Dark apprentice, p.1
Dark Apprentice, page 1
DARK APPRENTICE
FALL OF MAGIC BOOK ONE
VAL NEIL
LIVING RELIC PRESS
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. The Letter
2. The Ancient One
3. The Hanged Man
4. Persuasion
5. The Spotted Sow
6. Dueling Club
7. Manipulation
8. Uninvited
9. Petrov’s Secret
10. The Island
11. Malaise
12. Tainted
13. Power Overwhelming
14. The Library
15. Magic Sight
16. Disjointed
17. Gateways
18. Goldilocks
19. Interference
20. Say It
21. Focus
22. The Dungeon
23. Necessary Conditions
24. The Gift
25. Servitus aut Mors
26. The Botanist
27. Séance
28. Spirits
29. Patience or Sacrifice
30. Yoxtl’s Bargain
31. Digits
32. Dapper Frog
33. Confrontations
34. Consequences
35. Priorities
36. The Dive
37. Death Curse
38. Truth and Trust
Author Notes
Copyright © 2021 Val Neil
All rights reserved.
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No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
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Editing by The Blue Garret
Illustration by Warm Tail
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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-955075-00-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-955075-01-5
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
Medea willed the roots to rise up and pierce the still-warm flesh. No point in transporting this body back to the graveyard—it was already near capacity and she had limited use for corpses these days. Let it replenish the soil.
She’d been reading in the forest when he’d interrupted her—that alone should be a mortal offense, but that’s not why she’d killed him. He’d been with her what, three years before initiating the challenge? Apprentices seemed to have grown more impatient these days, yet if they were going to turn on her, she preferred they get it over with. This one had been a half-rate necromancer, barely able to reanimate a squirrel, yet he fancied himself talented enough to best her. The insult still stung.
She picked up her discarded book and sat, propping her back against a tree.
What a waste. Not of his life, but of hers. Immortal she might be, but sometimes she felt like Sisyphus, forever rolling a boulder uphill only to have it slide back at the last moment.
Too many apprentices had gone this way over the last few centuries. There had always been a sizable percentage interested in so-called dark magic, but ever since the Collective’s crackdown, it seemed that’s all she got. She counted one apprentice in the last eighty years that was interested in anything else—ONE—and he’d only sought her out to learn how to combat dark magic. At least he hadn’t tried to kill her.
The rest though . . .
Bunch of devious, self-centered ingrates. Never mind that she was a grand master healer and fleshweaver. No one came to learn that anymore, or nature magic, or summoning, or any of the dozens of other specialties she’d mastered over the years. Hell, these days she spent so much time correcting bad spellwork, apprentices barely scratched the surface before they decided to turn on her. She had half a mind to stop training people.
Belatedly she realized she’d been scanning the same page for ages. She made a frustrated noise and shot a glare at the body, now wrapped in vines.
“You realize you’ve ruined my whole day.”
The glassy eyes stared vacantly at the sky. One barbed tendril snaked into the mouth, which hung open in slight surprise.
She snapped the book shut and stood. “How could you possibly fail to see this is how it would end? Do you have any idea how much I hold myself back during sparring matches? And you couldn’t even best me then.” She paced as she spoke, accelerating the decay of tissue until little more than clothes and bone remained.
That’s it—no more apprentices, not unless they wanted to learn something different. Or maybe not even then, because people would just lie to get accepted. Dark magic practitioners were always liars.
She reached out with her magic, intending to scorch the remains—couldn’t have new apprentices stumbling across dead ones—but pulled herself back, though it took far more effort than she wanted to admit. There would be no more apprentices, not this time. The skull observed her in quiet admonishment.
“None.” She nodded curtly to herself and retreated from the forest.
1
THE LETTER
Ireland, 1955
People could be sorted into two categories: Useful and Useless. Useless people simply existed alongside you. They took up space and there was no benefit to interacting with them. Useful people had things Nikolai wanted. Money. Sex. Influence. A nice apartment.
When he’d first come to Haven seeking training, the good places were already rented. Nikolai could have boarded with someone, but roommates were annoying, so he found a building owned by a middle-aged couple—the Gallaghers—and quickly made friends with the wife. He made friends with her nightly as he fished for information about her tenants.
Nikolai found a satisfactory target—a nervous gentleman who had trouble paying his rent on time but had lived there forever and so the Gallaghers let him stay. Nikolai approached the man and offered to split the rent in exchange for a bed.
Getting rid of him was easy. All Nikolai had to do was drop the social mask at home. For some reason, people found his acerbic remarks and lack of emotional expression unnerving. Three days later, the man banged on Mr. Gallagher’s door, pleading for help removing his new flatmate.
“Afraid? Of me?” Nikolai feigned confusion and glanced down the hallway at his flatmate, who ducked out of view behind Mrs. Gallagher. “Did he say why?”
“No, not exactly,” said Mr. Gallagher. “Only that you, uh, made him uncomfortable.”
Nikolai projected his voice down the hall to his flatmate. “I’m terribly sorry if I caused offense. I’m still learning the local customs.” He shook his head with a sigh.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Mr. Gallagher. “Sometimes these things just don’t work out. In any case, Davis has been here longer, so—”
“And here I thought Haven upheld the Collective’s rule of welcoming fellow Magi, no matter their nationality.” Nikolai met Mr. Gallagher with an icy stare. He had no idea if a formal rule even existed, but it didn’t matter. Societal pressure enforced cultural norms better than laws ever could. Mr. Gallagher would be ostracized if word got out. “I guess I was wrong.”
Mr. Gallagher blanched. “No, no! It’s not like that.” He spun, frowning at Nikolai’s flatmate. “It’s not like that, is it Davis?”
The nervous man peeked out from behind Mrs. Gallagher, who edged away from him. “I don’t . . . uh . . .”
“Christ, Davis!” Mr. Gallagher spat.
“No! It’s . . . he’s . . .” Davis’ eyes darted between Nikolai, who wore a benign face, and the increasingly concerned Mr. Gallagher. “You don’t know what he’s like when no one’s around!” he finally blurted. “I just . . . I want my place back.”
Mr. Gallagher turned away from Davis with a scowl. “I’m sorry, son,” he said to Nikolai. “We don’t do that here. I can see if another tenant would be willing to—”
“You know, Mr. Gallagher,” said Nikolai, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Davis doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be prejudiced. Perhaps it’s something else.” He glanced sheepishly down the hall, then leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve seen the picture on the mantle. His son was my age when he died, wasn’t he? And we both have dark hair.” It was about the only thing they had in common, Nikolai being rakishly handsome and Davis’ son stout and homely, but Mr. Gallagher would welcome anything that absolved the prior accusation.
“I suppose you do look a little like him.” Mr. Gallagher rubbed his chin. “But I can’t ask a man to be around someone who pains him.”
“Of course not,” Nikolai said with feigned concern, “but living estranged from his family hasn’t done him any good either. Just yesterday, he received a letter from his daughter begging him to visit. He’ll never admit it, but he wants to go. Perhaps it’s time he mended that bridge. Lay old ghosts to rest.”
Before Mr. Gallagher could ask Davis what he thought, the Useful Mrs. Gallagher bustled forward to throw in her support for Nikolai. Davis was out on his ass that afternoon, ostensibly to visit his daughter. Nikolai got a furnished apartment, and Mrs. Gallagher visited him regularly for sex, which reduced the number of times he had to actively seek it. Fuckable wasn’t a strong subcategory of Useful, but it was the most fun.
If only finding a Useful mentor had been as fruitful. Black magic was illegal, and those who practiced it usually weren’t the sharing sort. Nikolai had contacted as many as he could prior to g
Nikolai entered Petrov’s shop, prepared for another dull shift. He brewed tea, watered the ficus, and set to work sorting through the stack of orders waiting on the counter. Haven wasn’t large enough to support much local trade—most of their business was conducted by mail. An hour into his shift, Nikolai had barely made a dent.
As he sliced through yet another envelope, a wink of blue caught his eye. Nikolai peered at the heap of letters, but nothing stirred. Must have been a trick of the light. This client wanted a Luck bracelet. Thankfully, they had plenty on the display hooks.
Nikolai moved to retrieve one, pivoting at another flash of blue. His hand dove for the source and came back with a letter from the bottom of the pile. Strange blue symbols shimmered across the envelope, which had no name or address. How had it gotten here? Nikolai ran his finger over the letter and the blue symbols shifted to form text:
To Mr. Petrov
He sliced the envelope, but before he could extract the contents, new text appeared at his fingertips:
You’re not Mr. Petrov.
Interesting. The spell wasn’t one he recognized, but he knew enough to appreciate its complexity. Conditional spells required a degree of talent beyond the reach of most practitioners.
“I am Petrov’s apprentice,” Nikolai said, not knowing if anyone could hear. “I am authorized to open mail on his behalf.”
The letter did not respond. Apparently whatever enchantment lay upon it was not triggered by auditory input. Nikolai removed a folded page from within. More text appeared along the crease.
There is a price for reading another’s correspondence. Continue only if you wish to pay it.
That gave Nikolai pause. He placed the letter on the counter and picked up his wand. Petrov had taught him several reveal spells, but they only checked for standard enchantments. A custom curse might not be detectable. He waved his wand over the envelope and spoke the incantations. Nothing.
Nikolai stared at the folded paper. He could give it to Petrov and that would be the end of it, but his curiosity was piqued. What price would it exact if he attempted to read it? Perhaps the threat was merely a bluff to ward off potential snoopers. Then again, whoever sent it was talented. But were they skilled enough to enchant it with something undetectable? The possibility only intensified his desire to read the contents.
He glanced over his shoulder. Petrov’s office door was closed while he tackled the ledgers, a task which would keep him occupied for some time. It would be easy enough to reseal the letter, and he could always talk himself out of trouble if discovered. Sorting and opening mail was one of his tasks. It would be an honest mistake if he were to open personal correspondence. Nikolai picked up the letter and unfolded it.
The sheet was blank.
Disappointment stabbed him. He should tear the letter into a hundred pieces. Burn the damned thing. No, that was rash. The message was probably hidden. He would hide the envelope, pretend it never arrived, and plumb its secrets in private. Before he could pocket the letter, words appeared and danced playfully across the page:
I hope you enjoyed reading this.
There was a pause, and then sharp black letters slashed the parchment:
It will be the last thing you ever see.
No sooner had Nikolai’s brain registered the words than his sight winked out. He blinked several times and waved his hands in front of his face. Nothing.
Nikolai groped along the countertop for his wand, irritated but not panicked. Anxiety and fear were outside the realm of his experience. As a child, he could never understand why his brothers cried and cowered when the metronome announced another air raid. Nikolai would run to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the destruction. Mother always shooed him away, and he had to satisfy himself with picking through the crumbling buildings after the fact. It wasn’t until he learned telepathy and dipped into the minds of Mundanes that he saw what fear could do to a person. Until then, he’d half thought people made up the emotions they claimed to display.
Emotions had to be the Useless byproduct of some evolutionary chain, though he couldn’t fathom what benefit they were supposed to offer. One didn’t require feelings to solve a problem.
Nikolai continued his search of the counter. His hand smacked painfully against the register and sent something long and narrow clattering to the floor. It was too good to hope that was a pen.
He slowed his search of the counter until his fingers found both the letter opener and pen. Damn. Kneeling gingerly so as not to snap his wand, he searched the floor. His fumbling disturbed a fine layer of dust that set him coughing.
At last he felt the wand lying snug against the bottom of the counter, nestled in a crack between the floorboards. He reached for it, but his fingers could not get purchase. Every time he thought he had it, the wand slipped back into the crevice. He cursed and punched the floor. Several minutes passed before he had the sense to grab the letter opener and use it to extricate the wand. Nikolai stood, aimed the wand at his eyes, and spoke the incantation for a counter curse.
Something punched into his face, hard.
His eyes pounded in his skull. Rubbing them with his free hand, he tightened his grip on the wand to avoid losing it again. The wand . . . the handle felt wrong. A quick palpation told him it wasn’t his. Who knew how long this wand had been hiding under the counter?
“Blyad!” he swore. Where was his wand?! He knelt again, this time expanding his search. A few minutes later he found it near the ficus. Triple-checking the feel to make sure it was his, Nikolai set to work casting every counter curse he knew. Either he’d permanently damaged his eyes with the wand misfire, or his counter curses failed to work. As much as he hated to be discovered in this state, he needed assistance. He called loudly to Petrov several times, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice. Eventually he heard some sort of reply followed by shuffling footsteps.
“What’re you hollering about, boy? I’m trying to work!”
“I’ve been blinded—some sort of curse on one of the letters.” Nikolai felt around for the letter and thrust it at Petrov. He could almost hear the man recoil.
“Don’t give it to me! Put it back on the counter. Good. Now tell me what happened.”
Nikolai recounted the events, emphasizing that he was only doing his job as a dutiful employee, conveniently leaving out the initial warning he’d received and ignored. He heard Petrov approach the counter and pick something up, probably the envelope.
“That explains it,” Petrov said. “Medea and her bloody integrity . . .” There was the scratching of pen on paper.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m writing the damnable woman. If you’re lucky, she’ll consent to remove the curse. If not—well, let’s just hope she says yes.”
Nikolai gripped the counter, jaw clenched. How far had the letter traveled to come here, and how long would it take to return? Would he be blind for days? Weeks? What if she said no? She had better fix it. This was all her fault.
