Simone Allard || After

The Enchanter’s Society. Simone’s next clue. While the Enchanters have their dormitory tower, same as everyone else, the Casters therein more often spend their time elsewhere. Simone has heard whispers of it before, the Enchanter’s Society, a sort of cult where the Enchanters of Voterique gather together. Really, Etienne is the only Enchanter they know who doesn’t often take part.

Simone doesn’t know the full details of the goings-on within the Society. The members and the activities they’re involved in could be anything. Extravagant orgies. A grey-walled prison. A chaotic pocket dimension. And, on the days Etienne had been more conversational, he had never been willing to share its secrets.

In Simone’s mind, it’s an exaggerated, exclusive study group. Other students of Voterique—and even a professor or two—have entered their offices seeking their guidance. Granted, of the eight realms, Enchantment has the biggest drawbacks to it, so it would make sense to seclude students who elect to specialize in it.

Still, their reputation does the Enchanter’s Society minimal favors.

Much in the same way the medical ward is an unsightly growth amongst the faculty building, the Enchanter’s Society lurks in the background like an unwanted guest. It curls into itself. Despite its impressive width, it’s the shortest of the faculty buildings—and yet, it’s the one that makes Simone’s skin prickle now as they approach. But perhaps it’s not the building itself, but the way fellow Casters-to-be give them a narrow look and a wide berth as they approach, as if the building is diseased and, by entering, Simone will become the next bearer of its contagion.

With a shiver, they pull their capelet tighter around them.

The entrance doors, filigreed and gaudy, stretch open at their approach. From the darkness beyond, several blue pinpricks of light flare under Simone’s assessing gaze. Despite the illumination, much of the interior still remains wreathed in shadows. And then, as Simone steps inside with a shuddering breath, a soft gust of wind catches their hair and the rest of the lanterns light.

“Welcome to the Enchanter’s Society,” says a voice, and Simone scans the foyer. The bang of the doors startles them, and it’s not until they’re trembling, hand to their fluttering heart, they locate the source.

The attendant at the desk stares at them with lake-still eyes. Brown curls frame their face like brambles on a bush. Their light green capelet gives their pale skin a nauseating hue. When Simone doesn’t respond, they blink their too-wide eyes and tilt their head. “How may we provide assistance?”

Simone’s knees lock. Though the attendant’s lips move, the voice emerging from them has multiple sources. On impulse, they look around the foyer for other figures.

“I…” They pause, swiping their tongue over their lips. What had they come here for, again?

The attendant blinks, some semblence of sentience settling over them at last. Adjusting the clasp of their capelet, they say, “Either ask for what you seek or leave. We do not tolerate loitering.”

Simone falters, just for a second, before standing up straight once again. They’ve contended with far worse, been far worse. A multi-voiced attendant is manageable in comparison. “I must consult the Society regarding magics of the mind.”

The attendant’s eyebrow twitches. “This is what we are here for, after all.”

Of course. Simone dares themself to step closer. “Rather, it is about a friend of mine—“

“How vague.”

“—Who has been behaving… in an odd manner.”

They’ve practiced this lie for hours in front of the mirror, and yet this iteration feels the most ridiculous. Warmth floods their face and they shuffle on their feet, unable to say more.

The attendant’s face remains unchanged. “Seems it may be a matter for the medical ward, no?”

Simone’s jaw clenches, but they release it with another breath. Patience. “It would be, under normal circumstances. Except…” As they think of how best to phrase it, they pull one of the textbooks free from their satchel. “He’s in some kind of strange daze. He went on a trip a week or so ago, but the next thing I know, he’s returned and he cannot tell me a single thing from his time away.”

At last, the attendant’s eyes widen, just enough to tell Simone they have their attention.

“It’s as though… Well, here.”

Simone slides the book across the desk, pointing to the header they found. The attendant leans forward to read through it. As they wait, Simone takes another look around the foyer. A high balcony overlooks the space, accessed by a wide marble staircase. Suspended from the ceiling is a massive skeletal structure, larger than life. It’s a beast of some sort, Simone thinks at first, before catching sight of the large horns sprouting from the skull. A drake—one from long ago, judging by the size. A set of wings sprout from its midsection, too small to be of real use. Over time, drakes had reduced in wingspan and size. The handful of living specimens Simone had seen were barely bigger than a housecat now.

They’re so enraptured by the skeleton they miss the attendant’s next words until, in their stupor, Simone’s gaze lands on them once again.

“I’m sorry,” Simone says. “Did you say something?”

The attendant slides the book back in Simone’s direction. “I do not know what sort of situation your friend was in for certain. But, if it’s anything like this, it is possible they are suffering from arcane amnesia.”

What a technical term for something so vile. Simone represses a shiver. Now, at last, their hunch has been confirmed. “I… was afraid you would say that.” And, despite themself, they mean it. Taking the book back and replacing it in their satchel, they say, “What can be done about it?”

The attendant chews on their lip, a thoughtful gleam in their eye. “I am afraid I am more of a… spokesperson for the Society. Allow me a moment.”

Before Simone can respond, they pick up the receiver at their side. Their voice drops to a whisper, so low Simone cannot make out what they are saying. Then, after several seconds, they hang up again.

“If you will wait here a few minutes, I will have someone down to assist you.”

#

A few minutes, indeed,

Simone glowers as they leaf through one of the many books in the foyer. Though they are sure their growing impatience is evident to the attendant—and to the person who takes their place before too long—they do not have it within them to care.

And indeed, they are halfway through reading about the ravings of an esteemed writer of Prophet Prose—some phenomenon Simone never understood but would have Nadia rambling for hours—when a shadow falls over them. When they look up, a figure with skin like a sun-warmed beach and eyes as dark as an inkwell stares down at them. Their downturned nose crinkles as they lock eyes.

“You aren’t an Enchanter, so I suppose it is safe to assume you are the one whom requested assistance?”

Simone replaces the book on the table at their side with a nod.

“As I assumed. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Professor Erestia Altonis.”

Their skin prickles. Of all the members of Voterique’s faculty, Professor Altonis is one of the higher-ranking members. Even Simone, who don’t care much for Enchanting or the intricacies surrounding it, know this much. And, if her penetrating stare and the scars across her hands and chest are anything to go off of, she is not a woman to be trifled with, let alone disturbed. Simone had read a work or two of hers, hadn’t they?

All at once, Simone’s prospects of getting an answer turn grim. With someone as esteemed as her attending to them, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the faculty knows of their goals. Still, they swallow their trepidation. They’ve come this far, right?

“Pleased to meet you,” they say before standing.

Professor Altonis takes them in again with a sniff before spinning on her heel. Without a word, she stalks for the staircase, footfalls echoing with every step. Simone lingers for a heartbeat, uncertain if she’s expecting them to follow. A sharp glance in their direction and the jerk of their chin is enough to convince them to fall in step at her side.

They don’t speak further as she leads them up the stairs and down a series of hallways, each turn as disorienting as the last. Portraits line the walls, each figure holding the exact same pose. It reminds Simone of the old cathedrals in Hadorae. The Scholars of the Lost had made their homes in said cathedrals, had dedicated themselves to the pilgrimage of a single man. Their reign spanned generations before his death, each member marked with a portrait in this exact fashion. The likeness makes Simone’s stomach curl. They scan the hall for a portrait of the Professor, but they’re moving too quickly to see for certain.

Before long, they stop before a plain wooden door, an equally-plain nameplate hanging from the top. Professor Altonis produces a key and the door opens with a soft click.

With a touch of a magicite lamp, the office beyond flairs to life. The Professor’s small wooden desk gains a purplish hue. A tank sits atop the windowsill. Inside, a snake wriggles back and forth, stomach pressed to the glass. Posters of several enlarged sigils in various states of construction line the wall, all of them Enchantment-based in nature.

The door shuts with the flick of her finger. “Please have a seat,” she says as she rounds her desk and drops into a plain chair.

Simone complies with a final, wary glance around the room. The chair they settle into groans at the added weight.

“Now, I have been told you suspect a friend of yours has been suffering from arcane amnesia?”

“Correct.”

Professor Altonis reaches for a pen and uncaps it. As she lowers it into an inkwell to fill, she says, “And why would you suspect such a thing?”

“He’s been acting strangely lately.”

She waits, pen at the ready, eyebrows quirked like she’s expecting something more.

“A-and, the other day, when I tried to speak to him, it took him a while to remember who I was.”

She writes this down on a spare scrap of paper and pauses once more. When Simone doesn’t continue, she says, “And is there anything else?”

They swallow down their rising irritation. Her voice carries a Vahnic lilt to it—and likely, her matter of overspeaking is related to her origins. Still, they can’t help but feel she’s preparing to dismiss them.

“He went on a trip recently, and before he left, he was fine.” As they speak, they scrape the recesses of their memory for the lie they had told the attendant. It would be all the stranger if they couldn’t keep their story in order. “And then, when he came back…”

Professor Altonis recaps her pen with a flourish. “Your capelet suggests to me you are a second-year Abjuror. Is that correct?”

They nod.

“Furthermore, you are unfamiliar with the general philosophy behind Enchantment?”

Jaw set, they nod again.

“And did you not take a class regarding Casting theory in your preliminary schooling?”

She speaks slowly now, accent thickening. Patience, Simone urges themself yet again as a near-blinding wave of rage crests within them. It would do little good to lose your calm here.

They bite the inside of their cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Yes,” they say at last. “I did.”

Professor Altonis’s frown deepens. “So then, you are familiar with a certain adage, I should think. How do you Mertish say it? Mundane over magical?”

Their nails bury deep into their palms. Still, the only trace of anger they allow to show is the flair of their nostrils. “That is correct, Professor.”

“With this in mind, had you made every attempt to disqualify the mundanities?”

If I had assumed the cause was mundane, he would’ve gone back to the medical ward. “I believe so.”

Professor Altonis purses her lips, taking them in with the slow drag of her gaze. “And yet, you still suspect arcane amnesia.”

Simone’s grasp on their calm is fraying. Each word they think of to say is more foul than the last. At lat, in defeated silence, they nod a third time.

“So I see.”

Professor Altonis rises from her desk, turning to the tank on the windowsill. Rubbing a nail against the glass, right over where the writhing snake’s stomach is, she says, “As much as I would love to lend Society resources towards your cause, I remain unconvinced.”

The world drops out from beneath them. No…

“What I would advise you do is speak to the medical ward. Or, perhaps speak to one of the Divination professors. It is certain your friend has experienced a traumatic event, either in the physical or psychological sense. Asking the Society to go digging through his brain could cause more harm, and I do not have the patience to sit through a malpractice hearing if it can be avoided.”

All of this. All of this was for nothing.

“But perhaps I am wrong. If you can have your friend provide some documentation, we would be willing to assist you. Until then, I would like to have all possibilities examined.”

A scream bubbles in the back of their throat, but they force it down. Wait until you are alone. Throwing a fit will not behoove you now.

Professor Altonis’s head tilts as she regards them. “Do you have nothing to say?”

“Thank you for your time.” They stand quick enough the chair rattles in place, but they stop it before it can fall over. Without looking up, they take their leave.

They don’t cry. Not yet. Not as the first tendrils of rage wrap themselves tight within Simone’s ribcage. Not as they march themself back towards the exit, though it takes them several false turns. Not as they pass by a portrait of Professor Erestia Altonis’s portrait at last. Their fingers twitch at their sides. How they long to jam the pointed tip of a pen into the canvas, to see the professor’s visage torn from end to end.

But they don’t. They can’t. And so they continue walking.

They’re halfway to the door when a warmth claps their wrist. Simone stiffens, each hair on their body pulsing with the need to flee.

“Did you find what you sought?”

It’s the attendant. The one who had helped them what must have been hours ago. Withdrawing their hand, Simone shakes their head, not trusting themself to speak.

“Then perhaps this will help.”

Before they can ask what the attendant means, they open Simone’s satchel and drop a handful of pages inside.

“I did some looking of my own.”

The first inklings of hope find purchase in their breast.

After a breath, the attendant drops to a whisper. “Do not let on where you got this.”

Simone’s mouth dries. “Right.”

“Now go.” With the jerk of their chin, the front doors swing open. “The longer you wait, the more he suffers.”

They don’t need to be told twice. Without a word, Simone ducks out the entrance of the Enchanter’s Society, the first gears of a plan turning over in their mind.

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