The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

The Paper Chase

Previously: "Waxing Roth" 

Running around Cuthbert by yourself is a bad idea; even if Brand, Justin's brother, were along—and even if he knew what you were up to—it would still be two humans against hordes of shoggoths. False courage is foolish courage.

* * * * *

The next day is Friday. Mindy is avoiding you, but it's not like you're looking for her. You doodle in your notebook in class, putting sigils together into possible new spells. These deeply impress Morgana Hollis, who watches your work during Hoagland's class. It would interest her: Her real name is "Sandra," and she donned "Morgana" about the same time she started wearing black, flowing blouses and skirts. You are careful to keep your work away from her.

You do show it to Blackwell, though, who is extremely impressed. Maybe even a little scared, for the whites show around his eyes. "Please be careful with these," he says. "They are missing certain key elements and will behave in unpredictable ways. In fact," he says, blanching a little as he peers closely at one. "I think we had better destroy them. Now."

Maybe your eyes are playing tricks on you, but your sheets of scrap paper seem to want to leap out of the fireplace, and he has to shove them deep into the embers with a poker.

"You're progressing quite nicely," he says when he is finished, "far more quickly than ever I would have hoped. I notice you have made a quite deep study of the spells in the Libra."

"Not really," you admit, folding your arms and clasping your elbows. "You won't let me look at it. Remember?"

"Are you sure you haven't been looking at it behind my back?" You shake your head. "Because the sigils you made employed some of the design work from them."

That's something you've wondered about mentioning. "I'm not sneaking peeks at your shit," you insist. "It's like I see them in my head." You dig inside your ear with your index finger. "Well, maybe it's them. Maybe it's something else."

"Please go on."

You describe, haltingly, but in more detail, what it was like to pass through the book, and the wheels of symbols that seemed to appear. "Since then ... Well, it's not very often, but when I relax, it's like I can see them again." You hold your palm out, as though touching a screen. "It's not like a hallucination— Or, I dunno, maybe it is." You rub your eyes, and twitch. "Like, maybe it's the drugs." Justin is no stranger to pharmacology.

Blackwell regards you evenly. "Do you think you could sketch them?" You shrug, and he hands you a pen.

Ninety minutes later the two of you are comparing your work to the first seven spells in the book. They are an exact match. "Spooky," you smile.

"Though perhaps not surprising." He is pale. "You must be careful with these copies."

"I've copied them out before," you point out. "Only the ones in the book actually work."

"That's true," he says slowly. "But we may be in unexplored territory. Still—" He gives you a piercing glance, and suddenly slams the book shut. Taking up a piece of paper, he scribbles down some words. "What can you make of this?"

"Well, I can make a broach. Or a hat. Or a pterodactyl—" He doesn't smile as you play with the sheet, so you sigh and lay it out on the table again. It's a list of ingredients and a single line of doggerel Latin. Another spell in the book?

You study it. Think about it. Scribble out elementary sigils corresponding to each ingredient. Combine them and recombine them. Sketch the outline for a progression that might use the bit of Latin. Sketch out a few more progressions when the first progression doesn't seem to conform to the sigils. You turn the paper this way and that. There is something familiar about it, like a melody that you can't quite hum and can't quite place. You close your eyes and let your mind drift.

The seconds seem to slow.

Your hand seems to be moving.

Your eyes snap open. Blackwell is staring at the paper. You look down, to see a rough and clumsy sigil. One glance tells you it's incomplete—almost empty of detail—but it's like seeing the missing, vital clue in a crossword puzzle. Quickly, confidently, you start filling in the blanks. Your hand tears across the page, but each stroke is decisive and clear.

At one point Blackwell interrupts you. "No, no, the translation should be 'My use is the solution'." "Bullshit," you snap. "It's 'Use me to solve me'." He holds his tongue after that.

When you are done he takes a ragged breath. "Thank you, Will," he says. "Most ingenious. You may go home now."

"Do I get a prize?" you ask, only half in jest.

He doesn't answer. Without looking at you, he sweeps the page and the Libra from the table and goes upstairs. Ten minutes later, after he hasn't reappeared, you let yourself out.

* * * * *

The night has one odd sequel. When you unload your backpack at home you find one of your afternoon doodles at the bottom. You flatten it, and recognize it's one of the variations on a golem sigil that you'd played with. There's a smudge in the middle, and you lick your finger to sponge it off. You should destroy it, but the browser has just opened to show an email from Brand, and idly you set to folding the sheet while reading over his suggestions for the Thanksgiving hunt. (He can't be serious about some of those peaks; you'll freeze your asses off!) You set it aside to tap out a reply, and only then notice that you have folded it into an origami bird. It's cute and you chuckle to yourself. You—Justin—haven't made origami since middle school.

Halfway through your email a movement catches your eye: The bird is hopping along the desk. At first you think it's caught in a draft, but no. It is definitely hopping, and pausing, and even turning as though looking for something. A prickle runs up your spine. You snap it up between your fingers—it tries to dodge!—and with a flick of the lighter from your drawer turn it into ash.

You'll figure out later what the deal is. After tonight's performance, you're not telling Blackwell about it.

* * * * *

The next day, instead of camping, you go out at the university archery practice range. It's surprisingly crowded, probably (you mordantly conclude) because of an impending SCA meet up, because the archers there all suck. But after twenty minutes this one guy takes up the station next to yours. He's tall and dark-haired and confident, and you can't help but be impressed at the way he can score precise shot after precise shot, quickly and with little seeming concentration. At one point he catches you staring, and smiles self-deprecatingly.

You return to your practice, and notice that he has started to watch you. "Pretty good," he says when you pause. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Six months," you shrug.

"Your stance could use a little work," he says in a friendly way. He directs you to move your feet and bend in a slightly different fashion, and you're rewarded with a greater sense of ease and power. That leads to more tips and more small talk. He is patient, generous, and unfailingly warm with his critiques, and you are soon chuckling like old friends and sharing horror stories about the first time you each picked up a bow. When he suggests getting together with him and his brother for a coffee, you agree.

But a few minutes later your mom calls and asks you to pick up the dry cleaning, and you have to cancel the "date." Your new friend is disheartened, and suggests a rain check.

Next: "The Hero and His Reward" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"