The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  “Pro . . . fessor, that's not true . . .,” Abigail stammered, but Cornelius did not acknowledge her. “Styx is . . . a person.”

  “That thing,” Cornelius pointed to the cowering wooden man, “cannot possibly be alive, because only the five gods have the power to create life and you are no god, boy. You are just another puppet in thrall of the magic tiger. You were never anything and you will never be anything but magic's tool.”

  Abigail grunted like a wild, angry boar emerging from the woods and both males turned to stare. “Styx,” she growled, pointing. “Throw the barrel right there right now.”

  The wooden man looked from the barrel to the target and then back to Abigail. “Would that not hurt my family?”

  The girl snorted. “They'll hurt themselves worse if you don't.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Do it or I might hurt them myself.”

  Styx bent down and wrapped his arms around the barrel. His knees and arms straightened like paired pistons as he heaved and launched the object into the air. The barrel tumbled in a wide, shallow trajectory and crashed with sloshing disintegration between Devin and Cornelius.

  Devin shielded his eyes as staves and splinters exploded everywhere. Cornelius dove to the ground as one of the hoops twanged, rebounding into the air. Devin watched through his fingertips as the other hoop started gently rolling downhill.

  Abigail strode between them, kicking wooden shards out of her way. “Do I have your attention, now? Squabbling boys, the pair of you. Stop sniping each other with stupid metaphors and hiding behind poor Styx and just say what you actually mean to say to each other.”

  Devin pluck bits of wood from his hair. “What I actually mean to say? Ha! That old mystic can't let go of his own traditions long enough to appreciate a generous gift and the realization of a scholar's dream. Also, I suspect he's lapsed into heresy and jealous of my magical abilities and too stubborn to admit . . .”

  Abigail cut him off and the youth bristled. “I think you've said enough. What about you, Professor?”

  “That mosquito . . .,” Cornelius began.

  “What did I say about metaphors,” Abigail shouted. “Cut them out of your throat, sir, and let's see if there's anything left worth hearing.”

  “That pretender mage, that metal worker who plays with magic does not realize or appreciate the scope of what he has found. What was thrust into his young hands without the benefit of wisdom or maturity. He was not ready for that gift, no matter from whence it came, and I fear what he may do with it.” Cornelius sagged. “What he has already done with it.”

  “That's a start.” Abigail shook her ponytail. She scowled and took a deep breath. “Devin, you need to realize the professor being a scholarly man does not mean he lacks faith. You believe in the five gods, don't you? Well, the professor personifies magic as a sixth god and whether you disagree or just think it's blasphemous, his wisdom and knowledge deserve your respect, not scorn.”

  Devin sighed and then nodded.

  “And you, Professor.” Abigail turned on her mentor. “One of the things your pretender mage has done with his new powers is build you a cottage. Your gratitude has been nothing but accusations, fear, and spiteful words. And a cottage hardly heralds the destruction of the world, does it?”

  “Yes, Cornelius,” Devin beckoned. “Please come inside. Welcome to the house that magic built. Literally.”

  “There's something to what you say, Abigail, although I fear for the future more than the past,” Cornelius said with a wan smile. “When did my favorite student become so astute? And I have been ungracious and ungrateful, lad. This is truly a stupendous, wonderful gift.” The wizard stepped back, braced his hands on his hips, and tilted his head to admire the structure. “Very stupendous. Really awe inspiring.”

  “But you won't accept it, will you?” Devin sat on the porch, staring down at the wizard, and kicked the steps.

  “You ask too much of me. How can I trust your magic when I barely understand it?” Cornelius nodded to Abigail. “As she says, when we can only speak of it in metaphors and riddles? The natural, magic life force of the ancient tiger is not quite the article of faith my young student describes because I can sense the beast prowling inside me. It exists if only in my mind. But I cannot prove the tiger is real to those who cannot sense it themselves. I suppose it's like trying to describe the attributes of the five gods to the heathen barbarians.”

  Devin slapped the railing. “So I've gone from a blood-sucking mosquito to a barbarian? At least you concede I have a backbone. So this tiger exists if only in your mind? That does not help your case, Cornelius.”

  “Heathen,” the wizard said, but he smiled. “Perhaps all those years ago, the magic tiger revealed itself to me because I wanted it to exist, whereas you do not sense its fur tickling the tip of your nose because you do not want it to exist. You rationalize away that which you refuse to understand.”

  “Or perhaps,” Devin smiled a sad, little smile, “you wrapped your own talents, a gift bestowed upon man by the five gods themselves, in the form of a wee, magic beastie because you put more faith in the power of nature than mankind. Then you spread your cult like a religion until everyone attributed their magic talents to the wild beast roaming through their heads. Who would argue with your interpretation? Who would gainsay a venerable Master of Magic?”

  Cornelius clasped his hands. “Then the Master Wizard and the Artifice Mage are at an impasse. Both of us see the same evidence in a different light. We cannot resolve the source of your magic between the two of us, Devin.”

  “Evidence, nothing! It's because the both of you are stubborn, willful boys,” Abigail muttered. “And if you start arguing about Styx again I'll have him pitch you both head first down the mountain. He'll do it, too. We're buddies. You two are just family.”

  Cornelius waved that concern away. “No matter the origins of your magic, you are too powerful, explosively unpredictable, and wildly out of control. You must submit to limitations, Devin. This is for your benefit. For the safety of yourself and those around you . . . and any poor baby dragons left on the mountain.”

  “You kick me out of town,” Devin said. “You spurn my gift. You threaten to restrict my magic after finally deigning to unlock it. Then you stand here and tell me that this is all for my own good? I'm not one of your damn students, Professor.”

  “No, I thought you were a scholar.”

  “I am a scholar. I am the Artifice Mage and if you don't want this cottage, then I claim it for my own. You recommended I leave town for awhile, so I will respect the wisdom Abigail seems to think you possess. She and Styx are welcome to stay as long as they like. But you, Cornelius? I came to you looking for answers and you've done nothing but throw obstacles in my path since before we met. You are not welcome in my home. You are not welcome on my mountain.”

  “I will leave if it will grant you peace, Devin. Just look at the results of your latest magic experiments analytically and dispassionately and then tell me you're safe . . . tell me you have full control . . . tell me you have any earthly idea what you're doing or how you do it. Acknowledge the responsibilities that mirror your capabilities.” Cornelius turned away. “I still recommend meditation. You might not find a magic tiger, but you may yet find something to help you grapple with these powers. The secret to controlling magic is locked somewhere inside your head, not your heart.”

  “That doesn't sound right, Cornelius. When I made Styx, I was thinking with my heart and that's the most powerful magic I've ever accomplished.”

  “Magic is a discipline of the mind,” the old wizard insisted, shaking his head, “whether you realize that fact consciously or on some instinctual level. You are at war within yourself, lad, and so long as the two halves of your psyche are at odds . . .”

  “Are you offering more help, Cornelius? Do you dare still try to guide me down your crooked path? I don't think I can stomach any more of your assistance right now. You are a terrible magic teacher. I needed action and pract
ice, but all you ever offered me were vague hypotheses and rambling words.”

  “I was never your teacher, lad. And I never wanted to be your master. I was supposed to be your partner. Your friend. However, you are correct,” Cornelius sighed. “You need more than I can offer. Raw knowledge, theories, and philosophy can only suggest a path, but you must blaze that trail on your own. Find yourself, Devin. Start by asking one question: Who is the Artifice Mage?”

  “The person who is surrendering this,” Devin said, digging Captain Vice's brass watch from his pocket holding it high. “You think machines are useless? Prove it. If magic is so much more superior to machinery, than you should have no problem unlocking the mysteries of a simple, metal tool if you have physical access to it.” He tossed the watch to the old wizard.

  Cornelius jumped back as though avoiding a striking viper and the watch hit the dirt. “That abominable device is counter to everything I hold dear.”

  “I thought you were a scholar, Cornelius. Are you really shying away from the evidence of your senses because you're afraid of were the experiment will lead? Do you think that little device will suck up your powers? If you were ever my friend, Cornelius, use your magic as a sharp, delicate scalpel to probe and dissect that watch. Just tell me how the damn thing works.”

  Cornelius pinched the watch chain between his thumb and trigger finger and buried it deep in his robes. “I do this as a friend, not as a scholar. This thing should be destroyed. It poses no questions worth answering.”

  “Then let that be your goal.” Devin waved his arms. “Work to destroy the object of your fear, old man. That in and of itself will be a worthy experiment. Now get out of my sight, coward.” The youth watched through half-lidded eyes as the old man turned and left. The wizard's shoulders drooped as he shuffled past the wooden man. Abigail moved with an open embrace as though to comfort or speak to the old wizard, but he pushed her away and began his long, lonely trek down the mountain.

  19. STYX, YEAR 495

  Long have I known the terror of loneliness, of spending endless, silent days peeling back the layers until all the outer bark is stripped away and I stand bare and slippery smooth with no defense against that prying inner eye burrowing deep into my pith. I've never met another being of living wood—excepting Grandfather's extended kitchen menagerie and those tables and chairs are hardly smarter than dogs—but if wooden people are anything like those made of flesh, than we are not meant to be alone. I suspect this is true. As the saying goes: one tree wants company.

  Every time I lead men into battle, I feel myself being forced high upon a mountain above the tree line, responsible for every living creature rooted in the ranks below. The vastness between us holds me separate though we are all interconnected through long, lateral tendrils stretching underground as a single, living, cohesive unit. I've overheard my captains share this complaint amongst themselves, but nobody ever shares with me. Command is a desolate, windswept place for man and tree alike.

  My silent, woody brethren are rarely lonely. Sometimes the young saplings grow in dense stands so packed a mouse could not tiptoe through them. There are days I pine to join them, but feel cherry knowing while I did not ash to be born, I osage myself with this simple be-leaf: we all stand together, even when we branch apart. It's a tree thing.

  My father was alone in that cottage for days upon days. He exiled Grandfather back into town and Abby returned to the bakery. We were each alone despite our mutual company, but I think he was more alone than I. Had I recognized the symptoms, I would have made more noise cleaning our new home and preparing his simple meals. I would have reminded him to count the birds and the beasts and my silent, bark-clad brothers as his friends and boon companions.

  Father hung the watch on the back of the front door like a brass knocker and then embraced his loneliness, spending hours sitting in a spot at the center of the cottage surrounded by a dense sphere of introspection. Whatever entered that sphere died: feelings, words, gestures, thoughts, dreams, everything. He emerged twice a day to force food down and force food out and then he returned to eternal contemplation. Only one thing entered that sphere: stones.

  My father asked me to collect a small pile of loose gravel and set it in the corner of our cottage. After that, he asked for nothing. The first handful of days, one stone entered the sphere every morning. As he sat and closed his eyes to meditate, holding the stone in place for hours. As the days went by, he zipped it back and forth. Then one day, the stone began to circle around his head in a wobbly orbit. As days went by, the stone left this placid orbit and began to spiral and whirl, but the path remained jerky and unsteady. The thing quivered like an a fly buzzing around my father's face and my hand ached to swat it.

  As the sun descended, my father held one hand aloft and created a roaring fire in his fist to follow the path of the stone. I clapped my hands at such a raw display of power, but Father just scowled and then retreated back into his sphere.

  The next day, one stone became two. Father closed his eyes again. He meditated. The pair of stones balanced in the air. I asked my father what he was doing one of the rare times he emerged from his sphere. He told me he was studying the magic within himself like an artificer instead of a scholar: as a problem to be examined instead of a mystery to be solved.

  Over time, my father added more stones every day and created a torch in his hand every night. He explored the depths of his mind, creating geometric patterns too glorious for mortal men. He cursed from time to time, grousing about angles. At night, the fires in his hand softened and mellowed. Father frowned the day he began weaving concentric circles of three, five, and seven stones in a convoluted arc when he opened his eyes again and relaxed the furrow in his brow. The stones settled in a complex, segmented spiral on the floor with Father at the center. “Polygons, always polygons,” he muttered as he sat on the floor.

  I tried to make my father some furniture made of living wood. He said the two chairs and small table reminded him too much of Grandfather and that they cluttered the room. He asked me to return the wood to the forest. I waited days, hoping my father would change his mind, but I eventually acquiesced to his wishes.

  During this return trip, I found a place in the forest where men had festooned a young dragon with shiny, silver braids. The dragon was at least half as long, twice as golden, and just as bald as an old autumn sycamore tree. Those men were peeling away that poor dragon's bark. I ran home quick as a breeze gusting through the treetops and to my regret shattered quite a few saplings. I did not expect the men would hold my father's interest, but I hoped news of a living dragon might shatter the isolation of that awful sphere.

  As I entered, my father sat cross legged in his mental bubble, eyes unfocused, elbows planted on his knees, hands clasped in front of his face, and fingers steepled. I thought he was praying. Then I saw the tiny, delicate flame dancing on his fingertips. I approached cautiously. All the stones had left the pile in the corner and they flew and swirled around my father like a swarm of hornets randomly buzzing around their nest. But the longer I stared, the more of a pattern emerged from the chaos, like a snarl of interweaving branches all leading back to a single, sold trunk. My father's face sat bathed in the beatific glow of that soft, flickering flame.

  “Father?” I asked and the air around him pulsed. “Father?” You had to push things into that bubble.

  “Yes, Styx?” my father replied, his words ringing within the sphere.

  “I found something you might like to see, but you must see to believe it and be leaving to see it,” I said, pointing at the door. I was much less subtle in those days.

  “Did I ever tell you about my last invention as an apprentice artificer, Styx? My journeyman's piece?” my father asked, staring at the tiny fire.

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head.

  “It was a small, metal box, a mechanical marvel which anyone could use to create flame. It was wondrous. I could have revolutionized the empire. No more matchsticks, no more
flints and tinders. Let it drink but a tiny sip of lamp oil and then you could cradle it in the palm of your hand, thumb the striker, and create a warm, naked flame. Then do it again and again. It was my crowning achievement . . .”

  “You were brilliant, Father,” I said. “Such a fiery intellect.”

  “ . . . of a dead career,” my father sighed. The damn guild had me banished and stole my igniter as their own. I felt like they had torn a part of me. Shredded my life to rags. Burned them. Stomped on the ashes.” Father lit another fingertip with each successive exclamation while raising his hands and shaking them, but his voice grew quieter. The tiny flames danced with Father's icy fury: they did not flare or extinguish, but flickered with steady, soft control. “And now . . .” Father took a deep breath and lowered his hands. “I have replaced one reliable flame with another. But you can still see the spirit of the original in this cold, magic fire, can't you? I never really lost it.”

  “A strong, wild passion has always burned inside you. It is one of your most endearing qualities. And now you tame that passion and bend it to your will. I am so very proud of you. I could never find any man in the world more worthy to call my Father.” I smiled as my father's head snapped up and his eyes focused for the first time in days. He brushed aside a tear and as he bounded to his feet, I could sense that hated sphere pop like a soap bubble. I tell myself now that I could see a putrid miasma of pent frustration, anger, and disillusions flee like darkness from a flame.

  “I think we've discovered enough about ourselves for one day,” my father said, weeping as he wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Thank you . . . Son.”

  “Father,” I cried. “Your hands are still burning!”

  He swore and extinguished his fingers, patting the smoldering patches on my wizard's robe. “So, you found us a distraction?” Father coughed as tendrils of smoke branched to fill the small cabin.