Caster's Spell (A Mage Tale Book 1) Read online

Then the master paused.

  "Hm." She put her fingers to her lips. "I wonder… Do we have any source-sayers in this class?"

  Wesley wanted to raise his hand, knowing that it would bring him praise from one of his favorite teachers. But with Sri’s warning lingering in his mind, he knew that for the time being, it had to remain a secret between friends.

  Then the master’s eyes lit up and her radiant smile graced Wesley again.

  Wesley’s heart fluttered and sunk at the same time. How did she know?

  "Cynthia, do you know just how special you are?" Master Tesla addressed the girl seated behind Wesley.

  "Yes," answered the girl. "I am a product of the second noble clan, the Thanes. And like my father and cousin before me, I will become an officer and tracker of the Secret Police."

  "Well, don’t you have impressive aspirations," complimented the woman. "Source-sayers are usually recruited as trackers when they are inducted into the Secret Police. But it’s uncommon for magi as young as thirteen to have awakened such an ability."

  Wesley was taken aback. Though he didn’t know what it was then, he had always been aware of that hard-to-describe sense.

  "Tell me, how far along has it come?" asked Master Tesla.

  "I still need a lot of work," said the girl matter-of-factly. Her source was hard and cold to Wesley. "I can feel the major things, especially when it comes to masters and people with large amounts of source, although temperature and shapes are usually fogged. But I can tell you one thing with confidence, here and now."

  "What’s that?"

  "I’m not the only source-sayer in the class."

  Oh no! Wesley turned back to Sri, her eyes reflecting his own anxiety. As his heart raced in his throat, he wondered what it was about his source that gave him away. He himself, had never sensed another of their kind. The thought of this Thane sitting behind him, looking down on him, made him sweat. He covered one hand in the other and squeezed, but failed to ease the nervousness.

  "Well?" said Master Tesla. "Who is it?"

  "I don’t know," the girl spoke slowly. "Whoever it is, they have a weird source. Like it’s strong, but weak at the same time. I can’t explain it beyond that."

  "And you can’t pinpoint it?"

  "No," said Cynthia. "It feels like it’s everywhere. But it’s likely because I’m not a strong enough source-sayer yet. Remember, it’s hard for me to differentiate between underclassmen and your source isn’t helping."

  The beautiful master laughed, "Well, I’m sorry about that. I’ll do my best to conceal my source."

  "Either way, I won't be able to tell."

  The class fell to silence for a moment. Then one boy stood up in a rush.

  "C’mon!" he shouted to his classmates. "Just show us who you are."

  "Yeah," the other students said in agreement.

  "Who is it?" one yelled at Cynthia.

  "I told you, I don’t know."

  "Why are you trying to hide ‘em," they continued to antagonize her for no reason.

  Wesley felt her source warm up, though only just. He looked back and, while her stoic expression revealed nothing, he could feel that she was indeed becoming overwhelmed.

  He could never explain why he did it, and immediately came to regret the action, but without any restraint, Wesley rose from his seat and shouted. "Leave her alone!"

  For a second, and probably only out of shock, the class listened. Then the boy nearest Wesley pushed him down back into his desk and said, "Shut up, Knuckle-Dragger. This doesn’t concern you."

  For the first time, he felt relieved by the bigotry. Because of it, he wasn’t suspected of being the source-sayer.

  "Enough!" called the master. The students were silenced and unnaturally frozen, but for the movement of their eyes. "Why would anyone reveal themselves to this? Such behavior is beneath us. Now, when I release you, I’d like you all to quietly return to your seats."

  And with that, she dropped her hold on the students and they did what they were told. Then one raised his hand.

  "Yes?"

  "What do they have to hide from?"

  "I wouldn’t know. That’s a question only the source-sayer could answer."

  Then a girl asked, mainly addressing the class, "Including side-families, how many nobles are in the class?"

  Two students other than Cynthia raised their hands.

  "Are any of you source-sayers?"

  They shook their heads.

  "So that means that the student isn’t a noble," said Master Tesla, smiling again. "I suppose, I’d understand why you’d prefer to remain unknown. But you should know that there aren’t any consequences for having the ability without being a noble. It’s a really good thing. You don’t have to be afraid."

  That statement took something from Wesley. Keeping secrets was never a strength that he’d claim to have. He’d much rather live out in the open, be himself without restraint. Experience and intuition forbade him such a lifestyle, but an inner voice urged him to tell the truth. Master Tesla’s statement encouraged that voice, nurtured it. Thus now it was loud enough to make him second-guess Sri’s advice.

  Would they praise him or condemn him?

  Not knowing what to do, Wesley ran his hands through his hair and looked down at his desk. His hands were sweating so profusely that they had left a mark on the wood. Then the sweaty handprints moved, sliding to under his nose. The fluid twisted and danced until it formed the words “PLEASE DON’T”.

  Wesley looked back up to Sri, her head shaking worriedly.

  Not entirely reassured, Wesley turned back to the instructor and bit his lip. On the one hand, she was his friend and friend’s only have each other’s best interests in mind, right? On the other hand, Master Tesla was a master and knew more than any G-class in the world. Of course he wouldn’t get in trouble, Wesley was beginning to decide when he glanced back at Sri again.

  Her eyes were so full of concern it almost broke his heart. She, a gifted Sorceress, actually cared about his well-being. However misguided her beliefs may have been, he couldn’t ignore such a gesture. So he chose to stick with the original plan and kept his trap shut.

  After a brief moment of silence, Master Tesla said, "Okay then, maybe some other time. Let’s continue..."

  When class was over Wesley hurried for the door, hoping to pull Sri away and give her the good news upon her exit. But when she passed through the doorway, she was already engaged in conversation with some Witches. Impatiently, he tried to wait for her to end their talk and step away from the other girls.

  When seconds became minutes, however, he discarded all notions of manners and ran over to her. Sri would forgive him, Wesley told himself. After all, he had been waiting for over an hour to tell her.

  "I’ve got something to show you!”

  "What?" she said with a tone that was unfamiliar coming from her.

  It was so profoundly unusual to Wesley that it gave him pause. For a moment he was sure that it was Liam who uttered the word. If not for the fact that their sources were worlds apart, Wesley would have been convinced that an incantation had turned the Wizard’s blue eyes brown and shrank his stature and voice into a form so comforting even bashful hummingbirds would feel no reason to flee.

  "Um, okay," he said almost laughing at her response, before going on, "I did it. I finally did it!"

  "Did what?" said one of Sri’s other friends, with her nose held so high she was like to fall on her backside.

  After sending her a quick glare, Wesley smiled at Sri.

  "I conjured a perfect red fox," he exclaimed.

  "That’s it?" was not the reply he was looking for, but was what Sri said. "Then again, I suppose a simple conjure like a fox is an achievement for,” she paused, her face contorting in disgust, “you."

  Me? In an instant, his smile fell away, slave to both gravity and his heart.

  “What—what are you saying?” he stuttered.

  “She’s saying to leave us alone,” answer
ed one of her friends.

  The other added, “Go find another coat tail to cling to.” And then to Sri, “Why you put up that freak, I will never understand.”

  Wesley took a step back, but then froze in disbelief. Was this a bad dream? If it was, he couldn’t bring himself to wake. He almost choked on her name when said, “Sri?”

  Why wasn’t she talking to him like a friend? Why didn’t she defend him? He didn’t expect her to fight like Axel or dominate the situation like Cameron, but he thought she’d at the least say something.

  Sri only averted her eyes.

  Then the first of her Witch friends said, “Oh look! I think he’s going to cry.”

  All three girls laughed. All three!

  This was wrong. It couldn’t have been happening. She said it to him, herself: "That’s what friends are for". Sri was one of the few friends that he had on campus. She’d never laugh at him, not to hurt him.

  ...Unless that was the plan all along. If she had sought to hurt him, she succeeded.

  With nothing left to say, Wesley rushed through them, dashing down the hall without fear of a scolding from Master Boscawen. Even that was preferable to another second with Sri and her friends. He ran all the way to the western dormitory.

  "What’s wrong?" Cameron asked immediately at the sight of him.

  "She’s one of them!" Wesley slammed the door behind and stormed into the living room.

  "Who’s one of whom?" Cameron asked, following with a perpetual calm.

  "Sri! She made fun of me in front of her friends," Wesley said, angrily rubbing at his brow. Then he aimed his hand at a small wooden chair and slammed it into a wall. It shattered upon impact. "If she wasn't a girl, I'd—"

  "Whoa! Calm down."

  "Calm down!?" Wesley shouted before sighing and letting himself fall into the warm embrace of the sofa. "She laughed at me."

  "That’s it?" said Cameron as he sat across from Wesley. "You’ve heard worse."

  "Not from any of you guys." Wesley wiped his face vigorously. "I haven’t seen or spoken to anyone I know, including my family, in almost half a year. You're the only people I know. You’re my best friends."

  "Oh," Cameron sighed. "Wes, I’m not gonna pretend to know what’s going through her head right now. But I know that she feels for you. We’ve all seen it. She can’t fake that kind of emotion."

  Wesley remained silent, unconvinced.

  "You know she didn’t mean it right?"

  Wesley stood up and walked to the kitchenette for a glass of water.

  "You okay?" said Cameron, unsure if he should follow or not.

  "Yeah, it’s just hard, ya know," he replied from over the sink. Then, suddenly needing to change the subject at any cost, Wesley asked, "So how was your day?"

  The Sorcerer laughed. "Well after that, I’d have to say it was great."

  Wesley laughed too.

  "I got a letter sayin’ that I’m gonna be in a news article. Apparently, I’ve been selected as this year’s Protégé."

  "Whoa," said Wesley, returning to the living-room. "That sounds big."

  "Nah, I got a gut-feeling that it’s gonna be annoying. Some reporter is comin’ that’s supposed to follow me around for a day and then I have to go to Pompeii for a media interview the next day." Cameron raked his face, pulling it down into a droopy appearance. "The odd thing is, people have to apply for these sorts of things and I’d never sign up for that."

  "Don’t be that way. I’m sure it’ll be fun." Then Wesley laughed. "It’s kinda funny how we’re roomed together."

  "How so?"

  "Well, you’re probably the most popular guy on campus." The Warlock stood suddenly tired enough to fall into bed. "And no one wants me here at all. Goodnight."

  Broken

  It was painful going through the day without speaking, or even making eye contact with Sri. He hadn’t realized just how much he had come to depend on his friends. With just one person missing from his small circle, he felt as if his world was bearing down on him, like one of the support beams had been stripped from the house that was his confidence. It was much harder for Wesley to get up in the morning, let alone face the harshness that was a day in the life of a Warlock.

  Still, with great effort and a lot of trudging, he managed to survive to the end of the day. Standing on the roof of the Lockhart building, he watched as several students practiced their ability to fly, again envious of their freedom. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and imagine the feeling of soaring through the air as a cool breeze blew on his face. He’d fly high above the school and beyond its borders, to where he didn’t have to worry. And just then, if he could, he’d fly home and eat dinner with his parents.

  When the sun sunk beyond the horizon, he watched the flyers descend, to eat the day’s final meal or return to their dorms. Thick clouds in the sky began to rumble as they lazily but determinedly rolled in from the north.

  It was going to rain again.

  He sighed and backed away from the wall that lined the rooftop.

  "Well, better get started," Wesley said, reassuring himself that this was the best place to practice in solitude and more importantly, without the chance of running into Sri. He put his hands together and called out to the World of the Forms, "Rise."

  His magic had been off all day. He was sure that he had more than enough power to complete the spells correctly, but he couldn’t accurately control his source. He attempted four different conjures countless times over, most of which were fashioned less than perfectly. Only the thorny rose was conjured flawlessly and consistently, but since it had become second nature to him, Wesley wasn’t proud of this feat.

  He returned to the first floor hours later, frustrated with and disappointed in himself. Sneaking so as to avoid any masters, he followed a planned path that he had used for months. He had come most of the way without meeting a single soul, and happy at least for that small victory. Then he noticed the case of forbidden relics and unwittingly stopped and stared.

  "It is called The Orb of Genesis," he remembered the mysterious master’s voice. The device created by the genius, Benjamin Caster, sitting upon its purple pillow, seemed so insignificant. Yet judging from its description, it was among the most powerful of relics. Caster built the device at a younger age than Wesley was when he learned his first spell.

  Wesley gazed at it for a few minutes, trying to wrap his head around the amount of work it would take to catch up with such a talented person. Then deciding that it was in fact possible, he turned to go to his apartment, hoping that Cameron could find a solution to his source problems when he returned from his trip.

  Oh no! he thought when he heard something behind him, was that a footstep? Assuming that it was a master that he hadn’t accounted for, Wesley ran to hide. He slid behind a tall decorative vase situated under one of the hall torches, and he waited there for several moments, but no one walked by.

  Maybe I’m just paranoid.

  He gingerly stepped out from his low crouch, to continue to the dorms.

  But he wouldn’t make it home that night.

  Suddenly, pain unlike anything he had ever felt ran across his skin, coursed through his veins, and surged down deep into his bones. So enveloped in this pain—in this source!—was Wesley that he couldn’t move at all. Not even his lips to scream. He could smell something burning, several moments before he realized his shirt was aflame. The smokey stench was not burning clothes.

  Briefly, he inexplicably recalled an instant back home, where someone suffered similar conditions, but over a much shorter time period. A symptom of thunderstorms.

  When the pain finally let up, but in no way ended, Wesley was allowed to fall. A few twitches here and there curled through him as his mind finally registered the situation: he was being attacked.

  Who?

  Before he could move to look around, the ground lurched up, punching him into the air. Then an arm of marble peeled away from a nearby wall and smacked him down t
he length of the corridor. He bounced and slid to a brutal stop.

  Needing some answers, Wesley sought to stand, though for all his efforts he succeeded only in rolling onto his stomach. Before he decided what to do next, his arms and legs were cuffed hard by, cold stone and he was yanked off the ground again. This time, he was strung up to the wall by stone shackles, his back hitting so hard that he could feel the pain in his chest, but this may have been his only chance.

  He had to, at the very least, get a glimpse of his assailant. With more willpower than he knew was within him, Wesley fought against the uncontrollable urge to cringe and forced his eyes open.

  He saw an amazing and terrifying amount of…

  Nothing!

  As he stared forward in crippling fear, an unnatural darkness stared back. It consumed everything, from the statues to the vases, and even the flaming torches. There was no moonlight, no starlight. He heard thunder, but its companion, lightning, failed to make an appearance.

  Then there were footfalls. Clapping louder and louder as they neared him, they were made unclear by his own panicked and rushed breaths.

  Without warning, something sliced at his flesh and then sliced again and again, cracking like a whip. Next came a hail of small jagged rocks. And after that, a flash of light brighter than the sun blinded him. It took him a fraction of a second to realize that his eyelids were closed and another to feel the depths of agony that infiltrated every inch of his body.

  Then as if being pulled away from the terrible event, the pain eased and there was nothingness.

  A scream.

  It sounded distant but urgent. Slowly, Wesley began to feel his body again: burning everywhere. But he couldn’t move his arms. He cracked his eyes open, hoping that it was all a horrible dream:

  Tables. They were all over in a huge spacious room. The scent of syrup hung thick in the air, teamed with bacon and sausage. As he took in a deep breath of the smells, they seemed to become fire in his lungs.

  He saw a girl staring at him from over ten feet down, the only other life in the room. He recognized her, but didn’t know why. Her eyes were swelling with tears and she maintained an expression that petrified him. Terror, so profound it pushed empathy for a Warlock.