Ever since that day, Jessamine was plagued by the sight of ravens.
They weren't malicious, harmful, or threatening—they looked and behaved as regular ravens do: many times, she would notice them circling above Avalonne-du-Prix, no doubt looking for their next meal. The island had a small population of mice and other rodents, but the ravens' main source of sustenance were the plentiful scraps of human trash.
Other times, she would see a raven watching her from a distance.
Class had been in session for a week already, and yet, Jessamine would swear that she could feel some greater will behind the raven's behavior every time it happened.
Was it one raven, or many?
And yet, every time, Jessamine would ridicule herself for entertaining such thoughts.
It had not often happened; perhaps only three times throughout this past week had she become aware of the psychopomps' stares, but as the saying goes… once is weird, twice is a coincidence, but three makes a pattern.
But I do not have time to be troubled by such flights of fancy, thought Jessamine.
The Board of the Societie Royale had approved the recruitment of Elisabeth Blackstone in a subsequent meeting, and Jessamine had been selected to scout her. It was common knowledge that the di Cadenza family were closely allied with the Royal House, and that both families often worked in unison to oppose the Blackstones; the thought was that there was no one better suited to see through any Blackstone schemes than Jessamine, and also no one better suited to convey the message that the Societie was independent of the Blessed Houses.
It was necessary that Elisabeth Blackstone become a willing participant in the Societie, as Henry had put it, so that Britannia might finally have peace.
Still, she's the heir of the most manipulative, scheming, untrustworthy family in Britannia. If she's picked up even a fraction of her father's talent for subversion, it won't be easy to spot if she's manipulating us.
I've got to be careful around her. I can't show weakness, I can't let her get the upper hand.
Jessamine was waiting for Elisabeth in one of the halls of the Academy Keep; she had it on good authority that Elisabeth's next class was nearby, so she was sure to appear. The abundance of alcoves and hidden spaces in the Keep would make it easy to have a private conversation, if necessary, though a recruitment into the Societie should not require such measures.
Though, it might be wise, due to who she is…
"We cannot afford to let her slip through our fingers," said Henry. "Even if she's a Blackstone, we owe it to Britannia to do our best. If we're successful, the political landscape of this country could change for the first time in fifty years."
"But isn't it just too much of a coincidence?" Jessamine asked, unable to shake her suspicions. "How do you know we aren't playing into their hands?"
"We don't."
"Then—"
"However!" Henry interrupted, "That is why I am sending you. I know you're more of a spook than you let on, Ms. di Cadenza."
A sly, knowing smile formed on his lips.
"If anyone could see through her web of deception, it's you. And if you can't see the forest of truth through the lying trees, as it were, then I fear no one could."
"But, Cahill—"
"You know I'm right, Jessamine."
She gave him a look that was neither amused nor in agreement.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Jessamine di Cadenza approached Elisabeth Blackstone, who was deliberately making her way towards her next classroom without interaction with other students.
A pang of sympathy formed within Jessamine's chest, though she wasn't sure how deserved it was.
It must be hard for her. She didn't ask to be born a Blackstone…
"Excuse me, Ms. Blackstone?"
…and then, as Elisabeth looked up, Jessamine was surprised to recognize the face before her.
She's the woman from that night.
I've got to stay focused.
I am the one in authority here. Her family may be important, but right now, she's just a student.
"Can I help you, Ms. Cadenza?" The younger brunette cocked her head inquisitively.
"It's di Cadenza, actually," said Jessamine, sure that the mistake was intentional—a ploy to throw her off-balance. "Do you have a minute? There's something I'd like to talk to you about."
"My apologies. Of course, Ms. di Cadenza."
"Well, seeing as how you have a class soon, I'll get straight to the point: would you like to join the Societie Royale? We are the highest-rated campus society, and our members are drawn from many of the Blessed Houses and other Britannian nobility. We believe that you would be a good fit for such an organization, and could bring valuable experience and connections to the Societie."
Elisabeth smirked.
"You just want to keep an eye on me, don't you?"
Jessamine returned the grin.
"I assure you, Ms. Blackstone, if that was our only intention we wouldn't need to bother recruiting you."
The two women stood facing each other in the empty hall, their postures neither relaxed nor aggressive.
She's definitely the woman from that night.
What was it the guy said? "I don't care who you are?"
He might be the only person on this campus who can say that to her face.
Elisabeth broke the tension with a small, polite laugh.
"Forgive me, Ms. di Cadenza. I'm not used to people being so honest with me. And I'm sure you weren't expecting me to be completely honest, either."
"Oh?" said Jessamine, feigning ignorance. "Why is that?"
"I am well aware of my family's reputation," replied Elisabeth. "It may be exaggerated. It may be accurate. It may be understated. It may be completely false. Who's to say?"
"The Blackstone family seems content to leave their reputation be, though."
Elisabeth smiled once more; it was a genuine smile, though Jessamine could not bring herself to be relaxed in this woman's presence.
Something about that smile seems familiar, though…
"Of course we are. A Viscount, one of the lowest peerages of Britannia, esteemed as one of the Blessed Houses? Who would have imagined it, were it not for our dreadful reputation?"
"Are you implying that the House of Blackstone is all bark, no bite?"
"Would you like to find out?"
Jessamine could feel her control slipping.
She's good. She's not flustered by me, and has enough courage to threaten me to my face after downplaying her own position.
"It is not I that needs convincing, Ms. Blackstone," replied Jessamine. "My question was out of concern for the Societie, whether or not you would truly be a good fit for our organization."
Jessamine's eyes narrowed.
"We are a prestigious society which takes our duty seriously. Mangy mutts have no place alongside royal hounds."
"A hound, are you?" asked Elisabeth, playfully, with an edge of malice. "I believe it. Hounds excel at following their master's orders and nothing else. That's why a hound may mistake a wolf for a mutt and get itself into an unwise position."
Jessamine ignored the slight.
"Are you a wolf, then?"
"Perhaps," Elisabeth replied. "Perhaps I am only a cub."
A cub. A wolf. A pack…
Elisabeth Blackstone lives up to her name, or at least she gives a very good impression of doing so.
There's every likelihood that she is the Blackstone heir, and she certainly has some sort of ulterior motive for attending the Academy. She knew who I was before I introduced myself; she likely knew why I was there, and deliberately got my name wrong to try to make me stumble.
Then she immediately addressed the most controversial aspect of herself: her name.
But if her name concerned her so much, why not use a pseudonym?
The only reason is that it must be important for everyone to know she's a Blackstone.
Suddenly, Elisabeth's face darkened. Her demeanor, which had been ostensibly polite, was now outright disgusted.
Jessamine sensed the aura of a magician behind her, and recognized the aura for a reason she wasn't quite sure how to describe.
"If you don't have anything else for me, Ms. di Cadenza, I'd like to proceed to my class."
She doesn't want to interact with whomever is behind me.
I have no reason to force a confrontation.
"Very well, Ms. Blackstone," replied Jessamine. "If you're interested, stop by the Societie house this afternoon, around 4 p.m., if you don't mind. Follow the road to the northern tip of the island, you won't be able to miss it."
Elisabeth nodded, and continued on her way without replying.
Jessamine waited for a second, sensing the other person about to walk past her.
It's got to be that man.
"Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to spare?"
Almost a full stride past her, the man paused and turned.
"Do you mean—me?" He pointed at himself, the gesture feeling a little too innocent for the situation in which he found himself.
"Do you see anyone else here?"
"N-no," he stuttered, turning fully to face her. "I just never expected the scion of the di Cadenza family to ask for my time."
Jessamine's eyes narrowed.
"You know who I am," she said, "yet I do not have the same privilege."
"And yet you're going to ask me to join the Societie Royale, same as Ms. Blackstone, correct?"
What is this feeling?
Why do I feel unsettled? Elisabeth Blackstone, by any right, should be far more intimidating.
I am a di Cadenza.
I will not fail.
"Be careful when jumping to such conclusions," she replied. "However, yes, you are correct in this particular circumstance."
"May I ask why you wish to recruit me?"
There's my opportunity.
"Only if I may have your name, first."
"Caspian," he said, with a small, polite bow. "Caspian Dawson, at your service, Ms. di Cadenza."
Jessamine studied him with unbridled curiosity. Everything about his posture and attitude suggested two simultaneous, opposing emotions: self-confidence and utter relaxation.
No, those are only opposing if his self-confidence is a sham.
If it's real, then the reason he's relaxed is because he trusts his own abilities implicitly.
The speed at which he transformed his nervous, innocent freshman act into pure confidence is impressive, especially because I didn't notice it until afterwards.
"Interesting. I don't recall the House of Dawson among the peerages of Britannia."
"It's not," he replied. "I am from common blood."
That seems wrong. Whatever.
"Is it true that you cannot cast magic?"
That appeared to make him falter, if only imperceptibly.
"I cannot use chants to cast magic," he clarified. "For some reason, the magic structures always break down before they can be utilized. However, I am quite adept with the construction and usage of runes."
"You must have a decent understanding of magical theory," she replied. "Not many first-year students are as prepared to talk about magic structures, let alone the construction of runes."
"My runes could be the height of simplicity, though."
"I somehow doubt that is the case."
"Fair enough."
Jessamine paused. The young man was polite, and had a substantial amount of physical charm, and yet something about him repulsed her in a way no other magician had before.
She studied his eyes: the easiest way to read someone's character. It's impossible for someone to control the micromovements of their facial muscles, no matter how many years of training they might have, and someone knowledgeable can use that to their advantage. In this case, that someone was Jessamine.
His eyes held intelligence, confidence, and raw determination.
A dangerous combination.
But if he cannot cast chanted magic…
Well, runic magic is faster, despite chants being more easily customized.
"Well, Mr. Dawson," she began, "if you wish to join the Societie Royale, come to the Societie house this afternoon. I'm sure you heard the details earlier."
"4 p.m., up at the northern point of Avalonne-du-Prix," he confirmed with a smile. "I'll be there."
She turned to walk away, but Caspian spoke up once more.
"Ms. di Cadenza, if I may," he said, "you still haven't answered my question."
Jessamine turned once again to face him.
Why do I want to recruit him?
The truth, then.
"You intrigue me, Caspian Dawson."
…
Caspian mulled over those words as he entered his Principles of Magic class.
I intrigue her. She's noticed the ravens, but I wonder if she's figured out that they report to me?
No, that's not possible. Interspecies telepathy is not a known application of magic.
As advanced as magic had become in the Kingdom of Britannia, under the peerless tutelage of the Ravensleigh Grimoire, telepathy had yet to be cracked. Most magicians still considered the human mind a mystery, a cypher, an enigma which magic alone could not be solved.
Among all magicians, Caspian Dawson alone knew the reason for this confusion: most magicians couldn't see the bigger picture. The consciousness was not a product of the brain alone, but the combination of what he called the ID, EGO, and SUPEREGO—an antiquated psychology reference, but one which was adept at describing the different layers on which both magic and consciousness operated.
"So, where'd we leave off last week?" the professor asked rhetorically. "Ah, yes. Magic as a metaphysical force of nature. I assume everyone has completed the assigned reading?"
The class gave no response.
"I'll take your silence as confirmation, then. So, would anyone care to summarize the reading for the class?"
"I'll do it," said a man sitting behind Caspian. He didn't seem to be that interested in magic theory, Caspian noted, but was making an effort to understand it anyway.
A soldier, perhaps? Aware that the key to his victory is his understanding of the tools at his disposal?
"Basically, we know that magic is a consequence of the laws of nature," he began. "We know this because it appears to follow some of the established physical laws, while disregarding others. The element of 'magic' is in deciding which laws are disregarded. It therefore can't be completely independent of nature, and must be some misunderstood aspect of the things we already know."
"That's a good start, Mr. Johnson, but not quite correct," said the professor. "Does anyone know what Mr. Johnson got wrong?"
Again, a reluctance to volunteer.
"I can," said Caspian.
"Please, go ahead."
"Magic does not disregard physical laws at random. Rather, it is one specific law which is transformed, which is the communication between particles."
"Oh? Explain."
Caspian rose to the challenge.
"According to current Magic Field Theory, all elementary particles communicate information about their metaconfiguration to nearby particles; that is, there is a field of energy which contains information about a subject's higher-order structure on a lower-order level. The example used in the text is a copper wire: when electricity is applied to the wire, it does not 'flow' through it in the traditional sense, but rather creates an electric field between the endpoints of the wire. Electricity is delivered to the target location through this field.
"Because that energy transfer takes place faster than sending energy along the wire," Caspian continued, "it means the destination of the electricity is already known before the electric current is applied. This implies the existence of some 'hidden variable' attached to the atoms in the copper wire, which stores this information until it is able to be used. Current Magic Field Theory hypothesizes that the manipulation of this hidden variable is how magic, which is essentially just the transfer of energy without a corresponding physical phenomenon, is possible."
"Excellent answer, Mr. Dawson," said the professor, before addressing the entire class. "He is correct. This is why we say that magic is a metaphysical force of nature: in respect to the transformation of energy, it is no different than any other physical or chemical reaction. Yet there is no 'corresponding physical phenomenon,' as Mr. Dawson phrased it, and so we say that magic is metaphysical."
It was unremarkable that most of the freshmen had no idea what Caspian and the professor were talking about; while a practical education in magic was a core curriculum in most universities, the particulars of magical theory were a secret closely-guarded by every program authorized to teach them. What was remarkable, in the mind of the professor, was that Caspian had such a grasp of the theory already.
Though, if he's bright, he might've been able to put that much together through a rudimentary study of magic itself, thought the professor. Let's test his knowledge.
"Does anyone care to explain the extended implications of Magic Field Theory as it relates to consciousness?" he asked.
A hand was raised, almost immediately; it was not Caspian, but rather a bright-eyed young woman whom the professor could tell was struggling to force her personality to fit into a more professional way of conducting herself.
"Ms. Rivierra?"
"Thank you, sir," she began. "The basis of Magic Field Theory is Particle Field Theory, specifically the possibility that elementary particles are in constant communication with the particles around them about their structure. Thus, one endpoint of a wire 'knows' where the other endpoint is, correct?"
"That's an appropriate summary, Ms. Rivierra. Points for recognizing the connection to Particle Field Theory."
"Thank you, sir," she said again, this time with a hint of a blush. "If we examine the human brain through that lens, it might present an answer to the 'bootstrap paradox' of consciousness. If each neuron in the brain can be imagined as one of these 'wires', then, even without any sort of neuron activation, the different neurons are already calculating where energy should go when it's applied. Because neurons can also act as calculation thresholds, the result of this energy pre-calculation should reflect the actual activity of the brain before it occurs. But because the brain is such a complex organ, there's no way for this calculation to be one-hundred-percent accurate, meaning it has to be updated constantly. With a sufficiently complex structure, this interplay between physical and metaphysical prediction may result in what we define as 'consciousness.'"
She's quick, thought Caspian, though she's a little off the mark as well. But her intuition is a force to be reckoned with.
"But, Ms. Rivierra," said Caspian, cutting the professor off before he could speak, "there are a variety of 'conscious' creatures on this planet with brains far less complex than our own. Does that not serve as a counterpoint to your argument?"
Let's see how you respond.
"Ms. Rivierra?" asked the professor, "Do you have an answer to Mr. Dawson?"
"Not at this moment, sir," she replied, with barely a moment's hesitation.
"Very well, then," he said. "Mr. Dawson's critique is, once again, accurate: the origin of consciousness posed by Ms. Rivierra has been hotly debated among magic theoreticians for several decades, now, and the most common counterpoint is the presence of many conscious species which do not have complex neural structures."
"Professor, I have a question regarding those debates," said Caspian, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity.
"Yes, Mr. Dawson?"
"Has the distinction between sapience and sentience ever been proposed as an answer to that counterargument?"
The professor's eyes twinkled.
"Why, yes, it has, Mr. Dawson," he said, barely able to contain his excitement. "That idea first appeared in the early 2000s, but it came up again just last year in a paper authored by the Magi. Their discussion of the idea is considered the first legitimate consideration it's ever had, and they drew some pretty revolutionary inferences from it."
The mention of the Magi at last aroused the interest of the students in the room.
"You mean, the Magi?" asked one, a small, timid man who didn't look as if he had just graduated university.
"Indeed, Mr. Williams," said the professor. "The three Ultimate-rank magicians in His Majesty's Service, whose names have never been publicly released, and who have dictated the course of magical research in this Academy and this country for the better part of twenty years. They are of the same mind as young Mr. Dawson here."
Caspian now had the attention of every student in the room, no matter how much they cared about magic theory. A comparison to the Magi, no matter how slight, was an impressive feat.
"Thank you for your compliments, sir," said Caspian, "but I worry you give me too much credit. I've read the Magi's paper on the subject and wanted to know how much the broader magical community has considered the idea."
The professor raised an eyebrow.
"That paper was never made available to the public, Mr. Dawson," he said. "I'm impressed that you were able to find a copy."
"One of my university professors shared it with me as we were discussing the intersection of magic and consciousness," replied Caspian. "He technically broke the law by doing that, so please forgive me for refusing to name him."
…
The car waiting for Arthur Trevena was dark, its windows tinted, with no hood ornament or identifying marks of any kind. It was, in fact, a Rolls-Royce—top of the line model. But its sole passenger had no way of knowing that, and yet he could feel an overwhelming atmosphere of extreme luxury as he settled into the back seat.
"Please come with me, sir," the driver had said, after double-checking Arthur's identification. "I am here on behalf of His Majesty's Secret Service."
The man had produced the appropriate credentials, and reassured Arthur: "You are not in any trouble, lad, but there's someone who wishes to speak with you as urgently as possible. Your parents have been notified."
As if to cement that point, his phone had buzzed with a text from his mother.
Arthur—if someone approaches you after class, it's okay. Go with him. It'll all make sense. I'm sorry.
The car delivered Arthur to the local airport, but not to the main terminal. Men in dark suits and sunglasses directed the car through a gate onto the airstrip itself, where it stopped in a hangar housing a private jet.
"Am I going to be gone long, sir?" asked Arthur. "Not that I mind, but I'm just beginning grad school, sir, and would prefer to avoid falling behind."
"Not at all," replied the driver. "You should be back by suppertime tonight, unless you choose to stay longer, of course."
The two men exited the car and moved towards the plane, and the driver made a small sound to get Arthur's attention.
"Incidentally, sir; my son was stationed in the Maldives three years ago. I would like to thank you for supporting our armed forces in that conflict, no matter your level of engagement."
Arthur cast his eyes downward.
"Thank you, but I really didn't do anything."
"Nonsense. You showed courage, lad, in the face of imminent death. Such courage deserves reward. Remember that, in the days to come."
Arthur was confused, but mumbled a barely-coherent "Thanks" before entering the plane.
Alone once again, Arthur picked a seat. Having always flown with assigned seating, he felt somewhat discomforted by the sudden luxury, and chose a seat further back in the jet than he would have liked—but then, remained seated, gripped by the invisible hand of embarrassment at the thought of some mysterious observer laughing at his indecision.
The flight wasn't long, and yet Arthur couldn't seem to relax.
How could I relax in this situation?!
When he arrived at Heathrow, the plane—which, he overheard, had been given priority landing clearance—taxied to another private hangar, where an identical car was waiting for him. If the driver hadn't been a completely different bloke, Arthur would've suspected that the original car had broken every speed limit in Britannia in order to meet him when he landed.
The longer they drove, the more nervous Arthur became. And when the car eventually turned into an underground parking lot in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace, his nerves shot through the roof; his driver noticed and, with a quick smile, said, "Don't worry, son, everything's going to be just fine." It was obvious attempt to calm the young man, but it worked nonetheless.
The experience of being ushered by a dozen black-clad gentlemen with bulky, artificial torsos—Bulletproof vests?—seemed a hallucination to Arthur, who followed the leader without protest.
They deposited him in what appeared to be an antique sitting room, a place used to entertain guests. It was well-decorated, but just a touch less luxurious than Arthur had expected, and he was surprised at his ability to be disappointed in such a situation. It's not everyday that a graduate student gets an express trip to Buckingham Palace, and when they do, such students tend to be more awestruck by the experience.
Only one in a million students my age will ever sit within these walls, he realized, though the realization was marred by the overstimulation of luxury across the entire journey.
A gentleman entered the room.
Arthur, of course, recognized the man.
Any Britannian would recognize their King.
Nearly stumbling over the corner of the chair on which he had alighted, Arthur knelt before King Uther Pendragon, first of his name, and trembled.
"Sir! It's an honor to meet you, sir!"
The King chuckled at Arthur's attempt at courtesy.
He's not too far off, though a little etiquette training will do him good.
He walked gently, but with authority, to where the young man knelt. To Arthur's astonishment, the King knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and met his questioning gaze—
"Arthur, my boy," said the King, "we have so much to discuss."