The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  “Look at what your actions wrought.” Grandfather waved his arm towards the woods and sneered. “Apparently you left a slew of dead, golden wyrms when you shattered the forest in the wake of your destruction of the town.”

  Father followed the trail broken limbs up the mountain with his finger. Then he pointed at the town. Then he pointed at Grandfather. He seemed uncertain what to do with his finger. “You can go harvest your annual tea supply for free if you bother to soil your hands and pluck your blood fruit from the trees,” my father spat. “I thought you would appreciate that, if nothing else.”

  “Appreciate wasted dragon carcasses? Are you insane?” Grandfather waved his arms like a tree caught in the throes of a violent storm. “Forget the town's wrath. You destroyed the local wyrm cohort, you idiot. You decimated the annual harvest yields. And I sheltered you. The Dark Cabal will stake us out for wyvern bait if the Preservation Guild doesn't skewer us first.”

  “No, Grandfather,” I said, patting his shoulder before he shrugged my fingers away. “It's not too late to preserve the wyrms. We just need several barrels of brine and help from all our neighbors. We'll have quite a pickle on our hands.”

  “Dear Styx,” Father chuckled, holding up his bloody fingers. “It's already all over our hands. Well, all over my hands. But thank you for the mirth.” He winced, clutching his ribs as he fell backwards. “Ow, it hurts to laugh. All my wounds are open again. Your healing is worthless, Cornelius.”

  “What do you expect with so much magic coursing through your system?” the old wizard muttered. “You should have spent the day recovering in bed, not half destroying the town.”

  “Oh, Father, I have caused you pain!” I turned away from my grandfather and hugged my father tight. I recoiled as he screamed. “Abigail told me how you were attacked last night. What did those imp hoodlums do to you, Father?”

  “Hoodlums? What hoodlums? You said the empire attacked you,” Grandfather said, crossing his arms as he booted me away from my father. “Were a handful of foreign street thugs your vanguard invasion force? Were you the poor, defenseless local youth?”

  “No,” Father whispered, clutching his ribs. “That was Abby.”

  “Abigail, defenseless?” Grandfather snorted. “And this is your idea of protecting her? Of protecting the town? The town needs protection from you!”

  “Imperial pigs,” Father fumed. “I humiliated them, and I humbled them, but I harmed nobody. I killed nobody. A few scares and scrapes. Those imps deserve so much more. I even tried explaining to one of them, but she didn't listen, didn't try to understand.”

  “And you thought they deserved that?” Grandfather asked, examining my father's battered, bruised flesh and whispering incantations. “Hold still, lad. I'm not going to hug you, but I do need to heal you. Reset those ribs at least before the townsfolk come to break them again.”

  Father grunted as Grandfather worked. “They take my foot. They invade my town. They hunt me like the cabal hunts baby dragons.” Father embraced the pile of rocks. “I finally find a dragon and it's a walking corpse. I killed all the baby dragons, Cornelius. I shattered innocent lives. Maybe Master Ranunculus was right. Can't you see what this cost me? Can't you appreciate my restraint?”

  “Your what?” The older man looked at the carnage of mud and splinters surrounding us. Grandfather took a deep breath. “As your friend, Devin, I implore you to follow that trail you created. Practice your new skills by completing the cottage on the mountain top. You need the peace and quiet more than I do right now, lad. Live there for a time. Now that you've found magic again, think over all the ramifications. I know you don't believe in the spiritual beast, but please, Devin, try and find your inner tiger.”

  Father looked up from the cairn with tears in his eyes. “Are you banishing me, Cornelius? Like the empire banished me?”

  “No, Devin. No, no, no, no, no. But the townsfolk . . . they need to not see you for awhile. There are many who won't appreciate your protection, however well intentioned. If you truly want to help the town recover from this invasion of tourists, if this was truly more than a gesture of personal, petty vengeance, then go and meditate on magic. Let the town heal itself.”

  “Petty vengeance or pedi vengeance?” I whispered to myself.

  “Meditate on magic?” Father stared at his red hands. “I will never use magic again. The price is too high. The responsibility is too great.”

  Grandfather looked surprised and then he smiled. “Never use magic again? Perhaps that's for the best. Your magic is far too . . . unstable. Well, meditate on that then, and sleep in the woods or make a shelter from the rubble, but go. I can always hire some of the craftsmen in town to build the cottage later.” He started pushing my father up the new trail blazed into the forest. “You're fortunate lizards have all the maternal instincts of a rock or we would be swarmed by flaming dragon vengeance. The human variety will get hot enough, but it will burn out faster the quicker you leave. I will send Abigail after you later with fresh water and foodstuffs. Get gone, Devin.”

  Father's eyes lingered on the cairn before turning to the mountain. He squared his shoulders. “I'll do it for the town. I do so much for this town.”

  “I appreciate that sentiment, lad. Sometimes, it's best to walk away rather than poke the wyvern.” Grandfather shooed my father into the woods. “Especially when you just stomped on its tail,” he muttered. I don't think my father heard him.

  “Goodbye, Father,” I called.

  Father raised one arm. He gave a stiff wave and kept walking, not even turning his head.

  I smiled. I'm so happy Father can lift his arms again.

  “Come, my carpentry companion,” Grandfather said. “Then I must renew investigating how your impossible powers work. I must re-examine all of my notes. The fiasco this morning may provide the final data we needed. Unlocking the secret of your magic is more important than ever.”

  “I told you, I'm giving it up,” Father protested.

  I would later learn to recognize the perplexed, shifting eyebrows on on Grandfather's face as an expression of spurned disbelief, but all I knew then was that he hesitated before replying. “And what if more imperial mages come seeking refuge in advance of Captain Vice's Black Guards? Every one of them dipping from an inexhaustible magic well? Your invasion wasn't real, lad, but the threat remains. There is some vital clue I'm missing. Go find a measure of peace and leave me to my studies. Come, Styx. Let us venture home and pacify the town as best we can.”

  Venturing home and pacifying the town meant reassuring our close neighbors that it was safe to come outside again since they all barricaded in our house expecting the local wizard to protect them. Unlocking the secrets meant Grandfather locking himself in the house alone with his books and notes after transplanting all our guests and sending me with instructions to Abigail to be her little, wooden pack mule.

  The same, familiar weakness descended like a gentle rain when I returned to the bakery, but I brushed it off my shoulders. Father had asked me to help Abby and what is a light touch of strain, such a small burden, next to honoring my father's wishes? After half a season, I hardly noticed anymore.

  Abigail was behind the counter and waving to her customers, a well-dressed couple walking arm in arm. The bit of dried blood clinging to the edges of their ears was hardly noticeable. The man wore a two tone, green linen tunic with a black belt and silk slacks and carried a long baguette over his shoulder. The woman wore a gossamer, brown silk blouse and matching skirt. Very tasteful. Father had been teaching me about clothing and colors. The two customers nodded to me as they left and Abby came around the counter, wrapped her arms around my waist, and squeezed. I patted her head and smiled. She always hugged me when I came to the bakery.

  “Are you safe, Styx? What happened? After my mother's watch silenced, half the town took refuge here in the bakery. We sold a lot of bread,” she chuckled. “Was there a magic accident? Are Devin and the Professor safe? Is Devin getting plenty
of rest after the fight last night?” Abigail lobbed questions at my head like pine cones. I gently pulled away from the hug and set my two empty packs and a handful of wooden tokens on the counter. I glanced at the brass watch hanging on the wall behind her, which was humming with quiet intensity. It seemed to dislike me.

  “No, my father has gotten plenty restless instead,” I replied said, chasing one of the tokens, which had rolled and dropped on the floor. “That was no accident, Abby. He lifted the rocks. He scattered people. He rocked them. Rocking. Rocky . . . ”

  Abigail held up her hands. “Whoa, whoa, don't try so hard with the puns, Wooden and Wondrous. You'll splinter into tangents. There, feel better? Deep breaths. Just tell me what happened, Styx.”

  “Father did it all,” I cried, wringing my hands and flaking the bark off my fingers. “He twisted Grandfather's arm to unlock the magic, he went and destroyed the roads, he killed all the wyrms, and then he went up the mountain.” I set the packs on the counter.

  “So all that ruckus was all his doing?” Abigail asked, nodding to herself. “I might have known. Making the road disappear seems like Devin's kind of magic trick. Of all the irresponsible, selfish . . .”

  “Not selfish,” I whispered, sap dripping from my eyes. “He did it for you. Because those evil, imperial hooligans were going to attack you, Abby. They were waiting outside the bakery last night like a wolf pack in the trees.”

  “Wait, Styx, what are you saying?” Abby asked, leaning on the counter. “Devin was trying to rescue me from the gang that I rescued him from instead?”

  I nodded. “Father is a mighty hero. Then after he saved you, he tried to save the town.”

  She propped her head in her hands and sighed. “That's almost sweet in a horribly pathetic kind of way. But why is all of the damage your fault?”

  “They argued. Father and Grandfather argued. It's all my fault for not sitting on Grandfather and for pointing out all the dead dragons and for sharing Father's secrets and for poking the wyvern. I couldn't stop poking it. I poked too hard, Abby. And now he sent my father away and Father needs water and foodstuffs.”

  “Don't break off a leg and beat yourself up about it, Styx. Those two argue all the time.” Her eyes lit up like star fire. “Wait, there's a dead dragon? Where?”

  I raised my arms and gestured all around us. “There are dead dragons everywhere, Abby. Big bits over here, little bits over there. And I haven't even told you the worst part.”

  Abigail propped her elbows on the counter as she started filling the bags with old bread. “Oho, it gets worse, does it?”

  “Father says he will never use magic again!”

  “What is that idiot thinking? After all his practicing? After all the hard work he and the professor put into studying and opening those magic flood gates, Devin wants to shove a cork up there? We'll just see about that.” She turned and called up the stairs. “Bye, Dad. Taking some provisions. Back in a day or two. Don't burn the place down. I'm going hiking with a friend so I can stick my boot up a magician's ass.”

  “How will wedging your boot up Father's backside help him?” I asked.

  “It will dislodge his head.” She yanked the brass watch off the wall and slid it across the counter. “I might just shove this up there instead.”

  I smiled. I had heard about this object. Father and Grandfather both talked about it a lot. “That is the watch of Captain Armand Delacourt Vice, which Grandfather threw at the man's head. It's one of his favorite stories.”

  “Devin once said he needed this to defeat Captain Vice, but I didn't listen.” Abigail looped the watch's chain around her fingers. “I don't need a memento hanging on the wall to remember my mother. I might have given it to him if he didn't abandon his sister and then ask for it in the snarkiest way possible. So keep it safe for me, won't you, Styx? Until I decide whether to place it in his hands or . . . elsewhere?”

  “You want me to carry the instrument of Father's victory?” My heartwood swelled as I clutched the brass watch to my chest. The machine shrieked. “I would be honored . . .” The watch smothered the rest of my words as the walls of the bakery began to fade. My eyelids drooped. It felt like a long summer drought and all the water was leaching from my body, sinking back into the parched, broken earth. The cracks grew wider and swallowed me whole.

  When I awoke, Abigail was leaning over me with a distressed expression on her face. “Styx, are you all right?”

  “The watch . . .” I reached out. Where is the watch? Father needs it. “Oh why did I collapse when I was supposed to deliver the watch to my father? My wood is brittle, rotten.”

  She clasped my twig fingers and squeezed them. “Styx, you're not rotten. The watch is safe. But you can't touch it. I thought that thing had killed you. When I pried it from your fingers and tossed it away, your chest started fluttering again, thank the five gods.” She poked my forehead. “Do. Not. Touch. The. Watch.”

  I lowered my hands. “Then you must bring it to Father, dear Abigail.” My barrel chest expanded as I sighed. “I have failed him again.”

  Abigail glared. “You can't help how you were created. If anything, your father has failed you. Or maybe there was no other way for Devin to grant you life. You failed nobody and you can help me carry a lot more heavy, cumbersome items than a tiny lump of brass.” She patted the bulge in her apron, helped me to my feet, and then gave me a gentle push towards the back room. “Go grab the last bag and one of the smaller barrels. He's going to need some potable water up there on the mountain.”

  As we walked down the dirt road, it appeared as though normal business had resumed. The townsfolk unfurled like flower heads popping out of hiding after a long, chilly night to discover everything is sunny and warm again. Everyone walked around with a healthy plaster of mud. Abigail told me most of the early spring season was like that, roads or not, reminding me when I defended my father that dirt was a common hazard for Corelian merchants and travelers. People waved as we passed and stared at the barrel riding on my shoulder, scowling when they heard where we were going, and then laughing when she told them why. The sky was the color of a bluebird and Abigail told everyone we met that it was perfect ass kicking weather.

  We found Father in a clearing near the top of the mountain next to a pile of cobbles making a ring of stones around himself. The trail of pitiable broken trees and the corpses of little woodland creatures winding up the mountain was easy to follow. Father sweated and huffed as he lifted the rocks with his hands, waving to the both of us before getting back to work. We set our baggage aside. Abigail perched on the barrel and watched for awhile before Father huffed his cheeks, wiped the sweat off his brow, and turned to face her. “What do you want, Abigail? Hey, Styx.”

  “Styx told me what happened.” She drummed her heels on the barrel. “I brought you some vittles and water, but everyone in town thinks I came up here to kick your ass.”

  “Ha! Cornelius would approve,” Father snorted as he sat cross legged in his little ring of stones.

  “So, Sour and Sweaty, what are you building there?” Abigail asked, tossing a loose cobble in Father's direction.

  “It's either a meditation circle from one of Cornelius's philosophy books or the beginning of a roundhouse foundation. I thought I might model something after Magnus's smithy. That man has some good ideas.”

  “Don't you have any good ideas of your own, Devin?” Abigail asked, hopping off the barrel.

  Father waved her away. “No, my ideas are all rotten. Dangling from the trees. Rotten, rotten, rotten. They stink!” He raised his arm and swatted several large rocks into the air.

  Abigail's apron hummed. The rocks crashed back to the ground, raising a plume of dust. Father turned to glare at Abby and pointed. “Did your . . .”

  “Still hung up on all the dead baby dragons, huh?” Abigail snapped his sentence like a green twig. Father stood there like half of his question was dangling by a strip of bark from the other half. “Nice to see you're so concerne
d over the important things. The town is fine and business continues to slog along despite the extra helping of mud. If you care to know, dragon killer.”

  “Actually, the dragons are hung . . . ” I started to say.

  She shushed me. “Quiet, Styx. Go keep an eye on the satchels and fend off any wild beasts that come sniffing around. Will you do that for me, Styx?”

  “Of course.” I sat guarding Abby's provisions and bent my ear to the wind as she held my father and they talked. I stole glances at my father when she wasn't looking. After he started crying on her shoulder, I leaped up, but she scowled and waved me away.

  “Who knew you had such a tender heart buried beneath all that snark?” Abigail crooned, cradling my father. “And how come your head keeps ending up in my lap? There, there, cry it all out.”

  “I waited so long to find a dragon,” Father sobbed. “And my magic was finally working. And then I was the dragon and then when I found them, I killed them with my magic. I didn't mean to slaughter all the baby dragons, Abby!”

  “I doubt you killed them all. They're wyrms, Devin, not proper wyverns, yet. The professor gave a lecture on wyvern life history once. He was very enthused. The man's addicted to that tea, the class was packed, and we all paid extra for the privilege. I think there was a duke and duchess in the audience somewhere. Corelians: we love our wyvern lore.”

  “Yes, we do,” Father said, smiling through his tears. “Everything is wyvern this and dragon that. Once I heard my first true Corelian idiom, I knew I could be happy here.”

  Abigail chuckled and ran her fingers through my father's hair. “I learned a lot from the professor's lecture that night. Maybe one in one hundred little baby wyverns survives their first year in these forests after whatever disasters come their way: the storm, the hawk, the wolf, the hunter, the mage. Most of them were this season's wildlife lunch, Devin. You just served the feast ahead of schedule. They were destined to die.”

  “Dragons destined to die, eh? I know a bit about that. Do the children play knights-and-dragon here in Corel? I guess if you do, it's the dragons who gang up on the knight. We played that game all the time growing up. The game got more ominous when I joined the guild. All the apprentices used it as and excuse to test our mechanical prototypes on each other and convince ourselves we weren't too old for games. So the game became a preliminary trial exercise. Still had lots of knights dressing up in metal costumes. Only now the armor was crafted from steel and steam rather than pots and tin sheets. Still just one dragon, though. I have no talent for making friends, so I was always stuck as the dragon, and in the empire, the dragon is destined to die. We're the losers.”