The Black Mage: Complete Series

by Rachel E. Carter

  First couple weeks are always the hardest.

  I sighed. Or maybe that's just a saying, and it really is horrible all year long.

  I had just turned the corner when I suddenly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.

  “I'm so sorr—” I began, and then froze.

  Seriously? Not again. Why was fate so determined to make me continuously cross paths with the one person who so clearly hated the world?

  The prince tightened his lips and bent down to grab the papers he'd dropped. I reached down to help him, but he snatched them up before I could offer a hand.

  Straightening, Darren made way as if to pass, but I stood my ground. I needed to apologize for earlier. Even if Ella was right about him—and she probably was, judging from our encounters thus far—I still owed him an apology. I didn’t need to spend the year with an angry prince.

  “Your grace,” I fumbled, “I want to apologize for earlier—” The prince glared at me, but I continued on hastily. “It wasn't right. You deserve a chance just as much as anyone else, especially since you aren’t the heir—”

  “Thanks,” Darren cut me off sharply, “but I don't need some backcountry peasant asserting what I can or can't do.”

  My whole face burned in indignation. “I didn't mean—”

  “Look.” The words seemed to grate across his teeth. “I didn't come here to socialize with commoners and learn about their feelings. I came here to be a mage. I’ve more pressing affairs than listening to you apologize for your own incompetence.”

  The prince pushed past me as I stood dumbfounded. Any initial guilt I’d felt was gone. I wasn't sure exactly how I’d expected the apology to go, but certainly not like that.

  There was nothing modest about this prince, this non-heir. Ella was right; there was no way I would want someone like that on the throne wearing a crown and a mage's robes. What compelled the masters to make such a blatant exception?

  “You've never had one before because nobody was good enough!” That's what Darren had yelled at us. Was that why the Council of Magic decided to make the distinction between an heir and someone who was second-in-line to the throne? Because Darren had shown exceptional talent?

  If he chooses Combat, I'll wipe that arrogant sneer off his face the first chance I get, I decided. How exceptional can a non-heir be, really? He wasn't even good enough to be first-born and get a throne. It was a cruel thought, one that didn't even play out logically, but I welcomed it all the same. I hope you lose out on an apprenticeship to many, many commoners.

  I forced myself to continue the trek to my barracks in stilted silence. It was useless. Ten minutes of restless pacing, and then bells were summoning students again for our next lesson. I made the walk to the Academy’s field, wondering why I’d even bothered to go off on my own in the first place.

  When I arrived, I found Alex and Ella at the back of a crowd facing the armory’s doors. Miles of fenced-in pasture sat just beyond it.

  I sidled up to my brother and friend just as a man stepped out of the building’s entry, his boots kicking up dirt.

  He was easily the most intimidating man I’d ever seen, with a wall of bulging muscle straining to break free, disconcerting green eyes, and close-cropped hair. The man’s dark skin was glistening, and he had several white scar lines that cut down across his arms.

  The master wore the livery of a knight, not a mage.

  I sucked in air as I heard several others do the same. Is there some sort of mistake?

  “No, I am not one of your masters here.” White teeth flashed in the afternoon sun. “But don't you be getting any ideas. I’ll still be involved in every step of your development. I served on the King's Regiment for twenty years, and I’ve spent the last ten training young mages to fight.” Aha. “I am Sir Piers, and I will be leading you in the physical conditioning needed for your factions.”

  “I thought we were to be sorcerers, not pages,” someone muttered.

  Sir Piers heard the comment and glowered.

  Instantaneous silence.

  “Many of you might wonder what use I am to your precious studies. Can I have a volunteer please?” No one moved. “I have my pick then.” The big man almost gleefully dragged forward one of the boys who’d been whispering behind me. The boy was now shaking, and I really couldn't blame him. Sir Piers clearly enjoyed scaring his charges.

  “Now, what is your name?”

  “Ralph.”

  “Well, Ralph, it's your lucky day. Which faction do you want to end up in?”

  “Combat,” Ralph squeaked.

  The man snorted. “Yes, always with you first-years.”

  “Now,” he continued, “show me what you can do.”

  “It's n-not much,” the boy stammered.

  I watched as Ralph snatched a twig off the ground and began to stare at it with a furrowed brow.

  Seconds later, tiny flames encompassed his stick. He didn’t even break a sweat.

  Great, I thought darkly. The boy didn't need to hurt himself to get it burning. A twelve-year-old showed more promise than me.

  “Now,” Piers said, “run a mile—the course of the stadium's circumference.”

  Ralph's face fell.

  “What are you waiting for?” Piers barked.

  Ralph took off like a jackrabbit, but about two minutes into the run, his pace slowed. I could sense his discomfort. None of us had dressed with a strenuous workout in mind. I was still wearing my dress.

  For the next eight minutes, poor Ralph ran around the track huffing and puffing as the rest of the class watched, careful to avoid any comments that would target us as the next “volunteer” victim.

  When Ralph finally returned, Piers had another order awaiting the boy.

  “Light fire to another stick.”

  “I… need… a moment.”

  “Now!”

  Ralph scrambled to find another branch and tried to repeat the same casting, to no avail. He was too busy taking deep gulps of air to concentrate.

  “You just gave the enemy an opening, boy. You are now dead on the battlefield. Take your seat.” Piers sent the boy off with disgust. “Do I have another volunteer?”

  Everyone looked to the ground quickly, except for the non-heir who seemed unperturbed as he met Piers’s gaze head-on.

  “All right, princeling, have at it.”

  Darren stepped forward and picked up a twig. I breathed out a sigh of relief. He was normal like the rest of us. It would have killed me if he put on some sort of breathtaking display.

  Darren clenched one end in his palm, eyeing a nearby tree.

  You've got to be—

  The entire trunk exploded in a blaze. Branches with crackling leaves shuddered as the tree became a writhing, red torch.

  The non-heir cracked the twig in his palm.

  The fire instantly abated.

  Dead tree limbs scattered the grass. Darren waited for instructions.

  I glanced at the knight to gauge his reaction. The commander was wearing a satisfied grin.

  “Well done,” he boomed. “Now, do the same to that tree—there.”

  We all looked to see where he was pointing. A similar oak stood half a mile off at the other end of the stadium.

  I braced myself, knowing better than to hope the prince would fail.

  Darren walked over to grab one of the last tree’s charred branches from the ground. Part of the stick still looked red-hot beneath its ashy bark, and I wondered if it burned. Still, Darren showed no sign of pain as he rolled it back and forth between his palms, keeping his stormy gaze on the target ahead.

  Moments later, the second tree caught fire. Not as dramatic as the first, but still impressive, I noted dryly. The fire quickly died out on the trunk but continued on in most of the higher branches until he ceased his casting.

  “You may take a seat now.” Piers gave the prince a much friendlier dismissal than the previous boy.

  Darren nodded curtly and then made his wa
y over to the front of the crowd.

  Piers addressed the rest of us. “What did those two have in common?”

  Nothing.

  Not a single person spoke up.

  “The dynamics of war,” Piers continued breezily, “are not all about force. You think you can blast your enemy with magic, and maybe you can. But the further you are from your opponent, the less power you’re able to exert. We can't waste all this time training you to be powerful mages and have you faint at the first sign of battle. Not one of you will be sitting in an ivory tower pointing your finger like a blasted fairy tale. You’ll need to be close to your enemies to do damage, and you’ll need to maneuver in and out of battle to safely engage.

  “The Academy worked alongside the School of Knighthood to develop this training to make you more capable. None of you will be as successful as a full-fledged knight, but you’ll be better prepared. Whether you’re a Combat mage fighting at the head, a Restoration healer going from one wounded to the next, or an Alchemist helping with dangerous flasks, you need stamina and endurance.”

  No one could argue that. My brother groaned—he hadn’t anticipated physical drills with Restoration.

  “For the rest of our hour, I’ll be gauging your physical competence. Once I understand how incompetent you are, we’ll have the rest of the year to fix that.”

  First-years were shifting from one foot to the next, the air tense.

  “Oh,” Sir Piers added, almost gleefully, “and if any of you Combat hopefuls are wondering when we’ll train with any of the fun weapons a knight handles, keep in mind you have to get through two months of my class first.”

  And there went my last bit of hope. Now I was groaning along with the rest.

  “There is a change of clothes in the building behind me. Ladies first.”

  Ella and I rushed to the building with the fifty-five other girls.

  A servant was smirking as we changed into the ratty, ill-fitting garb. “Those will be your attire for the rest of your time here. From here on out, you will no longer be wearing personal garments or insignia. Year one is not a cause for celebration. The Crown doesn’t waste coin financing your personal fashions.”

  Several girls grumbled, but for the first time, I was excited. It was just clothes, a pair of breeches and a too-long tunic and belt, but it was a chance to impress.

  Masters didn’t encourage status at the Academy, only power.

  I might actually stand a chance.

  TWO HOURS into the torment that was Sir Piers's idea of light conditioning, I found myself dry-heaving at one of the wooden benches on the side of the field. Alex appeared at my right, similar retching noises coming from his mouth. Neither of us had prepared for this.

  All over the stadium, first-years were dropping one by one.

  Piers had decided we would run five miles. Five miles, he’d added, interspersed with twenty lunges and presses each time we completed a lap. That would’ve been fine—hard, but fine—if that were all.

  But it wasn’t.

  Once we completed his first demand, the knight barked new orders for everyone to line up across from one another. When we did that, he had servants distribute weighted staffs and instruct us to “proceed.”

  Since most of the girls and a couple of the lowborn boys had never held a weapon in their lives, Piers had to show us how to hold the poles, where to stand, and which way to lean. He wasn’t happy about it, and neither were we.

  We spent just as much time rapping each other's knuckles as we did the staffs.

  When one girl dared to quietly ponder the usefulness of the drill to her partner, Piers finally snapped.

  “When a mage is powerful enough to send daggers cutting through the air, do you think she randomly decides their course? No, she studies and practices exactly which cuts are needed to hit those precious arteries. Nothing I teach you here will be pointless!”

  For the remainder of our lesson, no one dared a single complaint, even when Piers decided to introduce a new routine involving the many flights of stairs raising the stadium benches around the field.

  But that still didn't stop our bodies from reacting to the horrible cycle of pain.

  Taking a deep breath, I told myself it couldn't get worse.

  We were on a fifteen-minute break before our session with Master Cedric, but for most of us, those fifteen minutes were spent limping our way to a tower of water pitchers across the field. Refreshments were brought courtesy of Constable Barius's staff, all of whom had decided to take a late afternoon break.

  I think the water was just an excuse to watch.

  I scanned the field for my friend.

  Ella stood a little way off, red in the face and perspiration under her arms, but somehow still charming in her disheveled state. She was talking to another girl as she attempted to stretch her calves. The two of them were laughing at something she’d said.

  I winced. I couldn't even imagine laughing. My lungs were still burning from those stairs.

  Shifting my gaze to the other half of the stadium, I spotted the prince. He was surrounded by a pack of first-years, all of them highborn. It was obvious, despite their lack of dress. They oozed confidence without even trying.

  I scowled. How did Darren get away with looking unaffected by our drills, while I dripped sweat like a rat drowned at sea? Weren’t princes supposed to be lazy and weak?

  “He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

  A younger boy had caught me watching the prince and was staring right along with unabashed longing. I made a face. Darren wasn’t handsome; he was a plague.

  Sure, those choppy, side-swept bangs and jaw-length locks could trick a girl—or boy—into thinking the prince was attractive. But not me.

  All one needed was a close encounter with his charming personality.

  I stifled a snort, but the boy heard it and mistook it for disdain for the girl standing at the prince’s right.

  “Those two are perfect for each other,” he breathed. “They’ll get an apprenticeship without even trying. Priscilla is the best girl.”

  Ah, yes. The raven-haired beauty who’d out-distanced, out-lunged, and out-pressed the rest of my gender. How someone from such high lineage was able to best those of us who’d actually foraged and hunted for our meals, I’d never know. Priscilla looked the part of an aristocrat, and I wondered why she was here at the Academy. Usually, girls like that went to convents. They didn't bother with magic or knighthood. Why did they need status when they already had it?

  Priscilla was a year older than me, like Darren. I wondered if she’d followed him from the palace. They seemed friendly enough; she was constantly leaning in close to whisper something in his ear and pressing her palm on his chest.

  Ugh. She was welcome to the prince.

  The rest of Darren’s group consisted of the two burly-looking brothers and a young girl whose skin was so pale it was almost translucent. She’d matched Priscilla in most of our drills. Still, the girl was so tiny and fragile, I wondered how she’d made it this far. She didn't talk much, and she wasn’t laughing like the boys.

  “All right, children, let's gather round!”

  The class came together slowly, regretfully acknowledging the end of our break.

  Sir Piers smirked when the last first-year arrived. “We’ve got more of that tomorrow. I hope you’re all prepared.” There was only silence, and the man chuckled, well aware of how we felt. “For now, I leave you in Master Cedric's very capable hands.” He gave a respectful nod to a wiry old man in red robes waiting anxiously behind us.

  Then Sir Piers left the field, whistling a triumphant tune as the older man introduced himself to our year.

  For the next two hours, he was going to be leading us in some basic exercises conducive to magic.

  I shared a look with Alex and Ella. Finally.

  “Our first month will be spent in meditation. Without focus, you won’t be successful in your chosen faction.”

  My enthusiasm died just as
fast. Meditation. So we wouldn't be learning how to heal a dying knight or cast a lightning storm. And I had to say, I'd had enough “meditation” practice during my time on the road. Two hours of coarse physical activity might actually beat the boredom induced from focusing on a blade of grass for the same length of time.

  I heard someone groan to my right. Right about that.

  “You might have great potential,” Cedric interjected loudly over his disgruntled audience, an incredible feat for such a timid-looking man, “but if you can't concentrate long enough to hold the spell you wish to enact, you’ll never find yourself casting the more advanced spells that you’ll need.”

  He went on to mirror Piers’s earlier warning about the battlefield. Mages died quickly when they couldn’t summon proper focus. We wouldn’t be hidden away in a tower. We needed to focus in an atmosphere full of distractions waiting to tear our concentration apart. These rules applied to every faction and so on.

  Nothing he said was new. I was beginning to think every one of our masters wanted to bore us to death. We’ll never reach the battlefield. We’ll be too busy hauling books and taking long, deep breaths while learning foundation.

  I grudgingly joined the rest of our year, forming a giant sitting circle that spread out across the grass at Master Cedric's instruction. From this angle, we could see not only the master and his four assisting mages, but also the entire class.

  At least I'll finally stand out. I might not have had practice fighting with staffs or learning the names of Jerar's eastern seaports, but meditation was easy. I’d spent years sitting by myself, trying to call on magic in my parents’ bustling store, ever since I turned twelve.

  Turned out, I was wrong. I wasn’t terrible, but I was at best a little better than the rest.

  How many years did the others spend silently concentrating in grass? It was ludicrous, and my nails dug into my thighs. I was never going to stand out here.

  For the first time, I wondered if joining the Academy was a mistake.

  Master Cedric and his assistants walked around, taking note and depositing small rocks each time one of us broke free from our concentration. Their voices grew louder as time passed.