A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1)

by A. Christopher Drown

  From two shall spill the heart forever broken

  From yourselves shall spill your undoing.

  Thaucian observed that the meter of the poem, when counted out and applied to a formula concealed amongst the text, corresponded to coordinates on a crude map in a preceding volume. Those coordinates indicated the geographic location of the College. Along with myriad other excerpts and illustrations, the hand-picked clues in Thaucian’s research more or less supported his belief that the Apostate would soon in some unique way distinguish himself, expose the College as a decaying home to fraud and duplicity, and then be so inconsiderate as to wage war upon it. The Apostate would bring them all to their knees just as all the nursery rhymes claimed, and in the process somehow finish the task begun by Uhniethi a thousand years ago.

  Storybook characters keep busy schedules, she thought.

  She smiled at that and stretched, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, then mused with impish pettiness whether the Lord Elder resented being unable to garner accolades for having penetrated so deeply into Herahm’s enigmatic work.

  So, a mage of none magic. A commoner? An apprentice?

  Thaucian had concluded the former. She conceded it made sense someone destined to rise up against the College would be unindoctrinated by it, but to Ennalen it made more sense that a person posing any credible threat would require at least minor training as a magician.

  That was where she would begin.

  A few dozen freshmen arrived each semester, so conducting a meaningful person-to-person investigation without sacrificing discretion would be impossible. That meant the coin in the button barrel suddenly seemed a diamond in the snow.

  Or a sliver of gemstone on the Black Plains, she thought.

  The first principle impressed upon young Magistrates implored them never to ignore the obvious, no matter how inconvenient it might be to their preconceptions. Even with her robust doubts, Ennalen could not simply dismiss the coincidental timing of Thaucian’s request.

  The Apostate, as proffered in the text before her, likely represented nothing more than the growing senility of a very old man. Then again, as she had earlier contemplated, the task put to her by Denuis might be a twisted ruse to distract her from her scheme.

  Until she determined which was the case, if either, she would play the role expected of her and learn what she could. If she found Thaucian’s work had merit, then she would have acquired advance knowledge of the most serious conceivable threat to her intentions: to take the College by force and position it for the greatness to which it, and she, had been so long entitled. If she found otherwise, then at worst she would have bought time to fortify her own plans.

  For the time being, it looked to Ennalen the quickest way out would be through.

  She yawned again, stretched, rose from her desk, and despite the cold stepped barefoot out onto her balcony, taking up the ancient book she had left on the shelf near the doorway.

  Leaning against the ledge, she brooded a short while until a tiny, dark shape appeared on the walkway below and approached the Ministry of Law.

  Her pulse quickened.

  Finally.

  Ennalen clutched her book as every trace of her previous doubt and consternation suffered a swift demise. A wide smile pushed across her face from an uninhibited rush of genuine excitement, and a sing-song thought suddenly pranced about her head:

  A mouse barely able to budge a weight was about to move the world.

  ***

  As a whole the Membership detested, and thus willfully disregarded, the fact that nearly all humans, peasant and lord alike, exhibited at least some small aptitude for magic, much as most people cannot play a musical instrument but when the mood suits them can adequately whistle a tune. Even that unconscious capacity creates a detectable aura about a person, referred to by magicians as one’s shine.

  As a magician grows stronger in Canon he becomes more adept at perceiving the shine of others; some elder Members were able to do so even without benefit of incantation. However, every so often the odd person turned up having not the slightest aptitude for magic, thus lacking even the dimmest shine—someone deaf to magic, as it were; one who cannot help whistling off key, provided he can whistle at all.

  The utter absence of magical capacity in a person often had a convenient corollary for magicians: that individual’s higher sensitivity to ensorcellment. Rass was such an individual.

  Ennalen happened upon Rass three years prior, during her return from a village whose appointed magician had been accused of some unpleasant business—none but a Magistrate could sit in judgment of a Member of the College. She discovered Rass splayed across an isolated dirt road, no fewer than three arrows in his back and suffering numerous broken bones. Given his pallor she’d been surprised and impressed to find him still breathing.

  Surprise turned to amazed glee when she realized the reason she had thought him dead was because he did not shine at all.

  To protect her find, Ennalen traveled at night for the remainder of her journey, literally dragging Rass back to the College. There she restored him to health and, through a complex regimen of potions and charms, carefully conditioned him so that by the time he recovered, Rass had been reshaped and bound as her willing, obedient servant.

  Rass was no automaton, though; he required his own reasoning and skills to survive the extended amounts of time he spent away from Ennalen doing her bidding.

  Nor was Ennalen’s hold on him unbreakable; during his travels Rass might encounter someone or something from his past carrying a heavy enough emotional resonance to undo her work. But until that day he would carry out her instructions to the best of his abilities, with little or no question, even if doing so meant dying.

  Ennalen hoped it would not come to that. Which was by no means sentimentality; merely practicality. She had invested a great deal of time and effort in Rass, after all.

  Neither was it sentimentality that brought delight because Rass had finally returned. And when Rass held out to Ennalen the item she had sent him to retrieve, delight moldered to perverse joy.

  ***

  A revelation born of Ennalen’s recent cloister in the depths of the Main Library was that the Devastation unleashed by Uhniethi a millennium prior had been far worse than the College ever disclosed. In fact, the event left the College a mere breath from ruin.

  Physical damage and death toll aside, with the Board of Elders decimated, senior Members spent more time squabbling over claims toward seats on a new Board than addressing reconstruction. The courtliness with which the College had once conducted itself degenerated into thuggery.

  In time a fragile sense of order took hold, but the task of rebuilding and restoring the College forced a dire issue for its new leadership: How could something like the Devastation be prevented from ever happening again? To answer that, as well as to gain insight into how Uhniethi achieved the monumental feat in the first place the new Lord Elder, Bradias the Fourth, dispatched a secret expedition to the Black Plains, the territory that had once been Talmoor.

  The excursion yielded an amazing find—a sliver of ebony gemstone. More remarkable than so small a thing being noticed amidst the scabrous wasteland of the Plains was the serendipitous—and in Ennalen’s opinion, quite humorous— discovery of the stone’s nature.

  Two of the three members of the expedition deeply disliked one another. The young woman who discovered and held the sliver found the ceaseless bickering unbearable. She finally lost her temper, shouted for the others to be quiet, and was startled when they instantly did exactly that. Frightened further by their vacant, bewildered expressions the young woman demanded repeatedly that her companions tell her what was wrong—but neither responded.

  Not knowing what else to do she bound the mute pair with rope and towed them back to the College. There Bradias’s personal physicians concluded the minds of the two had been so perfectly emptied of the capacity for language that likely neither could ever be retaught to speak, not eve
n through magical means.

  Bradias appointed a circle of advisors to test the fragment from the Black Plains. Rigorous scrutiny revealed the stone amplified the intent of anyone with even a modicum of magic-making ability. Nearly anyone in possession of the stone would be able to produce spectacular magical acts, whether or not he or she had formal schooling.

  Ironically, all attempts by known means to detect the presence of magic within the stone proved fruitless. Furthermore, the advisors surmised that the sliver belonged to a much larger whole, and that its properties were directly related to its size. Citing historical texts, they concluded the College had acquired evidence the mythical jewel known as the Heart of the Sisters might actually exist.

  Bitter debate had raged since the Devastation over what had granted Uhniethi the unprecedented powers he wielded that day, because nothing within Canon could account for it. As fantastical as it sounded, a fragment of the Heart seemed a feasible answer. Moreover, according to legend the Heart was enormous. Given the potency of the sliver retrieved from the Black Plains, logic held that if Uhniethi had possessed all of what remained of the Heart, the entire world might have suffered the same fate as Talmoor. That the world still looked much as it always had suggested the majority of the Heart still waited to be found—a theory Lord Elder Bradias made into his life’s work.

  Using all means at his disposal, Bradias methodically rid himself of anyone with even cursory knowledge of the stone. Magical items not created through Canon fell within the scope of heterodoxy which not even the Lord Elder could circumvent with impunity, so Bradias kept his aims concealed. Legalities aside, revealing the Heart’s existence doubtlessly would have enticed others to seek it. Bradias knew that even a few magicians recovering pieces of the Heart—cantles, as they had come to be called—would not only tear the dressings from the College’s barely mended wounds, but the bedlam sure to follow would make Uhniethi’s Devastation seem like a child’s tantrum.

  Ennalen gazed with adoration at the dark stone resting on her workbench—no mere sliver, but rather, easily the size of her fist—and reveled in the mental image of herself standing triumphant amidst the upheaval Bradias once so feared.

  “How near the Wall was this again?” she asked Rass, though she already knew the answer. It had been she who pinpointed its location, after all.

  Rass stepped to Ennalen’s side. “A day’s ride at most.”

  The massive western boundary known only as the Black Wall ran the entire north-south span of the continent, delineating where the human-dominated Lands ended and the strange realms of the Outer Kingdoms began. The most popular tale behind its construction was that Uhniethi, after his single-handed destruction of Talmoor, fled on horseback from what remained of Lord Juleon’s forces. The ragged army had nearly caught the wizard when he thrust his arms up to the sky. Deafening thunder rattled the earth, and from thin air the Wall had solidified. Some versions of the story claimed that half the pursuing soldiers were trapped within. Some versions said all.

  The Wall at one time had been a single, continuous length of rock more than ten men high. But because of its lack of magical properties, as well as its gradual deterioration—several large sections had crumbled away entirely—the Membership’s long-standing consensus was that not only did Uhniethi likely have nothing to do with the structure’s creation, but that the Black Wall probably predated the razing of Talmoor by centuries.

  Regardless, as another link to a lengthening chain of coincidence, her fragment’s proximity to the Wall piqued Ennalen’s interest.

  Rass, perceptive despite the enchantments under which he labored, offered assurance. “I still say that given our method, we were bound to run up against the Wall sooner or later.”

  Ennalen turned to him, amused. “You say that, do you?”

  Rass bowed his head, not from embarrassment, but from how the literal-mindedness his conditioning commanded often made responding to sarcasm difficult.

  “How do you intend to proceed with our other business?” he then asked.

  “Yes,” Ennalen said with a sigh of disgust, “the fairy tale.”

  She pinched the corners of the soft, black cloth in which her cantle nestled and carefully folded them around the stone.

  “I think another visit with the Lord Magistrate is in order before I decide my course,” she said. “Now that I have this, all the more reason not to rush headlong.”

  Something inside her winced at the decision, like a child not wanting to finish a chore before being allowed to go play. But Denuis’s demeanor since assigning her the task of uncovering the Apostate had taken on an uncharacteristic melancholy, and like the cantle’s nearness to the Wall, the timing of his shift in mood warranted attention.

  “Well,” Rass said, “I’m certain whatever direction you take will be most impressive.”

  Of the many ways his servitude manifested itself, Rass’s tendency toward ingratiation was easily Ennalen’s favorite. She offered her most practiced smile.

  “I could not agree more,” she said.

  13

  Niel stacked his supper bowl onto the serving tray near the door and rubbed at his lower back. He wondered if being bounced around on horseback had bruised something. After a long stretch, he walked to where his bedroll lay.

  “Before we head out, Apprentice…” Arwin began.

  Niel looked up from his things to the table where the group sat. “Yes?”

  Arwin folded his hands. “I wonder if you might step onto the balcony for some fresh air. There’s a matter I need to discuss with the others. Won’t take long.”

  Niel glanced at them in turn. “Sure,” he said, then went outside, closing the balcony doors behind him.

  Evening had deepened to a flat tint of navy soaking everything he could see. The night air held a rigid chill. Back home, frost probably shimmered across the ground. Maybe even the first dusting of snow.

  He crouched on the tiny porch and wrapped his arms around himself. One street over, shopkeepers lit the few working street lamps. Niel wondered why they bothered.

  He looked at the sky. Indigo clouds spilled in from the north. The glow of the moons just barely pushed through the approaching cover, and he idly pondered how ship captains navigated on such nights.

  Niel settled back against the wall, perturbed.

  What was Arwin up to now? Had he changed his mind about having him along? Surely the incident on the horse hadn’t done it—that hadn’t been his fault. True, he wouldn’t be winning any equestrian trophies anytime soon, but at least he showed he could keep from being thrown.

  No, that couldn’t be it. What, then? Was it that he’d balked at the mention of theft?

  The balcony door squeaked, making Niel jump. Peck peered down at him, aghast. “What are you doing out here without your mittens? Don’t you realize how cold it is?”

  Niel smirked at the motherly melodrama and followed Peck inside.

  The others still sat at the table. Arwin gestured toward the empty chair.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Can the execution at least wait until dawn?” Niel asked, surprising himself with the animosity in his tone.

  “At least,” Arwin said. “Sorry for asking you to step out, but in a moment you’ll understand.”

  “Let me guess. A new proposal?”

  “You might call it that. But first let’s be frank and start with a few truths.”

  Niel crossed his arms. “Let’s.”

  “For the moment, you are an apprentice magician without means,” Arwin said. “Do you think that a fair assessment?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “Good. Now, we here have no formal vow of unity here, no sacred bond compelling us to stay together. What keeps us tied to one another, romantic as it may sound, is a simple love of freedom and adventure. And, of course, profit, when it happens our way.”

  Niel glanced at Peck, who tilted his head in agreement.

  “It’s vital that we be able to
trust one another,” Arwin continued, “to know that even when we have our differences, out in the field those differences are set aside and we focus on the goal at hand. Because on more than one occasion, that goal has simply been to stay alive.”

  Niel’s temper rose. “Are you saying that after coming all this way you don’t think you can trust me?”

  Jharal’s voice rumbled forth. “If you’d shut your hole, little toad, and get that snotty look off of your face, you might hear what he’s trying to say.”

  Niel glared at the bearded man, a stinging retort on his tongue, but the fierceness of Jharal’s eyes made him reconsider.

  “Niel,” Caleen said, her voice mild, “just listen.”

  “I can imagine how difficult all this has been for you,” Arwin said with a sigh. “Everyone at this table at one time or another has had to leave something important behind. It must be terrible, putting it lightly, to be an apprentice magician suddenly without the slightest chance of furthering his abilities.”

  The statement cut Niel deeply with its exactness, and because it came from someone he thought couldn’t possibly have understood.

  Arwin gave a long exhale. “You recall the friend I mentioned aboard Jorgan’s ship?”

  “Yes,” Niel said. “The magician.”

  “His name was Lodell. We knew each other as children. He felt very differently about the College than you, and when we were old enough he and I left home to seek our fortune. Luckily, his teacher was quite the radical and provided him with a spell book to help him on his way.”

  Niel had never heard of a confirmed magician actually allowing his apprentice to forgo the College, let alone simply giving away something as precious as a spell book.

  Arwin went on. “One day we came to a small town in the South and decided to stop and rest. You’re no doubt aware how unpopular magicians are with Southerners, so we made sure Lodell looked like any other traveler.”

  He paused and took a swallow of wine from the tankard in front of him. “We got a room. Lodell went downstairs to the tavern to have a drink while I stayed with our things. I’d just dozed off when suddenly there was shouting and banging all around. I grabbed my sword and ran to the stairs. Half-way down I saw Lodell lying face-up on the floor, staring at me, a dagger in his throat. Next to him was a charred body. Someone either picked a fight with him or sensed what he was or both, and Lodell managed the only spell he really knew—a Burn spell, to make lighting campfires easy. And then they killed him.