invoice the Synod accordingly.”

Liene chimed in, “You’re not empty, Fabri. You’re just clumsy with the part that matters.”

Fabrisse turned the quartz over in his hands with something close to reverence. The glyphwork was incredibly fine, etched in spirals that curled in on themselves like mirrored threads. It looked like a common-grade tuning quartz, just like the ones he’d handled during mineral classification exercises. But now, in his palm, it felt . . . special.

A tiny speck of violet left his hand. It was so fleeting he thought his eyes had tricked himself. But he was sure of it.

Reverence.

He’d never been able to conjure reverence before.

“This quartz works!” He gasped.

Even Liene peered in curiously. “Wow! Why didn’t Lorvan just give you this rock? You would’ve passed classes!”

“Mentor Lorvan hates rocks.” He came to the only logical conclusion.

If it echoes active resonance . . . and it’s a stone . . . then I might be able to check something.

He grinned, focused, and activated his internal glyph interface. Stone Resonant Carry (Rank I) should kick in the moment he holds an active, common-grade mineral.

Lorvan wouldn’t approve of this. But Lorvan wouldn’t have to know.

He gripped the quartz tightly in his hand, anticipating the glint of the interface as a stat bonus kicked in.

Nothing happened.

He waited.

The system showed up, but it wasn’t the stat bonus he was looking for.