Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Varys waited until the others were out of earshot. The panel in front of them dimmed, and the glass, possibly aetherically-charged judging from the way it glowed, retreated into its housing with a hush. The surface turned just translucent enough for Fabrisse to catch the shape of a face behind the mask. Feminine, he thought, though the lines were blurred by veilwork and refracted light.

“Kestovar,” they whispered. “Can you confirm that you have bonded with the Eidralith?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, long enough for Fabrisse to brace for the usual questions about will, binding ceremonies, and emotional stabilization.

Instead, Varys asked, “Kestovar, did the Eidralith manifest any trace of its internal parameters?”

“What?” He took an unconscious step back.

“Did it project any residual binding matrix to you?”

Fabrisse’s heart skipped; the question hit far closer than he expected.

For a breathless moment, he didn’t speak. “Internal parameters.” “Residual binding matrix.” The terminology scraped something raw inside his head.

The Eidralith didn’t say anything like that. It didn’t call anything that. But it had shown him floating boxes, diagnostics, percentage readouts like some ancient system trying to communicate in a shared language it was not quite fluent in. Not matrices, exactly, but not far. The phrasing was off just enough to make the resemblance uncanny.

No one should’ve known.

Not unless Lorvan had told the Bureau. But Lorvan wouldn’t. He wouldn’t compromise Fabrisse’s privacy like that. He’d always said magical cognition was personal and contextual. Unless he’d been forced, or thought it was safer this way.

But if the Bureau did know, why would they send someone asking a question that was almost correct instead of precise? Either they knew, or they didn’t. So why . . . ask like that?

Unless . . . they weren’t asking on the Bureau’s behalf.

His mind spun through permutations, grasping for logical footholds. The Bureau pulled from all disciplines—Alchemics, Sigilwrights, Artifact Divinations, Somaturgy, and many more. It wasn’t impossible that agents from artifact-oriented branches had seen this kind of behavior before. Maybe some relics—especially the old ones—reacted to binding with interface phenomena like what he’d seen.

Maybe it was a normal question. A common artifact phenomenon.

But if it was normal, then a true Bureau agent would’ve eased into it with verified terms and comparison against precedents. At least that was the process he’d learned about as a preparation for his eventual interview with the Bureau.

This person might have a personal agenda. And they might be short on time.

“Mr. Kestovar,” the agent extended their hands and handed him a small card, glowing at the edges with aetheric energy. “The Eidralith,” they said, “is a splinter of the Stone of Origins, as your discipline calls it.”

Fabrisse’s head darted up. “That’s a disputed theory—”

“Is it?” they interrupted, voice still mild. “Do you think it’s funny how Thaumaturgy, the grand formal branch of structured magic, could care so little about rare earth materials, given their origin?”

He stared. It was such a sideways question, so unexpected in tone and subject, that for a moment he couldn’t think how to respond.

“That’s . . .” Fabrisse frowned, trying to trace their logic. “That’s not a question of caring. Thaumaturgy prioritizes consistency of function over anomalous source material. Rare earth samples are low-yield.” For origınal chapters go to n0velfire.net

“And yet you’ve bonded with an automaton of untold powers. And you know how your Order despises artifacts, don’t you?” They stepped a fraction closer. “Your Leader Muradius is banning artifacts altogether. A new bill will come out in a few months to outlaw their study outright.”

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“Huh?” Artifacts were being banned? Why? And even if that was the case, what did that have to do with him? “But they aren’t banning Stratal Studies though, right?”

Their voice dropped into a whisper as it brushed his ear. “Stratal Studies’ most profitable stream comes from weapon enchantment. We’ve looked into your history, Kestovar. You’ll have no budget, and if you so much as apply for a grant with the word artifact in it, it will be denied before the ink dries. You won’t want that, will you?”

Whatever research they had done on him, they had made two fundamental errors. One, he didn’t care about artifacts. Two, he didn’t care about politics. Also, was what they said even true? Stratal Studies didn’t live or die on weapon enchantment. It funded itself through a dozen other channels: civil resonance mapping for city foundations, agricultural framework for soil renewal, even seismic stabilization for towers, bridges, and underground chambers.

“Why don’t you study with Artifact-Metamagical Inquiry?” they asked, voice no longer neutral. “They maximize the inner potential of an object instead of forcing it into taxonomy. They . . . no, we. We will have a place for you.”

He’d heard of that—Artifact-Metamagical Inquiry—in passing, somewhere buried in the classification trees of advanced divinatory studies. A fringe subdivision, if he remembered correctly, of Artifact Divinations: a field that specialized in reading histories, curses, enchantment layers, and resonance echoes from magical relics. Artifact Diviners typically peeled time backward along the grain of an object to see who wielded it, what spells had sunk into it, even what emotions had clung to it in moments of great use. They were observers, not manipulators of the aether.

But the way Varys phrased their words, it might seem like the Artifact-Metamagical Inquiry was looking to turn artifacts into power.

He considered Varys’ words for a second. They weren’t . . . wrong. His place in Thaumaturgy had been a colossal mismatch from the start, and this seemed like the one chance to turn it around. But Varys knew too much. And he didn’t even know their gender.

They turned the card in their hands, and the white aether sparks at the corner spiraled like a seedpod.

He took it with caution, feeling the glyph’s slow pulse echo faintly up his fingertips.

But he didn’t pocket it yet.

“Don’t you want to know about my encounter with the Voidfold?”

“You must’ve seen through me, Mr. Kestovar. I’m here because of special . . . interest. The Order of Metamagical Design would have never let something like this happen to you. We protect our talents like treasures.”