A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) (25 page)

The interior of the professor’s home reflected the town of Glernny itself—simple and for all intents undecorated, with far more importance placed on function than form. The walls looked to be little more than thick, opaque paper, smoothed into rectangular sections between narrow studs of dark wood. Across the ceiling ran strange systems of ropes, gears and pulleys. The presence of a pair of comfortable-looking chairs surprised Niel at first, until he realized they weren’t for the professor, but for visitors. Waist-high work benches lined the walls, crowded with scientific gadgets and spilling over with papers of all sizes and shapes.

“If I might ask, sir,” Niel said as he considered the room, “what exactly are you a professor of?”

With a plant of his tail and a push, the tahlerig pivoted on his ample tummy and drew up close to face him. “So you’re the one, are you?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Embarrassed, hoping the question had been rhetorical, Niel folded his hands in front of him.

“I hold several degrees, actually,” the professor continued, turning back to what he’d been doing. “History, Languages—but as you can see from the clutter, I put most of the emphasis on my doctorate from Fraal’s School of Theoretical Mechanics.”

Niel frowned. “Theoretical Mechanics?”

“Never heard of it, eh?” Potchkins replied over his shoulder. He chuckled as he moved several stacks of boxes and other equipment to reveal more chairs.

Niel shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“Little surprise, seeing as how those damnable magicians— no offense, mind you—did away with it about a hundred years ago.”

“How do you mean, ‘did away with it,’ Professor?” Arwin asked.

“Oh,” the tahlerig groaned as he bustled and tidied, “some of those College Holinesses in their ivory tower got their underbritches in a twist when they found out several of us at the School, including yours truly, had published a paper on a theory that basically stated magicians were a vestigial appendage to the collective body of our society.”

“And they were offended by that?” Peck asked.

Potchkins gave another chuckle as he rested his arms on the back of one of the chairs. “One best mind his tail when at someone else’s picnic, hmm? Yes, I suppose that’s true. But we weren’t attacking the College directly. Our theory claimed the presence of magic and the prominent role it plays in the Lands has served to hinder the development of other means of problem solving.”

Potchkins held up his hands, suddenly beside himself. “Where are my manners! Here I am rambling on about me and myself and we haven’t been properly introduced!”

He moved from behind the chair, then offered a sincerely formal bow. “My friends, I am Professor Ignalius Potchkins. I welcome you to my home, and would be honored if while you are here you please consider it nothing less than your home as well.”

Arwin introduced himself with like formality. “May I present Caleen,” he continued, gesturing to each as he spoke their name, “Jharal, Peck, and of course Niel, of whom you already seem to know.”

“Only through hearsay,” Potchkins replied, “but it will do for now. I imagine you are all quite tired from your trip. I’ve prepared a small room in which you might rest, as well as some modest refreshment. The accommodations aren’t luxurious by any stretch, but they should prove comfortable.”

Arwin bowed again in appreciation. “You have our thanks, Professor. With your permission, though, I believe my friend Peck would like to have a further look around before getting settled.”

“Actually,” Peck said, holding up a palm, “I think I’ll do as the good professor suggests and rest a bit before we head out again.”

Niel felt the statement catch Arwin off guard, but the swordsman hesitated so briefly Niel doubted anyone else noticed.

“Well, then there you have it,” Arwin said. “Thank you again, Professor.”

“Not at all,” Potchkins replied. “Believe me when I say it’s my pleasure. The plan is to get underway after dark.”

“And how will we be doing that, sir?” Cally asked.

The professor gave a wide, good-natured grin. “That, I hope, will be a terrific surprise.”

31

The wind came at Ennalen, razor-cold and in shrieks. Below her stretched the wastes of the Black Plains like a vast, stagnant ocean whose surface offered only the dullest shimmer whenever the pale afternoon penetrated the pervasive grey.

The torrential gusts impressed her with their bombast and foreboding, but they bothered her not in the least. During the course of her journey, her control had improved dramatically over the random, vicious bouts of empathy in whose throes she had first been caught. Now Ennalen far more easily chose what she wished to experience and what she preferred to ignore, and all without the protection of her gloves. She gripped the ledge at her waist with her bare hands to steady herself against another assault from the wind and wondered with hollow curiosity whether the swollen, chapped flesh around her knuckles would split open from the strain.

Her cloak whipped and snapped behind her as, from high atop the Wall, she watched the horse that had carried her stagger toward the hazy horizon. With every shaky step, the animal became increasingly difficult to discern against the uniform ebony of the Plains.

She purchased the beast in the noisy markets that lined the walls outside Fraal University; given her initial over-sensitivity, she specifically chose a docile and disinterested gelding over a younger, more spirited mare that shared the same corral. As it turned out, his corral-mate had been well in season, and despite being gelded he had found the company of the fertile mare thoroughly enticing—a feeling he unconsciously but no less enthusiastically shared with Ennalen from the first moment she settled herself into the saddle.

Before the cantle, the strict discipline with which Ennalen governed her passions included an even sterner suppression of physical arousal, rare as such situations were. She readily appreciated the aesthetics of eroticism, but had always relegated her response to academic stolidity. Because of that detachment, Ennalen had been dismayed by the strength of the animal’s instinctive desires, and at how long the mare’s effect on the gelding had lingered.

Reaching the outskirts of Lyrria necessitated relying on the rougher, more forsaken roads and paths that threaded throughout the countryside. Her gelding found those comparatively difficult passes much more interesting than the well-maintained Old Highway, and his distracted contentment made for a welcome relief from his previous, prurient state.

The Black Plains, though, proved another experience entirely.

The dark, scabrous earth once known as Talmoor bore no vegetation and held no water. The moment they entered the barren territory, her horse descended into a trepidation that Ennalen first found irksome, then infuriating. She entertained the idea of not feeding the animal, thinking hunger might keep its emotions in check, but decided against it lest the horse collapse and strand her without sufficient provisions to reach the Wall on foot.

Having no other choice, she tolerated the horse’s stupidity—distracting, maddening, and as she came to discover, invaluable.

The animal’s apprehension provided a formidable emotional constant which Ennalen first resisted and then ignored, which slowly thickened her proverbial skin. Thus when the ever-distant narrow band on the horizon broadened against the faint purple of the Peridehn Mountains, and she realized she finally had reached the Black Wall, she felt no joy, no gratitude. Instead, a mollifying emptiness resonated inside her like the echo a room gains when one piece of furniture too many is removed. Throughout her being came a quietness, unqualified by bliss or serenity, that mirrored the surrounding desolation.

Atop the Wall, Ennalen squinted into the gale and saw that the horse had disappeared from sight. She could not remember when last she had slept—when last she had felt the need to sleep—and her impatience had pushed the horse to its limits. Being so many days inside the Black Plains, starvation and thirst would soon take their final toll on the animal.

She’d briefly considered putting the animal out of its misery rather than releasing it to wander and die, but decided this way would be much more informative. To that end she reached out one last time with her senses and, even from that far away, felt the despair that filled the horse’s simple mind.

Then, as one might toss away a scrap of bone after a meal, she let the beast go.

Ennalen gathered her cloak away from her feet and stepped carefully from her perch at the top of the steep, stone-block stairs that had allowed her access to the ledge. Below gaped a collapsed section of the Wall, the same through which she first climbed and discovered the surprising truth of the massive structure’s architecture. Unlike the bare, flat surface the view from the ground suggested, the upper portion of the Wall actually hid a recessed walkway. The corridor was narrow given its length—only a few shoulderwidths across—but from where she stood at its bottom, the top looked easily thrice her own height.

Along it seemed the Wall’s entire span, within arched alcoves each separated by several columns, stood hundreds of large, grotesque statues of creatures the likes of which Ennalen had never seen. All were mounted on great blocks of chiseled, polished rock—demons from the nightmares of an artisan obviously gone mad.

The wind streaming through the crumbling stacks of carved stone moaned a doleful chorus as she walked. At times the shifting ambiance of the song gave the impression of coming from the statues, or emanating from the large cavern in the side of the mountain where the Wall ended.

Or rather, began.

Ennalen slipped her hands from the sleeves of her cloak, folded them over her chest, and cupped the fist-sized lump nestled above her breasts. The rushing air carried a knife-like chill from outside, but as before, it caused her no concern. Wearing her cantle beneath her clothes had proven ample defense against the harshness of early winter; it provided not warmth, but rather obliviousness to the cold.

She climbed the wide set of shallow stairs leading to the mouth of the cavern, then paused. The length of the Black Wall extended into apparent infinitude, slicing a straight, black line through the continent, then vanished in a single point on the horizon where just beyond lay the Udithian Sea. On her left hunched the bluish hills that marked the beginning of the Outer Kingdoms. On her right spread the Plains. And on the other side of those, Lyrria.

And the College.

Reflexively, Ennalen closed her eyes and braced for the rage that normally erupted when her thoughts drifted toward Thaucian and the Board. But the blaze did not flare, from which she drew tepid satisfaction.

Forever ago, the thing she wanted most in all the world had been to see the College of Magic and Conjuring Arts take its rightful place as the center of civilization. As a Magistrate, she once felt certain her abilities and efforts would rescue the institution from its long decay and accomplish that goal of dominance in the Lands.

Granted, she used unconventional means more often than not, but her core intention had remained constant. In the end, though, she realized for the future to truly take root, the ground of the present would have to be mercilessly harrowed. Appropriately, if indirectly, Thaucian himself had suggested the very means she would employ.

Through years of wielding their cantles, the Board of Elders substantially extended their lives, yet none seemed to have managed the magical fluency Ennalen had with her own stone. Uhniethi could only have produced the Devastation by having an incredibly large portion of the ancient gem under his control—the remainder of the Heart, as revealed by her final visit to the Main Library. Provided a small portion could extend a human life span by centuries, then a massive portion should reasonably extend one by millennia.

And that meant Uhniethi could still be alive.

If that were true, then why did Uhniethi never exact his vengeance on the College for the death of his beloved Anese, as all the stories claimed he had vowed? Applying the old investigator’s rule once more: Because he had been either unwilling or unable. Assuming the story’s veracity, then the former seemed least likely. One did not inflict that kind of ruin then simply have a change of mind. Something must have prevented—must
be
preventing—the ancient wizard from carrying out his threats. Hindering another’s free will demands an overwhelming external force, as any magician could attest. Given the context, the only thing of which Ennalen knew that qualified as such was the Heart of the Sisters.

Relying on the Heart’s power for so long a time may have proven debilitating and ultimately destructive to Uhniethi. If so, feasibly, he might be in need of assistance. As the legend stated, and as Denuis reminded her, the Apostate was supposed to be an apprentice, a mage of none magic. Canon, the only magic as far as the civilized world was concerned, could not be reconciled with the incredible might granted by the Heart. By submitting herself to Uhniethi as a pupil, she would with a single effort neatly fulfill that requirement of the prophecy and carry out both their wishes. If the ancient magician turned out to be alive and able, she would eagerly learn what she could. If she found him in the pitiable state she thought quite possible, then she would take from him what she wanted and bend his knowledge and powers to her will.

Either way, her return to the world would be more terrible than the Dragon Sisters themselves, and she would leave behind a mark too deep for even the tears of weeping gods to fill.