Part 3 – Battle
It had not been a particularly complex matter deciding to join the Society at Atlas Blakely’s invitation. If he didn’t care for the experience, Callum reasoned, he would leave. It was how he generally lived his life: he came and went as he wished. People these decisions affected, if they were angry about his mutability, did not typically stay mad. Preternaturally or otherwise, Callum had a way of ensuring that people came around to see his position on the matter, one way or another. Once he’d made his point, they could always be compelled to act reasonably from there.
Callum had always been aware that word used for his specialty by the Hellenistic University of Magical Arts was not the right word. The manipulist subcategory of illusionist was more often applied to cases of physical specialties: people who could warp things, make them into something else. Water could be convinced to be wine, in the right hands, or at least made to look and taste like it. One of the particularities about the study and reality of magic was that it only mattered, in the end, how things looked or tasted; what they were meant to be, or what were at the start, could be easily dismissed in favor of achieving the necessary result.
But what the Society appeared to know—what Atlas Blakely seemed to know, which others typically didn’t—was that Callum’s work was more accurately defined as a vigorous type of empath. It was unsurprising, really, that he was magically misdiagnosed; empathy was a far more common magical manifestation in women, and thus, when it appeared, it was usually cultivated in a highly delicate, maternal sort of way. There were a number of female medeians who were able to tap into the emotions of others; more often than not, they became marvelous humanitarians, lauded for the contributions to therapy and healing. It was a very feminine thing, to be both magical and saintly. Philanthropy could be worn like jewelry or cosmetics, glittering from the effervescence of their pores.
When the same skill set could be found in men, it was usually too diluted to be classified as magical; more often it was considered an isolated personality trait. In the case of persuasion, a trait with the potential to achieve medeian-level ability—labeled, perhaps, ‘charisma’ by the non-magical—it would often be put aside in favor of the usual method of going about things: attendance at some famous mortal university, like Oxford or Harvard for example, and then a prosperous mortal career from there. Occasionally these men went on to become CEOs, lawyers, or politicians. Sometimes they became tyrants, megalomaniacs, or dictators—in which case it was probably best their talents went unrealized. Magic, like most other forms of physical exertion, required proper training to wield properly or for any extended period of time; had any of those men ever realized their natural qualities were something they could refine, the world would have been far worse off than it was already.
Naturally there is an exception to every rule, which in this case was Callum. He was saved from any sort of global misbehavior (or rather, the world was saved) by his lack of ambition, which, paired with his love of finer things, meant that he never aspired to world domination, nor to anything even close. Always dangerous, the pairing of hunger with any skill of manipulation; it is an essential law of human behavior that when given the tools to do so, those born at the bottom will always try to claw their way to the top. Those born at the top, i.e., Callum, were usually less inclined to upend things as they were. When the setting was already gilded and ornate, what would be the point of changing them?
Thus, nothing had driven Callum to accept Atlas Blake’s offer, but nothing had repelled him, either. He might go through with initiation, he might not; the Society might impress him enough to stay, or it might not. It went without saying, at least, that the building housing the Alexandrian Society was not especially impressive on its own. Callum came from money, which meant he had already seen wealth in a number of its natural forms: royal, aristocratic, capitalist, corrupt… The list went on into perpetuity. This form, the Alexandrian variety, was technically academic, though academic wealth was almost always one of the aforementioned forms, if not some combination of all of them.
There was a reason knowledge was reserved for the elite. A self-perpetuating cycle, really, though Callum could not be compelled to criticize it much. After all, he had done nothing but benefit from the inherent classism of higher education. As with most things from which Callum had profited, he questioned very little.
The same could not be said for the others, who had all returned (unsurprisingly) to accept the invitation. The American, Libby Rhodes, was most memorable by how often and irritatingly she spoke, and naturally she had been the first to ask a stupid question.
“We are in Alexandria, aren’t we?” she asked, her brow furrowing beneath a rather unalluring fringe. If it were up to Callum, he’d have given her a different haircut entirely; something tied up or pulled back, preferably so she’d leave the tips of her hair alone. “I can’t say anything looks particularly Alexandrian.”
It certainly did not. The interior of wherever they were—distinct from wherever had housed yesterday’s meeting, though presumably some equally untraceable location—looked very much like the inside of a London mansion, surrounded by what was surely an English garden as well. Despite the Novas’ residency in Cape Town, Callum’s family had been invited more than once to pay a visit to the British Royal Family (the Novas had once been close with the Greek royals, hence Callum’s very comfortable study at the Hellenistic University in Athens) and he considered the Society’s decor to be very similar. Portraits of aristocracy lined the walls alongside a variety of Victorian busts, and while the architecture itself was certainly Greco-Roman influenced, it bore obvious markers of the Romantics, leaning more eighteenth century Neo than genuinely Classical.
Overall, the idea they might have been anywhere other than England was extremely unlikely.
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in saying we are actually in London,” confirmed Dalton Ellery, the stiff-looking aide to Atlas Blakely whose energy was immediately guessable; fear, or possibly intimidation. Callum presumed Dalton to harbor a bit of intellectual inferiority, which was the only thing to possibly explain the man’s ongoing devotion to academics. If the perks of Society membership were wealth and prestige, why stay here and fail to take advantage?
But, seeing as Callum didn’t care, he didn’t wonder about it for long.
Instead, he watched Tristan and Parisa, the only two interesting people, who exchanged a rather secretive glance between themselves while Libby, the fringed girl whose anxieties were so prickly and unceasing they nearly set Callum’s teeth on edge, frowned with confusion.
“But if this is actually the Library of Alexandria, then how—”
“The Society has changed its physical location several times throughout history,” Dalton explained. “It was originally in Alexandria, of course, but was moved soon after to Rome, and then to Prague until the Napoleonic wars, and ultimately arrived here around the Age of Exploration, alongside the rest of imperialism’s benefits.”
“That,” muttered Nico, the Cuban young man who, thankfully, was not quite tall enough to be a threat to Callum’s vainer impulses, “is the most British thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, it’s very much akin to the British Museum,” confirmed Dalton dismissively, “in that every relic from every culture is rather forcibly housed under one monarchical roof. In any case,” he continued, as if that had not been a highly brow-raising statement in itself, “there have been countless attempts to house it elsewhere, as one might expect. The Americans had a very strong argument for moving it to New York until 1941, and of course we all know what happened then. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll all be housed here,” he said, turning the corner from the gallery to a corridor lined with doors. “Your names are indicated on the placards beside the doors, and your things have been deposited there for you. Once our tour is complete, you will all meet with Atlas and then proceed to dinner. The gong is every evening at half past seven,” he added. “Your attendance each evening is expected.”
Callum noticed that Tristan and Parisa had exchanged yet another conspiratorial glance. Did they know each other before today, as the two American-trained students did? He paused for a moment to determine it, and then deduced no, they had not met any earlier than the others, though they had certainly met intimately since then.
He felt a flare-up of frustration. He never liked not being among the first to make friends.
“What exactly does a normal day look like?” Libby asked, continuing her tirade of questions. “Will there be classes, or…?”
“In a sense,” said Dalton. “Though I expect Atlas will advise you further.”
“Do you not know?” asked Reina, the very bored-looking Japanese girl with the nose ring, whose voice was much deeper than Callum expected it to be. She hadn’t spoken before then, nor given much indication of listening, though she’d been staring intently at the contents of every room they passed.
“Well, each class of candidates is slightly different,” Dalton said. “There are different specialties, making each round of initiates a different composition of skills. Thus, the research you’re assigned varies from year to year.”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us what all our specialties are?” prompted Parisa. She, Callum noted, was radiating a certain persuasion herself, though it seemed to be directed at Dalton. Typical; faux-intellectualism would always be appealing to any girl who’d spent too much time in France. It was about as Parisian as bobs, sartorial minimalism, and cheese.
“That,” Dalton said, “is up to you. Though I doubt it will be long before you discover them.”
“Living in the same house, taking all our meals together? I can only assume we’ll be sick to death with knowledge about ourselves in no time,” remarked Tristan at a drawl, which prompted Parisa to a smothered laugh that Callum considered supremely false.
“I’m sure you will,” replied Dalton, unfazed. “Now, if you’ll come this way, please.”
Dalton led them through a maze of stately Neoclassicism before arriving in a particularly sun-soaked room of grandeur, the walls of which were lined with books. Reina, who had been glooming disinterestedly through their procession around the house, seemed to have finally woken up a bit, eyes widening.
“This is the painted room,” Dalton said. “It is where you will meet Atlas each morning, following breakfast in the morning room. The easiest path to the reading room and archives is through those doors,” he added, gesturing with a sidelong glance to his left.
“This isn’t the library?” asked Reina, frowning upwards as she eyed the highest shelves. Nearby, a fern seemed to shiver with anticipation.
“No,” said Dalton. “The library is for letter writing. And, should you wish it, cream tea.”
Nico, who was standing beside Libby, silently made a face of revulsion.
“Yes,” Dalton agreed, plucking at a stray thread on his cuff. “Quite.”
“Aren’t there other people who live here?” asked Libby, peering through narrowed eyes down the corridor. “I thought this was a society.”
“Only the archives are housed here. Typically, Alexandrians will come and go by appointment,” Dalton explained. “Occasionally there will be smaller groups taking meetings in the reading room, in which case you will be asked not to disturb them, and vice versa.”
“Is it really such a simple matter of coming and going?” (Libby again.)
“Certainly not,” said Dalton, “though that, too, will be a matter of your discretion.”
“But how—”
“What Dalton means,” came Atlas Blakely’s buttery baritone, “is that there are a number of security measures in place.”
At his appearance, Callum and Tristan both turned to face the entrance, the six of them falling reflexively into a line.
“However,” Atlas continued, “part of your job as the new class of initiates is to develop a protocol that suits you as a collective. And before you ask what that means,” he assured Libby with a smile, “I’m happy to explain. As with all the most crucial secrets, there are quite a number of people who know of the Society’s existence. Several organizations have targeted it over the years for robbery, infiltration, or, in some cases, destruction. Thus, we rely not only on the charms in place, but also on the Society’s resident class of initiates to maintain their own security detail.”
“Wait,” said Libby, who was still caught on the prospect of global secrets being widely known. “So that means—”
“It means the first thing to discuss will be your proficiency at magical defense,” Atlas confirmed, as a series of chairs materialized behind each of them. “Sit, please,” he beckoned, and warily, all six of them took their requested seats; Reina perhaps most warily of all. “I won’t be long,” Atlas added as a measure of assurance. “Your responsibility this afternoon will be determining your plan as a group. I am mostly here to provide guidance before I leave you to it.”
“Has anyone ever stolen anything successfully?” asked Tristan, who seemed to be the most cynical of the group, or at least the first to voice his cynicism.
“Or actually broken in to any degree of success?” Nico added.
“Yes,” said Atlas. “In which case, I hope your magical offense is equally as refined as your defense, as you will be asked to retrieve anything that is removed without permission.”
“Asked,” echoed Reina at a murmur, and Atlas turned to her with a smile.
“Asked,” he confirmed, “politely. And from there, dealt with as appropriate.”
That was about as well-mannered a threat as Callum might have expected. This was all exceedingly British, from the dome of the so-called ‘painted room’ to the idea that they would be summoned to dinner by a gong.
Libby, of course, raised her hand tentatively in the air. “How often, exactly, are we expected to defend the Society’s…” A pause. “Collection?”
“Well, that depends on the strength of your system.” Briefly, a red glow manifested in the corner of the room, and then disappeared. “That, for example,” said Atlas, “was a thwarted attempt to enter the Society’s perimeter. Though, it’s also possible someone simply forgot their keys.”
He was smiling, so this was apparently a joke. Callum had the sense Atlas Blakely wanted very badly for them to like him; or, at the very least, he was the sort of person who always had an expectation of being liked.
“As to the subject of the… ‘collection,’ as you called it, Miss Rhodes,” Atlas said with a nod in Libby’s direction, “meaning the contents of the Library, that is a more complex matter. You will all gain access to the Society’s records in stages; as you earn the Society’s trust, you will be permitted further steps. Each door unlocked will lead to another door, which, once unlocked, will lead to another. Metaphorically, of course.”
Nico this time: “And these doors…?”
“We’ll start with physicalities. Space,” said Atlas. “The fundamental laws of physics and how to bypass them.”
At that, Libby and Nico exchanged a glance; it was the first time, Callum noted, that Libby did not have one of her spectacularly awkward behaviors on display.
“Once you’ve proven you can be trusted with the most readily available of our findings, you will move on to the next subject. The five initiates will move even further, of course, over the course of their second year. From there, things become much more specialized; Dalton, for example,” said Atlas, with a reference over his shoulder to where Dalton had all but blended into the wallpaper, “works in such a narrow field of expertise that only he is permitted to access those materials at present.”
Parisa, Callum could see, found this to be a very interesting trinket of information indeed.
“Not even you?” asked Reina, surprising them once again with her voice.
“Not even me,” Atlas confirmed. “We do not, as a society, believe it is necessary for one man to know everything. We don’t consider it particularly possible, either, and certainly not very safe.”
“Why not?” (Libby again.)
“Because the problem with knowledge, Miss Rhodes, is its inexhaustible craving. The more of it you have, the less you feel you know,” said Atlas. “Thus, men often go mad in search of it.”
“And how do the women take it?” prompted Parisa.
Atlas gave her a curt half-smile.
“Most know better than to seek it,” he said, which sounded, to Callum, like a warning.
“When you say a system,” Libby began. Callum flinched, irked again as Atlas turned his attention back to her. She was like a mosquito; the effect of her anxiety wasn’t exactly painful, but it did seem to be unrelenting. Callum couldn’t sit comfortably in one spot.
“There are six of you,” Atlas said, gesturing to the group of them. “You each maintain one-sixth responsibility for the Society’s security. How you divide it is up to you. Now, before I leave you to it,” he said, seeming to startle Libby with the prospect she might have to go unsupervised, “I will say that while you do not presently have access to everything in the Society’s purview, you are very much responsible for the entirety of its protection. Please bear this in mind as you devise your plan.”
“Seems a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it?” Tristan remarked. He was, as Callum had predicted, a natural contrarian. “We’re responsible for things we can’t even see.”
“Yes,” Atlas agreed, and nodded briskly. “Any questions?”
Libby opened her mouth but, to Callum’s immense relief, Nico’s hand shot out, pausing her.
“Excellent,” said Atlas, turning to Dalton. “Well, we shall all reconvene at dinner. Welcome to the Alexandrian Society,” he added, and inclined his head a final time before sauntering through the door, sealing it behind them.
