The Summoned Mage (Convergence Book 1)

by Melissa McShane

  “You’d better take a nap, too,” I said. I think he did. I’m not sure. But he was less cranky when we met later that afternoon. We ended up in that sitting room again, talking for a long time about the concealment pouvra, and I explained what I wrote above about how I learn them. And he told me the book he mentioned explains more about residual magic, that it’s not leftover magic but pre-existing magic, sort of where magic comes from before it’s shaped by th’an. It’s still speculative, but more in the sense of unproven theory than crazy impossibility. Cederic said it was a metaphysical question, a chicken-or-egg theory the mages of the Darssan don’t have the leisure to contemplate, but at least we know the madman wasn’t entirely mad, or possibly he was just lucky.

  I’m still tired despite the nap, so I’m leaving the book alone tonight.

  28 Senessay

  Still wrestling with the pouvra. Read more of the madman’s book to Cederic today while he took notes. I have no idea what, if anything, he’s learning from it, but he seems satisfied.

  Learned something surprising tonight, which is that Audryn is at least as enamored of Terrael as he is of her. He wasn’t at dinner tonight, and when I asked why, Audryn said he was involved in the translation of one of the Castaviran mage books, and he was working himself to the bone, and she wished he would listen to her when she told him to eat. She’s good at hiding it, but that concern wasn’t at all what you’d expect from someone only worried about her superior. I wish I could tell one or the other the truth, but I don’t poke my nose into other people’s business. I hope one of them summons the nerve to speak up.

  29 Senessay

  Still no success on either front. Finished with the madman’s book, but Cederic asked me to watch him draw several individual th’an and tell him if I saw anything familiar. Nothing. Not even that hint of recognition I got from the water-summoning th’an. I didn’t tell him about that, because I’m increasingly convinced it was just my imagination, like when you have the feeling you’ve done something or been somewhere before, and I don’t want us heading off down a false path when we don’t have time to waste.

  Cederic was disappointed at our failure, which he displayed exactly the way he shows every other emotion—complete lack of expression. I’m getting better at reading his actual feelings, what with spending so much time with him. Good thing I don’t hate him anymore.

  30 Senessay

  I did it. The concealment pouvra works.

  I didn’t realize it at first, because it doesn’t conceal you from yourself. But it makes you feel different, numb, like everything is happening just an inch beyond your fingers. That’s going to be a problem if I use it while I’m stealing things, but I think it might be a matter of learning to compensate for the difference, like learning to grab a stone from a riverbed despite its visual displacement. So I knew something had happened, just not what.

  I left my room and strolled down the hall to the cavern, and wandered around a bit. No one paid attention to me, but that’s normal. Cederic was at the circle, kneeling on the floor and drawing th’an with his fat writing tool. I walked over to him and crouched opposite, watching him work. He didn’t raise his head, but I’m used to him knowing I’m there, so I assumed he didn’t see a need to greet me, which he usually doesn’t. I said, “Does it matter what you draw the th’an with, or can you use any pen or pencil?”

  He dropped his writing tool and shot to his feet. I’ve never seen him so surprised. “Sesskia,” he said, and then he regained his composure and his expressionless demeanor. “I take it the pouvra worked,” he said.

  I stood and waved my hand in his face, and he grabbed it and brought it closer to his eyes. “I can see you, now that I know what to look for,” he said, and released me. “When does it end?”

  “Presumably, when I tell it to,” I said, “though I didn’t know it was working until I startled you. So I’m not sure how to turn it off.” But I concentrated for a bit, thought about the shape of the pouvra, and almost immediately the numb feeling disappeared, and I could tell by the way Cederic’s eyes focused on me that I was visible again.

  “I didn’t think it was invisibility,” I said. “What did you see?”

  “Nothing, at first,” he said. “But it was as if I did not want to look in your direction. As if something far more interesting were happening elsewhere. Then, when I did see you, you seemed to take the shape of what was around you. You were a very short bookshelf, for a few seconds.”

  “That’s unexpected,” I said, laughing. “Well, I think I need more practice, but I was serious about the question. I never see you using that writing tool for notes, just for th’an.”

  “Any writing implement will work, for th’an,” Cederic said. He retrieved his writing tool from where he’d dropped it and scrawled a th’an into the table; it vanished, and the smell of apricots wafted from the wood. “But we use these, or chalk, because they make the most definitive lines. One can even write th’an with water, or oil—anything that leaves a visible mark. Though those are always transitory.”

  “Why do some vanish, and others persist? Like the ones in the storage room?” I said.

  He sketched the same th’an on the air, and this time I really did see amber light around his fingers. Apricot scent brushed my nose and cheeks. “Some th’an have an immediate effect that is powered by the magic bound up in the th’an,” he said. “The effect happens, and the magic and the th’an disappear. Other th’an have ongoing effects. Their magic…replenishes itself, you might say, drawn into whatever object it is scribed on to power the effect, until the magic can no longer regenerate. Then a new th’an must be drawn if the effect is to persist.”

  “So what about the things in the storage room?” I asked. “Those th’an are made of metal.”

  Cederic grimaced, the faintest drawing down of the corners of his mouth. “Experiments,” he said, “from years, sometimes decades, ago. Occasionally someone revisits the idea of permanent th’an with permanent effects. Those aeden still have power, some of them, but it’s an unpredictable power, which is why they are locked away. Not that anyone but Master Peressten would dare to use them.”

  “You didn’t want him to,” I recalled.

  Cederic shook his head. “I did not think it fair to you to subject you to such a dangerous experiment,” he said. “I told Master Peressten to speak with you long enough to learn your language, so he could gain your consent. But he is often impatient. I’m afraid I lost my temper at him.” He looked away from me and twiddled the writing tool in his fingers. I think he was embarrassed.

  “I forgave him,” I said. “But thank you for trying to contain him.”

  He smiled. “I am glad it worked,” he said, “even if our conversations are occasionally… strained.”

  “That’s because you’re stubborn and irrational,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrow at me. “You are only able to say that,” he said, “because you are so intimately familiar with those characteristics.” He smiled as he said it, and that made me laugh.

  “Can you use the pouvra again, while I watch?” he said.

  “Maybe,” I said, and reached for the shape of the pouvra in memory. It took a few tries, and Cederic standing there watching me made me nervous, but eventually the numbness spread over my body again, and Cederic’s eyes watered.

  “I can still see you,” he said, “but it is difficult not to want to look away.” He turned his head briefly, then looked back at me. “And now you are once again part of your surroundings.”

  I released the pouvra and shook out my fingers. “I wish I knew how this could help with the kathana,” I said.

  “Anything might help,” he said. “What will you use it for?”

  I knew what he was really asking. Why did I tell him I’m a thief? Why do I tell him anything personal? Even if I do consider him a friend, now. “I’m not going to sneak around and spy on people, if that’s what you mean,” I said, “and I have no need to pursue my former profe
ssion, since there are all these books lying around and no one minds if I read them. But practicing pouvrin makes me better able to learn new ones. So that’s what I’ll use it for.”

  “I did not mean to imply that I distrust you,” he said in a low voice, though there wasn’t anyone around to hear us.

  “Then what did you mean?” I said. I swear I didn’t intend to sound hostile, because I didn’t feel hostile. Just disappointed that he thought less of me because of who I’d had to become to survive.

  He paused, looking off into the distance, then said, “You see the world in ways no one else has thought of. The pouvra has obvious implications. I am interested in the non-obvious ones I am certain you will discover.”

  “Oh,” I said. It felt like—still feels like—a tremendous compliment, and yet I’m not sure what he meant. I’m a mage because I see things others don’t, or I wouldn’t be able to learn pouvrin, but I could say the same of every mage in the Darssan. Aside from the obvious, I don’t think of myself as anyone special. Well, I am, though, because after the magic woke up in me, I could have ignored it and not learned any more pouvrin. But seeing the world differently…I think he might be mistaken about that. But it was a nice compliment, so I accepted it at face value.

  After that, he drew more th’an and we talked about kathanas, which I still haven’t seen, and I began to grasp some of the underlying logic behind the shapes of Castaviran magic. I still don’t think I’ll ever learn to do magic their way. Maybe it’s more flexible, but I’m so used to encompassing magic with my body and giving it shape there that I think I’d feel hampered by the need to learn all those fiddly th’an.

  Learning the concealment pouvra, though, has made me think about the possibility of crafting pouvrin of my own. It’s a huge stretch, because I don’t even know what’s possible, but what a challenge! Maybe learning more about th’an will give me some ideas. But I’m going to master the concealment pouvra first. And maybe see if I can find some non-obvious applications for Cederic.

  Chapter Nine

  2 Lennitay

  I’m writing this from the rear senet of the loenerel, where I can have some privacy because it’s noisier than the others and no one wants to endure that. Everyone else is gathered in the senet behind the collenna, which is the thing that makes the loenerel go. I’m so full to bursting with new words and ideas I feel dizzy, a feeling not helped by how fast we’re traveling across this horrible, hot, arid wasteland. I remember now what Cederic said about my not being safe outside the Darssan. I didn’t realize he meant that literally.

  The Arabel Mountains, under which the Darssan is located, sit squarely in the middle of the least hospitable desert I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen more than a few. I looked back at the mountains when we left about an hour ago, before the loenerel kicked up so much dust I couldn’t see anything, and they were these jagged black hills like the desert’s teeth, jutting up toward the sky. Now they’re far in the distance, and I wish I were back there safe beneath them. Even if it meant not seeing the sky for a few more weeks.

  It’s been a few days since I was able to write anything, and they were such eventful days I’ll only try to record accurately a few important conversations, because I’ve already forgotten most of the details.

  The night after my last entry wasn’t eventful. I practiced the concealment pouvra and did some sneaking around before I felt guilty about it. Even though I wasn’t trying to spy on anyone, and I only wanted to test its effectiveness, I knew they’d object if they knew. So I went back to my room, but discovered I was unexpectedly tired, so I told myself I’d write more

  Cederic just came in and told me I was expected to join the rest of them. He was more expressionless than usual, which told me he wasn’t happy, but then he hasn’t looked happy since Sai Vorantor arrived. Not that I should call him that, but I don’t know what other name to use. Cederic addresses him as Denril, but I’m guessing my calling him that would be inappropriate even by Castaviran standards. So I’ll call him Vorantor in these pages and try to avoid addressing him personally.

  He also said, “Don’t let anyone see that book.” When I asked why, he said, “The God-Empress does not like not possessing information she believes is important. A book she cannot read would fall into that category. She would likely have it destroyed.”

  I thanked him, and told him I would follow shortly. He never asks what I’m writing, though I think he’s curious. I’m sure a foreigner’s impressions of Castavir would interest him, even if I wasn’t writing about people he knows. But he’s too polite to pry. So I’m putting this away for now, but I intend to find more chances to write about what’s happened in the last three days.

  2 Lennitay, just after dinner

  I’m hiding in my room—it’s not so much a room as a cubicle, with barely enough space for a bed and window—having pretended to have a headache. It’s not entirely a lie. The motion of the loenerel makes me queasy, and right now I’ve got my face hanging over a little vent that constantly blows cool air into the room, probably to compensate for how hot the loenerel is. The master, the one who keeps the collenna moving, said it would be much hotter if not for the kathana that shields it from the sun’s rays. I can’t even imagine walking through the desert unprotected, and I’m trying to be grateful, but since I’m still angry at Vorantor’s manipulation, it’s difficult to hang on to gratitude for anything.

  I hate when I can’t write every day. I know I’m forgetting things, and then I remember them and have to put them in out of order, and I’d like to summarize, but so much of importance has happened I feel as if I’m cheating myself to skim over it. So if this is confusing—but I suppose I’m the only one who’ll be reading it, so there’s no sense apologizing to myself.

  So, as I wrote earlier, I was tired and went to bed instead of writing, not that that mattered because I hadn’t done much worth writing about. In the morning, I went to breakfast and the refectory was practically empty. One of the mages was leaving as I entered, and he told me to be quick, because there were visitors on the way. Well, that excited me—any change is exciting, though the news that someone had discovered the right kathana for summoning the Codex Tiurindi would have been far better. I gulped down my food and hurried out to the cavern to find it was nearly empty, too.

  (The loenerel just came to a stop again. They have to refresh the th’an frequently because the loenerel is so massive it swallows magic like a drunkard swigs brandy. When it stops, it becomes warmer, and the smell of hot metal becomes more pervasive, and then I feel really ill. It’s a measure of how quickly I’ve come to take the casual use of magic for granted, that I can be annoyed at the loenerel’s failings rather than awestruck that anything can transport fifty people across the desert faster than a horse can run and with greater endurance.)

  Terrael was there in the cavern, and he told me everyone was cleaning up so the Darssan, and its inhabitants, would look their best for the visitors. But what he and a handful of other mages were doing was washing off the walls in places, and I think they were concealing some of their research from whoever was coming to visit. Now that I know it was Vorantor, that makes sense. Damn it, now I’m telling the story out of order again. At least I can take comfort in knowing my dislike of Vorantor is rooted in good reason, unlike my previous dislike of Cederic, which was just mutual misunderstanding and my unfortunate prejudice.

  I asked what I could do, and he said I should dress as nicely as possible, which was useless advice because I have no idea what constitutes nice dress in Castavir. I certainly don’t have a gray robe to wear. I compromised by going back to my room and dressing in the clothes I think look nicest on me, a pale blue shirt embroidered with white flowers around the neck, cuffs, and hem and a pair of gray trousers almost too fine a weave to be practical.

  I couldn’t do anything about my shoes—I don’t think I’ve ever said that everyone here wears thin-soled sandals held on by cloth strips, and if they have other shoes, they maybe have a
single pair, and there wasn’t any need for me to borrow them. And of course if the sandals are too informal for something as important as this visit, they’d all need their own shoes and no one could loan a pair to me. So my worn and cracked leather ankle boots didn’t look right, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  Audryn knocked on my door just as I was about to leave and made me sit while she pinned my hair up with two of her clips, simple openwork brass loops big enough to keep my mass of hair in place. She’s the one who told me our visitor was Vorantor, and she wouldn’t say much more than that, which left me nervous because I still didn’t know the truth about him and his relationship to Cederic.

  We walked back to the cavern, which in contrast to earlier was full of people, everyone dressed neatly in their gray robes and black trousers. Some of the women wore hair clips and a few of the men wore earrings, nothing flashy, nothing that might get in someone’s way while he or she was scribing th’an. I saw Sovrin across the cavern, and she saw me and gestured to me in a way I eventually realized meant “step back”.

  So I took a few steps until I stood behind someone else, partially concealed by the crowd. I realize now she meant to conceal me from Vorantor, but at the time I thought it was only a custom. It didn’t matter, because at that moment Cederic entered, looked around the chamber, saw me immediately despite my being much shorter than the person I was standing behind, and made a little motion for me to stand beside him at the circle.

  He was dressed as he always is, no extra jewelry or anything, though he was wearing shoes rather than sandals. “Say nothing except in direct response to something Denril asks you, and then be as brief as possible,” he instructed me in a low voice. “You may want to argue, but say nothing. Promise me, Sesskia. This is important.”