The Circle of Sorcerers: A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #1 Read online

The Circle of Sorcerers

  Brian Kittrell

  Copyright 2010 Brian Kittrell

  Connect with the Author

  You can easily reach author Brian Kittrell by the various methods described below.

  On Twitter:

  @Brian_Kittrell

  https://www.twitter.com/Brian_Kittrell

  On Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/author.BrianKittrell

  On the Web:

  https://www.latenitebooks.com

  On YouTube (author interviews, discussions, and more):

  https://www.youtube.com/user/LateNiteBooksDotCom

  Through eMail:

  [email protected]

  Through the Mail:

  Late Nite Books

  Attn: Brian Kittrell, author

  P.O. Box 321

  Brandon, MS 39042

  Chapter One

  A Decision to be Made

  The warm summer breeze drifted along the seaside piers lining the harbor of Reven’s Landing. The ocean reflected the beautiful clear skies above, and sparkles danced across the waves out to the horizon. Sorbia, known for its mild summers and forgiving disposition, lay on the east end of the Wayfarer’s Strait, which carried a tepid current most of the year. Even in the depths of winter, the people of the western coast burned less firewood in their hearths than the people of other nations—a fact that instilled a sense of pride in all who lived there.

  With Laedron's last summer in Reven’s Landing drawing to a close, the decision of where he would train had weighed heavily on his mind for many days. When the breeze slowed, the back of his neck became hot. His skin had tanned over the years spent along the coast, but he still experienced a period of discomfort when the wind grew still. With his toes dangling in the water below the pier, he ran his fingers through his glistening black locks to clear away the sweat.

  He took pleasure in the solitude afforded by the pier, which was, in many ways, a home away from home and a private place where he could relax and think. Though he could see others nearby, few of them ever came to fish the waters there. He joined them in merriment once in a while, but he was there to fish that day. Thrashing about in the water would have to wait for another time, a time when he wasn't so troubled.

  Marac approached from behind and sat beside him. “What's bothering you so much lately, Lae?”

  “It's hot today.” He glanced at Marac's strong build and tall stature, both traits he often wished for himself.

  “No hotter than most, and only for a passing moment. What's really bothering you?”

  “I have a decision to make.” He waggled the end of his pole to tempt the fish with his bait. The poor worm on the hook had given up the ghost long ago, forcing Laedron to lure the fish manually.

  “I thought you already made it.” Marac rolled his trousers and dropped his feet into the bay. “Morcaine, right?”

  “Ma makes a compelling case for Madam Ismerelda.” He tightened his lips and eyed the end of his fishing pole. “I'm not as convinced as she.”

  “It's your decision, right? Just tell your ma you're going to Morcaine.”

  “It's not quite that easy, you know? Ma says Ismerelda's a much better teacher.” His pole bent in the middle, and he jerked it out of the water.

  Marac slapped him on the knee. “My, that's a fine redfish you have there! That'll surely fetch a fine price at the stall.”

  Laedron placed the fish in his wicker basket and wiped his hands on his pants. “Not this time it won't. I've gone fishing for myself today. Ma's had a taste for fish lately, but I've had no luck until just now.”

  “Something to soften the blow, eh?” He laughed as he elbowed Laedron. “You know, to let her down easy?”

  “I still haven't decided. All the great mages I've ever heard of went to Morcaine, but Ma doesn't have a very high opinion of it,” he said, securing the top of the basket.

  Marac shrugged. “I'm sure you'll make the right decision, whichever you choose.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Oh, Lae, you're such a worrier.” Marac eyed the basket. “You care if I accompany you home? That fish there'd do wonders for my bellyaches.”

  Laedron rolled his eyes. “You probably don't want to show your face at the house right now. She's still upset at what happened with Laren over the last few months. They were both in an uproar for nearly a week.”

  Marac spoke faster and with a familiar defensiveness in his tone. “It couldn't be helped. You know I care for you and your sister. I care for the whole Telpist family, even your ma, who can't stand me.”

  “You let her down hard, Marac. She was heartbroken for a long time after that.” He shifted his weight to get more comfortable, the planks inflicting a dull but constant pain on his lower back.

  “I couldn’t help it. She wanted to be married, and I'm just not ready for that yet. I'm only fifteen.”

  Laedron didn't speak, choosing instead to exhibit his disdain for Marac’s excuses with a dumbfounded expression.

  “Look, you're only a year older than me. If a woman—no matter how fair—were to come to you and say she wanted your hand, what would you do?” Marac asked.

  “I'd tell her I couldn't,” Laedron said. “Simple as that, really.”

  “The same thing applies to me, doesn't it? I'm Marac Reven, heir to the fortunes of my father Bordric and his holdings. Ours was the first family to settle this land, and I can’t let my family down.”

  Laedron cut Marac’s grand oration short with a temperamental glare. “It's not the same, Marac. You don't have to go and live in seclusion while you spend the next few years of your life in training. Your concerns are drinking from a tall cup and enjoying your nights.”

  “So what if I want to live a bit before I'm relieved of my freedom?” He raised his open palms in the air.

  “All I'm saying is that we're in two different situations. I'd much prefer staying here with Ma and Laren instead of going to the academy, but I can't. I have to go.”

  “It can't be that bad, Laedron. I've never known what sort of things your kind really do, but I'm sure it will be all right. I know Westmarch is a nice place; I've been there several times myself. Morcaine can't be that bad, either. I've heard it’s a wondrous city to visit.”

  Laedron looked at him for a few moments before speaking. “Am I really so different from you, Marac?”

  He sighed, and his eyes shifted back and forth. “No. You always take such offense when I bring up our differences. They are a bit major, you know?”

  Laedron shook his head. “I'm training to become a sorcerer. It's not all that bizarre.”

  Marac's eyes widened. “Not bizarre? Only a handful of people born each year are able to wield the very elements!”

  “Ma says it's more like two or three dozen, but they don't always find out that they can.” He pulled the fishing pole from the water and set it on the pier. “It can't be that rare. Three of us are living in this tiny village alone.”

  “Your ma has the powers. It's going to be strong in you since it came from your blood. That's what everybody says, at least.”

  Laedron glanced at his submerged feet and splashed a bit of water. “Sometimes I wonder if I'll make it wherever I choose.”

  “You've got real talent. I can see it.” Marac swatted him on the back. “You'll do fine.”

  Laedron nodded and rolled his shoulder from the sting of the slap. “Fate will do as it will.”

  “Of course. Come on, let's go back. You've got your fish there. Sitting out here is just avoiding what you can't change.”

  “Maybe I want
to avoid it.”

  “Well, that's obvious, but it's not going to make it any better. Come along. Let's go have a cup of tall stout on the side street.”

  Laedron stood and threw his pole over his shoulder. With the basket in hand, he followed Marac along the dirt pathway that led to the village. Drifting on the ever-present breeze, the scent of the blooming honeysuckle crossed the wooded trail, and the haze of dust and pollen fluttered between the trees.

  “I never get tired of that smell.” Marac took a deep breath through his nose. “I know you'll miss being here in Reven’s Landing, but I'm sure you'll be back to visit sometime.”

  “Don't count on it. No matter how much I'd like to return, there are no promises. I'll miss you, Marac.”

  “Oh, don't talk like that. You'll have to come back someday,” Marac said. “Maybe when your training is over, you can visit us little people.”

  “We'll see,” he replied with a heavy heart.

  “You need not be so bitter, Laedron Telpist. You're venturing off in the wide world and leaving the simple pleasures of our little town behind.”

  “It's my home, Marac. I'd be perfectly content to stay here and live.”

  “No, you're not the type. When we were children, you always spoke of strange lands far beyond the foothills of our homely country. Now, you get to live that dream.”

  “Those were just stories,” Laedron said. “I'm not so sure the outside world is as glorious and amusing as it once seemed.”

  “You'll make do. Your family always does.” Marac smiled.

  His words were never truer. It was a known fact throughout the town that Ma Telpist, known as Filadrena by her contemporaries, was once a powerful sorceress. The townsfolk always saw her as a kind person, though. Although known to insult a high-riding nobleman when she deemed it necessary, Filadrena never knew an enemy amongst the commoners, and many of the people of Reven’s Landing even knew her as a friend.

  His father, Wardrick Telpist, died when Laedron was but a small child. Laedron could barely remember his face, let alone anything else about him. Squarely between a commoner and a noble, Wardrick had been appointed as the Bannor of the village, an administrator of sorts, by the king, and Filadrena inherited the title when he passed. All of what Laedron knew about the man had been passed down through stories. A large portrait of him hung in their common room, but Laedron could glean little detail or personality from a mere painting; his heart longed to have met his father and to have truly known him.

  Arriving first at the side-street counter, Marac glanced at the bartender with a wide grin. Being nothing more than a few planks nailed to some supporting posts, the counter was a long, simple table with stools placed along the roadway where passersby could obtain refreshment. After serving another patron a tall mug, Calvert approached them. “You've brought a friend today, Marac? Is that the Telpist boy?”

  Marac laughed, climbing onto a stool. “Yes, it's the archmage himself, in the flesh.”

  Calvert smiled and looked at Laedron. “Ah, yes. I don't see much of you these days. How is the Bannorette?” Calvert always used Laedron’s mother’s royal title, even though the rest of the town didn’t.

  “She's well, thank you.” Laedron smiled with appreciation. Regardless of the fact that he didn’t really know or care much for Calvert, Laedron treated people with kindness.

  “And you?” Calvert asked. “Marac's told me you'll be going to train soon.”

  “Yes. I haven't decided where yet.” Laedron shrugged. “I’m down to two options—Morcaine or Westmarch.”

  “That's good.” Calvert took a mug from the rack. “What can I get you? I already know Marac's desire.”

  “I'll have a tall one of your honeysuckle cider, my good man,” Marac said, interrupting Calvert when he reached for the ale keg.

  Laedron watched him with an eyebrow raised. “Honeysuckle cider? Not your usual fare.”

  “I've grown fond of the stuff. You should try it before you leave. It's one of a kind.”

  “Fine, yes. I'll have one, too.” He put the basket containing the redfish on the bar and leaned his pole against an empty stool.

  With a pleasant scent and a splash against the rim, the steins landed before them. Everything from the side-street stand was distributed in large mugs, regardless of style, tradition, or want. It couldn't be argued by any of the townsfolk that you didn't get enough from ol’ Calvert; he was sure to give each customer a generous portion of whichever brew they fancied, which was the source of Laedron’s dislike—his refilling of Marac’s glass to excess. Though the selling of drink was the bartender’s specialty and lifeblood, Marac would be better served if Calvert stopped the flow of liquor when he became reckless.

  The stall's proximity to the fish market was the only unpleasant feature of the place. Across the heat wafted a pungent aroma at random times of the day, and Calvert remarked how he lodged complaints with the town elders each time a customer would fuss. Forgiving as it was, the breeze would often come through strong and frequently enough to relieve the patrons and allow them to drink in peace.

  The cider crossed his lips and excited his tongue. It had both a dainty and spicy flavor, a contradiction to its pleasant and subtle scent. He sipped it in a slow, deliberate manner, but Marac was unafraid to gulp it by the mouthful.

  Concerned over Marac’s behavior, Laedron waited for him to stop. “You're taking it a bit fast, aren't you?”

  “Ah, you're such a worrier, Lae. Anything fine should be enjoyed in quantity and at whatever speed you prefer.” Marac raised his mug high.

  “I'm afraid the drink will be the death of you is all.”

  “You have to live a little, my friend. Life's short, but you can make your nights longer.” He put his arm around Laedron's shoulder and drew him close. “Maybe you wouldn't have a problem with the womenfolk if you spent less time at your studies.”

  When Calvert approached another patron at other end of the counter, Laedron whispered, “Why you insist on pressing the issue, I’ll never know. And I don't have problems with womenfolk.”

  “It worries me, Lae. That’s all. I’ve just never seen you court anyone before.” Despite Laedron’s whispering, Marac spoke at a normal volume, seeming not to care who might overhear them.

  Laedron gave Marac a forthright glare, barely containing his impatience. “You know how busy I am with my studies, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t bring such things up in public.”

  Marac’s happy face changed to a serious one. “I've said nothing to anyone else, Lae.”

  Other people walking the roads eyed the pair, and Laedron whispered, “No, but your voice is carrying to the nearby streets.”

  “I'm sorry, but it's true, isn't it? You're well into your sixteenth year now, and you haven't met anyone you enjoy being with for long. You're a handsome lad as the average goes, so that can't be what's holding you back.”

  “Let me worry about whether or not I will, won't you? It's not your concern, Marac.”

  “You're my close friend and always have been. If I don't worry about you, who will? You don't seem to be upset about it.”

  “And what cause do I have to be upset? It's not like I'll wither away and die if I don't, and who’s to say there’s not plenty of time left for such things?”

  As quick as the question crossed Laedron's lips, Marac replied, “Just about everybody.”

  “And it's none of their concern, either!” Laedron slammed his palm onto the bar.

  “You've got passion in you, that's clear and can't be denied, but you use it all up on your studies. You could be using it in darkened halls with a busty maid at your lips.”

  “It's not passion. It's concentration, Marac. Anyone can conjure magic, it just takes focus. Even you could do it, if you could stop drinking long enough to try.”

  “Concentration or passion, whichever it is, could be equally applied to a fair mistress,” Marac said with a certain flair. “No, magic isn't something that any old f
ool can perform. I don't agree with you there.”

  Yearning to talk about something other than busty maids and the throws of ecstasy, Laedron tried to change the subject. “Some are just better at performing it. The possibility is in everyone, but not everyone will give it a chance. I can agree it's not easy, but it’s certainly possible.”

  “Well, I leave it to you, my friend. Perhaps you'll be gifted enough for the both of us.”

  Laedron shook his head. “Maybe Ma is right about the whole thing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Marac asked. “And what does she have to say about it?”

  “It's not the people who have a birthmark or a funny look in their eye, she says. It's everyone. Everyone can do magic, but only a few born each year have the will to pursue it.”

  Marac took another mighty swig from his stein. “I certainly can't argue with what your ma says. She's the most gifted sorceress I've ever heard of. She's the only one I've ever met, too.”

  “You know Laren, don't you? Or have you forgotten about her already?” asked Laedron.

  Marac laughed. “Laren's no sorceress, though.”

  “She will be. She's as much a mage as you're a miller, as much as Calvert's a purveyor of fine liquors,” Laedron said, garnering a smile from the bartender.

  “True, perhaps. I don't like to think of her that way,” Marac said. “She's not a sorceress in my eyes.”

  “As if it's a bad thing?”

  “No, Lae. You're always getting the wrong impression. It's just different, and I don't like to think of her as being different from other girls.”

  Laedron raised an eyebrow. “It sounds to me like you still have feelings for her.”

  “Of course I still care for her.” He paused, and Laedron could tell something was on his mind. “I can't talk about it, Lae.”

  “You used to be able to tell me anything. What's changed, Marac?”

  He carried a reluctance in his voice. “Not this. I'm sorry.”

  “Fine, keep your secrets. I'll keep mine better next time, too,” he said.

  Marac sighed and tilted his head. “The real reason I couldn't see Laren anymore is that she's going to training soon herself.”

  Putting his mug on the bar, Laedron crossed his arms. “I suspect my mother's hand in that.”

  “Please don't tell her, Laedron. Don't tell her I told you anything about it.”

  “Ease yourself,” he said, taking Marac by the shoulder. “I won't say a word, but I want to know why.”

  “Laren wanted to be married, and I wanted it, too. I do love your sister, Lae. I really do.”

  Laedron narrowed his eyes, and Marac continued, “We can't be married. Not now, at least.”

  “Why not?”

  “The training and our business. Our parents agree it wouldn’t be best.”

  “What do you think, Marac? You're almost of age. Like my situation, is it not your decision?”

  Locking his eyes on the bottom of his mug, Marac seemed to have trouble finding his words. “It's fine, Lae... Really, it is. The training's important to her.”

  Not wanting to upset Marac any further, he tried to change the subject once more. “How is the miller doing? Still contemptuous and unabiding?”

  Marac exhaled deeply, as if the pressure of the recent discourse was suddenly released. “His back is always aching these days. He said it was from an old injury early in his business, and he tells me that he's glad I'm finally coming of age to take it over for him.”

  “You've been working in the mill since we were young. I don't see you having a problem keeping it up.”

  “No, I'll be fine. It won't be anything like the adventures you shall have, I'd wager.”

  “We'll see, won't we? Anyhow, I've lingered here long enough.” He reached into his pocket and produced a silver coin.

  “I'll pay for it, Lae. No worries.”

  “You don't have to. I can cover it.” Laedron offered the coin to him, taking the basket and fishing pole in his other hand.

  Marac waved his hand. “Take it as a gift from a friend.”

  “Very well. A gift from a friend, then. Thank you for everything, Marac.”

  Laedron extended his hand, and Marac took it firmly. “No matter what may come, never forget that we’ll be friends. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother, Lae. And I’m sorry if I upset you earlier.”

  “No worries. I appreciate everything your family has done for us, and I’ll never forget any of it.”

  Finishing the last sip of his stein, Marac wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Likely not, I’m afraid. I’ve already promised Laren I’d help her with her magic.”

  “Then I’ll see you the day after.”

  Turning away, Laedron walked along the road toward his house on the outskirts of the village. Each step brought back memories he had visited a thousand times before. Passing a familiar fork in the road, his eyes traced the old oak tree he and Marac had once transformed into a fortress against his sister. That same tree was the only witness to the first time Marac and Laren had kissed some years later, an event that had drawn Laedron’s ire at the time. Even though the wooded pond beyond the tree was where he had almost drowned two summers ago, he remembered it as the spot he and Marac had pledged to be brothers forever.

  His mind drifted between the two possibilities before him—Morcaine or Westmarch. The prestigious academy of Morcaine was the most tempting, the splendor of massive spires and studied professors harnessing him from a mere country boy into a mighty sorcerer whose powers exceeded even his own expectations. Wanting him to attend more private study with Madam Ismerelda of Westmarch, his mother prodded him on an almost daily basis, espousing the importance of intimacy and close attention from a teacher.

  As his feet fell still, he thought of his childhood. When he was small, that old tree had marked the farthest he had ever been from home, the farthest he was allowed to go, too. He crossed the field to the tree and found the spot where he and Marac had carved their initials. Even though the wood beneath had become worn and rotten from exposure, the familiar “L T” and “M R” were still apparent. While he ran his finger through the cuts, his thoughts returned to those distant summer days when everything had been simpler. Those careless days weren't soon forgotten, and he remembered them vividly.

  Chapter Two

  Ismerelda's Command