7. Are You Actually A Professor?
When Night was done cleaning up for the evening, she stepped out of the bathroom in one of her long sleeved nightgowns and found Astor lounging on her couch. His silver hair was already dry, and he had changed into the black silk sleepwear he bought from a traveling merchant.
With my gold, she thought. She sighed. What is he doing?
Astor was scribbling with a charcoal pencil in a leather bound notebook. He looked up when he noticed Night. “Good job on fighting Nettie today,” he began. “Silence was a fantastic choice for the situation. You’re not bad at reading your surroundings when you try.”
“I am an archmage, Astor. This much is nothing.” Night was slightly offended and tried not to show it. She stared at his notebook.
He followed her gaze. “I’m keeping notes for what we’ve done day to day and what leads we’re following,” he explained.
“Is that…Are you writing in Elvish?”
“Yeah, “Astor said. “I figure less people know it than Common.”
“I didn’t know you knew Elvish. But I guess you are an elf…”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Astor replied, smirking. “Did you want to continue your lecture on the different type of defensive wards tonight?”
“No. I have another idea. Tonight, how about we get to know each other better?” Night suggested slyly. She dropped down on the couch beside him, crossing her legs and folding her hands on her lap.
“Oh?” Astor closed his notebook and leaned in. He gave her a wicked smile. “What… did you have in mind?”
“For starters, let me ask you this. How much magic do you know?”
“What?” Astor blinked, his expression dropping as he was caught off guard.
“I see you use mind magic, but never anything else.”
He paused, tapping his chin, considering how much to reveal. “Well—I can cast a little bit of healing magic, but I’m most familiar with psionic magic that manipulate the mind.” He listed off several spells, including Command and Suggestion.
Night laughed, and Astor looked at her in confusion. What part of what he said was funny?
“Sorry, I was just thinking it’s ironic that your area of expertise is my weakness. I’m terrible at mind magic.”
“Really? Is there a particular reason? Does it just not click with you?”
Night shook her head. “My family had a thing against mind magic. So I never learned it as a kid. Starting as an adult was a lot harder, and I never grasped it the same way.”
“And your expertise is in—wait, let me guess. Lightning magic.”
“Yup. I was born a storm sorcerer. I know a variety of spells from studying, but storm magic comes as easily to me as breathing.”
“Flashy. But they attract attention,” Astor warned.
Night shoved his shoulder in annoyance. “Ok, ok. I get it, Astor!”
Astor laughed through his nose.
“Your healing magic,” Night began curiously, “is that bardic magic?”
“I’m not a wizard, if that’s what you’re asking. I cast magic through music. Or…rhythm? I have to figure it out myself—such invocations don’t transfer between casters like wizard incantations do.”
“Wielding bardic magic is impressive, Astor. I’ve never understood how that all works with the Weave. And wizards can’t heal. So I’m envious.”
“Don’t be. That’s what healing potions are for. Besides, you know a ton more spells.”
“Right. You don’t even know cleaning or mending cantrips. They’re crucial for travel and quite easy to learn. You can clean your shirt in no time. You can even skip showers if you use cleaning magic on yourself.”
“I never had a chance to learn those,” Astor said and gave a light shrug. Velith forbade him from practicing magic unless it was under her supervision.
Night immediately stood up and went to one of the nearby shelves. She came back with three books, dropping them into Astor’s lap. He read their titles.
The Apprentice’s Companion Volume I.
Volo’s Guide to the Weave.
Convenience Cantrips: A Catalogue.
Night patted the books. “You’ll pick up some cantrips by reading these and through practice. I’ll mentor you.”
Astor’s eyes narrowed and he ran his fingers across the books’ covers. Night was quite literally handing him free knowledge and private tutoring. This was an opportunity to improve his spellcasting, learning it from the ground up the way wizards do.
“That would be great, Night,” Astor said with a soft, deliberate smile. “Are you actually a professor? You can tell me, I can keep a secret.”
“Oh, I wish. No, I was never made for academia,” Night replied with a grin. “But a chance to impart magical knowledge is a chance I won’t pass up. You seem very interested in magic, you’ll learn quick.”
Nightingale awoke to the sound of the back door closing. She sat up, still half asleep. Her hair was a mess, and she looked around in confusion. Her bedroom was dim, the crystal lanterns mounted on the walls of her demiplane’s cabin were off, but there was a glow through the drawn curtains.
She got off the bed and walked to the window, pulling the curtains back. This window opened to the backyard, into the wide expanse of her demiplane. The day-night cycle of her plane tracked that of Toril’s, and in the daytime the skies were a vibrant wash of gold with wisps of green.
Astor wandered through the grassy fields of the yard. She watched as he bent down to study a particular flower, and then continued on his walk.
Night tapped her fingers on the windowsill, deep in thought. For most of her adult life, people she met treated her with respect and deference. Those in the magical and adventuring circles recognized her as someone with the highest rank amongst mages.
People at similar ranks knew of her fame, her past accomplishments, how the gods of magic favored her. Even those who harbored envy or malice kept themselves in check, because the upper echelons of the community was small, and who knew when one might need a favor from another.
With her prestige, the need to prove herself had been something she thought she had long left behind. Then she met Astor. He had taken one look at her, and completely disregarded her, acting as rude as he could possibly be. Shadowheart and Kal were polite and friendly, yet Astor was relentless in his attitude. In recent years, Night had never been treated with such disrespect.
Astor was decent at mind magic, and he had the reflexes and instincts of a seasoned adventurer. So how come he didn’t understand what her station meant? Had he been living under a rock?
After he saw her demiplane and the conveniences she brought to the party, he completely changed his tune, acting suddenly polite, listening to her, giving her his attention.
It was laughable, really. He would take any chance to talk to her in the evenings, asking her follow up questions and acting like whatever she said was extremely interesting.
And he would always sit close to her on the couch when he did this, casually brushing her hand when he leaned in to show her a passage of a book he had a question with. And he’d always be freshly showered. She’d smell the scent of her own soap on him.
Night flushed as she remembered the previous day at the Emerald Grove, when Astor pulled her into his arms to protect her from Nettie. How he had forced Nettie to give him the antidote. She groaned into her palms.
It was so obvious what he was trying to do. What made this all worse was that she liked the attention.
She’d never been swayed by another like this before. But since losing her place as Chosen of Mystra, she had felt unstable and sensitive to everything. One innocent mistake costed her job, completely ruining her life. And now she was not even sure she would survive this journey to extract the mind flayer parasite.
She went to her nightstand and opened the drawer, taking out a small vial of pink liquid labeled Calm Emotions. Downing it quickly, she slowly exhaled. She didn’t have time to wallow in regret.
Astor walked barefoot through the soft grass of Night’s demiplane. The back door opened to a wooden deck, and from there, the expanse of the grassy hills stretched out, dotted by flowers and low, lush trees.
He looked back at the exterior of the cabin. Various styles of outdoor furniture were scattered nearby. Tangled, flowering vines hung off the dark slated rooftop. Troughs of dirt with various herbs lined the walls. It was the very picturesque cottage one could imagine. Too perfect in its imagery, almost unnervingly so.
Everything about this place was otherworldly, like a dream, or the inside of a landscape painting. The sky was bright, but there wasn’t a sun. The soft light seemed to be coming from every direction, and he realized he didn’t have a shadow.
Astor walked to the edge of the field, where the grass abruptly stopped. He looked down, staring into an endless abyss of sky, of gold and green.
He heard the back door opened and turned around. Night walked out onto the deck. Her figure was framed by the dark exterior of her house, deep indigo brick and black shingles.
“Good morning,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage, walking back to the house. “I was just looking around the yard, since I woke up early.”
“Do you want some tea before we join the others for breakfast?”
Astor nodded, and Night went back in. She quickly came out with two cups and a steaming teapot, pacing these on the wooden railing of the deck.
Astor joined her on the deck, leaning on the railing. He smelled the tea. Some sort of flower. But as expected, when he took a sip, he couldn’t taste anything.
He watched the plants sway in the breeze. “How do you grow a demiplane?”
Night’s expression brightened. She launched into a long winded explanation. “The ritual is called Genesis—it creates a local density fluctuation that precipitates the creation of the plane. The beginning stage takes a hundred days and several expensive material components.”
Her eyes alit with passion as she threw her arms around. “It works best when manifested on the Astral Plane, so the plane itself grows coterminous to it. This choice gives the result the most flexible properties. The astral ectoplasm also contributes to the growth speed, which ultimately determines the maximum size.”
“Er—“ Astor didn’t catch most of that. “How did you learn how to do this?”
“I’m a certified planeswalker,” Night said, patting her chest. “Working enforcement for Epic Magic meant traveling across the planes. And after one assignment, while I was vacationing in the backwards of Arborea, I came across the metacreation ritual, Genesis.”
“The Olympian Glades of Arborea…” Astor murmured. An overwhelmingly beautiful plane embodying the intersection of chaos and goodness, a wilderness of passion. A land full of deep emotions, both positive and negative. Of joy and sorrow, of love and hate and rage and envy in equal measure.
Astor knew the textbook definition, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like.* It sounds unbearable. Who would want to live in such a place?*
Night clapped her hands. “You know of Arborea? Have you been?”
Astor shook his head. “I read stories, and there are many set in the Outer Planes. Of course, I don’t know how much is fact versus fiction. I still can’t believe you’ve traversed them, let alone lived in one.”
Night grinned, raising her hands, waving them through the air. She was practically yelling. “Being Mystra’s Chosen is more than just a prestigious title. Under her authority, I had unfathomable connections and opportunities, access to knowledge that mortals had long forgotten. The multiverse is vast, and in the pursuit of knowledge and arcane study, it’s essential to see and understand all of reality.”
Then she paused, clearing her throat. “I meant—that was hyperbole, of course. One can’t understand ALL of reality. Not even the gods do.”
Astor watched her energy. If he had to imagine the exemplar of wizards, he would imagine Night. The thought made him chuckle.
Night scratched her cheek, slightly embarrassed she had rambled for so long.
“Teach me more about the Outer Planes later, Night. We should get going now.”
“Gladly.” She patted Astor on the shoulder. “I have the perfect books for you, too.”
The next evening, Astor found more books stacked on the low table in front of the couch. On top of the three for him to learn cantrips, there were two more: The Joy of Extradimensional Spaces and The Manual of the Planes, 5th edition.
Astor sighed. He felt like he was back in school again.
School. That was so, so long ago, and he smiled at the flickers of memory: the smell of textbooks and a classroom full of elven children. He cracked open The Apprentice’s Companion Volume I and got to reading.