The Queen of Lies (2 page)

“That man out front.” Serra motioned over her shoulder. “He seems harmless. He’s just standing in front of the building and didn’t seem particularly interested in moving. If he’s a spy, he’s either terrible at concealing himself or brilliant at making it look like he’s terrible at it.”

“I noticed him earlier,” Loran said. “What did he say to you?”

“That life is short and we should make the most of it.” Serra grinned. “Shorter for some of us than others.”

“It’s bad luck to joke about that—I’m a week away from retirement,” Loran scolded her playfully. He was only in his fifties but much senior to the other warders living in the building.

Serra turned and ran up the stairs, half expecting to see Vernor coming out of his room. Her heart sank a little when his door didn’t fly open. He was probably embarrassed that he’d been spotted watching her. She readied her hand to knock but lost her nerve at the last second.

No, it would be too strange after she’d caught him spying. She’d see him in the morning and maybe ask him to get a drink after her inspections. She chuckled to herself. If people knew the Invocari had silly romantic entanglements, their image as the menacing enforcers of law would be ruined.

She went to her room and prepared a sleeping draught. If she got up early enough, she could catch Vernor before he went to the tower. She picked out her prettiest blue dress and laid it across the top of her dresser. She didn’t have many eye-catching fashions, but this one complemented her more so than her others.

Serra prepared for bed then lay down on the mattress, anxious for the possibility of tomorrow. Even the daunting workload of ward inspections didn’t bother her. She waited for the draught to take effect and drifted off to sleep.

She had nearly dozed off when a gentle knock sounded at her door. She gathered her night-robe and opened the door, just a crack at first.

Vernor stood outside, looking timid and anxiously planning what he was going to say. He hesitated then said, “I had to see you. I had to tell you…”

Serra beamed. “I’ve dreamed of this.”

His expression darkened. “You’re still dreaming.”

Serra stepped away from the door. Suddenly everything felt very wrong. Her room no longer seemed familiar. Vernor stared with cold blue eyes from the doorway, his mouth opening slowly.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw herself fast asleep under her covers.

A part of her knew that if she looked back at Vernor, it would be the last thing she ever saw. A cold hand gripped her shoulder.

She never awoke.

A
GLYPHOMANCER, A
necromancer, and an alchemist walk into a bar. The bar mage asks them, “What can I conjure you?”

The glyphomancer provides a detailed schematic and says, “I want one perfect drink that only needs to be made once and keeps me drunk for life.”

“Done.” The bar mage claps his hands, and the drink appears exactly as described. “What will you have?” he asks the necromancer.

The necromancer communes with his dead granny’s ghost for a moment then rasps, “I’ll have a pink-raspberry lemon cocktail that turns to ash in my mouth. And I’d like two cherries as well.”

“Done.” The bar mage claps his hands, and the drink appears exactly as described. He turns to the alchemist. “How about you, sir?”

The alchemist hems and haws for a while before he asks, “Do you have anything bitter and foul tasting, made from poisonous plants, that won’t actually do much of anything?”

The bar mage looks at him and says, “What do I look like, an alchemist?”

—
OLD ARCHEAN JOKE (ORIGIN UNKNOWN, LIKELY MID-SECOND ERA)

M
ADDOX DUCKED BEHIND
the statue of Armadel and sneaked a quick drink from his flask while the rest of the students were preoccupied with inscribing the circle. The long-dead old magus would have been rightly horrified, but the statue kept lookout with its implacable, sober expression as the junior Adepts busied themselves setting up chairs and preparing the space. Maddox knew he could complete the ritual blindfolded; a few sips wouldn’t kill him.

There wasn’t much in the drawing room to detract from the Circle, a massive set of concentric rings and arcane inscriptions inlaid with metal into the mirror like polish of the granite floor. Standard stuff for any binding and conjuration, but it was one of the largest in the Free Cities. Chairs and benches were being set up around the periphery. Behind them the likenesses of the revered magi stared out from alcoves that were just barely large and private enough to squeeze into for a quick drink.

“Maddox. There you are!”

He quickly made to conceal his flask, but his fingers fumbled, and it went tumbling to the floor. His blood quickened with panic, but he managed to levitate it seconds before it struck the floor. He turned, startled at first, but then his expression returned to its brooding scowl. “Torin. Shouldn’t you be setting out appetizers?”

Maddox’s nemesis, “Lord” Torin Silverbrook, was easy to despise. His family came from old money and title—his aunt was the richest woman in Rivern. So of course when young Torin, dense as a brick, had decided to study magic, he had been breezed into the Lyceum with a generous endowment to repair their stupid planetarium. And he was blond. And vexingly handsome, which didn’t help matters.

Torin looked at the floor then directly at Maddox with his obnoxiously vivid blue eyes. “Hey. I know we don’t get along, but…today is a big deal for you. For the school. No matter what my personal feelings are, I just want to say that all the other students and I are wishing you good luck.” He put his hand out.

Maddox made like he was going to return the handshake but at the last minute ran his fingers through his midlength chestnut hair. “Fuck off.”

Torin grimaced and shrugged before turning and rejoining the others. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Maddox reached out his hand and willed his flask into it so he could quickly tuck it into his sash. People like Torin were a perfect example of the mediocrity that was ruining the reputation of the Lyceum. Yes, Torin did have three seals, which technically made him an Adept.

So far Maddox had attained only the Seal of Ardiel, also known as the Seal of Movement. He had completed the entire inscription and binding in less than ten minutes, which was unheard of. It was that bit of confidence that had set him back two years from Torin as he prepared himself physically and mentally to attain the ultimate seal: Sephariel, also known as the Seal of Vitae, the Seal of Life.

The doors to the drawing room swung open, and Magus Tertius marched in, his white robes flowing behind him energetically. He paused briefly to survey the room before seeing Maddox walking toward him, a spring in his step despite his advanced years. Behind him trailed Magus Turnbull, an effete, fat, sneering slug of a man with a bored expression, and a woman he’d never seen before.

She had fiery red hair and wore a plain violet blouse and indigo trousers. Her face was pretty but in a plain, middle-aged sort of way. She could have easily been mistaken for a commoner on the street if not for the simple gold-and-silver sash across her chest. Maddox didn’t need Tertius to explain who she was.

“Scholar Maddox Baeland, may I present”—Tertius genuflected to her slightly—“High Wizard Petra Quadralunia, preceptor of the Archean Academy, here to witness the first inscription of the Seal of Vitae at the Lyceum in nearly half a century.”

This was a big fucking deal for the Lyceum. It had been nearly five decades since any students had been offered an apprenticeship at the Archean Academy. The preceptors didn’t even bother sending representatives but once every lunar conjunction, and even then it was a transparent excuse for them to load up on duty-free nonperishables. Meat was apparently a rare commodity for the floating city.

Maddox had rehearsed his acceptance to study at the Academy many times in his head, but actually seeing this woman here was intimidating. She probably knew more about theurgy than every magus in the college.

Taking his awkward silence in stride, she said, very formally in her Archean tongue, “Your magus regards you highly, and I was bemused with the quality of the scribble things he sent to the Academy. The registrar sends his regards that he could not be here, but it is my…you know, honor…to serve as attestator to your thing today.”

Or at least that was what he understood. Although he read Archean proficiently, speaking it wasn’t his strong suit.

Maddox cleared his throat and answered in broken Archean, “Thank…you.”

Petra replied in very fluent Thrycean, with barely a hint of an accent, “The augurs have foreseen a favorable confluence. Their accuracy is…um…better these days, so I’m hopeful as well. You certainly have the capacity for success in this.” She had a brilliant, motherly smile.

“Really?” he said, then quickly added, “I mean, of course. How hard can it be?”

It was extremely difficult. Not only was the inscription exacting, but drawing it incorrectly was potentially fatal. Some of the failures for this seal had been spectacular—everything from spontaneous aging, to necrotic ailments, to even an unstoppable reversal of the aging process had ended the careers of many promising mages.

Petra grinned slightly. “Remember that confidence is only part of the Circle.”

“Comprehension and competence complete the ring,” Maddox finished for her.

“Exactly so.” She nodded then turned to Tertius. “But imparting wisdom is traditionally the role of your preceptor. I’ll leave you two to discuss.”

“Come, Archwizard,” Turnbull said cattily to Petra. “I’ll show you to the buffet. I’ve taken the liberty of having some food packed. I imagine you’ll be leaving very shortly…with our most promising student of course.”

“How are you feeling, my boy? Are those arms loosened?” Magus Tertius wrapped his arm around Maddox’s shoulders and gave him a fatherly squeeze. The older man was practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

“Yes, Magus.” Maddox took a deep breath. He’d spent the better part of the morning warming up his shoulders and wrist for the inscription, although he didn’t find it made much of a difference. He had drawn the glyph hundreds of times from memory, each of them perfect. His hands remembered.

“Good, good,” Tertius said, hastily fishing a box from a fold in his white robes. “I wanted to give you a present.” He barely could contain his excitement as he handed it to Maddox. “Go on! Open it.”

Maddox looked at the small wooden box and, using his Seal of Movement, caused the latch to open and the lid to flip back. The bound magic within him functioned like an extension of his own limbs; with barely a conscious thought, he could move objects as if he were holding them.

Inside, a long golden stylus with a rune-inscribed shaft and a ruby tip rested on a pillow of black velvet. The stylus floated out of the box and spun slowly in front of Maddox’s face. “This is beautiful. It’s a fucking piece of art.”

Tertius grinned with obvious satisfaction. “I had Aurius fabricate it to the most exacting specifications, measured to your grip.”

Maddox was blown away. The tip looked irregular, but each facet had been cut to produce a specific kind of line. He let the stylus fall into his hand and tested the weight. It shifted slightly—a mercury core. “This is beautiful, but I haven’t practiced with it—”

Tertius waved his hand dismissively. “It’s for after the inscription. You’ll need a new stylus.”

After he completed the seal he was attempting today, he would be expected to relinquish his current stylus to the archive, to sit framed beside his portrait. The thought of giving up his first stylus was bittersweet, but he was already eager to practice with the new one. “Thank you,” he said.

“I knew when you first came to this school you would bring great honor to this institution. Now go out there and show the Archeans what Genatrovan mages are capable of.”

Maddox hugged Tertius. “I won’t let you down.”

He took a deep breath and entered the Circle. Already he sensed the thrum of power on his fingertips. Above him was a skylight, the clouds outside providing a diffuse overcast but more than enough illumination. He took a seat in the center and laid out his instruments: a book of diagrams, a parchment, and an incense burner, which was purely for show.

From his tool kit, which contained styluses, rulers, and compasses, he selected his plain black beginner’s stylus. As worn and simple as this stylus was, his hand knew its quirks. Most students threw their first styluses away when they could afford better instruments, only to waste months relearning tension and release.

Magus Tertius had taken his seat next to High Wizard Quadralunia, who donned a pair of wire-framed spectacles with lenses made out of polished prismite. The material flickered with soft, shifting illumination, making her eyes appear to glow. She seemed to be in good spirits.

The red-robed Magus Quirrus took a seat toward the back. This was turning out to be quite the event if the dean of Blood Sages was in attendance. Maddox felt the sudden gravity of the occasion as Magus Aurius floated into the chamber behind Quirrus. The artifact mage inhabited a golden sphere no larger than a man’s head. The Grand Invocus followed after, shrouded completely in his black cloak. This current Grand was rarely seen outside of the tower.