To the Vloganovel crew—too many to name them all, but you know who you are—this book would have taken even longer than it did without you. Thank you for being my constant companions on this journey through another world.
Finally—well, not quite finally—my readers. When I first started writing, it was hard to believe you existed. I am so grateful you found me. I am so grateful you have remained with me. I’ll try to be worthy of you, always.
And now, actually finally—Meghan. You are always first. You are always last. And you are always everything in between.
Thank you all.
Garrett, 2016
DVD EXTRAS FOR BOOKS
Ever come to the end of a book and wish it wasn’t over?
That’s how I feel all the time.
I’ve created behind-the-scenes content for you to enjoy. You’ll get to hear about the creation process of the book, and watch the video diary of its creation from beginning to end.
(It’s worth checking back on the page from time to time—I plan to update it periodically.)
It’s like DVD extras for books. Interested? Click here:
GarrettBRobinson.com/mindmage-wrath-extras
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Garrett Robinson was born and raised in Los Angeles. The son of an author/painter father and a violinist/singer mother, no one was surprised when he grew up to be an artist.
After blooding himself in the independent film industry, he self-published his first book in 2012 and swiftly followed it with a stream of others, publishing more than two million words by 2014. Within months he topped numerous Amazon bestseller lists. Now he spends his time writing books and directing films.
A passionate fantasy author, his most popular series is the Nightblade Epic. However, he has delved into many other genres. Some works are for adult audiences only, such as Non Zombie and Hit Girls, but he has also published popular books for younger readers, including the Realm Keepers series and The Ninjabread Man, both co-authored with Z.C. Bolger.
Garrett lives in Los Angeles with his wife Meghan, his children Dawn, Luke, and Desmond, and his dog Chewbacca.
Garrett can be found on:
YOUTUBE: youtube.com/TheGarrettRobinson
BLOG: GarrettBRobinson.com
EMAIL: [email protected]
TWITTER: twitter.com/GgarrettAuthor
FACEBOOK: facebook.com/GarrettBRobinson
epilogue
Isra cinched the gag tighter, and then checked the rope binding the boy to the foot of her bed. He winced with each tug on the cloth. She ignored it. He was a goldshitter, like the rest of them. Let him suffer. Let him suffer the way his father and the rest of them had made everyone suffer.
She raised her cowl and left the room.
The stone hallways stank and made her skin prickle with nerves, and she hated them. She briskly pushed through the stench to the tunnel that led out. This was far too perilous, and she would never have taken the risk. But she must see her patron. Another outcast, like Isra herself. And the only woman who could help, now that the goldshitter Ebon had soiled her plan.
Soon she stood before an inn, one far grander than her own. The doorman must have been warned of her arrival, for he gave no second glance despite her shabby clothes. Not Academy clothing—no, she had rid herself of that at the first opportunity. Now she had a plain cloak of brown, and nondescript clothes like any peasant. It let her go unnoticed, and felt like a return to her roots.
But that brought thoughts of Astrea. She shuddered, bowing as she blinked back tears. Poor Astrea. All alone now.
Not for long. Not if her patron had any help to offer—and she would.
Stairs at the back of the inn’s common room led upstairs to rooms for rent. But Isra’s patron would not be staying there. Instead Isra turned left, where a storeroom door stood slightly ajar. Inside, there was a carpet in the room’s center. This she lifted, revealing a trapdoor that she opened with a flick of her wrist and a flash of magelight in her eyes. Shallow stone steps descended into the ground—but not into darkness, for the way was well-lit by many torches. Down she went, into the earth’s bowels, another blast of magic swinging the trapdoor shut behind her.
A narrow corridor led to her patron’s room, a guard barring the door. A mammoth man, his fists as big as her head. He had never beheld her with anything but a scowl. His skin, dark as night, only made his glaring eyes stand out the more.
“I must see her,” said Isra.
The guard’s nostrils flared. But from within the room came a voice. “Let her in.”
A ham-sized fist reached out and opened the door. Isra slipped inside, and it closed again behind her.
The room was nothing impressive—certainly far poorer than what her patron was used to. For her patron had once been a goldshitter, just like those who Isra hated. Those who had brought this war. But her patron had been cast out, and had learned what Isra had known her whole life: that the true evil in the world was not Drayden, not Yerrin, but all of them at once, and more besides. It was the merchants, the nobility, those who held themselves above their fellows by virtue of coin or a throne.
“I have heard no small amount of whispers.” Her patron did not sound angry. If anything, she sounded amused. “It seems plans have gone...most awry, since last we spoke. You are lucky you came to me when you did. I have business I must attend to in Feldemar, and I leave upon the morrow.”
Isra nearly growled. “I lost the amulet, but gained many more artifacts during my escape.”
She held up her satchel, and threw it on the floor at her patron’s feet. But she received no reply. Instead, her patron regarded her over steepled fingers.
“And the boy?”
“I took him, as you asked. When can I bring him to you? He whines.”
“You will keep him. I cannot have him linked to me.”
Isra scowled, but said nothing.
“I thank you for holding up your end of the bargain,” her patron went on. “I am a fair woman, and will help you with your aims. You needed the amulet to achieve them, did you not?”
“I did,” said Isra. “Without mindwyrd, the task is impossible.”
“But would you take that power another way? From magestones?”
Isra paused. Magestones were another matter. She had heard dark tales whispered about the Academy halls since her arrival.
Her patron noticed the hesitation. “I will admit, it would be a ... different path. Far more dangerous for you. Perhaps even fatal. But it would allow the plan to work. You would have what you desire. An end to this war, and to those who brought it upon your Academy.”
“Then that is everything,” Isra snarled, fury raging in her gut. “But magestones are worth a fortune, and you are no longer a goldshitter—if you have been telling me true.”
Her patron smiled. Then the smile turned into a laugh, and she reached into her cloak, reemerging with a brown cloth packet which she threw at Isra’s feet. Isra stooped to retrieve it. Inside, in two neat rows stacked atop each other, were long black gems that she could almost see through. She gazed in wonder.
“It is true I have little in the way of coin, nor the help of my kin who have abandoned me. But I am Damaris, once of the family Yerrin, and my greatest strength has never been the weight of my purse. It is the lengths I will go to achieve my aims. What of you, Isra? Do you have the same strength?”
With shaking fingers, Isra plucked a magestone from the packet and slipped it into her mouth. With a crunch and a swallow, it vanished down her throat.
She opened black eyes, and her lips parted in a rictus.
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The Mindmage's Wrath: A Book of Underrealm (The Academy Journals 2) Page 30
