Elyssa Hated The Candle

First chapter from Blades of Corven, Book 1 in the Alteer Legends Series.

***

Elyssa hated the candle.

Every student in the practice room sat cross-legged in front of one, but only hers carried a flame. For three years this simple finger-length of wax and wick, and others like it, had tormented her.

The vexing object stood on a shallow clay saucer, perfectly centered between the seams of the cedar floor planks. Stalling, she gripped the hem of her plain brown dress with white knuckles, and let her eyes wander the classroom.

The inner walls were bare wood, and the outer well-fitted and mortared river stone. All four walls stood free of adornment other than a low-burning oil lamp—and the occasional scorch mark. A small window allowed a view of clear blue Ambrian skies, and rough-hewn timbers of red oak held up the ceiling. The room held no furnishings other than one chair.

Practice Master Billof sat in that chair like a twisted petrified tree. Watching. His hazel eyes moved over each of the nine students on either side of Elyssa. The highest of mages stroked his long white beard with a scarred hand. Intense wrinkles littered his brow and cheeks. When his gaze landed on her, she shuddered.

The other’s doused candles filled the air with the scent of smoke. She looked everywhere but at her own burning stick of wax. Each student’s pale forehead bore a narrow white headband holding back various shades of bone-straight blond hair. Self-conscious, Elyssa shoved a thick, wavy brown lock behind her ear with an olive-skinned hand. Despite hunched shoulders, she saw the top of the other students’ heads—not only because her height exceeded the average Ambrian’s.

Havella, half her age but hardly the youngest in the room, began her third cycle of this pointless exercise. Elyssa had yet to complete one.

How easy would it have been to be discovered as a child? But the Mage Guild only recruited from the rural parts of the Republic when they ran low on members. An Evaluator stopping at her family’s farmstead had been the event of the year.

Billof cleared his throat and looked at her, brows furrowed.

Red-faced from the rebuke, she rubbed sweaty hands on the coarse wool of her skirt, and fixed her gray eyes on the lit candle. She extended her right index finger and whispered, “Irata ko atil.”

The small flame continued to burn merrily. Her siari refused to transform into magic. The force that fueled every mage remained out of reach, flowing as it wanted, beyond her control. She fought the urge to punch the floor. To hurl the stupid waxy stick. Her hand became a fist that she dug into her knee. Billof’s noisy sigh made clear his disappointment.

Everyone else moved onto the more difficult step, relighting the candle. While they did so, he recited the lesson. He sounded bored. She sympathized, having taken this class too many times to count.

“As you bring forth your siari, sending it through your finger, you use the magick word fierta to transform it into one of the elemental powers. In this case, Fire.”

“Fierte ko anatil!” The other student’s voices overlapped, conjuring tiny streams of flame that flashed from aimed index finger to wick. Every face but Elyssa’s broke into an ecstatic smile. Then they snuffed the candles again, faster than the first attempt. She watched in frustration as they built both proficiency and strength. Every child here had stamina to wield ten times the magic she could.

Her candle burned on, mocking her.

The Arch-Magis interrupted her downward spiraling thoughts by standing, signaling an end to the class. He extended his scarred hand and muttered a spell, snuffing out her candle. He departed the classroom without even bothering with a disapproving glare. The flock of students funneled out behind him, chatting excitedly.

She waited until they left. Spell-casting without supervision was forbidden, but for a moment her rage forced something in her to coalesce. She forced it outward toward the candle. “Fierte ko anatil!”

Nothing happened. That stirring power collapsed in on itself, not even touching the soft wax. She kicked the hateful object across the floor, retrieved her satchel, and stalked from the room.

In the hall, she heard a class learning to craft Incants. Stopping at the closed door, she listened with longing as the instructor laid out the art of preparing complex spells into shorthand phrases for future one time use—a concept new to her. Something she’d missed thanks to recycling through the same Novice lessons repeatedly.

If she had to sit through another class explaining the Aspects of spellcasting, or a lecture on the reasons incantations must be conjured with the ancient language of magick and not the common tongue, or why dwarves possessed little magical ability while elves had immense power—she might throw herself from the roof, if only to have a new experience.

Didn’t the Guild exist to educate? Not just the magical arts, but history, law, physiology and chemistry. So what if she struggled to cast? Her eyes and ears worked fine. If she’d wanted the same flaming thing every day, she would have stayed on the bloody farm growing flax and socializing with the caxen. At least the livestock wouldn’t be judgmental.

She pressed her ear closer to the door, greedily soaking in the lesson.

“Novice Ra’Sena.”

Teeth grinding, she took a deep breath, turned and bowed. “Master Paela.”

“Why are you loitering? You haven’t completed my research. I leave for Corinth in the morning.” The diminutive woman wore a black headband—an unnecessary adornment, as even the lowliest of Apprentices learned every Master’s name. But to Paela, the strip of cloth was a weapon of status. Three precise white bangs littered her otherwise solid-black, shoulder-length hair. Her scowling face bore the wrinkles of a woman in her fifties—though Elyssa knew the wretched Magis to be younger. Paela glared up at her, nose in the air, somehow seeming to be looking down.

She crushed a rude reply before it escaped her lips. “I’m on my way to do it now.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Novice! Why the Officiants allowed someone like you to become a Guild Member, I’ll never understand. When I was your age, I’d already laid men low in battle. What are you? Twenty? Older? You’d be more use married and on your back. You could’ve birthed half a dozen babes by now. Everyone must do their part to repopulate if they can’t be productive in other ways.”

Flame this troll-lover. And flame Ulvarden. The Great Calamity that broke Alteer in half was still used to justify that absurd mandate. It had been five hundred years. And plenty of women desired to further the species. Elyssa had no interest. Not now.

“I want it at first light. First light, you hear me? Or I’ll have you scrubbing the Trench.”

Bloody flaming caxen.

Holding her face passive hurt, but she more or less managed. “At once, Master.” She bowed, willing the horrible woman to go away.

May she fall down the stairs. And die.

Paela shoved past her, black hair streaming.

Under her breath, Elyssa muttered, “Nuokib vuil.” Her command of elvish only included words unsuitable for polite company. Fortunately Paela was beyond earshot. She pushed a stray lock from her forehead, fingers brushing her white headband. A glowing symbol of her incompetence.

“Are you alright?” a voice called behind her.

Great. The dressing down had been witnessed. Why not add to her shame? She turned around. “I’m fine, Din. I . . . that woman . . . ”

Dinnel was a year younger and a half a head shorter. He had a pretty face still full of innocence with mismatched eyes—one brown and one emerald. He wore a gray robe and a green headband. His curly, blood-red hair and ruddy complexion betrayed his foreign heritage, making him stand out amongst the sea of pale-skinned, blonde-haired, brown-eyed Ambrians that filled the Guild’s classrooms—just like her.

“Forget about her. No one can stand Paela. She’ll be gone soon, anyway.”

“Sometimes I wish I was.”

He frowned. “Don’t say that. You have to keep trying.”

“What’s the point? I should have left for home the moment I had my Apprentice certification. Mostly harmless and free to rejoin society. The Evaluator told me to go. ‘Here’s your yellow headband, Elyssa. Now back to the farm with you. We know you won’t set any hay bales alight!’ Why didn’t I listen? Oh no, I insisted on signing that stupid contract like a fool.” She fingered her white band. “I barely earned this.”

“Elyssa, we have to find your Talent. Discovering which Aspect of magic you have an affinity for might help—”

“Oh, my Talent is clear—doing other people’s research and laundry. And scrubbing privies.” She regretted her sarcasm the second the words left her mouth. Dinnel flinched.

Smooth, Elyssa.

“I’m sorry, Din. I didn’t mean—”

The boy forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it. That woman will give anyone a foul mood.”

“No argument. I—I have to go. Lots to do.” She started down the narrow hallway lit by widely spaced windows.

He hurried to catch up. “Join me for dinner later? Me and some friends plan to eat in the courtyard.”

By friends, he clearly meant other Acolytes. Possibly a Magis or two. Her superiors. All no doubt younger than her. Din might take pity on her, but no one else did. She endured enough ridicule without seeking it out. She shook her head.

Dinnel went on, not paying attention. “We got a letter from Oela we haven’t opened yet.”

She’d met the girl. A year her junior, recently raised to Magis. Off on her first Guild assignment. More salt in the wounds.

He waved his hands as if he would burst from excitement, otherwise. “She’s with a company of Guardsmen patrolling our southern border with Darrla Province. Imagine what stories she must have already! I mean, it’s about training and gaining experience, but she might’ve encountered anything. Bandits, vren, or werebeasts!”

Not likely in Ambria. More at risk of catching a cold from the early winter.

Still, curiosity tempted her. Except she knew what would happen. The same thing that always did. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Din.”

“They aren’t all bad, Elyssa. I understand it’s awkward. But . . . ”

She stopped at the staircase, wanting to accept his offer. Dinnel’s sincere eyes told her it would be fine. She didn’t believe them. The horrid students her age harassed her without end, because they were actual casters and she—the old lady, the pitiful hanger on—wasn’t. And the immature children of her own rank suffered from delusions of grandeur. They looked on the masters with envy, desiring the power and wealth that came with titles, dreaming of the day they could strut the Guild halls, barking orders.

Elyssa just wanted to be more than a pair of hands working a garden hoe.

“I really don’t have time. I’ll be lucky to finish everything on my plate as it is.” She saw his face fall, but hurried down the spiral stairs before he replied. Before she said anything else stupid or hurtful to her only friend in this place. Gratefully, he didn’t follow.

The bottom of the staircase emptied into the library. She breathed deep, savoring the smell of old parchment, glad all six square tables sat unoccupied. She chose one lit by a narrow skylight, dropped her satchel on it, then laid out her inkpot, quill, and unfinished research paper beside an Ambril lamp. A couple of squeezes on its built-in striker sparked the wick to life. She picked it up and turned to the countless overflowing bookshelves hiding every wall.

With practiced ease, she found the books she needed and immersed herself in one. An adventure novel would be preferable to The History of Darrla Nobility, Post-Ulvarden—nevertheless, the text soothed her frayed nerves, granting a calm she rarely felt any other time. A peace that almost compensated for her annoyance at doing other’s work for them. Reading on the farm had been a luxury, limited to the novelettes she scrounged on rare city trips. So she savored each page like a drunkard with his favorite beverage.

Her crossed-legs grew cramped and her vision blurry. One hand darted out blindly to the lamp, turning the knob to expose more wick. It was still hard to see. She raised her head, blinking her eyes clear. The light streaming through the skylight had shifted, throwing her corner of the library into shadow. The old chair groaned as she stretched her back and rubbed her aching hands. She dipped her quill, made from an ossahawk feather, then began another line of notations.

“Elyssa, there you are.”

She nearly jumped out of her chair and upset her inkpot. Master Magis Torvassa stood at the base of the steps, staring with her too-small brown eyes. An intricate silver chain bound the woman’s dark hair, which contrasted sharply with her powdered skin.

A massive man who gave the impression of a bear standing on its hind legs flanked the mage instructor. The thin Magis seemed a stunted sapling beside him. He made Elyssa feel tiny even from a dozen paces away. His eyes were brown and his pale, clean-shaven chin wide, below a rounded nose and bald head. He was handsome, in a rugged way, except deep scars littered his face and scalp. A single, fresher wound marred his crown. He appeared to be in his thirtieth year, but the blemishes combined with the seriousness of his demeanor made him older.

Torvassa waved a hand at her. “Captain Greggin of the Karkum Guard, this is Elyssa Ra’Sena. The Captain requires your help, Novice.”

Unsure of the protocol in this situation, she bowed and stammered out something that resembled, “Nice to meet you.”

Greggin’s gaze bored into her. She found her back hunching, as if to hide from it. His voice was hard, when he finally spoke—it had a physical presence in the room. “A Novice? Master Torvassa, I expected your most qualified scholar.”

The Magis made a placating gesture. “Elyssa is the best person to assist you, Captain, I assure you. If the answers you seek can be found within these walls, she will find them.”

She stifled an onslaught of irritation. Maybe she couldn’t cast herself free of a burlap sack, but research was her element. Dyythyrn phrald. The man didn’t look like an ass-licker, but thinking the elvish curse helped her meet those intense eyes without quivering in her slippers.

Greggin’s stare softened a degree. “Well. I’d like to get started immediately, then.”

Elyssa wanted to scream. “Master, but I’m right in the middle of a paper for Magis Paela, and I have several—”

Torvassa cut her off with a wave. “Make time. Give the Captain your full attention. You’re excused from your remaining classes for today.” Already on her way up the stairs, she left an awkward silence in her wake.

Stomach churning, Elyssa gripped a fistful of her dress and squeezed.

Greggin cleared his throat. “I would appreciate getting to it.”

She nodded, hoping whatever he wanted didn’t take too long. She returned to her seat and slid her unfinished notes aside to let the ink dry, then closed her book after marking the page with a scrap. “Of course, Captain. What do you need?”

The man’s eyes surveyed the furniture. With one hand, he picked up a chair from another table like it was a twig, and placed it next to hers. He sat, tilting the sheathed longsword at his hip, preventing it from scraping the floor. The chair protested as his bulk settled into it. Atop chainmail, he wore a white surcoat bearing crossed swords beneath a phoenix with wings spread. An old symbol. Much older than the Republic that had adopted it.

Why would a Karkum Guardsman come to the Guild directly?

That went against protocol—Guard officers had access to a liaison stationed in the capital’s barracks.

He leaned forward on his elbows. “I need you to explain how a sole spell-caster wiped out a hundred armored men in a dozen seconds.”

She blanched. That doesn’t sound hypothetical. “We’ve mages that powerful in this building. But there are many factors to consider. The specific spells used. The Talent of the Battlemage in question. Their age and proficiency.”

“I can’t answer most of those, but my age. Perhaps a little older.” Greggin’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled downward. “He was exceedingly proficient.”

She swallowed. “It’s certainly possible. The only requirement is the willingness to spend all one’s siari. For the mage to kill themselves to create the spell.”

He shook his head. “That’s just it. This man did not die.”

Elyssa laughed.

Greggin’s eyes narrowed further. He didn’t smile.

She stopped laughing. “Ah, sorry. What you describe isn’t possible.”

“I’m saying it is. I was there.”

“This sorcerer surely must have aged to the point of decrepitude?”

“No, he didn’t age at all.”

“I see.” She accidentally met his gaze, which made her palms instantly sweaty. “Perhaps he led a Circle. Were others close to him? A Circle requires skin to skin—”

“No. Definitely not.”

She racked her brain for another possibility. Only one came to mind. She eyed the scabby gash on the man’s scalp.

How hard did he get hit in the head?

He grimaced. “I know what you’re thinking. The Chancellor’s Mage Consul had the same look. So has everyone else I’ve told. But this happened. And the man was neither mad, nor reckless. He was precise—not some lunatic caster going out in a fiery flash, determined to wreak maximum havoc until burning out.”

Now she understood why Greggin had been foisted on her.

Sure. Dump the madman on the useless library dweller. He can fill her time in between shoveling shit.

This wasn’t uncommon. People—mad or not—loved blaming misfortunes on magic. House went up in flames? Rogue spellcaster! It couldn’t be that someone knocked over a lamp. She sighed, her hopes for a swift conclusion evaporating. She picked up her quill and searched for a blank parchment. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning, Captain.”

He crossed his arms. “You’ve heard of the fighting in the south?”

“A little. Skirmishes with raiders from Darrla?”

“Yes, someone has been attacking towns along the border. Raids on caravans. People being taken. Villages razed.”

Her mouth fell open. Darrlish lords fought constantly, of course. The Barons squabbled over land and position almost as a sport. But villages being destroyed? Things like that belonged in the books spread on her table. “That’s terrible. Why would anyone do that?”

He shrugged. “Why do such people do anything? Hunger for plunder or glory is usually enough.”

“Give me the specifics.” She refilled her quill.

“My company—a hundred men and horse—was ordered to patrol the outskirts of Caalon township.”

“Caalon? Did you have a Magis named Oela with you?”

“Yes.” His eyes bored into the bookshelves. “She was killed.”

What?

Her hand froze, quill hovering over the page. Oela was too young to be dead. A rapidly rising caster. Gifted. Her fingers trembled, causing a solitary droplet of ink to fall and mar her lettering.

His gaze softened. “You knew her?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry. She never had a chance.”

“I can’t believe—what happened?”

Greggin’s hand curled into a fist on the table. “We tracked the raiders into a valley. Trapped them between us and the Drum Hills. I expected them to retreat up-slope—to make a chase by horse harder. But when we closed in, they’d lined up facing us, with not a pike, lance, or spear among them. They stood with their swords sheathed. Waiting.”

“And that was unusual?”

“Yes.”

A blank stare accompanied the singular reply. A stare that seemed to doubt her intelligence. She caught her foot tapping nervously, beating out a staccato on the floorboards, and pressed it down flat. “Why were they waiting?”

“At the time, I thought it madness. But then—”

“The aforementioned caster capable of wiping out a hundred men.”

“Yes.”

She met his gaze. He didn’t look insane. But his reactions weren’t what she expected. If she’d seen the horrors Greggin described, she’d be curled in the corner weeping. Perhaps he was accustomed to extreme violence? Brushes with death might be a daily occurrence in his world.

That, or he was psychotic.

She suppressed a shudder. “Describe the magic used.”

“He opened with several dozen lightning bolts, burning down from a clear sky, followed by carefully aimed firebolts at anyone still upright.”

She recorded his words verbatim. “Did any strike you?”

“No—my horse took a bolt for me. I had the opportunity to face the mage in single combat.”

“He had martial skill as well?”

“Yes, unusual for a caster, I realize. Yet he displayed masterful swordsmanship—and unnatural speed. And strength. Made me impotent as a child fighting a vren bull.”

While her fingers worked, she took in his top heavy build, the muscles barely contained by his chainmail. His jaw seemed like a tool used to break stone. She hated to imagine the person capable of making Captain Greggin look child-like. “But he didn’t kill you?”

Brilliant question, Elyssa. Wouldn’t be here, would he?

She flushed. When she tried to cover her face with her palm, she knocked one of her books off the table. He caught it one-handed, without taking his eyes from her. The book was back where it started before she managed a single blink.

“He could have. Easily.”

Unnerved, she inhaled sharply. “Describe this man. His features, clothing, weapons. Perhaps something he wore carried an enchantment.”

That’s the only possibility. Albeit an insane one. What kind of artifact would enable any of this?

“Crimson plate armor covered him head to toe. Except for two fingers on each hand, and his palms.”

She nodded, making fast, precise notes. “For directing spells. Metal interferes with casting.”

“Right. Eventually he removed his helm. He had black hair and eyes. A scar on his cheek. He was tall. Taller than I am, but slight of build. His accent—he sounded like an Arden. His complexion matched.”

She raised a finger to slow him down while her quill caught up. “I’ve never met an Arden, but have read about the northern sun. Something to do with altitude and sparse air. The harsh light alters the skin of any who grow up on the high plateaus. Go on.”

“He fought with a longsword, but unlike any I’d ever seen—longer and wider than normal and unusually thin, with a hollow fuller. Glowing runes hovered in that space as if he’d cast a spell on it. A red so dark as to appear black. The blade appeared fragile, something to hang on a wall, not fight with—except it wasn’t. At all.”

She wrote “enchanted,” then underlined it twice.

When he fell silent, she set the page aside to dry, pulled out another, and reached into her writing kit for a charcoal pencil. She sketched the sword, relishing the chance to exercise a seldom-used skill. As the image took shape, Greggin gave input and adjustments. When they were both satisfied, she began a drawing of the rogue spellsword. By the time he nodded in approval, the light bleeding through the casement window hung low.

Shit, Paela is going to lash me.

She laid down her pencil. “Alright, Captain. Now—”

Greggin leaned back. “Please, call me Yoseph.”

She smiled. He wasn’t so intimidating anymore. A bear at rest after feeding well. “I can’t make promises, but I’ll search out an explanation for how this . . . Man in Crimson could do what you’ve described. Is there anything else you need?”

For the love of the Gods, say no.

When Yoseph spoke, each word was a sword cut. “Yes. Tell me how to find him, so I can kill him.”

She swallowed. “I’ll do whatever I can. I promise.”

What the flame am I promising? This is all nonsense!

His expression relaxed. “Thank you, Novice. When will you have something?”

“Elyssa is fine.” She hated her title. Hated the constant reminder of her lack of progress. “It’s hard to say. This archive is full of knowledge and history on the use of magic, but it isn’t exhaustive. This sword however,” she tapped the drawing, “sounds unique. A good place to start. I may need to consult the Karkum Library. Give me a few days. Will you be in the city?”

At least I’ll get a break from this flaming building.

Yoseph stood. “Yes. I appreciate all your efforts.” He turned to leave. At the stairs, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “I have a room at Stovore House in Farley Corner. You can find me there.”

Not the barracks? Why wouldn’t he be stationed with the Guard?

The steps groaned under his bulk, as did the floorboards above her head as he walked from the building. She stared at the murderer’s portrait. His black eyes looked back as if alive.

It’s all an injured soldier’s fever dream and will lead nowhere.

Yet her throat grew dry. She turned the drawing upside down.