Matteo winced from his restful sleep. People were talking nearby. ‘No,’ they said, ‘run the test a third time,’ they said. Men argued with each other and the boy opened his eyes. His bed had been concealed by a white curtain and a man in a doctor’s coat sat in a chair beside his pillow. They scribbled on a note pad, jotted down lines of Atilonian text. For the most part, Matteo couldn’t read, but he saw the doctor was writing long words.
The curtain was pulled back on its hooks; they rasped on the metal rod. Two men in doctors’ uniforms stepped inside, one thin and the other broad around the stomach. They first glared at each other, and then at Matteo. “Oh, he’s awake,” one sneered.
“He’s awake?” the older doctor by the bedside asked, turned his head. “I see, I see.” He clapped his notebook closed.
“W-What’s going on?” Matteo stuttered in the early moments of his morning.
“You were injured,” the older doctor began.
“They administered saline, and a morphine drip,” the broad one interjected. “Turns out you didn’t need that.”
“Did anything….” The thin one paused, squinted, as he appeared to choose his words carefully. “Happen, to you?”
“A spell, or an enchantment,” the older one clarified. “Were you, perhaps, cursed?”
“Cursed?” Matteo repeated. “No, no, no… nothing—nothing like that happened.”
The broad doctor folded his arms. “Well, the nurse checked on you last night.”
“About an hour after,” the thin one said.
“An hour, that’s right.” The broad one nodded. “Most of your injuries had already healed.”
The thin one shook his head. “That’s not normal,” he remarked.
“But we don’t have to tell you that,” the broad doctor said.
“You’re sure you didn’t encounter anything strange?” the thin doctor pressed. “An artifact, or something? We understand you were out in the wilderness.”
“He has an aura,” the broad one said to the other. “He could have swallowed a magic bauble and it wouldn’t be enough to create that.”
“Aura?” Matteo uttered.
The older doctor flapped his hand. “Well,” he said in a calming tone, “we’re not sure yet.”
“Two different aptitude orbs confirmed a small signature,” the broad doctor said.
The old one looked sharp at him. “Weren’t you going to run it a third time?” he asked. “The signature is small; the orbs could be malfunctioning.”
“That’s unlikely,” the thin one said.
“It’s happened before,” the older one replied.
The broad doctor nodded. “It’s better we be certain about this,” he said. “This lad’s whole future depends on it.”
He turned and brushed back the curtain, left Matteo with just the thin doctor and the older one in the chair beside the bed.
“I understand your name is Matteo Venturi,” the old doctor said.
Matteo nodded in wide-eyed confusion. “That’s right,” he answered.
“You’re from the Highlands, beautiful area,” the doctor continued. “Your mother was mana void, and your father was an adventurer, is that right?”
“He wasn’t,” Matteo uttered, “not always.”
“But your family does have a history of magic,” the thin doctor said.
“One old man is hardly a history!” Matteo snapped.
“Calm down,” the old doctor said. “We’re not jumping to conclusions.”
“Do you know what magic school your father specialized in?” the thin doctor asked.
“No,” Matteo said, shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Do you think his father could have slipped the family something?” the thin doctor asked the older one. “Something that got past the inquisitorial censors.”
The old doctor shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Even if he did, why would an aura appear now? The boy was normal—mana void—on all his physicals.”
“I’m not magic—!”
“Pipe down!” the old one snapped, set his hand on the boy’s chest. “Do you want the MPs to hear you?”
The thin doctor inhaled deeply, deflated with a long breath. “So far, only the three of us and the nurse that found you know about your condition,” he said.
“We want to make certain what you are, before we throw around wild theories,” the old doctor said. “That’s for your safety.”
“Inquisitors stalked the barracks last night,” the thin doctor said with a scowl. “They dragged a few men from their tents and loaded them onto trucks.”
The old doctor shook his head. “Bastards.”
“It’s just before the seventh bell,” the thin one said. “They haven’t come back.
“They probably won’t,” the old doctor remarked and turned to Matteo. He lowered his voice and said, “that’s why you should be careful what you say when the crows are out.”
Matteo made frightened nod.
“Now, I’ll be clear about what we found,” the old doctor said, opened his notebook. He licked his long finger and flipped through the pages. “An aptitude orb, so we’re clear, is a hand-held artifact sourced from dungeons. They’re not rare, but they’re hard to come by, outside of the official channels. You had one used on you during all your physical assessments and, according to those reports, you registered as a big—fat—zero.
“When we checked you earlier, you registered as a light-bronze color—that is, a very low stage—on the orb. Going by your previous tests, we would have expected that orb to stay black. That you had a color at all was surprising, so we checked again with a second device.”
“It was the same,” the thin doctor said.
“So, we’re trying a third time out of extreme prudence,” the old doctor continued, “but you should absolutely be careful. Even if you aren’t magical at all, and this is perhaps—maybe—the residual effect of some spell, the inquisitors will not let you go.”
“By law they’re supposed to send everyone with magic potential to the Guild,” the thin doctor said. “Magicals govern magicals, it’s been that way for thousands of years.”
“In practice, however…” the old doctor’s voice trailed away as he straightened in his seat.
“In practice,” the thin doctor spoke for the older one, “the inquisitors keep the unusual ones for themselves.”
“You would count as atypical,” the old doctor said. “If it turned out you were mana positive.”
“They could kill you, or worse,” the thin one added.
The curtain rasped aside and the two doctors flinched. It was the broad doctor, standing at the curtain with an orb of black obsidian in his hand. His cheeks looked flushed while he huffed for breath.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“A mess,” the thin doctor said. “What happened?”
“I walked as fast as I could,” he replied.
“I see you have the orb,” the old doctor said.
The broad one nodded. “Yes…” he said, took a good breath and adjusted his hair. “Now let’s get a look at him one more time.”
The thin doctor stepped aside and allowed the broad one to lean over Matteo’s bed. The orb appeared inert as it was held in the doctor’s knobby hand, raised above Matteo’s chest. It was black, partly translucent, and the boy watched it with a mix of curiosity and fear.
Did this happen to you, dad? he wondered. Did you just… wake up in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by smart men in sharp uniforms? Did they probe you with questions? Did they run the test three times? Just to be sure—totally certain—when they told you to leave us; leave, forever.
The black orb did nothing, it did not glow or shine, and it remained cold and black as it ever was.
The broad doctor frowned. “No reaction,” he said.
“Then it was a fluke after all?” the older doctor wondered aloud.
“Let’s try the others again,” the thin one said.
And so, they did. The three orbs were held aloft, an inch above Matteo’s heart, and there they were held for a minute each. None of them showed any reaction. Matteo was mana void, after all.
The old doctor jotted down some lines in his notebook. “Very interesting,” he said.
“Was it a malfunction after all?” the broad one asked.
“The other tests were conducted while the boy was sleeping,” the thin doctor said to the broad one. “Perhaps the sleep—”
“That’s food for thought,” the old doctor interrupted, “but we’ve confirmed on three separate tests that Matteo Venturi is mana void. We have no rights to keep him anymore.”
The broad doctor looked at the old one. “How are we going to explain that recovery?”
“Last I checked,” the old doctor said, “miracles were permitted. We’ll just list him as treated and discharged with no on-going complications.”
“Excuse me,” Matteo said, “but… could I have a mirror?”
The old doctor nodded to the thin one and the curtain was pushed aside. “Of course,” he said, and moments later the thin doctor returned with a hand mirror.
Matteo took it in hand and examined his face. There were white bandages tinged brown with blood, but the sores and cuts that felt so excruciating the night before were gone. He looked healthy, perhaps better than healthy. His blue eyes were bright and aware, and his short blonde hair was lustrous in its color. As fear subsided, he began to feel positively energetic.
A sharp noise crackled outside the infirmary tent. It was the loudspeakers, setup on posts throughout the barracks of tents. A gruff-sounding man began speaking, but through the fabric of the tent and the commotion outside, Matteo couldn’t make out the words.
“Is it the seventh bell?” the old doctor asked.
The thin doctor checked his pocket watch. “Came and went minutes ago,” he said. “Must be something else.”
Shadows began moving across the tent wall behind Matteo as the boy listened to the stomping of many feet. Soldiers were chatting, shouting to one another; the whole barracks had stirred to life.
“Good doctors?” A man asked loudly as he stepped inside the infirmary.
The thin doctor opened the curtain and stepped away from the bed, but he was careful to close it behind him. “Yes, what is it?” Matteo heard.
“I checked the other infirmaries, but they directed me here,” the man said in a distinct highlander accent. “Sergeant Zanon, I’m here looking for our blue-pattern on the lieutenant’s orders.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the doctor said. “Is your platoon so depleted it needs to rely on wounded blue-patterns to fill its ranks?”
“It’s your job to patch him up,” the sergeant said. “But I’ll decide if he’s fit to fight.”
“That’s not how this works,” the doctor said.
“Well, maybe I was told just to check on him,” the sergeant seemed to admit. “But while I was walking here, the colonel ordered the 401 to mobilize. With respect, if that blue-pattern can hold a gun and run straight, we need him on the truck.”
Matteo had stripped the bandages off his face and pulled away his sheets. When the thin doctor looked ready to raise his voice, he slid back the curtain to his bed. The boy was still in his white hospital gown.
“I’m here,” Matteo said. “Sir.”
