The Tethered Mage

by Melissa Caruso

  “Well … good?” I sighed. “I wish I could get my Falcon reform act passed before war breaks out, so every mage could choose whether to become a soldier. But my mother says there’s no way I’ll get the support I need in the Assembly with Vaskandran armies at the borders.”

  Zaira gave me a sideways glance. “That thing, still? It’ll never pass.”

  “After this war, it might,” I insisted. “I have a few members of the Assembly willing to back it already. I just need time.”

  “A few. Out of a thousand. Forgive me if I don’t wait like a good little girl for you to free us.” Zaira stopped, hands on her hips. “You don’t think that’s why I’m still here, do you? Because I’ve got hope for your stupid law?”

  “No.” I raised my brows. “I assume you stayed for Terika.”

  Zaira coughed. “Well, I do like Terika.”

  “And maybe a few other friends.” I shrugged. “And the free food, perhaps?”

  “It’s not bad,” Zaira conceded. “But no.” She leveled a finger at me. “It’s because now the world knows I exist, and there’s nowhere I can run where they’ll ever leave me alone.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t know what else to say; it was true.

  “They might swallow your law for artificers or alchemists. Devices and potions don’t make people wet their breeches the way balefire does. But they’re too afraid of warlocks.” She shook her head. “No sane person wants someone who can single-handedly destroy a city on a whim to wander around free. All of Eruvia wants me locked up safe in the Mews—or better yet, dead.”

  “I don’t want you locked up or dead,” I said.

  “Oh?” Zaira lifted a skeptical brow. “If I decided to run away and take my chances in hiding, what would you do?”

  It was something I’d thought about more than once over the past months. Not least because it was hard to imagine any future where Zaira would be content to stay cooped up in the Mews for long. “I’d try to find a way for you to do it legally. To make the Empire let you go.”

  “They’d never let me go, and you know it.”

  “Well, then, I’d use my influence to do what I could to keep you safe.”

  “Safe?” Zaira let out a bark of a laugh. “I make everything unsafe. I’m danger salt—add me to anything, and I make it more interesting.”

  “I can’t deny that seems an apt assessment.”

  Ahead of us, Marcello stopped at the crest of the rocky spit as suddenly as if the wind had closed a gate in his face.

  “What’s that in the water?” Fear bleached all the color from his voice.

  Jerith and Balos hopped up beside him and looked down on the other side of the rocks. Balos clapped a hand to his mouth; Jerith swore.

  Zaira and I exchanged glances and ran to catch up with them.

  Zaira crested the rocks first, her skirts whipping behind her. She took one look down into the water and gave a decisive nod, as if confirming a suspicion.

  “Dead,” she said.

  I scrambled up on the low line of rocks with the others, and saw what they’d been looking at.

  It bobbed against the rocks, caught there by the rising tide, black water lapping against brilliant scarlet wool. I caught a glimpse of dark hair spreading like floating seaweed, bloated white fingers, and the gleam of gold trim on a too-familiar uniform jacket. Then I had to look away, clasping my arms across my lurching stomach.

  “Grace of Mercy,” I whispered.

  “He’s one of ours,” Marcello said grimly. “A Falconer.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to help as Marcello, Zaira, and Balos hauled the body out of the water. When Zaira called me a wilting pansy, I merely nodded, lips tight, and kept my eyes averted.

  At least I’d kept my dinner in. Jerith staggered back from the woods to my side, wiping his mouth, even paler than usual.

  “Oh, that poor bastard,” he groaned.

  “Who is he?” I asked, throwing a nervous glance to where the others bent over the corpse. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No, but only because he was facedown.” Jerith sank to the sand and rested his forehead on his knees. “I don’t have a problem with dead people. Seen dozens of them. Blood, terrible burns, I don’t care. But not in the water. Not days in the water like that.”

  I nodded an emphatic agreement. Thank the Graces the wind blew across my face, carrying away the death-tainted air.

  The others rose from the corpse. Balos remained over the dead man, his head bowed. Marcello walked past us to the water’s edge, his face drawn and haunted, and swished his hands in the clean salty lagoon. The pain pulling his handsome features taut cut me like a knife. I started toward him.

  Zaira stomped up to us, wiping her palms on her skirts.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s a bloater if I ever saw one. A week in the water, at least.”

  Jerith lifted his head, swearing. “A week? Lieutenant!”

  Marcello straightened. “I know. It’s too long. His Falcon must be dead, too.”

  “Oh, Hells.” I hadn’t thought of that. When Falconers died, their Falcons had several days to get new jesses, or the innocuously lovely golden bracelets leaked deadly magic into their veins, slowly killing them.

  It was never supposed to actually happen. Or at least, Marcello believed the intent was preventative only, to remove the incentive for criminals or foreign powers to murder Falconers. I, however, suspected the doge considered it well worth killing a Falcon to keep them out of enemy hands.

  “Who was it?” Jerith asked, his voice strained.

  “Anthon. He became a Falconer a year after I did.” Marcello stared out across the lagoon at the Mews. “His Falcon was Namira, an alchemist from Osta. They were on leave, to visit her family. I hadn’t expected to hear from them for another week. But they must never have made it to their ship.”

  “What happened?” I glanced over to where Balos stood, solemn and still; I couldn’t see the sad scarlet bundle beyond the low line of rocks. “Did he drown?”

  “His throat was cut,” Marcello said curtly. “He was murdered.”

  if you enjoyed

  THE TETHERED MAGE

  look out for

  THIEF’S MAGIC

  by

  Trudi Canavan

  In a world where an industrial revolution is powered by magic, Tyen, a student of archaeology, unearths a sentient book called Vella. Once a young sorcerer-bookbinder, Vella was transformed by a sorcerer and she has a vital clue to the disaster Tyen’s world faces.

  Elsewhere, in a land ruled by the priests, Rielle, the dyer’s daughter, has been taught that to use magic is to steal from the Angels. Yet she knows she has a talent for it, and that there is a corrupter in the city willing to teach her how to use it—should she dare to risk the Angels’ wrath.

  But not everything is as Tyen and Rielle have been raised to believe. Not the nature of magic, nor the laws of their lands … nor even the people they trust.

  CHAPTER 1

  The corpse’s shrivelled, unbending fingers surrendered the bundle reluctantly. Wrestling the object out of the dead man’s grip seemed disrespectful so Tyen worked slowly, gently lifting a hand when a blackened fingernail snagged on the covering. He’d touched the ancient dead so often they didn’t sicken or frighten him now. Their desiccated flesh had long ago stopped being a source of transferable sickness, and he did not believe in ghosts.

  When the mysterious bundle came free Tyen straightened and smiled in triumph. He wasn’t as ruthless at collecting ancient artefacts as his fellow students and his teacher, but bringing home nothing from these research trips would see him fail to graduate as a sorcerer-archaeologist. He willed his tiny magic-fuelled flame closer.

  The object’s covering, like the tomb’s occupant, was dry and stiff having, by his estimate, lain undisturbed for six hundred years. Thick leather darkened with age, it had no markings—no adornment, no precious stones or metals. As he tried to open it the wrapping snapped apart and something
inside began to slide out. His pulse quickened as he caught the object …

  …and his heart sank a little. No treasure lay in his hands. Just a book. Not even a jewel-encrusted, gold-embellished book.

  Not that a book didn’t have potential historical value, but compared to the glittering treasures Professor Kilraker’s other two students had unearthed for the Academy it was a disappointing find. After all the months of travel, research, digging and watching he had little to show for his own work. He had finally unearthed a tomb that hadn’t already been ransacked by grave robbers and what did it contain? A plain stone coffin, an unadorned corpse and an old book.

  Still, the old fossils at the Academy wouldn’t regret sponsoring his journey if the book turned out to be significant. He examined it closely. Unlike the wrapping, the leather cover felt supple. The binding was in good condition. If he hadn’t just broken apart the covering to get it out, he’d have guessed the book’s age at no more than a hundred or so years. It had no title or text on the spine. Perhaps it had worn off. He opened it. No word marked the first page, so he turned it. The next was also blank and as he fanned through the rest of the pages he saw that they were as well.

  He stared at it in disbelief. Why would anyone bury a blank book in a tomb, carefully wrapped and placed in the hands of the occupant? He looked at the corpse, but it offered no answer. Then something drew his eye back to the book, still open to one of the last pages. He looked closer.

  A mark had appeared.

  Next to it a dark patch formed, then dozens more. They spread and joined up.

  Hello, they said. My name is Vella.

  Tyen uttered a word his mother would have been shocked to hear if she had still been alive. Relief and wonder replaced disappointment. The book was magical. Though most sorcerous books used magic in minor and frivolous ways, they were so rare that the Academy would always take them for its collection. His trip hadn’t been a waste.

  So what did this book do? Why did text only appear when it was opened? Why did it have a name? More words formed on the page.

  I’ve always had a name. I used to be a person. A living, breathing woman.

  Tyen stared at the words. A chill ran down his spine, yet at the same time he felt a familiar thrill. Magic could sometimes be disturbing. It was often inexplicable. He liked that not everything about it was understood. It left room for new discoveries. Which was why he had chosen to study sorcery alongside history. In both fields there was an opportunity to make a name for himself.

  He’d never heard of a person turning into a book before. How is that possible? he wondered.

  I was made by a powerful sorcerer, replied the text. He took my knowledge and flesh and transformed me.

  His skin tingled. The book had responded to the question he’d shaped in his mind. Do you mean these pages are made of your flesh? he asked.

  Yes. My cover and pages are my skin. My binding is my hair, twisted together and sewn with needles fashioned from my bones and glue from tendons.

  He shuddered. And you’re conscious?

  Yes.

  You can hear my thoughts?

  Yes, but only when you touch me. When not in contact with a living human, I am blind and deaf, trapped in the darkness with no sense of time passing. Not even sleeping. Not quite dead. The years of my life slipping past—wasted.

  Tyen stared down at the book. The words remained, nearly filling a page now, dark against the creamy vellum. Which was her skin …

  It was grotesque and yet … all vellum was made of skin. While these pages were human skin, they felt no different from that made of animals. They were soft and pleasant to touch. The book was not repulsive in the way an ancient, desiccated corpse was.

  And it was so much more interesting. Conversing with it was akin to talking with the dead. If the book was as old as the tomb it knew about the time before it was laid there. Tyen smiled. He may not have found gold and jewels to help pay his way on this expedition, but the book could make up for that with historical information.

  More text formed.

  Contrary to appearances, I am not an “it.”

  Perhaps it was the effect of the light on the page, but the new words seemed a little larger and darker than the previous text. Tyen felt his face warm a little.

  I’m sorry, Vella. It was bad mannered of me. I assure you, I meant no offence. It is not every day that a man addresses a talking book, and I am not entirely sure of the protocol.

  She was a woman, he reminded himself. He ought to follow the etiquette he’d been raised to follow. Though talking to women could be fiendishly tricky, even when following all the rules about manners. It would be rude to begin their association by interrogating her about the past. Rules of conversation decreed he should ask after her wellbeing.

  So … is it nice being a book?

  When I am being held and read by someone nice, it is, she replied.

  And when you are not, it is not? I can see that might be a disadvantage in your state, though one you must have anticipated before you became a book.

  I would have, if I’d had foreknowledge of my fate.

  So you did not choose to become a book. Why did your maker do that to you? Was it a punishment?

  No, though perhaps it was natural justice for being too ambitious and vain. I sought his attention, and received more of it than I intended.

  Why did you seek his attention?

  He was famous. I wanted to impress him. I thought my friends would be envious.

  And for that be turned you into a book. What manner of man could be so cruel?

  He was the most powerful sorcerer of his time, Roporien the Clever.

  Tyen caught his breath and a chill ran down his back. Roporien ! But he died over a thousand years ago !

  Indeed.

  Then you are …

  At least as old as that. Though in my time it wasn’t polite to comment on a woman’s age.

  He smiled. It still isn’t—and I don’t think it ever will be. I apologise again.

  You are a polite young man. I will enjoy being owned by you.

  You want me to own you? Tyen suddenly felt uncomfortable. He realised he now thought of the book as a person, and owning a person was slavery—an immoral and uncivilised practice that had been illegal for over a hundred years.

  Better that than spend my existence in oblivion. Books don’t last for ever, not even magical ones. Keep me. Make use of me. I can give you a wealth of knowledge. All I ask is that you hold me as often as possible so that I can spend my lifespan awake and aware.

  I don’t know … The man who created you did many terrible things—as you experienced yourself. I don’t want to follow in his shadow. Then something occurred to him that made his skin creep. Forgive me for being blunt about it, but his book, or any of his tools, could be designed for evil purposes. Are you one such tool?

  I was not designed so, but that does not mean I could not be used so. A tool is only as evil as the hand that uses it.

  The familiarity of the saying was startling and unexpectedly reassuring. It was one that Professor Weldan liked. The old historian had always been suspicious of magical things.

  How do I know you’re not lying about not being evil?

  I cannot lie.

  Really? But what if you’re lying about not being able to lie?

  You’ll have to work that one out for yourself.

  Tyen frowned as he considered how he might devise a test for her, then realised something was buzzing right beside his ear. He shied away from the sensation, then breathed a sigh of relief as he saw it was Beetle, his little mechanical creation. More than a toy, yet not quite what he’d describe as a pet, it had proven to be a useful companion on the expedition.

  The palm-sized insectoid swooped down to land on his shoulder, folded its iridescent blue wings, then whistled three times. Which was a warning that …

  “Tyen!”

  … Miko, his friend and fellow archaeology student was approaching.


  The voice echoed in the short passage leading from the outside world to the tomb. Tyen muttered a curse. He glanced down at the page. Sorry, Vella. Have to go. Footsteps neared the door of the tomb. With no time to slip her into his bag, he stuffed her down his shirt, where she settled against the waistband of his trousers. She was warm—which was a bit disturbing now that he knew she was a conscious thing created from human flesh—but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He turned to the door in time to see Miko stumble into view.

  “Didn’t think to bring a lamp?” he asked.

  “No time,” the other student gasped. “Kilraker sent me to get you. The others have gone back to the camp to pack up. We’re leaving Mailand.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now,” Miko replied.

  Tyen looked back at the small tomb. Though Professor Kilraker liked to refer to these foreign trips as treasure hunts, his peers expected the students to bring back evidence that the journeys were also educational. Copying the faint decorations on the tomb walls would have given them something to mark. He thought wistfully of the new instant etchers that some of the richer professors and self-funded adventurers used to record their work. They were far beyond his meagre allowance. Even if they weren’t, Kilraker wouldn’t take them on expeditions because they were heavy and fragile.

  Picking up his satchel, Tyen opened the flap. “Beetle. Inside.” The insectoid scuttled down his arm into the bag. Tyen slung the strap over his head and shoulder and sent his flame into the passage.

  “We have to hurry,” Miko said, leading the way. “The locals heard about where you’re digging. Must’ve been one of the boys Kilraker hired to deliver food who told them. A bunch are coming up the valley and they’re sounding those battle horns they carry.”

  “They didn’t want us digging here? Nobody told me that!”