Duplicitous Magic Read online

  Ominous magic

  Elemental Monarchs saga

  linn Tesli

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 by Linn Tesli

  This novel is entirely the work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or creatures, living, dead, reincarnated, undead, or otherwise, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-82-93420-15-6

  Free Aradrian Myth—The Curse of The Elf Prince

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  Contents

  MAP OF ARADRIA - WEST

  MAP OF ARADRIA - EAST

  Ominous Magic

  Prologue

  I. ARCHENON’S BOOK

  1. Apprentice

  2. The Refusal

  3. Archanath

  4. Puppeteer

  5. The Fall

  6. Heartless

  II. EVERINE’S BOOK

  7. Reborn

  8. Lycobris

  9. Yirin’s Glade

  10. The Tale of Creation

  11. Gryphon Peak

  12. The Healer

  13. The Chasm of Bermunnos

  14. The Bermunnos Council

  15. The Nutcracker

  1. TENEBROUS

  Thank you for reading!

  TENEBROUS MAGIC

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  For my daughter, Embla

  May your days be filled with wonders, and may the spirit of magic touch your soul in any and all events of life.

  Ominous Magic

  Prologue

  Before the beginning

  - Archenon -

  The fire in his hand had ignited suddenly.

  Archenon didn't know where it had come from, though it seemed to come from him. The blood coursed through his veins, and he had never felt more alive. The sense of warmth had always been with him—as it usually was with the Wy-alfen-Iliath. However, others of his wild elven kin sometimes spoke of the cold. Archenon had never understood what they meant, and perhaps he never would.

  The sun forced its way through the forest with slow breaths, finally touching his skin. The clearing behind his home filled with light as Elfen Lyconis woke up.

  Archenon returned his attention to the growing ball of fire. It was like the flames were alive, frolicking in his hand before proceeding up his forearm. Another burst of fire flared to life in his other palm. He held his hands in the air, transfixed by his newfound power. The pulsating energy inside increased, and he allowed the flame to grow into a blaze, shimmering around him in the form of smoldering women performing a seductive dance.

  It was exhilarating.

  He had no idea how or why he had conjured up such a vision. The thought to ask questions was fleeting, and all he could do was dance along with the apparitions of his making.

  Something familiar whispered through the smoke.

  Was that Archenon's name?

  It was likely only the wind, Archenon thought, as one of the fire dancers slinked away from him while the others kept him in their hold. The familiar sound of his name reissued, though he hardly registered the voice.

  Something like a distant scream followed. This time, Archenon took the time to glance in the direction of the sound.

  Braxon!

  Archenon's uncle was on fire, his arms reaching out from the fire dancer's hold as he crumbled to his knees.

  Archenon shook himself and willed away the fire still vividly burning. The tendrils of flame died down before propelling over to join the dancer that had latched onto Braxon. Together, they licked their way up to his bare chest as they grew back, stronger than before. The first dancer had only scorched Braxon a little. But when the others joined in the frenzy, Braxon's skin began to bubble.

  It was strangely mesmerizing.

  Archenon slapped himself over the head. What was he doing? He ran for his uncle. Braxon must have thought Archenon had been burning and had tried to reach him when the first flame had grabbed hold. As he neared his uncle, the flames were twisting up from his body on the ground. The fire of their being had consumed him entirely.

  Archenon swooped in for the rescue, the flames vanishing at last as he pulled Braxon to him. Too late. Pieces of his uncle's smoldering flesh fell through his fingers to the ground.

  The tears welled up. What in Aradria had Archenon done?

  "Arch!" Archenon's mother's voice was several notes higher than usual. "What happened?" Ithriel came to sit next to Archenon, placing a hand on his bare shoulder.

  "I…I killed uncle Braxon. It was an accident. The fire was just there."

  Ithriel turned Archenon's face toward her own. Her emerald-green eyes were somehow less bright, and a deep shadow set beneath her brows.

  "Sorcery," she muttered. "This is not your fault; it is mine. Still, this is something we can’t handle on our own."

  Ithriel took Archenon's hand while stroking her fingers through the ash on the ground that had once been her brother. A tear shone in the crook of her eye. Somehow, Archenon wondered if she was more scared than sad. Maybe both at the same time.

  "What can I do?" Archenon's voice trembled. Sorcery was not something the wild elves coveted. It was considered a dark art that did not belong in Elfen Lyconis.

  The shaman of the wild elves looked at Archenon with wide eyes.

  "So," she said. "Given that Archenon recently came of age, your son appears to have an innate power of sorcery." She spoke to Ithriel, yet she did not take her crimson gaze off Archenon.

  Ithriel paced the circular space of the shaman's moss cottage. "What can we do? Can you spell this awful thing away?"

  The shaman tutted. "This is who he is. He was born with it. It was simply time for the flames to manifest, and we were not prepared—though we should have been." The shaman placed a hand over Archenon's raven hair, tracing her fingers down one of his braids, finally twisting the ends in her hand.

  "His powers must be contained. Especially after what happened when he tapped into them for the first time." She hesitated. "This was the first time, yes?"

  Archenon nodded, cringing under the shaman's touch.

  "We could send word for a wizard or someone else who might be able to help him?" Ithriel asked.

  "I can’t allow outsiders to enter Elfen Lyconis, even for this purpose," the shaman said. "You should know this, Ithriel. It would be dangerous for everyone in the village."

  A sigh slipped out of Ithriel's mouth. "Then, tell me what to do. The others will have him trialed or worse—hunted— once they find out what he did, not to mention how he did it. Especially if we have no one around who can control his sorcery."

  "You're quite right. Archenon can't stay. There's only one place I know that might be able to teach him how to handle his powers. Your boy has a strong heart—it's possible he will endure the trials put upon him. Nothing is ever certain, however."

  Archenon shivered. Not due to any cold. More because of the dread rising in his chest. Had they said he had to leave? He wanted to stay.

  "This is my home," he said.

  "Not anymore, my boy." The shaman let go of his hair. "You and your mother are about to go on a journey to another land. I don't know if the High Queen will help you, though it's the best option I can think of."

  Ithriel stopped pacing and let her arms slump to her sides.

  "Êvina. I never thought I'd go back. But if you say it's the only way…"

&nb
sp; "I do say."

  Archenon wanted to protest, to scream and plead his case, but one did not argue with wild elven women. All he could do was shake his head, and hope his mother would somehow change her mind.

  She did not.

  I

  ARCHENON’S BOOK

  The beginning of the end

  1

  Apprentice

  - Archenon -

  The room of white marble’s oval, glass ceiling revealed the starlit sky. Ithriel’s and Archenon’s journey to the white castle had been quiet, apart from the vast amount of humans staring at them. It was rare for wild elves to travel outside of Elfen Lyconis. The scowling eyes were expected, and so Archenon didn't care, at least not as much as he cared about his mother’s silence.

  Ithriel had not said one word since they had arrived at the castle and been escorted into one of the hundreds of rooms therein.

  Archenon somehow sensed the High Queen’s approach, even as she prepared to come and greet him and his mother. The air changed and rippled before him, as though she was stroking his skin from afar, supplying warmth to his flesh and attempting to soothe his weary mind. His mind, he learned then, was not as easily influenced as his body.

  Rhonja had entered the room so quietly that Archenon’s mother jumped when the High Queen spoke.

  “Greetings, Ithriel and Archenon of Elfen Lyconis. Welcome to the towers of Êvina. I know why you're here.” Rhonja smiled gently, appearing almost luminescent as she stood before them.

  Something Archenon had not felt before stirred in his heart at the vision of Rhonja’s otherworldly beauty. Her skin sparkled as bright as a million stars. Her hair seemed to have been woven from the gleam in her skin and flowed sinuously about her waist and shoulders.

  With all of her beauty, Rhonja’s most striking feature was her eyes. As soon as Archenon thought he knew their color, they revealed something different. They were unlike anything he had ever witnessed. The constant shifting of images reflected in her irises left his knees weak, though he yearned to be strong.

  “Your Majesty.” His mother inclined her head. “My son has a good heart, but I fear for it. My only hope is that you'll know what to do. He can’t stay in Elfen Lyconis. The shaman said that she could not provide the help he needs and that sorcery requires careful guidance. I didn't know where else to turn.”

  Ithriel had been conflicted, but the shaman had been adamant—Archenon had to leave Elfen Lyconis.

  Archenon was still looking at the High Queen. He thought he saw his entire life story in the her eyes. Her power to read spirits was vastly underestimated. The spirit-wielder was known by the wild elves to be just and wise, but Archenon was scared to learn how she would judge him.

  The image of his mother, cradling a baby, appeared in the High Queen’s irises. “You never got to know your father,” Rhonja said, raising her eyebrows at Archenon. “It must be difficult.”

  She was right, of course. Ever since the dragons disappeared from Aradria, the wild elves had been unsuccessful in bearing male children. As many of the wild elven women had, Ithriel had left the tribe in search of a suitable human with whom to breed.

  When her goal had been accomplished, his mother returned to Elfen Lyconis to raise Archenon as a true Wy-alfen-Iliath. Being half human had certainly not been without its obstacles. The pureblood wild elves had always thought less of him, though there were other half-breeds in Elfen Lyconis. Archenon’s sorcery made him unique, however.

  The High Queen fixed her gaze on him now. She paid little attention to his mother’s plea, but she continued to gracefully utter simple words of understanding and give light nods in the appropriate places.

  Archenon’s stomach churned as Rhonja’s eyes shifted again. He attempted to draw away from her, but the effort was futile.

  He winced as he watched his past self, deep in her eyes. A spark appeared in the palm of his past self’s hand. He had allowed the flame to grow into a blazing fire. He had been so consumed by his newfound power that he didn't notice his uncle, Braxon, yelling his name. Rhonja saw everything.

  The painful images vanished, leaving the vision of a starry night in the High Queen’s eyes. He wondered briefly if she saw his remorse or only his actions.

  The High Queen turned to Ithriel. “If I allow him to stay here, there will be certain conditions.” Her voice was soft as velvet, yet carried an undertone of steel. “Sorcery is not a gift to be trifled with, as I am sure you're aware. It may take far longer than the life of an ordinary Wy-alfen-Iliath to teach him to control his gift and to treat it with the precision and confidence needed to wield it.

  “However, he’s not at all ordinary, and as a sorcerer, he will outlive you. His apprenticeship might last for centuries to come. You must understand that if he is to stay, you may not. He may not leave my borders or return to your people until such time as I believe he’s ready. As long as he remains an apprentice in my care, there can be no distractions, or else it may end badly for all of us. Do you agree to these conditions?”

  Archenon’s mouth dropped in silent protest. At only sixteen years of age, he was too young to oppose his mother, but he knew with certainty that he didn't want the deal the High Queen was offering. As a child of the Wy-alfen-Iliath, he would forever be bound by his mother’s words, however. It was the way it had always been with her people.

  He tore his gaze away from the High Queen so his mother would see the torment written on his face. Ithriel’s emerald eyes shone with determination, however, and Archenon’s heart sank.

  His mother ignored his silent pleas and looked at the High Queen. “I’m afraid I’ll lose my son either way. As much as it pains me to part with you, Archenon, I want you safe. If you stay here, then perhaps you’ll stand a fair chance at keeping your life, and you'll gain control over your powers.”

  Archenon struggled to fight the oncoming stream of tears. He was already an outcast with his own people, but not as much as he would be among the humans in the white castle. Most of all, he didn't wish to part with his mother.

  Ithriel shuddered as her gaze travelled the room of white marble. “Do you believe this is the best choice I can make for him?” she asked the High Queen. She raised her chin, clenching her jaw.

  Archenon followed her line of sight. He twitched at the lack of green in the room and the thought that he might never return to the forest he loved so much.

  The High Queen closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply, and when her lids parted again, a flutter of images flashed across her eyes. She nodded.

  Ithriel turned to Archenon. Standing on tiptoe, she cupped his face in her hands. He shook his head wildly as warm breath and the smell of autumn rain reached him. Dry lips caressed his forehead.

  “With love, always, my son.” Ithriel hesitated only for a heartbeat before she turned back to Rhonja. “Agreed.”

  2

  The Refusal

  Five centuries later

  - Archenon -

  The castle was Archenon’s home, and it was his cage. To be confined within marble walls, however grand, was at odds with his wild elven nature.

  He stood before Rhonja. She was his warden, but also his friend. On this day, however, he was her subject, and she was the High Queen of Aradria. They were not equals, nor had they ever been.

  “Please—I beg you. Let me go.” Archenon braced himself. His pointed ears dropped backwards, and he knelt before the High Queen in the Great Hall of Êvina. An intricate braid of ebony hair lay heavy along his spine. The piece of parchment crunched in his hands, folded and read so many times that it had begun to crumble.

  The High Queen looked down on him. “You know I can not.” She smoothed out a fold on her silky dress. It hugged her slender form, mirroring the blinding hall in its purity. Her hair, shining like starlight, drifted about her shoulders.

  His emerald eyes met hers from the bottom of the half-moon staircase leading up to the white throne. A vast mosaic of Her Majesty’s Royal Crest lay fixed in the wall
behind her—four petals aligned to the cardinal points held each other under the protection of a circle representing Spirit, the High Queen’s element.

  Archenon swallowed hard. “I’ve given you my life, and now the last tie to my heritage is to be torn away. Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind? I want to see my mother one final time.”

  Rhonja had never reciprocated Archenon’s feelings, but he thought she cared for him enough to allow this one request. She was the epitome of hope for her subjects, yet she would crush his.

  “You do care for me, don’t you?” he sighed, inhaling the fresh scent of blueberries from Rhonja’s perfume. It was a bittersweet reminder of his former home.

  “Of course. I treasure you,” she replied, her brilliant gaze a calm ocean at twilight. But her words were scant comfort.

  Shafts of light pierced between the half-drawn lilac drapes hanging over the arched windows. Elegant pillars of creatures, cunningly carved, held up the vaulted ceiling. griffins, Mermians, dragons, Elves and other beings stared at him with marble eyes. It was as if they fought to keep the very building from crashing down on him. More than ever, the immensity of the white hall felt intrusive and distinctly foreign.