The Mage Trials
Path of the Magi 1
Charles Cackler
Copyright © 2020 Charles Cackler
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798636676263
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
This work of fiction is dedicated to: Chrystal Cackler, Steven Cackler, Coeur Al'Aran, Christina Iglesias, Natalie Millman and Evan Cackler
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Interlude One
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Interlude Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About The Author
Chapter One
It was just past noon, according to the stone sundial in the courtyard, and a horde of locusts seemed to have descended upon the halls of the Miel family. The horde attired itself in silken tunics and wide pasted-on smiles. Sweet nothings and claims of honor came from every lip, all the better to conceal the knives that would strike when their victim was at their most vulnerable.
Rian would have preferred the locusts.
There was no way around it, though. Their liege, Lord Genthru Tolthor, had come to show his appreciation and make plans for the coming year, and with him came what seemed like half the nobility of the Kingdom of Rasgor. Each of the noble families under Lord Genthru had sent representatives, cousins, and lesser members of their family to ensure no agreements or the like would be made without their valued advice.
Of course, it wasn’t like they could come alone; each brought an entourage of servants to aid them and attend to the sort of matters a noble wouldn’t dare sully themselves with - accounting, supplies and other matters of necessity, but not glamor.
The scents of various perfumes filled the feasting hall, cloying and over-sweet, mixing together into a chalky reek that threatened to overwhelm the more honest smell of roasting mutton and ham. Scratchy whisperings of robes trailed past him as the teeming multitude slipped into their seats at the great table, each one eying their assigned spot and comparing it to those of others.
One particular woman had a wide smirk upon her face at how close she was to the head of the table. She spared a moment to sneer at less-fortunate rivals before turning her attention to the thickly-bearded man sipping at his goblet beside her. She inclined her head to him politely. “I must say, you have certainly outdone yourselves this year. The decorations are exquisite and the wine is warm all the way down.”
“Of course. We would not have it any other way - broke out some of our finest stock just for the occasion, more to the better.” Setting down the drink, Uncle Garian settled back in his seat with a satisfied groan. “Tell me, how was your journey through our southern fields?”
The woman, whose name escaped Rian - someone from the Gazif family perhaps? - held her goblet gently, letting the red liquid swirl inside. The smile on her thin and pale face was friendly, but the way her eyes narrowed gave a feeling like that of a spider looking at the fly flitting near its web.
“The land was gorgeous, golden wheat as far as the eye could see, corn as high as my head and free of bandits besides, but sometimes my carriage was fit to shaking.” She chuckled lightly, twirling a lock of her long brown hair around her finger. “I wonder if I am still bumping about, I confess.”
Uncle Garian chortled right along with her before lowering his voice as if he were confiding a secret with his words, “Well, we are careful to make sure that the trade roads are smooth and flat, but the farmers are not so attentive with their own. Which route did you take to get here?”
Polite conversation with the ease of old friends gabbing over no more than the bumpiness of a road, but Rian knew that the Soren would chastise him if he didn’t pay the closest attention to the discussion. He could see the man in his mind’s eye, sternly regarding him with a pointed ‘Look deeper, young lord.’
From where he sat, a couple of seats further down the table from the pair, Rian sipped at his own beverage, trying to figure out what the Gazif noble was really trying to achieve.
Servants with the House Miel crest over their tunics placed the first course of garnished ham beside them, making only the slightest whisper of sound in their wake.
The woman tapped her chin thoughtfully as she cut the food into little pieces before consuming them one by one. “I do not recall the route myself, although I do know that we started at the Rat’s Gate and made our way as quick as we could along the main thoroughfares. But what concerns me is whether the roads are truly built for transporting what we ship. A few bumps will not harm me - the strong must grin and bear it, after all - but some of our cargo is volatile. It would become worthless if jarred too much.”
“Ahh, that would be troubling...”
“Do not worry too much, Lord Garian,” she said with a smile, squeezing his shoulder as her voice dropped to a low purr. “House Gazif and House Miel have been friendly for generations. Half our trade goes through the Rat’s Gate. In honor of this bond, could we perhaps request just a bit more for our cargo? Not too much, just enough to make up for the times it is damaged.”
Uncle Garian stroked his beard thoughtfully before nodding. “I have not heard any complaints from the caravan masters, but we truly value our long friendship with the Gazif family - all five years of it. It might be a little inconvenient, but if it is as bad as you say, we can reroute your caravans to come through the Goat’s Pass to the northeast.” He grinned, perhaps with a little too much teeth. “If you like, Agatha, I can even let your great-aunt know that the request was made on your behalf.”
Her face paled more and more with each word he spoke. “That will not be necessary,” she quickly said, “much like us, our caravans are familiar with enduring the hardships we face...”
As Agatha further backpedaled in her panic, Rian took a sip of wine to cover his own smile. Of course she didn’t want that to happen - she was trying to manipulate and cajole in an effort to get a better trade deal from House Miel, not cause a delay in their own endeavors. If the Gazif matriarch received word of her causing their caravans to take a less profitable route… to say she would be furious was an understatement.
Such trickery... He sighed, yet this was typical for the nobility. Intrigue, double-dealing and manipulation were tools they all used. The banners of all the noble houses underneath the Miel family flew overhead today, bright in the afternoon sun, yet the position of each had been carefully considered for just the sort of message House Miel wanted to send. They had summoned some of the men-at-arms from the borders to swell the ranks at Houndstooth, the family’s citadel. Each weapon and armor gleamed with polish, all to give the impression of greater strength and power.
As his mother explained to him, subtle strength had its place but to be respected, one
must not only be strong, but one must appear strong.
He continued his meal, eating with a patient sort of laziness like that of a chimera resting on the eastern plains, fat from its kill… or well, he hoped he appeared that way, cold and unaffected, someone nobody would dare bother unnecessarily. Far better than them noticing the nervousness that lurked behind his eyes. Vultures preyed on such.
The scent of crushed berries filled the air with a welcoming aroma. “Why, hello there, Rian,” came the lilting voice of the woman seating herself beside him. She was perhaps a few years beyond him with wavy, dark hair that framed a somewhat chubby face. Even as he strained to recall her, she grinned at him. “It has been quite a while, has it not?”
It took a moment, but the small scar under her left eye caught his gaze and jogged his memory. “Scrylla, it is good to see you once again.”
Her smile widened. “You, as well. It has been far too long.” After a draught of wine, she set the goblet back on the table with a thump and leaned closer to him. “And what have you been up to lately?”
Rian hid a frown with a bite of ham. A first cousin of the Gazif’s main branch, with a voluptuous figure that was hardly hidden by her red silken dress, Scrylla had the appearance of a teasing maiden, but he recalled from experience that there was a more conniving side to her. Some of her tricks, he remembered, had been quite nasty.
“I have been busy with my studies in the art and will be taking the Mage Trials very soon.” He decided to change the subject before she could press further. “But my tales are far less interesting than yours, I am certain. Your son would be two years of age now... How is he?”
Her eyes lit up, each the pale blue shade of the summer birds flying outside. “Oh, he is just the sweetest little thing you could possibly imagine. He has yet to truly grasp our language, but he is learning. It is such a shame that you could not meet him today. He was left with his father, of course. This sort of gathering is no place for one so small.” She grinned. “Of course, you will know what it is like when you have your own. Have you and your family decided who you will be wed to?”
“Not yet. We have not discussed the matter in detail.”
She leaned closer, which did rather interesting things to her figure - he averted his eyes for both propriety and his face not resembling the color of a beet.
“Well,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I suggest you pay close attention and keep in mind what you truly want, or you might find yourself marrying an old goat for the sake of your family...”
As she trailed off, the bitterness in her words caused sympathy to swell within Rian. She might be a Gazif and thus a rival of House Miel, but he understood what it was like to have to endure unpleasant things for the good of the family. “Are you… how are you doing?”
“It is… difficult, sometimes,” she admitted. “I wanted to marry someone handsome, clever… charming. Still, it helps to have someone to talk with.” She looked at him and, for all his memories of trickery, she seemed so small and slight. Vulnerable. “How about you? What sort of person would you like to marry?”
Before he could respond, there was a tap on his shoulder.
“My apologies, milord,” came the grave voice of Chancellor Soren Spinner, an equally grave man in a tunic somewhat like the servants but finely-embroidered and several shades lighter. “However, we need to discuss a small matter with the travel plans for tomorrow.”
Rian frowned, but turned to the woman beside him. “My apologies, but I must be off. I will remember your advice, though.”
Scrylla smiled sadly. “That is all I can ask.”
Soren nodded to her in turn before leading him away from the table.
They made their way through a crowd of various servants and courtiers, only about a third bearing the House Miel colors.
Chancellor Soren had been serving the family since Rian was learning his first words, but he still moved with the grace and alacrity of a man half his age; he smoothly cut through the multitude surrounding them without so much as a need to slow. He took them to a small door off to the side, one whose dark coloration matched the stone so well that it was almost invisible at first glance.
At the sight of them, the guard beside it stood aside, bowed deeply and opened it without a word.
They made their way through, the door shutting behind them with a soft click. Out of sight of the guests now, Rian frowned and turned to Soren.
“Correct me if I am mistaken, but we handled all the travel arrangements last week, did we not?”
“Ah, you remembered?” Approval flitted briefly across the man’s visage, the stern lines of proud middle age quirking into a small smile. “Yes, we did, but you looked rather uncomfortable out there, so I thought it best to give you the opportunity to relax.”
Rian weighed Soren’s words. They didn’t seem false but given the importance of the meeting… he sighed. “She wanted something from me, I take it. And I failed to notice.”
“Of course.” He continued leading them through far smaller and less grand hallways, the torchlight glimmering against the sky blue of his tunic. “People do not spill their hearts out to someone they barely know for no good reason. She was looking to lower your guard and get something from you. Perhaps your view on internal family politics, any hopes and goals you might have or even a thought as to what sort of match your family was seeking for you,” he smirked, giving him a sidelong look, “Or perhaps she was looking to invite you to her quarters tonight for a more private discussion.”
Rian’s cheeks flushed at the prospect. Whatever his family’s concerns with House Gazif were, Scrylla was not an unattractive woman. An imagined vision of her undoing the back of that red dress of hers and the straps sliding down bare shoulders filled his head for a long moment.
A moment perhaps too long, as Soren began to chuckle. “Ahh, the young, so easily undone at the first glimpse of skin. You do realize that I didn’t actually say anything of that sort, yes?”
“But - I...”
“I meant nothing more than she would ask for the chance to talk to you more privately… Of course, it would not be much of a problem for her if she were to bed you,” Soren mused, stroking his chin. “She and the ‘old goat’ already have a confirmed heir, after all, so what’s the harm for one bastard? Of course, it would be the worst for you, as you have yet to be matched for marriage. It would be quite the scandal...”
At that point, any workings in Rian’s mind came to a complete halt and stammered sounds were the only thing that escaped his lips.
Soren’s smirk widened and he led them to one of the castle’s sitting rooms, where a couple of well-upholstered armchairs sat beside an open window overlooking the courtyard, with a small table between the two. An unlit fireplace completed the design, small yet cozy, a place for relaxation. He ordered a servant to get them some refreshments before settling down.
The walk had given Rian the time needed to regain his composure and he allowed himself to relax for the first time since the multitude of guests had arrived. He leaned back, letting the soft cushioning absorb the stress he’d had all morning as a gentle breeze blew across his brow. An unwelcome thought came to him, however.
“I was the weak point, I imagine.” At Soren’s raised eyebrows, he continued, “She was attempting to target me, in one fashion or another. You came to fetch me because I was the weakest target.”
At first, there was no response, but then Soren gave a small nod. “Well deduced, but you should not worry about it. You’re young, not even two decades. It takes time to learn to play the game - do you think Nyna came into this world knowing how to navigate all its political intricacies?”
“No, but I also know that Nyna would not have needed rescuing.”
“Well, that is a question of experience, isn’t it? Your sister spent her summers learning all the little secrets of rulership, how to decipher the plans of some while persuading others to willingly serve with but the wave of a hand or the turn of an ank
le, while you spent your childhood with your nose buried in those spellbooks of yours. Of course you are not as skilled as she is!” He chortled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry though, I will teach you, and one day, you will be like Baron Garian, not missing so much as a single trick.”
Perhaps… Rian smiled politely but didn’t respond. Looking down at his pale hands, uncalloused and unused to seeing the light of day save for through a window across the room, he could understand Soren’s point of view. Studying his spellcraft had taken years of work that could have been spent learning the ways of the nobility or politics.
Still, it had been worth it, and soon he was going to prove it. “There will be little chance of that for some time to come though, for tomorrow we make our way to Sirala.”
“Ah yes, days of journey to the capital of the Rasgorian empire, the shining jewel, where common folk cluster about, the streets smell of sweat and decay, and you go to complete some trials created by robed people older than time itself. How incredible.” He shook his head derisively. “The worst part is, we have to leave before Lord Genthru’s visit is complete. There is so much left to be done - trade deals, responsibilities handed out and possible marriage negotiations just to begin with - and we will not be here for any of it!”
“You underestimate it, surely. The Royal Academy of Mages is the center of all mystical learning, and think of what knowledge is there for the taking.”
“Knowledge, yes, but none of import or value. You will have greater concerns in the years to come than whether or not you can cast a few spells. Just consider all the responsibilities you will have! You cannot merely sit around. You are going to be representing the family; there will be balls and courts, and …”
Soren continued in that vein, discussing the duties he would soon face even as they ate by the window.
The sounds of whispers and laughter came up from the courtyard below, as some of the guests had slipped outside for private discussions of the type Soren was so worried about missing. More deals of the sort Agatha had been hoping to make, alliances being brokered, feuds being started and stopped, and yes, perhaps a few sordid liaisons as well. A young man emitted a rather high-pitched giggle at whatever his companion had just whispered in his ear.
The Mage Trials Page 1
