Page 206 of A Winding Wave of Magic
“They’re language pods,” Jonathan said. “They rotate according to the scholars in residence. The students just finished years in Old Irish, Basque, Hadza, Koine Greek, Ainu, and Sanskrit, depending on their section. The Brigantian follows an immersion protocol—once the students enter their wings, they are sequestered and may only speak their assigned language for a year or longer, depending on how quickly they pass their fluency exams. The next term, they move to a new section and continue with their subjects.”
I tried to peek through the doors, but the corridor was too dark to see much. “Where are they now?”
“On holiday. They’ll be back in the fall.”
I pressed a hand on the Celtic entrance, and to my surprise, it opened. A few more sconces lit up as Jonathan and I stepped inside a long corridor that looked similar to every other school I’d attended, plain and utilitarian, with classrooms springing off the sides like buds on a spring branch. Each classroom hadcourse titles and times posted next to its door in Old Irish and was outfitted with sleek technology, stainless steel desks, and clear white interiors, all resembling something closer to laboratories than what one might have imagined at a school of magic.
Though a few of the schedules bore names of classes that Harry Potter might take, such as “Beginning Transfiguration” or “Early Fae History,” science obviously dominated the curriculum. I browsed the titles: Fourier Systems. Advanced Thermodynamics. Beyond Newtonian Physics. Optics and Wave Theory. Advanced Geology.
I gawked. Some of the Brigantian students were taking the equivalent of graduate courses at MIT. In an ancient language.
“Are all the wings like this?” I wondered.
“Yes, mostly. Why?”
I looked down the hall toward the still-darkened hall, where a stairwell dipped into oblivion. “Where do the staircases lead?”
“To the dormitories. The students may not leave their wings except during free time and physical training.”
It seemed a rather morose place to live. More like a prison in some ways than a school.
“You went through this program?”
Jonathan nodded, stone-faced.
“How old were you when you started?”
He sighed. “Eleven. And before you ask, I spoke five languages before entering—Ladin, English, Italian, Irish, and German. I speak forty-three fluently now, including five isolates and seven ancient languages.”
My eyes popped open. “How?—”
He smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. “I’m over a hundred years old, Cass. There is no limit on the amount of time a sorcerer may spend here, and there are lots of places to pass a year or two.”
We left the wing and reentered the hall, where Robbie was busy going through some papers he had brought for a new curriculum proposal. I walked around the rest of the gallery, looking at the language groups that categorized each wing.
“Nothing modern?” I asked.
Jonathan shook his head. “You can go anywhere to learn a modern language. The Brigantian teaches the old ones or isolates. The ones closest to the magic.”
Rachel’s request echoed in my mind. If she was right, it made me wonder what that first language looked like—the one the original fae found to speak to nature. To speak to the magic directly.
“To communicate with the energy,” I murmured, recalling Jonathan’s and my conversations back in Manzanita. It had only been six months since our hike up the mountain, but it seemed like a very long time ago.
“Indeed. We can’t manipulate the world around us otherwise, unlike you mind-twisters.” His tone was joking, but I caught the note of jealousy in there.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it manipulation, really. More like the next stop to crazy.” I continued my examination of the wing entrances and their respective signs. “What’s Hadza?
Jonathan scowled. “An isolate from Tanzania.”
“Not a fan?”
“Those damn clicks. I just couldn’t get them right. Everyone is required to work with an isolate instructor for a year, and since the only time you get to see your mates is at meals and free time, of which there isn’t much. So if you don’t like your isolate instructor…”
“Ah. So, what was her name?”
He frowned. “I never mentioned Professor Petro was a woman. How did you know that? Did something happen?”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about my powers. I hated to disappoint him, but I shook my head. “No, I just know you. I figured anyone who could get under your skin like that had to be female.”
