“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you sent those robbers after me. Just so I’d have no choice but to come with you.”
Niel barely caught the blur of Arwin’s left arm before being knocked from his chair by a violent backhand across his face. He tried to sit up despite his dazed senses, but Arwin circled the table just as quickly, lifted Niel from the floor and threw him into the nearby wall between two other tables. He grabbed Niel’s face in a gloved hand and squeezed hard, mashing his mouth shut.
“Now you listen to me,” he said. “I understand you’re angry and afraid, but know this: Regardless how much help we might be to one another, if you dare impugn my honor again, I’ll run you through. Consider that an oath.”
With his final word Arwin pushed Niel’s face away from his own and took two slow steps backward toward the table. By the time the swordsman had seated himself, his previously pleasant demeanor had returned as though nothing had transpired. He gestured to Niel’s empty chair. “Now,” he said, “let’s conclude our business, one way or another.”
Niel considered bolting for the door but held still, mindful he had nowhere else to turn if he lost his one feasible source of assistance, undesirable and barbaric though the assister may be. He cupped a hand over his mouth and stared hard at the table. The noise of the room shrank away, replaced by numbing dread as the appalling, merciless notion he’d fended off again and again simply could no longer be denied:
More than likely, he would never attend the College. Never.
A lifetime of work, lost.
No. There had to be some other way. He could sneak back to Glensdyl and hope to avoid being seen by anyone associated with the men who’d attacked him. But with no money for fare to sail back, what good would that do? He’d taught himself how to juggle some years ago; maybe he could earn fare back to Lyrria by entertaining on the street. That wouldn’t exactly be keeping a low profile, and the people he’d encountered thus far hardly seemed like patrons of the performing arts. And who knew how long that would take?
Niel sighed. When it came right down to it, going with Arwin did seem the only choice. At the very least, more than likely never attending College held slightly more hope than absolutely never attending the College.
He took his seat again. “I accept your offer,” he said, wishing his voice sounded less quivery. “And… I thank you for saving my neck. Twice.”
“You mean three times,” Arwin replied.
“Three times. Sorry. I wasn’t counting.”
“Then by all means, Apprentice,” Arwin said with a smile as he beckoned the waitress back over to the table. “Allow me.”
8
Ennalen strolled through the yellow early morning to her breakfast with the Lord Magistrate, paying only enough attention as she crossed the shimmering, frosty grass of the West Commons to avoid seeming aimless to any who might be watching.
She had all but surrendered to the meander of her thoughts when a gold-speckled butterfly fluttered into sight from nowhere, quivered near her face for a moment, then doddered off again in the opposite direction. She watched it struggle in the brisk morning breeze to clear a distant hedge, then as it disappeared she wondered what the creature was doing so far north, so close to winter—the beneficiary of some careless lab assistant, most likely.
She smirked, imagining the beating that no doubt awaited that student, and as she continued along her way her musings veered onto an unexpected and quite fitting tangent.
Butterflies.
At the age of six, Ennalen had evoked from a foul-smelling cloud of sulfur the shape of a butterfly that flapped its wings twice before dissipating. She still recalled with perfect clarity her reflection afterward in the large wooden wash bowl, how tears of triumph had left thin, clean paths through the yellow dust caking her face.
One’s first true feat of magic was inescapably an overwhelming event, and because that powerful initial experience invariably instilled a zeal for the next, young students often made easy fodder for whatever unscrupulous appetites a teacher might harbor.
Conveniently for that sort, when it came to instruction, Members never openly criticized one another’s individual techniques, pointing no fingers lest their own methodologies be called into question. Thus during Ennalen’s fledgling career at the College, no one had come forward to test the rumors she knew circulated regarding Solamito, her teacher. Instructors and peers alike considered her an exceedingly bright student, advanced for her age, and she succeeded brilliantly in her courses—how bad could things have been?
Eventually, Ennalen grew to tolerate the situation. As grotesque as her teacher’s lechery had been, however, the most abhorrent aspect of all was how her slightest movement in the workshop prompted Solamito to peer up with his tiny black eyes, no matter what he was doing, a piggish smile that spoke plainly to the myriad perversities squirming in his brain. Years later, the idea of his eyes wandering her body still made her quake with cold loathing, even more intensely than after the occasional nighttime liberties he took with her—either through indifference or incompetence, the charm he used to keep her asleep rarely did.
For her, the end—or beginning, one might say—came just prior to her confirmation. Solamito had gone to attend a conference in Adelmoor, and Ennalen had enjoyed the rare time alone engrossed in her thesis involving what she termed “partial levitation.” In her efforts to fashion a charm that laborers in remote areas could employ to move boulders and heavy debris, she had enlisted the help of a brown field mouse found hiding in the cupboard. The experiments had been to gauge how dynamic an incantation was needed to allow the mouse to drag a bar of lead, and then adjust the final spell for proper scale.
After endless attempts and frustration, the bar of lead finally budged. When it did, Ennalen scooped the mouse up in a rush of elation and nuzzled him as she danced and laughed.
Solamito had returned that same moment, demolishing her glee into a ruin of disgust. She recalled his leer, how when she looked up toward the doorway his narrow eyes already flicked hungrily from place to place wherever her robe met her figure.
“How I did miss you,” he purred, “but I’m afraid I’m quite weary and need to rest tonight.” With a wink he added, “You’ll just have to see me in your dreams.”
She remembered how his familiar reek rolled over her as he grunted past toward his bedchamber—sharp, piney cologne atop a vile, unwashed musk. She recalled how the silky black sheen of his robes accentuated the cascades of fat bobbling beneath. No matter how hard she tried, Ennalen still could not remember closing her fists.
Her memory from that point forward, however, remained vivid.
She’d opened her fingers and believed the mouse had fallen asleep, until a bright bead of red grew and glistened at its nose. Its almost weightless body made no sound when she dropped him onto the workbench.
The lead felt cold in her hand. The door to his room creaked as she opened it and entered, having long before deciphered the warding glyph overhead. Solamito, naked from the waist up, sloshed around to face her and barely had time to show anger from the intrusion before the lead bar smashed against his head.
There’d been a loud, wet pop as the corner of the bar bit into his face. His arms bounced in unison when he flopped to the floor. She moved around the bed to stare at the motionless bulk of her teacher.
She’d known eyes were spherical, but without eyelids the roundness of the detached one at her feet made it appear surprised to find itself suddenly no longer in Solamito’s skull. With one eye missing, she supposed she’d be seeing him in her dreams a lot better than he’d be seeing her in his—and at that she’d laughed hysterically.
Solamito had not died. Killing him where he lay would have been the simplest thing for all involved, despite a key tenet of magic-making that asserted life was never to be taken for mere convenience. Instead, Ennalen found a leather pouch, plucked the eyeball from the sticky pool of blood on the floor, and dropped it inside. From there she marched across the We
st Commons to the Ministry of Law, resigned that Solamito would endure whatever embarrassment she could cause him, no matter how greatly she herself would suffer. Assaulting one’s teacher was no inconsequential matter, and punishment for such was dire.
By the time Ennalen arrived at the Ministry of Law she’d already decided she would not explain herself to just anyone, and demanded to meet with Lord Magistrate Denuis.
Despite her grim determination, she found herself flummoxed when the Lord Magistrate came down to see her. After a curt greeting in the Ministry’s foyer, Denuis led her not to his office but to his personal chambers. In the apartment’s darkened main room by the warmth of the fireplace he instructed her to take a seat in a worn high-backed chair. On a small table beside the chair sat a plain pewter goblet.
Ennalen sat and, without prompting, confessed her assault on Solamito with no hint of apology. Denuis listened intently, and after a thoughtful pause responded with an offer as bizarre as it had been unceremoniously direct: she could become his pupil at the Ministry of Law and under his protection never fear reprisal from any Member, or she could drink from the goblet at her elbow. When Ennalen asked why he would want her as a student in light of what she had done, Denuis merely repeated the proposition.
The Ministry of Law had been then to Ennalen as it was now to most Members—a mysterious, foreboding group whose very mention prompted unease and good manners. Yet while sitting there with Denuis to her left and the goblet to her right, she realized being ordained a Magistrate would let her exploit that very same fear in others and see that anyone defiling the integrity of the College as had Solamito would pay, and pay dearly.
Ennalen accepted the offer, and in her new room that long ago night, slept soundly for the first time in her life.
9
Niel followed Arwin through the crowd in the direction Jharal had gone. They entered a small, dim sitting area where a half- dozen tables skirted the walls and whose occupants murmured in ominous tones that prompted Niel to keep his eyes forward. He and Arwin made their way to the back of the Inn, where they climbed a grand flight of stairs spiraling up to the floor above.
Exquisite woodwork ran the length of the banister—mahogany, it looked like—with an ocean scene of long, tumbling waves spilling forth to reveal dolphins and mermaids. With his fingers Niel traced the carved ocean all the way to the top of the stairs, and wished he knew what the house had looked like in its full splendor.
Halfway down a long corridor the two stopped in front of a door on which four small gold circles had been painted. Arwin fished a finger-length key from inside his vest and unlocked the door with a heavy clunk. A string of tiny metal rods jangled just above their heads as he pushed open the door.
“Just me,” Arwin called into the seemingly empty room, then motioned with his head for Niel to accompany him.
The room, like the hallway, surprised Niel with its size—three beds and a fireplace whose mantle continued the ocean motif from the banister. An overbearing crimson slathered the walls, on which had been tacked a few badly framed paintings. Lit lanterns hung from chains beside each of the three beds. Another burned on the round table near the door, casting weak light onto scattered scraps of paper, a charcoal pencil, and a stout wooden bowl holding several shiny pieces of fruit. A pair of glass-paneled doors at the back of the room, framed by curtains a shade darker than the walls, led to a small balcony. On the adjacent wall, behind another door that stood cracked open, was obviously the water closet—a candle flickered within, and Niel heard the soft trickling sounds of someone using a wash basin.
Arwin closed the apartment door and gestured toward the table, inviting Niel to sit. He pulled out one of the chairs and did so, disconcerted by how much it wobbled at the joints.
Arwin took a chair of his own, grabbed a pear from the bowl and considered it before asking loudly, “Peck go out?”
“Yup,” came a woman’s voice. “Jhar was here an hour ago or so, complaining about no one being able to fix his axe.”
Niel rolled his eyes. He carries a battle axe. Perfect.
Arwin bit into the fruit. “Yeah, we bumped into Jhar downstairs.”
“We?”
From the washroom appeared a brown-haired woman dressed in a long cotton tunic, hair bound away from her face, long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Dark green eyes shone beneath full brows and above a stern, slender nose. She dabbed her neck and chin with a hand towel.
“Who’s this?” she asked with a tilt of her head.
Arwin swallowed his bite. “This is Niel. Niel, Caleen.”
When Niel stood, Caleen took a half-step back.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
She gave a curt nod. “What is it you do, Niel?” Her voice was deep but not at all masculine, with an airy rasp and just a trace of accent.
Niel took his seat again. “Well, as of late, I get saved by Arwin a lot.”
Caleen allowed a smirk. She turned and sat on the corner of the nearest bed, facing them. The neck of her tunic opened as she rolled down her sleeves, giving Niel a glimpse of a massive, puffy scar jaggedly tracing the contour of her collarbone then disappearing into her modest cleavage.
“No,” Caleen said, “I meant by way of—”
She threw Arwin an incredulous look. “Tell me he’s not.”
Arwin grinned. “He is.”
Caleen dropped her head into her hands and groaned, her voice muffled by her sleeves. “I knew this would happen.”
Niel’s cheeks grew hot. He glanced uneasily at Arwin, who gestured all was well.
“Knew what would happen?” the swordsman asked.
Caleen clapped her hands to her thighs. “He’s a schoolboy.”
“Actually, he’s not.”
She looked at Niel. “How old are you?”
He shrugged. “Nineteen or so.”
She glared at Arwin. “A schoolboy.”
“Now wait,” Arwin said as he stood and walked over to the fireplace. “How old were you when you left home?”
“Not the same, and you know it.”
Arwin folded his arms. “He’s not that much younger than either of us.”
“If he were any greener, he’d sprout leaves.” she said. “He’s obviously never done a hard day’s ride, never been in—”
Caleen turned to Niel. “No offense, Magician, or Apprentice, or whatever you are, but anyone your age and in your line of work should be at the College. You’re not, and that’s unusual. I don’t trust unusual. Pretty safe bet that’s what the others will say.”
The door opened, and Jharal lumbered in. On seeing Niel he snorted and shook his head. A lean, smaller man entered close behind, dressed in a tight-fitting black tunic and tan breeches with black cloth boots. He wore a mustache and goatee a few shades darker than his short brown hair.
“Say about what?” the man asked.
Jharal went to the back of the room, unfastened his knife belt and shrugged out of his vest, then dropped them both to the floor before dropping himself onto his bed. “That’s who I was telling you about.”
The man glanced at Arwin, then at Caleen, then at Niel. “So let me guess: Cally hates the idea of you coming along for sundry reasons, all of which Arwin has been, or was about to be, refuting with his usual charisma and charm?”
He gave Niel a wink. Niel smiled despite the discomfort of the goings-on.
“Shut up, Peck,” Caleen said.
Peck waved his hand in the air. “Oh, by all means continue. Always up for a good floor show.” He seated himself at the table, produced a tiny throwing knife from someplace Niel hadn’t quite seen, then spun it like a top point-down in the center of his palm.
Arwin leaned against the mantle. “All I’m saying is that inexperienced or not, we need him.”
“No, what we needed was a magician who would be of use to us,” Called said. “That’s what you promised. That’s what you said would be ‘no trouble to find,’ to use your exact words. You know goo
d and well what’s ahead. You also know good and well that a novice magician is little help in a fight.”
“So we’ll be that much more careful,” Arwin said. “Honestly, I’m more concerned about moving around inside the ruins than I am about highwaymen on the way there.”
“I’m talking about the ruins, Arwin,” she hissed. “You think the savages are going to offer to watch our horses while we stomp around their territory?”
She stopped, collected herself, then continued more quietly, her face grim. “Look, Arwin, no one doubts your ability to clever your way out of anything that might come up. But do you ever wonder how much up to now has been dumb luck? How long do you think that luck’s going to hold up when you keep throwing caution to the wind like this? I don’t like it, and I don’t think we should go ahead with it until—”
Arwin pushed himself away from the fireplace. “Until what? Until some destitute master conjurer happens along looking for a jolly group like us to spend his days with? Sorry, Cally, but you’re liable to be disappointed.”
“What she means,” Jharal said, “is if it was anywhere up in the Lands we were hitting, it’d be different. But it’s not, and it’s a lot to ask to trust a boy with no experience on the road.” He narrowed his eyes at Niel. “He can’t even keep hold a cuppa wine. Not too sure I want to bet my hide on how good he is with a spell.”
As Arwin opened his mouth to respond, Niel spoke. “Excuse me…”
All eyes turned toward him, which made him suddenly aware how sweaty his feet felt inside his boots.
“Obviously, it’s true,” he said. “None of you know me. And I’ll grant that trust is something earned, not given. But I came here to save far more than I care to think about, and turning away now would throw away what little chance I have of getting back to where I belong. In other words, I’ve no choice in the matter.
“Incompetence is not always companion to inexperience,” he continued, cutting his eyes to Caleen then away again. “And yes, my skills are limited. But everything begins somewhere.” He looked down at his hands as he folded them on the table. “The way I see it, Arwin extended an invitation to me, personally. He never mentioned anyone else having to agree. So, I intend to travel with him. You may all, of course, do as you wish. But right now this, quite frankly, is all I have.”
A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) Page 6
