Duplicitous Magic Read online

  Holding his breath, Archenon placed his back flat against the wall, carefully shuffling to the other side of the dark hole. He took a moment to steady his breath before returning his attention to the remaining embers. They aligned perfectly with each other.

  He retrieved a couple of the pebbles from his pocket, pressing himself against the wall to steady himself. The rough surface dug into Archenon’s back as he chucked the pebbles at one of the embers.

  Spikes of stone rained from the ceiling, crashing onto the floor. Before the chaos had even ended, a cluster of vines grew rapidly into a thick wall, with all the appearance of the twisted trunk of a tree. It completely blocked his path. Archenon hesitated but moved forwards.

  Frowning, Archenon snapped his fingers and set the trunk ablaze. Why set another trap that could easily be vanquished by fire? He waited as the wall burned. Once it had been reduced to ash, he called for the fire to return to his body. He started forward again, but his feet failed him as a rush of water sent him sliding back towards the crevice. Without a second thought, he uttered, “Stillna.”

  His body froze, hovering in place while the tunnel filled completely with the gushing stream. He gulped as the water entered his lungs. There was nothing to do but hang on as his mind started to fail him.

  He awoke, gulping and coughing. He lifted himself to his knees and looked down at the crevice where the last remains of water dribbled into the darkness.

  What was Pyralis hiding down here? Archenon found himself overcome with curiosity.

  He remained where he was a few heartbeats longer before risking any movement forward. Water droplets met stone, echoing lightly as he stood and moved down the tunnel again. No more traps stood between him and the end of the tunnel. He summoned forth a ball of fire in his palm, and blew it onto a torch by the entrance, revealing a small, oval room.

  Cobwebs covered a hundred different scrolls similar to those in the Grand Library, though these were all the color of charcoal. Jars and odd containers littered the uneven shelves lining the walls. A dozen different baskets on the floor were filled with crystals, which ranged from gloomy obsidian, to daffodil-yellow, boysenberry-purple, and the clearest pearl-white. A dark green agate desk stood in the center of the room, and behind it lay a double-cylinder black scroll on a similar agate pedestal.

  It was a vault filled with dark magic.

  Archenon took a deep breath and repeated the spell he had used in the tunnel to reveal any traps. One shining ember hovered above the black scroll. He could not risk damaging it. He flicked his fingers and muttered another spell. “Duth sveva oht mèj.”

  The air shifted.

  A shimmer surrounded the scroll, lifting it from its place and sending it in Archenon’s direction. He gently plucked it from the air with one hand and waited. The ember disappeared, but nothing else happened. He shrugged and stepped over to the desk.

  He stroked a hand over the scroll. The texture was like snakeskin, but tougher. Archenon had only seen this kind of hide in one of his history lessons. A flitter of excitement flew through him. It was dragonhide.

  He pulled at the red ribbon holding the scroll closed and was about to roll it open when a speck of ember fell out from within the parchment.

  Too easy. The first trap had been a diversion.

  Archenon jumped back and curled up against the desk.

  The crackling sound of fire hissed from above. He pushed himself up. The entire desktop was ablaze. Archenon smirked. Fire didn't hurt him. He pulled up his sleeve and reached into the flames, retrieving the scroll, untouched by the fire. Like him, it didn't burn. The flames slowly dissipated, and Archenon placed the scroll back on the desk. On the spine it was marked The Black Lore; A Grimoire of Dark Magic. His eyes widened at the possibilities.

  He rolled open the two cylinders, folding away pages upon pages on spells, talismans, divinations, omens, and mythical stories. Archenon pored through every page, soaking up the information. He found instructions on how to best torture magical creatures, a potion to create envy in others, and a reference to an amulet capable of spreading sickness.

  Archenon stopped his search upon reaching one page in particular and smoothed it out, fingers tingling. “Night Mara” was scribbled in large letters about halfway down. Archenon skimmed through the passage that followed.

  Night Mara are dark spirits, often possessing the body of an after-goer, one who walks after death. They will always search for a way to influence life. They feed on the living, leaving death in their wake. Some believe the Night Mara can possess individuals, keeping them alive, even when they should be dead.

  Archenon’s stomach somersaulted. If he could force a dark spirit to possess his mother, then at least he might be able to sustain her until he found another way to save her. He continued reading.

  There is no recorded account as to the effects of the possession on the host. It is believed, however, that they will never be the same afterwards. The Night Mara’s influence on their hosts is unpredictable at best. There are said to be ways to summon and control the Night Mara and prevent the after-goer from crossing over to the otherworld. Again, the aftermath is unpredictable. It is worth mentioning that the dark spirit is bound to earth by the elements, as most things in Aradria are.

  Archenon folded over to the next page and found a spell for summoning the Night Mara. The instructions would make the Night Mara take possession of the one casting the spell. Archenon would have to rearrange it slightly to suit his purpose, but it should work. He bit down on his lip. At last, however, he stowed the page in his pocket before placing the scroll back on the pedestal and leaving the black vault behind.

  Back in his chamber, Archenon paced the room. Though he knew the danger, there was no other way he could think of to save his mother. But he had never heard of anyone surviving death. It would be risky, of course, but he had become a skilled sorcerer. No, a great sorcerer. Ithriel might not be the Elf she had been, but at least she would live. Archenon stopped in his tracks. Whatever the consequences, he had to try.

  He would have to improvise. This was not something they taught him in his lessons. He placed five iron candlesticks on the floor, wedging candles representing the five elements into each of them: Green for earth, red for fire, blue for water, white for air, and, in the middle, purple to represent spirit.

  “Let’s see.” Archenon sat with the spirit candle in front of his crossed legs. He shut his eyes and reached for his powers. A tingle rose in his sternum. It spread slowly through every part of him, leaving his body warm and heavy. He focused on his intentions and let the pulsating energy guide him through the words.

  Spirit, I chain you to my heart.

  Blood of my blood, I bind you to the earth.

  You shall have no wings to fly, but rebirth.

  Wash away the pain of strife.

  Let spirit linger when the body has no life.

  Death is absolved by this spell.

  He opened his eyes. The candles flared, casting long shadows upon the walls. A cold breeze entered Archenon’s chambers. A dark blue figure formed from the air. It grew into the shape of a wild elven woman. Raven-colored hair wrapped around it’s waist.

  The ghostlike shape looked familiar.

  “Mother?”

  The figure stretched her arms, hovering above the floor. “I feel cold, my son. Why did you call me?”

  Archenon clenched his teeth. “you're already dead? I sent the Night Mara to your corpse?”

  “Yes.” Ithriel’s smile turned vicious. Her eyes were but tiny black orbs. “Do you wish to die too, my son?” She threw herself at Archenon. Her freezing hands clasped around his throat as her legs clamped about his waist.

  Archenon didn't want to die—all he had wanted was for Ithriel to live. His fingers splayed over the marble floor. Something cold brushed against them. He wrapped one hand around the candlestick, gasping for air. Ithriel tightened her grip, shaking him violently with a ghastly strength. Pulling himself even closer to
her, Archenon thrust the candlestick into her chest. Ithriel flung her head back and let out a piercing shriek.

  “you're coal-black,” she whispered after her scream had faded, snapping her neck forward. “Destined to become undead.”

  A chill surged through the room as Ithriel’s eyes turned white, and her body slumped limply on top of Archenon. His breath caught in his throat.

  Archenon squirmed underneath her still form. He pushed Ithriel away gently, but she had already begun disintegrating into a pile of ash. A shadow rose from the remains and flung itself into Archenon’s chest. He winced as it entered his body, and his vision went black.

  Archenon blinked at the spear of light creeping in underneath the curtains. A hard tapping of something against the glass window resounded in his ears. He swallowed back the bile in his mouth, rose from the bed, and flung open the curtains. A raven perched on the windowsill, a small piece of parchment tied around its leg.

  Archenon waved the raven off without taking the message. He didn't need to read it. He already knew it was too late. His mother had died, and, even worse, had been transformed into a living dead, even before his attempt to summon the Night Mara. Now she was gone forever, thanks to Rhonja’s unwillingness to aid her. Archenon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took a steadying breath.

  Any feeling of love or sadness washed away as a chilling darkness slithered through his veins and closed around his heart. Quiet words of vengeance whispered in his mind as the Night Mara took control.

  4

  Puppeteer

  - Archenon -

  A few drops of blood trickled down Archenon’s forearm. The scorching sun stung his eyes.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” He lifted his sword to meet another blow, this one aimed for his shoulder. The two blades met with a ringing high note, sending a shock of vibrations from his fingers to his torso.

  “Now, that would defeat the purpose of teaching you to fight, wouldn't it?” Pyralis beamed. His teeth were nearly as white as the castle walls surrounding them.

  “I know how to fight. We have practiced together for centuries.” Archenon ducked another attack as he swung around. His foot extended in a semicircle, low to the ground, before it knocked into Pyralis’s calves and sent him to his knees. Archenon cut the air with his sword and left the tip of his blade pressing against the wizard’s neck.

  “Surrender yet?”

  Pyralis didn't move. Instead he muttered, “Sveva vinden.”

  A sudden rush of wind lifted Archenon from the ground and propelled him to the opposite side of the courtyard.

  Pyralis’s heartfelt laughter made Archenon want to escalate the sparring into something more serious than a practice match.

  “This is supposed to be a fighting lesson, not a magic one.” Archenon pushed against the cobbled ground, but the wind pressed him back down.

  “That is part of your lesson, my boy. I have tried to teach you this forever, but you never seem to catch on. Only survival matters in a fight, and no one will care about honoring rules when matters of life and death are at stake.” Pyralis strode over to Archenon, offering him a hand.

  “Stillna,” he said.

  The pressure disappeared, and Archenon grabbed onto Pyralis’s wrist. He let the wizard start to pull him to his feet before he jerked his arm against himself, landing Pyralis on his back.

  “Archanath!” Archenon cried.

  A ring of fire sprang up around Pyralis, engulfing him in flames. It would not be fatal to Archenon’s teacher, but it proved a point.

  Archenon walked away from the courtyard. He eyed the tall tower where the throne room lay. He had more important matters to attend to than Pyralis’s games.

  A year had slipped by since Ithriel’s passing. Wiping his brow of grime from yet another battle practice, Archenon took a deep breath and readied himself. Stepping into the throne room, he walked through the growing crowd to take his seat at Rhonja’s left side. Even though she sat on the throne of one land, she provided guidance to all five. Ûnda lay to the west, Caradrea to the east; Sonûdor was north, Lycobris south, and in the center, his personal prison, Êvina. The peoples and creatures of all the lands came to seek her wisdom and her aid.

  Archenon avoided Rhonja’s eyes as he took his place. It had become habit, focusing on the tall pillars and their lifelike carvings. Though he didn't want to be in the throne room beside her, it was necessary for his plan to work.

  “Good to see you, Archenon,” Rhonja said. She leaned discreetly toward him, and whispered. “I have not seen you much of late.”

  Archenon reluctantly turned his gaze toward her. He observed Rhonja’s rosy lips. The way they moved and her shining skin had always mesmerized him in the past. He had learned how deceiving beauty could be, however.

  The supplicants had gathered before them in a slightly ragged line. Most of the visitors wasted Her Majesty’s time and expected too much. Yet, she often gave them more than they deserved. Had he not been more worthy of her kindness than any of them?

  Surrounding the half-moon staircase along the walls of the room stood Her Majesty’s personal guard. They were referred to in Ancient Arvish as the Èblazons but were more commonly called the Spiritguards. Their appearance was like that of a blinding ray of light breaking through clouds personified as men. Their black armor included a full breastplate with no sleeves. The metal shimmered with thousands of speckled gems, and, on their right wrists, they wore matching bracelets, each of which contained a single, white diamond embedded in the metal. The presence of the Spiritguards had always made Archenon uneasy. Now, more than ever.

  The Èblazons were incapable of emotion. They felt no fear or sense of self outside their duties. Their sole purpose in life was to protect the land of Êvina and its ruler. They would obey the queen’s commands without question or hesitation, and they were nigh on impossible to defeat.

  Archenon shuddered. To be so cold and unfeeling, with no sense of self, seemed a fate worse than death to him. The Èblazons didn't really belong, as far as he could tell, within a balanced world like Aradria. It was less than likely that the Spiritguards would catch onto his plan, but it was a possibility.

  Watching them from the corner of his eye, Archenon concentrated on the task at hand and opened his mind outwards, feeling for the minds of the supplicants.

  The Èblazons didn't stir.

  It bothered Archenon that he could not seek out the mind of someone he had never met. He needed to look into someone’s eyes to gain the foothold of a connection. Nevertheless, he had never been able to penetrate the shield in Rhonja’s mind. In the months after his mother’s passing, he had certainly tried. Even so, there were plenty who would succumb easily to Archenon’s influence.

  “What do you think? Are they truthful?” Rhonja asked quietly, indicating the pair of common folk standing at the front of the line. She knew of his power to read minds, but not that he could use it to control people. He had always practiced his ability in secret. Now, Archenon shifted his attention to the man and woman in front of them.

  “I think that the wife should be free of such an abusive husband and that he should not be allowed to marry again.” It wasn’t that he really cared for the woman, but it was his job to advise objectively. She had done nothing to deserve ten lashes a day from her husband.

  “I cannot keep him from finding another wife. Surely, you understand that, though that is not to say I don't agree. From what you just told me, however, I can absolve their marriage, since he has broken his vows. You’ve done well.”

  Rhonja turned back to the couple. “Your marriage is no more. You'll go your separate ways. She may keep the house your children call home. And I’ll accommodate you, Goodman Creen, on the outskirts of Beregend city.”

  When Creen started to protest, one of the Èblazons stepped forward. Cowering in front of the Spiritguard, Creen stayed his objection. The Èblazon silently guided the couple out. Archenon watched them leave with a callous stare. The
woman’s happy sobs bounced off the marble as they left.

  Archenon had prevented thieves and even assassins from carrying out their evil deeds across Aradria in the past. These common folk, however, were of no use to his current plans. He was seeking a particular kind of personality.

  “Why do you bother with these simpletons?” he asked Rhonja in a hushed voice. “You know most of them only mean to deceive you. Surely they could settle most of their quarrels on their own, no matter their rank?”

  “People need a voice of reason, Archenon. You know this. Above all, they need to know they can count on me to be just.”

  Clenching his teeth, Archenon kept his tongue. He would not comment on how just he thought her.

  He searched the room, looking for anyone who might be from Ûnda. Having spent the past year latching onto the minds of representatives from each of the five lands but the Land of Water he had grown impatient.

  A year of searching came to an end, however, as Archenon’s eyes fell upon a burly fisherman standing near the front of the line. Even though water was an element that brought forth life, everything had an opposite—a counterbalance. Aradria was built upon such balance, and Archenon’s plan relied on the fact that there would be men more disposed to take on some of the more deviant characteristics affiliated with the element.

  Ûndan folk rarely ventured into the great halls of Êvina. When they did, Archenon had found their minds so benevolent and filled with love for life that he had immediately dismissed them. It pleased him to find that the fisherman was different. He would make a fine advocate for Archenon’s cause.