Human Mage: Book Three of the Highmage's Plight Read online

  Human Mage

  D.H. Aire

  Book Three of the Highmage’s Plight

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Your non-refundable purchase allows you to one legal copy of this work for your own personal use. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload, or for a fee.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

  FIRST EDITION published by Spectacular Publishing, 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by D.H. Aire

  Cover Copyright © by Christina Yoder

  Edited by Karen MacLeod

  SECOND EDITION

  Acknowledgements

  Colin Neilson had a dream of starting a speculative fiction ezine, Separate Worlds. He established a contest to discover new aspiring speculative fiction authors, like me, who had hopes and dreams, but didn’t know if our work was good enough. He featured this book and its prequel Highmage’s Plight in serialized form over the course of two years, which led to his publishing the first edition of Human Mage in 2013. He is a fan, and, though he is no longer in publishing, I appreciate his support, greatly.

  I would also like to thank my copyeditor, Karen MacLeod, for all her help with this volume. Any errors are my fault for disagreeing with her, a very rare occurrence.

  I must also thank Christina Yoder, who did a magnificent job on the cover art for this book. She’s a real find and has been a joy to work with. She’s brought my characters to life and hopefully enticed you to buy this novel and enter the world of the Plight.

  Finally to you, my friends and readers, who have purchased this book: This story was originally written over fifteen years ago. Thank you for buying this book and letting my characters into your lives. They have been members of my family for a very long time.

  My motto is: “Dare to believe” and you have helped me accomplish it.

  D.H. Aire

  www.dhr2believe.net

  October 2015

  This novel and the series is dedicated

  to Sarah

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Failing Apprentice

  Challenges

  Hunters

  Problem Apprentices

  Game’s Played

  Urchins

  Faeryn Magery

  Complications

  Restitution

  Meddling

  Part Two: Family Life

  Aaprin Summerfelt

  Paying the Prince

  Prices

  A Prophecy Remembered

  Man Mage

  Prophecy’s Price

  Part Three: Posting Apprentices

  Mage Guild

  Enchantment

  Tests of Spirit

  Part Four: Petitioner’s Challenge

  A Man Among Mages

  Third Challenge

  Part Five: Apprenticed

  Homecoming

  First Day

  Apprentices

  Cathartans

  Part Six: Human Lore

  Balances

  Mischief

  Part Seven: The Ball

  Lord Senason

  Aaprin

  Empress

  Part Eight: Investigating Mage

  Witness on the Lam

  Investigating

  Living up to the Deal

  Tracking an Errant Witness

  Part Nine: Mage on the Case

  Angry Palace

  Assasin’s Blade

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Failing Apprentice

  1

  Aaprin woke shivering on the dormitory pallet. The nightmare fading but not forgotten. He understood his mind’s cruel trick. He was the oldest apprentice on the floor, a floor for children –– apprentices who could all affect the spell of ‘Flame and Candle’ with ease. Many had less elvin blood in their veins than he and could chant spells, but when he spoke them tripped uselessly on his tongue.

  He spent much of his time in the Academy library reading and understanding complex texts about elvin magery that only Masters cared to challenge. He knew the how, the why, the theory and history behind the charms and enchantments others so readily wielded.

  Gritting his teeth, he sat up in his bed. An unlit candle rested on the small table beside his pallet. He looked longingly at it, then carefully around at the dim shadows of the children around him. Knowing all were still asleep and that they would not hear him, he whispered the spell chant.

  Sweat beaded his brow and he struggled to touch flame to candle. His hands knotted into fists as he willed the spell to light the wick.

  Seven years an apprentice could remain. The masters of the Academy, particularly Master Stenh, the Dean, had given him every chance. Master Stenh would have no choice after today but to end Aaprin’s seventh year of study since he could not affect even the most minor of spells.

  The knowledge he had gleaned from his studies had made him a favorite tutor for student apprentices now beyond his abilities. Even his childhood friend, Rexil, who had less elvin blood than him and taunted him, had needed his tutoring in mage theory. It galled him that Rexil surpassed him now, as he continued to chant ever so softly the elvin words that he enunciated with utmost care, yet that effort did not yield even a spark.

  Revit and Terus feigned sleep, having awoken simultaneously when their errant mentor stirred. Each knew the other secretly watched Aaprin, whose tears reflected the first rays of sunlight reaching the chamber through the eastern windows.

  Aaprin sensed their wakefulness. He stopped muttering the nonsense words that helped him not at all in lighting the candle. The ‘twins’ as everyone could not help but call the elfblood and human ten-year-old boys left their beds and came to him. Tears were in their eyes as they abruptly hugged their adolescent friend and often watchdog.

  Aaprin had been their guard and tutor for so long they could not bear to see him leave a failure, when they knew, in their hearts, that he could be one of the greatest mages of the age.

  The boys were, perhaps, the oddest apprentices in the entire Academy. They repeatedly irritated their Masters by misspeaking spells— which were effected nonetheless. Together, their abilities manifested with a subtle power that only Aaprin seemed to really remark upon. They were mischievous and always in the center of wherever trouble was to be found. Yet, their loyalty was their strength.

  Aaprin hugged them for a moment more, accepting their offered solace, where from others he could not. “Go back to bed,” he whispered.

  The lads abruptly hugged him harder, then one or the other muttered, “You won’t fail today.�
��

  Aaprin sighed, wishing he could only light the candle in truth. None of the three noticed through their teary eyes the moment that the candle briefly flickered with a smokeless blue flame.

  The caravan was stopped at the East Portcullis of the Faer City’s Seventh Tier. There were two mages serving among the Imperial Guard, that examined each wagon that sought admittance into the Imperial Capital.

  Terhun, the Caravan master, answered most of the questions concerning this nearly late caravan for the Market Festival. Discussion of available stations throughout the city Tiers began a major negotiation, and an unspecified amount of Imperial coin changing hands.

  As the Imperial Guards checked each wagon, one of the mages paused to stare at one of the guard beasts, a pale furred black-maned wolfish creature sleeker but larger than the dog used by the other merchants. The beast was tethered to a rather nondescript wagon. It met his gaze with uncanny intelligence. The elfblood mage swallowed hard and took a step back. One of the guards at his back asked, “Milord, is anything was wrong?”

  “Of course not,” he replied, turning to the foreign merchant a human wearing a cloak the spoke of subtle wealth. “My good sir, I, uh, have never seen such a beast as that. That is no usual guard dog.”

  “Oh, do you like it?” the merchant asked, leaning slightly on his rather plain looking man-height walking staff. “The breed is from the Crescent Lands. I suppose if there is real interest I could bring others here for the next Market Festival.”

  “Uh, no,” the mage replied, uncertainly. “No need, just wondering.” He quickly hurried off.

  The merchant, Jeo d’Aere, glanced at the beast, then went over and stroked its black-maned head, “You know better than that.” The beast practically grinned and with one last affectionate pat, the merchant walked away.

  His partner glanced down at him from the wagon with a challenging look in her eyes, then she called out, “Farrel!” as the Imperial Guards signed their permission to proceed into the City.

  The liveried assistant flicked the reins and urged their horses to pull the wagon forward.

  Ofran awoke that morning with an irrepressible grin on his face. For five days now the Healer’s Hall, over which he had charge, had been plagued by the presence of the fast approaching Market Festival Days.

  The merchants, rovers, lords, ladies, and all their retinues found these days merry enough that broken bones and knife wounds seemed to abound in their wake. The first day had been the worst. The Healer’s Hall quickly filled as the healers worked without a break in sight for even the lowest of human medics to the Hall.

  But that had all changed suddenly. Oh, the Hall was still filling with emergency patients, but the whole atmosphere had changed with the arrival of Balfour. Still grinning, Ofran quickly breakfasted, then headed to the bustling Hall.

  He looked in at the first ward and saw Balfour with a merchant, who had two broken arms. “I want out of here, healer! It’s the Market Festival today! I’ve important work to do— and I sure as the Seven Tiers can’t do it from here!”

  Balfour frowned, “I am not certain I would remove those splints even if you were well enough.”

  The merchant, looking none too pleased, grimaced in pain as he struggled to sit up. “You can heal these easily enough, I’ve heard tell! So, cast your spell and heal these arms of mine! I’ve profited from Festival more than any other these past ten years! My rivals cannot be allowed to profit at my loss like this! I’ll pay whatever the necessary fee, else I’m ruined!”

  Balfour gestured to the medics carefully restraining the merchant, then he knelt and caught the merchant’s gaze. “I’ll not heal a symptom and let the root illness go untreated.”

  “You’ve got to fix these arms! You Burr of an Elfblood! I’ve got to get to my wares. My senior apprentice will be the ruin of me!”

  “And just why might that be?” muttered one of three men, who approached, all dressed in merchant finery,

  “Come to gloat, have you?” the injured merchant cried.

  “Gloat? When my men heard you were in trouble with those Mason Guilders at the Ale House, they arrived only in time to save your life!”

  “We’re your friends and this has simply got to stop!”

  The injured merchant turned away from his fellows and found himself staring up at Balfour, whose gaze trapped his. Deeply enrapt, like prey before predator, the merchant found himself remembering what had happened the previous night.

  He had been drinking and offered one of the masons a drink, the man had declined, ungraciously. He vaguely heard his harsh drunken laughter. Watched himself throwing the offered drink at the nearest mason... He realized he was lucky just to have only two broken arms.

  Sweat sheened his brow as Balfour’s eyes closed, releasing the man’s gaze.

  The merchant swallowed and looked back at his three chief rivals. “What are you doing here?” he muttered.

  The nearest knelt beside his bed as Balfour dismissed the medics with a gesture. “We have come to pay the healer’s fee... And we miss our most canny friend.”

  The injured merchant looked from one face to another, pausing upon the last of the three, who said, “I’ve a vested interest in seeing that senior apprentice well taught, older brother.”

  With a sigh, the man settled back in his pallet, “He’ll do just fine with a once more sober master, who doubts his rivals are going to be the ones who pay the true cost of this healing.”

  Balfour nodded, “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do on those arms.” They nodded with grave concern and softly reassuring smiles.

  The merchant glanced once more at Balfour and muttered, “I could really use a drink right now— giving it up is a Hell of a price.”

  Balfour closed his eyes, touched the right arm ever so gently and muttered as he began to work, “It’s not a price. It’s a gift.”

  Balfour noticed Ofran waiting for him at the end of the ward with pride in his eyes. “Nephew, that must have been some Master you found to train you.”

  “I learned a lot from you, Master.”

  “I could not teach you that.”

  Chuckling wryly, “Would you believe those three merchants came to me because they heard I cannot affect spells or charms? I explained to them that my gift was merely ‘Human.’”

  “What you offered to the man was what he most needed. Now, it is up to him.”

  Balfour glanced back, “No, not him alone, Uncle Ofran. There are other humans who can help him now.”

  Across the ward one of the Priests of Knowledge paused to speak with the merchant, who was bending his healed arms with wonder. “No more drinking, I swear!”

  Carwina had fallen asleep in the big chair beside her father’s bespelled bed.

  “He’s here,” rasped a voice out of the ethereal web of energies that cocooned the dying Highmage.

  “Father?” she mumbled in surprise, uncertain whether she had truly heard his voice and realized with a start that it must be well into morning by now.

  “...Soon, now,” came Alrex’s voice ever so distantly, but clearly enough for her sensitive elvin hearing.

  “Father! It’s me, Carwina! Father, can you hear me?”

  “...He’s here... Soon, now...”

  “Herald!” she cried, hearing the thud of the chair perched by the door.

  “Yes, Mistress!” exclaimed the aged herald as he flung open the door.

  “Summon Master Ofran, at once! Father has spoken!”

  Eyes wide, the herald ran down the hall and out of the house, shouting for a coach and driver to take him immediately to the Healer’s Hall.

  Their station was located in the Six Tier. It was not along the busiest Festival routes, which Jeo expressed being unhappy about. This section of the Six Tier might be less reputable than the more favored Aqwaine’s Way or even the Lane of Fives, yet that fact created a bubble of privacy, which secretly pleased him.

  His partner was less pleased as th
ey backed their wagon against the rear wall of the tent and began to open out the right side of the wagon to display their wares. The displeasure was expressed in her ordering Jeo to move that, straighten this, then do it all over again. He again wondered what he had ever done to deserve all this.

  A pair of ruffians noticed the tent did not display any protective wards, more the fool the merchant, they muttered to one another chuckling.

  That is when they heard the ever so soft growl and noticed the leashed guard beast. They swallowed as it licked its lips hungrily. They were not the only ones to look for other pickings that day, nor the next. The beast seemed to know just who was not a reputable customer, which was enough warning for even the human population of the Faer City.

  Farrel, the merchant’s apprentice, had been told to find them lodgings nearby. The apprentice was jostled and quickly grabbed the wrist of the urchin trying to steal his purse and ungently twisted his thumb.

  The lad immediately gave up his prize. “Let me go!” the child cried.

  “If you are hungry and seeking honest work, seek Jeo the Merchant around the Tier, that way. He’ll pay you pennies enough to help with all the work that needs to be done,” that said, the urchin found himself free.

  He stared in wide-eyed astonishment, then fled in a direction clearly opposite the offered succor.

  Shaking his head, the apprentice began looking for an inn that might yet have a vacancy. The last two had been full and the apprentice was unhappy with the thought of looking for a room in the Seventh Tier. Terhun had warned them against any welcome among the Merchant Houses of the Fifth Tier, who despised the upstart rivals come from the Provinces for Festival.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, Farrel was confronted by a dark robed and hooded figure. A hiltless dagger flashed, blunt-side toward Farrel, showing just within a billowy sleeve.