DAUD: Well, if magical skill is innate, then we exist in a world where power truly is inherited. We can therefore begin to ask if the use of this power is genetic, and if so, does it follow certain bloodlines more closely than others? This kind of thinking—that there are certain superior bloodlines—has led humanity down dark paths more than once. But if the Resurrectionist learned his ability, then we can assume that magic is a resource from which any person may draw, in which case we must know if it is a limited resource or if it renews itself. If it is finite, we might begin to allocate magical use to particular people in positions of prominence or influence. This would reinforce existing structures of power in our society. The wealthy and famous become the most magical, which brings further wealth and fame.
If magic is an endless resource, however, there will be no inherent limit to its use. The human race will change on a fundamental level as we stop performing everyday tasks “the old-fashioned way,” so to speak—
ROGERS: So you don’t see a positive outcome no matter what the answers are, do you?
DAUD: I guess I hadn’t really thought about it that way. But no, regardless of what power humankind has access to, I suppose I never see it as having a good outcome. We are animals, after all. And don’t let your housecat fool you into thinking that animals are nothing more than fuzzy, whiskered creatures who wish us no ill. Nature is bloody, and as a whole, it favors strength over compassion.
17
WE JUST PASSED CITY HALL,” Sloane said to Esther, as the car pulled up to a curb again. “This must be the Thompson Center.”
“That big curved glass building?” Esther gestured to the stone façade that confronted them. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“I mean, I think the architecture is different, but we’re in that location.” Sloane frowned. “So to speak.”
They passed through a dark, spacious lobby to an elevator bank. It was too dark for Sloane to see how high the ceiling was. Nero pulled a grate of tarnished bronze across the elevator doors before pressing the button.
“This building is in the Bygoneist school,” he said as the elevator rose. “Which means it’s made primarily without magical intervention but represents styles of many periods combined without concern for accuracy.”
“Without magical intervention,” Matt repeated. “Is that . . . rare? To build something without magic?”
Nero shrugged. “In Chicago, yes. Architecture is an industry heavily influenced by magic, and people here love their architecture.”
Cameron would have loved it, Sloane thought.
The elevator came to a stop on the seventh floor. Nero led them to a balcony that overlooked a dome made of stone—the Hall of Summons, he explained, as if it were obvious what that meant. They walked to the back of the building and climbed a winding staircase made of wrought iron up another two flights to what appeared to be a wall of solid wood.
Nero pressed his siphon-covered hand to the wood, then took it away, leaving a bright white handprint behind. It faded into the wall within seconds, and then the polished wood parted down the middle and opened to a long hallway with doors on either side.
“These rooms are occasionally used as apartments for important guests of the Cordus Center,” Aelia said, gesturing toward one of the doors. She whistled. The door opened and slammed against the wall behind it with a shudder. “They’re intended to showcase the work of up-and-coming designers, so they are a bit . . . odd.”
Nero set about opening the other doors with a gentler effort from his siphon.
“The Cordus Center,” Matt repeated. “Is that where we are now?”
Sloane walked the perimeter of the hallway, passing rooms in different styles. She took in only quick impressions of each: one done in spartan simplicity, another a Gothic cathedral in miniature with windows of stained glass, and the last full of delicately carved wood furniture.
“Yes,” Aelia said. “This building is primarily an academic institution, the Cordus Center for Advanced Magical Innovation and Learning.”
“Camel,” Nero said.
“Camel?” Sloane frowned.
“C-A-M-I-L,” Nero said, “or, as the students fondly call it, the Camel.”
Aelia gave him a look, and Nero shrank back. “We will meet again tomorrow to further discuss things,” she said. “Please, try to rest. Nero.” She jerked her head to the side. “A word?”
Nero gave them all a nod and followed Aelia back down the hallway to the elevator. Sloane’s instinct was to go after them