“Why? What had they—?” Niel stopped himself. He looked toward Cally, then lowered his voice. “Her scar?” he asked, touching the bottom his neck.
Arwin nodded.
“Then what did they do?”
“Kept each other alive as best they could. They ended up in a village that happened to have a healer. It took some time, but they recovered. Like I said, that was a couple of years before Lodell and I ran into them.”
“What happened to Cray?”
Arwin shrugged. “I think he went back to the house guard with the others. Practically everyone who honored out returned after Cally left.”
They rode in silence for a short while.
“What are you thinking?” Arwin asked.
“About the contrast between Cally’s tale and my own.”
“Not to worry,” Arwin said. “We take pretty good care of each other out here.”
Niel managed a weak but genuine smile. “So the two of them, Cally and Jharal. They’re not…?”
Arwin chuckled. “Heavens no, friend. They’re close, mind you. But they’re comrades-in-arms, no more.”
Niel hesitated. “And you and she never…?”
Arwin placed his fingertips on his chest in dismay. “Sir, do you question my virtue?”
Niel shook his head and laughed.
“No, our relationship is very professional and occasionally friendly. But, there’s no denying she is a lovely woman.”
Niel gazed ahead. “She is, indeed.”
Arwin quirked an eyebrow. “Apprentice, do you have designs toward our fair Caleen?”
Niel scoffed. “You know good and well the College requires chastity of its Members.”
Arwin nodded seriously. “Of course, Apprentice. My apologies.”
The soft clomp of hooves filled the moments.
“Apprentice?”
Niel looked over.
“I haven’t noticed the College nearby as of late. Have you?”
Niel fixed his gaze forward with an indignant huff.
16
Ennalen again made sure she’d locked the workshop door. Yes, the rune above it would block anyone attempting to enter without permission, and yes, the Ministry aide posted outside her apartment would divert anyone seeking her out. But still, best to be certain.
She peeled back the layers of cloth draped across the cantle, taking care not to brush her skin against the stone itself. The jagged surface resembled quartz, save for its dark color. Curiously—and, excitingly—despite its perfect blackness she saw no reflection of herself in its glassy surface, no matter how closely she dared hold her face.
As with any proper research, the preliminary experiment would be simple. Using items of differing substances—a polished marble pestle, a wooden baton, and a nectarine from a basket of fruit on the windowsill—she would touch the surface of the gemstone, in two separate rounds, in order of least organic to most.
The first round would be done silently. For the second, Ennalen planned to repeat the cycle while uttering the Old Tongue phrase Ruath dem, an idiom that predated Canon and roughly translated as “Tell me.” Used in basic incantations as a preparative inquiry, the phrase also served as a component in detecting the magical shine of objects or people, which Ennalen thought might prove convenient. All in all, a harmless enough test.
First, she took up the pestle. The marble made a small tink as it tapped the cantle, but otherwise there seemed no effect.
Next, Ennalen touched the wood to the gemstone. The same.
Then, the nectarine. Nothing.
She suspected that would be the case, yet she could not help feeling a jab of disappointment. She dabbed her forehead, chiding herself for the nervous perspiration. After a moment to refocus, Ennalen then proceeded.
First, the pestle. “Ruath dem.”
No apparent effect.
The baton. “Ruath dem.”
And once more, nothing. Ennalen quashed a flash of discouragement.
The nectarine. “Ruath d—”
An explosion of light, a deafening burst of sound—
and so little warmth. For the time being the flesh beneath her skin remained lush and full, but deep inside her the cold rot spread. It had been countless days since she’d last had anything to drink, a mute infant plucked from the breast with only the stores of her body to sustain her as she began to shrivel and die. At her center the writhing became more insistent, more demanding. She could hear herself being devoured, could feel the meat being pulled away with an incessant scraping that consumed what precious little warmth remained. Louder, more ravenously, her innards were being reduced to a rancid pulp, bloating her with filth until
—she felt herself falling, tumbling.
And then all the world lay quiet and dark.
***
Distant pounding. And a far away voice.
Mistress?
Ennalen’s eyes fluttered open. She lay on the floor of her workshop. Rass knelt beside her, beyond arm’s reach.
“Mistress, may I help you up?”
“No,” Ennalen croaked as she pushed herself upright. Her lips stuck together with what smelled and tasted like drying vomit. She turned her head and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Also on the floor, the same distance as Rass but on the opposite side of her, lay the nectarine.
She leapt up in alarm. “How long have I been here?”
Rass rose as well. “The night, Mistress. It’s halfmorn.”
Halfmorn—three hours before noon. Which meant she hadn’t missed any of her scheduled appointments. She let out a sigh and relaxed.
“I took the liberty of relieving the young man outside your door,” Rass said as she replaced the cloth over the cantle and returned it to its case. “If you ask me, you should post someone less scrawny next time. And someone less prone to napping.”
Ennalen removed her soiled outer robe and strode through the open workshop door to her bedchamber, leaving Rass unattended—unthinkable with anyone else, but Rass’s conditioning permitted him neither to touch nor describe to anyone but her, in any way, anything within.
“Thank you, Rass,” she said, her voice still craggy, “but I don’t believe I will be asking you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he answered, oblivious to the barb. He followed her into her living quarters, then stationed himself by her chamber door while she washed and changed.
“Has anyone called for me?” she asked as she emptied a fresh pitcher into her washbasin.
“Your guard took a couple of names before I arrived,” Rass replied from beyond the doorway. “He gave them to me to relay.”
Ennalen splashed her face with several handfuls of cold water and immediately felt better. “You may read them,” she said, reaching for a towel. As she had many times prior, she congratulated herself for happening upon a servant who could read.
Paper crackled, then Rass began. “Chief Magistrate Tamias wishes to remind you he has yet to receive the report on your current case load.”
Ennalen smiled. Tamias was an obsequious fop who never tired of ingratiating himself to anyone who might one day be more important than him. As far as Ennalen was concerned, that included just about everyone.
Within the hierarchy of the Ministry, the Chief Magistrate was second only to the Lord Magistrate. Because of her close relationship to Denuis, though, Tamias lived in endless frustration trying to get Ennalen to defer to his rank, which provided her equally endless entertainment. In all her time at the Ministry, she had yet to prepare a single report for Tamias. Yet, each month he sent a reminder.
She could easily acquiesce; case load reports were relatively short and informal, and could even be prepared by a clerk if she wished. But it so amazed her how Tamias tolerated her blatant insubordination, Ennalen simply had to see how long it would last. On top of that, she enjoyed envisioning what his reaction would be when she informed him that Thaucian himself had removed her from her normal responsibilities—something she would ha
ve to do soon, but not quite yet.
“And who else?” she asked.
“An old man by the name of Biddleby.”
“A Member of the College?”
“It would seem so, Mistress. From the Midlands.”
Ennalen patted her chin with a towel. “What did he want?”
A pause. “He refused to state the nature of his business. Also, even though this Biddleby had originally arranged an appointment for a week from now, he arrived at the College early and demanded to meet sooner. He said it was urgent that he speak with you the moment you were available.”
She rolled her eyes. Country wizards. “I think our overwrought Brother Biddleby can wait until his scheduled time. Was that all?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then wait outside. I need a moment.”
She listened to Rass walk to the apartment’s entryway, open the door, then close it again behind him. Not only was he obedient, but he exercised an economy of speech she readily appreciated.
Ennalen finished dressing then returned to the workshop. The nectarine still lay where it had fallen. She hesitated, clenched her fists once in self-rebuke, then picked up the fruit and placed it on her workbench. She hefted a large knife from the row of instruments on the shelf in front of her, slid the blade into the fruit… and smiled as the knife sunk through the center where the pit should have stopped it.
Holding the halves together with her free hand Ennalen drew the knife out, wiped each side on a folded cloth, and returned it to its place on the shelf. She then pulled the fruit apart.
Its putrid center had been eaten away by a pair of swollen harvest worms.
Ennalen set the nectarine down as her vision went misty. She clasped her hands to her face.
Her conjured butterfly no longer merely flapped its wings.
It now promised to carry her wherever she wanted to go.
17
Arwin called a halt a few hours before sundown, which suited Niel fine. His neck no longer ached, but his backside felt like someone had spent the day dragging him by his ankles down an endless flight of stairs.
They’d come to a small field, surprising given how thick the forest had grown. When the group began making camp inside the tree line, Niel asked why not sleep in the middle of the clearing instead. Arwin explained the clearing would be difficult to cross without being noticed. Anyone sneaking up on them would have to stick to the woods for cover, which would make an approach more difficult and meant less area for the group to watch. The answer impressed Niel. He wondered how many times he’d left himself vulnerable on his journey through Lyrria by merely stepping off the path and curling up to sleep under a tree.
Jharal and Cally unhitched the team from the wagon, removed their bulky gear and replaced it with simple rope halters. Niel helped Arwin unsaddle the three riding horses, then arranged the tack neatly alongside the wagon upside down to let the padding dry. They hitched the horses to a clump of trees with enough line to let them graze.
“No tent?” Niel asked Arwin.
Arwin shook his head. “If you suddenly need to defend yourself in the middle of the night, you don’t want to have to kick your way out of a tent first.”
“I see,” Niel said, a touch disappointed. He’d never slept in a tent before.
“Not to worry, though. It’ll be clear enough, and shouldn’t be too cool. We’ll roll out blankets by the campfire. If it rains, we can all fit pretty well under the wagon and pull the tarp out for an awning. Which reminds me,” Arwin added. “Go grab Jharal and help gather firewood. I need to go over a few things with Cally about tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?”
“We need firewood. For the fire.”
“In case you haven’t been paying attention,” Niel said, “Jharal and I are experiencing a little turmoil in our relationship.”
Arwin smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard that. But you can’t avoid him forever.”
“I’ve always felt it’s the attempt that matters more than the result.”
The swordsman headed for Cally, leaving Niel alone.
Niel looked at the giant of a man sitting cross-legged on the grass beside the array of tack, sharpening his newly repaired axe. He supposed a chicken felt much the same way when the cook ventured out into the yard.
“Hey, Jharal?” he called in a chummy tone and trotted the short distance between them. “Arwin asked me to give you a hand in getting some firewood.”
Jharal made a long scrape with his whetstone. “Did he, now?”
“So, what do you say? Not much light left.”
Jharal blew across the axe’s blade, gave each side a perfunctory once over, then leaned it upside down against a nearby stump. He stood, towering over Niel, and slapped the dust from his trousers.
“Sounds delightful,” he said, pulling his lips into a frightful grin. “Let’s go.”
Niel stepped back. He pointed at the axe. “Don’t you need that?”
“Oh no. Won’t need any help from that. As an old, bandy-legged friend taught me a long time ago: that’s a weapon, not a tool. I think I’ll do just fine using my bare hands.” Jharal cracked his knuckles for punctuation, then gestured toward the darkening trees.
***
Niel ambled along in the deepening evening, grateful he still had all his limbs.
He smiled at the pun.
Jharal strode a few paces behind, carrying a mammoth armload of fallen branches, sticks, and other sundry pieces of dead wood that Niel had collected. Niel had made a few attempts at conversation, some of them sincere, but Jharal refused to engage in discussion.
They approached the edge of the forest. Niel could see the outlines of the horses near the campsite. He glanced down to step over a small, fallen bough, then decided to pick it up and add it to the firewood instead.
When he bent over, Jharal’s boot caught him hard in the seat of his pants. The kick sent him sprawling into a tree, making him crack his head against one of its many jutting roots.
Niel sat up, rocking slowly back and forth, cradling the side of his face with both hands.
Jharal crunched his way over and squatted without setting down his load of wood. “I have your attention?” he asked quietly, though not quietly enough to soften the menace in his voice.
Niel nodded, his head throbbing.
“Good, because I’ll say this once: I’ve waded through too much blood and shit to ever, ever take lip from a child, magician or no. I don’t care if you are smarter than me, boy. Let fly another bit of sass like you did this morning about letting you sleep in, and I’ll chop you in half so fast the last thing you’ll ever wonder is why you’re suddenly face down across your own ass. Do you understand?”
In his nearly twenty years, Niel had managed to go without once having his life threatened. In the past several days he’d achieved it three times by as many people. Captain Jorgan had been likely more growl than gore, and the thugs in Glensdyl hadn’t actually threatened him regardless of their intent, but nothing in Jharal’s tone or expression—clear, even in the frail light—suggested anything but perfect seriousness.
“I understand,” Niel said. “I do.”
Jharal glared a moment more then gave a curt nod. He stood, knees popping, and stepped over Niel to continue on.
Niel listened to the big man’s rustling footfalls fade, then winced as he pressed at the small but painful swelling beneath his left eye.
He wondered what Biddleby’s reaction would be when the College sent word his apprentice had disappeared. Anger? Shame? Would the old man mourn him at all, or simply shrug away the loss and begin anew?
Niel stood, brushed himself off and started back for camp as well, all at once feeling a very long way from home.
***
If he wasn’t going to bed then he should have been studying the spell book, but Niel didn’t feel like doing either. Instead he sat with his back against a massive log Jharal had dragged over, and watched a tiny flurry of fireflies in the last
of the waning light.
“You have the appearance of someone deep in thought,” Arwin said as both he and Peck approached.
“As dark as it is, I’m surprised you can tell,” Niel replied.
“Easily remedied, Lord Elder,” Peck said, crouching beside the knee-high arrangement of sticks and broken branches. With a drop of lighting oil onto a wide leaf and a stroke of flint from his tinderbox, Peck coaxed a comforting fire into being.
“So,” Arwin asked as the two settled themselves on either side of Niel, “anything in particular causing your pensiveness?”
“Aside from everything, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, belated as this may seem, my unexpected chat with Jharal made me aware—”
“Painfully aware,” Peck offered.
“—that I may have followed you all the way out here, but I don’t know the first thing about any of you.”
Arwin shrugged. “I’d say you know pretty much all that matters. But like I said: If you have questions, ask.”
“All right,” Niel said. “How about why you became an explorer?” He had nearly said adventurer again.
Arwin gave a wry grin. “Oh. That.”
“You promised specifics if I came with you to Trelheim, since your answer back on the Alodis wasn’t the most enlightening.”
Peck nudged Niel’s arm with his elbow. “This is a good one. You’ll like this.”
“Well,” Arwin said. “Suffice it to say I’m the son of a nobleman. And, believe it or not, one-time heir to a moderately significant territory in Lyrria.”
“Which territory?” Niel asked.
“It doesn’t matter. A long-lived point of contention between my father and me was that my interest in the aristocracy was slight at best. It frustrated him that instead of attending various councils and meetings to learn the art of statecraft, I chose to gallivant around the countryside in search of… well, in search of anything else.
A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) Page 12
