Chapter 14: The Archmage’s Gift

A pale blue defensive barrier flickered with ripples, opening a gap just tall enough for one person. It closed up silently behind the two as they passed through. As the blue-robed mage had said, the inside of the Mage Tower was clearly a different dimension—once inside, Constantine discovered that this supposed first floor bore no resemblance to an enclosed space he had imagined. It held not just grass and vegetation, but even blue sky and sunlight. The ground was as broad as that of an estate, yet only a sparse few mages and their students were visible. These people were either busy with bizarre instruments and magic arrays, or deep in discussions about magical techniques. Even those passing nearby showed no interest in glancing at Constantine, a child who was obviously an outsider.

Constantine enjoyed the quiet, looking around curiously like a villager visiting a city for the first time.

Passing through this courtyard-like structure within the building, the girl led him to a central platform. Constantine noticed a magic circle gleaming underfoot—marked with faintly golden symbols inscribed with a multitude of colorful runes. Before he could make out their specific shapes, the surrounding light shifted abruptly into a dull, pale shade. When the boy looked up again, he found himself standing in a large room. A pungent blend of odd smells assaulted his nostrils, making him sneeze twice involuntarily.

The room was clearly immense, yet felt cramped. Dark red cabinets, massive and stretching all the way to the ceiling, lined all four walls, jammed with countless drawers that made the strange space resemble a massive honeycomb. Constantine’s gaze swept across the cabinets nearest to him; each drawer had a label, but the characters were twisted forms he didn’t recognize.

“Keep your wits about you when speaking. Most Mages are an arrogant lot. The nobles’ flattery and pleasantries mean nothing to them and only breed dislike. Also, describe the surroundings to me. I wish to know what sort of character this Archmage is.”

So Constantine began describing the surroundings in as much detail as he could. Truthfully, the boy felt a small thrill of excitement. In his knowledge, Mage Towers were often treasure troves rivaling a dragon’s lair. Many protagonists stumbled upon great benefits within them. Wandering into one completely ignorant might mean missing opportunities, but with a Lich’s Soul tagging along, things were vastly different.

“Your luck seems decent. This Nikolai’s abilities are passable, and he possesses some knowledge of alchemy.”

After hearing the description, the Lich’s voice held a hint of pleasure. But Constantine had little time to ask why his luck was decent… Christine was already half-pulling, half-guiding him deeper into the cabinet labyrinth. They seemed to reach the room’s center, where a pool was dug into the floor. Beside it stood a beautiful sculpted figure, one arm outstretched supporting an eagle. From the eagle’s beak streamed water, shimmering in the pool… Several long tables were placed around the space, with sparse figures standing near them.

The boy noted that the tables were even longer than the absurdly large dining table within his Duke’s estate. Their material and craftsmanship, however, were leagues apart. These four tables were constructed of oak slabs five inches thick, jointed to be exceptionally sturdy and solid. On Constantine’s side, several crystal bottles held dried or liquid-soaked herbs. A heavy, bitter plant smell permeated the almost stagnant air.

While Constantine knew things few in the wider world would grasp, everything here was equally beyond his ability to name its purpose or origin.

Long, round, spiral-spun, gourd-shaped… an assortment of oddly shaped flasks and jars piled over the other two tables. What looked like flasks and beakers not made of glass steamed with bubbling red or green substances. Gentle glugging sounds accompanied tendrils of escaping vapor, making the room’s aroma even more peculiar. Constantine was momentarily reminded of university physics labs—places always occupied by strange folk in long white gowns.

And so it was now. An elderly man, entirely bundled in a fine robe of magic, stood before the long table. He meticulously tilted a small vial, pouring droplets out. Minute radiant sparks flew as the liquid splashed onto something in his other hand, as bright as electric welding.

Constantine squinted. The flashes were far too harsh. Concerned about protecting his eyes—an area he possessed some knowledge in—he had little desire to stare directly. His gaze began to wander habitually. This led him to an interesting sight: seven or eight people stood behind the old Mage, intently watching the sparking liquid. Yet, they formed two distinct groups. One stood with hands clasped, cloaked and hooded in rough brown hemp, statuesque in their focus. The other group stood farther back, shifting subtly beneath cloaks of various colors, seemingly engaged in minor actions.

The figures in brown were oblivious to Constantine’s stare. The colored ones reacted far more noticeably—Constantine noticed their attention had snapped to him the moment he, the uninvited guest, appeared…

Especially the one at the forefront.

His Robe shimmered faintly blue-white in the dim light, appearing crisp. Under his hood, a handsome face held fine features: gleaming gold hair, delicate skin, and particularly, a circular pair of crystal lenses resting on the bridge of his nose, bone rimmed in gold—adding the intellectual air common to Mages. His movements carried an elegant, noble gravity. Yet, Constantine noted the majority of his focus landed on the girl mage beside him, his gaze mixed with an element of greedy admiration—though Christine’s hood concealed her face, revealing nothing.

Constantine habitually rubbed his nose, unable to suppress a soft, derisive snort… In his experience, such an expression didn’t belong on a teenager looking at another teen—it was the gaze of an adult lecher or libertine viewing a beautiful woman. Instantly, the Mage Apprentice’s focus snapped onto Constantine, his eyes grazing Christine’s grip on the boy’s hand. His stare deepened with palpable coldness.

But at that moment, the vial in the old Mage’s hand ran dry. Christine released Constantine, took a step towards the old Mage, and spoke softly.

“What spells can you cast now?” asked the old Mage. His tone was low and calm, lacking polite preamble. He hadn’t seemed to acknowledge the report, still busy with his work. Yet his abrupt, casual question made Constantine pause, uncertain he’d been addressed.

A glance over the Archmage’s shoulder confirmed it. The old man looked back, his gaze meeting Constantine’s briefly.

Even as they locked eyes, Constantine struggled to discern Nikolai’s features. The dim light wasn’t solely to blame; his face was obscured by an immense white beard engulfing half the visage, while deeply carved wrinkles conquered the rest. Constantine could roughly make out a rugged facial outline and a sharp, pronouncedly tall nose, lending the Archmage an air fitting for a figure of legend.

“Right now, I can only cast Magic Missile,” answered Constantine, feigning a slightly humbled bow of his head. Those eyes held no trace of age’s dimming; they pierced through his body, seeming to nail into his soul and secrets concealed within. He steeled his mind and replied as neutrally as possible.

“Then, show me.” The Archmage turned back to his work, seeming to devote most attention there.

“Ah… pardon me. I used my spell slots today… copying scrolls,” answered the boy almost reflexively. He instantly regretted his words. A Sorcerer could spontaneously grasp spells, but the intricate skill of scroll copying wasn’t self-taught. If questioned on where he learned it… well, plausible excuses would get thorny. If he’d known this would happen, he would have saved a slot!

“Successful? Show me its product.” Thankfully, the old Mage seemed to miss the source of Constantine’s concern. He focused on his task as he casually inquired.

“It failed…” Constantine relaxed slightly, adopting a defeated tone. Immediately, muffled snickers rose among the richly robed spectators. A small frown touched Constantine’s face. Such reaction was utterly predictable. To them, he was simply an arrogant, overreaching boy—a newly awakened novice attempting copywork far beyond him, hence the inevitable fail.

Then came the complication.

“That’s a lie! Didn’t you pocket the scroll you just drew when leaving home?” interjected Christine, her voice devoid of tone. Seemingly without thought, she ruthlessly shattered his attempt: “It’s on you! Inside your vest’s side pocket.”

Damn this girl! Did I offend you in a previous life?! Constantine’s lip trembled. The momentary urge to slap that cold, expressionless face flashed through him. Ultimately, he suppressed any gesture, reserving the furious words solely for his thoughts. His own abilities stood nowhere near hers—a genuine Mage; and doing anything uncouth in her superior’s sanctum was utterly unwise.

Faced with total exposure, Constantine decided honesty offered a cleaner exit. He obediently pulled out the scroll tucked securely within his inner vest pocket and presented it respectfully to the Archmage’s waiting hand. More lies meant more risks. While the old Mage wouldn’t likely punish him severely, forming a poor impression would be distinctly unfavorable.

“Hmm…” The Archmage snatched the scroll, unrolled it carelessly, cast a cursory glance, and let out a low growl sounding like discovery. His total attention locked onto the insignificant sheet—an unwise action. Barely two seconds later light gloop noises escaped his other hand!

“Curses!” the Archmage erupted with a cry of frustration at forgetting his task. He snatched a box off a shelf; crystalline powder poured out. Yet already the acrid stench of burning permeated the air.

Archmage Nikolai could only shake his head in defeat. He waved at his surroundings; the weak illumination intensified around them. Without a word, everyone present—Christine included—turned and left the lab. Within moments only Archmage and boy stood by the cluttered table.

Was it just in his mind? As the cloaked figures swept out, Constantine sensed the temperature falling. Turning his head suspiciously, he found nothing noteworthy.

“Ah… the reason I called for you wasn’t major,” the Archmage began conversation almost instantaneously—a stark disregard for Noble etiquette or human pleasantries. Lack of titles and a detached gaze affirmed he held limited interest in the boy before him. “Simply protocol: you are now a member of the Hayton Mage Guild.”

“Also,” Nikolai added with firm finality, casually tossing the scroll into clutter atop his table as he rummaged, then flinging two objects toward Constantine: “As compensation for confiscating that scroll, here’s the ring. Activation word: Conrad. This badge permits entry into public areas of the Magic Tower and identifies your membership. Ensure you don’t lose them.”

Constantine caught two small, dark items. One was a warm metal plaque surprisingly light for metal. Molded into a dragon mid-flight spread wings, its surface held a pentagram with foreign runes encircling it—imparting faint radiance upon landing in his hand.

The other was rough-hewn ring seemingly wrought of iron. The bezel bore a rudimentary engraving of an ewe’s head. He casually slid it onto his middle finger; unexpressive. Internally, his Lich soul snorted derision: That miserly old curmudgeon! After all this… a failure! That’s a battering ram ring, usable for deploying single repelling force shields. Standard low-tier Mage protection… but that wretchedly made bauble? Meant for fifty activation before recharge? Doubt it’ll yield twenty!

“Ah… and yes… one more thing…” complained the Lich prematurely though; the Archmage paused thoughtfully, waving a hand. Drawers slid open seemingly at random among surrounding cabinets. Five books floated outward—different sizes: “Though no Mage yourself… study within a Spellbook may yield comprehension of valuable magic. These belonged to me before replacements rendered them expendable; you may select one to take.”

Constantine’s heart leapt! As he understood it, in this world Mages required prepped spells; the Spellbook served as sole conduit linking spellcaster to the magical weave—extracting energies, preparing magics. It acted as key. Yet an Archmage of Nikolai’s longevity wouldn’t possess merely one Spellbook; likely possessing many—inherited artifacts, or creations of his own. Discarding older ones wasn’t uncommon.

Even an Archmage’s discarded Spellbook held immense worth for lower-tier Mages. In an era without printing presses, procuring works demanding such precision proved arduous. Moreover, high-level Mages recorded unique spells otherwise extremely rare in their volumes.

Exactly five old Spellbooks floated suspended midair; clearly Nikolai wasn’t inclined toward letting Constantine flip pages freely to assess contents. Hesitating lightly for moments, he ignored several emitting soft glimmers hinting at possible enchantment, instead reaching for the large tome clad in cracked black sheepskin with worn corners—repaired poorly, pages bloated by countless turnovers. Its parchment felt noticeably superior—finer grain and thinner weave. Moreover, Constantine noted faint, dark-brown stains marring its sheepskin cover—recalling dried blood splatters.

As he grasped its spine, Constantine’s eyes registered a barely noticeable twitch at the corner of the Archmage’s mouth. Nikolai offered nothing. He lifted a hand, emitting an inhuman syllable. The space around Constantine twisted violently then settled instantly…

… placing him once more upon the grassy expanse inside the Mage Tower’s first level.

Constantine steadied himself; recognizing instantly he stood amidst fresh, albeit minor, difficulties. Nikolai evidently assumed basics resolved—Constantine wore indoor Noble attire perfectly suitable public walking… except lacking a single brass coin inside! Distance between Magic Tower and his Duke’s residence spanned a city’s length—some six blocks; none part of Constantine’s familiar paths.

For thirteen-year-old Constantine, lugging a heavy tome that far held little appeal. Should he hunt down Miss Christine? Beg Archmage Nikolai? Or… await Walter? Rubbing his nose, he admitted each option sounded distasteful.

Before Constantine settled his plans, movement approached him. Though perhaps… “helpful” wasn’t among the likely descriptions.