A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) (13 page)

Niel looked at Cally. “That’s impressive.”

“It is indeed.”

“I imagine that made the veterans unhappy.”

“As things would have it, one soldier in particular had a hard time accepting Cally. Cray was his name. He’d been with the house guard for years and saw Cally as being in his way. According to Jharal, Cray and Cally had plenty of heated exchanges.”

“Then Jharal served under her, too?”

“Oh, yes. Jharal was a friend of Cray’s and part of his squad. Cray was fairly popular with the other soldiers, but Cally had the support of Captain Bilom. It was a stalemate, of sorts—Cally unable to gain the respect of the guard in general, and Cray having to subordinate himself to her.”

“Surely Cally had the authority to be rid of him and let that be that.”

Arwin chuckled. “Not quite so simple. One night, while Cray’s squad had watch, a small raiding team managed to slip into the castle. The alarm was raised and a fight ensued. The raiders were killed, but so were both Captain Bilom and his lieutenant. That left Cally in command of the house guard. The soldiers appealed to Cerbin, the lord of the castle, to reconsider putting Cally in charge, but since Bilom had placed her there, Cerbin decided that’s where she’d stay. Cally’s first act as captain was to dismiss Cray and his squad. She held them responsible for Bilom’s death and banished them from the territory.”

“Including Jharal?”

“Yup. But Cray didn’t go quietly. He accused her of arranging the assassination so she could take control of the house guard. It wasn’t true, of course, but it raised enough doubt to compromise her standing. The next day, in an effort to save face and begin rebuilding morale, Cally assembled the entire guard on the parade ground. Even Lord Cerbin attended, at her request. She announced her intention to do justice to the memory of their former captain, but she wanted it to be clear she was indeed in command. She offered any soldier who felt unable to accept her authority an opportunity to honor out. Well, Cally—”

“Wait,” Niel interrupted. “Honor out?”

“For the most part house guards are comprised of professional soldiers. A portion of their pay—about a tenth or so—is considered an honor bond. It represents room, board, and whatever supplies are to be provided by the house. If during their service a soldier finds himself unable to finish out the contract, he or she can repay the house that amount and be honorably dismissed. It’s known as ‘honoring out.’ Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Cally underestimated Cray’s influence and the assembly turned out to be a huge mistake. Over half the garrison left, filing past one by one and dropping small bags of coins at Cally’s feet. There in front of everyone.”

“Oh, no,” said Niel quietly. “What did she do?”

Arwin shrugged. “The only thing she could do. That evening she presented the collected honor bonds to Lord Cerbin, along with her own. Humiliated, there was no way she could remain. So she left Dehlmoor that night.”

“Then how did Jharal—”

“I’m getting to that. Cray heard about her resignation and decided to go after her. He and three of his men, including Jharal, caught up with her the next night as she camped.” Arwin paused. “It was bad what they did to her, Niel. Very bad.”

Niel sat, aghast. “Jharal? He didn’t—”

“No, of course not. He stayed behind with the horses. Something you need to understand about Jharal is that he may be big and mean, but he’s not cruel, and that’s an important distinction. When he heard Cally’s screams, he went to stop Cray.”

Niel blinked in disbelief. “He didn’t think to stop them beforehand? What did he think they were following her for?”

“Chasing someone down to settle a difference is one thing. It’s what soldiers do sometimes, and Jharal knew that. If Cally died in a fight, then so be it, because to Jharal she was a soldier no different than he and deserved to be treated as such. But what Cray and the others were doing was another matter entirely.”

“So what happened?”

“From what I understand, Jharal pulled the first one off Cally so fast he broke the man’s neck. Cray turned on Jharal and the two of them whittled away at each other for a little while. Jharal’s strong, but he’s not the most nimble. Apparently, Cally managed to find a knife and throw it at Cray. Neither of them saw where he was hit. Jharal thinks it was somewhere in his face, but Cray ran away too fast to tell. Jharal was in no condition to go after him, and Cally had lost a lot of blood.”

“Why? What had they—?” Niel stopped himself. He looked toward Cally, then lowered his voice. “Her scar?” he asked, touching the bottom his neck.

Arwin nodded.

“Then what did they do?”

“Kept each other alive as best they could. They ended up in a village that happened to have a healer. It took some time, but they recovered. Like I said, that was a couple of years before Lodell and I ran into them.”

“What happened to Cray?”

Arwin shrugged. “I think he went back to the house guard with the others. Practically everyone who honored out returned after Cally left.”

They rode in silence for a short while.

“What are you thinking?” Arwin asked.

“About the contrast between Cally’s tale and my own.”

“Not to worry,” Arwin said. “We take pretty good care of each other out here.”

Niel managed a weak but genuine smile. “So the two of them, Cally and Jharal. They’re not…?”

Arwin chuckled. “Heavens no, friend. They’re close, mind you. But they’re comrades-in-arms, no more.”

Niel hesitated. “And you and she never…?”

Arwin placed his fingertips on his chest in dismay. “Sir, do you question my virtue?”

Niel shook his head and laughed.

“No, our relationship is very professional and occasionally friendly. But, there’s no denying she is a lovely woman.”

Niel gazed ahead. “She is, indeed.”

Arwin quirked an eyebrow. “Apprentice, do you have designs toward our fair Caleen?”

Niel scoffed. “You know good and well the College requires chastity of its Members.”

Arwin nodded seriously. “Of course, Apprentice. My apologies.”

The soft clomp of hooves filled the moments.

“Apprentice?”

Niel looked over.

“I haven’t noticed the College nearby as of late. Have you?”

Niel fixed his gaze forward with an indignant huff.

16

Ennalen again made sure she’d locked the workshop door. Yes, the rune above it would block anyone attempting to enter without permission, and yes, the Ministry aide posted outside her apartment would divert anyone seeking her out. But still, best to be certain.

She peeled back the layers of cloth draped across the cantle, taking care not to brush her skin against the stone itself. The jagged surface resembled quartz, save for its dark color. Curiously—and, excitingly—despite its perfect blackness she saw no reflection of herself in its glassy surface, no matter how closely she dared hold her face.

As with any proper research, the preliminary experiment would be simple. Using items of differing substances—a polished marble pestle, a wooden baton, and a nectarine from a basket of fruit on the windowsill—she would touch the surface of the gemstone, in two separate rounds, in order of least organic to most.

The first round would be done silently. For the second, Ennalen planned to repeat the cycle while uttering the Old Tongue phrase
Ruath dem,
an idiom that predated Canon and roughly translated as “Tell me.” Used in basic incantations as a preparative inquiry, the phrase also served as a component in detecting the magical shine of objects or people, which Ennalen thought might prove convenient. All in all, a harmless enough test.

First, she took up the pestle. The marble made a small tink as it tapped the cantle, but otherwise there seemed no effect.

Next, Ennalen touched the wood to the gemstone. The same.

Then, the nectarine. Nothing.

She suspected that would be the case, yet she could not help feeling a jab of disappointment. She dabbed her forehead, chiding herself for the nervous perspiration. After a moment to refocus, Ennalen then proceeded.

First, the pestle.
“Ruath dem.”

No apparent effect.

The baton.
“Ruath dem.”

And once more, nothing. Ennalen quashed a flash of discouragement.

The nectarine. “
Ruath d—”

An explosion of light, a deafening burst of sound—

and so little warmth. For the time being the flesh beneath her skin remained lush and full, but deep inside her the cold rot spread. It had been countless days since she’d last had anything to drink, a mute infant plucked from the breast with only the stores of her body to sustain her as she began to shrivel and die. At her center the writhing became more insistent, more demanding. She could hear herself being devoured, could feel the meat being pulled away with an incessant scraping that consumed what precious little warmth remained. Louder, more ravenously, her innards were being reduced to a rancid pulp, bloating her with filth until

—she felt herself falling, tumbling.

And then all the world lay quiet and dark.

***

Distant pounding. And a far away voice.

Mistress?

Ennalen’s eyes fluttered open. She lay on the floor of her workshop. Rass knelt beside her, beyond arm’s reach.

“Mistress, may I help you up?”

“No,” Ennalen croaked as she pushed herself upright. Her lips stuck together with what smelled and tasted like drying vomit. She turned her head and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Also on the floor, the same distance as Rass but on the opposite side of her, lay the nectarine.

She leapt up in alarm. “How long have I been here?”

Rass rose as well. “The night, Mistress. It’s halfmorn.”

Halfmorn—three hours before noon. Which meant she hadn’t missed any of her scheduled appointments. She let out a sigh and relaxed.

“I took the liberty of relieving the young man outside your door,” Rass said as she replaced the cloth over the cantle and returned it to its case. “If you ask me, you should post someone less scrawny next time. And someone less prone to napping.”

Ennalen removed her soiled outer robe and strode through the open workshop door to her bedchamber, leaving Rass unattended—unthinkable with anyone else, but Rass’s conditioning permitted him neither to touch nor describe to anyone but her, in any way, anything within.

“Thank you, Rass,” she said, her voice still craggy, “but I don’t believe I will be asking you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered, oblivious to the barb. He followed her into her living quarters, then stationed himself by her chamber door while she washed and changed.

“Has anyone called for me?” she asked as she emptied a fresh pitcher into her washbasin.

“Your guard took a couple of names before I arrived,” Rass replied from beyond the doorway. “He gave them to me to relay.”

Ennalen splashed her face with several handfuls of cold water and immediately felt better. “You may read them,” she said, reaching for a towel. As she had many times prior, she congratulated herself for happening upon a servant who could read.

Paper crackled, then Rass began. “Chief Magistrate Tamias wishes to remind you he has yet to receive the report on your current case load.”

Ennalen smiled. Tamias was an obsequious fop who never tired of ingratiating himself to anyone who might one day be more important than him. As far as Ennalen was concerned, that included just about everyone.

Within the hierarchy of the Ministry, the Chief Magistrate was second only to the Lord Magistrate. Because of her close relationship to Denuis, though, Tamias lived in endless frustration trying to get Ennalen to defer to his rank, which provided her equally endless entertainment. In all her time at the Ministry, she had yet to prepare a single report for Tamias. Yet, each month he sent a reminder.

She could easily acquiesce; case load reports were relatively short and informal, and could even be prepared by a clerk if she wished. But it so amazed her how Tamias tolerated her blatant insubordination, Ennalen simply had to see how long it would last. On top of that, she enjoyed envisioning what his reaction would be when she informed him that Thaucian himself had removed her from her normal responsibilities—something she would have to do soon, but not quite yet.

“And who else?” she asked.

“An old man by the name of Biddleby.”

“A Member of the College?”

“It would seem so, Mistress. From the Midlands.”

Ennalen patted her chin with a towel. “What did he want?”

A pause. “He refused to state the nature of his business. Also, even though this Biddleby had originally arranged an appointment for a week from now, he arrived at the College early and demanded to meet sooner. He said it was urgent that he speak with you the moment you were available.”

She rolled her eyes. Country wizards. “I think our overwrought Brother Biddleby can wait until his scheduled time. Was that all?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then wait outside. I need a moment.”

She listened to Rass walk to the apartment’s entryway, open the door, then close it again behind him. Not only was he obedient, but he exercised an economy of speech she readily appreciated.

Ennalen finished dressing then returned to the workshop. The nectarine still lay where it had fallen. She hesitated, clenched her fists once in self-rebuke, then picked up the fruit and placed it on her workbench. She hefted a large knife from the row of instruments on the shelf in front of her, slid the blade into the fruit… and smiled as the knife sunk through the center where the pit should have stopped it.

Holding the halves together with her free hand Ennalen drew the knife out, wiped each side on a folded cloth, and returned it to its place on the shelf. She then pulled the fruit apart.

Its putrid center had been eaten away by a pair of swollen harvest worms.

Ennalen set the nectarine down as her vision went misty. She clasped her hands to her face.

Her conjured butterfly no longer merely flapped its wings.

It now promised to carry her wherever she wanted to go.