A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1)

by A. Christopher Drown

  “I’m not going to listen to this, Denuis. I realize you’re drunk or very close to it, but you’re also very close to heterodoxy, and I have an obligation to my office. As do you.”

  With that, she turned to leave.

  “Yes, you’re right. We mustn’t ever forget our sworn duties.” He returned his attention to the fireplace. “Speaking of which, my congratulations regarding Brother Sala. No doubt a well-deserved conviction.”

  On hearing Sala’s name Ennalen’s balance faltered.

  A loose stone beneath the rug, she told herself, but didn’t bother looking back to see.

  “Goodnight, Lord Magistrate,” she said.

  15

  Never, ever ask that again!

  Niel, being only five, couldn’t understand what had made Biddleby so angry—or was he frightened? All he had wanted to know was why his teacher glowed so much differently than any of the other magicians he’d seen, and the question sent Biddleby into an inhuman fury.

  Never, ever ask that again, boy! the old man shrieked as he shook Niel hard by the shoulders. Never, ever…

  ***

  Niel woke, unable to remember making his way to bed.

  He’d had the dream so often and for so long he couldn’t be certain which parts came from things he remembered, and which parts stemmed from his own imagination. There’d been something increasingly unusual about the dream in recent days, though. The image of his teacher’s face deformed with rage, the fear and shame at disappointing him—all had grown more vivid, more unnerving.

  Niel had long possessed the ability to recognize the magical shine of a person or object without need for incantation. He’d also long heeded the dream and had neither scrutinized nor divulged the peculiar talent. Some things were best left at face value, if not just left alone entirely.

  On the other side of the balcony door windows, darkness abated into a palette of dreamy, ambient blues. Niel stretched slowly, minding the tightening ache in his back. The blanket in which he’d wrapped himself hadn’t been as much cushion as he’d hoped. Or perhaps Jharal had clubbed him at some point during the night.

  He smiled, despite the pain prowling with sharp claws from the middle of his back into his shoulders. He sat up carefully, surprised to find himself wanting his straw mattress at home.

  Home.

  Niel sighed and cleared the thought from his head.

  The others, it seemed, had long been up and about. Their belongings formed a small pile near the table—sacks, pouches and a couple of rope-handled wooden boxes. Either he had slept deeply, or they’d gathered their things quietly to let him rest. Niel couldn’t imagine Jharal tip-toeing about the apartment to keep from waking him up, so he figured he’d slept through it all.

  He wondered why they hadn’t woken him to help pack.

  The morning air smelled heavy and pleasant with the rain that came overnight. Niel yawned, rubbed where his head had been pillowed by nothing but the floor, then groaned with a dreary realization: The streets in Trelheim were nothing but well-packed dirt. A night of rain would have turned everything to mud.

  He stood and stretched again, working his shoulders.

  “Good morning!” came Arwin’s disgustingly, obscenely cheerful voice.

  Niel glared over his shoulder. The soreness leaped from his shoulders into his neck, graduating from a dull ache to an honest-to-goodness strain.

  Arwin clapped Niel’s arm. “Don’t you look fresh as a spring flower.”

  Niel squinted.

  “Not a morning person, I see,” Arwin said.

  “Barely a person at all right now,” Niel croaked. “Where are the others?”

  Arwin stooped and picked up two of the canvas packs from atop the pile, shouldering the one with a strap and hoisting the other onto his head, the way Niel had seen servants carry large bundles of laundry. “Jharal and Cally have the wagon out front along with the horses.”

  “Wagon?” Niel asked through another yawn.

  Arwin raised his eyes toward the bag balanced on his head. “As fun as this looks, it doesn’t work very well on horseback.”

  Niel nodded. It made sense to have a wagon to move equipment from place to place—that, or haul along pack animals that had to be fed and tended.

  He rubbed his neck. “Any coffee around?”

  Arwin headed for the door. “Downstairs. And some fruit and bread, but be quick if you don’t mind. I convinced the others to let you sleep in, but we’ve got a long day ahead. We do need to leave soon.”

  Niel stopped massaging his collar and watched his companion duck to clear the door frame. “Arwin?”

  Arwin teetered around to face him. “Yes?”

  “You’ll understand if I say ‘thank you but don’t do that again,’ right?”

  Arwin gave an approving grin. “That was exactly what I’d hoped you’d say.”

  ***

  A quick face scrub with icy water from the clay basin washed Niel’s grogginess away. The intriguing hint of tea rose oil on the rough cloth helped, as well.

  He shook his head. Cally didn’t seem the type to bother.

  Heading down the stairs, Niel couldn’t help admiring the elegant craftsmanship of the railing one last time. He hadn’t noticed the auburn-tinted, mottled-glass window above the stairway the night before, and he enjoyed how the early light streaming in accented the warm, red highlights of the wood.

  The dark, charred aroma of coffee filled the Inn’s main parlor. Niel looked around, amazed at how different the room seemed when empty of thugs and the like, and not so amazed to see the same strange little man behind the bar as the night before.

  With a shrug he supposed he’d best get used to that sort of thing, given his new profession. Or more to the point, lack of one.

  He approached the bar and smiled, though the bartender’s eyes never left the scratched and pitted wood.

  “Coffee?” Niel said.

  The man produced from somewhere below a stout, steaming clay mug and set it gently in front of Niel.

  “How much?” Niel asked.

  The bartender held up his hand and shook his head. Niel hoped it meant Arwin had already taken care of it.

  He hefted the mug. Vanilla and a trace of brandy wafted up; most Southerners took their coffee that way. After a tentative touch of the coffee’s dark surface to his lips, he closed his eyes and sipped at the beautiful blackness, dabbling in the notion that things might not be as bad as he’d thought.

  “Niel!” barked a voice, startling him so badly he splashed what should have been a lovely, resuscitative swallow of coffee onto the bar.

  He turned to see a trace of satisfaction on Jharal’s wide face.

  “What?” Niel growled through gritted teeth, then immediately wondered how many steps it would take for Jharal to reach him and yank his head from his shoulders.

  Either Jharal didn’t notice Niel’s tone or didn’t care. “Get your ass out here now or I’ll be wearing it on the end of my boot.” He headed back outside.

  “Hey, Jharal?”

  Jharal stopped and scowled.

  “Thanks for letting me sleep in this morning,” Niel said, offering the most contemptuous smile he could muster. “That was really, really sweet of you.”

  Jharal remained for several moments, then turned and left.

  Niel continued to smile as he looked down into his mug, then tilted it to his mouth and took a long drink. It did taste as wonderful as it smelled, for which he gave thanks.

  Because given how the large, blue vein in the middle of Jharal’s forehead had begun throbbing before he left, Niel imagined his days of tasting things might soon be coming to an end.

  ***

  The mud Niel imagined as a waist-deep river of glop turned out to be not much of a concern. The thickest of it had gathered in the center of the trough-cut roads, leaving the sides considerably easier to travel.

  Above, the clouds were breaking, allowing the wet ground to warm itself. In an hour the grey
would be gone completely and the day looked as though it might be a pretty one.

  Jharal sat on the driver’s bench of a small flatbed wagon. Two dappled horses fidgeted side by side in a simple harness, mud caked up to their knees. Cally, going over the horses’ cinches, gave Niel a look somewhere between amusement and annoyance, then nodded good morning. In the rich yellow light of the early day, her face glowed.

  He nodded in return, then let his eyes dart to Jharal, who hadn’t turned around.

  Behind the wagon Arwin saddled a pair of horses, mirroring Cally in his attention to their tack. One of them was the beast that had nearly thrown Niel the day before. He rubbed his stiff neck again, then frowned at the thought of bouncing about the countryside on the monster’s back.

  Niel turned from the wagon and glanced about. “Where’s Peck?”

  Arwin grunted as he gave a final tug on the girth strap of Niel’s saddle. “He usually rides ahead. We won’t see him until tonight, most likely.” He patted the bay on the chest and tilted his head toward the animal. “Let’s go.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Niel placed his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up.

  ***

  Trelheim, the southernmost Lyrrian settlement in Aithiq, receded behind them amidst sparse farms and rough grassland. After an hour of travel, all signs of humanity had yielded to the thickening forest. Even the road ceased being more than a wide, mossy trail cutting through a steady crescendo of green.

  Niel rocked side to side on the back of his horse—which had behaved far better than expected—engrossed in the spell Arwin had asked that he learn before they arrived at the ruins: a spell for creating light.

  Magic in its written form placed both the literal and abstract under a single yoke, like a blend of dictionary and painting—broad strokes set the stage for meticulous exactness, and minute details led the reader to vast landscapes of possible interpretation.

  The Conjuring Light spell, a deceptively simple incantation that allowed luminescence from whatever small object the caster desired, provided a good example of that juxtaposition. The initial subject rune on the page indicated the element fire. While elemental runes contained tremendous power, in the case of this spell the predicate glyph immediately following the subject rune constituted a diminutive, leaving the call for fire both slightly and significantly altered. It worked, in effect, by using only a portion of the element’s overall properties—much like speaking the first syllable of a large word and still conveying a good sense of its meaning.

  From what Niel could tell, the spell when cast properly permitted a magician to produce light without heat. He smiled at the composition’s elegance and ingenuity. Unlike the scrolled version of the spell he’d carried in his pack, the author here had gone so far as to arrange the symbols in a shape representing infinity, with the last character leading back into the initial rune. In theory, the caster could produce light lasting forever, assuming one would care to put in the years necessary to reach that level of aptitude.

  Niel lowered the book and closed his eyes to quell a mild wave of nausea. As engrossing as he found learning a real spell, he would have happily exchanged a good portion of his exuberance for a cozy library and motionless desk.

  ***

  Cally rode to Jharal’s left, near enough the wagon so the two could talk. Niel watched their conversation as each took turns smiling and nodding.

  “They seem close,” Niel said to Arwin, who rode at his side.

  “I wouldn’t pick a fight with one while the other was nearby, if that’s what you mean,” Arwin replied.

  “No, I think there’s more to it than that.”

  Arwin’s eyes cut back and forth, as though he’d just learned of a terrible conspiracy. He leaned toward Niel. “You do?” he said in an overdone whisper.

  Niel ignored him. “How long have they known each other?”

  “Years. Well before they ran into me.”

  “Do you know how they met?”

  Arwin gave a smirk. “Why not ask Jharal?”

  “I’m not sure he’s in the proper frame of mind to entertain my questions. And rumor has it he may not like me.”

  Arwin laughed. “You could have a point.” He tightened the reins on his horse to slow it and allow Jharal and Cally to pull ahead a little further. Niel followed suit.

  “There,” Arwin said. “That’ll do.”

  Niel grinned. “Must be some story.”

  Arwin didn’t smile back. “I don’t divulge the affairs of others lightly, Apprentice. Everyone’s entitled to their privacy.”

  “If you’re betraying a confidence—”

  “No, that’s not it. But I’d rather not make anyone uncomfortable. I’m sure you’d expect the same consideration.”

  Niel nodded. “I suppose I would.”

  Arwin took the small waterskin hanging on the horn of his saddle and offered it to Niel. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Arwin pulled the stopper from the neck, took a long gulp, then closed it and replaced the skin. “Jharal and Cally served together in the house guard at Dehlmoor.”

  “That’s in eastern Lyrria?”

  “The very one. The captain of the guard, I forget his name— Biloff, Bilom, something like that—had served there for three generations of lords. He was well-loved by the family and respected by his men.”

  “Three generations? He must have been pretty old.”

  “Old, yes, but no less capable from what I understand, which served the house well in its long-standing feud with one of its neighbors.”

  “Which neighbor?” Niel asked.

  “I don’t recall. Now, even though Cally had been at Dehlmoor for only a short while, her skills and professionalism caught the attention of Captain Bilom—pretty sure it was Bilom, now that I think about it—and she quickly rose through the ranks. First, leader of her squad, then of her barracks, leapfrogging others who’d been there longer. She eventually found herself third in command of the entire house guard.”

  Niel looked at Cally. “That’s impressive.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I imagine that made the veterans unhappy.”

  “As things would have it, one soldier in particular had a hard time accepting Cally. Cray was his name. He’d been with the house guard for years and saw Cally as being in his way. According to Jharal, Cray and Cally had plenty of heated exchanges.”

  “Then Jharal served under her, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Jharal was a friend of Cray’s and part of his squad. Cray was fairly popular with the other soldiers, but Cally had the support of Captain Bilom. It was a stalemate, of sorts—Cally unable to gain the respect of the guard in general, and Cray having to subordinate himself to her.”

  “Surely Cally had the authority to be rid of him and let that be that.”

  Arwin chuckled. “Not quite so simple. One night, while Cray’s squad had watch, a small raiding team managed to slip into the castle. The alarm was raised and a fight ensued. The raiders were killed, but so were both Captain Bilom and his lieutenant. That left Cally in command of the house guard. The soldiers appealed to Cerbin, the lord of the castle, to reconsider putting Cally in charge, but since Bilom had placed her there, Cerbin decided that’s where she’d stay. Cally’s first act as captain was to dismiss Cray and his squad. She held them responsible for Bilom’s death and banished them from the territory.”

  “Including Jharal?”

  “Yup. But Cray didn’t go quietly. He accused her of arranging the assassination so she could take control of the house guard. It wasn’t true, of course, but it raised enough doubt to compromise her standing. The next day, in an effort to save face and begin rebuilding morale, Cally assembled the entire guard on the parade ground. Even Lord Cerbin attended, at her request. She announced her intention to do justice to the memory of their former captain, but she wanted it to be clear she was indeed in command. She offered any soldier who felt unable to accept her authority an opport
unity to honor out. Well, Cally—”

  “Wait,” Niel interrupted. “Honor out?”

  “For the most part house guards are comprised of professional soldiers. A portion of their pay—about a tenth or so—is considered an honor bond. It represents room, board, and whatever supplies are to be provided by the house. If during their service a soldier finds himself unable to finish out the contract, he or she can repay the house that amount and be honorably dismissed. It’s known as ‘honoring out.’ Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Cally underestimated Cray’s influence and the assembly turned out to be a huge mistake. Over half the garrison left, filing past one by one and dropping small bags of coins at Cally’s feet. There in front of everyone.”

  “Oh, no,” said Niel quietly. “What did she do?”

  Arwin shrugged. “The only thing she could do. That evening she presented the collected honor bonds to Lord Cerbin, along with her own. Humiliated, there was no way she could remain. So she left Dehlmoor that night.”

  “Then how did Jharal—”

  “I’m getting to that. Cray heard about her resignation and decided to go after her. He and three of his men, including Jharal, caught up with her the next night as she camped.” Arwin paused. “It was bad what they did to her, Niel. Very bad.”

  Niel sat, aghast. “Jharal? He didn’t—”

  “No, of course not. He stayed behind with the horses. Something you need to understand about Jharal is that he may be big and mean, but he’s not cruel, and that’s an important distinction. When he heard Cally’s screams, he went to stop Cray.”

  Niel blinked in disbelief. “He didn’t think to stop them beforehand? What did he think they were following her for?”

  “Chasing someone down to settle a difference is one thing. It’s what soldiers do sometimes, and Jharal knew that. If Cally died in a fight, then so be it, because to Jharal she was a soldier no different than he and deserved to be treated as such. But what Cray and the others were doing was another matter entirely.”

  “So what happened?”

  “From what I understand, Jharal pulled the first one off Cally so fast he broke the man’s neck. Cray turned on Jharal and the two of them whittled away at each other for a little while. Jharal’s strong, but he’s not the most nimble. Apparently, Cally managed to find a knife and throw it at Cray. Neither of them saw where he was hit. Jharal thinks it was somewhere in his face, but Cray ran away too fast to tell. Jharal was in no condition to go after him, and Cally had lost a lot of blood.”