Cool morning air slipped in the instant the coach jolted to a stop and the door swung open, carrying the scent of damp grass and cut stone.

  Sage Hewitt let Father lie as he was—folded sideways on the seat, eyes still dazed and far off, like a man half-woke from a pleasant dream—then stepped down last. The door swung in after him, and with a small, quiet motion of his wand at the latch—nearly hidden by his sleeve—it shut with a neat little pop.

  As they walked away, the coachman doffed his hat towards the sage but didn’t climb down. He only took a sip from his flask and settled the reins, waiting as if he’d been told to sit there till judgement.

  Lucian cast an uneasy look back at the closed coach.

  ‘Your father’ll be safe enough, lad,’ Hewitt said low. ‘He’ll sleep on, and the coachman’ll not stir from this spot—Oswald’s a right good hand at warding and defence spellwork. He keeps our affairs tidy in the Nullkin world, see?’

  Leon gave a low sound in his throat, half awe, half disbelief. ‘By heaven…’

  Lucian nearly gasped.

  ‘This is Temple Newsam’s great house, lads,’ Hewitt said, voice easy but brisk, as if he’d no wish for them to stand gawping all day. ‘Come along now—keep close.’

  The house sat broad across the lawn—three storeys of red brick, so vast his gaze had to travel from one wing to the other before his mind could take the whole of it: rows of tall windows, stone dressings, and long arms of building reaching out.

  A pale stone staircase rose toward the main entrance, grand and open to the world, with doors that looked made for processions and proclamations. Yet Hewitt did not lead them that way. He took them along a side path instead, skirting the house as though the front steps belonged to someone else.

  ‘Are we late?’ Leon said, hurrying to keep up.

  ‘Nay. We’re early, if aught,’ Hewitt said, and his tone softened a fraction. ‘Best we cross the threshold sooner than later – keeps prying eyes off us.’

  Lucian’s pouch tugged at his waist with every step and when they came upon a fountain that seemed to mark the garden’s heart, he asked. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  ‘Grovewell’s hidden entrance,’ said Hewitt. ‘Where you lads’ll come and go. The Concordium permits novices to return home twice a month, see? It matters you keep some contact with your family—even if they can’t know what you truly are. We’re bound for the outer ring, the eastern quarter—Planisvicis Orientalis.’

  Lucian rolled his eyes. Magi did like their Latin.

  Leon, too, gave a quiet snort, as if he’d had the same thought. ‘And what’ll we be doing, exactly, at this… vicis—talis—thing?’

  ‘Planisvicis Orientalis, lad. Best learn it now. We call it Vicis Oris for short. It’s the market quarter—like Leeds, only cleaner, wider, and better watched. In Vicis Oris, you’ll find what you need for your first two terms.’

  ‘Sage Hewitt, I don’t understand,’ Lucian said. ‘Why would term start on a Saturday?’

  The sage took the left-hand path, keeping them tight to the hedge-shadow. ‘Terms start on the first of August—Saturday, this year, mind. We mark Lammas Day proper. But lessons begin on the Monday next, as is usual.’ The sage led them down a green tunnel arched over the walk. ‘The days between are Exploration Days—so you can find your way, learn the bounds, and get your kit in order, see?’ On the far end, they arrived at a secluded corner where the paths formed a tight square and the hedges stood taller still. ‘On Lammas night you’ll have the Electio Fontium—dormitory assignments, aye. You’ll be placed proper. Now.’ He halted, turned on his heels and smiled at them.

  ‘Here we are, lads. Grovewell entrance.’

  ‘This is it?’ Leon frowned. ‘We’ve come all this way for a hedge?’

  ‘Nay. It’s not just a hedge,’ Lucian let out, more to himself than to either of them. ‘There’s… there’s a turning in it. Like a waterwheel. But… made of light. Just beneath the leaves.’

  ‘What?’ Sage Hewitt’s eyes went to the hedge, then back to Lucian, his brow drawing tight. ‘Can you truly mark the magic flow?’

  Lucian nodded. He had seen such lights before but never so strong as this.

  ‘What else can you see?’ The sage’s eyes fixed on Lucian.

  Lucian squinted and pointed a finger to the roots of the hedge.

  ‘Well… There are thin runnels of light. In the earth—faint, but there. Running up from the ground. They go through the turning. As if they’re keeping it moving.’

  ‘I see nothing but leaves,’ said Leon.

  ‘Remarkable… truly,’ said Hewitt and paused for a moment. ‘Troubling, though. Mind, the entrance’s cloaked and warded most fiercely against corrupt magi. And no magus should be able to see it.’

  Leon stared at Lucian, astonished. Lucian’s ears heated. It seemed that even in the Magus’s world he was different. The sage turned to him and spoke in a grave voice, almost theatrical voice.

  ‘Lad. Listen. There’s a great deal we still don’t know about your abilities as the seventh of a seventh. If corrupt magi know about it, they might use you to find the hidden entrances. It’d be best if we kept this quiet. Understood?’

  Lucian nodded but Sage Hewitt still had a deep frown when he lifted his wand and intoned softly.

  ‘Illud Murus Alveare.’

  A soft, pinkish glow spiralled neatly in the air and shot into the hedge, vanishing beneath the leaves, just where the lights swirled. The hedge itself rippled, spreading outward as though the greenery had turned to liquid. Sage Hewitt gestured for them to follow and stepped forward, passing through the hedge wall as if it were made of mist.

  Lucian clenched his fists and followed. The scent of living vegetation filled his nostrils as a long green corridor rose in front of him.

  Lucian squinted hard, lifting a hand to shade his brow as though he were staring into the harsh summer sun.

  Where were they?

  It was no city—that much was clear.

  He started to feel dizzy, just as Leon came through and halted—frozen like a statue—staring. He didn’t cover his eyes like Lucian had to, as if unaffected by the bright glow. There was no breeze. Still and quiet. Even their steps made no sound.

  Runnels of light woven and crisscrossed through the earth, up into the vegetation and even in the air, like pale veils, buzzing faintly as they passed through them. Lucian let his eyes adjust to the brightness, focusing on the roots. He reached out towards a broken, pale cane. It was hard. Tall stalks of green reeds rose, forming a wall—lined and narrow—one couldn’t see the other side.

  ‘What are these? They aren’t reed.’

  ‘Those are called bamboo,’ said Hewitt, seemingly pleased with their curiosity. ‘A hollow cane from far lands that thrives in nature magic.’

  Leon’s brow furrowed. ‘Why use these… and not other reeds?’

  ‘The bamboo wall responds to wrongdoers, curses or corrupted magic. They can enter but never escape, unless the Wellsages release them. This passageway is shared by all the Wells.’

  The sage gestured them onwards. Lucian kept behind Leon as the passage narrowed—the green walls gave way to an arch of smooth black marble. A swirling thick mist veil filled the gap, hiding whatever was behind it.

  ‘This is the Wellarcus. If the passageway marks one as a danger, it announces it to those guarding on the other side. The Wellarcus will seal itself then.’

  The sage grasped his hands together and his face changed to a stern expression.

  ‘There are rules to follow, lads. Life in the Wells isn’t as the Nullkins’s. Some of the Wellers, like myself, are Sages who teach or heal. Don’t put the word “witch” in your mouth—it’s an insult. And the most important thing: in God’s sight, men and women are of equal worth. Each of us has a role and part to play. No more talk of what a woman mayn’t learn or do. If you carry such notions with you, let them fall now.’

  Sage Hewitt didn’t wait for an answer—he tapped the tip of his wand on one of the runes engraved across the stone. It gave off a low heat, as its surface gleamed.

  ‘This Wellarcus can provide access to any of the four quarters around Planisvicis,’ said Hewitt. ‘Now.’ He smiled broadly as the veil of mist thinned slowly, and the way beyond came into view. ‘Welcome to Grovewell, lads.’

  Lucian’s jaw dropped.

  The sun shone hard in a sky of bright blue, almost glassy. A paved path of bronze stones fitted so neatly it almost looked like one great block. A stack of sandglasses stood outside a shop just before them. “Enchanted Sandglasses – All Sizes – Brass, Wood, Crystal – 35 Sops,” read a sign hanging over them.

  ‘Come on, lively now.’

  Noise hit them the moment they crossed the Wellarcus—swishes and whooshes, bright voices, chiming notes, and the flutter of wings. A warm breeze washed over Lucian, thick with the scent of food and sweet smoke, and it smelt clean—no stench of foul odours, like in the market streets of Leeds.

  Leon pressed his shoulder to Lucian’s and whispered, ‘It looks like one of Ma’s daft tales, it does. Truly… it does, don’t it?’

  ‘Aye. Just as she told ’em.’

  Lucian wished for a dozen more eyes, turning his head in every direction, trying to spy as much as he could.

  The street curved between round-fronted buildings, sitting wide apart from one another in a neat run. Greenery spilt from their upper ledges and across the walls. Glowing globe lanterns hung under signboards over doors—displaying English and Latin shop names.

  Magi in bright tight robes and sharp hats moved between counters and windows—a tiny girl drifted past inside a clear bubble, tethered to her mother’s staff by a thin, light cord. Strange instruments were set outside shops—some of polished copper, some hovering and smoking. No carts or horses in sight.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Beside him, Leon exclaimed loudly. ‘Your coat. It changed!’

  Lucian turned and his mouth fell open for a second time. Sage Hewitt’s robes had entirely changed.

  The plain outer coat the sage had worn moments ago was gone, replaced by a fitted crimson waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up to leave his rune-marked forearms bare. Underneath it, a linen shirt and a neat orange cravat. A leather belt strapped across his hips held small tools and pouches, and a large leather tome hung at his side. Black trousers fell to sturdy boots, and snug gloves covered his hands.

  ‘I simply removed the glamour. These are the garments of a true magus.’

  Leon looked like he was about to burst into laughter. Lucian frowned at the crimson hat sitting neatly on the sage’s head.

  ‘Sir… What with the hats, then? Why so… so pointed and bright?’

  ‘We name ’em hats, Spirecrowns, lads.’ Hewitt said with a grin. ‘Status. Tradition. Fashion. And enchanted, to never get lost nor to fall off in wind. You lads will dress in something similar to this.’

  ‘And them gloves?’ Leon said, looking around. ‘Everybody’s wearing ’em. Do we get a choice, or is it orders?’

  Sage Hewitt’s expression darkened for a moment.

  ‘Almost for the same reasons, lad. Now. Before we acquire your attire, we must ensure that your books are available, or we’ll have to make a request. Follow me.’

  The Wellarcus stayed behind as they ventured onto the curved street. The buildings rose in a circle of tiers—round and stacked, like York’s bars. Lucian found it fascinating how their big blocks of a coppery marble seemed to be woven together by beams of wood and ribbons of climbing vines rooted to the ground.

  A large man, outside what looked like a shop for pointy hats, shook his head as they passed, muttering, ‘Weather-Ward Spirecrowns for twenty Sops, outrageous…’

  ‘Sage Hewitt…’ said Lucian slowly. ‘We have got not a coin with us. How are we paying for anything?’

  Sage Hewitt looked confused. ‘Your spelltags lad. They’re coin.’

  ‘This gold slip of paper is coin?’

  ‘It can’t be ready money, can it?’ Leon put in. ‘You told us there’s a spell in it.’

  ‘There is,’ Hewitt said, patiently. ‘It’s the spell in it that gives it worth. But you can think on it as coin all the same. Spelltag is money. We reckon in Ops. One Op is one casting of the tag’s spell. Bronze holds a little, silver holds more, and gold holds the most.’

  The sage took Lucian’s hand and, without touching the slip, turned it.

  ‘See here? These stamps tell you what’s left in it. Five stamps means fifty Ops, and that’s no small sum. Gold tag, so folk call them stamps fifty Gops. “G” for gold, plain enough. And it comes to about… seven-and-thirty of Nullkin money, give or take.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucian said, half in awe, half in disbelief. He’d never held so much as this in his life, not even in Father’s counting room. ‘Seven-and-thirty shillings?’

  ‘Nay, lad. Seven-and-thirty pounds.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Leon and Lucian said together, loud enough that folk near them glanced over.

  ‘You are jesting,’ Leon blurted, holding his golden slip as if it might catch fire. ‘How can this scrap of paper be worth seven-and-thirty pounds?’

  ‘Because it’s not just a scrap, lad. It’s spellbound...’ Hewitt pointed to the ribbon where the name of the spell was written. ‘Velum Noctis. That’s a complex charm. Each tag of yours carries fifty castings of it. Each spend is a casting, and each casting is a spend. When the fifty Gops are gone, the tag turns blank, loses its worth, and loses its power. Simple as that. We’ve a saying in the Wells: ready money, ready spell. You’ve coin, you’ve casting.’

  Leon still looked wrong-footed. ‘But… still. That’s more than the errand lad at our estate would earn in years.’

  ‘Aye. It’s a different sort of world, this,’ Hewitt said, and his tone changed a touch. ‘Better ordered. Better kept. We’ve not the same scrabble as Nullkins do.’

  Lucian frowned at him. That was a very strange notion.

  ‘And you, lads, best mind what you spend. ’Cause once it’s gone—so’s the tag.’

  Leon lost no time and fired off questions about the spelltags and what they could buy. From a darkened shopfront came sharp screeches, low growls, and hootings. A sign hung above the door: “Hallowfen’s Beast-House – Ferae Magicae – Pets, Guardia, Spirits and Brownies.”

  Next to a shabby shop with various spelltags glued to the panes, a knot of lads about Lucian’s age had their noses pressed to a window where staves, daggers, wands, and folding fans were displayed, each laid on dark velvet.

  ‘Newest relics of the term,’ one of the boys said in a boastful tone. Fresh off the new moon, they are. I’ll wield a right powerful sword, I tell you.’

  ‘I’d sooner have a staff,’ another said. ‘Better reach for Elemental Orbis, they’ve got.’

  Lucian halted. He knew that voice. Knew it very well.

  ‘Jonas?’

  The boy looked round and Lucian ran towards him.

  Jonas Rudd. Freckled face, round nose, standing like a cock among hens. For a heartbeat he only stared—then he broke into a wide, disbelieving grin.

  ‘I don’t credit my eyes,’ he said. ‘You lads, are magi too, are you?’

  ‘Aye.’ Leon’s grin sharpened. ‘We heard rumours about you. So it was true then. You’re a witch, eh?’

  ‘Mind your tongue,’ Hewitt’s voice cut in

  ‘So-sorry, Sage. I… I forgot myself.’

  Jonas waved it off, still smiling. ‘No harm taken.’

  ‘Good morrow, lad. I trust you’re well, and how’s your auntie?’

  ‘Well enough, Sage Hewitt, sir. Working, she is.’ He gestured towards the shop with spelltags on the panes. ‘Give my greetings to Sage Li, if you please.’

  The Sage gave a small bow.

  Lucian stepped closer. ‘What happened? Is Judith with you?’

  ‘Aye. Sage Li got her out,’ Jonas said, his words spilling quick, as if he’d held ’em in for days. ‘Amazing, she was. Slipped Auntie straight out o’ gaol and brought us to Grovewell her own self. There’s a passage hid behind the White Horse Inn—she owns the place, did you know? We’re lodged over Wyre’s’

  ‘Wyre’s?’ Lucian looked where Jonas pointed. The sign read: Wyre’s Seals & Spelltags, and beneath it, a smaller line: Sigilla Incantata.

  ‘Aye. That’s Judith’s shop,’ said Jonas proudly.

  ‘You live in the shop?’ asked Leon, frowning.

  ‘Above it.’ Jonas tipped his chin round the street. ‘In Vicis Oris most magi live directly above their trade.’ He paused, a touch red in the face, then added, ‘You lads starting term in the primordium, then?’

  Lucian nodded, and Leon did too, though Leon’s eyes kept sliding to the lads standing behind them. , the same one who’d been boasting earlier about getting a sword. He looked them up and down like they were barrels brought to market—eyes lingered a beat too long on Lucian’s cheek.

  ‘Jonas,’ the lad said, sharp and loud, ‘you coming to the falls with us, or not?’

  Jonas pulled a face. ‘I reckon I’ll skip it today, Mer. I’ve not seen this lot for ages.’

  The lad’s mouth twisted, as if Jonas’s breath stank.

  ‘Nullkin-born, like Jonas here, are you?’ he said, dry as ash, as if they were beneath him. He wore a coat much like Hewitt’s, only pale blue and finer cut, near-new by the look of it and he’d no leather belt strapped across his hips as the sage did.

  Leon drew himself up. ‘Aye. I’m Leon Daiwik and… and we’ve the best wool trade in Leeds,’ he said, too quick, like he could not stop himself.

  ‘Lucian,’ he said. He wasn’t about to offer him more than that. The lad was daft—plain enough—and Lucian couldn’t fathom how Jonas could stand to be about him.

  The boy’s brows shot up. ‘Lūx mē. Same face twice over.’ He grinned, enjoying himself.

  Lucian gave him a hard look. ‘We’re twins.’

  ‘That’ll be it, then.’ He said, rolling his eyes as if Lucian had proved that the sky’s blue. ‘Merrick Vindevale, I am. Grovewell-born.’ He spoke it like a title, like the Well itself had stamped him. ‘Which fons will you join, then? Best it’s a good one. I’ll be off now if you’re Umbrael Fons.’

  ‘Umbrael Fons?’

  Merrick gave a short scoff at Leon. ‘You lot don’t know what fons are? Truly?’

  Jonas shifted, annoyed. ‘Lay off, Mer. They’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Still. A magus’s most important matter, isn’t it? I’m laying fifty Gops they’re clueless about relics as well.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Lucian said, nettled despite himself.

  ‘They’re tools to wield magic,’ Leon put in, his cheeks going hot. ‘And we’ll have the best of ’em, we will.’

  Merrick laughed, loud enough to turn heads.

  ‘That’s enough, lad.’ Sage Hewitt cut him off before his braying laugh could carry. His voice stayed even, but there was iron in it. ‘There’s no knowing that. Your magic chooses your relic, not you. It’ll bind to what suits your ability best. And you’ve no choosing in it. Placement follows your main element, not what you fancy.’

  Leon made a sound through his nose. ‘Aye. Thought one ought to know that.’

  Merrick’s eyes bored into Leon for a moment, then slid away as if Leon had ceased to interest him. His gaze dropped instead to Hewitt’s forearms, to the shifting marks there.

  ‘Primordium Sage, are you?’ Merrick said, suddenly keen. ‘The one teaching Runic Writing?’

  ‘Aye, lad. Sage Hewitt. I am a—’

  ‘Pyralux, by your look,’ Merrick cut in at once, nose wrinkling with open disdain. ‘I know. I’ve heard of you. Fond of runes, taverns, and foreigners.’ His mouth curled, pleased with himself. ‘Hope you can teach well, at least that.’

  Lucian felt heat creep up his neck. Hewitt’s jaw tightened, the smile gone from him entirely. Merrick turned his attention back to Lucian, as if he were doing him a favour.

  ‘Pyralux deals in fire magic. Umbrael’s the least of it. Spirit magic and illusions. Useless foolery Nullkins like to gape at.’

  He lifted his chin a fraction higher.

  ‘Me, I’m Nymbranis Fons. No doubt on it. Water-magic—healing, weather, ice. Father’s Nymbranis too.’ His eyes landed on Sage Hewitt. ‘He’s a Sage, but a proper one. Haven Sage. Saves magi’s lives, he does.’

  Sage Hewitt’s mouth tightened.

  ‘Enough of this. Come on, lads. We best get a move on.’

  Lucian did not need telling twice. He stepped away quick, wanting the street between himself and Merrick’s smirk. Jonas fell in with them, relief plain on his face.

  ‘Hoy, Jonas!’ Merrick called after them. ‘What’s this, then? You truly not coming?’

  ‘Nay. I’ll…’ Jonas hesitated and glanced at Sage Hewitt. ‘I’ll go with you. If… if I may.’

  ‘Have you got your materials yet?’

  ‘Nay, not yet.’

  ‘Then fetch your letter and your spelltag. Make haste. We’ll wait at Parchbarrow’s.’

  Jonas nodded and hurried off. Behind them, Merrick’s eyes followed Jonas for a breath. For the smallest moment, something like sadness crossed his face, as if Jonas leaving stung more than he cared to show. Then it was gone and his gaze slid back to Lucian, smirking at them as if he and Leon were just a funny jest.

  ‘Best teach ’em scar-faces bathing charms straight off, Sage,’ he called, loud and mocking, nose wrinkled. ‘We can’t be doing with Nullkin stink.’

  The other lads drifted after him, their laughter too bright for Lucian’s liking. Beside him, Leon muttered.

  ‘What a stuck-up knave, that.’

  Lucian only nodded. The whole exchange had left a strange, hollow twist in the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes ahead and spoke to Hewitt before his thoughts rang too loud.

  ‘Sage Hewitt… what are fons?’

  Hewitt’s pace slowed a touch, and his expression eased.

  ‘Ah. Aye. That’s on me, lads. I’ve not had the chance to set it out proper.’ He rummaged in the pouch at his leather belt and drew out a slip of paper. ‘Look here.’

  He held it so they could see. At the top were encircled runes, and beneath them, neat Latin names: Aetheris, Nymbranis, Pyralux, Telluros, Silvalis, Umbrael.

  Leon leaned in, brow furrowed, lips moving as he read. Sage Hewitt tapped each in turn with a blunt finger.

  ‘Air. Water. Fire. Earth. Nature. Spirit. Those are the six fons in the Primordium. Each “fons” is an academy within the school, you could say. It’s where you’ll be trained in the element your magic answers to most. Every magus has at least one.’

  ‘So if Luce’s element and mine are different, we won’t even be in the same academy? That’s no good, is it?’

  ‘It could be, lad.’ Hewitt gave a small, almost apologetic smile. ‘Elemental leanings often run in a family, aye. So I reckon there’s a fair chance you’ll land together, you being twins and all. Mr Allerton says your presences are near alike. And even if you don’t, you’ll still have lessons in all six fons for all six elements. You’ll not be set apart like strangers.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Leon, looking at Lucian with raised brows.

  ‘Me too.’ said Lucian. ‘A magus can have more than one element, then? If so… where would we be put, if we’ve more than one?’

  ‘You’ll always have one that’s strongest, lad. Me, I’m Pyralux. Fire’s my strongest attunement. I’ve a hand in Aetheris and Umbrael besides, but Nymbranis, Telluros and Silvalis? Not much, if any. Some high Sages can hold three, even four, elements. Rarer still is holding opposites, like Aetheris and Telluros, or Pyralux and Nymbranis. It’s not common, and it’s not easy.’

  Lucian frowned and reached into his pouch. He took out the golden spelltag and held it beside Hewitt’s slip, pointing to the row of encircled runes.

  ‘Look. Same marks. Aetheris, Nymbranis… and Umbrael.’

  ‘Very good, lad,’ said Hewitt. ‘Velum Noctis takes those three elements to cast. Air, water, spirit, in that order. That’s part of why it’s a gold tag. Hard to cast that one is. Harder still to do it fifty times over.’

  Lucian nodded, but he didn’t understand half of it. Merrick’s words still clung to him, scratching at the back of his thoughts. Magic sounded knotted and rule-bound here, full of latin names, strange runes and careful order, yet Lucian’s own tricks had never been like that. They came quick, easy and volatile.

  No runes, no Latin, no warning.

  He wanted to ask Sage Hewitt how that could be. He wanted to understand it proper. But fear caught him by the throat, because he couldn’t bear what the answer might mean.

  ‘I know it can be hard to grasp now, lads,’ said Hewitt, his eyes fixed on Lucian. ‘Just know this. Each magus is different and unique. Not everyone can cast every sort of spell. Most can’t. You’ll never find a person with a clean hand in all six elements. That’s the reason we’ve a whole spelltag trade, lads. Spelltags and elements are connected.’

  Lucian brushed the star-mark on his cheek with a finger, thoughts churning like a tempest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong in Grovewell, not truly, and that sooner or later the Primordium would mark it as well.

  What was he to do if the disembodied whispers grew louder? Or if the visions and the strange lights came too strong to hide? And what if his power surged up without warning, untamed like the River Aire after hard rain, flooding where it had no right?

  What he dreaded most of all was even the notion that he and Leon might be placed apart, in different fons. Leon was the only familiar face in a world that felt sharp with secrecy, the only thread that still tied Lucian back to home.

  As his mind reeled, the fear settled heavy in his chest. Warmth pricked at his fingertips. A faint glow threatened there again, and he curled his hands tight, willing it down before anyone could mark it.