A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: A. Christopher Drown
ascension to the office of Magistrate had yielded plenty of watchful detractors within the Ministry of Law, and the late, precarious stage of her plans demanded more prudence than ever. Besides, even at such early hours, visitors were formally announced and seated in the common room to learn whether or not they would be received. And, of course, he would be.
Ennalen ran her thumb along the coarse pages of the book she cradled, the one she had pulled from amongst the study’s expansive, ceiling-high shelves. A wry smile tugged at her mouth because she knew upon those pages played out a story far older than the crumbling volume itself, a story for which as a child she had never particularly cared.
Life, it seemed, was replete with its little ironies.
The blush of dawn warmed to a powdery blue as the new day grew and brightened. As much as Ennalen resented leaving her vigil, her regular duties beckoned. She stepped back into the study, latched the doors, and bitterly resigned herself to patience for at least one more day.
***
Sala of Basselwick, the repulsive man cringing in the Revelator’s Circle, so resembled a salamander that when she first met him years ago Ennalen thought the person who introduced him had been making a joke. Sala’s large black eyes blinked far too often, and the ever-present sheen of perspiration on his slender frame gave him a slippery appearance. She still half-expected his tongue to dart out and lick his eyebrow.
Beginning literally the hour of her ordainment as a Magistrate, Ennalen had vigorously pursued an open campaign against Members of the College who exploited their influence over underlings in their charge. She made well-known her willingness to hear any complaint pertaining to such abuses and to publicly investigate on behalf of any claimant who came forward against his or her teacher. Doing so had earned her the disapproval of most of the Membership for ‘swinging her sword about the glassmaker’s shop,’ as the saying went. She once had even toyed with the idea of actually wearing a sword to court in response to the reproach, though such a ghastly act would likely have landed her in the Revelator’s Circle.
In short order her labors bore fruit. The number of legitimate accusations brought to her greatly decreased and, much to her relish, solidified her reputation as someone whose attentions were best avoided. Even the reclusive Holistic Fraternity lent her a round-about validation by drafting a letter of concern to her superiors, warning that her crusade was ‘a disruptive and self-destructive endeavor,’ or some such banality.
So be it, Ennalen had thought. She sheltered no delusions about her very personal—and most recently, very selfish—motivations. When all was said and done, she would much rather be the source of her own destruction than allow anyone else the privilege.
Sala’s apprentice had come to Ennalen with a story of bizarre dreams of being violated, dreams that would come and go on a regular basis. An inspection of Sala’s workshop revealed traces of Lady’s Thigh in a mortar, all but confirming his guilt.
“One last time, Brother Sala,” Ennalen said in full courtroom voice, “does it remain your contention that you’ve no knowledge of how the Lady’s Thigh found its way into your workshop?”
“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala replied. “As I have said, I do not work in herbamancy. I’ve no use for such a component.”
“You’ll pardon me, Brother Sala, if I point out that even if herbamancers enjoyed special dispensation to possess Lady’s Thigh—which they do not—one need not actually be an herbamancer to reap its benefits.”
A thin rustle of laughter moved through the gallery. A hard look from Ennalen returned the chamber to silence.
“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala answered.
The tiny rare flower called Lady’s Thigh took its name from a bawdy old drinking song about a thief under a dining table, discovered because of his inability to resist
Ennalen ran her thumb along the coarse pages of the book she cradled, the one she had pulled from amongst the study’s expansive, ceiling-high shelves. A wry smile tugged at her mouth because she knew upon those pages played out a story far older than the crumbling volume itself, a story for which as a child she had never particularly cared.
Life, it seemed, was replete with its little ironies.
The blush of dawn warmed to a powdery blue as the new day grew and brightened. As much as Ennalen resented leaving her vigil, her regular duties beckoned. She stepped back into the study, latched the doors, and bitterly resigned herself to patience for at least one more day.
***
Sala of Basselwick, the repulsive man cringing in the Revelator’s Circle, so resembled a salamander that when she first met him years ago Ennalen thought the person who introduced him had been making a joke. Sala’s large black eyes blinked far too often, and the ever-present sheen of perspiration on his slender frame gave him a slippery appearance. She still half-expected his tongue to dart out and lick his eyebrow.
Beginning literally the hour of her ordainment as a Magistrate, Ennalen had vigorously pursued an open campaign against Members of the College who exploited their influence over underlings in their charge. She made well-known her willingness to hear any complaint pertaining to such abuses and to publicly investigate on behalf of any claimant who came forward against his or her teacher. Doing so had earned her the disapproval of most of the Membership for ‘swinging her sword about the glassmaker’s shop,’ as the saying went. She once had even toyed with the idea of actually wearing a sword to court in response to the reproach, though such a ghastly act would likely have landed her in the Revelator’s Circle.
In short order her labors bore fruit. The number of legitimate accusations brought to her greatly decreased and, much to her relish, solidified her reputation as someone whose attentions were best avoided. Even the reclusive Holistic Fraternity lent her a round-about validation by drafting a letter of concern to her superiors, warning that her crusade was ‘a disruptive and self-destructive endeavor,’ or some such banality.
So be it, Ennalen had thought. She sheltered no delusions about her very personal—and most recently, very selfish—motivations. When all was said and done, she would much rather be the source of her own destruction than allow anyone else the privilege.
Sala’s apprentice had come to Ennalen with a story of bizarre dreams of being violated, dreams that would come and go on a regular basis. An inspection of Sala’s workshop revealed traces of Lady’s Thigh in a mortar, all but confirming his guilt.
“One last time, Brother Sala,” Ennalen said in full courtroom voice, “does it remain your contention that you’ve no knowledge of how the Lady’s Thigh found its way into your workshop?”
“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala replied. “As I have said, I do not work in herbamancy. I’ve no use for such a component.”
“You’ll pardon me, Brother Sala, if I point out that even if herbamancers enjoyed special dispensation to possess Lady’s Thigh—which they do not—one need not actually be an herbamancer to reap its benefits.”
A thin rustle of laughter moved through the gallery. A hard look from Ennalen returned the chamber to silence.
“Yes, Magistrate,” Sala answered.
The tiny rare flower called Lady’s Thigh took its name from a bawdy old drinking song about a thief under a dining table, discovered because of his inability to resist
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