The Black Mage: Apprentice (4 page)

"You heard those Combat mages earlier.
Distance is
everything
. You do not want to get close to the
enemy – a mage's life is far too valuable to be wasted this early
in battle! If the Crown wanted to send in someone expendable they
would be using soldiers, not mages!"

Grimacing, I set to projecting my next
attack.
Thank the gods the local infantry isn't with us to hear
him today.

Three hundred yards in front of me was a long
wooden fence, six feet high and dotted with dangling wreaths.
Normally the backside of the regiment's horse pasture, today the
horses had been stabled – as per the last three weeks of practice.
Now, the fence served as an imaginary enemy line – and the target?
Sloppily woven wreaths that represented the weak spots in the
opposing forces' defense: the armpit, the eyes, and the plate armor
nearest the chest. The goal of the exercise was to hit a wreath
with casted arrows – a type of long-range magic similar to the
longbow exercises we had been drilling on every morning for weeks
now.

If we hit a wreath but the arrow fell, or the
arrow did not hit our target at all, then our casting was
considered a failed attempt. Our projections needed to be just
right to travel the great distance and embed themselves into a
target's armor. It wasn't an easy feat.

Most of the second-years, myself included,
had only had one or two successful castings since we'd begun the
afternoon drill.

As the Commander had mentioned earlier,
chariot attacks were Ishir's preferred method for initiating
battle. Combat mages would be the first to strike – and even though
we would be discharged at the same time as the knights, our
castings would give us the ability to reach our targets from a much
greater distance,
much faster
than non-magicked weapons.
Long bows were usually limited to four hundred feet, and other
ranged weapons even less – but that was
without
magic.

If a mage mastered the technique for long
casting, not only would he or she be able to project arrows further
than any knight, but eventually much heavier artillery as well.

It would be a great advantage.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Lynn
cast out her arrows. No physical weapon in hand, the entire casting
was formed by a projection in her mind. She barely flinched as
physical shafts manifested themselves from thin air – pulling back
against an invisible force and then racing into the distance,
embedding themselves deep in a wreath already brimming with arrows
directly across from her.

"Apprentice Ryiah it should not take this
long for you to form a casting!"

Snapping out of my thoughts, I hastily cast
out three conjured arrows in succession. They fell uncomfortably
short of the target. As soon as the missiles hit the ground I let
them dissipate, dissolving into empty air. I took a deep breath as
I prepared for another casting.

"Don't let him get to you, Ry."

I shot Lynn a grateful smile and then
returned to the task at hand. I had let the pain in my arm - and
Master Byron - detract from my focus. This time I would not be so
careless. I recounted the three-foot arrows and the long, elm
bowstave we used in practice. I imagined the horrible, heaving
tension from drawing eighty pounds of force against my left side.
Then I let the shafts fly, soaring toward the wreath with as much
strength as I could summon. The mental exercise was just as
exhausting as the physical act.

Halfway into their flight I was building the
next projection, concentrating on the mental image with everything
I had. The ground beneath my feet trembled and I dug into it with
the heels of my boots, holding my stance and casting steady as I
released another assault on my target. Master Byron was undoubtedly
testing us – seeing if we could hold focus in a chariot's bumpy
floor.

My second and third castings met my target
with success: each time at least one of the three arrows hit a
wreath.

I kept going. Thirty minutes flew by before I
realized it. My luck continued – at least half of my castings met
with success, and the others were not far off.

After five more minutes my stomach began to
turn and a nauseous feeling spread up into my lungs. I tasted
something bitter and my vision flickered in and out in a familiar
warning. My skin was instantly clammy, and a thick perspiration
broke out across my tanned skin that had nothing to do with the
stifling heat.

As soon as my legs started to shake I called
off my magic and watched as the arrows disappeared mid-flight.

Then I bent low with my head between my knees
and waited for the dizziness to end. After a couple minutes I began
to feel better. I straightened, taking in the rest of the
class.

With a small flash of pride I saw that
Priscilla, Ella, a third-year named Bryce, and Ray – the
dark-skinned boy I had lost to in the previous year's trials - had
already quit. Lynn looked like she was about to follow suit, and
Darren and Eve were little better. The older apprentices were
fading equally fast… though some had been casting with more
advanced artillery than arrows.

During my trial year at the Academy the
Combat master had always urged us to cast until we had nothing left
to give. It had been the fastest way to build our magic's stamina –
but it had always had an unpleasant aftereffect, and more often
than not it left us sick, fainting, or even unconscious.

Now that we were apprentices our training had
changed. After midwinter we would be actively serving with the
local regiment for five months in desert patrols. All of our drills
now were preparing us for actual combat. Which meant that stamina
was no longer as important as survival.

Testing limits had made sense in our first
year when the masters had been trying to build our magic as quickly
as possible, but now the focus was strategy. We all had different
levels of potential – the point in which our magic would stop
developing – and after the trial year its ascension was usually
much slower.

No one's power was infinite. The closer we
were to our limits, the slower our magic progressed. Even then,
most mages' stamina stopped building by the time adolescence was
over. A couple might continue on into their early-twenties – but
that was not the norm. Once a mage reached his thirties it would
begin to decline even if that person was diligent in their daily
practice. It was the main reason our Candidacy took place so often:
we needed the strongest Council possible, even if that meant
changing our Colored Robes every twenty years.

"You are preparing yourself for a
true-to-life battle," Byron had declared on our first day of
apprenticeship. "If you are approaching your limits you need to
turn back and call off your magic. The only time that I
ever
want to see you fainting is if you are at no risk of danger, or the
casting's outcome is worth your life."

In the simulation today we were preparing for
chariot attacks. Casting just one more arrow on the enemy's front
line – undoubtedly made up of "expendable" foot soldiers - was not
worth losing consciousness and falling from a moving chariot. The
casting wouldn't kill me, but it would leave me an open target to
those who could. The point of the exercise was to attack and
retreat – not
attack-and-then-fall-out-of-your-chariot-and-be-killed-by-an-angry-mob-of-enemy-soldiers.

The rest of the class finished minutes later.
As soon as they had Byron launched himself into a full-blown speech
praising Darren and insulting the girls at the same time. It always
ended the same way.

Women were weak. We were silly,
temperamental, and emotional. We should always follow, never lead.
We shouldn't try to overreach in our magic. Men would always be
able to cast better. It was simply a part of their disposition as
warriors; women had never intended to be seen in such jarring roles
and would therefore always be "lacking" in Combat.

While the master occasionally gave Priscilla
good remarks I was certain they were only for the prince's benefit.
Byron didn't even pretend with the rest of us.

I wondered what Eve thought of the master's
bias – but the violet-eyed second-year never spoke up, and I
suspected she didn't care. I could sometimes sense Priscilla's
irritation, but the highborn was smart enough to keep her temper in
check. Ella was just as outspoken as Ian and I – but since the
master didn't target her quite as much she tended to spend more
time pitying me rather than contradicting the man directly. The
older female apprentices were few in number – my year had an
uncommon ratio, four girls and two boys - but they seemed to
maintain the same strategy as Eve. Stay silent, and the master
would ignore you. Unless you were me.

"And Ryiah. Stay focused next time. I will
not let that arm be an excuse for your casting to suffer."

Today had been my best castings yet. I'd hit
the target more times than most of the second-years. And only that
one attempt had failed to reach the fence. I had even outperformed
Ella's mentor Loren, and that other third-year, Bryce. But, as
usual, the master had failed to notice anything other than my
faults.

I let the anger slide off me – albeit very
slowly - and started my retreat to the dining commons. Our training
took place a mile from the main building that housed our barracks
and the rest of the amenities. Normally I resented the long walk
after a full day of practice but today I was happy to have some
time to clear my head.

My apprenticeship is more important than
strangling Master Byron
. I repeated the motto over and over
again. If I said it enough times it would become true, or so I
hoped. Each time it was getting harder and harder not to counter
the master's critique. I'd lost my temper a couple of times during
that first month – and now three months into our training the
tyrant was still punishing me for it.

"Oops,
so
sorry!" A horrible jolt shot
across my bad arm as someone came barreling into it. Biting back a
yelp I glowered at Priscilla.

"You did that on purpose!" My pain was making
me see all sorts of crazy colors, and I no longer cared if the
master had rules about casting during non-lessons. The girl needed
to be put in her place – and if today's practice was any indication
then I had a good chance of beating her.

"You can't prove it."

"Prove it?" I snarled. I hoped Master Byron
was too far away to hear us. "I don't need to prove it. Why don't
you challenge me directly instead of acting like the coward you
are!"

"Ryiah!" Darren's hand closed around my good
arm. His voice was stern. "Don't."

"Why are you stopping her?"

"Why are you stopping
me
?"

Priscilla's and my questions were
instantaneous. The non-heir regarded his betrothed and I coldly.
"Because if you duel Ryiah this time, you'll lose."

"She
cannot
beat me," Priscilla
scoffed.

Darren kept his iron grip on my arm. "She
can
. And if you do anything else to taunt her I won't stop
Ryiah from trying."

I had the pleasure of seeing the raven-haired
beauty turn an unattractive shade of red. "I-I'll tell Byron she
attacked me!"

"Priscilla." Darren's patience was growing
thin. "If you do I will tell him the truth… We may be betrothed but
Ryiah is my friend. I try to stay out of your disagreements, but if
you do this I will take her side."

The girl let out a frustrated huff and
stormed off. A scattered clapping rose up from the rest of the
class – some of my friends even whistled. I blushed uncomfortably
and Darren dropped my arm like it had scalded him.

I noticed Master Byron wasn't as far away as
I thought, but it was quite obvious he had refrained from
interfering since the prince got involved. He stayed silent,
watching me with an irritable expression.

I guess there are perks to his bias.

"How's your arm?"

I jumped as I realized Darren was still
standing next to me, waiting for an answer. It was the nearest we
had been since that day in the Academy towers – only then I had
been trying to figure out whether or not to trust him.

"I - I'm fine," I stuttered. I felt unusually
light-headed. I wasn't sure if it was from Priscilla's bump or the
former pressure of Darren's hand on my arm. I hoped it was the
former. "Thanks," I added quickly, "for saying what you did."

"I told you we were friends, Ryiah." He was
smiling.

"I know," I began, "but you two are
betrothed…"

Darren's face hardened. "She'll come around,"
he muttered.

"Ry, what happened?" Ian, Ella, and Loren had
arrived. The three of them had been too caught up in an animated
conversation to take notice until Priscilla had marched past
them.

"Priscilla being Priscilla – only this time
she managed to clip my arm in the process." I gave a weak laugh. It
still smarted terribly and I knew Byron would never let the
Restoration mages touch it. For once it wasn't about me, at least.
Like the rest of the masters from my first year at the Academy,
Byron believed pain was something
all
apprentices needed to
bear.

Ian noticed my grimace. "You need to get that
seen to." He paused. "I bet we can get your brother to take a
look."

I protested – but my heart was not in it. I
expected Darren to make a sarcastic remark about how "pain makes a
mage" but he was oddly silent.

"I don't care, Ry. I'll tell Alex not to fix
it. Byron would notice anyway if he did, but Alex can at least
suggest something for the pain." He gave Darren a small smile –
despite what he said about the prince, I knew Ian really did want
to be friends. "I can take over from here, Darren."

The non-heir studied the two of us, brows
furrowed. I wondered what he was thinking.