EverMage - The Complete Series: A Fantasy Novel

by Trip Ellington

  Mithris spun about, facing the enemy. He noted the Plaza of the Fountains had cleared of civilians. No men of the city watch were in evidence either. He was alone with the ten ruffians. They had spread out into a line and slowed their advance, seeing him cornered against the wall.

  Cast a ward, the crystal suggested. For once, Mithris did not argue. Raising up his hands, he spat the words rapidly. Between Mithris and the advancing louts, the air shimmered pinkly for a moment as the spell resolved. An invisible barrier now stood between him and the thugs.

  Mithris sucked in a ragged breath, eyes darting from villain to villain. They all wore mismatched armor stained or otherwise darkened. Dark cloaks hung over their shoulders, cast back now to free their arms. Each man held a dagger and looked comfortable using it. They brandished the blades and stepped forward, but the specific ward Mithris had cast would not allow metal to pass. Running up against the unseen barrier, the thugs exchanged grunts of surprise.

  “Ha!” Mithris shouted, elated.

  One of the thugs snarled wordlessly, reaching out with his free hand. His fingers passed through the ward but his arm was caught when the metal bracer at his wrist struck the barrier. He looked curiously at the arm, then his eyes drifted in slow realization to the dagger in his other hand.

  “Oh,” said Mithris, heart sinking.

  You’d better do something fast, the crystal advised him as the thug withdrew his arm and began removing his armor piece by piece. The others watched him, slowly catching on. Three of them turned and ran to the nearby fountains, kneeling down to pry at the stonework. The ward would not stop a hurled stone.

  Mithris knew he was in trouble. He racked his brain, searching through the cantrips he knew. None of them were suitable for a large group of attackers.

  Just cast one, urged the crystal. One step at a time.

  But Mithris was stymied. Panic tugged at him. He opened his mouth, stuttering and not casting anything. One hand fumbled in his pocket, drawing forth the foundation crystal and raising it aloft.

  “Do something!” he hissed to the crystal.

  What would you have me do?

  “I don’t know! Blast them to ashes!”

  Reaching with his other hand for Master Deinre’s spellbook in his oversized pocket, Mithris lowered the crystal. He felt foolish. Of course the crystal could do nothing without a wizard to direct its power. He got the book out, nearly dropping it.

  There was a sudden whump sound, and in the Plaza of the Fountains ten men screamed as their flesh caught fire. Some fell to their knees. Others dropped prone to the ground, rolling or beating with their hands at the flames spreading over their bodies. The magical fire burned hot, melting flesh and searing bone.

  Mithris gagged from the overpowering stench, turning aside to retch. When he looked up again, it was over. Ten piles of ash and soot were all that remained. Curls of smoke drifted upward, carrying the foul odor of burnt flesh and hair.

  “You did it…” he whispered in awe.

  You never read the spell, answered the crystal, a concerned note of warning in the words. This was not our doing.

  “Are you all right?”

  Mithris jumped, startled, and spun about. The door at his back now stood open, light spilling out from within. Standing in the doorway was a tall, slender woman with flowing red robes. The light behind her caught in her cascade of blonde tresses, shining like a halo.

  Mithris gasped, the breath catching in his throat. Mistress Ileera—it could only be her—was impossibly beautiful. He stammered. Ileera smiled knowingly, perfectly even teeth flashing between delicate coral lips.

  “I’m alright,” Mithris finally managed, blushing at his strangled voice. “Thanks to you.”

  Her smile widened. Mithris found himself gazing at her dimpled cheeks. Abashed, he dropped his eyes to the ground at his feet as Mistress Ileera spoke again.

  “You looked as though you needed assistance,” she said. Even her voice was beautiful, like soft music. Yet it was also sharp, commanding. A knife hidden in folds of delicate silk. Mithris could feel her eyes on him, weighing him, measuring. “You’re awfully young to be alone. Where is your Master? What are you doing here?”

  Mithris forced himself to meet her icy blue gaze.

  “My Master was slain,” he told the stunning wizardess, “his tower seized. As for why I’m here…I’ve been looking for you.”

  Ileera held him with her stare for a long moment, then nodded thoughtfully as if to an unheard voice. Mithris wondered if her foundation crystal spoke to her as well. He realized the full scope of what he and the crystal planned, and felt hopelessly out of his depth.

  “Well, you’d better come inside,” said Mistress Ileera, stepping aside to let him pass.

  Chapter 17

  “I am sorry for your loss,” said Mistress Ileera, sweeping regally into the room where Mithris had been cooling his heels for the better part of an hour. One wall opened out on the inner courtyard of the tower, a wooden railing along the edge. One of Ileera’s apprentices—the haughty young woman he’d seen the day before—had brought him here and left him with a pitcher of washing water and a set of clean robes. Then the girl had left, and he’d seen no one else since. The courtyard was empty. The effect was somewhat eerie.

  Mithris looked up from the table where he sat and was once more struck by Ileera’s beauty. His throat felt dry for some reason.

  “Deinre’s work was ambitious, daring, and I daresay pivotal,” Ileera continued, striding over to stand beside Mithris. She laid one long-fingered hand gently on his shoulder. Mithris felt his pulse racing. “His death is a great loss, for our entire community. He will be missed.”

  “I…” It came out as a croak. Mithris swallowed and tried again. “Thank you.”

  She dropped her hand from his shoulder, turning away. The temperature in the room dropped five degrees at least, it seemed. She moved gracefully around the table and then sat facing him. She smiled, showing her dimples again. Mithris knew he had to stop staring at them. Women did not like being stared at, hadn’t someone told him that once?

  You really don’t know a thing about women, do you? They’re just people, boy, no different from you. Although…

  Mithris had almost forgotten the foundation crystal, back in his pocket. The voice cutting into his thoughts startled him. Ileera’s sapphire eyes narrowed in momentary suspicion.

  “Heh,” said Mithris, not needing to feign his embarrassment. “Still a little jumpy, I guess. I hope the guards didn’t give you any trouble.”

  “I am known to the City Watch,” the wizardess told him, her smile returning. “I explained that I was expecting you, the apprentice of a colleague, and that I was forced to defend you from a rival wizard’s hired thugs. They accepted the tale.”

  One of Ileera’s delicate, pale eyebrows arched. “I think it’s time you told me your story, young man,” she suggested. She eyed him curiously. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Seventeen…Mistress.” Mithris had not known he would add the title until the word slipped past his lips. If Mistress Ileera was surprised by it, she gave no sign.

  Looking at this graceful, beautiful woman, Mithris felt himself warming to her. She recalled to him vague, hazy half-memories from the seldom remembered time before Master Deinre had taken him from the orphanage. There was a woman in some of those recollections, but he had never been able to recall her face. He wanted to think that woman, his mother, had been as beautiful and charming as the kind wizardess who sat facing him now.

  “So young…” she mused, a rueful smile playing on her lips. “And impressive.”

  “Mistress?”

  “That one so young as you would have braved the tower of your fallen master to retrieve his most prized possession, stealing it away from that murderer Eaganar who thought to inherit all the spoils of Deinre’s research.”

  “Ah,” said Mithris, feeling uncomfortable. Ileera, hearing his tone, narrowed her eyes. “Right. Well. Uhm,
that’s not exactly how it happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Master Deinre gave me his spellbook and foundation crystal. The attack had only just begun. He told me to run.”

  Mistress Ileera could not hide her shock. “He gave it to you?” She shook her head in amazement, regarding Mithris with considering eyes. “That crystal could have made the difference in his battle, and he just gave it to you? Your master must have held you in high regard, young man.”

  Mithris began to protest that Master Deinre had done no such thing, had in fact oft bemoaned his “lazy, addle-pated apprentice” who shirked his practice and complained about dinner every night and couldn’t be bothered to learn the simplest of spells. But as the words formed, a suspicious thought struck Mithris and he fell silent.

  How had she known he carried Master Deinre’s most prized possession?

  Mistress Ileera took note of his hesitation. A brief expression of annoyance flashed across her fine features, and was just as quickly banished. The wizardess cleared her throat.

  “Well,” she said, “we can speak of such things later. Tell me, though, do you know which one it is?”

  “Mistress?”

  “The foundation crystal. Which one is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mithris admitted. Again, he felt foolish. He had been carrying the thing around for months, hearing its voice in his head. He knew there were only a handful of the artifacts, and he thought he remembered Master Deinre mentioning that each had a name. He’d never thought to ask his crystal for its name.

  “That’s part of the reason I came seeking you, Mistress.” Mithris drew the crystal from his pocket. He did not see the momentary spark of avarice in Ileera’s blue eyes when they fell upon the foundation crystal. Instead, he looked down at the multifaceted gem in his hand, dazzled by the dancing colors within.

  Those ever-changing colors and the occasional blurred images visible in the crystal’s facets reflected the mutable nature of the foundations. The slight warmth of the stone against his palms was a paltry indication of the object’s power. A foundation crystal was perhaps the single most potent magical artifact in any of the five foundations.

  Seven, the crystal spoke in his mind.

  “What?” asked Mithris aloud, forgetting himself.

  “I asked why you thought I could help you identify it,” Mistress Ileera told him, her frosty tone making clear how she felt about having to repeat herself.

  Simultaneously, the crystal answered in his mind: There are seven foundations, it said. The people of your plane are merely unaware of the two beyond this one.

  “I…” Mithris broke off, swallowing. Why was the crystal telling him that now? Its sense of timing had rarely been commendable, but this was truly distracting. He licked his lips, focusing on Ileera’s query.

  I think you’d like the sixth foundation, the crystal went on, ignoring Mithris’ silent attempts to quiet it. It’s quite warm there.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” prompted Mistress Ileera.

  “Well, it says there’s another one here. You being the only wizard in the area, I just assumed you had it. And if you’ve got one, then you must know about them. More than I do, anyway.”

  Why did you tell her? The voice of the crystal sounded angry. Why?

  “It speaks to you?” cried Ileera in the same moment, pushing back from the table in complete shock. Her coral lips parted, delicate jaw dropping in amazed incredulity.

  Great, whispered the foundation crystal. Now you’ve done it.

  Chapter 18

  Jezine leaned against the wooden railing overlooking the central courtyard of Mistress Ileera’s tower. If anyone came into the room behind her, they would assume she looked down on the splashing fountain with its multi-hued mosaic beneath the clear but turbulent water a sharp contrast to its drab white stone exterior. They would think her lost in contemplation.

  This observer would not conclude that Jezine was straining her ears to listen in on the conversation taking place in the chamber above. She caught perhaps only one word in three or four, and she had to fight to keep her mounting irritation from showing on her face lest that unexpected observer come up behind her.

  With the other apprentices, Jezine would have simply cast an eavesdropping spell. She had several such cantrips ready. It was important to know what the others spoke of when she was not present. If they had not bothered to learn any anti-eavesdropping wards, or neglected the casting, they had no reason to expect privacy. The Mistress, though…she would detect the spell before it had even resolved, and she would know which of her apprentices had dared spy on her. So Jezine had to content herself with listening from the balcony below.

  Who was that grubby street-boy the Mistress had bade Jezine deliver to that chamber, with a pitcher and basin and wash-water and fresh clothes? It was as if the Mistress had already determined to take the fool into her tower. Surely that could not be, thought Jezine. All of the Mistress’s apprentices must first prove themselves worthy. The Mistress did not accept them otherwise, and Jezine and the others had all adopted a similar attitude. They would not tolerate an untested interloper.

  The Mistress, in her wisdom, wanted something from the boy. Jezine was mystified as to what that something could be. He was clearly and utterly without training or even wits. Perhaps it was something he carried, likely without even knowing of it.

  An object of power, most likely; and it would have to be great power indeed to have moved the Mistress to interfere. She had blasted away ten of Yuric’s men in broad daylight in the plaza fronting her tower. The mercenary captain would not be pleased. What could it be?

  “It speaks to you?” The startled exclamation startled Jezine, and she drew back from the wooden railing and turned to flee before she caught herself. That had been Mistress Ileera’s voice, and the Mistress was definitely still in the room above. Chiding herself for drifting so far into her ruminations, Jezine returned to the balcony.

  She heard the mop-headed boy mumbling something. Of everything he had said thus far, Jezine had caught barely any of it. He would be a mumbler, she thought. Then the Mistress spoke again, and from the sound of her voice she had moved closer to the balcony. Jezine, still listening, took a step back and held her breath.

  “It must have been dreadful, you poor thing. An exhausting ordeal, if ever I heard one. Now, you listen to me, young man. You’ll spend tonight here in my tower in the novice cells.” Jezine smiled at that, but the emphasis the Mistress put on those words puzzled her.

  “In the morning, once you have properly rested and eaten, we will begin our research. I will help you, and perhaps with my direction we can coax it to reveal its secrets.”

  Jezine’s smiled widened, taking on a self-satisfied quality. She had been right: the boy had something the Mistress wanted.

  Footsteps passed by overhead, Mistress Ileera leaving the balcony and crossing the room. The interview was over, then. Jezine likewise went back inside. She was in one of the reading rooms. Halfway to the door, she saw the gilded handle turning. Immediately changing her stride, she rushed to one of the shelves and pulled down a random tome, getting it open and putting on a facade of engrossment just in time as the door pushed open.

  Bartomae stuck his head into the room and, seeing her, came through to stand just inside the open door. Gangly and bulge-eyed, the twelve-year-old was the most recently accepted apprentice. That meant his lessons still came from the older apprentices, but the Mistress never ignored her students. Bartomae spent most of his time, aside from the lessons, fetching and carrying for the Mistress and performing menial duties in order to spend time in her presence. That often included running messages.

  “The Mistress wants to see you in her divining chamber,” Bartomae told Jezine. She lifted her eyes from the dusty page, never having seen what was on it. She projected a look of annoyance at the disruption to her studies, but closed the book and returned it to its shelf.

  “I will
attend her at once,” she said frostily as she walked past the boy. She did not spare him another look as she strode down the corridor and made her way to the corner room where the Mistress did her scrying.

  Mistress Ileera was already there, standing over the tall and sturdy stone basin with its broad, shallow dish of enchanted fluid. Jezine rapped on the door frame and awaited the Mistress’ pleasure with her head slightly bowed.

  “Come in, child.”

  Jezine lifted her eyes and came forward with her hands clasped humbly before her. The Mistress moved around the near side of her divining bowl and crossed her arms.

  “I sent the lad to the novice cells rather than the full apprentice quarters to prevent any harassment.” The Mistress sounded angry. Jezine needed to be careful.

  “Mistress, you always deal wise and fair with your pupils,” she said cautiously.

  The Mistress snorted in derision, dropping her arms and turning back to her scrying bowl. She spoke over her shoulder. “I’m sure you have guessed at my interest in the boy. I do not want any of my apprentices meddling. They might find themselves tempted to claim that which I have laid claim to already. I will have that crystal, and until I do no one but myself is to lay hand on that fool boy.”

  “Of course not, Mistress.” Jezine did not have to feign her confusion. “Surely you know I would never interfere in your private affairs.”

  The Mistress turned half around, arching an eyebrow. Jezine held in a wince. She should have phrased that better.

  “No,” the Mistress said, still eyeing Jezine. “You would only listen in from the next room as one or more of your fellows did so.”

  Jezine felt as though her heart had stopped. She parted her lips but no words came. She blinked her eyes five times rapidly. She drew a sudden, sharp breath. Finally, the words came to her.

  “Mistress, I merely wished to remain close in case you had further need of me. I heard the murmur of voices, nothing more.”

  Mistress Ileera turned fully around now, her lips curving in a faint smirk. “You are a very dedicated apprentice, Jezine. One of my most promising finds in centuries. The others lack your passion, your ambition, your…subtlety.”