The nothing mage, p.1
The Nothing Mage, page 1
part #1 of The Saga of the Nothing Mage Series
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
More from J.P. Valentine
CHAPTER ONE
DECLAN TRULY WAS a terrible gardener.
From the day he took up the position of assistant groundskeeper at Croveus Manor, not a lilac, daisy, or rhododendron under his care could be coaxed into anything but a wilted shell of its former self. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d read every book and manual on the topic in the manor’s extensive library, and he even regularly attempted the growth cantrips described therein.
Declan knew, of course, they wouldn’t be any use to him—they even seemed to make the plants die faster, but he was determined to try, and he could almost imagine the feeling of drained exhaustion famously associated with spell-casting.
Despite the shared animosity between Declan and most plant life, estate groundskeeper Thaddeus Thern insisted on making use of the teen. In the face of his apprentice’s repeated failure to cultivate even a blade of grass, the aging groundskeeper simply placed a dirt-stained hand on the boy’s shoulder, flashed a toothy grin, and remarked, “It seems, my boy, that you’re a born weed killer!”
And so he was. Weeds Declan pulled grew back far slower and far weaker than Thern had ever seen. Indeed, Declan was too good at pulling weeds; in a half day’s work he could clear out every single one on the manor’s expansive grounds, returning him to his previous dilemma: With no weeds left to kill, Thern had no use for him.
Most days he was left to wander the estate, exploring the adjacent woods or voraciously making his way through the manor’s library. Some days he was delegated to assisting the cook in the kitchens—a job he took to far better than gardening, but that unfortunately also had little for him to do. On rare days, such as the fateful 48th of Spring in the year 924, Thern sent Declan into town.
For the most part these trips were simple, if exhausting, affairs. Every once in a while the old groundskeeper would send Declan down the hill upon which the manor perched and into the bustling town of Red’s Crossing. The seventeen-year-old was then to stop at a nearby farm to pick up an order of sod or fertilizer, which he would then have to mount onto his gaunt frame to lug back up the aforementioned hill.
It was thus a great relief when—on the 48th of Spring—Master Thern informed Declan that this particular errand was not for an order of fertilizer, but a simple handful of exotic seeds from a traveling merchant in the town square. And so it was that Declan found himself with a rare smile on his face as he descended into the village, not only due to the relatively negligible weight of his future cargo, but also in the knowledge that a trip further into the bustling village would serve as the perfect excuse to spend an afternoon with his friends from a former life.
Declan spotted his old group the moment he stepped into the town square. They weren’t easy to miss. In their fine clothes and bright colors, the sons of the town’s elite were crowding around some sort of spectacle. As he approached, Declan saw flashes of red light emanating from the center of the cluster, and he winced upon realizing Charlie would have been awakened by now.
When the gardener got close enough to peek over the heads of the other teenagers, the flame dancing around Charlie’s fingers confirmed his suspicions. Fire. Why did he have to get fire of all things? His mood crushed, Declan turned to skulk away when Dewie’s aggressive baritone rang throughout the square, “Well if it isn’t the nuller bastard!”
Declan froze and turned to meet eight unexpectedly hostile stares. “Hey guys,” he timidly replied. “I… It’s been a while, how has everyone been?”
“Hey look, Charlie,” chimed in the snide voice of Edward, the physician’s son, “the nuller thinks he’s still worth our time.” The group echoed with a brief laugh.
“You know, boys, I think he is,” Charlie replied, filling Declan with short-lived hope. “After all, he did lie about his rank all these years. I think we’re owed an apology.”
Declan’s already pale face blanched. “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he defended himself. “I—I didn’t know any more than you did!”
“That doesn’t sound like an apology to me,” sneered Charlie. He took a step towards the cowering Declan and paused a moment to stare down at his open hand. Curious, Declan peered down as well before jumping back when Charlie’s hand came alight in a burst of flame. “You know, I’ve really been dying to test this out.”
Declan ran.
It wasn’t long before he heard the clatter of eight pairs of feet giving chase. Declan’s heart pounded as jeers of “A nuller and a coward!” and “Get the bastard!” rang out behind him. He’d been surrounded by these boys since leaving the cradle; the gardener knew well enough Dewie and Edward were well faster than he.
I’ll have to lose them, he thought, ducking into a vaguely familiar alley. Having grown up in the manor, Declan may not have known Red’s Crossing as well as his pursuers, but he should’ve known better than to turn down this particular path. Panic taking over rational thought, Declan didn’t realize his mistake until he had almost run headlong into the wall that now blocked his path. Heart sinking, he slowly turned to meet his pursuers.
Dewie and Edward were already there, blocking the only path of escape. It took but a moment before the others arrived, and only a heartbeat later Charlie strode into the alley, both hands now flickering with flame. Charlie passed the group to approach Declan. “I think it’s right time we show what we do to liars and cowards here in Red’s Crossing.”
His pale frame pressed to the wall behind him, Declan could do nothing but watch as Charlie slowly moved down the alleyway. His fear mounted, joined by the latent anger he held towards his lying mother and cruel former father. Everything he was had been taken from him. His house. His father. His rank. His magic. And now his friends had turned against him.
As Charlie gripped his shirt with a burning hand, as the flames painfully licked at Declan’s chest, his heart burned with a different fire. It was in the moment Charlie pulled back his other hand to strike that Declan made a decision. Weak, frail, magicless Declan chose not to take it lying down.
While Charlie channeled his flames, Declan reached down to something he’d been told was never there. To something that had been a part of him his whole life, but that neither he, nor the Towers’ esteemed magus, nor even the great Lord Croveus could detect. As Charlie’s flaming hand flew towards Declan’s face, Declan reached within, and pushed.
In the days that followed the incident, witnesses would claim the rogue Declan did something, but nobody could say exactly what. They would claim that in one moment the boy had been peacefully talking with his friends, and the next Charlie was writhing on the ground, skin bright red and in immense pain, but otherwise visibly unharmed.
It was evident no spell had been cast—the hum of mana was missing from the air, and nobody had seen a spell in motion. What truly confounded the investigators, however, was that whatever Declan did seemed to pass right through the magistrate’s son and afflict the pair behind him as well, grounding both Edward and Dewie.
In the chaos that followed, the bastard had managed to slip away, and by the time word of the incident reached the manor up on the hill, Declan was long gone.
* * *
Approximately one year, four months, and twenty-two days ago, Declan Croveus was given the day off from his regular studies on politics, governance, and introductory magical theory, to receive a visit from Magus Penten—instructor and representative of the Pinnacle Towers. Yes, those Pinnacle Towers.
As with all the other sixteen-year-old lordlings, Magus Penten had been dispatched to awaken and evaluate the budding magical talent in the young Declan. The evaluation part was supposed to be a formality. After all, magical blood runs strong, and of course the son of the great General Lord Frederick Croveus II would inherit at least a portion of his father’s rare talent.
As Declan’s father lead the visitor through the halls of the manor, the magus pulled a device from his pocket and explained the process to the lordling.
“As I’m sure your tutors have explained by now, dormant mana exists in most living things. This device here sends a burst of mana at seven hundred and fifty Bouls—that’s violet mana by the way—directly into your mana pool. This accomplishes two goals. First, upon being introduced to external mana, the dormant mana within a person’s core becomes active, reacting to naturally block the intrusion.
"We refer
Declan had of course read all about the procedure many times—being awakened was the first step in every young noble’s life. However, he was well aware the magus was likely to be one of his instructors at the Pinnacle Towers, and, scared of offending the powerful man, Declan simply nodded along to the unnecessary lesson.
The lordling was of course nervous, but his father’s confidence helped keep him calm. He wasn’t as much scared of being a weak mage—the magical prowess of both his parents almost guaranteed him strength. For the most part Declan was just excited to learn where his talents lay. It was no secret that both he and the Lord Croveus wished for him to become a powerful fire mage and follow the footsteps of his father to a military career.
The three arrived at one of the manor’s lavish sunrooms, and Lord Croveus sat as the magus instructed Declan to remove his shirt. Once done, Magus Penten leveled the arcane device—resembling a metal wand inscribed with runes stuck halfway through the base of a bowl—at Declan’s bare chest.
After a moment’s focus, the wand lit with a violet glow before a small burst of light shot from the tip into Declan’s chest…and nothing bounced back out.
The magus’s eyes widened, and Lord Croveus stood with a look of mild annoyance. “It would seem, esteemed magus, that your device has failed. Perhaps my son is so strong his mana simply dismantled your probe!”
“I assure you that is not possible. Far more likely the boy’s mana is of a similar frequency as the test burst and could just absorb the weak blast. Fear not, I have a second device in a lower frequency.”
A violet mage. Declan was disappointed. As excited as he would be to study the complexities of information magic, his heart was set on combat. Putting down the first wand, the magus pulled out a similar device—for the life of him Declan knew not how Penten could tell the difference between the two.
The magus took a few steps closer, lining up his aim, while Lord Croveus moved to the side to get a better view. Again, the magus focused and again the wand lit up, this time a dull green glow. Once again, a burst of mana shot from the device, and once again Declan watched as it entered his chest and did not return. This time however, both men could see the area behind the teenager, and this time, it was not surprise that came across the magus’s face, but pity.
“Can you confirm you also witnessed the result?” the magus asked.
“You mean that it fucking passed right through him?” the general replied. Declan froze. While violet magic certainly was no fire, he hadn’t read of any kind of mage that magic could pass right through.
“As rare as it is, this nevertheless is a recorded phenomenon. The only way for two different frequencies of mana to pass through a body like this—”
“My boy is no weakling!” Frederick interrupted.
“I’m afraid it’s not a matter of strength, my lord,” the magus continued. “There’s nothing there.”
Declan’s heart pounded as the words reverberated through his head. There’s nothing there. He collapsed more than sat into the plush chair behind him, looking up at his proud father for comfort, but there was none to be found. The look on Frederick’s face turned from one of shock to one of rage, and finally, to one of stone.
“Magus,” Frederick uttered coldly, “I’d like to extend you my gratitude, for your timely visit, and for finally putting an old fear of mine to rest. Dry roads and fair speed on your return journey. Boy, come with me.”
The magus gave a look of pity to the frightened lordling before standing, and with a turn that sent his viridescent cloak billowing out behind him, swiftly made his exit. Declan kept his seat for a moment, paralyzed by the news he’d just heard.
He had to be a mage! His whole life up to this point had been in preparation to go study at the Pinnacle Towers. Magic theory had even been his strongest subject! The teen unfortunately had no opportunity to muse over this discovery. He knew his father’s battle face when he saw it, and he knew from the faint trails of smoke drifting in the air behind the general as he strode out of the room that despite the cold exterior, the fire in his blood burned hot. Declan hopped to his feet and scurried to catch up to the man.
The pair walked in silence through the suddenly cold manor. Declan had read about the manaless once. Without the natural mana that supported all life, they grew frail and sickly, usually dying young of some disease or other. While the lordling certainly matched the outward appearance with his gaunt frame and pale skin, in all his sixteen years he had never once fallen ill.
Lost in his thoughts, Declan almost collided with his father as the general stopped to throw open the door in front of him, revealing the Lady Croveus knitting alone in her quarters.
While he’d received the angular face and slim frame of his father, Declan’s pale complexion and jet-black hair came from The Lady Helena Croveus. Unlike Declan, the woman was sickly. She spent most days indoors making the needleworks that crowded the manor’s walls. Today was one such day.
“My love, how did the awakeni—” the lady began.
“The boy is a nuller, Helena. A fucking nuller,” the general interrupted, cracks appearing in his battle face. “There hasn’t been a single blooded Croveus in a millennium that wasn’t a fire mage, and you’ve managed to spawn a fucking nuller. So now, dear, you’re going to tell me the truth. Why is it after years of failing to conceive, it takes me being on campaign for a week for you to finally fall pregnant? Don’t feed me any of that shit about the night before I left being special. No true son of mine could turn out like that.”
The hateful tone and derision in his voice froze both Declan and the Lady Helena, the former with fear and confusion, the latter with shame. The man continued, “So who was he then? Whose brat have I been raising all these years? I want the truth this time.” The silence following the question was overbearing. It was in this moment that Declan noticed the tears running down his mother’s face, a second before feeling one on his own.
“He…he was a nobody. A mundane. Some traveling poet who slept here a few days. I don’t even remember his name, I swear! I love you Frederick, and I always will.”
The stone returned to the general’s face. “Thank you,” he simply stated, “for finally telling the truth.” Lord Croveus turned, and he left.
And so they stood across the room, mother and son with tears in their eyes. A cocktail of emotions coursed through the boy; self-pity, confusion, fear, and rage fought for dominance as he stared at his crying mother. Silence. The feelings churned, each amplifying the others in turn. Nothing. Pity grappled with confusion, rage battled fear, and through it all Declan stood unmoving in the doorway. Helena was the first to speak.
“Declan—”
“You lying bitch,” the teen spat. For now, rage had won. Declan didn’t give his mother another chance to speak. Instead he turned and made his own exit.
Over the following days, Declan’s tutors were summarily dismissed, his rich clothes and other lordly possessions sold off, and his room converted into yet another set of guest quarters. Against Frederick’s wishes, Lady Helena arranged for the young Declan Croveus—now just Declan—to apprentice with Master Thern, the aging groundskeeper.
Now stripped of his family, rank, belongings, and future, Declan found himself living on a cot in the back of the garden shed, learning the ropes of the craft. Unfortunately, Declan truly was a terrible gardener.
CHAPTER TWO
DECLAN DASHED UP the hill to the manor in record speed. Fear and excitement fought for control as his heart pounded from both adrenaline and the exertion of the run. He’d cast a spell! Whatever strange kind of invisible magic that had been, it was definitely his; he could feel the mental fatigue he’d read was associated with spell casting.
Before his elation could take over, however, a second thought ran through his head: He’d attacked a noble! A minor one, certainly, but he wasn’t the young Lord Croveus anymore; the magistrate would surely have his head for this.
