Human Mage: Book Three of the Highmage's Plight

by D. H. Aire

  “Leave me alone,” he pled to the ether. “I promise what help I may, but I’ve no intention of becoming the next Highmage.”

  NO?

  He gritted his teeth as the Summoning coursed through his veins as it had not in months.

  Staff flared, blocking the worst of it as his three newly appointed apprentices edged back in surprise.

  Terhun banged on the grille, “Cut that out!”

  The Summoning faded. Staff grew instantly quiescent as George gasped with profound relief, his face almost as pale as the lads around him, while Raven shook her maned head, then resumed licking her paw.

  She leaned forward, her black livery catching the light, and pounded her fist upon the tabletop. “That simply will not do!”

  “But… but Lady Se’and…” rasped the stout dwarfen master, Fronkwin, gesturing at the swathes of intricately woven cloth displayed across the dining table and chairs.

  “Don’t give me that!” she exclaimed, her black liveried Sisters tensing around the room. “This House will not serve as a charity bazaar. If you want us to sell your merchandise it will have to be on the consignment basis I have offered.”

  “Lady,” the elder dwarf implored with a shake of his head, “what we offer is reams of cloth of the finest pattern and filigree—”

  “Yes, they are exquisite. No doubt some Imperial merchant will come to you directly and beggar himself for the opportunity,” she replied.

  The dwarves looked at each other, knowing the reason such would not occur, then Frowkwin laughed, “Such is the intransigence of Cathartans, which is almost as legendary as their sword skill… Lads, see before us the truth of myths!”

  A black liveried woman, her cheek with a very faint scar, stood in the entry to the kitchen. She consciously withdrew her hands from her daggers. One of the dwarves swallowed, noting the movement and nudged his closest fellow toward their aged gray-haired master.

  “Uh, Lady,” the younger dwarf quickly asked, “what terms of consignment do you offer?”

  “A twenty percent commission, no more,” she replied as Master Fronkwin glared.

  Stievan nodded and enjoined his father-in-law to be, “That is more than fair, Honorable One.”

  Fronkwin frowned, “Perhaps, but I fear that such trade will not prove lucrative. Business hastens not to our Quarter, Lady Se’and. Elvinkind dislike us. The Imperial Guilds credits our workmanship not at all— and bars us from the Merchant Fairs. What trade we garner is subject to stringent quotas set by the Weaver’s Guild. What demand exists is strictly human. It was our hope that through you we might properly showcase our goods and sell outside the lines of quota and fairs.”

  “And so they shall— through consignment sales, good sir,” Se’and assured with a faint smile. Other worries were forgotten to her as she negotiated on behalf of her House, negotiating a secure future for the generations that followed. Merchant houses were the lifeblood of her distant homeland to the southeast. “We shall let people wonder as to the artistry. In time, the elves themselves will prize your skilled weave... And once a market develops, my Lord Husband will be most pleased to negotiate purchases on a regular basis.”

  Stievan and the other dwarves watched Master Fronkwin expectantly as he paced a moment back and forth considering, before facing the Cathartan squarely. “The price we offer at such a time will surely be greater than what we now offer.”

  Se’and nodded, “Certainly, but if you avail yourselves of my Lord Husband’s offer to assist you in techniques—”

  “‘Mass production’ and ‘quality control,’ I know, Stievan has remarked upon your Lord’s interest in demonstrating improvements to our manufacturing skills. This penchant of his to introduce new ideas to produce our wares faster and better is most unsettling, Lady,” Fronkwin stated bemusedly. “We are a deliberate people. A pace, slow and sure, assures quality. Time is not so precious a thing to us whose lives are long as it is to you quick lived humans.”

  Se’and merely stood patiently and waited, the youngest of her sisters, Fri’il glanced at the obviously pregnant Me’oh during the lengthening deliberation. The older woman smiled reassuringly, privately pleased that the underlying tension they all felt in no way hampered Se’and’s negotiation.

  Fronkwin sighed, gesturing to Stievan, who quickly unrolled the contract parchment before Se’and. “Write the terms of commission.”

  Stievan fought to conceal a look of satisfaction even as a sound at the kitchen door drew Cle’or, the Champion of the House, from the next room. Moments later a breathless urchin raced into the room to Se’and’s side.

  The lad grinned and took a deep breath, then told her, “They’re on the way!”

  Se’and gripped the nearest chair back, her knuckles going white with strain. She merely nodded to the lad and replied, “Of course, they are.” She fooled neither her sisters nor the dwarves with such bravado. But the urchin had no way of knowing that, grinning as broadly as he did at all of them.

  The coach slowed and turned into the private drive. Aaprin came out of his wary reverie and glanced out the window, startled to see a dwarf, axe harnessed at his shoulder, waving them through the household gate.

  With a start, he looked back and realized just where they were, an estate maintained for foreign merchants and nobles, often referred to as Embassy Row. The Academy was not far. This was one of the wealthiest areas of the Third Tier. Aaprin swallowed, disconcerted, looking at his new master with bemusement. Just who was this man mage, anyway?

  Homecoming

  2

  The coach drew to a halt, Revit and Terus staring out the windows as the driver reined in the horses. Terus swallowed, gazing into the scared face of a woman in black livery, hiltless daggers partially concealed behind its folds. The grim figure opened the door and beckoned their master without.

  “My Lord, are you well?” she asked in concern, offering him her arm to lean on.

  “Just a bit tired, Cle’or,” he replied, stepping down a bit unsteady.

  Se’and immediately came forward to assist him inside as the tawny furred black-maned beast bounded from the coach impeding the apprentices’ exit.

  “Raven!” Me’oh cried as Aaprin stumbled to the ground, Cle’or caught him before he could suffer any injury, and glared at the beast as it harrumphed with a backward glance.

  When Aaprin got his balance he looked up at the black liveried woman aiding him, then gaped wide-eyed, recognizing her. She frowned. “You all right?”

  “Um, yes, uh, milady,” he practically mumbled, glancing at the other black liveried women.

  Revit and Terus simply gaped as they descended from the coach. “Cathartans,” Terus muttered, awed to face what he had always thought before were merely legend.

  Yet, it was Aaprin’s added, “You’re back,” that shook the smug smiles from the faces of the liveried Cathartans.

  Cle’or took a firmer grip on the older lad’s arm and rasped, “What did you say?”

  A look of wary fear crossed Aaprin’s face. “Uh, I –– I was at the Healer’s Hall months ago and saw you there,” which was both true and untrue, since he “remembered” it not happening at all as well, having had nightmares about it for weeks after.

  Se’and, practically without pause in her deliberate haste to get Je’orj into the house, glanced back. Cle’or frowned, trying to remember that night they had brought Sire Ryff and young Lord Vyss here, but she could not quite remember seeing the lad, then she noted Terhun’s rather conspicuous interest as he watched them from his perch in the driver’s seat. “Off with you!” she shouted at Terhun’s widening smile.

  “There do be the matter of payment, Lady.”

  Me’oh shook her head and gave him a respectable amount of Imperial coin. Terhun grinned, “No tip?”

  Terus heard the sound more than saw Cle’or’s motion. The hiltless dagger “snicked” into the coach’s wood at the driver’s shoulder. He coughed a bit raggedly, then smiled, “I’ll take that as a
no,” and urged his horses to pull away. Aaprin glanced up at Cle’or significantly as the three lads entered the household and into apprentice service to the human mage.

  Me’oh gestured up the stairs, which Je’orj, Se’and, and Fri’il were ascending. “Lads, your room is top of the stairs to the right. You will find your bags within. They mysteriously arrived yesterday.”

  The lads looked at Me’oh warily. Cle’or frowned, looking intently at Aaprin for a moment, when she suddenly remembered, “You’re the lad we bumped into at the Healer’s Hall.”

  Aaprin blinked, “Uh, yes, milady— the day of the storm that Highmage Alrex was stricken. You’d brought someone there for help.”

  It was Me’oh’s turn to look surprised, while Revit and Terus wondered at the conversation. Cle’or merely nodded and almost smiled, her lightly scarred cheek made it a most unpleasant smile.

  “In the likelihood you’re hungry— we’ll serve a late lunch, after you’ve bathed and changed out of those dusty things.” Me’oh made no further comment, quite certain that she did not want to contemplate just what had happened inside the Mage Guild.

  The lads looked at her with some relief at the thought of changing clothes and a meal in the offing. “The bathing area is straight down the hall from your room. I’ll be up directly.”

  Moments later the three were heading up the stairs looking exhausted. Me’oh and Cle’or went into the kitchen, where Raven had curled upon the floor and gone to sleep still in beast form. The two women looked at each other, then began preparing the meal.

  George sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, Fri’il helping him remove his cloak and jerkin. All the while, Se’and prodded at his ribs, looked carefully at his hands and face, assuring herself that he really had come to no harm during the time he was out of her sight. He grunted as she took a step back. “So, I take it you’ve been recognized by the Mage Guild.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Se’and,” he replied wearily, clutching his wanly glowing staff.

  “Yes, you do... Basic answers will suffice— since I was forced to agree to your going without our protection.”

  Fri’il hesitated behind Se’and as Je’orj sighed, “You know very well that Raven sufficed. Nor would you have been able to pass the Guild wards.”

  Her frustrated weeks of pent up worry clear in her next words, Se’and said, “We are more than wives, husband. We are bodyguards. Had anything happened to you, our fledgling House might be no more!”

  Fri’il touched her growing stomach, feeling the presence of her unborn, knowing that until a son and heir was born to the House nothing could be held certain. In distant Catha, her birthplace, one son was born to a House. Thousands of women, wives, sisters, and daughters lived within the House, where protecting Sire and Heir meant the survival of her cursed people. Fewer Houses remained today than a century past. It was a primal fear that one day no males might be born at all. Their nation faced the end the Demonlord long desired. Humanity scoured from the very land her ancestors had sought as sanctuary after Battle’s End.

  Grinding his teeth, George could not cease to wonder at the twist of fate that rewarded a good deed with bodyguards who considered themselves wives he had wanted no part of… wives that were fierce and clever sword wielders, who had saved his life more often than not.

  Se’and continued to glare at him.

  ‘They recognized him,’ bespoke a voice from the ether that surprised Se’and as much as Fri’il. ‘The sooner you report, the sooner you can sleep.’

  “Well, how thoughtful of you,” George muttered, glancing at his staff with a mild look of betrayal.

  Se’and nodded, “So what else happened? I can tell when you’re not saying something. Well, what is it?”

  Setting the staff beside the bed, George lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “It’s as I feared,” he stated coolly. “The Demonlord manifested his powers to block my petition. He failed, but now knows where I am.”

  Fri’il went pale as Se’and nodded, “That was not unexpected. We’ve prepared ourselves as best we may.”

  The staff glowed brightly for a moment. It, too, had an important role in defending against attack. For a moment a silent communication seemed to transpire between the man and the staff he claimed was an entity called a “computer.”

  :Tell her the rest, George.:

  He sighed and softly added, “The Highmage intervened at one point.”

  Moving to sit at the edge of the bed, Se’and asked, “How? I thought he was bedridden and near death?”

  :He is,: Staff bespoke them. :He appeared, but I detected no true sign of a living presence. He was rather a living projection of vitality— a vitality that was illusionary.:

  Fri’il approached and stroked Je’orj’s furrowed brow, “My lord, that he came to your aid, was that not good?”

  George opened his eyes and replied, “He named me his chosen successor, a Highmage Candidate. He knows I intend to return to my world through the Gate. Damn him! Couldn’t he just leave me alone?!”

  Stepping back hastily at his vehemence, Fri’il glanced uncertainly at Se’and. The older young woman smiled as Je’orj stubbornly turned his back to them. Se’and leaned over and pulled his blanket up to his shoulders.

  Fri’il closed the shades, darkening the room considerably as Se’and bent and kissed his cheek. “Remain here to guard his sleep, Sister,” Se’and said as she left the room. Closing the door behind her, she paused to observe the three lads passing her robed for the baths. She wondered, yet again, at the responsibilities her lord accepted so readily for one who intended to leave at his first opportunity.

  In her view, Je’orj’s being the Highmage’s choice of successor was a good thing. It added to the prestige of their House and encouraged him to delay, or better yet, give up his obsessive desire to leave this world. On the other hand, she could not discount the Demonlord’s even greater reason to see him dead. However, threat to a lord was no strange thing to Carthartans. They would protect their lords with their very lives if necessary.

  Her hand upon dagger hilt, she watched the boys enter the bathing chamber wearily. Who were these strangers admitted to her House, really? Two were clearly elfbloods, yet the third, one of the young pair, looked pure human— without hint of elvin cant, his blond hair a human texture totally unlike the white-blond of elvin lineage.

  She willed herself to fight paranoia. There were more immediate and dire threats to the House to worry about. Cle’or was far better suited to understand the world of paranoia –– as House Champion, such was her life. Casting one last look over her shoulder, she marked the entrance to the bathing chamber, then hastened down the stair and into the kitchen. After a few words with her Sisters, Cle’or quickly left, vowing she would not return without Balfour.

  Raven never once stirred from sleep, curled upon the floor nearest the fire. Se’and worried more at that truth than any other, her emotions embroiled with thoughts of what Je’orj must have faced within the Mage Guild.

  Master Ofran had been called from the Healer’s Hall to attend the Highmage long before mage servants called one healer after another from the Hall.

  Balfour grew more worried, afraid what such activity might imply, yet with so many of the healers called away, the few remaining were too busy to even voice rumors.

  Balfour noted the look of consternation on the woman’s face as he removed his hand from her cheek. Moments before she had had a bad bruise, a cutpurse had struck her in the course of his work when the woman had realized his intent.

  Another healer, along with an Imperial Guardsman, was setting that unfortunate’s arm just down the hall.

  She muttered, “I did not notice you use any ointment.”

  “Hmm, oh, I suppose I could have, but it was but one bruise. The ointment would better serve if a person had a good number of bruises. For one, it would have certainly been a waste.”

  She stared disconcertedly at the elfblood healer before her. �
��So you’re the one, then.”

  “The one, Lady?”

  “The healer who is said to disdain spells.”

  Balfour blinked, “Is that meant good or ill for my reputation?”

  The woman laughed, “To hear them tell it, you were human!”

  With a sigh, he wistfully said, “Aren’t we all really?” The human woman was abruptly at a loss for words.

  “Balfour!” Master Ofran shouted, returning to the Hall.

  Without waiting for a gracious “thank you” from his patient, Balfour turned toward his uncle.

  “Come with me,” the silver haired elf implored, leading him out of the ward and into an adjoining chamber. Closing the door, Ofran hastened to say, “I’ve little time. The Empress is bound to call upon me at any moment. Events have turned dire. Alrex is, well, faded is the best description I can think of. He did something today— I know not precisely what,” his uncle muttered, looking terribly pale, “but it took both Carwina and I to stabilize him afterward. She needs help in caring for him, but refuses all assistance. I’d separate healers from the Hall, if she’d allow it...”

  Balfour grimly nodded, “She must be terribly drained. Is there nothing she will allow?”

  “She barred the Empress’s personal attendants. She trusts very few— and I can’t really say as I blame her.” His uncle leaned unsteadily against the arched doorway, “I’ve little time to delay –– the Elfking,” Balfour tensed at the true name of the Demonlord, “apparently manifested within the city proper. There is no other event that could explain what caused Alrex’s fading. I could feel the strain upon him. The Imperial wards center upon the Highmage now in some way I cannot even imagine.”

  Imperial Guardsmen entered the Hall, their captain yelling out for Master Ofran. His uncle tensed, “We’ve little time, you must know what I fear, lad.”