The Sage's Consort (The Scholars of Elandria Book 1)

by Craiker, Krystal

  ***

  Two days later, the Sage of Elandria read her mail in her study. The autumn wind grew colder, but she enjoyed the breeze blowing into the room, contrasting with the warmth of the hearth. Her large oak desk was cluttered with blank parchment, books, and a large stack of mail. Most of the correspondence was typical. A member of Parliament asked for her insight on a new law regarding taxes. A newspaper wondered if she would write them a piece in honor of the upcoming Feast of Fire. The chief Healer in a neighboring city asked for her thoughts on using the acca plant in place of melaleuca for an outbreak of skin boils. She replied to each in turn.

  A letter from Prince Raymond made her laugh. He had returned from a diplomatic trip to the country of Lazoria on the northeastern border of Elandria. The Lazoris were stereotyped throughout Elandria as barbaric. He described his shock at their bathing customs: apparently, they used perfumed oils instead of soap. He called them all “stinking Lazoris” and told her he requested a gallon of soap upon his return to Elandria. He signed his letter with “all my love.” She sighed. She hoped he meant it in a platonic way, but she was not so sure.

  The pile of mail grew smaller, and the Sage ached to go walk in her gardens. The broccoli should be nearly ready to harvest, and she was trying to keep her roses alive through the first chill. It was her latest earth magic experiment—shielding plants from the cold for a prolonged period of time. Instead she sat, stuck inside writing letters. Sometimes she loathed the mundane tasks her position required. She scribbled quick responses to each letter and sealed them with the Sage’s Seal: a flaming tree with roots growing from water. Finally, just two letters remained.

  She opened a letter from the King. As she read, her world slipped away. Two Scholars, traveling to identify children with the Gift of the Earth, had been slaughtered in their inn a few nights before. The King assured her it appeared to be a random crime in a small fishing town, but nothing had been stolen from their rooms.

  The Sage doubted the slaughter was random. The two Scholars were killed the night of her dream, a dream that had haunted her the last few days. She clutched her Scholar’s pendant. Could she simply be so connected to the earth that she can feel the murder of others with the Gift? She would have to go through the old writings of the ancient Sages. Surely, she was not the first to experience this.

  Her thoughts were foggy. She uncurled her bare feet from underneath her in her chair and placed them on the cold tile, forcing herself to pull some of the magic from the earth into her mind to calm herself. A sickening grief for the lost Scholars filled the pit of her stomach. She steadied her breathing and jotted a short reply to the King. Her hands shook, and her words were few. “Keep me informed,” she wrote, and sealed the letter.

  The Sage wanted nothing more than to go run through her gardens and pull hope from the earth. She felt isolated; of all the Scholars who made the Sage’s Villa their home, no one had dreamed the dream she did. Although, every one of them had slept poorly that night. This is no coincidence, she thought. And I have no evidence to the contrary. There was no one to talk to who would understand; Scholars prided themselves on their rational natures. There was nothing to do until the palace sent more information. She felt alone.

  One last, unopened letter lay on her desk. She sighed. She could respond to one more letter. This one was from a former professor of hers. She always enjoyed news from the Academy and thought she would end her work on a positive note. She opened Quickthorn’s letter and read.

  My Lady Sage,

  The other professors and I have written to you before of an exceptional student. Quinn Atwell’s Gift is strong but his earth magic is untamed. He has extraordinary talent, I am sure. However, we believe only you can teach him to use his magic. We are at a loss. He has accepted no apprenticeship for his fifth year. I am writing, quite frankly, to implore you to consider taking him on as apprentice. His intuition would serve him well as an ambassador or minister, but he lacks all confidence. I would hate to see his Gift go unused and his earth magic uncontrolled. He has the highest marks in his classes and is eager to learn. I do hope you will consider teaching him.

  Today every person at the school is exhausted. Professor and student alike slept restlessly. Quinn told me he dreamed of an encroaching darkness that swallowed him whole. The way he spoke made me think it more significant than simply a nightmare. He seemed thoroughly shaken. I know we Scholars do not believe in dream magic but Quinn is far too rational to be so disturbed by a nightmare. Do you have thoughts on this?

  I hope to see you soon. Your presence is missed greatly at the Academy.

  All the best,

  Sylvia Quickthorn

  The Sage dropped the letter. She had not intended to take on another apprentice for at least another year. But who was this young man who dreamed the same dream as her? Her thoughts were jumbled, and a flood of varying emotions threatened to make her scream in frustration. For what felt like the millionth time that morning, she forced her breathing to steady and wrote a response to Professor Quickthorn:

  Dear Professor Quickthorn,

  I will accept Quinn Atwell as my apprentice for his fifth year. I will expect him a few days prior to the Feast of Fire. His apprenticeship will start on the first day of the new year.

  Regards,

  Amarice Teyvana, Sage of Elandria

  Finished with her correspondence, the Sage ran from her study, through the courtyard of her Villa, and out into the gardens. She did not stop to check her broccoli or her roses. Instead she kept running out of sight of anyone who may be outside. The damp grass felt refreshing under her bare feet. She could feel the Gift flowing from the earth through her veins. She kept running until she could barely breathe. She stopped at the blue river that flowed down Sage Mountain. She stood on the banks, splashes of icy cold water reaching her face.

  She screamed as loud as she could. The river began rushing faster, and a strong gust of wind nearly knocked her over. She screamed again, trying to free herself of the ropes of emotion that bound her. The river flowed at a dangerous speed and the ground shook beneath her. Red and gold leaves flew off the trees and swirled around her in a vortex.

  She sat upon the soaking banks, not bothering to create a warm energy barrier between her and the crisp wind. And the Sage of Elandria, the most powerful person to ever live, cried. She cried for the murdered Scholars. She cried for the evil that she knew crept into her peaceful country. And she cried for the loneliness that came with being the Sage.

  Chapter Two

  “What’s wrong with you today?” Rafe asked over lunch. He crunched an apple loudly and waited for Quinn’s reply.

  Quinn had been laying with his back against a tree, eyes closed. It had been a few days since his nightmare and his meeting with Quickthorn. Between the anxiety of falling asleep and his feelings of inadequacy for disappointing his professors, Quinn had not slept much the last few days. He tried to bury himself in studying for exams, but his mind kept wandering. Although Quickthorn had assured him his dream was nothing more significant, he obsessed over it, replaying it in his mind over and over.

  “I’m just nervous about exams,” he replied, eyes still closed. He did not want Rafe to push the subject. While most Scholars put no stock in dreams and signs, Rafe did. His connection to the natural world was strong, and he was a master of earth magic. This made him far less grounded in empirical studies than the other Scholars. In lieu of a traditional apprenticeship, he was selected into Professor Viridion’s elite group of fifth years who studied much stronger and more powerful magic than most Scholars could ever hope to possess. They were usually even invited to spend Harvest Holiday with the Sage herself so she could provide them extra guidance.

  “I say that is a steaming pile of shit,” Rafe retorted. “You outperform every person in every class.”

  “Not every class.” Quinn shifted to avoid a twig digging into his thigh. He willed Rafe to drop the issue.

  “Oh, get over it, Quinn. Ple
nty of Scholars have trouble with magic past the law of touch. So what? You can’t change the direction of the wind? It’s not a big deal. And the earth magic exam is entirely theory-based. You will do great at that. Now are you going to tell us what is really wrong with you?” Even with his eyes closed, Quinn knew Rafe gave him an insistent stare.

  Jack piped up for the first time. “Give it up, Rafe. Most of us don’t like talking about our feelings with you.” His tone was sarcastic but not malicious. Quinn gave a flat laugh. He liked Jack and could always count on him to lighten the mood. He looked over at his friend with the chiseled jaw and fiery red hair. He had a collection of herbs and oils and was mixing up some sort of tincture. Despite his clownish behavior, Jack had a gift for medicine. He had accepted an apprenticeship with the oldest apothecary in Teleah. Quinn knew once his apprenticeship was over, Jack would put the old man out of business. His possessed the rare combination of exceptional talent and affable personality.

  Quinn then dared to make eye contact with Rafe. Rafe was stocky with copper skin and forest green eyes. His friendly demeanor made him irresistible to the other sex—well, after the opposite sex tired of Jack’s ego. “I’m fine, Rafe. Just tired.” Although he often felt like a third wheel, he loved his friends. He had been lucky to end up with Rafe as his roommate in first year. Rafe never met a stranger and forced his friendship upon reserved, anxious Quinn. Quinn had grown up in what felt like the most isolated village of all the students in his year. The Gift was rare in the north; for that reason, much of the northern farm towns never adopted Elandria’s progressive customs and instead clung to ancient religious tradition and morals.

  Rafe did not care. He did not care that Quinn was two years older than him, as well. Rafe grew up in Teleah, the son of a merchant father and Scholar mother. His mother worked as a Healer in Teleah’s hospital. His father traveled often, and his mother kept many regular lovers, most of them Scholars. He was well-versed in the Scholar culture before he ever entered the Academy. To Quinn, Rafe’s life was exotic, although it was quite the norm in the cities. Marriage was uncommon in Elandria’s heart, but it was expected in the villages of the north, so hearing his friend’s stories of his mother’s latest lover always shocked the country boy. Where Quinn grew up, earth magic was often thought of as evil and unnatural. To Rafe, it was everyday life.

  First-year Rafe had been determined to bring Quinn out of his shell. He dragged him to study groups and social events. One of these parties was where Quinn met Jack. Jack’s boisterous character contrasted sharply to Quinn’s awkward shyness. Jack talked to Quinn the whole night then approached him at lunch the next day. Quinn had no clue why this popular young man wanted to be friends, but he was so desperate to be accepted by his peers that he began eating lunch with him every day.

  After a few weeks, Jack had made his intentions clear: he was desperately trying to bed Quinn. Quinn was shocked; men sleeping with men was unheard of in his home town, and he had not yet adopted Teleah’s romantic culture. He politely expressed his lack of interest in men, but he could not contain his shock. Jack found Quinn’s naivete endearing, and they remained good friends.

  “Well, I’m still not convinced, but I’ll leave it alone until you’re ready to talk,” Rafe relented. I won’t be ready to talk, Quinn thought. Jack just rolled his eyes. In truth, Quinn appreciated how much Rafe cared. His roommate had become not only his friend, but the closest feeling to family he had ever experienced. It was not Rafe’s fault that Quinn was so guarded. Rafe changed the subject, “Did you read the newspaper today?” His friends shook their heads. “Two Scholars were murdered at an inn a few nights ago.”

  Quinn sat up abruptly and clutched his pendant. Jack stopped messing with his tincture. With his flair for the dramatic, Rafe relayed the story: two Scholars were staying in a fishing village, scouting for the Gift among the local children. Their throats were slit in their sleep. There was no sign of burglary.

  This sort of news story was wildly out of place in Elandria. Murders were rare, and nearly always the result of a domestic dispute or a robbery gone wrong. Murders of Scholars simply did not happen. Scholars were respected throughout Elandria. Their status was immediately recognized by their Scholar’s pendant: a golden medallion depicting a tree of knowledge inside a diamond, the four points representing the four elements of nature. “The Royal Inquisitors have ruled it a random attack. They have not found the murderer, though.”

  “When did this happen?” Quinn asked. He felt he knew the answer.

  “Three—no, four nights ago.” Quinn felt his breath leave him; he paled. “What’s wrong?” Rafe asked, puzzled by Quinn’s reaction.

  “That was the night…the night we all slept terribly.” Quinn’s heart pounded in his chest. Did he dream that two Scholars were murdered? Surely he did not. No one had that sort of psychic ability.

  “Was it?” Rafe mused. “Strange.” Overall, he appeared unconcerned. He changed the subject again. “Hey, Quinn. Sarah’s looking at you.”

  “What?” Quinn placed his hands on the ground, forcing himself to draw calm from the earth. “Oh, Sarah. Right.” Sarah was a pretty girl, tall with long, blonde hair. She had expressed an interest in Quinn for years. She had dated both Rafe and Jack, but her flirting with Quinn never ceased. She was smart and kind, but Quinn never pursued her. He had no clue how to date women from Teleah. And he certainly had no interest at this moment. He waved at her half-heartedly across the courtyard. Sarah sat with a large group of girls under an ancient oak. She flashed him a coy smile and giggled with her friends. Why his awkwardness was so endearing, he would never understand.

  He studied the rest of the courtyard. The ivy lining the ancient stone buildings had faded. The leaves had changed to autumn colors, and the grass was dry and brown. The fourth-year students were easily identified by their intense studying. Other groups of students chatted happily. He looked over at a loud, laughing group of second-year students. In a concerted effort, they revitalized individual blades of grass to be alive and green once more. Quinn strained his neck to see what they were spelling. The green, grassy letters “F…U…C…” stood out on the dead ground. The young students laughed harder as they completed their “K.” He shook his head. He wished he could use earth magic for something as light-hearted as spelling obscenities on the grounds of the ancient Academy.

  His thoughts refocused on his nightmare. Ever the rationalist, he mentally listed all the reasons it was a coincidence. He did not convince himself, but his heart stopped racing. The sudden appearance of Professor Quickthorn forced him back into reality. “Mr. Atwell, would you walk with me?” She held a letter in her hand. Quinn greeted her and scrambled to his feet, dusting the dirt off his black cotton pants.

  ***

  Quinn followed the old Scholar toward her office once again. He hoped she had asked around and had information about his dream, but he thought it was unlikely. She probably wanted to know if he had given any more thought to his research.

  Quickthorn gestured for him to enter her office. She handed him the letter in her hand and shut the door behind them. “Read it,” she insisted. He gave her a confused look, then read the letter.

  Then he read it again. And again. “I’m confused.”

  Professor Quickthorn laughed from her desk chair. “Confused? My dear boy, I thought the letter quite succinct. You have been offered an apprenticeship from the Sage of Elandria.”

  “But—I—how?” He felt certain this was a mistake.

  “The Sage only accepts apprentices with the strongest Gift. They must come highly recommended by the professors. We feel that the Sage can help you harness your magic and hopefully give your life some direction.” She gave him a warm smile, making her wrinkled eyes seem even older. “Will you accept?”

  Quinn stood speechless. He had barely stepped from the doorway, which now felt awkward. He nodded and made his way to the blue armchair. He could not help but feel this was a mistake. An apprenticeship with t
he Sage seemed much more fitting for someone like Rafe.

  The Sage was always the most powerful Scholar of the day. With only two exceptions in the last thousand years, the Sage was always a woman. She served as the forefront of the Scholar community, the reigning expert on all issues of earth magic, medicine, and culture, and acted as the closest advisor of the royal family. Whoever apprenticed with the Sage went on to become powerful magic practitioners, professors, important diplomats, and gifted healers. Quinn had always understood that her apprentices were the best and most powerful student Scholars. True, his marks were impressive in every class he took. But what about that mental block Professor Viridion always mentioned?

  “I think you will like the Lady Sage. She is warm and pleasant. And the Villa—well, it’s every Scholar’s dream. The connection to the earth is incredible. You may never want to leave.” She smiled again. “You should feel proud of yourself, Mr. Atwell. I will arrange for a school carriage to take you to the Villa two days before the Feast of Fire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting with a third-year student who has decided to fail my class.” Quinn thanked her and handed her back the letter. She waved her hand. “Keep it. It may be addressed to me, but it belongs to you.”

  ***

  Quinn left the dark corridor of offices and re-entered the bright courtyard. For the first time in days, he appreciated the changing colors of the leaves and the crisp air. For the first time in days, he let himself smile.

  He joined Rafe and Jack. Rafe had his nose in a history book, which had always been his worst subject. Jack muttered obscenities over his herbs as he ground them in his mortar and pestle. Apparently, he could not perfect this latest solution. Quinn grabbed an apple from his bag and sat down cross-legged under the poplar tree.