Paxton Wessely

Her eyes bore into me; beady as a raven’s and black as space itself. The thin arctic-blue rings surrounding her uncommonly large pupils glisten like the sun bouncing off the surface of a glacial river. Mesmerizing. I have never met anyone with full-spectrum vision before. Only heard the tales my father would spin me to sleep with. He called them Wavers, and I thought them a myth. I fancy asking her if she can see the remodelling of the oblique fracture on my left ulna, but that would be entirely unprofessional and no doubt a ubiquitous question for her. I need her to think me unique, worthy of her illustrious Academe.

“Marko?” Her angelic voice pulls me back to the table. My complimentary beverage resembling a cleaning agent remains untouched on the chopped trunk of a Pinus contorta.

“Pardon me, ma’am?”

“I said, what interests you most about attending the Academe for the Supernatural Arts?”

I thumb the moss, questioning how a two-hundred year old woman—who doesn’t present as a day over forty—has the flexibility to so elegantly perch on the forest bed for hours upon hours without a shift.

“Oh, um…” I stumble, “the variety of classes you offer is quite exciting.” 

Could I give a more generic answer? Chancellor Katic looks to me in anticipation. “Very good. Any in particular that pique your interest?” she encourages, no doubt out of pity and thinking me a nitwit. Who can blame her.

“Well…Creature Culture seems mighty intriguing.”

I squirm, equal parts physically and mentally uneasy. The open-air noshery is lavish by my standards, and I find myself envying those who dine on benches carved inside horizontal tree trunks instead of the dirt. Over the Chancellor’s shoulder, at the fringe of the establishment, stands a procession of prospective students. From the picket fence, the line snakes so deep that the thicket of the forest swallows the riffraff. Such is the admissions process for the ASA. Every interested pupil personally meets the Chancellor in a picnic fashion on a first-come, first-served basis. If she deems your spirit fitting of the Academe, only then do you present your papers. One has to admire her diligence. I am a fool to believe I might outshine any of them. 

My gaze returns to Katic’s expectant expression. She must have asked me another question. I cannot ask her to repeat another. Who would accept a person who is unable to sit through a simple interview?

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Chancellor.” I do not await a response before I pad away bare-footed across the moss to the latrine hut.

As I enter, I must flatten myself against the wall of vines to make space for a ginormous man built like a boulder. His onyx wings nearly clip me as he passes, turning sideways to maneuver his vast wingspan through the entryway. You see the most bizarre of creatures in the city of Ballova. I feel as though I am a dozen worlds away from my modest home.

The stone floor is bitter on the soles of my feet as I enter a cubicle. Everything here is rich with spellwork. In a circle of stone, the inside of the loo bowl looks more like a spiralling blue portal to another dimension. It does not strike me as a place one should defecate, but supposedly the waste just disintegrates. I place the wooden lid over it and sit down. I close my eyes and relax my shoulders, setting my hands comfortably on my knees. After three intentional breaths, it begins. The tingling of every cell in my body as they metamorphose. My muscles cramp, shifting to a new configuration of flesh. The slight plumpness of my last form’s tummy tightens to an Adonis-like torso. I feel my cropped auburn hair sprouting like blades of grass at ten-times speed, transforming into chocolate, mid-length curls. My family’s eyes remain invariable. Fortunately, they are a pedestrian ashen, unlike Chancellor Katic’s unequivocal orbs.

After changing my clothes and stuffing my bag back behind the stone, I emerge from the latrine hut in the skin of a new man for the third time today. The Chancellor has already moved on to the next aspirant. I slink past the elfin restaurant cadre, turning a few heads for the first time in my life, and make haste through the woods to join the back of the queue. 

Three hours later I am next in line…again. What remains of the day is being tucked into the horizon as the first stars of twilight twinkle through the towering tree canopy. It’s a good thing we only require a fraction of the sleep that regular humans do. Word is the Chancellor has already been here for three days, yet despite the growing line, she continues to grant each candidate equal time and attention without so much as a sigh.

When I see the hairy wolf-boy in front of me take off toward the exit on the other side, I saunter toward the table. My newest façade failing to provide the inner certitude this physique assumes.

“Chancellor Katic, it is an honour,” I bow upon approach. From my previous encounters I discerned she appreciates a certain level of decorum.

She regards me from head to toe. “While bowing can symbolize respect, it is also an act of submission or surrender. One of the tenets of the Academe is to never submit. If you submit to the Powers, they will swallow you whole like a python swallows a zebra. The Powers of the universe respond to conviction, and only through conviction of oneself can true respect be born.”

And just like that she has dislodged what little nerve I had spent the remainder of the afternoon cooking. I cannot conjure my voice, and instead seek solace in the calm waters of her eyes. She darts them for me to sit, bearing a kind smile. One of the fair-faced stewards sets another whacky beverage on the tree stump. She gives me a kittenish glance, takes the half-drunken tumbler of the wolf-boy, and hovers away a foot off of the earth via her unassuming translucent wings. I might just keep this body.

What is your name, lad?” 

“Erik, ma’am,” I say without hesitation. I am going through all of my cousins, eldest to youngest. When I tell them they will find it sidesplitting. If I must play a part to become a member of the Academe, so be it. I have worn many guises in my short life.

“Strong name. I was acquainted with an Erik once. Erik Wessely. One of the greatest swordmasters of the all the realms.”

“My grandfather, Chancellor.”

“Is that so?” She responds with raised eyebrows. For the first time something about me impresses her. “My condolences.” I nod in acknowledgement, she lets the quiet moment linger out of respect before continuing. “Do you share your grandfathers penchant for the blade?”

“I am but a shadow under his mighty Rapier. Though I have recently advanced to Journeyman at House Indigo.”

“Humility is a fine quality, Mr Wessely. However, becoming a Journeyman, at House indigo no less, is no small feat. Now, tell me of…”

The conversation builds on the foundations of my grandfather and goes beyond anything I could have hoped for. We discuss the history of the Swordmasters Legion, supernatural philosophy, even the darker arts. Though Chancellor Katic has to steer me away once I grow too enthusiastic. There are things she cannot disclose to me, of course. I know I have depleted the proverbial clock when I sense the irritated grumbles from the forest. I can barely discern their silhouettes in the shade of night.

“I will send for your papers, Mr Wessely,” she declares.

I am stunted of words once more, and only manage a polite “Thank you” as I rise on legs overcome with paresthesia.

“When next we see each other I do hope you will grant me the honour of divulging your true face.” I freeze, unable to look down and meet her gaze. “Do not fret, Mr Wessely. I commend your…tenacity, as well as your other gifts.” She stands, a few fingers shy my height. The full features of the famed Dress of Engel unravels in all its shimmering, pearly glory. 

She lowers her voice, ignoring the gasps of onlookers. “Adept Shifters such as yourself are rare. You needn’t hide who you are.” The motherly empathy in her tone subdues my urge to flee.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly. Before I can botch anything else, I take steps to leave, but a gnawing question turns me on my heels. “If I may inquire, Chancellor, how did you know?”

She releases a small chuckle as she sits back down, taking a sip of the purple sludge she seems to favour. “Bones do not lie.” She indicates knowingly to my left arm. Of course. I can change my flesh all I like, but, like my eyes, my fundamental structure—my skeleton—remains a constant. Were she not a Waver, the deception would be intact. But her x-ray vision allows her to quite literally see right through me. I turn crimson at the thought. “And apparently neither does choice of attire.” The Chancellor grins at my bare feet.

I want to badger her with questions of how it works. Can she control and isolate the wavelengths of her vision? Or does she see them all simultaneously? Enough, Pax. I make my exit.

“Unless you intend to bestow your admissions offer to one of your kin, I will at least require you to share your true name. So, which Wessely have I had the pleasure of meeting with today?…Multiple times.”

“Paxton. Paxton Wessely.” I say it with pride.