Caster's Spell

  A Mage Tale

  Caster's Spell

  E. D. WATLEY

  Cover art by

  Hadrian Nguyen

  For my vast and delightfully unorthodox family

  You are magic

  A special thanks to the following people, without whom this novel wouldn't be what it is today: to Tatiana, Leticia, and Olivia: for their bravery in reading the very first drafts; to my longtime editor, Mak Hertz: for suffering through my atrocious grammar and spelling; to Jessica: whose boredom inspired my drive to create, all those years ago; to any and all who have ever lent an ear to my ramblings of magic and mishaps; and last but most certainly not least, to Abri: for helping me bounce ideas, for your unwavering support and encouragement, for inspiring me every day.

  Prologue

  "Are we really going through with this?" questioned his partner.

  Marshal Roode was especially uneasy that morning, contemplating his answer, even though their mission was sure to be straightforward, simple. Nonetheless, his new partner was shaking in his proverbial boots. It was only his second year as an officer of the Secret Police and Deputy Fitzgerald was still as jumpy as he had been his first day, yet at least in this moment, the marshal couldn’t fault him. It wasn’t what they were there to do that drew the sweat to the back of his neck, instead it was the repercussions that were sure to follow.

  "Orders are orders, Fitz," Marshal Roode finally replied, looking up at the sign above the entrance to the building. He read aloud, "George Washington High School."

  "Our target is a freshman at this school of Feebles, correct?"

  "Correct," confirmed Roode.

  Fitzgerald was always talkative when he was nervous. "He doesn’t know anything about himself does he?"

  Reaching for the door, Marshal Roode confirmed, "That’s what the paperwork says."

  “Well—I mean—but he knows what he is, right?”

  “Of course he knows. How could he miss something like that?”

  The deputy threw his arms in the air with a shrug. “I don’t know. Don’t know any Warlocks.”

  “Trust me, rookie, you wouldn’t want to.”

  Getting past the front desk was as simple as it had always been. A lie about who they were, a flash of fake credentials, and they were walking the halls as if they belonged. It was true that they could have made it much easier, but orders were clear on keeping the mission free of magic.

  Out in a hallway, Fitzgerald asked, “Why wouldn’t I want to know one? What are they like?”

  “Dangerous,” Marshal Roode answered.

  “Why? I hear they’re not that strong?”

  “These things were bred for war, kid,” he stopped walking and Fitzgerald halted to face him. “War. It doesn’t matter how strong a child is if he has the means and you’re asleep. That’s exactly what they want us to do. Give him the means and then take a nap.”

  Fitzgerald stared silently.

  “Well I ain’t sleeping,” Roode declared with a shake of his head and started walking again. “Now let’s get this over with.”

  According to intel, the target would be in his second period class on the Feebles' primitive understanding of physics. When Marshal Roode entered the room an instructor quickly ended his statement about the effects of gravity between all objects with mass.

  "How might I help you gentlemen?" asked the teacher.

  As previously planned Roode left his deputy to deal with the child’s old instructor and went directly to the boy. When he stopped before the skinny amber-haired kid that fit the given description, Marshal Roode asked, "Do you know what this is?"

  The marshal pointed to the shrunken scepter on his hip, fashioned in silver and decorated with Roode’s family’s thorny grapevine crest. It was a symbol of his honor and a conduit of his power. His magic. Magic of the purest kind, Wiccan magic!

  Roode's lip curled in a snarl as he watched the Warlock eyeball his scepter. The little monkey would never touch something so precious. At least some things were still sacred.

  The boy finally nodded, a wrinkle settling over his brow.

  "So you know why we’re here?" questioned Roode.

  He shook his head, again without speaking.

  "Get your things. We're leaving."

  After they made their way into the hall the boy finally found his voice. "Where are we going?"

  Roode’s young deputy laughed, but without humor, as if staring at an approaching hurricane. The laugh of a man without hope.

  But it was Roode who replied, “Just come with us.”

  Luckily—for him—the target acquiesced and followed the officers out of the school without incident. It was also fortunate that Fitzgerald didn't return to his chatterbox ways until halfway across the parking lot.

  “So,” he said and clapped his hands together. “Do you pretend to be a Feeble every single day?”

  “Um,” the boy fidgeted with his backpack. “A what?”

  Fitzgerald rolled his eyes, so expressively sardonic that Roode was aware of his exasperation even as he walked ahead of his rookie partner.

  “A Feeble,” scoffed the deputy. “You know, a moron, dunce, magicless idiot.”

  “Magicless isn't a real word in English, kid,” Roode reminded his partner as they neared the midsized sedan that had been assigned to them at the start of this foolish mission.

  “I,” the boy started after they all settled into their seats. “Um, yes then. When I'm in public.”

  “Do you like it?” Fitzgerald continued to entertain himself with the Warlock.

  Roode was not amused, but remained silent as he put the car in drive.

  “I don't know. I guess I never really thought about it.”

  The marshal turned onto a four lane boulevard, the biggest and busiest street in this backwater town. He headed toward the fringes of the city's limit, out to the farmland.

  “You never thought about your own happiness?” Deputy Fitzgerald pretended to reason, just a half-step away from openly insulting the boy.

  “I never thought about living another way.”

  “Well then you are most certainly in for a surprise,” he said in the same contemptuous tone.

  “That's enough, Fitz,” Marshal Roode warned. He was tired of both of their voices and would have much preferred to complete his assignment in total silence.

  The Warlock refused him such pleasure.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked again.

  “First to your home to get your things,” answered the experienced field marshal of the Secret Police, after fighting back the urge to remove the Warlock's tongue. “From there, our journey will begin.”

  “A journey to where?” begged the boy. “Where am I going? Do my parents know about this? Am I in trouble? I didn't do anything wrong, promise.”

  "To school.”

  After a moment of silence; “What?”

  Roode's sigh was long and loud, before he uttered words that he would have liked to go his entire life without saying to a Warlock:

  “We're taking you to school. To a real school. To where you will properly learn the ways of the magi."

  First Contact

  W esleywas left standing in front of a school—not the castle that he had imagined, but a building of yellow brick and white marble—with nothing but a backpack of supplies over his shoulderand a schedule of classes in his hand. After a long moment of nervous hesitation, and taking a series of preparatory breaths, he placed a palm on one of the massive double-doors before him, sure that he’d be unable to budge it. Despite his assumptions, however, the iron-enforced ton of wood fell away from him as both doors swung open on perfectly balanced hinges.

  Trepidation almost convinced Wesley to step back, but he knew there was no wher
e to go but forward. So he crossed the threshold and entered into the massive foyer filled with other incoming students.

  Immediately the room fell to such a silence that Wesley could hear the echo of his own footfalls. All their stares were upon him. He felt, more than saw, a hatred behind their eyes and as he continued deeper into the foyer, the heat of their glares simmered across his skin and he could taste the bile of their disgust. It wasn’t long before curious uneasiness gave way to overwhelming apprehension. Wesley froze, and once again considered turning back.

  It was as if he had done something horrible to them, but couldn’t recall what that evil deed was. They were looking at him in a way that made him feel less than human. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth and pressed on with his eyes low, walking as quickly as possible.

  He tried, and failed, to ignore their whispers as he passed:

  "Is that him?" said one boy.

  "I can’t believe they would let one of them in here," added another.

  "Just looking at him… I think I’m gonna be sick," a girl declared.

  With every step forward, the weight of their glowers doubled. Beyond confused, Wesley reached up and explored his face with his hands, finding it to be as he had last seen it in the mirror: two ears, a mouth, a nose, dark auburn hair, and his mother’s green eyes. He looked at his hands to see if they were purple, or covered in boils, or something—anything out of the ordinary. But they too seemed to be normal: five digits on either hand, normal skin color, even trimmed nails.

  What’s wrong with me then? he asked without voice and as if reading his mind, someone shouted. "No one wants you here, Warlock!"

  They despised him because of his ancestry. The fact gave him pause, stopping him in his tracks. Why would that be a reason to be hated? Though he had never met any Sorcerers or Wizards, he wouldn’t have guessed that malice existed between the three races of magi.

  Just as he was working up the courage to talk and maybe reason with the other students, a crumpled up piece of paper struck his ear. Suddenly dozens of wads of paper were flying in his direction along with pencils, and even the occasional book.

  Wesley never referred to himself as smart, but he wasn’t foolish enough to stay in the same spot. He rushed forward, dodging numerous missiles as he crossed the foyer and exited into an adjacent hallway. The corridor seemed to stretch on forever ahead of him, as he kept his focus on the tiles, trying to avoid more merciless stares.

  Glancing at the map on the back of his schedule, Wesley navigated as best he could. Hoping to fall into bed and forget the last few hours of his life, he pressed on until he exited the building and continued hastily along a cobblestone path. When he reached a crossroads between the massive soot-gray twin buildings of the Western Dormitory, he wondered how he would survive living there until the end of the school year with such a reception. Without friends or family. Eyes set on the block-like structures, he came upon a pretty girl, standing in his way.

  He figured she had something to say to him, but in truth, Wesley wanted to walk right around her. Feeling defeated, even before the first official day of school began, he was in no mood for conversation. Still, he knew how his mother would react if she learned that he was rude.

  Shouldering his luggage, Wesley forced a smile and stuck his hand out. "Hi, my name’s Wes."

  "Are you the Warlock?" she demanded more than asked and when he admitted that he was, she spat in his face and ran.

  Yuck!

  Wiping saliva off with his sleeve, he thought about how much his opinion on coming to a new school had changed. Just hours earlier, he was excited to be attending. He remembered being escorted by two lawmen like an important diplomat and packing his bags with a smile.

  That seemed like years in the past now. He just wanted to go home, but he couldn’t because of a promise.

  "Do your best," were the last words from his father before he left home and Wesley knew that he only needed to graduate, and his family would be pleased. After all, he was to be the precedent, the inspiration for their kind... or so they said. He didn’t feel like an inspiration, and so far, they certainly weren’t treating him like one at the school.

  It was an impression that was more than confirmed when, upon reaching the dormitory and opening the front door, six young men stormed out, one of them hollering, "No way I’m rooming with a knuckle-dragger!" and another, "Why don’t you just go home!"

  Wesley watched them as they brushed by, hoping that if he didn’t respond they’d just go away.

  One stopped, however, craning back to shoot a white-hot glare. Then the boy stomped his foot and a rock jumped up from the cobblestone pavement and into his hand. He hurled it at Wesley with a shout, "Get out of our school!"

  Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blew from behind the lone Warlock, and with it, a voice calmly asserted, "Enough."

  The rock stopped midair, just feet from Wesley who, shaking with fear at this unexpected assault, turned to see an olive-skinned boy standing behind him.

  "You should leave," the boy told Wesley’s attackers from the doorway. "We wouldn’t want this to become a conflict, would we?"

  The angry students scowled for a long moment, but then stomped away.

  Not a second later, Wesley found himself being sucked into the building, right past his apparent protector as if pulled by a vacuum.

  "Don’t worry," the boy told him as he closed the door. "No one else will be bunking with you. We’ve got the place to ourselves. Come on; I’ll show you."

  Wesley sped up his walk down the narrow dorm building hallway to catch up with his guardian.

  "But don’t you hate me like the others?" Wesley asked hesitantly.

  "Hate you? I don’t even know you," said the boy as he turned for a stairwell.

  "Oh, you don’t know," Wesley sighed. He almost didn’t want to say it, but his father taught him to be honest and raised him to be brave. Biting his lip as they entered a higher landing, he muttered, "I’m the Warlock."

  Eyes closed and preparing for a cruel response, he was shocked that nothing terrible happened.

  "Yeah, I know." The boy smiled and stopped at a door, a key in hand. "We all saw what happened with Ashlyn from the windows. By the way, might want to change shirts. The drool can’t be good for your reputation."

  Wesley laughed for the first time, it seemed in days, as the other boy led him into the apartment.

  "The name’s Cameron Elegro." He offered his hand.

  Excited that he may have found an ally in this wretched school, Wesley took it and shook vigorously. "I’m Wesley—Wesley Savage."

  "Whoa, calm down, kid. Some of us don’t have that monkey grip," Cameron laughed, wincing.

  Immediately, Wesley dropped his hand and stepped back.

  "Oh, I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that you were strong."

  "Don’t worry about it," Wesley said and turned his back, still upset. "Where can I put my stuff?"

  "Seriously." Cameron put his hand on his shoulder. "I didn’t know you’d take it that way. It’s just that they say—"

  "Warlocks were not made from apes. Got it?" Wesley stated firmly. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was right, but he knew that he couldn’t stand the idea of being wrong.

  "So what are you?" he asked. "A Wiccan?"

  "Nope. I’m a Wind Sorcerer," Cameron stated with a proud grin.

  Wesley grunted. "Must suck having wind as your medium, right?"

  "Heck no," laughed Cameron and then he started down yet another hall, signaling Wesley to follow. "Funny thing about wind, most people think it’s one of the weaker mediums, when in fact it is among the most powerful. It can be as fluid as water, as heavy and destructive as earth, and as explosive as fire. Under the control of the right Sorcerer, it can do anything. But in the end, the medium is only as strong as the Sorcerer. And I’m going to be the best."

  There was something about the way he said it that convinced Wesley that
it would happen. How he envied Cameron’s self-confidence then. Would he, he wondered, ever be like that?

  The Sorcerer stopped by a door. "You can stay here. If you need anything, I’m down the hall."

  "Sounds good." Wesley opened his door and walked in, dropped his bags, and sat on his new bed.

  "Uniforms are in the closet and uh… they serve breakfast at six fifteen, so be ready to go by then." He turned to leave, but stopped. "Oh yeah, almost forgot. What class are you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Didn’t you take the entrance exam?"

  "There’s an exam?"

  Cameron laughed, "Well I guess not for you. Did they give you an emblem in admissions?"

  "Hang on." Wesley dug in his bag and retrieved a purple strip of cloth with a symbol of a bird at its center. "Do you mean this?"

  "A purple dove. You’re a G-class mage. You have to wrap that around your arm, over your uniform, during school hours."

  "Okay. What are you?"

  "I have the white albatross, two ranks higher than you. I’m an E-class."

  "Whoa, that’s impressive."

  "Thanks."

  "How many people tested into E-class?"

  "No one in a long while. This is my second year here. I tested into 'F'," Cameron said rubbing his neck. "Most are lucky just to make 'G' in this school though. I think three kids got into 'F' my year, but I’m the only one of us to pass last year’s Final Exam."

  Wesley laughed. "So I guess you weren’t kidding when you mentioned that wind is the strongest."

  Cameron giggled too and replied, "Yeah, but remember, it’s not the power, but who wields it that matters. I’ll let you get settled in. See ya later."

  After the other boy left, Wesley lay back on his bed and finally let himself breathe easily. It was obvious to him that the next year was going to be an eventful one, and the path ahead was most certainly going to be difficult. Still, he was ready to face tomorrow. With or without help, he would succeed in keeping his promise. He’d graduate from this strange new place, Reviberous: School of Magic.