Devin spurned the offer. “I'm not your apprentice, Cornelius. I thought we were partners.”
“Don't turn a wyrm hole into a wyvern pit over an old man's slip. By the five, I would have said anything to get that monster out of my house. Take my hand, partner.”
“What about 'I am an agent of chaos.' Who says that?” Devin asked, reaching up.
Cornelius grabbed the youth's hand and pulled. “Come out, Devin. Easy does it. That 'agent of chaos' bit was mostly to irritate our guest. But it's obvious we can wait no longer.”
“What?” Devin asked, blinking in the bright light as he emerged from the armoire.
“Besides, order versus chaos is a false dichotomy. Both are two halves of the same process, really. Can you believe Armand 'accidentally' left that watch behind to sabotage my magic?”
“Cornelius?” Devin asked, a quiet hope rising in his chest. All that time wasted when all I needed to spur the old wizard into action was a visit from an imperialist, bloodthirsty maniac. Who knew? “We can't wait for what?”
“Of course, if it incapacitated that stupid, wooden doll, then I'd cheer the loss. But it would impede our next task. And we must start right away.”
“Cornelius, what are we starting?”
“Your magic lessons.” Cornelius smiled and wiggled his fingers. “So the next time dear Armand comes calling, you can make that smug, little grin along with his entire army of mage killers . . . vanish.”
11. DEVIN, YEAR 494
Devin eased himself into one of the living kitchen chairs eager for his long awaited magic lesson. Cornelius managed the crowd of townspeople gathered at the door, briefly explaining that Styx was fixing a hole in the roof caused by magic, and then sent them on their way. Devin wriggled his shoulders as the chair started massaging his back, but the knots remained. If anything, they grew tighter as he thought of Armand wandering the streets plotting his next attack.
“What's the point of learning to make Armand vanish when he has that brass watch? What is the use of even the most powerful, precise spells against something like that?” Devin asked.
“One challenge at a time, lad.” Cornelius rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Nothing is infallible, although that watch was certainly . . . unsettling. The fact such a devious thing even exists is enough to rattle any mage.”
“I find the idea of a machine that runs on magic instead of steam rather enchanting.”
“You would. I suppose I might have kept the horrible gadget despite my suspicions, but it was a knowledge of Armand, not his watch, that guided my hand. Tell me, partner, why would a man bent on destroying mages leave such a treasured device behind before he ventures back into a land of wyverns and wizards?”
“An accident?” Devin asked.
Cornelius shook his head. “I just met the man: body, soul, and mind. Some of him lingers still. Do not ascribe an action of Captain Armand Delacourt Vice to mishap where malice would suffice. That watch was either a dangerous message or a clever trap. So I threw it back in his face. We must focus on developing your powers, not unwinding some ticking trifle.”
“Why not hide the watch at the school? Unwind the trap at your leisure?”
“I have my students to consider, Devin. Are all artificers so blindly trusting of a machine they cannot comprehend and hardly understand? Who knows how that device affects nonmages? Can't keep it at the school. Can't keep it here. Hard to practice magic in the presence of a device that sucks ethereal powers like Magnus drains ale barrels.”
“It's still useful.” Something about those brass watches had entranced him ever since he'd first seen the Black Guards wearing them.
Cornelius quirked an eyebrow and gestured towards the door. “Are you going to go chasing after Armand, now? Would you have accepted such a gift had he offered it to you? Had anyone offered it to you? Did you turn into such a naive soul locked in that armoire?”
“No. Like you said, it's obviously a trap.”
“Forget the stupid machine. We need to focus on your magic.”
“Well, what haven't you told me, Cornelius? Why was the Butcher so frightened? Why did he insist magic was unnatural? Unraveling the universe?”
“Did reading all those books on theories and physical laws teach you nothing? A matter of degree in all things, Devin.” Cornelius rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Magic is a force like any other.”
Is Cornelius going to teach me a fundamental principle of magic without resorting to that stupid tiger analogy? Devin wondered.
Be more respectful, the artificer grunted. That man just saved your life.
But that savior believes in magic tigers, the mage retorted.
“So magic is . . . like energy?” Devin asked.
“That is a very artificer way of putting it, yes. Take this wooden cup. I can lift it with my hands, which Armand would approve. I can lift it with magic, which he would not approve. I can manipulate the cup with the sweat of mind or brow. Magic follows its own set of rules outside and yet parallel to the laws of nature. Hence, the significance of your initial, prior studies.”
“But there is no inherent wrongness using magic? Don't you always tell me not to use magic for everything?”
“It's harder using magic, Devin. You prefer wrestling a tiger to accomplish every minute task?” Cornelius pointed to the kettle slung over the fire. “Why do think I've kept stoking the fire all day with wood in lieu of magic? Have you never asked yourself why I simply do not conjure ethereal flames to cook our supper? Magic has a cost, Devin, and is not to be wasted on menial frivolities. Do the little things by hand so that when the time comes to do the big things with magic, your reservoirs have not run dry.”
And there's the tiger. “You said you could help with my magic running dry. That butcher is coming back with an army and I am defenseless.”
Cornelius fished a pebble from his pocket and placed it on the table next to Devin's hand. Study this rock. Move it back and forth in your hand. First one place, then another. Move it through all three dimensions.”
Devin tossed the stone from one hand to another. “So?”
“What you do in the physical world can be replicated by the etherium. Instead of using your muscles, you use your well of magic.” Cornelius snapped his fingers. Devin's stone lifted, rose in the air, and hovered, circling above the youth's head.
Devin reached up and plucked the stone from the air. “I learned to do that much by myself within one season. But how do you make it . . . vanish?”
Cornelius smiled. “What happens when you move the stone through the fourth dimension, Devin? Give it a little push through time instead of space and the stone disappears . . .” he waved his hand and the stone vanished, “and then reappears.” He snapped his fingers and the stone blinked into existence in the air before falling and bouncing off the tabletop.
“Are all the gestures and snapping really necessary? How can these skills to be useful in a battle if you're steam-valving your attacks?”
“I'm what?” Cornelius crossed his arms. “The waving and the snapping are traditional.”
“There's a release valve on the side of all modern boilers. When the steam gets too powerful, the valve whistles and shrieks like those damn watches telling you that the machine is about to explode. I've been in a few fights, Cornelius. If you're about to blow up and attack someone, don't advertise it.”
“But you've never fought as a mage. Every mage I've ever met has a touch of the theatre in him. You're thinking too much of tactics and winning the fight. Think strategy instead. If you ahem . . . advertise enough with the threat of your explosion, you don't actually have to fight. Many nonmages fear what they cannot rationalize. And mages fear power that seems greater than their own. Use that against your foes. Let's try a more classic exercise. Now, make a fire in your hand. A small fire. Imagine a candle flame on the tip of your finger. Focus and feed your energy into that fingertip.”
The last time I created a flame in my hands, I burnt down
a tree and summoned a catastrophe of dragons. Will the dragons come here, I wonder?
Devin stuck one trigger finger in the air. The well was closing again but there was still a tiny, trickle of energy left. It seemed to stop halfway down his arm. This is ridiculous, he thought. I can't even make a tiny flame? He balled his fist and punched the table and his knuckles scraped against the coarse branches as they tried to flex out of his way. He squeezed his eyes shut and fed little snippets of frustration into his fist. He extended his finger again.
“You're bleeding,” Cornelius said, a curious glint in his eyes. “Lovely.”
The well opened a little wider and Devin could feel the power trickling down towards his trigger finger. He heard a muffled crackling noise. He opened his eyes. The entire bloody-knuckled fist was lit up like a torch of blue fire. “It's a big damn candle,” Devin sighed. Then the flames extinguished as the power sank back and plunged into the depths of his gut. “And that was just the dregs,” Devin gasped. It felt as though someone had punched their fist down his throat and kept going.
“That was from your dregs?” Cornelius hissed. “This should not be possible. You have no reserves, no finesse, and no gradient. Every instance of magic is either everything or nothing with you and ridiculously overpowered. This isn't magic, this is insane.”
“I'm not insane,” Devin protested.
“But your powers are,” Cornelius said, forming stairs with his hands. “Magic is supposed to be finite, progressive. Greater tasks require more familiarity with the tiger, which grants mages power equal to their task and experience. You almost seem to steal your power instead. It's no wonder you can't control it. You're like an infant trying to ride a tiger.”
“And that's rare?” Devin asked.
“It's unprecedented. It's horrifying. Are all of your countrymen like this or just you? I wish all my experience wasn't limited to working with Corelian mages.” Cornelius shook his head. “Let's stop the lesson for a moment. I don't quite feel like myself right now. Would you care to join me after I brew a fresh pot of Golden Dragon Tea?”
“That depends. Where on the dragon's golden body did you remove those scales, Cornelius?”
“Nowhere. Do you assume I spend my spare time crawling through caverns on my hands and knees and scraping wyvern hides? How does one normally procure tea?”
“You buy it at the market?” Devin asked.
“I buy my tea from the nice, cloaked gentlemen of the Dark Cabal in the woods. Golden wyverns are endangered. The Wyvern Preservation Guild's cracked down of late. You look shaky. Have some tea.”
“A cabal and a guild, Cornelius? And both groups deal with dragons?” Devin asked, plucking a golden flake from the tea and examining it with new appreciation.
“Please, Devin. 'Wyvern' is the correct terminology. 'Dragon' is an imperial assault upon language. Both groups love the wyverns in their own unique way. The cabal hunts the infernal menaces for profit while the guild protects and cares for those magnificent, fire-breathing creatures. They hate each other and they're both crazy.”
“This Dark Cabal of dragon hunters I can understand, but a Preservation Guild? A group whose sole purpose is to coddle and protect . . . dragons?” Devin stretched his arms wide. “Huge, fire-breathing monsters? Can the beasts not care for themselves?”
“How many wyverns do you have in the empire with no wyvern protecting guild? None.” Cornelius sipped his tea. “Armand Delacourt Vice. What an unnerving individual. Ow, my head. No, I'm afraid the tea's not helping.”
“Are you feeling unwell, Cornelius?”
“Call that wooden doll in here, Devin. Nothing settles my mind like a nice, wholesome experiment. I need something to get the stench of that horrible man out of my mind. His presence persists after he's gone like rotten eggs.”
“Styx, come in here. I need you,” Devin called, looking up. The rafters were realigned and the hole nearly patched.
The roof flexed as Styx leaped to the ground. The automaton threw the door open and sprinted into the room. “Yes, Father?”
“Go over there,” Devin gestured. “Cornelius wants you for some sort of experiment.”
Cornelius rummaged through a chest under the table and emerged with a sword. “Take the blade. Hold it in your hand. Was it crafted by magic or muscle?”
Devin examined the sword. “I can't tell, Cornelius. It just looks like an old, rusty sword. I would say muscle.”
“Why?” the wizard asked. “Is it not grand enough for you? Is my sword too plain? Are you incapable of associating magic with intricate subtlety?”
“Magic isn't subtle. So is this a magic sword or not, Cornelius?” Devin asked, waving the blade.
“Oh, how little you know.” The wizard chuckled and stripped the rust by passing his hand down the length of the sword. As he worked, the metal began to glisten and then glow. The top meshed branches on the wooden table began to singe and Devin could swear the smoking parts were unraveling and retracting from the sword. “I've imbued the blade with a touch of heat. See how it burns the table?” He pulled the sword away and the branches of the tabletop re-entwined. “Well? Is it a magic sword, now, Devin?”
“Yes?” Devin shrugged.
“It most certainly is not, although you would not be the first imperial we've duped with such a trick. All the tourists want a magic sword. Give them a glowing, metal night light and they think they're ready to slay the mighty dragon . . . ahem, wyvern.”
“I'm not an imperial citizen anymore, Cornelius. You just met the reason why. So it's not a magic sword?”
“They have to sneak the swords back into the Iron Empire, of course,” Cornelius said, waving his hand. “Armand and his cronies would hardly approve. You grasp more of the fundamentals than you realize, just not their implications. As you say, magic is like energy and heat is a byproduct of work, yes? As with physical force, so it is with ethereal force. When mages first attempt to harness their powers before learning control, they release an overabundance of ethereal waste, which manifests as spectral heat or fire. Thus, magic flames are often the first recourse of the young wizard. As they learn to channel their powers, other skills manifest themselves depending on the mage's natural abilities. This may take some years, of course. It is truly the study of a lifetime. Did I not say magic was simple once you understand the principles?”
I don't have years. Devin rolled his eyes. “Yes, simple. So why does this so-called spectral fire that I create in my hand not burn my fingers?”
“Well, to answer that, we must return to the example at hand,” Cornelius said, smiling. “I only imbued the blade, so the handle is still quite cool to the touch. See how the sword does not deform under its own heat? That is an effect of the sorcery placed upon it, not the sword itself. A true magic sword of this type retains the properties of molten metal, a furious melding of the physical and the ethereal, whereas this is mere ostentatious fakery. Of course, creating a glowing blade doesn't make it a battle mage crafted weapon from legend. Such perverse, war mongering skills have long been lost to the ages, thank the gods.”
“What does any of that have to do with the cold fire in my hand?”
“Did I not just explain with perfect clarity?” Cornelius quirked one eyebrow. “Magic does not affect the source from which it emanates. The tiger from which all magic flows is a spirit of nature, but not bound to nature; he remains an ethereal creature. Armand is quite correct in his views that magic is a perversion of the natural world. Or to say it better, sorcery is governed by its own set of parallel unnatural laws which exist outside the bounds, yet mirror, the strictures of natural philosophy. Otherwise, the eternally burning sword would melt and your flaming hand, burn.”
Devin looked at his hand, flexing his fingers, and then his gaze returned to the sword on the table. If he could keep Cornelius talking about the magic sword rather than the magic tiger, the youth might actually learn something relevant. The less said about that ridiculous tiger, the better. “And so
you create gaudy magic swords to sell to gullible imperial tourists? Wouldn't the perfect magic sword not look like a magic sword?” Devin asked. “You don't want to advertise your sorcery when you attack with it, do you? If I came at you with an ice-encrusted blade named Frost-weaver, you would know how to beat me in a trice. Probably shatter the thing.”
“An excellent point,” Cornelius replied, raising and shaking his trigger finger. “But a magic sword is special regardless of its appearance. You don't find them in a souvenir shop bargain bin. Those tourists know that. They want to be fooled. They want to see something magical in their glowing trinkets.”
“How do you know they know the sword's a cheap trick?”
“Well, they're not actually stupid. Despite their fantasies, tourists don't really go out and slay wyverns. I'd hear about it if they did. The Preservation Guild would fine me to the hilt for profiteering from lit . . . lick it . . . illicit poaching.”
“Are you all right, Cornelius? You've been acting . . . strange.”
“Oh, I feel fine,” the wizard said, rubbing his temples.
“You don't need magic to make a blade glow,” Devin said, clutching his cup and scoring the wood with his nails. Visions of Captain Vice waving his own glowing sword sliced through Devin's thoughts. “I've seen metal much hotter than that, much closer than that.”
“Magnus does it all the time in his forge,” Cornelius said.
“Yes, of course. Magnus and his forge.” Devin set the cup down. “Experiments settle your nerves, Cornelius? I could use some of that. What's the project?”
“You've sat in my wooden chairs.” Cornelius patted the wood. “There's a good chair. Enjoyed the experience?”
“Yes, they're very comfortable,” Devin said.
“They're more than comfortable,” Cornelius said. “You ache and they massage. You lean back and the hind legs take root. The table's the same way. You reach for something and the table will entwine a branch around it and pass the object to you. One of the joys of living, magic wood.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 29
