A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) (3 page)

Arwin gave Niel a friendly nudge. “Let’s stow your things, shall we?”

***

Niel offered silent thanks upon seeing the cramped cabin had two beds. He hefted his pack and let it fall onto the one that appeared unclaimed.

Arwin unbuckled his sword belt, hung it on a nearby peg, and fell back onto the other bunk. “I know it’s not much,” he said as he crossed one boot over the other and folded his hands behind his neck, “but it beats swimming. Jorgan’s not much on accommodation.”

Niel thought of the sword in his face. “You don’t say.”

Arwin chuckled. “So, what purpose compels you toward the emerald majesty of Aithiq?”

Niel faced his unexpected host. “At the risk of appearing ungrateful—”

“Yes?”

“—who
are
you?”

“My name is Arwin, of course. Pardon my saying so, but you really should have gleaned that from my little exchange with Jorgan up there.”

“Yes, I gathered your name. What I meant was, why would you bother coming to my rescue?”

“I was lonely?”

Niel gave Arwin a doubting look. “With respect, you give the impression of being able to provide yourself considerable entertainment.”

Arwin propped his head up on an elbow. “True enough. Then try this one: I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition? Pardon
my
saying so, but why should I be interested in a proposition from a complete stranger?”

“Because I trust my instincts. And we’re not complete strangers. You know my name, which means it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

Again, Niel balked from a feeling of exposure. “It’s Niel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Niel.” Arwin perched himself on the edge of his bunk. “Now, would you like to hear what my instincts tell me about you?”

“Actually—”

“First, you’re a student at Fraal University. I infer this mostly from your age and your clothes. Ordinary enough, but just a little nicer and not as worn as most. That means either you have money or your sponsor has, and so there you have it—Fraal.”

Niel looked down at his tunic and breeches.

“Second,” Arwin continued, “my guess is you’re more specifically an apprentice at the College. Regular students carry more baggage, heavy on books. You have but one pack, and magicians-to-be travel light, mostly by foot—something to do with being able to survive the journey or what-have-you. I mean, any run of the mill student smart enough to attend Fraal would be smart enough to ride a horse, but you can’t.”

Niel grew uneasy at the stranger’s too-accurate suppositions. Danger bred from flaunting one’s stature or position, and this swordsman had summed up Niel’s circumstance after knowing him scarcely minutes.

“And last,” Arwin said, “because Fraal is quite a way from here, my guess is you’re on a sabbatical of some sort. Am I close?”

Niel sat, unsure how to respond.

“By your face, friend, I think I am.”

At that, Niel’s unease heated into indignation, regardless of whether the swordsman spoke the truth. He felt his ears and neck flush and prickle. “Sir—”

Arwin stopped him by holding up a palm. “I don’t mean to pry or embarrass, only to demonstrate that I do have some competence so you might take my proposal seriously. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

The apology sounded sincere, but then, so did the petty drama played out for Jorgan’s benefit earlier. A muted voice from above deck called out the order to shove off.

“No offense,” Niel said. “I’m just… tired. And a little out of sorts. And more than a little far from home.”

Arwin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, as though he had reconsidered. Instead, he offered another small smile.

One decidedly less pleasant than before.

4

From between the marble balcony’s glass-paneled doors, Ennalen watched the narrow avenue. Fine linen curtains played about her in the steady morning breeze. The nights had recently turned cold enough to redden the nose and cheeks as one strolled the College grounds. Soon there would be snow.

She suppressed a shiver and hugged the ancient book in her arms, then savored a long, settling breath that brought a delicate floral tang from the garden below—the last of that year’s Golden Julias, a frail autumn blossom that happened to be her favorite. Weeks had passed since emerging from her self-imposed isolation within the stale labyrinth of the Main Library, but the novelty of fresh air had yet to abate. Not that she had any complaints; she seldom ventured out during the winter months anyhow, preferring the geniality of late spring. Besides, if events progressed as she intended—especially given how long she had toiled, and how many times she had been convinced this point would never arrive—then missing a few nighttime strolls would be a paltry expense.

Ennalen quashed an urge to move downstairs and wait in the front courtyard, then scolded herself to be still. If by some chance the person she anticipated had slipped by unseen—not impossible given his talents—he had explicit instructions never to sneak into the building. She greatly doubted he would have been either noticed or caught, but her rapid ascension to the office of Magistrate had yielded plenty of watchful detractors within the Ministry of Law, and the late, precarious stage of her plans demanded more prudence than ever. Besides, even at such early hours, visitors were formally announced and seated in the common room to learn whether or not they would be received. And, of course, he would be.

Ennalen ran her thumb along the coarse pages of the book she cradled, the one she had pulled from amongst the study’s expansive, ceiling-high shelves. A wry smile tugged at her mouth because she knew upon those pages played out a story far older than the crumbling volume itself, a story for which as a child she had never particularly cared.

Life, it seemed, was replete with its little ironies.

The blush of dawn warmed to a powdery blue as the new day grew and brightened. As much as Ennalen resented leaving her vigil, her regular duties beckoned. She stepped back into the study, latched the doors, and bitterly resigned herself to patience for at least one more day.

***

Sala of Basselwick, the repulsive man cringing in the Revelator’s Circle, so resembled a salamander that when she first met him years ago Ennalen thought the person who introduced him had been making a joke. Sala’s large black eyes blinked far too often, and the ever-present sheen of perspiration on his slender frame gave him a slippery appearance. She still half-expected his tongue to dart out and lick his eyebrow.

Beginning literally the hour of her ordainment as a Magistrate, Ennalen had vigorously pursued an open campaign against Members of the College who exploited their influence over underlings in their charge. She made well-known her willingness to hear any complaint pertaining to such abuses and to publicly investigate on behalf of any claimant who came forward against his or her teacher. Doing so had earned her the disapproval of most of the Membership for ‘swinging her sword about the glassmaker’s shop,’ as the saying went. She once had even toyed with the idea of actually wearing a sword to court in response to the reproach, though such a ghastly act would likely have landed
her
in the Revelator’s Circle.

In short order her labors bore fruit. The number of legitimate accusations brought to her greatly decreased and, much to her relish, solidified her reputation as someone whose attentions were best avoided. Even the reclusive Holistic Fraternity lent her a round-about validation by drafting a letter of concern to her superiors, warning that her crusade was ‘a disruptive and self-destructive endeavor,’ or some such banality.

So be it, Ennalen had thought. She sheltered no delusions about her very personal—and most recently, very selfish—motivations. When all was said and done, she would much rather be the source of her own destruction than allow anyone else the privilege.

Sala’s apprentice had come to Ennalen with a story of bizarre dreams of being violated, dreams that would come and go on a regular basis. An inspection of Sala’s workshop revealed traces of Lady’s Thigh in a mortar, all but confirming his guilt.

“One last time, Brother Sala,” Ennalen said in full courtroom voice, “does it remain your contention that you’ve no knowledge of how the Lady’s Thigh found its way into your workshop?”

“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala replied. “As I have said, I do not work in herbamancy. I’ve no use for such a component.”

“You’ll pardon me, Brother Sala, if I point out that even if herbamancers enjoyed special dispensation to possess Lady’s Thigh—which they do not—one need not actually be an herbamancer to reap its benefits.”

A thin rustle of laughter moved through the gallery. A hard look from Ennalen returned the chamber to silence.

“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala answered.

The tiny rare flower called Lady’s Thigh took its name from a bawdy old drinking song about a thief under a dining table, discovered because of his inability to resist temptation. The flower’s petals, when ground, mixed with wine and imbibed, induced a state of euphoric aphrodisia, rendering one mindlessly enthusiastic toward any sexual advance. The drug also had remarkable curative properties, granting an aggressor great latitude in indulging more sadistic appetites with no worry of telling marks or scars. A victim would have little or no recollection of such an assault, and practically no physical evidence to support an accusation if he or she did. Given the celibacy imposed upon the Membership, the College forbade the substance.

Proper balance of Lady’s Thigh with its complementary ingredients was crucial to achieve the desired effect. The experiences Sala’s apprentice conveyed suggested a weak concoction, but the sample from his workshop contained a dangerously high concentration. At such proportions, if Sala’s apprentice had survived at all she would have retained no memory of the alleged attacks—not even those as disjointed and vague as dreams. Ennalen had no doubt the stupid little girl had fabricated the entire matter, and had planted the evidence in a bid to avenge some other perceived but unrelated wrong.

Ordinarily the deception would have brought the full fury of Ennalen’s wrath, but her situation necessitated no cause be given to question her dedication. At the same time the number of abuse cases had declined as a result of her work, baseless accusations had increased, and accordingly her ratio of complaints to convictions had dropped—she never pronounced guilt arbitrarily. But the recent run of dismissals possibly could be misrepresented as a lack of thoroughness on her part, which in turn might lead others to suspect her preoccupation with matters other than those pertaining to her office. That was something she could ill afford.

Ennalen spoke loudly, formally, addressing all present.

“Good Members of the Gallery, having heard the testimony of the relevant parties, I come to the inescapable conclusion that our Brother Sala has forsaken his solemn duty and besmirched a fundamental trust on which the very existence of our beloved College is dependent…”

In the Revelator’s Circle, as he had many times throughout the trial, Sala began to sob. Under normal circumstances personal opinion of someone under her professional scrutiny never would have affected Ennalen’s judgment, but Sala’s cowardice and effeminacy readily provoked her disdain, thus she had to admit a certain, malicious glee from the fact that the proceeding’s circumstances were far from normal.

The finale itself, however, would be a matter of routine.

Following her zealous summation and the presentation of her verdict, the Magistrate of Record—the senior Magistrate who heard the testimony of all parties involved—would either concur or challenge. If he concurred, the verdict would become part of the official archives and the appropriate sentence would be administered. If the Magistrate of Record challenged, the Members of the Gallery would be polled, and the result of their vote would become the final verdict. Ennalen made a much more effective Magistrate than a magician, and despite her preference for investigation she lacked little as a conjurer. Sala would be condemned.

Per the statute she herself had written, the first of the two standard punishments for Sala’s supposed crime was castration, followed by permanent excommunication from the College. The second option was imprisonment until the complainant reached confirmation, at which time the offender would be pressed into service as the complainant’s apprentice, subject to whatever treatment his new master saw fit. The former remained by far the most common choice, something Ennalen had never understood. While she saw the appeal of immediate satisfaction, in her opinion enslavement offered the potential for a more lasting and gratifying retribution.

As she performed for the Gallery that day’s variation on the litany she’d recited so often, Ennalen’s mind drifted to more pertinent concerns, but not before weighing one last time the profound unfairness being done to poor Sala.

She suppressed a smirk as she concluded her remarks.

At least it was no
arbitrary
unfairness.

***

From her balcony in the deepening night, as she had for weeks on end, Ennalen watched the road below and absently stroked the spine of the same book discovered days before. For no particular reason she regarded the elaborate cover and spine once again, this time wondering whether the person responsible for binding the volume had been driven by pride of craftsmanship or by enthusiasm for its content.

She still had yet to open the book. She had no need. With the exception of a flourish or two specific to a given scribe, the story within would read just as it always had:

Before the World, the fable went, there had been the Ever—the primal sea of nothingness from which all began. After measureless eons of serenity, a cataclysm brought forth from the Ever the gods and their opposites, the three-headed creature known as the Dragon Sisters. Immediately finding the cosmos abstract and inadequate, the Dragon Sisters went to the grey, wasting body of the Ever and tore open further the wound from which they’d been born. They bathed in their Mother’s blood, knowing it to be magic, and with their new and wild powers began weaving dark spells. Their first incantation created the World—a black, tangled place, but nonetheless something over which they could rule.

Angered by the desecration of their Mother, the gods buried Her in a distant, secret place. In doing so, the last precious drops of the Ever’s blood trickled onto their hands and into their eyes, giving them, too, knowledge of magic. Now able to see the significance of their siblings’ creation, the gods waged war upon the Sisters to wrest the World from their jealous hold. The stars themselves shook from the ferocity of the struggle, and the Sisters were driven back to the edge of creation.

With the Sisters exiled, the gods cast their eyes upon the World, and for the first time light shone. The blackness erupted into a melody of lush and brilliant greens, and the tangles withdrew back into the earth. The gods wept when they saw the unintentional beauty of what their Sisters had created, and their tears filled the huge, jagged crevasses of the World, forming the oceans. Inspired by the splendor of land, water and sky, the gods then created beings to inhabit all three.

Afterward, in those early days, humankind and god lived alongside one another, creating music and poetry and art, enjoying prosperity and peace. Meanwhile, the banished Dragon Sisters discovered the remains of their Mother. They ate what was left of Her body and grew stronger, and watched as their siblings dwelled within the World and forgot what it meant to be gods. Once healed, the Sisters emerged, and when they fully beheld how their creation had been ruined, the Sisters descended upon the World and a final, terrible battle commenced.

In their lessened state the gods could not counter the Sisters’ brutality and feared the World would be lost forever, until a great cacophony of war horns sounded and from all directions charged a thunderous army. Humankind had assembled its mightiest heroes to help defeat the Sisters once and for all. The tide of the conflict turned, and the Sisters realized their destruction was at hand.

Rather than suffer outright defeat, in a last act of spite the Sisters tore open their own chest, scooped out the vile heart within and hurled it down upon the World. As it fell, the heart became an immense black gem, and when it struck the ground, it shattered into countless pieces. The dying Sisters knew those pieces one day would be gathered and reassembled, and release a power with which the children of the gods would surely destroy themselves and every—

Ennalen’s attention snapped back to the present. A tiny, dark shape, silhouetted by the lamplight that haloed the low hill appeared on the walkway.

Her pulse quickened, but the excitement that leaped into being plunged again as she recognized who approached the Ministry of Law—a messenger from the New Tower; not at all for whom she had hoped.