Chapter 27: Broken Constructs

The Spellweaving Club gathered under the Sunday sun, using the far half of the wide training grounds behind the academy’s main building. The grass around their practice area had been scorched, regrown, and scorched so many times it looked markedly different from the opposite side, used by the martial track students who were practicing swordsmanship. Clara waved to Major Ricardo as he drilled them.

Professor Morris was already there when she arrived; she was a bit late from having to battle Iris’s incessant attempts to come with her. But the midterms would begin tomorrow, so Clara had insisted that Iris needed to use every bit of time left to study.

“Miss Casewell! Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course, Professor. Lady Iris sends her regards and reiterates her critique of your factorial teaching methods.”

Morris winced.

Around the field, twenty or so students milled about in various states of readiness. Some were stretching—which seemed oddly athletic for a club activity that amounted to standing around and chanting in Latin—while others reviewed notes and practiced wand movements. Among them, Clara recognized the green-haired Cecily from Iris’s tea party, and at the back, she saw a tall, dark-haired young man by his lonesome, with his back turned to the group: Reginald Vainglory.

“What exactly is the exhibition you’re preparing for the gala?” Clara asked the professor. The previous evening, he had sent her a note asking her to accompany him to the Spellweaving Club’s practice; because of his sentencing, he wasn’t allowed to cast magic directly on students without another adult present, so having her there would help.

“I’m glad you asked.” Morris’s eyes lit up. “The club’s showcase is always the highlight of the gala. This year, we had planned on a spectacular mock battle between two animated earth constructs, each controlled by a student, while the rest of the club provides special effects.”

That sounded genuinely impressive. But Morris’s enthusiasm dimmed as he continued. “Forrest was supposed to control one of them. He’s—well, he was—the most gifted at earth magic in the club by a significant margin.”

“And the other?”

“Viscount Vainglory. Not only is he the captain, but his earth magic is also quite impressive; he uses finesse to make up for the raw talent that Forrest had.”

“Do you need me to do anything to help?”

“Hmm.” He raised his hand to his chin. “For now, you can just stay near the effects team, and try your best to make sure nobody gets hurt. I’ll be coordinating them while I pilot the construct in Forrest’s place.”

“Professor, I cast my first spell last Monday. I don’t think I’m qualified to make sure they don’t get hurt.”

He chuckled. “I don’t expect you to correct their spellwork. Just use your judgement to keep them out of harm’s way. I trust you considerably more than I trust their aim.”

Clara nodded. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to do much, but she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to see a large-scale magic demonstration.

Morris clapped his hands, and the scattered students began to converge around him. “Everyone! Get to your positions, please. We’re doing a full run-through today. Miss Casewell here will help coordinate, so think of her as my assistant for today.”

As the club members took their places, Clara noticed that the viscount was still in the same spot as before. He was crouched down at the back, with his elbows on his knees. “Is the viscount alright?” she asked Morris quietly.

“He’s been like that since the trial. He still comes to practice, which I give him credit for, but he mostly just does the bare minimum.” Morris sighed.

So one of the stars of the show is effectively in a coma, and the other is a depressed teenager. Though given I accused him in open court… Maybe I had my part in that depression, too.

“Let me talk to him,” she said.

Morris raised his eyebrows but nodded. “Good luck. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

Clara walked over to Reginald. He didn’t look up as she approached.

“Viscount Vainglory.”

“Leave me be.” There was no bite to it.

She sat down next to him. “I came to watch the practice. Professor Morris invited me to help supervise.”

He said nothing for a long while.

“I heard from Ri—Lord Warren that the sentencing was severe,” she ventured. “For Lady Marcella.”

Reginald flinched. “Based on what she did, she deserves it. But… a part of me couldn't help but wish for leniency.”

“Even though she manipulated you?”

He finally looked up at Clara. “Did you know I didn’t use to practice much? I’m the captain now, but when I started, I was barely adequate. Then she told me one day that the most admirable thing a man could do was ‘work hard at something he loves’. It’s only thanks to her that I did my best every day. She’s the only reason I’m captain today.”

He pushed his hand into the field and dug up some dirt. “She said earth magic was beautiful. I think that’s why both he and I ended up doing it.” The viscount’s jaw clenched. “And it’s not just magic. Before Claves, I simply did as I pleased. I’m the Viscount Vainglory; I don’t need to achieve anything. Every motivation I had, every drive that led me to pursue something… she put it there, on purpose. Maybe they were all just seeds that she could harvest later.”

Clara let the silence sit. Her mind drifted to her own career: the sleepless nights, the obsessive drive to make Senior Counsel. Which part of that had been genuine passion, and which had just been running from the loneliness, from the fear that without her achievements she had no reason to exist? Then her thoughts turned to Stella. What Clara had now, the successes in court, the fancy leather satchel… how much of that was her own, and how much had been built on the back of relationships Stella had established?

“This may surprise you, Viscount, but I know something about that feeling,” she whispered. “About wondering whether the things you’ve built are truly yours.”

“You?” He let out a hollow laugh. “You’re just a servant. What can you know of building something?”

“I’ve had to build and rebuild plenty—in fact, I’m still rebuilding. And I’ll tell you something I’ve learned: it doesn’t matter how you got where you are. What matters is whether you choose to keep going.” She smiled at him, then turned her head to the sky wistfully. “Are you telling me Viscount Vainglory can’t do something even a maid can?”

Reginald scoffed while staring at the dirt in his hand. He pressed it between his fingers, and it crumbled. “She told me my constructs were elegant. Was that a lie, too?”

Clara stood up and brushed off her skirt. “I’ve never seen your constructs, Viscount. Why don’t you show me, and I’ll tell you?”

She held out her hand.

Reginald gazed at it. His frown was hard to read, but eventually it softened. Then he brushed her hand aside and pushed himself onto his feet.

“Don’t think this means I approve of you, maid,” he said, straightening his jacket. For a moment, she saw the ghost of his old bearing.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He walked past her towards the group.

“Let’s get this started, shall we?” Morris called from the center of the field. The Spellweaving Club members, with the exception of the viscount, had formed a loose ring around the perimeter.

Morris and the viscount each walked to opposite ends of the practice area, like gunslingers before a duel. Clara took her place behind the professor, near the students at the back.

“Are you ready, captain?” asked the professor. Reginald rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, then nodded.

“Surgat terra,” Morris chanted, and slammed the base of his staff into the stone.

The ground rumbled, and chunks of packed earth rose slowly in front of the professor, layering on top of each other like bricks. A rough shape formed, around twice the professor’s height—it was vaguely humanoid, but squat and broad-shouldered, with arms like tree trunks and a cracked boulder for a head.

Clara gasped. It was a golem. An actual, real-life golem, right in front of her. The part of her that loved fantasy novels wanted to squeal.

At the other end of the platform, Reginald raised his silver wand, and the large diamond at its tip glistened. “Surgat terra. Formetur in imagine mea.”

The earth answered. But it immediately became clear that Reginald’s construct was unlike the bulky behemoth the professor had created. It assembled faster, and the form was shorter and leaner, with defined legs and shoulders that almost made it look carved from marble. Spiked ridges jutted from its forearms, and its head was akin to a helmet. It looked like an earthen gladiator.

“I’d almost forgotten how good he is when he’s actually trying.” Morris whistled. “Effects team! On my mark. Cecily, you’re on the haze. Jonathan, light effects. Everyone else, prepare for pyrotechnics.”

Cecily raised her hands and chanted something inaudible, and a soft, luminous mist rolled across the field, pooling at the feet of both constructs. Next to her, a wiry boy conjured, and then two light spheres appeared at the heads of each golem.

It was a scene that could’ve come from a movie—two mythical titans with glowing embers for eyes, staring each other down amidst the fog.

“Good. Fire—go!” Morris shouted, and the golem raised its right arm towards the gladiator.

There was chanting from the side, and a fiery column rose from where the viscount’s construct was. Or, more accurately, where it used to be—the gladiator quickly shifted to the side, then moved towards the golem smoothly, throwing a sweeping punch.

The golem raised its thick arms to block, and jets of golden sparks erupted from the point where the constructs clashed as the professor ordered two students to chant. Then it threw a counterpunch, but the gladiator dodged again, with far too much agility for something made of earth, causing the golem to stagger.

Sweat poured down Morris’s face, and his staff hand was shaking.

“Professor, are you alright?” asked Clara.

“Fine! Just—not used to this level of—sustained—”

Reginald pressed the advantage. His gladiator lunged, swinging both arms in a sweeping arc. Morris’s golem barely caught the blow, and he signaled for an explosion. It quickly erupted between them, sending a shockwave through the field. One girl who was too close stumbled to the ground.

“Careful!” Clara shouted, rushing next to her. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Miss,” the girl said, wide-eyed.

Clara checked the perimeter. The other students had backed away from the constructs’ clash, which was good. But it also meant the pyrotechnics team had stopped their effects, leaving the fight looking more like a brawl than a performance.

She jogged next to Cecily. “Lady Cecily!”

“You’re… Lady Iris’s maid?”

Clara nodded. “Do you think you all could make a small earth wall around the fight?”

Cecily tilted her head. “I’m sure we could, but I don’t know which incantation would do that.”

Clara stood deep in thought. If Reginald’s incantation was surgat terra, formetur in imagine mea, roughly translating to, ‘let the earth rise in my image’, then…

Meanwhile, the professor’s golem smashed its head into the gladiator’s chest, sending it slamming into the ground. It followed up with a downward arm smash, but the gladiator rolled to the side before it connected. A piece of rock detached from the golem and went flying towards a student, who was nimble enough to dodge. Phew.

“Everyone, listen to me!” shouted Clara. “Visualize a circular wall going up to waist height, in front of where you all were before. Then chant ‘surgat terra in murum’!”

Several students looked at Morris, but he was far too occupied to pay attention. They exchanged uncertain glances.

“Now,” said Clara severely, with the same tone she’d used to reprimand junior associates who needed to stop dithering and start executing.

Cecily was the first to raise her wand. “Surgat terra in murum,” she chanted, and several others followed suit, their voices overlapping in a ragged chorus.

The ground trembled. Uneven slabs of earth rose in a jagged circle between the fighters and the students, some barely reaching knee height, others shooting up past Clara’s waist. It was crude and uneven, more like a collapsed barrier than a proper wall, but it was there.

The constructs clashed again, and a chunk of stone from the golem’s shoulder careened to the side, smacking harmlessly into the barrier. The students who’d ducked behind it let out a collective breath of relief.

“Not bad,” Clara muttered, brushing the dust from her hair. “Everyone, stay behind the barrier and come up only to cast your spells! If you see anything coming your way, drop the magic and duck immediately.”

The students did as they were told, and soon the pyrotechnics came back to the fight in full force, with Morris calling for a spark or boom after each swing. After a few more exchanges, Reginald’s wand traced tight arcs in the air, and the gladiator feinted left, pivoted right, then swept its leg across the golem’s ankles. Morris’s construct toppled like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a crash and a well-timed explosion.

Before the professor could bring his golem back up, Reginald’s gladiator planted its foot onto the golem’s chest and raised its fist skyward in victory. Morris let the golem crumble back into loose earth and leaned heavily on his staff, breathing hard.

“Well,” he managed between gasps, “I think we can safely say the choreography needs work. Specifically, the part where I’m supposed to be competitive.”

The students gathered around the professor, chatting excitedly. “That was incredible,” said Cecily. “The way it moved—did you all see the sweep?”

Reginald lowered his wand, and the gladiator crumbled. The viscount stared at the pieces of earth for a long moment.

“We need to rethink the whole routine around this new construct,” said another boy. “How did you do it, captain?”

“Through talent and relentless practice, obviously,” said the viscount. “Before… everything.”

Then he turned to Clara. She expected some sort of barbed remark, but instead he gave the smallest nod. Hardly more than a dip of the chin.

“Elegant indeed, Viscount,” Clara responded.

Morris hobbled over to Clara, still catching his breath. His blue hair was half brown with dirt. “That wall was your doing?”

“The students’ doing. I just suggested the incantation.”

“An incantation that you came up with on the spot.” He pushed his glasses up. “Consider me impressed. How do you know so much of the Sacred Tongue?”

“I read a lot,” Clara grinned, and he sighed. Then she gestured at the field, where a small crater now decorated what had been relatively flat ground. “Is it always this dangerous?”

“That was actually one of our calmer sessions. We’ll fix this mess later.” Morris surveyed the damage. “Without Forrest, I have to control and coordinate simultaneously, and as you saw, that leaves rather little room for reacting.”

Clara looked at the uneven wall that the students had raised. Reginald had begun directing a few club members to dismantle it, pointing at the spots where the ground needed to be fixed. His voice was clipped and commanding.

“Professor,” she said, “I have a suggestion.”

“What is it?”

“Teach me enough about the effects to supervise them properly. If I can handle coordination, you’d be free to focus entirely on the construct.”

Morris opened his mouth, presumably to list all the reasons this was inadvisable. But then he watched the students retry summoning the wall, straighter this time, and tapped his staff against his chin.

“Less than three weeks until the gala,” he said.

“Indeed,” Clara confirmed.

“You’d need to understand the principles behind each effect type well enough to spot when something’s about to go awry. Pyrotechnics, haze, light manipulation, sound amplification—”

“Then we’d better start tomorrow. We should have a lot of spare time, since the students will be busy with the exams.”

Morris let out a long breath, then smiled. “I suppose we’d better.”