Meanwhile, it seemed the goblin had determined to commit suicide: he kept shaking me like a ragdoll and then leaned back and swung his hefty fist, aiming at my stomach. Until the very last moment, I had not believed he would hit me. In our modern, humane world, would our police really beat up a minor?! I hadn’t been prepared for that—that’s why my wheeze sounded especially pathetic.
What had started then was a nightmare: a sacred ordinance called by the dark mages the Empowerment and not similar at all to the Initiation of the white magicians. The difference between them is fundamentaclass="underline" the whites are forced to beg and flirt with their Source to extract its Power and not to frighten it; but our Source itself will scare off, if not drain, anyone. Under normal circumstances, the Empowerment is a long process, the essence of which is carefully concealed from the novices. The procedure requires the presence and assistance of several recognized masters to reduce the possibility of deadly outcomes. I, however, got smacked into this with no safeguards.
For a moment, a dark flame had blinded me, darting to my throat like a hot wave, trying to take away my senses and willpower. It was worse than being in front of a judge: my own Power was ready to crush and subdue me. It was impossible to be prepared for this, as such readiness could not be developed even with time and practice; the Empowerment was a moment of revelation, after which you either remained yourself or ceased to exist. And in that particular case two lives were at stake: a tiny protuberance of the Power escaped from my control would have transmuted the foolish cop into a skeleton. There was no time left for deliberation. Waiting for instructions (from whom?) was senseless; I had to cling to the raging Power with all my claws and teeth and tear, tear, tear… And you know what? That despicable thing was doing the same to me. For a few minutes we were like two grappling cats, my yin to its yang, and then, with an incredible effort of will, in the existence of which I had not believed before, I managed to plug and tame that flow and emerge on its surface, under the blinding light of the bulb.
The attack had passed as quickly as it had begun.
The Source hid somewhere inside me like a dog who had soiled the floor. To teach it to serve me and give me its “paw” in submission required long and hard work, but the process had been initiated. Not daring to believe in my salvation, I cautiously took a deep breath. And then my gaze fell upon the cop, who looked me in the eye with a suspicious gleam of intelligence.
I am a magician, and for the magicians the psychic shocks are worse than physical trauma. The effort that was required to complete the ritual had bottomed out my reserves. All of these terrible things: the walls, the light bulb on the cord, his face—came together in my brain, magnified as if by a lens; I gasped and fell unconscious. The last thing left in my mind was the cursing cop trying to keep me upright.
I do not know for how long I was passed out, but probably for quite a while; by the time I opened my eyes, there were more people milling about. Besides the goblin, I saw a young officer (a dark magician, if my senses are correct), and an elderly white mage with a stethoscope on his chest. On the faces of all three I read a purely medical interest.
“How are you feeling, young man?” That was the old guy. I mumbled in reply something that satisfied him. “The first acquaintance was a success!”
For some strange reason, the attitude toward me had changed dramatically. Even the goblin-like cop hadn’t yelled, instead grunting almost kindly.
The next thing that I remembered was a conversation with a pretty woman officer in a sunny and spacious room. Honestly, it would be a stretch to call it a conversation; she gave me a long, heartfelt lecture about the dangers of careless witchcraft, occasionally slipping under my nose disgusting photos from the police files to illustrate her thesis. What she said I knew already in theory and would have preferred to avoid looking at human stumps and giblets, but I did not want to open a lengthy discussion. I nodded and agreed with everything.
Perhaps the shock of clashing with the prose of life added some credibility to my words; ultimately, they believed in my virtue. They put me in a file, warned me that I would be under the watch, threatened to call my dean’s office, and finally kicked me out, not caring how I’d get home in such condition.
“Breathe! It will only make you stronger!” goblin laughed. “Join us after graduation—General Miklom will always find a job for a brave kid.”
At this point, I was caught up in revelation: I realized that I would never, ever work for the police.
Making my way to the exit of the building, I ran into the stoolie, my backstabbing client. The guy was still giving his testimony, but, seeing me, he became agitated and waved his hand.
“I understand,” he began briskly, “you cannot help me today, but, perhaps, on Thursday…”
Apparently, he thought that after all that had happened I would still work for him. Truly, the sweet simplicity is worse than witchcraft.
“I do not understand what you are talking about,” I muttered and stumbled away.
Let him deal with the “evil eye” by himself! He will be very fortunate if the “cleaning” service charges him less than two hundred crowns.
Passing through the gleaming glass and copper of the main entrance of the police department, I still could not fully comprehend my luck. My imagination turned window designs into camouflaged jail mesh, and every move behind them betrayed a spying gaze on me. An arch over the courtyard resembled an entrance to a tomb. Having moved away from the police building to a safe distance, I turned into a small park and sat on the nearest bench, trying to put my jumbled feelings in order. The evening had not yet come; from the moment I had entered the client’s apartment, four hours had elapsed at most.
But it sure felt like a lifetime had passed.
Thoughts slowly caught up with my stupid head.
Apparently, there wasn’t going to be a court trial. Not that I did not understand what I was doing (dark magicians start learning the law while still in high school), but I sincerely believed that I could afford some flexibility in interpretation of the legislation by taking precautionary measures. So typical—how many times do we have to hear that the matches are not toys before we realize that the rule applies to us as well?
“This world does not belong to magicians, either white or dark,” I recalled the words of Uncle Gordon (to tell the truth, he was not quite my uncle, but I digress). “Do you think there have not been enough wiseasses trying to prove otherwise?”
Yes, Uncle, there have been quite a lot of them, and it isn’t by chance that they were all idiots. Any magic, especially white, doesn’t make new things; its essence is an illusion. It won’t turn lead into gold or make bread out of sand or wine out of water. Bread, wine, and gold for magicians are made by real people, so you should never anger them—you cannot afford it (and this isn’t just some theory, it’s a verifiable fact)!
But what to do with our innate nature, our character traits that have long become a byword? For twenty years you learn the rules, but once your mentors are done with you, you immediately forget them and go back to level zero. It’s sad to admit, but dark magicians are more receptive to learning lessons through getting their ass kicked, and I was no exception to the rule. I guessed I should be grateful to the cops: they slapped my wrists right on time, halting the development of pathological inclinations in my character.