Is that the new credo, now? Mechanisms and the math no longer matter? Don't ask why. Don't bother to examine how. Don't question it; just do it? The artificer inside Devin's head grumbled, waving his arms. You are literally playing with fire.
Playing? the mage sneered.
The magic flowed harder, gushing from Devin's hands. So what if I lost control of it last time? A fluke. A mishap. This power is like an extension of my arm. Magic is wonderful. Magic is easy. Magic is . . .
Some instinct made Devin turn around. Maybe it was the hairs singeing on the back of his neck or the warmth spreading across his back. The tower of flame that had once been a dead tree lit the area like a beacon.
I need to find a teacher. A proper magic teacher. A master mage. Shyly, almost ashamed of himself, Devin cupped his hands to warm them over the accidental inferno. He looked across the field sloping up toward the woods at the edge of the mountains, and then down at his hands burning with a fire he could barely feel and chuckled ruefully. Well, at least I didn't set the whole mountainside aflame. And I can feel my fingers again.
The mage rubbed his hands together. Isn't magic glorious? Icy fingers gone. Problem solved.
With a parade of new problems marching over the horizon, the artificer sighed.
A tiny gout of flame rose from some distant mountain peak. On the winds came a distant roar, crackling like the fire, but more guttural. Then another flame. Another deep roar. Devin squinted. He could barely see hints of dark caverns behind the nearest flames. Was that the outline of a large, leathery wing? A neck like a chain mail snake back lit against the night? Or just my imagination? The youth turned towards the mountain and raised his burning fist to salute those awesome, majestic creatures. He poured his heart into the roaring tree and a network of tiny flames answered, stretching up and down the mountain range. Arise, my scaly brethren. The dragons sleep no more!
The tree burned out its last as Devin gave one more furious push of magic. His head flushed with power and the sounds of the dragons diminished whispers behind the pounding in his ears and then to silence as one by one, the tiny flames extinguished, leaving him alone in the darkness.
4. DEVIN, YEAR 493
After rousting themselves, the dragons or hallucinations or whatever they were went back to sleep. Every evening as he traveled through the mountains, Devin tried to summon the dragons again with that strange, warm, liquid fire, but his magic had dried up again. This too was part of some unseen pattern he could not understand.
Was it the need to master the mechanics of these awful powers at the feet of some Corelian wizard that pulled him into this snowy mountain pass or the fear of all those sharp, imperial blades Vice had promised forcing him forward? The winds blustered from the east and conspired to blow him back towards the empire, but need and fear wrapped in a greasy snowball of magic was rolling behind him, growing larger and larger, driving Devin down the mountain towards Corel. He had to keep moving before the weight of it all rolled right over him.
The youth always stopped from time to time and pushed the red hood of his cloak back, raising his head towards the cliffs on either side of him and bearing the icy blasts as he stretched and twisted his neck to look for dragon signs. But the mountains might as well be populated by his imagination. Devin raised his hood and lowered his head. Somewhere beyond this windy pass, someone must know all the answers. He can teach me. Or at least help me ask the right questions.
Devin clenched his fist and poured his sweaty frustration into his fingertips. A half-formed plan to rip and twist the pages of his books into little torches drifted like embers through his head. Nothing happened except more sweat pooling in the little metal cup of the frozen peg, which cradled his stump, making his rolled pants stick to the iron and then pull away with each fresh step. The ex artificer hefted his rucksack and tried to redistribute the weight across his shoulders to relieve his sore stump. Almost, he threw the books and tools away.
What use were fantasies to working real magic, descriptions of mystical beasts he could not find, or old tools and techniques for a life abandoned? But the books were still a part of him and those tools were an extension of his fingers.
So, I start a new chapter, Devin chuckled, without ripping pages from the old. Surely, once I find this master wizard, he will expose me to new knowledge and more books. The weight of his satchel threatened to topple him into the snow. Just what I need, the youth groaned, pressing onward, more books.
Villages were scattered like random weeds throughout the quaint, Corelian countryside and the first thing Devin always noticed were the clothes. Everyone bundled against winter's chill, but a proper imperial matron would not use such scraps for cleaning rags. The cloaks were rough, hardly tanned, and hems were a thing of dreams and fantasy. It was a though the locals stripped the hides off their animals and wrapped those steaming, ragged pelts around their shoulders with a collective grunt and chorus of, “eh, good enough.”
The closer he ventured to the larger towns between the clusters of little villages, the finer the weave of the fabric and Devin swore one farmer wore a by the gods silk shirt on his way to market with a wagon load of scraggly produce. But there was always something off about the clothes . . . besides the smell. Fine stitching and soap were in short supply in Corel.
His mother would have had a fit. Then she would have made warm clothes for everyone. She had pulled herself up from the factory floor to run a clothing boutique for all the wealthy city matrons, but her scraps and second hand products clothed the village back home. Later, between her business and his guild stipend, they were hardly rich by imperial standards, but the worst slums did not compare to these poor Corelian wretches.
The woman had not passed one whit of skill with a needle and thread to her son, but he grew up surrounded by patterns and fabric. Then, when he was five, he disassembled her new steam-powered sewing machine. Devin smiled at the memory. His mother had been bemused, which turned to amazement when he mixed the parts like a puzzle before reassembling them in a single afternoon. She bragged for weeks. All the villagers started bringing him their broken machines. Someone notified the guild.
On the outskirts of one of the villages, Devin saw a boy shivering in a field while tending a bed of shriveled kale, trying to coax some life back into the sagging plants. The ex artificer trudged across the frozen mud while the farm boy stared, eyes growing wide as he dropped his hoe. Devin draped his red, wool cloak around the boy and a shy, hesitant smile formed on the child's small face.
Devin reached down and ruffled the child's dark, curly hair. “You need this more than I do.” It was something his mother would have done and it felt right.
A pair of adults sprinted from the hut adjacent to the icy, muddy field, waving their arms. The man thanked Devin for his kind gesture even as the woman yanked the cloak and threw it back in the youth's face.
“We bean't need no imp charity, thank you kindly, sir,” she said, glaring at his fine shirt and metal leg. The woman's face was as hard as the soil she stomped beneath her cracked boots.
Devin stared at the farmer's wife, a snarky quip dying in his throat. After the world has stolen everything else, sometimes pride is all you have left. Is this poor woman's pride worth any less than my own?
Of course not. The artificer smiled.
Yes, the mage hissed.
The man coughed and nudged his wife away with one elbow. “What brings you round these parts?” the farmer asked while the woman cradled and sheltered their son beneath her tattered apron. The boy looked longingly at the red wool cloak. Devin sighed inwardly and draped the cloak back over his shoulders.
“I'm on quest to find a wizard. I search only for knowledge to help others,” Devin said, bowing to the farmer and his wife. The woman's face softened. “Do you know where I might find such a man?”
“Well, you come to the right village.” The farmer straightened his back and tucked both thumbs in his rawhide belt. “We got our very own magic man, Old
Greg. Lives over the hill yonder. Turn westerly after the patch of dead sunflowers. Clear on the other side of the village down by the creek.”
Devin clasped the farmer's hands. “Thank you, kind sir.”
The sun had peaked in the wan sky by the time Devin found a young man wearing a lime green, peaked hat with strands of hay stuck to it, a long cloak fringed with crusted mud, and fresh, raw dirt up to his elbows sitting in front of a small cob cottage with a thatched roof next to a half frozen brook, contemplating a cabbage. The ground was steaming all around him as the man furrowed his brow. The rank, wet smell of warm cabbages permeated the air.
Surely, this dirt-stained youth is no master? Devin thought. But maybe he can lead me in the right direction.
Why would you trust anything that man says? the mage scoffed. He's got dirt under his nails and hay coming out his ears. He's the Cabbage Wizard.
And just what is wrong with getting your hands dirty, you poncy, little twit? the artificer growled.
“Hello?” Devin called, stepping forward and waving.
The wizard tipped back his pointy hat and scratched his head. His beard was new grown and short. A chicken clucked from behind the cottage. The straws bristling from the packed earthen walls of the Cabbage Wizard's house matched the rest of him. He did not exude an aura of wisdom; he exuded an aura of barnyards.
Please don't be a master. Please don't be a master. Devin extended his hand, trying not to grimace. Please, please, please don't be a master.
“So, you're looking for a master wizard, are you?” The young sage placed an emphasis on the rank and knocked the hay from his hat as he rose. They shook hands and Devin's fingers squelched as mud oozed between his fingertips. The wizard grinned as Devin very conscientiously did not wipe his hand on his pants. “I'm afraid I don't have the skills you're looking for. Seek an old man as hard and gnarled as an old oak, who lives on a lonely mountain peak to the east.” He glanced at Devin's cloak. “Ah, so you tried to give your cloak to Harold's son, but his wife would have none of it, eh? You have a kind heart.”
Ha! the mage sneered. So you found the Cabbage Wizard. And he's useless. See, it takes more than a gaudy colored hat and cloak to make a proper mage.
Shut up, the artificer said.
Devin wrapped his own cloak tighter around his chest as the wind howled. “Apparently, gossip travels fast here.”
The wizard smiled. “Yes, gossip. Please join me inside for lunch? You will . . . may not have another chance to enjoy a hot meal again for some time. And don't even think about giving me one of those gold buttons in payment.”
The cottage was small and cozy. A small table made from a polished stump took up most of the one room home with a small loft built over the warm, crackling hearth. Herbs, cheeses, and meats hung from the rafters. Devin draped his cloak over the back of a chair and set his pack by the door, then enjoyed a meal of spicy greens and salt pork with the Cabbage Wizard. They talked about the weather and the villagers and everything but magic. As soon as Devin tried to steer the conversation towards the arcane, his host would divert his attention with an amusing anecdote. Devin eventually took the hint and ceased his verbal probing.
But the longer they sat, not talking about magic, the harder time the young artificer had not thinking about it and the more disillusioned he became. I didn't come here to learn about sick villagers and farmers' crops. Do mages never discuss actual magic in Corel? “Thank you for the delicious meal. So, why do the villagers call you 'Old Greg?' You seem a bit young for the role,” Devin asked, spreading his hands as he wiped his lips and set his burlap napkin and cast iron knife on the table. “Or is that another taboo topic?”
Devin had spent his time on the road practicing what little magic he knew. The youth let his powers swell within the pit of his stomach. His skills were still limited to setting bonfires with his fingertips, but what could not be used could still be collected, if not focused. He sent a clumsy wave of power towards the wizard sitting across the stump. Devin braced his hands on the table, almost quivering in the crude, wooden chair. He imagined the wonderful mental clash as wave met wave. He had matched wills with his fellow guild apprentices and in truth he missed the thrill. There was a trick to getting all the choice assignments, to being the best beyond mere skill. What was the trick with wizards? Why would a mage not want to talk about magic? What was the man hiding?
The Cabbage Wizard smiled and stroked his short, wispy beard, glancing at the clay pipes arrayed on the mantle over the hearth. “I inherited the name from my predecessor along with this cottage and the responsibilities to watch over and care for the villagers. But not his tobacco cravings,” he chuckled. “I keep the pipes more as a memento. And you must admit, they fill the room with a lovely fragrance, eh?”
“You're content here?” Devin asked, still probing. “But you're a wizard, a great and terrible sorcerer. Yet you live in a tiny, mud hut with straw coming out your ears.” Devin thought his crude approach had finally uncovered something, but where he expected to find a giant wave of power opposite his, the youth found a tiny puddle, a mere thimble of water, a wretched drop upon the sand. “Here in Corel, they bring you their children to heal small hurts and broken bones. Imperials would suspect you of harvesting those bones to grind into magic powder for your evil incantations.”
“Oh, my countrymen have their own quaint superstitions, I assure you. Truly, everyone is ignorant of magic the world over.” The Cabbage Wizard laughed as he plucked an errant straw from his hair. “It's a modest job for a true wizard, but I am content. We can't all shoot flames from our fingertips, eh?”
Devin huffed as he settled the cloak back around his shoulders, picked up the satchel, and braced for the oncoming winter chill. “I never mentioned anything about . . .”
“Off you go, now. A pleasure meeting you.” The green wizard shooed his guest gently towards the door and opened it. Wan sunlight streamed into the room. “You have a long road ahead of you. Oh, and a few words of advice?” As the man's voice lilted at the end of his question, the pale sun vanished behind a large, black cloud and an icy wind blasted through the open door.
“Yes?” Devin replied, huddling under his cloak. He leaned against the door frame, the food settling into an iron lump in his stomach. His teeth chattered as the cold air plunged into his bones.
“Don't waste your abilities probing every wizard you meet. Especially the masters. It's more complicated than shaking hands and there's a subtlety to the art, which you fail to grasp. If magic is an ocean, then the waters are cold and dark. So many dangers hidden in those murky depths. Don't go exploring on your own. Of course, you won't heed my advice any more than you did Huron's, but I had to try, eh?” The Cabbage Wizard smiled again. The sun re-emerged and the chilly breeze vanished.
Devin sighed, wondering when in their conversation he had mentioned the guild master. Is this the might of magic on the eastern side of the mountains? Cheap theatrics and vague portends?
“Run along, Devin.” the Cabbage Wizard stared into the youth's eyes as he closed the door. “The master who will teach you is waiting for your arrival.”
The master had to wait for half a season, but Devin eventually found the lonely mountain peak. Spring had emerged from the frozen slush of winter. The ground was thawing, the first flowers were in bloom, and his peg started sinking ankle deep into the mud. Just as the sun dipped below the crags, the youth discovered a tiny, round shack with a haystack roof. Calling the mess on the roof thatch would be an insult to craftsmen everywhere. The rickety building perched on the ledge like a disheveled dragon laying an egg. Not that he'd seen any dragons.
Devin reached towards the door. He knocked. Nobody answered. He was afraid to knock harder lest he shatter the rotten wood with his knuckles. Surely, no master wizard would live in such a shack? But meeting the Cabbage Wizard had already started to realign his expectations and dismantle his preconceptions. He had expected wizards to work for lords and kings, not minister to f
armers. He knocked again softly as the sun sank below the mountain.
Just when Devin began contemplating the lock picks stashed in Artificer's Handbook, the door cracked open. A long, pointy nose poked through the crack, wrinkled as though smelling something foul, and then retreated.“Go away!” a querulous voice demanded. “Whatever you're selling, I don't want it.”
“I'm not selling anything,” the youth protested, sliding his muddy peg in the door and wedging it open. “Let me in. The Cabbage Wizard sent me to find you.”
Ha! This damnable peg is finally good for something: a doorstop.
“Who sent you? Ah, Young Greg. Yet you do want something, don't you? Yes, they always want something.” The shadowy figure behind the voice voice slammed the door repeatedly, but the iron leg resisted and the wood began to splinter. Devin felt a moment of pride for the stout, imperial handiwork in spite of himself. “Damn,” the nose sniffed. “Get in here before you break my door.”
“I want . . . ” Devin began, ducking under the low door frame to enter the hovel.
A long, twisted fingernail shushed him. Devin sighed and glanced at his own pinkie nail, a stub by comparison. He looked around the circular cottage interior. There was one major door, now splintered, with several minor doors leading deeper into the house. Rickety stone walls with small, squinting windows supported a thatched roof, which was shored up by log posts everywhere. Devin had to dance around them as he made his way further into the dark recesses of the wizard's rustic, little home.
The only light came from a small, glowing hearth with a large fire pit along the back wall. A haven of warmth sputtered from the crackling fire as the stones pushed their ring of ice inwards like a noose of cold air.
“A moment,” the old man said from behind his nose. “Sit by the fire, lad. Perry!” The wizard kicked the boy huddled by the fireplace. “Fetch a hot, steamy drink for our guest. Some tea, perhaps. Not the good stuff. He won't be here long. Use that incantation I showed you yesterday. Yes, you may speak, lad,” he said, turning to Devin. “I know what you want.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 19
