A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1)

by A. Christopher Drown

  Arwin gave him a long look. “All right, I will. From what I understand, apprentice magicians aren’t exactly petted and pampered. You work hard, performing all sorts of drudgery. In exchange, if you happen to be indentured to an especially benevolent sort, you’re granted a charm or two for your troubles. Right?”

  “To an extent. What of it?”

  “And then after years of dissecting bats and digging for roots, you learn enough for your teacher to grudgingly send you off to the College to continue your education under yet another teacher who’ll demand even more from you in exchange for a few barely more powerful spells.”

  Arwin’s condescension angered Niel.

  “That’s the way it’s done,” he replied.

  “Rubbish,” scoffed the swordsman. “And why the irritation, friend? You all but admitted you don’t want to go to Fraal. I don’t see the need to become—”

  “Admitted?” Niel snapped. “I admitted no such thing.”

  “Even listening to me in the first place was admission enough.”

  “You insisted!”

  Arwin shook his head. “Anybody truly serious about attending the College wouldn’t have even allowed me to speak. You had a choice, and you chose to entertain my proposal.”

  Niel cursed himself for not knowing what to say next, and for inviting this by opening his great big mouth. Obviously Arwin could pick apart any defense he might offer, but that—

  Ah, he suddenly thought. Defense.

  Magic in its primal state was a crude element, shapeless like wet clay, its final form determined by the practitioner’s interpretation of Canon more than anything else. In formal duels, magicians rarely set out to hurt one another, but rather to decipher the subtle shades within the magic practiced by their opponent. Instead of conventional attack and defense, the combatants strove to imitate and surpass one another on their rival’s own terms.

  So, instead of trading barbs with the mentally agile Arwin, Niel decided to emulate him.

  “I expect you’ll have explaining to do,” he said, going so far as to mirror the swordsman’s posture.

  Arwin raised an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

  “To your friends, I mean. In Trelheim. You said if you didn’t produce a magician, you’d have a hard time explaining it. I feel sorry for you.”

  Arwin now seemed angry. “You feel sorry?” He jabbed out his finger. “And what am I to do with the pity of an impudent half-wizard who won’t even—”

  “Don’t take that tone with me!” Niel shouted, pointing his own finger into the taller man’s chest, caring neither about indifference nor drawing the attention of the sailors nearby. “In the few hours I’ve known you, you’ve done little more than second guess my decisions. Yes, I’ve worked hard. And yes, I’ve done degrading things for the sake of learning my craft. What things I know are important to me, and the paths I’ve taken were the best ways I had to learn what I could. Out of courtesy I’ve tolerated your intrusions. But as you said, I have a choice. I choose to end this conversation here and now.”

  He stomped away to the far side of the ship, leaving a silent Arwin behind.

  ***

  That evening, Niel sat cross-legged on his bunk as Arwin entered the darkening cabin. “I thought magicians didn’t lose their tempers,” he said.

  “They’re not supposed to,” Niel replied flatly, “and I don’t appreciate you making me lose mine. But as you pointed out, I’m not a magician.”

  “Yet,” Arwin added.

  Niel glanced up at him, then looked away again.

  “I came to apologize, Apprentice, and to offer an explanation.”

  “I don’t need an explanation, and I don’t need to hear another attempt to get me to change my mind.”

  Arwin sat on the opposite bunk. “Well, I’m going to explain anyway, and I promise I won’t try to further persuade. It’s true that by saving you I was mainly trying to employ a magician. But I was taken aback by how much you reminded me of that friend I mentioned. I couldn’t help thinking how I’d enjoy having someone like him to talk with again.”

  Niel grew uncomfortable at the compliment.

  “I won’t feign love for the College,” Arwin continued, “or for how its Members are expected to go about their work. Drudge around when you’re young, drudge around when you’re older, then set up shop somewhere and charge people whatever they can spare for working petty miracles. Wasteful if you ask me, despite whatever Canon might demand.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that sounds perfectly heretical to your ears, but I mean no offense. Truth be told, I envy your abilities, and offer my sincere regret for any insult earlier. Far more than most, I’d wager, I do respect your right to choose what’s best for yourself.”

  The two sat in silence.

  “I don’t suppose you know how to play Stash,” Niel said.

  With a sly smile Arwin dipped his hand into his vest and produced a well-worn deck of cards.

  ***

  Two days and a few dozen rounds of Stash later, the Alodis put into port. As they disembarked, Arwin mentioned he and his friends could be found at the Ragged Rascal Inn, if by chance Niel wandered his way into Trelheim.

  Niel offered his thanks and bid the swordsman farewell, more than a little glad to be rid of him forever.

  6

  To Ennalen the acolyte sent to collect her looked small, delicate—even for someone so young. She thought his slender, feminine features attractive, but they also emphasized his unease which she found quite satisfying. She liked the two-step distance he kept behind her, though the boy should have had no trepidation being in the company of any College Member, even a Magistrate like herself. He served Thaucian the Second, the ruling Lord Elder, and personally attending the Lord Elder of the College of Magic and Conjuring Arts meant enjoying the highest degree of protection.

  They headed toward the New Tower in silence, save for the brush of their robes on the walkway. Ennalen inhaled deeply and relished the smells of the coming winter, but kept the enjoyment from her face. Her pleasure was precisely that—hers. Not that herds of people stood about watching them. College Gate had long been closed for the night, relegating the laity to the remainder of Fraal University. Most apprentices were either deep in their studies or getting precious sleep. Most resident professors, freed from the distraction of pupils, used the night for personal pursuits, magical or otherwise.

  While the hours following sundown left the grounds abandoned, the abundant signs of their continual and exhaustive care would have been obvious to even the most passive observer. Ancient, ivy-covered buildings of dark, rough-hewn granite, with their imposing towers and steep spires, sat like mountainous islands surrounded by perfectly-trimmed seas of thick grass normally the color of jade but now turned topaz with the passage of autumn. An elegant system of tidy cobblestone paths, worn flat by two millennia of use, branched from each structure. Trees, plants and flowers of all the varieties the world had to offer, even those native to distinctly different climates, thrived under the supervision of the groundskeepers. Never was one leaf astray, nor one blade of grass bent, and all of it achieved without the aid of magic.

  At the College’s inception, the Board of Elders agreed that those studying within its walls, delving deeply into the realm of the preternatural, required an unquestionable foundation on which to base their endeavors. Therefore, never had an incantation been uttered to benefit the appearance of the grounds. The tradition counted amongst the College’s oldest and most revered.

  Ennalen grew more appreciative of the surrounding beauty with each passing year. Many would find it ironic that she, who conducted her affairs with notorious detachment, could hold the artistry of the College’s landscape in such high regard. Appearances alone, though, did not move her; the force of will necessary to prevail day after day, century after century over the inherent relentlessness of nature stirred Ennalen just as deeply. Only the shallow of mind would think beauty unavoidably begot a flood of cumbersome sentimentality, he
nce the reason she preferred to walk the campus at night—the fewer around to ruin it with their idiocy, the better.

  “Did the Lord Elder mention what this was about?” she asked without turning to her escort.

  “No, Magistrate. He did not.”

  Living in the Tower meant overhearing or becoming involved in matters of extreme delicacy or outright secrecy. When the time came, Ennalen would decide whether to reward the boy for his loyalty or kill him for daring to think she would believe such a ridiculous lie.

  ***

  A magnificent column of smooth white stone, the New Tower loomed like an ivory spear driven straight through from the other side of the world. No windows adorned the outside, though thousands lined the walls within. At the base, where a score of adults hand-in-hand could have easily encircled it, a modest wooden door marked the only entrance. Its tip disappeared into a single, dizzying point in the heavens. A perpetual pale glow emanated from its surface but cast not the faintest shadow.

  Illusion provided the Tower its height and breadth; in that knowledge most of the Membership felt secure. But because its construction took place amidst the paranoia following the Devastation, none but the Board of Elders knew anything about the Tower’s true physical properties. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, magic abhors an unknown—the very reason charms and potions require elements like hair or blood from an intended victim. With no tangible information available, a magician wishing to harm the Tower would find it all but impossible to actually do so.

  The walkway led Ennalen and her young escort to the Tower’s only door. No need for gate or guardhouse; a rune engraved in the keystone above prevented anyone not specifically invited from entering. They waited only a moment before the door glided open.

  Custom dictated the acolyte enter first to issue the ceremonial greeting, to remind that no incantations could be worked within, and to warn that the sensation of having one’s abilities temporarily negated could be disconcerting. Ennalen had long found the ritual intolerably long and flowery; worse, a waste of time. She’d visited the Tower so often that crossing beneath the rune reminded her more of riding a swing than the nauseating vertigo most others suffered. So rather than endure the needless preamble, she hastened across the threshold and proceeded down the entryway, amused by the fluster with which the boy trotted past to retake his proper place.

  The hall ended with a second door identical to the main entry. The boy opened it, stood aside, and bowed deeply with a sweep of his arm, directing her into the main audience chamber.

  “Magistrate Ennalen, of the Ministry of Law,” he announced as she stepped into the great room. Ennalen plainly heard relief at being rid of her in the boy’s tone.

  The Tower’s main audience chamber overwhelmed the senses just as thoroughly as its exterior. By her recollection there had never been more than a few people in the room at one time, though it could easily accommodate a thousand. Broad columns of polished, caramel-veined marble reached up to support an ornate domed ceiling of gold and frosted glass. Stained into the glossy floor with the subtle translucence of watercolor was an intricate map depicting the known world. At its center, a large, gold-embossed compass marked the cardinal directions.

  A grand dais spanned the far wall, designed to accommodate the entire Board of Elders, though centuries had passed since all fifteen had assembled. Tall maroon curtains hung behind each high-backed chair, through which swirled a curtained portal of purplish fog that allowed its designated Elder passage to and from any other location within the Tower.

  Two persons sat atop the dais: Denuis, the Lord Magistrate; and the ancient, withered Lord Elder Thaucian. Years ago, to satisfy her own youthful curiosity, she had tried to uncover Thaucian’s true age. Even with her considerable resourcefulness, she’d found nothing.

  “You are welcomed, Magistrate,” the Lord Elder said, his mild, unwilted voice belying his many years. He gestured a dismissal to the acolyte.

  Ennalen waited until she heard the door close behind her. “I am honored, Lord Elder,” she replied with a small bow. She gave another to Denuis. “Lord Magistrate.”

  Thaucian beckoned with a spindly hand. “Come close, so we might speak more comfortably.”

  Ennalen climbed the several shallow steps to the top of the dais.

  So went the normal routine of their meetings: first the formal salutation, then an invitation to approach for a quiet visit. The Tower served as primary residence for the Board of Elders, and in theory the Lord Elder ruled both the Board and the Tower with supremacy. Even so, only a fool would fail to recognize that many had enough interest in his goings-on to risk being caught and punished for eavesdropping. Meeting in seclusion with Thaucian— in his personal chambers, for example—would have been more practical and private, but also would have quickly caught the attention of anyone even idly mindful of his affairs. Convening in the relative open of the audience chamber was less provocative.

  “A matter of some importance has come to light, Magistrate,” the Lord Elder said.

  Ennalen stopped just short of the top of the dais, and the world stopped dead under Ennalen’s feet.

  “One that requires your care and expertise,” he continued. “Conclude what open matters you have with due haste and discretion, then pass along your remaining casework to Chief Magistrate Tamias for others to tend. Afterward, you are excused from your regular duties at the Ministry.”

  Ennalen mustered her best indifference, even as her mind reeled.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  Of all the details to which she had tended regarding her plans, being directly charged with an assignment by the Lord Elder was the one thing over which she had no control, which obviously meant it would be the very thing to happen. A major undertaking now under Thaucian’s scrutiny would set her back weeks, perhaps months. Whatever the task, she would have to find a way to beg off without rousing suspicion. Unless, of course, the coming assignment was evidence of an already-present suspicion on their part.

  Don’t be absurd, she told herself. They did not, could not know.

  “Now, now,” the old man comforted with a shushing motion, clearly having sensed her vexation. “We think you’ll find this request quite… compelling.”

  “Yes,” Denuis added. “We can discuss it at length in my chambers. You’ll join me for breakfast in the morning.”

  Ennalen gave a pleasant smile. “Certainly.”

  “Thank you for coming, Magistrate,” Thaucian said. “You are dismissed.”

  Being beckoned by any of her so-called superiors rankled Ennalen, but at the very least the Lord Elder kept audiences short and succinct. She bowed, turned, and took care that her steps back down the dais and to the door were unhurried.

  Outside, the fresh, chilled air cooled her face and neck and went a long way toward easing her agitation. A private conversation with Denuis would permit greater latitude and candor, and it would— she hoped—help her find purchase should the chasm now cracking open beneath her wish to swallow her whole.

  7

  Clumped at the northeastern tip of Aithiq, the coastal village of Glensdyl turned out to be little more than a haphazard circle of dreary, sagging structures, and nothing at all like what Niel had hoped. He held his disappointment at bay as best as he could by reminding himself he hadn’t made the trip for luxury’s sake, and that within a couple of days he’d be back aboard a ship bound for Lyrria and the College.

  His side of Glensdyl’s main street appeared much the same as the opposite—grey wooden storefronts thrown together, many with portions looking recently and repeatedly patched. Niel stepped onto the gap-planked sidewalk skirting a shabby row of shops, each displaying a signboard more tawdry than the one before.

  In the doorway to his right leaned an overly busty, overly red-haired woman whose frayed, slitted dress revealed a deliberately immodest amount of thigh.

  “Hello, lovely one,” she said in a light, dry voice.

  “Hello,” he replied, the
n squinted away toward the street.

  “You should come inside and relax for a bit,” she purred.

  Niel shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve got—”

  The woman closed the distance between them with surprising quickness and clasped his arm with both of hers. “A drink, then. We could get to know each other.”

  Niel slipped his arm up and out of her clutches. “Really, thank you, but I don’t—”

  “What’s the matter, lovely one?” She pressed herself against him and brushed her clammy face against his neck. Her breath smelled of whiskey, her hair of stale tobacco smoke. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then a drink. Maybe a story. You can tell me all about yourself.”

  “Please, I’m trying to—”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t you like girls?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Then come buy me a drink, pet, and maybe we could—”

  Niel moved to one side around a post, intending to cross the street, but the woman twirled around the other side and cut him off.

  “Honest, you’re very attractive,” Niel said. “It’s just...” He thought for a moment. “Well, have you ever heard of Belavian slugs?”

  She gave a quizzical look. “What are those?”

  Niel hoped his sigh conveyed more troubled resignation than relief. Until Captain Jorgan mentioned them, he’d never heard of Belavian slugs, either. He wouldn’t know one if he found it in his pocket.

  “Well, you see,” he said, “they’re not actually slugs. People just call them that. And shameful as it is to tell, I picked up a fairly nasty case of them not too long ago. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Someone told me there’s a certain berry that grows nearby and works wonders on the itching and swelling.”

  The woman took a step back.