Cleansing Fire

Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his temple with the other hand. How was it that he felt this tired and sore after having had a perfectly restful night? He knew his night had been restful because the monitoring spells he’d set before retiring had been perfect in the morning. Normal sleep patterns, nothing strange or even remotely out of the ordinary. It seemed impossible. Fortunately, he was a man used to dealing with impossibilities, taking them in his stride as a matter of course.

Indeed, a large part of his life dealt with the impossibilities and vagaries of reality. Let the rest of the Academy deal with the spheres they seemed to think were so important as long as he could do what he wished. Nothing should be able to surprise him anymore but each day when he woke up feeling like this, he felt oddly defeated. He considered for a moment the irony of the situation – that he could deal with earth shattering creatures and magical phenomena but be entirely flustered by something as simple as being overtired. It didn’t seem fair.

A resounding crash from below brought him out of his thoughts. One o the gods damned apprentices had dropped something again. From the sounds of it, something expensive. If they’d broken one of his looking glasses again, someone was going to pay with their life. He had had more broken apparatus in the last few months since Triman had decided to appoint these apprentices than in the first ten years of his life at the Academy.

Why was it impossible for the Steward to understand that apprentices just didn’t fare well in this kind of environment? There was that word again, impossible. Perhaps the apprentices were simply predisposed to breaking things, clumsiness by breeding? He scribbled a note in the margin of his notebook reminding himself to investigate the effects of breeding on natural tendencies. He started to write some preliminary thoughts before catching himself and standing up to go find the source of the noise.

What he found stopped him at the door, his notebook forgotten in one hand. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or shout so settled on a stern frown for the moment. Jayden had managed to trap himself under a rack of glass jars. The rack wasn’t heavy and the jars were well strengthened so nothing major had been damaged this time besides Jayden’s pride. Unfortunately, the contents of the jars had been less than savoury and that was what finally brought a smile to Magnus’ face.

Having your face and entire upper body covered with the remains of various amphibians was probably punishment enough for anyone. He looked around at the other apprentices standing in various states of shock and shook his head. Another trait no doubt passed down from their abominable parents – the complete inability to deal with any kind of situation that didn’t appear in a book or a set of notes. Useless.

Sighing, he moved towards the shelf and began to lift it off the stricken Jayden. As if his movement had spurred them to life, the rest of the apprentices ran towards him, clamouring to offer their apologies and admonishments that he should let them move the shelf.

“Sir, please let us move it – you might injure yourself!”

“We’re so sorry we didn’t move it before you came, it all happened so fast!”

A twinge in his back right then forced him to bite back the acidic retort that had sprung to his lips unbidden. They seemed to think he was either made of glass or much older than he looked. Perhaps it would be a good idea to let them go to it at that – probably something that built character, exercise. Gods knew they needed character.

Although, could this really be considered exercise? Surely that would require some sort of formalised structure rather than the seemingly opportunistic lifting of objects.

A polite yet insistent cough drew his attention and it took him a moment to recognise Jayden in the messy, colourful and pungent form in front of him. He realised that someone had asked him a question. He let his mind wander back to what he had heard. Something about Healers? Aah yes.

“Please, by all means, take him to the infirmary. I’m sure the Healers would love to take a look at him. Perhaps someone should forewarn them that a bucket of soapy water may be necessary. Leric, you run ahead and tell them. They can send someone to find me if I’m needed.”

He walked back upstairs to his small study and closed the door. Sinking into the large padded chair, he wondered what he had done to deserve such a group of misfits. He lit his pipe from a tinderbox next to his chair and puffed contentedly for a few minutes before a knock on the door roused him.

“Come in,” he said, loudly enough that the sound should penetrate the wood.

“The door is unlocked.” As if that wasn’t self-evident by his first greeting. He was hardly likely to lock himself in the study – thought that might bring some protection from the imbeciles downstairs.

Someone came in and he looked up to see a pretty young lady standing in the doorway, hesitantly looking around his study. She had auburn hair and a tilt to her eyes that he found interesting. She glanced around the room in some confusion. He’d noticed people looked like that when they first saw his study - though he couldn’t imagine why. It was a perfectly normal room in all respects, if a little messy.

Well, come in. Have a seat… err,” he paused, wondering where his chairs had gone. There must have been at least two at some time. He was sitting in one so logically the other must be somewhere near. Fortunately the girl solved the problem by simply taking a seat on one of the book stacks. Good thinking, that.

“Thank you sir,” her voice was of the particular lilting quality that the Quilia possessed. He had quite favoured it as a boy – it always felt as if there was a pleasant singsong quality to it. There was nothing particular about the people unfortunately. Given to easy war and flaring tempers, many of them were prone to getting into fights they probably shouldn’t. The girl looked harmless enough but to be safe he stood up and moved behind his desk, leaning his hands on the coarse surface.

“I’ve come at the request of Steward Triman, sir. He hoped you would be able to take me into your programme and help me work on my studies. Though to tell you the truth, Theoretical has never really been my strong point. I’m much more of a… practical person.”

Magnus blew out his moustache, staring at her over the globe on his desk. What is Triman playing at? He knew the program was entirely full this year – he’d placed all the abominable students himself! Triman also knew how unlikely it was that Magnus would take a student this late under any but the most extraordinary circumstances. There must be some reason he felt this girl was good enough to change the rules.

“Well, what do you do besides… whatever it is that you do, Miss…?”

“Lori, sir, my name is Lori Cosiah. Mostly I work with paintings, sir. Portraits and events have always been my favourites. Since I was a little girl I’ve been painting people.”

Settling his expression in what he hoped was a fatherly and concerned look, he tried to think of a way to get her to tell him why the Steward had sent her. The Academy had many particularly gifted artists but he’d never had to deal with any up till now. There still didn’t seem to be any reason to take her on as a student. Perhaps if he allowed her to speak she would get there on her own.

“I usually paint whatever comes out of my hands, anything that comes to me. I suppose there’s also a part of it that deals with illusion since they appear before I paint them. Sometimes they can get quite fanciful and they’re often of people and things I’ve never seen. It usually takes me around a month to finish each painting completely but lately I’ve been doing them… rather faster than that.”

She seemed to shrink in on herself a little as the silence stretched and her eyes became distant, as if she was looking at something very far away. Clearly something was bothering her. Magnus decided to probe a little. He was sufficiently interested now that he would have to find out exactly what it was that she was bringing him. He thought about what she’d said. Something about the way she had said “faster” made him think.

“What exactly do you mean by faster? If it used to take you approximately a month to complete one of your paintings before, how much time does it take now?”

She brought her head up and their eyes met. For the first time, he felt a real force behind them, something primal trying to get out. Startled, he dropped his gaze to the documents on his desk and gave them an unnecessary shuffle. When he looked at her again, she averted her eyes with a pained look and bit her lower lip. So, the amount of time was definitely something that upset her.

“Come now, child. I need to know what you’re doing here if I’m to help you at all.”

“Well, shorter than a month, sir. Quite a lot shorter.”

“Well, that’s hardly remarkable,” he gestured at the painting of himself on the wall, “an artist made that for me in less than a week. It only took him three sittings before he had enough to get on with.”

She just looked at him and took a deep breath, steeling herself.

“With respect, not like mine, sir,” she said, picking up a canvas bag she had carried in with her. She untied the straps and brought out a medium sized print all in vivid reds and browns. It showed an exquisitely detailed view of the city harbour – the warehouse ablaze, casting a pall of smoke over the lower regions and setting the sea to a brilliant crimson.

She passed it over to him and, setting his pipe down carefully, he took a moment to look it over. The detail really is extremely good. He could make out the people forming a chain, trying to douse the flames. A crowd had gathered and was watching the buildings burn – it had taken the guard to get them to help make a bucket chain in the last fire. There had been a particularly high level of apathy in the city of late.

“It’s very good. The warehouse fires we had a few weeks ago if I’m not mistaken. How long did you say this took you?”

“I didn’t, sir. It took an hour all told.”

He struggled to keep back the word again. Impossible. Simply impossible.

“There doesn’t seem to be enough time to do something like this. There’s just too much detail and fine work. Not to mention the time you would have spent observing.”

She sighed and took the canvas back from him, rolling it back into the bag.

“It took one hour, sir. Exactly one hour. I woke up and started painting with the sunrise and was finished before the first bell rang. I don’t remember any of it, just the start and end.”

He cleared his throat and puffed furiously on his pipe. It was not unheard of for people to express creativity while semi-conscious but nothing this detailed had been produced before. At most there were usually rough sketches, perhaps one or two rough brush strokes. He admittedly knew very little about the creative arts but he would wager that this painting would have taken most people many, many weeks to finish. He had run his hand over the surface and noticed that the paint was quite thick in places – as if certain parts had been painted over. There’d been a tiny man in one of the upper windows, clearly trapped by the fire. He realised then what had been wrong with the painting – it had far too much detail.

It was as if she had taken down absolutely everything she had seen and forced it onto the canvas, regardless of the perspective. Usually, small details like the man in the window were only impressions, what the artist thought they had seen rather than the actual thing. Artists tended to convey their intention and not paint exactly as something happened.

“Could I see the painting again, please?” he asked, stretching out a hand. She pulled it out again and gave it back to him, clearly more nervous now.

He unrolled the canvas and his eyes moved over the rest of the painting, noting the intricate detail in every place he could see. He leaned closer and caught his breath. Even the wood of the warehouses seemed to have been painted in – a feat that would have required incredibly small brush strokes given that the vantage point seemed to be from high above the city – perhaps one of the towers in the Academy grounds.

“This is very odd; it’s almost as if the painting is too detailed. You must have had a wonderful view of the fires.”

She swallowed and looked at him with slightly downcast eyes.

“That’s the next strange thing, sir. I painted this from my room. I was never anywhere near the fires. Before you ask, I don’t know how. I just remember opening my eyes with that painting in front of me and my friend Cilla shaking my shoulder.”

His hands froze halfway to his tobacco pouch, his pipe hanging from his lower lip. Quickly dropping the pipe onto his desk, careless of the new burn marks it would make, he took up his notebook and started to write. He quickly outlined what she had said so far, making a note of her claims to have not been near the fire – that would need to be confirmed by someone more reliable than her friends. It had been a long while since the Academy had had a Channel to study. The images they produced could sometimes be quite useful for analysing events around the world. I see now why Triman sent her. Quite interesting.

“Now, Lori, when exactly did you paint this? I’ll need to confirm with your friend, Cilla? Cilla and any others who may have seen you. I don’t suppose you happened to alert one of the Initiates when all this happened? No, of course not, why would you? Still, anything you can remember about the night in question will be most helpful. Do you know what a Channel is? Have you ever had contact with an outlander magician? I know there are seldom strangers in Quilia but your people must have had some contact with them over the years.”

She looked a little bewildered at the barrage of questions that he was firing at her but it was imperative that he get all the relevant information as quickly as possible. Time was often of the essence when dealing with Channels. They usually only had one or two images in them.

“There… there’s something else you should know, sir. Steward Triman told me to tell you first but… well, I couldn’t bring myself to say it till now.”

Her face was a sickly grey colour and she looked as if she might be sick.

“Well, out with it! I need to get his information now if we’re going to do anything useful with you! Lori, you must tell me everything about your experience. This painting is a rare occurrence and may be the only one in your lifetime. You’re one of the few people on this earth that are able to channel information from your surroundings in this way.”

“Well, I painted this some time ago…”

“Even more reason to tell me everything now, girl! This may be the only time this happens to you and we must make notes of everything before you forget. Channels tend to not remember events for very long after the event. Frankly, I’m surprised you remembered for three weeks.”

She shrugged and looked down again, then brought her eyes up to meet his. Again, he felt that unfamiliar force behind them. This girl has some power. I hope she can learn to use it.

“With respect, sir, I don’t think you understand. I painted this well over three months ago. The Steward asked me to show you this one because of the fires we had recently.”

A stack of books fell to the floor as he leapt up from behind the desk, the notebook forgotten in his hand. Prophecy means The Travellers and they haven’t been seen for centuries. Even the usual attention seeking type had given up trying to claim they’d seen a Traveller. He needed to get more information, more facts. It was already getting late but she’d just have to stay here until they were done. He’d drag all the information he could out of her before he night was through.

“Three months? That’s incredible. That’s well before the fires took place – I suppose it’s been confirmed that this is an accurate representation?”

Not even waiting for her nod, he paced up and down along the side of the study, navigating between teetering stacks of books without even noticing them. Of course Triman had verified everything. That sly old man, he knew just how to bait me. Three months was longer than any Channel had kept knowledge of an Event. Most of them were… suddenly, something she had said finally penetrated his thoughts.

This one. This one? No Channel who had been in contact with Travellers had been part of more than one event.

He chewed on his pipe and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“This one? What do you mean this one? How many more are there?”

She shrugged, burying her face in her hands.

“I don’t know, sir, maybe a few hundred? They’re all in the store rooms in one of the basements. Steward Triman said I was to tell you to go find them.”

A few hundred. Impossible. Hundreds of these paintings?

The pipe fell unheeded from his mouth and lay on the desk, the embers gently burning into the wood.