Just a Bystander

A Friendly Reckoning

Even at the best of times, meeting the Demiurge would be a nerve-wracking experience. This was the man who had risen to his present position at the age of 25 thanks to his prodigious intellect and arcanic mastery, only narrowly missing out on the spot for being the youngest Demiurge in the history of the Empire by one year. And he had firmly held on to the position for ten years against a host of detractors and naysayers. Now my father and I were face-to-face with him when we were still dealing with the shock of discovering what we thought was a way to unmake prophecies.

My father's shuffling footsteps were followed by the slow, measured steps of the Demiurge as they came into the sitting room. I had enough presence of mind to get to my feet and attempt some sort of deferential half-bow in greeting.

I had seen his portrait hung up in various places in the Academy, but it was really not the same as standing before him in the flesh. Demiurge Maugrim Caldwell was one of those men who somehow filled a room with his presence without resorting to arcanic manipulation. Even though he was of average height, you could walk away swearing that he loomed above you.

The effect was especially disconcerting since his genes had blessed him with a youthful appearance. He had apparently decided to lean into that look by keeping clean-shaven, styling his platinum blonde hair in an undercut, and dressing more casually. At the moment, he was wearing a white T-shirt with a black jacket thrown over and a pair of faded grey jeans. On top of that, I could have sworn that he was wearing the same pair of sneakers as Devon. An outsider could be forgiven for thinking he was one of the arcanists in their final year of study.

His grey eyes held a glint that hinted at the razor-sharp mind behind them, and those eyes swept across the room before landing on me.

'Good morn– afternoon, Demiurge,' I croaked, reddening rapidly.

'Hello.' He smiled, extending a hand and graciously opting not to comment on my slip-up. I tried to give as firm a handshake as I could. His grip was surprisingly gentle. 'You must be Caden Dundale. Well done on taking the Top Scorer spot. But I suppose that is no surprise. Even if Professor Dundale were only a quarter as good a father as he is an artificer, you would have been raised and taught very well.'

'Yes sir,' was all I could manage.

'Please, have a seat,' my father said, gesturing to the chair he had just vacated. 'Can I get you a drink?'

Caldwell lowered himself into the offered seat. 'Oh, no, don't trouble yourself on my account. Please, pull up another chair and the three of us can have a nice chat.'

I exchanged a look of confusion with my father. As he retrieved one of the chairs from the study, I sat back down, teetering anxiously at the edge of my seat.

Once my father had settled down, Caldwell clapped his hands together. 'Right! I'll get straight to the point. I'm here because the Academy wards detected a very unusual surge of arcana. Once I ascertained that it wasn't doing any harm, I ignored it and continued with a task I was occupied with at the time. After I was done, I picked up the threads and followed them here.' He gestured around vaguely.

'You think it was one of my artefacts?' My father asked, sounding slightly wounded. It seemed that he wasn't intending on saying anything about what had happened.

'No, of course not!' Caldwell said airily, waving a hand dismissively. 'You're far too careful to accidentally release such unstructured arcana. And your residence isn't the source, it's the destination. I found five first-year students at the source, and two of them had been ensorceled.'

Ensorceled. The word fit perfectly, and my previous attempts to label the technique as "arcanic infusion" fell away like dead scabs. In my mind, the disparate bits of experimentation and theorizing coalesced into a fully-formed concept. Encorcellment was what allowed you to influence someone and even exert control over their minds.