A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1)

by A. Christopher Drown

  She blew out her candle and set it aside, heaved the first volume from the row of books and laid it flat in front of her. Mindful of the brittle bindings, she creaked open the colossal tome, paying special attention that her gloved fingers did nothing to damage the fragile paper inside.

  Then, Ennalen set herself to scrutinizing every stroke of every character on every page.

  ***

  Halfway through the second volume, having no idea how many hours she’d pored over Herahm’s scrawl, Ennalen found what she sought.

  On the right-hand page rambled a diagram of various, interconnecting geometric shapes outlined with indecipherable mathematical formulae, all of which spiraled inward to an infinitesimal size. That the old Lord Magistrate could have produced writing so small given the parchment’s coarseness intrigued her, but the color of the diagram was even more significant—a deep brown with the barest undertone of red.

  Herahm’s own blood.

  Ennalen shook back the gaping sleeves of her robe, removed her gloves and folded them neatly, then placed them on the pedestal near the extinguished candle. Without hesitation or ceremony, she rested her palms flat on either page of the great, open book.

  And the universe fell apart.

  ***

  WHY nigeb a three he halt HAVE ot YOU tey COME sah HERE eno detah eht fo eugnot eht morf edivid HE taerg SCREAMED eht elate hath her erehw AS kees HE as ministerially south SHOOK seek HER sdrow eugav naelc ruop where MERCILESSLY the BY great THE divide ecnaillirb dna wodahs fo THROAT has DO yet YOU tile vein i hush to NOT begin uoy REALIZE lliw HE evah WILL throwaway hound hive thee hcum DESTROY ot a slice my very one YOU od nehw ehtab thgim eno os AS uoy seek nekawa eat her health where HE one HAS the US great togetherness fallen i ALL divide ereh has yet SHE to begin you sderhs otni nettib gnieb saw eno sa gnimoc TRIED will yb hereafter coy ones AND die etaf TRIED you collapse sane hen ruoy BUT are laes SIMPLY already earth he lathe uoy COULD dead draziw NOT—

  —get away.

  ***

  She huddled in a corner, too terrified to move. Even if she could have moved, Ennalen feared learning the lamp had not gone out, but rather she had gone blind.

  She tasted salty wetness on her face and lips—tears, blood, both; she couldn’t tell nor did she care. The cold, engulfing blackness did not merely surround her; it penetrated straight through. It had emptied her of all but a petrifying hopelessness that whispered in grating voices like bags of broken glass and promised never, ever to leave.

  She had no sense of how long she had been there. Most likely she would die there, alone, consumed by the utter darkness chewing at her from both inside and out.

  Seek where…

  The brutal cacophony that had roared through her mind had been the mad chorus of a single voice echoing back endlessly upon itself, a rampage of anguish that for a thousand years had awaited a channel through which it might be heard.

  Seek where the great divide…

  Once it finally found that conduit in the form of Ennalen, the barrage pent up for all those centuries let loose, nearly obliterating her in the process.

  But in the midst of the chaos, through the deafening rant of endlessly disparate yet unified pleas, there had been one distinct, subtle message that had made its way through.

  Seek where the great divide has yet to begin.

  The darkness lifted and before her took the shape of a great falling gem.

  It’s me, Ennalen thought.

  An elation of clarity filled her being, just as her cackles filled the barren chamber.

  “It’s ME!”

  25

  Most who spent their lives studying magic believed their pursuits superior in both relevance and peril to the rest of academia, and therefore deserved instant respect from those not of their ilk. Niel had always taken pride in his goal to be a magic-user, but had never developed a liking for such snobbery, especially given the healthy amount of superstition that still thrived within the field of conjuring arts.

  Uhniethi easily counted as the most conspicuous of those superstitions.

  Niel had no quarrel with the existence of an actual, historical Uhniethi who inspired all the stories he had heard, but he’d never believed in the monster portrayed in those tales. Rather, he’d relegated such things to traditions perpetuated by people with neither the capacity nor interest to seek the truth.

  Now he wondered whether he’d been remiss.

  While every odd coincidence did not conceal deeper meaning, only the willfully obtuse ignored the significance of the Galiiantha having their own tales about Uhniethi. But did that allow for Niel to be somehow entwined with stories he himself had discarded as overwrought myth?

  He knew the trust and credence Lleryth stirred might well be a product of the Galiiantha’s enigmatic other magic. Though unable to articulate why, that notion didn’t fully ring true for Niel.

  He tried to imagine what advice Biddleby might have. Likely, something along the lines of: Sometimes the quickest way out is through. So get going.

  Niel let out a long breath. “What is it you would have me do?”

  “Not I,” Lleryth said, wagging a finger. “This is not my doing. I am every bit the player here that you are, and I have been given certain… limitations. While I will do all I can to aid you beforehand—and, the Great Tree willing, afterward—once you are in the thick of things, I can neither advise nor assist.”

  Niel wrapped his arms tightly around himself and mulled Lleryth’s words.

  “Fine,” he said, surprised by the fresh determination in his voice, “then I want to see my friends.”

  Lleryth gave a small, satisfied smile.

  ***

  Watching Lleryth on the way down from the study went a long way toward alleviating the knots in Niel’s innards. The elderly Galiiantha took his time reaching the bottom of the great staircase—neither from age nor infirmity, but because he engrossed himself in the engraved characters on the walls. Occasionally, Lleryth stopped to trace an icon with his fingers and let out a joyful hoot.

  Behind Niel followed the same five soldiers who had dragged him into the city, with the noticeable absence of Riahnn. He wondered if her whereabouts involved whatever business she claimed to have with him. He would have asked Lleryth but could not bring himself to interrupt the old man’s infectious exhilaration. Niel tried to imagine how long it had been since Lleryth had seen those markings, then considered the markings might not even have existed the day Uhniethi imprisoned him.

  They reached the set of doors leading out to the city proper, and the pleasant distraction came to an abrupt end. Another detachment of Galiiantha awaited. Each of the three wore a thin sword. The two standing behind their blond leader held wicked-looking longbows with arrows already nocked, though pointed downward.

  “Keeper,” the leader said as he bowed his knee then stood, his face dour with concern—not at all the reaction Niel expected from someone witnessing Lleryth emerging from his room for the first time in centuries. “I’m afraid something’s gone wrong.”

  “Something?” Lleryth asked.

  The soldier threw an uncertain glance at Niel. “I think you should come to the lower plaza and see for yourself.”

  “Ah, the plaza,” Lleryth said with a frown and nod.

  “What is it?” Niel asked.

  Lleryth patted him on the arm. “I believe your friends have decided to add to an already interesting day.”

  ***

  Chael stretched out into the cool, sapphire hues that followed the breaking morning, a marvel of elegance and architecture. Round, stacked shops and homes hugged the immense trunks. Hundreds of arched bridges—vine-draped and, like the staircase in the tree, without railings—connected structures from branch to branch, from tree to tree. Similar walkways crisscrossed in all directions, each lined with intricate, wrought iron posts topped with oblong glass bowls holding not candles, but floating points of blue-white light. Open aqueducts shaped into the bark quietly drove humble wat
er wheels or fed delicately ornate fountains. Niel peered over the side of the platform on which they stood and saw a corralled herd of the great elk-like creatures Riahnn rode.

  Ambrosial scents from the Forest sweetened the air and mingled with tantalizing, oniony smells of cooking being done close which made Niel’s belly tighten and mouth water. Hundreds of curious faces peered from open windows and cracked doorways. On several of the bridges above a few dozen archers stood poised, bows drawn and at the ready. While most faced away and aimed at an unseen point on the walkway ahead, the remainder aimed directly at them.

  Or rather, at him.

  The blond Galiiantha turned to Lleryth and again barely acknowledged Niel when he spoke. “Another outsider somehow entered the city unseen by the wards and freed the others. There was a small scuffle.” He set his jaw. “They took a captive.”

  Niel was aghast. The idea of Arwin holding someone hostage unnerved him. Perhaps he did not know his companions nearly as well as he thought.

  He strained to see where the remaining archers had trained their weapons—a small shop tucked in an alcove several hundred paces away.

  “May I speak to them?” he asked Lleryth.

  “I would prefer, Keeper,” the blond one said, “that you stay here. Going closer might put you at risk should my archers have to act.”

  “Thank you, Briajl,” Lleryth replied, “but I’m confident it won’t come to that.”

  Lleryth looked at Niel. “Before you may convince another of anything, you must first believe it yourself. We have arrived at the start, Niel. Everything to come will depend on now. Do you understand?”

  Niel stood quietly. Did he?

  There are going to be times, Arwin had said, when the only thing you can do is act to stay alive for a few more moments, in hopes that those few moments will offer an opportunity to save yourself.

  Niel believed that going along with Lleryth’s claims for the time being offered the best way out of their situation. That would have to suffice.

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

  “Then go,” Lleryth replied, “and let us begin.”

  ***

  “We’ll meet an hour outside of Fraal along the Old Highway. From there, the Plains. You understand what is expected of you?”

  “Of course, Mistress.”

  Ennalen ceased packing her satchel and straightened, eyebrow raised. She heard impatience in Rass’s reply, though his face held no hint of such. He looked as placid and vacuous as always.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “Go.”

  Rass bowed, turned on his heel, and was gone.

  Ennalen went to her shelves for what she pledged would be the final time. Speed would be vital once she left the College grounds, and she only had room to carry the minimal essentials—a cloak, some gold, a small dagger, some provisions. But old habits demanded one last perusal of her belongings, since more than likely once she was gone, so too was whatever she left behind.

  In the immediate aftermath of the Devastation, anything suspected of being associated with Uhniethi was done away with in a great bonfire at the center of campus. She could only assume—and hope—the same fate would befall her own possessions if all went as she believed it should. Nonetheless, she disliked the idea of irreplaceables being lost simply because they once passed through her hands.

  The ancient magician’s name brushing her mind excited Ennalen’s pulse and forced a grin she didn’t bother to restrain; where she’d arrived through both choice and chance might indeed have been outlandishly far afield from what she had envisioned, but she could not deny the utter rightness of the place she now was, of where she would soon be. Thus, there was also no point denying how delightful her growing exuberance felt, especially in private.

  As Ennalen decided once and for all that nothing on her shelves would especially pain her to be without, there came from the corridor outside her apartment a sudden volley of voices. Though muffled by the heavy wooden door, the exchange was clearly sharp in tone, even hostile.

  The notion of conflict jabbed at the increasingly volatile proclivities snarling inside her. She turned to investigate, but a tiny thing caught her eye from the bookcase by which she stood. She reached up and retrieved a small tangle of cord tucked into the corner, and very nearly laughed out loud at the ludicrous symbolism that leapt upon her from the object in her palm—the harness once used for the mouse in her long-ago levitation experiment.

  Ennalen regarded the thin leather strands, now stiff and brittle with disuse, until another round of raised voices—more heated now—again seized her attention. She went to tuck the harness into her pocket, but then with a sneer decided to complete the unmistakable metaphor: She crumpled the ball of cord in her fist and tossed it away behind her.

  “No, you cannot go in.”

  “Then have her come out. Right bloody now!”

  Ennalen barged to the foyer, grabbed the door’s iron ring handle, and jerked it open with such force that it slammed against the stonework, sending booming echoes down the corridor.

  Between her and the alarmed young acolyte assigned to attend her that evening stood a comically diminutive old man. A long, snowy beard and disheveled white hair curled around behind him as he turned at the bang of the door. He wore a tall scholar’s hat, spectacles, and a formal maroon robe several sizes too large.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ennalen demanded.

  The acolyte bowed an apology and remained genuflected. “The good mage here insisted on seeing you, Magistrate. I explained several times that would not be possible, but he became quite… insistent. As I’m certain you heard.”

  Ennalen narrowed her eyes at the elder magician. Ordinarily she would have shown great ferocity at such an intrusion, but some scant, almost imperceptible aspect of the old man triggered a reflexive curiosity, like some miniscule movement snatching the attention of a cat.

  Her scowl eased into a cordial smile. “Brother Biddleby, I presume. Good of you to save me the trouble of sending for you.” She stood aside and indicated the entrance to her apartment with an open, gloved hand. “Come, sit, so we can discuss how I might be of assistance.”

  The old man gathered the lower portion of his robes and trudged past her with an awkward, duck-like gait. “You can start by wiping that damn silly smile off your face,” he huffed. “About as sincere as I am tall, I expect. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to speak to you?”

  Ennalen, smile still wide despite Biddleby’s surprising lack of reservation, nodded once to the flummoxed acolyte. She then returned inside and closed the door.

  No actual statute commanded a Magistrate be shown more reverence than any other magician at the College. Fear, guilt, or both invariably proved the source of the customary deference from the Membership. Some, however, did behave as Biddleby and chose to assert through boisterousness that they neither had anything to hide, nor did they care whether anyone believed them. Which, naturally, most often bore out the exact opposite. Being familiar with such posturing, even if Biddleby was indeed somehow not all he seemed, Ennalen saw no harm in being entertained by his temerity while she puzzled out just what about him had roused her interest.

  Biddleby scuffed to a halt in the center of the main room. A moth fluttered out from beneath his cap as he removed it from his head and set it down on the end table at his hip. “I don’t mind saying it gets my goat to arrange an audience, hike my bones all the way here, and then be put off over and over again. This would never have happened back when I was a student, I can damn well bleedin’ tell you.”

  Amusing as Biddleby’s comportment was, Ennalen’s patience already began to unravel.

  “I do apologize for your inconvenience,” she said, indicating the long sofa beside them. “I suggest we dispense with formalities, get right to what brought you such a long way, and try to make up for lost time.”

  Biddleby scoffed as he dropped onto the sofa and crossed his spindly arms over his chest. �
�Lost time is right! What good is a half month done and gone going to do my apprentice?”

  Apprentice. The word pierced Ennalen’s facade, and all the world fell away with the exception of the withered face before her. “What is wrong with your apprentice?”

  Biddleby’s arms shot upward. “What’s wrong with him! What’s wrong with him is that he’s not here!”

  Ennalen’s heart hammered against her breastbone. “Am I to understand that the apprentice you sent to the College never arrived, and is missing?”

  “Missing, absent, not present, lost. You know, back in my day they made Magistrates a might sharper.”

  Ennalen gazed at the floor and only vaguely acknowledged the insult.

  For each of its two thousand years, the College of Magic and Conjuring Arts had an accounting of the arrival of every incoming student, as well as the departure of every outgoing confirmed magician. Even those few students who turned out to have perished for whatever reason along the way had been located mere hours after not reporting to their advisor.

  Never had a registered apprentice simply not shown up, and never had so much time elapsed before the absence had been noticed.

  An apprentice. A mage of none magic.

  Who had distinguished himself… by being the first one to go missing?

  A panicked voice inside Ennalen screeched in protest. No! NO! That cannot be! She shuddered as her flesh felt suddenly like the quivering shell of an egg, one from which some creature struggled to be born.

  Ennalen closed her eyes, collected herself, and continued. “With whom have you spoken since your arrival at the College?”