I stood before the podium once more, the spellbook no longer had the snaking traumatic threads around it and the Sorting Hat was silent, or at least I had tuned him out for whatever reason, my migraine was still there though, persistent as ever, though I could mostly deal with it.
My fingers brushed the cover as I turned it over. The leather felt warm beneath my touch.
Just behind the cover were names, hundreds of them, stretching back through the ages. My eyes scanned the list with growing fascination until they reached the end where two names stood out to me.
Felix Serendipity, 458th Scribe of the Order. (age 12)
Wait. My name was already there? The ink looked fresh, as if it had been written just moments ago, yet the handwriting didn't match my own. I ran my finger over it, half-expecting it to smudge, but the golden letters remained perfect and unchanging.
Immediately I began to read all the other names on the list, each had their own name and a corresponding number. A few names higher than mine, I saw a name which I recognized.
Quillian Scrivner, 456th Scribe of the Order (age 67)
And a few names higher than that was a name that made me dead in my tracks
Merlin, 442nd Scribe of the Order (age 1)
I mean I knew that Merlin had been a Scribe, but seeing the name a few lines over mine, made me feel all giddy inside.
For some reason I knew what the ages meant, it was the ages at which they had been able to receive this spellbook. The knowledge seemed to appear in my mind unbidden.
Reading all the rest, there was only one who had been able to receive this book before Merlin, and that was the very first name on the list, though calling it a name was a stretch.
Hiuwt (age 0)
I wondered what kind of wizard—or person—Hiuwt had been, to discover this magic at birth. Was he even human? Or wizard in this case?
I looked at the next page, where the index was supposed to be, and indeed there was an index, but again calling it an index would be a stretch. It was more like a table of magical classifications, written in that same perfect golden script.
School of Divination
School of Abjuration
School of Conjuration
School of Enchantment
School of Evocation
School of Illusion
School of Necromancy
School of Transmutation
School of Artificier Magic
School of Chronurgy Magic
School of Graviturgy Magic
School of War Magic
School of Bladesinger Magic
Scribe Magic
My heart raced as I read each category. So many schools of magic to learn, so many spells to execute.
I turned the next page expecting to see a title for School of Divination but it was all blank. Confused, I turned it back and wondered how it worked. Then a thought occurred to me—the book seemed sentient somehow, responsive to my intentions. Thinking deliberately of the School of Divination, I turned the page again to find it filled with information.
The counsel of a diviner is sought by royalty and commoners alike, for all seek a clearer understanding of the past, present, and future. As a diviner, you strive to part the veils of space, time, and consciousness so that you can see clearly. You work to master spells of discernment, remote viewing, supernatural knowledge, and foresight.
The text seemed to shimmer slightly as I read it, the ink catching the light in ways that normal ink shouldn't.
I turned to the next page, and a spell filled the entire space with its requirements and understanding.
True Strike: You extend your hand and point a finger at a target in range. Your magic grants you a brief insight into the target's defenses....
The description continued, but what amazed me was the depth of explanation—not just the incantation and wand movement, but the theory behind it, the flow of magic required, alternatives for wandless casting, and even historical annotations about who had developed the spell and how it had evolved over time, and the coolest thing, it also had the incantation, I Cast.
Now that I thought about it why was the book written in english? I mean almost every name from the list wasn't english so why would the previous scribes write in english? The most likely possibility was that the spellbook changed language according to it's owner.
I turned the page once more, another spell filled the page, I turned again, another spell, and another, another, another. There seemed to be no end to them, each more fascinating than the last.
Beast Bond
Comprehend Languages
Guiding Hand
Gift of Alacrity
Warp Sense
"This is fucking awesome," I said, a smile reaching my eyes. Going through that traumatic thread thing was totally worth it for this treasure trove of magical knowledge.
I turned the pages back to the index, scanning each of the schools of magic as the book seemed to call them. My eyes landed on the most intriguing one.
Scribe Magic
'Show me scribe magic,' I thought, turning the page with eager anticipation.
Magic of the book—that's what many folk call wizardry. The name is apt, given how much time wizards spend poring over tomes and penning theories about the nature of magic. It's rare to see wizards traveling without books and scrolls sprouting from their bags, and a wizard would go to great lengths to plumb an archive of ancient knowledge.
Among wizards, the Order of Scribes is the most bookish. It takes many forms in different worlds, but its primary mission is the same everywhere: recording magical discoveries so that wizardry can flourish. And while all wizards value spellbooks, a wizard in the Order of Scribes magically awakens their book, turning it into a trusted companion. All wizards study books, but a wizardly scribe talks to theirs!
"Wait so you can talk?" I whispered to the book, running my fingers along its spine. I felt a slight warmth in response, but no words came. Was I doing something wrong? Or was this just metaphorical?
The book remained silent, its pages unmoving.
"Maybe the other scribes are just mad and talk to the book after all," I sighed, wondering what kind of wizard had written this description. "It just says that they talk to the book, not that the book talks back or even listens to them."
Still, there was something comforting about having this grimoire, this physical manifestation of the magical tradition I apparently belonged to. Even if it couldn't answer me directly, it was responding to my thoughts, showing me exactly what I wanted to see.
Yet when I turned the page, expecting a spell, what I saw instead was the picture of a quill. I read the title with growing interest.
Wizardly Quill
A scribe's job is to document, create and teach spells. As such, you need a quill for such a project. You can bring forth this quill from the book and into your hand. As you write, it is able to generate colored ink of the scribe's choice, and you can use the feather to erase what you have written.
I thought of the quill appearing in my hand, and even without saying "I Cast," there it was, disappearing from the book and materializing between my fingers. It felt like every other quill I had handled.
"Well that could be useful," I murmured, turning the quill over in my hand.
I dismissed the quill with a thought, watching as it dissolved into golden particles that flowed back into the book. The picture reappeared on the page as if it had never left. I then tried to turn the page, the keyword being "tried," because the page refused to budge no matter what I did.
I frowned, pulling harder on the paper. Was there some trick to it? Some password or mental command I needed to give? Maybe I had to prove myself worthy of the next piece of knowledge somehow?
As I struggled with the stubborn page, trying various mental commands and even attempting to will it to turn as I had with the quill, a voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Hey!" The voice was irritated and growing more so by the second. "Stop looking at that forsaken book and get me off the floor!!"