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

"But the other master said that only Sorcerers can go into those classes."

  "It isn’t my job to be interested in what the other masters have to say. I teach Wiccan incantations. And even if you could comprehend such incantations, which I’m sure you couldn’t, you are not a Wiccan and therefore, do not belong in my class," the master said as she gathered her papers and stood up.

  "Then what should I do?"

  "That isn’t my job either."

  Before he had the chance to voice a rebuttal, Wesley felt his hair dance as a slight breeze brushed by him. Cameron always warned with a gentle breeze first. Sure that his roommate was there to better defend his position, he quickly turned around and almost ran into the man behind him.

  "Wesley," said the dean. “Come with me.”

  The Dean

  "Take a seat," Dean Sinclair said to Wesley as the two entered his office, which was larger than the boy’s living room and filled with relics and leather-bound books.

  Wesley did as he was told, sitting in a huge, uncomfortable leather chair.

  "You’re not a Wiccan and you’re not a Sorcerer," said the dean as he walked around the desk to his seat, again leaning heavily on his scepter.

  "No, he most certainly is not," Wesley heard a voice from above. Bewildered, he looked up to a mantel high on the wall behind Master Sinclair. A large horned owl rested upon an imitation tree branch over the mantel.

  "Did you hear…" Wesley’s voice faded as he noticed the birds eyes deadlocked on his own.

  Then astoundingly, the feathered animal opened its beak and spoke. "What are you looking at?"

  Shocked and frightened, Wesley almost fell out of his seat. Then, adding to the absurdity that was this bird, its neck stretched to unimaginable lengths, winding around the room until it suddenly stopped inches before Wesley.

  "Haven’t you ever seen an owl before?"

  "N-none… that could talk," the boy admitted.

  Dean Sinclair laughed. "Enough, Archimedes."

  The bird’s body, following the neck like a fishing-line, flew through the room and landed on the dean’s desk. Its neck retracted back to a normal fit, and then its head twisted around completely to face Master Sinclair. "But he’s the one with the staring problem."

  "But, what—how is this poss—I don’t understand," Wesley rambled.

  Archimedes’s head came back to face Wesley, but it continued to speak to the master. "Are you sure that this babbling fool should be permitted to continue as a learner of Reviberous? It would seem that he’d be more at home in a hospital."

  Wesley had taken insult after insult by his classmates and by masters for a whole month. There was no way an animal was going to get away with treating him like an idiot.

  Wesley snapped back, "Who are you callin’ a fool? You’re just a stupid bird."

  "Am I?" Its neck stretched a few feet, waving back and forth in a serpentine fashion and it opened its wings, with little thorn-like appendages sprouting from them. Then, again Wesley caught himself locked in a gaze with the owl, its ridiculously big brown eyes staring straight into his. He found himself frozen, but not in fear—all but his hands, which were riddled with uncontrollable spasms. He was afraid, but not enough to lose control of his body, so it only puzzled him further. Then, with a long, slow blink of the owl’s eyelids, he noticed that time began to crawl.

  "Perhaps, I am something more," Archimedes said very slowly, in an other worldly excessively deep voice. Darkness began to grow from the bird’s back that ate away everything as it neared Wesley. Shortly thereafter, he found himself consumed by this dark abyss, trapped in nothingness with a demon-bird, Archimedes.

  Then he heard the faint voice of Dean Sinclair. "End this, Archimedes, lest I return you to the World of The Forms."

  As he heard the dean’s words, Wesley could see the bird’s eyes widen beyond what he would have thought possible. It quickly returned to an ordinary horned owl in appearance and just as soon, the darkness scattered.

  "Are you okay, Wesley?" Master Sinclair looked at the shaking boy. "Can you see me?"

  "Y-yes," he stuttered.

  "I am relieved to hear it," the dean said before glaring at the bird. "His retaliation was the product of your antagonizing, Archimedes. You should have introduced yourself, rather than spooking the child."

  "Forgive me," begged the owl.

  "It isn’t me that you should be apologizing to."

  "Right." Archimedes turned. "I am terribly sorry, young mage. I hope this doesn’t hinder any possibility of building a relationship in the future."

  Still shaken by the experience, Wesley forced out, "Don’t sweat it."

  "How rude of me. Here, I’ve been carrying on this conversation, all the while never having introduced myself. The Scourge of the Night’s Sky, Archimedes, at your service." The large bird of prey bowed.

  "I’m Wesley Savage," said the boy, still leaning as far back as possible.

  "It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance."

  He’d heard it countless times before, but until now had never had the chance to say it. Wesley sat up. "The pleasure’s all mine." Then after waiting for conversation to continue, he asked, "What were you doing to me?"

  "Yes, sorry about that. It’s a nasty spot of hypnotism."

  "And if he would have continued much further, you’d have been lost in your own mind for years," added the dean with another glare.

  "Lost in my mind?" Wesley repeated.

  "I truly am sorry." The owl shook its head like a wet dog,

  "Okay," said Dean Sinclair. "If you don’t mind, my dear Archimedes, we are here for a private meeting. Be gone."

  Wesley watched the bird bow a second time, before it flew up to its branch. Then he turned back to the master. "You said ‘World of The Forms’. Does that mean that Archimedes is a conjure?"

  "Yes, he is a Lost Soul that prefers to remain here, in this reality."

  "But doesn’t that take a lotta source?"

  "That depends on what ‘a lot’ is defined as. It certainly is impossible for a G-class mage such as yourself, to conjure Archimedes at all, and sustaining him for longer than brief moments is beyond most D-class magi. It requires a constant output of my source, but it is well within the capabilities of one qualified to be the Dean of Magic at Reviberous." The man leaned forward in his chair. "Now, we must return to our original subject and problem: you are a Warlock."

  "I know."

  "Then you understand the predicament we are both in," he continued.

  "There aren’t any Warlock masters here to teach you," spoke Archimedes from on high.

  "Hush, bird," Master Sinclair said before returning to Wesley. "Initially, I wanted to put you in my class, with the Sorcerers who have very rare mediums, but that would be too restricting." The man leaned back and folded his hands.

  Restricting? Wesley tried to understand why the dean would say something like that. First of all, that class, by definition, had to be filled with a diverse amount of powers that Wesley could learn from. But the issue became more puzzling once the boy considered the possibility that Master Dean Sinclair, a noble Wiccan, had just described a class, which he taught, as not being enough for the Warlock. Was he suggesting that the boy was more than just a "knuckle-dragger", or to take it a step further, complimenting Wesley?

  "Then I considered having you placed with the Wiccans," the dean went on. "But the other masters argued that you wouldn’t be able to keep up and, without a doubt, would fail, if we so carelessly pretended you were something that you’re not.

  "Most Wiccans, and Sorcerers, have basic understandings of their powers, before they enroll in school. And I understand that your parents kept you away from most of that. So I, along with your core class masters, have devised a schedule especially for you.

  "But before that, I’d like to ask you a question."

  "Yes, Master?" said Wesley.

  "Would you like to know how to create a blood diamond?"

  Oh crap! Did he
know? Did Master Rosen tell him?

  What was Wesley supposed to do? If the dean knew, then there would be no sense in holding back. But if he didn’t, revealing the truth could mean expulsion and worse.

  Plus, Wesley had given Master Rosen his word, so he had to adhere to it. "What’s a blood diamond?"

  "Hm… never mind. I’ve decided to place you in several classes, one per month, throughout the remainder of the school year. Here is your new schedule."

  The gentleman held a paper over the desk.

  Looking down at his new classes, Wesley remarked, "So… I have one Sorcery-casting class, two days a week, for a month, and then I go on to the next?"

  "Precisely, with the last being my special class, followed by a month with the Wiccans." He leaned back again. "Will you accept this schedule?"

  "Yes," said the boy holding back a smile. He was happy with the schedule, but his decision was based on mixed criteria: while he was perfectly willing, he was forced to assume that he had no other choice. So he kept his smile imprisoned as a futile form of rebellion against being handled.

  "Then tomorrow should be a very eventful day for you. You may spend the rest of the afternoon as you please. Dismissed."

  Wesley walked for the door, happy to be done with the situation. It wasn’t that the dean was unkind. In fact, he felt that Master Sinclair was among the nicest of the instructors he had met. However, there was something odd about his presence, something heavy. He was intimidating, but in an unaggressive way, as if he had no intention of provoking such feelings. And just by merely standing in his presence, Wesley felt suffocated, like the weight of an ocean was beating down on him.

  The moment he left the dean’s office, his breaths came a little bit easier and he realized, with every step away, he felt Master Sinclair’s oppressing presence less and less. It was a similar experience to his first day on campus, when he entered the student-packed foyer, though without the disdain. As he passed a classroom, he felt the heaviness, grow and wane again, and then again as he passed another class. But when he came to a third room, the feeling was so small he couldn’t describe it.

  Curious, Wesley stopped and put his ear to the door. A muffled voice commanded the room and at least a dozen others chattered as well. He looked back down the hall to Master Sinclair’s office, unsure of what to make of it all.

  Then with a shrug, he turned and didn’t stop until he reached his apartment.

  "So what’d the dean say?" Cameron said, barely letting Wesley through the door.

  "He gave me my casting class schedule."

  "What are you in?"

  "Everything," answered Wesley.

  "No way!" Cameron grinned. "Everything?"

  "Yeah, water, earth, fire, wind, lightning, special elements, and Wiccanry." They walked to the living room and started moving the furniture to the borders. "Hey, can I ask you somethin’?"

  "Sure," said the Sorcerer before lifting a chair.

  He had been keeping it a secret thus far, but he had to shed at least a ray of light on the mystery. So telling himself that afterward, he’d let it go, Wesley asked, "Do any masters wear robes?"

  "Traditional robes? Yeah, some. It was the school’s uniforms a few hundred years ago. We can actually still wear them, as an alternative to our current ones. Why?"

  He had to be sure. Something about how Master Rosen referred to the man with the black glove led Wesley to question his legitimacy.

  "Oh, nothing,” said Wesley. “I just saw someone dressed in them is all."

  "Yeah, a few masters and upperclassmen wear them as a show of homage to the old ways. It’d be pretty lucky of you to run into an upperclassman though. Those guys are invisible to us. You must have seen one of the masters."

  "Yeah, must have."

  Earth

  "You ready for this?" asked the boy standing before Wesley.

  Three days into class and he still hadn’t a clue about the medium. "M’hm," he lied and drew in a nervous breath.

  "Let’s try to get it right, this time." The boy’s face screamed frustration. "If you mess this up again, Warty, I’ll drop a boulder on your head."

  Wesley nodded.

  It was obviously his intention to complete the class assignment correctly, but he had no idea how to accomplish it. With a partner, he was supposed to lift a stone and condense it to half its original size. However, this job required much more force than he was able to exert, without the use of earth type casting. To make matters worse, his new master, assuming that everyone already knew the basics, neglected to teach him the fundamentals of the medium.

  "Boost!" his partner shouted.

  Wesley aimed his hands and with the sorcerer bearing most of the load, they drew the rock from the ground.

  His breathing was stressed and irregular; his body so tense, he thought a blood vessel had burst.

  "Press, now!"

  With the rock between them, both boys leaned forward toward each other as if against a wall. The rock collapsed an inch, and then another, but alas, the failure that Wesley internally predicted had come to pass. The chunk of earth shattered in his direction.

  "Agh," Wesley squealed and ducked in cover, as the countless pebbles rained down on him.

  "Again?" shouted the Sorcerer. "I hate you! You stupid monkey!"

  Suddenly the fear in Wesley’s heart was replaced. His eyes widened as his forehead furrowed, each eyebrow reaching for the other. His fists, tightly clenched, his teeth grinding.

  He had had enough of the torture. Wesley conjured the flower! He was not a monkey.

  He turned back to face the boy, with aimed palms. But instead of an enraged, earth wielding racist, he saw the back of another. It was a dark, muscular boy, the very same bald, Earth Sorcerer that he had fought in his first duel in Master Conley’s class.

  "Axel, what are you doin’ savin’ the knuckle-dragger?"

  "What are you doin’ picking fights with him?" replied the bald boy, with one of his arms stretched above his head.

  Wesley followed the arm like an arrow and looked up to see a bulge of dirt and stone hovering ten feet over his head.

  "You don’t want to fight him. Trust me," said Wesley’s apparent protector. "He does things. I can’t explain it. But if he defeats, or even matches you, you’d bring shame to the family, ruining our shot at nobility. If that happens, you won’t be forgiven.

  "Listen, you can partner up with Chad. I’ll team up with him." He pointed back at Wesley.

  "You’ll be here all day."

  "Well Randal, that’s a risk I’m willing to take."

  The boy sighed and before he walked away, turned to the Warlock. "This isn’t over."

  "Don’t worry about him," Axel said to Wesley after Randell stormed off. "He’s the weakest in the family and has some inferiority issues."

  He wasn’t Cameron or Master Rosen, so Wesley couldn’t allow himself to drop his guard. "Why?"

  The coffee-colored boy laughed a little. "I thought it would be obvious; he’s not as strong as everyone else."

  "No, why did you defend me?"

  "Oh," he laughed some more. "Not totally sure. It goes against everything we’re taught. But maybe that’s why I did it. Never really took to rules."

  Wesley’s stare betrayed not a single intention. "So?"

  "So… you’ll never be able to do this without using Earth Sorcery. Do you wanna learn?" He stepped closer to his new partner.

  Deciding that the boy would have hurt him by then, if that was his plan, Wesley nodded. "Yeah."

  Axel smiled. "Good. Let’s start with the fundamentals."

  Wesley and Axel failed the day’s assignment as they were never able to condense the stone, but the Warlock gained something much more valuable to him. He had a tutor, and maybe a second friend. He continued to use his time after school to practice with Cameron and working on his conjuring, but now he had something extra added to his daily regimen. Over the next week, Wesley studied closely with Axel, during the sc
hool’s daily two hour break.

  "This medium is intimately related to physical strength and endurance," Axel explained to his understudy. "It’s very heavy, so you have to be strong enough to handle it. We’ll start off easy today: fifty pushups. Let’s go."

  After the two finished, Wes complained, "That was tough."

  Axel laughed, "You don’t know tough. You ready for the next set?"

  "What? How many do you expect me to do?"

  "Don’t worry. You can keep using both hands, for now."

  "Ugh." Wesley rolled over to a pushup position.

  "Only five sets, then squats." Axel put one arm behind his back.

  Wesley was sweating bullets by the time the workout got tough. Axel had instructed him to carry a twenty pound rock in his arms and squat until the Sorcerer said otherwise. He’d been going for the better part of ten minutes and even with his unreal exhaustion and dizziness sneaking up on him, Wesley pushed through the pain. He wouldn’t give up—he couldn’t give up. With every repetition he remembered Master Rosen’s voice.

  Outwork them.

  "Aannnd stop."

  Wesley dropped the stone and fell back. He ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair as he tried to catch his breath.

  "You are not an easy coach," he rushed out, between huffs.

  "But it’s working," Axel said with a smile. "I can see it in you."

  "But did I really have to hold the rock?"

  The Sorcerer laughed. "That’s nothin’, my daddy makes me do every workout holding one of these over my head."

  He dropped into a low squat and then shot up, raising his arms high over his head. A mass of earth, the size of a pickup truck jumped out of the ground.

  "Whoa," Wesley uttered, standing up slowly. "Master Tesla said we G-classes shouldn’t be able to use that much source."

  "Yeah, I’m supposed to be the guy that brings my family into nobility. ‘The child of the purest blood’ says Dad. But it’s all bull," he laughed and looked up into the sky. "The problem is, I gotta buncha source, but I ain’t smart enough to use it right. That’s why they didn’t place me into F-class after the entrance exam."