EverMage - The Complete Series: A Fantasy Novel Read online

  Deinre returned his attention to Mithris, scowling. “I suppose it is too late for that now,” he said sadly. “I can only slow them for so long, Mithris. You must be far from this place when they overrun the tower and I am lost.”

  He waved an arm, and a section of the curving wall shimmered and vanished to reveal a shadowy tunnel which could not possibly have been there. Turning back to his apprentice, Deinre shoved something into Mithris’ hands. The lad looked down to see himself holding a multifaceted crystal. A faint light danced and glowed in the heart of the large, heavy jewel.

  Mithris looked up at the wizard, stunned.

  “Go to Nethrin’s tower,” Deinre instructed, placing one hand on the boy’s shoulder and using the other to waggle a finger in his face. “He’ll take you in. First apprentice I’ve taken in three centuries, he’ll surely want to know what it is I saw in you.” The wizard cocked his head to one side, once more eyeing the gravy stain. “I wonder myself, some days.”

  “Nethrin…” Mithris repeated. “But where? What about you?”

  “Just go, boy! There’s no time. Get yourself as far away as you can, then seek out Master Nethrin. His tower is to the east. Now go!”

  Deinre shoved Mithris toward the shadowy opening, the hole in a wall which should have opened up onto nothing but a long drop to the ground outside. Mithris stumbled through the aperture and found himself running on rough cobblestones through the darkness. He looked over his shoulder and saw the circle of light closing like a giant mouth. The last thing he saw was Master Deinre, a defiant snarl on his lips, hurling bolt after bolt of raw power through the window. Then the darkness swallowed him.

  Chapter 4

  Mithris stumbled out of the cave mouth and fell to his knees on the rocky shore. Before him stretched a narrow expanse of grainy sand peppered with gravel and larger stones and spotted in places with thick black tar. The sky was gray and cloudy above him. Streaks of lightning flashed among the clouds. The thunder was continuous, so loud he could not hear the waves crashing violently against the sand only a dozen yards away.

  Shaking himself, Mithris rose to his feet and turned to look back. The cave mouth opened out of a sloping rock wall that separated this length of the beach from the grassy meadow on which Deinre’s tower stood. From here, he could just see the uppermost portion of the spire. It was engulfed in flames, spewing thick black smoke into the sky to join the ominous clouds.

  Some kind of winged creature swooped about the flaming tower pinnacle, screeching angrily. Mithris turned away and ran.

  Footing on the rocky beach was treacherous, and he nearly fell again and again. But onward he ran. He ran until he could no longer hear the thunder of magical battle. He ran until he could no longer smell the sulfurous smoke. He ran until he left the rocky beach behind, cutting inland and fleeing into the primal forest.

  He ran until he could run no longer, and then he collapsed.

  Night was dark in the forest, and he dared not conjure a light. He pulled himself up to the slanting bole of a massive oak tree and rested against it. He probably slept; he was not sure. Blinking, he looked around at the eerily shadowed forest and listened to the sounds of the night. It was cold, but he shivered from more than the chill.

  Mithris was hungry. He was not sure how long it had been since the steak and kidney pie. After all the times he had argued with Master Deinre over their monotonous dinner menu, all the times he’d tried cajoling the old man into conjuring up fruit salad or a roast duck, Mithris had to admit he would happily devour another steak and kidney pie right now.

  Each time they had argued, Master Deinre had made the same response. “If you can’t summon your own culinary assistants from the nether realms,” he would say, “then I don’t see how you’re ever going to have roast duck.”

  Sitting in the midnight forest, with his back against a tree and his backside resting in the cold dirt, Mithris had to admit he wished he had learned that particular trick. Of course, there were so many spells he’d never learned.

  If Master Deinre hadn’t made him spend all his time practicing wards…

  Now, that isn’t fair.

  Okay, Mithris thought. It wasn’t fair. Neither of them had ever expected his apprenticeship to end so suddenly, or so soon. A wizard’s training required decades of careful study. There was simply too much to have learned in nine years. The complex, semi-telepathic language of magic; arcane knowledge of the five Foundations; the use of wands for casting and amulets for magnifying or directing power; the reading of ley lines…Not to mention a wealth of other knowledge Mithris could not even guess at. No, learning to summon ethereal cooks had hardly been a priority of his training.

  The spellbook…

  Mithris had forgotten the items he’d carried on his mad flight. He looked down, having to feel around on the ground before him in the darkness. If Master Deinre were here, he would scold Mithris for letting them fall so carelessly to the earth. And for not casting protective wards before he allowed himself to sleep…

  You should probably cast those wards now, before you make a light with which to read the spells.

  Mithris nodded to himself. Yes, that was a very reasonable idea. See, he imagined telling Master Deinre, I can be reasonable and see what needs to be done. Then he remembered that Master Deinre was surely dead, and felt foolish for arguing with an imaginary ghost. Shame washed over him, interlaced with a surprisingly powerful sadness.

  He and Deinre would never argue over wards or dinner again.

  Enough wallowing. The stern thought cut through his rising sorrow and self-pity. Get on with setting the wards.

  Mithris cleared his throat, and recited the words for a basic ward. He concentrated, making sure to project the proper mental image or thought with each muttered sound. When the spell was finished, no result was visible. But Mithris could feel the thrumming energy of the invisible dome vibrating the ether all around him.

  The magical barrier would be impassable to any creature not of this foundation—at least, for a time. It posed no obstacle to anything native to this world, however, so Mithris began reciting a second warding spell to repel wild animals or hostile men. When he had finished the two cantrips, Mithris summoned a hovering ball of light to illuminate the items he had carried from the tower.

  He had Master Deinre’s spellbook. It was not one of the myriad grimoires collected in Deinre’s scriptorium. It was not some ancient relic. It was Deinre’s very own spellbook, compiled by the wizard over centuries of magical research and experimentation. Mithris stared at the book, stunned. If there had been any doubt about Deinre’s fate, the fact that he had released this book dispelled it at once. This was Deinre’s life work. He would never let it out of his sight willingly, not unless he knew he was about to die.

  Mithris doubted he would be able to cast a single spell in the impressive tome. He knew it held no cantrips—those spells relatively simple enough for memorization.

  Curious nevertheless, he opened to a random page near the middle. Cramped symbols scrawled every inch of the page, with parenthetical notations scribbled in the narrow margins. Mithris recognized only a handful of the words. He closed the book ruefully. It would be useless to him.

  The other spellbook…

  That’s right! He had forgotten about the other spellbook, the one he’d taken from the scriptorium. But there it was, lying at his feet. He had carried them both, forgetting everything in his flight but the imperative of putting one foot very quickly in front of the other. He grabbed up the much thinner book of domestic spells, hope surging in his heart.

  Flipping hurriedly through the spellbook, Mithris almost went past the spell he was looking for. He turned back and found it. Breaking out in a grin, Mithris propped the book open on his lap and took up the casting wand he had taken from the tower. Taking a deep breath and reminding himself to stay focused, he began to recite the spell.

  As was common, he had trouble with the mental aspect of casting, but his overwhelmin
g hunger made it even more difficult to maintain his concentration. With every line of the spell, his thoughts drifted to the smell of roasting meat or the sizzle of fat dripping onto the coals.

  The ether rippled around Mithris. He opened his eyes to see a jiggling blob of coagulated fat and muscle. Disgusting.

  Mithris sighed a breath of frustration and stared at the blob as he considered his options. He had no food. He had no way of creating food. He needed to eat.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A sparkbeetle. Three, in fact. Without thinking he grabbed one up and moved it toward his mouth and stopped.

  Had things really grown so grim? He hesitated another second before tossing the squirming beetle in his mouth and biting down. Warm juices squirted in his mouth. It was delicious and terrible at the same time.

  He was just about to swallow when his whole mouth felt a terrible shock. The stinger! There was a reason they were called sparkbeetles. In a terrible fit of coughing, Mithris looked for water but found only small red berries growing on a nearby bush.

  Without hesitation, Mithris began shoving the berries in his mouth. The berries were bitter with a hint of tang, but they were very juicy. Soon his throat was feeling much better. He gobbled down as many berries as he could find until his hunger was curbed and finally returned to his makeshift camp.

  Now that’s out of the way, there was one other item Master Deinre entrusted to you.

  Mithris froze in the middle of licking his fingers. He blinked, thinking furiously. The last several minutes replayed in his mind and his blood ran cold as he realized something he’d missed. He’d thought he was being very reasonable, very calm in the face of danger. He’d thought it was his idea to cast the wards and to find a food summoning spell.

  But that voice in his head had not been his own. He looked down at the fourth item he had carried from the tower, realization dawning.

  Faint inner light still danced behind the smooth facets of the heavy jewel. Mithris knew it for what it was now. Master Deinre’s most prized possession. It was a foundation crystal, the rarest of all magical artifacts.

  And it had been talking to him.

  Chapter 5

  Mithris studied Master Deinre’s foundation crystal.

  Precious beyond description, foundation crystals were said to have been broken from the bedrock of the First Foundation, that place from whence all other realms sprang into being. Only a handful were known to exist.

  Mithris had known Master Deinre possessed one of the impossibly rare gemstones, but he had never seen it before today. Deinre always kept the crystal hidden safely away. Holding the stone in his hands, Mithris recognized it from his master’s description. The ever-changing colors and occasional images visible in the crystal’s facets reflected the mutable nature of the foundations. The slight warmth of the stone against his palms was a paltry indication of the object’s power. A foundation crystal was perhaps the single most potent magical artifact in any of the five foundations.

  And yet, with his enemy at the gates, Master Deinre had entrusted the crystal to Mithris. Why had he given the most powerful artifact in his possession to a teenaged apprentice? With this stone at his command, he likely could have swept away his assailants without breaking a sweat. Why had he given it to Mithris?

  The boy squeezed the stone tightly in his hand, leaning his head back to rest against the bole of the oak tree. The warmth of the stone spread through his hand. Mithris closed his eyes but still saw himself sitting sullenly in the dirt, leaves clinging to his bedraggled robes, his few belongings piled carelessly at his side.

  Master Deinre had sacrificed himself so that Mithris might escape with the foundation crystal and the ancient wizard’s own grimoire. He likely could have prevailed otherwise, but he must have thought this preferable to the slight chance the attacking sorcerer could still defeat him.

  Mithris was deeply ashamed and powerfully moved.

  Best get on with it, then, said the voice in his mind. His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head to look down at the crystal in his hand. It was the crystal speaking to him, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be sure. He opened his mouth to ask, then felt foolish again.

  Whether it was the foundation crystal or his own subconscious, the inner voice was right. Master Deinre bade him seek out a Master Nethrin.

  “To the east,” he muttered, casting his eyes about the shadowy trees the surrounded him. Was the sky beginning to lighten off in that direction? Mithris dismissed the floating globe of light, then had to blink several times before his vision adjusted. Yes, the first hint of dawn was just visible through the trees that way. “East.”

  Mithris gathered up his few belongings. He stuck Deinre’s foundation crystal into one of the deep pockets of his robe. His casting wand slipped into a slender pocket at one hip, sewn for precisely this purpose. He would have to carry the two spellbooks in his arms until he found a better solution.

  He stood for a moment beneath the oak tree, but there was nothing else to gather. This was all he had. The sooner he found this Nethrin, the better. Dismissing the two wards he had cast, Mithris set out toward the dawn.

  He found no easy going. The forest was thick and overgrown with brambles. Where the undergrowth thinned enough for him to pass, the ground was rocky and treacherous. The sun rose ponderously in the sky, and Mithris had made little headway.

  Squirrels and rabbits dodged happily among the tree trunks, their tiny bodies slipping through the tangled underbrush. Birds whistled cheerfully in the branches overhead. He resented them for the ease with which they navigated this forest.

  Once, he spotted a mountain cat through the a break in the leaves. Mithris froze, crouching down in instinctive fear. The cat stalked closer with lithe movements. Muscles rippled under its sleek hide. Mithris felt his mouth go dry. He clutched the two spellbooks to his chest, mind racing. He was in a panic.

  The cat pushed its head through a leafy bush, yellow eyes fixing Mithris in a basilisk stare. The lad licked his lips. Then the cat’s head jerked up and to the side. It opened its mouth as if to growl, but no sound emerged. The cat turned in place and bolted off into the forest. Its blindingly fast retreat made only the softest of rustling sounds before it was gone.

  I wonder what frightened it off? Surely not the mighty wizard, cowering in this thorn bush right here.

  That’s it, Mithris decided. The voice in his head was definitely not his own. He had never been such a sarcastic jerk, especially not to himself.

  “All right,” he muttered. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  His dry mouth reminded him he’d need to find water. He reached up to brush one hand through his unruly brown hair, but the hand froze in mid-air. An unfamiliar scent carried on the breeze, a spicy aroma that prickled his nose and sent a shiver up and down his spine.

  Reminiscent of dust and sulphur, but mixed with another foreign smell that had no place in this forest, nor even in this foundation, the odor recalled to Mithris a circle drawn with salted ashes in which a wavering light signaled the struggle of an otherworldly creature toward its manifestation. The scent was unmistakable—it followed every second foundation creature’s incarnation until the denizens of that dark world returned to its shadowy depths.

  Now, it floated lightly on the breeze from the west. From behind him. He had been tracked and followed. Fear seized the lad tight in its grip.

  Fighting off the panic, Mithris looked around frantically. There was a small clearing up ahead and a little to the side of his chosen course. In the center of the clearing, a rocky outcropping thrust up a dozen paces or more into the air. Nodding to himself, Mithris beat a hasty path to the clearing. Vines tugged at him, thorns scraping his skin, but Mithris ignored everything but the clearing ahead and that awful smell on the wind.

  He didn’t know what he planned to do once he reached the clearing. There was a creature of the second foundation—or maybe dozens of creatures—in pursuit. A hundred dismal possibilities ran throu
gh his thoughts.

  Omnitors—beastly denizens of the second foundation who resembled an unholy mixture of ape and hyena—would swarm over that outcropping, tearing him open with their fearsome claws before feasting on his very soul. Or it might be a shidhe, the immensely powerful, black-winged pixie-demons who drew sustenance from fear and other negative emotions.

  He just hoped it wasn’t a devinist.

  Mithris burst out of the underbrush and ran across the narrow clearing. Reaching the rocky outcropping, he scrambled up the near side. Smaller stones tumbled down the outcropping as he climbed with hands and feet. Mithris nearly lost his footing several times, but managed not to slide all the way back down. He reached the summit, wide enough for him to stand but too narrow to allow much movement. He spun around and looked back.

  The first of the omnitors leaped snarling out of the forest, its long legs flashing through the grass as it flung itself across the meadow straight at Mithris on his perch.

  Chapter 6

  Two more omnitors came bursting out of the trees, trotting up to flank their leader. The trio of summoned creatures crouched in the tall grass, glaring up at Mithris atop the rocks and snarling low in their bestial throats.

  The omnitors had long bodies covered in bristly black hair. They loped along on all fours, but could stand on their backward-jointed hind legs to use their muscled forelegs as arms. Ape-like faces with deviously intelligent, black eyes topped their otherwise vulpine form. They hailed from the Second Foundation, a place of murky darkness and sinister power. Only a powerful and supremely confident conjurer would have summoned such creatures and set them loose.

  Mithris, an apprentice of only nine years, knew he was hopelessly outclassed. None of the pitiful few cantrips he had would have the slightest effect on the omnitors. Even if he should somehow—against all odds—manage to fend off these three, he knew the wizard would only send something more awful. He shuddered, thinking of a devinist.