The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  “I want to learn how to control my magic. I need to know how my powers work.”

  “Everyone who comes here wants to learn about magic,” the old man sniffed. “Or profit from those who do. You come seeking knowledge with no thought for ability? Do you take your talents for granted? Without talent, there is no magic. Come here, come here. Let's get this over with. Sip your tea. You have no tea. Why do you have no tea? Perry, where's the tea?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away sir.” Perry disappeared through one of the many inner doors.

  Devin stared after the boy, perplexed. Was I that young and innocent once? So eager to please?

  The old wizard placed two gnarled hands on the youth's temples. The old man leaned close, nose touching Devin's forehead as if it could probe the youth's mind. As though those long fingers could massage secrets from the youth's head. Despite the disturbing conversation with the Cabbage Wizard, the whole idea still seemed insane.

  As if anyone could delve into your thoughts like reading a letter. Even the old fairy tales aren't that fantastic. Ridiculous, Devin thought. Impossible.

  “Ridiculous, am I? Impossible? And what do you know?” The long, bony fingers clamped onto the youth's temples. “You knock on my door precisely because you have no knowledge, because you seek understanding. You break it because you have no manners. Oh, hold still. Hold still. Wait a moment. Fascinating. Hmm, I would never have imagined. So, this is how mages do things in the empire,” the magician said, glancing at the iron peg. “How horrible.”

  “Sir? Please, sir?” Devin asked, trying to tame his thoughts. Despite the fact he had traveled to this hovel expressly to ask for help and find a master, now that the time had come, pleading with this old man made him feel weak and insecure. As though he wasn't strong enough to explore magic on his own.

  Where would I even begin? By the gods' aching bones, I'm too old to be someone's apprentice again, Devin thought, rubbing the scars on his wrists. The feeling of the shackles of his old apprenticeship lingered, manifested by his time spent bound to the traitor's post. This felt too much like asking to have a new set of heavy, iron manacles fastened to his freedoms after he had just destroyed his life to shed a more comfortable pair of silver-gilded, spring-loaded handcuffs. Pretty or not, they were still restraints.

  The magician fell back into a padded rocking chair, ignoring Devin. The old man snapped his fingers. A glowing feather and parchment zipped into the room. The old man started muttering and the feather danced across the floating parchment. “Perry, make me a fresh cup of tea. Something spicy.” The old man turned and called towards the back of the cottage. “The Red Dragon blend will do nicely.”

  “Please, how many master magicians live in this kingdom?” Devin asked. Answer my real question. How many chances do I have to impress a bunch of irascible old men?

  The feather tore through the parchment and poked the Devin's forehead. Then the quill went back to taking notes.

  “Hmmm, still here? Well, your passion burns hotter than a raging dragon flame, I'll give you that. In all of Corel, there are four men with either the skill, prophecy, guile, or impudence to call themselves masters, including myself. It is not a title one assumes lightly. Why? How many masters exist in your empire?”

  “There are no mages whatsoever in the empire. Not in these modern times.” Not with posters decrying mages on every column and kiosk and Black Guards patrolling every street corner. Devin rubbed his forehead. “The emperor would not stand for it. The state says magic belongs in the realm of fairy tales or fairytale kingdoms like this one.”

  “An unnatural sentiment if I ever heard one. Magic is the way of the world. But thank goodness for your emperor and your state there are not more like you. Your passion is misguided. Your magic is eerie and unnatural, just like your country.”

  “Oh?” the youth asked.

  “Yes, oh. Now get out. And you can forget about the tea! We want no imperial magics here. Go walk off the cliff out there and leave this world a happier, safer place.” But Devin could sense no malice in either the wizard's voice or facial expression. He could not sense anything. The old man was unreadable and the youth left the wizard's shack to continue his quest.

  Devin assumed that happiness and safety were rare commodities in Corel. He saw the way people eyed his clothes. His cloak! He had given up surrendering his cloak to charity. One more garment could hardly keep all the poor denizens of Corel warm even if they weren't too stubborn to accept it. But what could not be shared might be stolen. The very buttons shouted his wealth to the world. He kept expecting to be mugged by bandits the closer he got to a major city and he was not disappointed. Devin had spent his apprenticeship in one of the roughest cities of the empire. Surely, Corelian cities were worse?

  And are you so well traveled now after going from village to village and exploring all those little towns that you are suddenly an expert on cities? the artificer chided. You never even went to visit the imperial capitol. Logic says this city is likely no better or worse than the one you knew.

  Devin was traveling through a forest just outside the city walls when five thieves appeared from behind the trees as if by magic, dressed in grays and browns. Devin sighed and shook his head. He had seen such tricks performed at a distance by better bandits who spent a lifetime honing their craft in imperial cities. Not in person, of course. Nobody would ever dare accost an artificer.

  “Your livelihood or your life,” one of the bandits hissed, waving his dagger.

  Why, those blades are more rust than edge, the artificer groused. Damn shoddy workmanship. I've seen fiercer looking butter knives.

  I'd rather not test how sharp those knives are with my body, Devin thought. I need to end the fight quickly without making physical contact. Maybe a display of magic?

  What? We're not going to offer to make them shiny, new knives before they attack us? the mage chuckled. Pity. Well, magic to the rescue.

  Devin balled his fists and sent a trickle of power coursing into his fingers. His knuckles crackled with raging flames. He cocked his fist and the flames burned hotter. His fingers began to glow like curled, steel bars. Then, the magic died. The flames extinguished. The youth cursed under his breath.

  “Kirk,” one of the thieves whispered to the bandit menacing Devin. “He's a mage, you idiot. Drop the damn knife!”

  Kirk withdrew his blade and bowed. “We would not dream of waylaying a wizard. I most humbly beg your pardon, sir.”

  Devin flexed his clenched fingers and stared into the bandit's calm, brown eyes as threats of flaming retribution died in his throat. An imperial citizen subjected to such a fiery magic display would be shitting his trousers, but the bandit seemed nonplussed and started trimming his nails with the dagger.

  “See that you don't,” Devin muttered, not knowing quite what to say or even think.

  “Would you like an escort into the city, sir?” The bandit Kirk gestured with his dagger. “Certain unsavory types might waylay you before they recognized you for what you are. Of course, you may deal with such louts as you see fit, but charred corpses do have a way of attracting the city constables.”

  There was something buried beneath the man's dry tone. An undercurrent. Respect? Admiration? That's right, magic is revered in Corel, not reviled.

  Devin smiled and shook his head at the bandit's offer. The man shrugged and sheathed his knife and the thieves melted back into the trees. The youth was alone. Not a sound in the world except the distant chirping birds and the voices in his head. Silence always stirred them to the surface.

  Maybe this is a place where mages have finally found acceptance, the artificer said.

  Or maybe nobody feels threatened because their magic is weak, the mage replied. His magic is anything but weak.

  Maybe he should have let the bandits lead him into the city. The tall, stone walls beckoned just beyond the treetops. Devin shivered as the trees shook in the wind. He needed to find the next master.

  5. DEVIN, YEAR
493

  Once Devin left the cool shade of the forest, the only thing accosting him was the sun. The youth passed through the open city gates without further incident and the streets bustled with people. Devin squirmed through the solid mass of humanity clogging the streets. It was glorious. He was surprised by how much he had missed the cozy press of sweaty, urban life. Devin wiped his forehead. He hadn't missed the heat.

  Devin stared and turned, absorbing the city through his eyes, his ears, and his nose. It all seemed so familiar, yet different. Who knew Corel even had large, bustling cities? But like their strange clothes and odd ideas about magic, the city felt . . . off.

  Corelians used cobbles instead of pavement and they crammed all their buildings together like interlocking gears. The artisans sat sweating in their tiny shops building everything by hand without any machines or factories, and everywhere he heard the constant ringing hammer of the artificer's country origins: the humble blacksmith. Devin spent most of his time in the city glancing through the smithy windows. The warm, cozy sensation as he gazed at the glowing, coal-banked forges felt like peering into the fiery dawn of artificer tradition.

  At least the Corelians have proper fountains and fresh water. Devin wiped his hands on his pants, formed a cup with his fingers, and dipping them into the clean, clear water. He sipped. Imperial fountains may be more ornate, but the water here is just as sweet.

  The heat radiating off all the stones made the air shimmer. Devin dragged his heavy, red cloak as he clomped through the streets, thieves be damned. The gold buttons clinked against the cobblestones. He found the master wizard's door and knocked. A jolly, fat man ushered him into the building.

  “Come inside, come inside,” the man chuckled. “Get out of this harsh sun.” The wizard cradled an arm around the youth and led him towards an elegant, green, upholstered chair. The whole room looked soft, plush, and overstuffed. Seeing his host in slippers, Devin removed his own shoe and wiggled his toes on the lush, thick carpet. He stepped lightly on the heavy, iron peg to avoid gouging the rug. The wizard eased the youth towards the green chair and then sat down across from him in a more opulent green chair.

  “Help me, master,” Devin begged as he lowered his pack onto the carpet. He had practiced that needful, wheedling tone for days. “My magic is uncontrollable. Please, you must make me your apprentice.” But do I really want to be shackled to another five years of drudgery and servitude?

  “Was there a question buried beneath all those demands? Did my old ears miss it?” The wizard smiled. “Shackle you, indeed! Aren't you rather ancient to apprentice this late in life?”

  “I'm only eighteen,” Devin protested as he eased himself down into the plush seat cushion, but the words felt hollow and rotten in his mouth.

  “Only eighteen?” the rotund wizard mused. “Yet your mind is already ancient with knowledge. Why go searching for more?”

  “It's the wrong knowledge,” Devin replied, striking the armrest of his chair. “I only know metal. I need to know magic.”

  “What if you forget one in pursuit of the other?” the fat wizard asked. “The mind of a young man should be as an empty attic: a bright space waiting to be filled with new joys and fresh experiences. Your mind is stacked to the rafters with cynical thoughts, grim shadows, and monsters in little boxes. You hide all your painful memories and bury them beneath facts and equations. Yet you want more knowledge still. One memory stands at at the center of that maelstrom you call a mind while all your other aches and pains swirl around it. But even now it spits and corrodes your tiny, mental prison. All the knowledge in the world will not stop it from breaking free and strangling you. I see its hands wrapped around your neck while you stand transfixed on a distant battlefield.”

  “I have a memory that breaks free? It climbs out of my head? What, through my ears? And then it chokes me with its tiny mind fingers?” Devin asked.

  The man nodded. His jowls quivered.

  “Preposterous,” the youth said.

  “Yes,” the wizard said, smiling with pure goodwill while Devin gaped. “I often find magic preposterous. It operates under a more mystical set of rules than the logic or equations to which you are accustomed. Have you lost your sense of wonder, child of the empire? Did you learn nothing from your last visit with a master wizard? Is your mind too overstuffed with knowledge or your heart with pride?”

  “I only seek to become your humble student, Master,” Devin said, bowing his head. “But knowledge is survival. Know how something works and you can change it, mold it, craft it. Magic is useless to me if I cannot learn to control these powers.”

  “And you think magic is something you can shape to your whim? Like bending one of those soft, steel bars to start one of your metal crafting projects? Magic is like riding a wild beast. The moment you try to dominate it instead of working with it, the beast will turn and devour you.” The wizard laughed softly and his gut shook. “Truly, you betray more ignorance every time you open your mouth. I would almost prefer to deal with your mind.”

  “What do you know of my mind?” Devin asked, clutching his head as though to deny the wizard entry.

  The man makes an excellent point, the mage said, broom in hand. It's horribly cluttered up here. Sweep out all the useless drivel.

  The artificer raised his own broomstick to parry the artificer. That 'drivel' represents years of dedicated learning, of craftsmanship and metallurgy. One cannot just abandon everything he was while hurrying to become somebody else.

  “I could have sworn you were a vain greybeard of eight . . . ty, not eighteen, who shaved his whiskers to stubble and magicked away the worst of his wrinkles. But you are not seeking help to clear away those cluttered thoughts. Nor will you, not from me or anyone. Ah, I see you still have trouble asking others for assistance, don't you? Still a child for all the grizzle on your cheeks. So what's wrong with your magic . . . lad?”

  What isn't going wrong with my magic? Devin sighed. No predictability. No reserve. No finesse. He groped for an explanation and fell back to craftsmanship. “The magic well inside me fills and then shrinks again and again. I think it fills less and less each time? It's like I stripped the cogs on my inner magic pump. Or the pump has a loose valve. It's broken! It cleaves to no explicable patterns. I have only seen it follow one rule and even that is a mystery to me.”

  “Of course magic has a pattern if you have the eyes to see and a mind to accept. Well, your problem is not unsolvable.” The man fluttered his fingers. “But, tell me, why should I assist you in solving it? You have other skills besides magic. Why resort to something so dangerous?

  “I want to use my magic to help other people,” Devin said, smiling.

  “Do not merely say what you think I wish to hear.” The man shook his head and his jowls slapped against his face. He wiped the sweat off his brow and glared at his guest. “If there is a truly selfless person in all the world, much less a selfless wizard, I have yet to meet him. And I have met many, many people and more than enough wizards. What do you specifically wish? What is your purpose? How does seeking magic benefit you the individual?”

  “I need to evade the Iron Empire.” Devin sank into the plush cushion. His hands flailed at the chair's carved wooden arm rests as memories of Captain Vice rose to the surface.

  Yes, run! Flee! Fly! The mage snorted as he sat on his broomstick before tossing it away. Surely, not facing your fears and running away is the best use of your awesome magic powers.

  The artificer crossed his arms. A crude, if apt, summation. The Butcher will find you no matter where you run, yes? So, don't waste all your time running. Build a weapon.

  Magic is the ultimate weapon, the mage crooned.

  “Yes, with that curious metal leg, you could only come from the empire. That awful place marks your thoughts like a smoking brand. Fleeing are you? No, your thoughts brand you an exile. But someone is searching, hunting you. Someone with a bloody mind and a black heart. Well, hiding requires no magic, just a ligh
t presence and a dark corner. Go! Hide! But do it without magic.”

  The Butcher is coming and I can't run forever, can I? Devin smacked his fist in his hand. “Hiding isn't enough. I must be able to fight. When the empire comes looking for me, I will destroy them all.”

  “But they exiled you. Why should anyone come looking to bring you back?” the wizard asked, furrowing his brow.

  Devin hung his head. “Mages don't get trials in the empire. I got a trial. Mages don't survive their capture. I survived. Mages are supposed to disappear down a hole. Somewhere I have a dark, black pit waiting for me and an evil man who wants nothing more than to cram me into it.” Visions of the Butcher's gleeful smile as the maniac raised his glowing blade over Devin's leg flashed through the youth's mind. “They caught me once. They will not capture me again. By the wrath of the five gods, I will burn the empire to the ground first.”

  “Please don't swear oaths of vengeance in my salon. But oh my, yes that is a goal.” The man smacked his meaty hands together. “Crush the empire to save yourself, will you? That will take magic . . . or an army . . . or a magic army. A lofty goal for a young man such as yourself. A lofty goal for anyone. I thank you for your honesty, but I will not help you with such bloodthirsty hopes. How many innocents must suffer to slake your terrible thirst?”

  “I would never harm an innocent,” the youth sputtered.

  The wizard looked at Devin with pitying eyes. “I cannot say vengeance misuses magic, for others have used it to such ends and who am I to judge? But I judge nonetheless. Seek help elsewhere, but good luck to you, regardless of your dark aims. Have a hot cup of tea before you go. We shall sit and talk of pleasant things.”

  The youth stared as a cup and saucer appeared on the table next to him. The eggshell porcelain vessel balanced on a tiny, wafer thin plate and looked as though his fingers might shatter them. Devin settled for smelling instead, waving his nose and sniggering at the memory of the previous master, but the cup was too far away, the aroma too delicate.