The Mindmage's Wrath: A Book of Underrealm (The Academy Journals 2)

by Garrett Robinson

  Theren’s brows arched. “You have learned to shift stone?”

  “Ever since the attack on the Seat,” Ebon said, forcing his thoughts away from the sound of Cyrus’ scream.

  “That is often the way of it—once the first step is taken, the rest come easier,” said Kalem brightly. “I knew nothing of this, Ebon. Congratulations—you are learning far more quickly than I did.”

  “Only because I am six years older,” said Ebon. “And I cannot put the stone back, only push it away.”

  “I can replace it,” said Kalem. “And this will make the tunneling faster.”

  “You are interested in the plan, then?” Theren grinned. “This may work after all. Two alchemists to aid our escape, instead of only one.”

  “You mean transmuters.”

  “I mean be silent, Kalem.”

  “When do you propose we act?” said Ebon.

  Theren pursed her lips. “We can do nothing tonight. It would be best to avoid the vaults until Sunday. The Academy will be on holiday, and I will be performing my services. Lilith will not. The days between now and then will give me time to prepare.”

  Ebon sagged, for a thought had struck him. “Very well,” he sighed. “If we must.”

  “What troubles you?” said Kalem.

  “It is my family,” said Ebon, lowering his gaze. “They arrive upon the Seat on the morrow.”

  “They could trouble our plan,” said Kalem. “There is no way they could know it.”

  “Not directly,” said Ebon. “But my father will no doubt have some torment for me, in one form or another.”

  With an encouraging smile, Theren clapped his shoulder. “Try not to worry overmuch. If you should be drawn away Sunday night, I believe Kalem and I can manage without you.”

  Kalem straightened and reached for his book. “And in the meantime, we still have work to do. Who knows what we might learn before then, if we find out about this Kekhit?”

  Theren sighed and stood. “Very well. We are bound for the bookshelves after all, Ebon, though it pains me as a woman of action.”

  Ebon joined her, and together they returned to the shelves, searching through spines in the library’s quiet.

  ten

  THE NEXT MORNING, EBON SAT in class with Perrin beside him. The poor bench groaned and creaked under the woman’s mammoth weight, and Ebon held himself ready to leap out of the way should it snap to kindling beneath them. Perrin had already gone about the class and set the other students to their tasks before coming to him.

  “We did not have time yesterday, but now you will learn your aim while under my tutelage,” Perrin began. “You had one spell to master before you graduated your first class. Here, you will have three.”

  “Three?” said Ebon, dismayed. It had taken him two months to turn wood to stone and pass Credell’s class. He did not relish the thought of taking more than half a year to graduate from this one.

  “Three to pass, though I expect you to learn many more while you are here. The three tests are these: to turn your stone rod back into wood, which is harder than you might expect; to turn a flower to ice without changing its shape; and to turn obsidian white.”

  The last one made Ebon blink in surprise. “Changing a stone’s color? That cannot be harder than turning stone to wood.”

  “It is far, far more difficult,” said Perrin gruffly. “Matter has many properties. Some are simpler than others. Color is one of the strangest.”

  Ebon snickered, then stifled it quickly as Perrin’s eyes narrowed. “My apologies, Instructor. It is only that I do not take your meaning. Color is color.”

  “Oh?” said Perrin. “Tell me, what is stone?”

  He blinked. “It is ... it is rock. The stuff of the earth. It comes from the ground and the mountains.”

  “And what is wood?”

  “The stuff of trees. You cut them down and take them apart, and there is your wood.”

  “And what is green?”

  Ebon blinked. “I ... it is the color of grass, and leaves. It—”

  “No. Those are things that have the color green. But what is green? A leaf may look green, but that does not mean it is green. What is color itself? You know, do you not, that there are those who cannot see colors, or to whom different colors look alike? People who see no difference between green and blue?”

  “Yes,” said Ebon, nodding slowly. “I know this.”

  “If they do not see the green in a leaf, does that mean the leaf is no longer green?”

  “Of course not,” Ebon said, irritated. “It is only something wrong with their eyes.”

  “Who is to say? Who is to say that we do not imagine the green in the leaf, and they see it for its truth? Who is to say that the color I see when I look at good tilled earth, is not the same color you see in a cup of wine?”

  Ebon shook his head. “That is ridiculous. I know what I see. Anyone does, if they are not mad.”

  “Ridiculous, you say?” Perrin smiled grimly. “Mayhap you are right, mayhap not. But you are a student, and the purpose of the student is to ask questions—not assume you know the answers already. You say you know what you see? Let me show you something.”

  She placed her hand on the table. Light flooded the room as her eyes glowed with a furious luster, brighter than any Ebon had seen. He focused on the hand—and then, suddenly, it was not there. It did not fade, nor wisp away in smoke. It simply vanished. Ebon jumped up with a cry.

  “What happened?” Perrin spoke through gritted teeth, forcing each word from her mouth. “Why are you frightened?”

  “Your hand!” said Ebon. “It ... it is gone!”

  “It is not,” said Perrin. “It is there. I feel it. I am moving my fingers now.”

  “But I cannot see them!”

  The glow died in her eyes, and her hand reappeared. She flexed her fingers, curling them into a fist, and then held it out towards Ebon. He withdrew, frightened. She only wiggled her fingers. “Go on. Take my wrist.”

  Slowly, tentatively, Ebon did. Her hand enveloped his, gripping him firmly, solid, present—real. Ebon shuddered. As he looked about the room, he saw that the other students were looking at them both with awe. He turned back to Perrin. “How did you do it?”

  “It is difficult to explain. Except that there is something—the air, is how I perceive it—that controls how you are able to see my hand. I can twist it so that it shows you nothing. And so my hand disappears.” Perrin looked around the room. “That is a powerful spell of transmutation—rarely can a wizard master it. And before you go thinking wild thoughts of my power, take note that even such a small illusion required all of my strength. There are transmuters in Underrealm who can make their whole bodies vanish. But if you never reach such skill, do not count yourselves among the weak. It is a rare ability. Also, you should all be working.”

  The other students hurriedly dove back into their books and spells.

  Perrin turned her gaze on Ebon again. “Color is not nearly so hard. Yet it is far, far more difficult than simply changing the substance a thing is made of. You have learned to turn wood into stone. But with color you must go deeper, smaller, until you can find the thing that makes a stone appear grey—or black, in the case of obsidian—and turn it white instead.”

  “I understand,” said Ebon, slowly nodding.

  “Of course you do not,” said Perrin, smiling a little. “Not yet. That is why you are in my class. Though unless I miss my guess, you wish you had passed it already.”

  Ebon looked away. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Do you think you are the first student to arrive late at the Academy? When I attended, our oldest student had seen more than twenty years. Though I would wager she faced less jibes than you, seeing as how she could tweak the ears of most children.”

  That thought made Ebon smile. “Thank you, Instructor.”

  “You are welcome. Now, fetch your book again. Within it, you should find many bits of wisdom to help you master your first test.
”

  Perrin rose, the bench screaming in relief, and moved on to the next student. Ebon went to the shelves to find his book. But once there, he looked over his shoulder at Perrin. The instructor was a giant, and often impatient. Yet there was a deep-seated kindness in her heart that made Ebon feel safe in her care. And certainly she was a far sight better than Credell.

  He felt a stab of guilt at that thought, and turned back to the bookshelf.

  Soon Ebon had found the book and returned to his seat. The spine cracked as he laid it out and began to read. He quickly lost himself in the words, spelled out in careful, tiny script by some transmuter of ages gone, which spoke of the properties of different types of matter. Many of the terms whisked around and about in his mind, spinning until he felt dizzy. But he pinched his eyes shut, and then open again, pressing on.

  The time whisked away as he lost himself in his studies, hardly mindful of the students practicing their magic around him. But after a time his attention was dragged away from the pages as the door to the classroom clicked and swung open. Ebon looked up to see Dasko, one of the advanced weremage instructors, a man with grey-flecked black hair whose beard was trimmed close. When Ebon had fled Credell’s class in the mornings, he had often seen Dasko teaching students upon the grounds. His eyes roved about the room and soon found Perrin, to whom he beckoned.

  Perrin frowned, then excused herself from the student she was speaking to and went to the door. Dasko did not bother to lead her outside, but spoke quickly in whispers. Ebon dropped his gaze to the book so he did not appear to be eavesdropping, but he leaned as far forwards as he could, cupping his left hand across his cheek so he could surreptitiously plug one ear. Still he could hear little more than snatches. “... the artifact ... pendant ... another vault ...”

  The whispers stopped abruptly. Ebon could not help himself; he looked up. Dasko’s eyes were fixed upon him, and he quickly looked back down. But the instructors did not resume speaking. Ebon let his eyes wander, so it looked like an accident when he eyed the door again. But Dasko was still watching him, and now Perrin was, too.

  “Ebon,” said Perrin. “Come here, if you would.”

  The class went deathly silent. Ebon’s ears burned, but he tried to feign indifference as he stood and approached the instructors.

  “This is Instructor Dasko.” Perrin’s voice was low, and betrayed nothing. “He brings a message from Instructor Jia. She wishes to speak with you.”

  That took Ebon completely unawares. “Jia? What for?”

  “I imagine she will tell you. Off you go—but once you are done, return without dallying.”

  “Of course.” Ebon followed Dasko out into the hallway. The door closed behind them with a sharp click.

  eleven

  DASKO LED HIM ONWARD, THOUGH Ebon well remembered the way to Jia’s study. What could this possibly be about? Dasko and Perrin had said something about the vaults. But why should they think that had anything to do with Ebon? It seemed impossible that they could have discovered what he and his friends planned for Sunday.

  He thought of Jia and Dasko standing over Credell’s body, and his stomach wrenched. They must be investigating the murderer.

  The day the Seat had been attacked, Jia had seen him flee from the other students. That had been explained, with Adara’s help, but mayhap she still regarded him with some suspicion.

  But she could not possibly think he was involved with Credell’s death. She had been one of the few people at the Academy, instructor or otherwise, who had been kind to Ebon from the moment he arrived.

  Dasko spoke suddenly, surprising him. “You are Ebon, of the family Drayden, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Dasko. I have seen you about the Academy, of course, though it was not until recently that I learned your name.”

  “Ah,” said Ebon uncomfortably, not sure what response was expected of him.

  Dasko turned to regard him keenly. “Now is an ill time, for Jia awaits you. But I had wondered if, on some occasion, I might speak with you privately.”

  Ebon swallowed—he hardly thought that instructors needed permission for such a thing. “Of course. I am at your service.”

  “Excellent. Soon, then. Here we are.”

  And indeed they were. In his surprise, Ebon had lost track of their progress, but now they stood at the door that led to Jia’s study. Ebon gave Dasko one last, awkward nod, which the man returned before striding away through the halls. Then Ebon lifted a hand and knocked.

  “Come in,” said Jia from the other side. Ebon turned the latch and stepped within. “Ebon. Excellent. Please come and have a seat. Would you like a cup of water?”

  “Now that you mention it,” said Ebon, realizing that his throat was as dry as the deserts of home. “But I can pour it.”

  “Do not be silly. Sit.” She rose and went to the side table, poured two wooden cups, and placed Ebon’s before him before returning to her seat. But when she caught sight of his face, she must have seen how frightened he was. “Did Dasko not tell you why I wished to see you?”

  The bluntness of the question took him by surprise. His skin crawled beneath his robes. “No, Instructor.”

  She looked skyward. “Blast that man. Doubtless he did not think of it, and has forgotten what it was like to be a student. You are not in trouble.”

  Ebon could not help it: he let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his water. He put the cup down and coughed, and then sank into the cushions while pounding on his chest.

  Jia graced him with a small smile, though she hid it quickly. “I imagine you were worried.”

  “I may have been,” said Ebon, his voice hoarse with choking.

  Her smile died. “Well and good. But this is still a matter of gravest importance. I must ask you some questions, and it is imperative that you are absolutely honest.”

  Ebon sat up straighter. “Of course, Instructor.”

  “Tell me what happened when you left us, the day the Seat was attacked.”

  His heart quailed. He had guessed wrong. This was to do with Cyrus, not Credell. She had said he was not in trouble, so she did not suspect him of anything. But still this seemed a dangerous line of questioning.

  “I thought I had explained that already.”

  “Tell me again. The whole of the tale, from beginning to end.”

  Shifting in his seat, Ebon repeated the same lie he had told her before, when he and Adara had landed on the shores of Selvan, and then made their way to the other refugees. It was a lie Adara had helped him craft. In his ear he heard her voice as though she were speaking to him now.

  They must believe your reason for leaving them, and so it must be something you would do—good-hearted, if perhaps a bit foolish.

  “After the blue-clad soldiers attacked us in the streets, I thought I saw someone running close by. They wore black robes, and so I thought a student had become separated from the group. I chased after them.”

  “Which was—”

  “Foolish, I know,” said Ebon, ducking his head. Hopefully she would think it was shame at her chastisement, rather than at the lie he told. Again, he heard Adara’s soft words.

  The best lie is rooted in truth, yet you can make no mention of me whatever. Therefore I shall be someone else—someone who will speak to the truth of your tale, if I ask them to.

  “But still, I did it. And when finally I caught them, I found only a woman in a black dress who had fled the fighting. I tried to return with her to the other students, but you had already left through the wall. I followed the trail to the docks, from which you had already sailed. There was a small rowboat that had been cast off from its ship and was nearly too far from the docks to reach. I dove into the Bay, swam to it, and rowed back to her. Then we set out for Selvan.”

  “The woman’s name?”

  Mitra.

  “Mitra. She told me she was a handmaiden from the palace.”

  Jia sighed and leaned back, steepling her finge
rs. “Very well. We have spoken with the woman, and she tells the same tale. I am sorry I had to ask again, but the Dean insisted.”

  A wave of relief washed through him, though he tried to hide it.

  Jia looked away for a moment, and then leaned forwards again. “Ebon, tell me one thing—and no matter your answer, I vow to you that I will not be upset. Do you swear that you did not return to the Academy at any time during the attack?”

  His heart skipped a beat. “No, Instructor. I mean, yes, I do swear it. I did not return here.” Then he hesitated. He had no wish to further this line of thinking—and yet, he had not returned to the Academy, and could hardly say anything to incriminate himself. So he pressed on: “Why do you ask?”

  She regarded him carefully. “Have you heard any rumors floating about the halls of late?”

  Ebon blushed. “Perhaps. Something to do with the vaults.”

  Carefully she folded her hands on the desk. “Yes. I would ask you never to repeat such rumors. They do no one any good, though of course all our attempts to quell them have only redoubled them. But yes, something was taken from the vaults. Already we sought the thief, of course, but Instructor Credell’s death has given the search a fresh urgency. Whoever broke into the vaults may have had something to do with the murder. So I will ask you once more, and then leave it alone. Did you return to the Academy during the fighting? If you saw anything—anything at all—it could be the kernel of information that helps us discover the thief’s identity—and mayhap the murderer’s.”

  Ebon understood at last, and relaxed. They were questioning him not about Cyrus, but about the theft—and not because he was a Drayden, but because he had become separated from the group. He could answer honestly, and with a clear conscience. “No, Instructor. I swear it—I left the Academy when you did, and returned with you. I know nothing of the vaults. I am only relieved you do not suspect me of the theft.”

  Jia smirked. “Oh, there was no question of that. The vaults are protected by incredibly powerful enchantments and—you will forgive my saying so—you were only a first-year transmuter. We know without doubt that you had no hand in the theft itself.”