Holtsclaw, page 1
part #3 of The Master Mage Chronicles Series
HOLTSCLAW
THE MASTER MAGE CHRONICLES
BOOK THREE
HENRY JACOBSEN
Cover designed by MiblArt.
Copyright 2023 by Henry Jacobsen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any connection with people or places, or other works of fiction, is incidental and unintended.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
One
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
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Dedication
This book and the others in this series are dedicated to my family. First, to my wife of five decades who challenged me on a cold and wintery Wyoming afternoon with the words: “Good grief! Go write a book!” And to my two wonderful children, Joshua and Jutta, who have always believed I could.
CHAPTER
One
H oltsclaw Academy was a large building, much larger than Marcus expected. And old. It reeked of tradition, newly cut lawn, and fresh paint. Young men and women were neatly organized in groups, vigorously exercising. He walked up to the large entrance doors and passed through. He was met by an older man, his robes marking him as a high-mage.
“I have come to attend the Academy.”
The mage laughed. “Good luck, young man, good luck. Admissions closed a seven-day ago. And we always have more applicants than beds.”
Marcus was not to be deterred, not after a full turn and over two hand-fists of difficult travel. He spoke meekly. “Yes, I understand admissions have closed. Still, I would speak to someone about enrollment. I have traveled far, over two hand-fists. If I cannot gain entrance, I would have no place to go. Returning to my homeland would be impossible.”
The mage became a bit more sympathetic. “There’s only one person who could admit you now, that being the Lord-mage of the Academy. I will take you to him. But I am telling you, do not expect a positive response. Come, follow me.”
The interior of the academy building was as old-looking as the exterior. The walls were of dark-paneled wood. The gray marble floors were worn smooth by countless turns of constant use. Two fine staircases wound their way to second and third floors. The corner pilasters were large and intricately carved, the rails and balusters equally sturdy and ornate. It all gave the impression of…permanence. Marcus ventured a question while they were walking across the nave. “The Abbey, this building, how old is it?”
The mage, who had introduced himself as Mage Arnold, shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. But as far as records go, close to seven fists. Records beyond that no longer exist. It’s gone through renovations and expansions, of course. The last was about two fists ago.”
“Has it always been an academy, as it is now?”
“Academy, no, only for the last four hand-fists. Originally it was an abbey, a retreat for retiring mages. Hence its name. The building was much smaller then, of course.” They had crossed the nave and reached a transept at its center. “Let’s see if the Lord-mage is in his office.” He opened an ordinary-looking door and entered a modest lobby. There were chairs, a low table, and a plush sofa scattered about the room. Intricate tapestries, of considerable age, adorned the walls. Mage Arnold knocked on another door and waited. A muffled voice answered.
“Lord-mage, a late applicant.”
There was a clear finality in the response. “Admissions are CLOSED. Send him away.”
“But sir, perhaps you could speak to him? He has traveled two hand-fists to get here. And return to his home, he says, would not be possible.”
Marcus heard the sigh even from where he stood. “Well, in that case, send him in. You know I hate these hardship stories. We seem to get them every other turn.”
Mage Arnold turned to Marcus and signaled him forward. Marcus passed into the Lord-mage’s office, stood before his desk, and bowed his head. Mage Arnold nodded, turned, and left, closing the door behind him.
After a few moments of silence, Marcus raised his head. He looked into the face of a kindly old man. The endowment of discernment given him by Mage Edna revealed the Lord-mage to have considerable earth-gift, with a lesser power in mind-gift. He was a dual-gifted mage. Somewhat uncommon, but not particularly rare.
“You look old to be seeking attendance here at the Abbey.” He paused. “So what is your story, and from whence do you come?”
Marcus did not know which question to answer first. “My name is Marcus of Iber. I am well past my hand-and-five, though I know I look older. As to my story, it is a long one. My parents have long since passed. I was raised by my grandfather, just recently passed. He was the Lord High-mage of Iber, advisor to King Jared. Perhaps this will explain why I am come.” He withdrew the sealed letter prepared a turn earlier by Lord High-mage Batholomew of Caldonia.
The Lord-mage accepted the letter, broke its ornate wax seal, and began to read.
My dear friend Petros. It has been many turns since we walked together the great halls of Holtsclaw. I trust we remain friends and confidants now, as we were then. If affairs move forward as I hope they will, sitting before you will be a young man, Marcus Aurelius, heir to the position of Lord High-mage in the distant kingdom of Iber. I have impressed on his mind the importance of attending Holtsclaw Academy. Not just because of his eventual high position in Iber, but because of his extraordinary power with gift. I do not exaggerate in saying this. I have not seen his equal in my lifetime. I plead with you to find room for him. It was for young mages with such potential that Holtsclaw was founded. To instruct and guide them in the direction best suited for our respective kingdoms, and to prevent them from drifting into undesirable paths of influence and power. I know not what his physical and financial circumstances will be upon arrival. He will be traveling alone several hand-fist leagues, first across the Betting Se, then through the breadth of Caldonia and Suerca to reach Tumano. His Kingdom has not prospered of late, being preyed upon by a dark mage from Illium. Marcus may be the only hope within his Kingdom in removing this menace, should the Kingdom survive the period in which he will be away at the Academy. Assuming of course, you admit him. As to his finances, of this I am in ignorance. Your loyal friend, Bartholomew. Lord High-mage of Caldonia.
The Lord-mage carefully refolded the letter and apprised Marcus, from toe to head. “This letter is from a mage I have known from my youth. Although we have spoken rarely since leaving this Academy, we have kept in touch, both personally and professionally. He earned my respect and confidence many, many turns ago. He is among the most honorable and honest men I know. I have never known him to exaggerate. Out of that regard, and only that regard, I am willing to grant you entrance. But I cannot waive the financial obligation of attending. How do you propose to meet your expenses?”
Marcus withdrew the solid gold bar he was carrying and leaned forward to place it on the desk before the Lord-mage. He said nothing.
The Lord-mage hefted the bar, assessing its weight. “Gold, I assume? Do you have any idea of its purity, its worth?”
“I have had an identical bar assessed and converted by the royal mint of Caldonia. Before you is the equivalent of two-hand crowns. Actually a bit more. It is pure, from the Iberian mountains of Isor. The Caldonian mint willingly exchanged my other bar, weight-for-weight, for coin.”
“We charge one crown per turning, three crowns per turn. Most of our interns, that’s what we call our mages-to-be, return home for the third turning. I would think that impossible in your situation. In which case it would be four crowns per turn. If you remain all four turns it would be one-hand six. You would have four crowns left over.”
“Lord-mage, I would leave you with the full two-hands, to do with as your think best. I have other means to sustain myself.”
“You would donate four crowns to the Abbey?”
“Well, yes,” said Marcus with a hint of a smile. “I am enrolling late, am I not? Surely there should be some penalty in that.”
The Lord-mage hesitated a moment, then reached across the desk to shake his hand. “Welcome to Holtsclaw, Marcus Aurelius.”
Marcus smiled. The letter from Mage Batholomew is persuasive, yes. But there is nothing more convincing than gold. The extra four crowns have guaranteed my admission, as I thought it might. He stretched out his hand. “Marcus of Iber, if it be acceptable?”
The Lord-mage took the offered hand, and shook. “Yes, then. Marcus of Iber. Come, follow me. We will need to find you accommodation. It may be less conventional, for I know all of our rooms are fully occupied. We denied enrollment for a hand or more recommended and qualified applicants, for lack of space.”
They walked down the hallway to the end of the transept. There was an office with an open door, and three women were conversing in the room beyond. The oldest of the three saw the Lord-mage and raised her hand to silence the other two. She nodded in respect. “Lord-mage, how may I help you.”
Marcus could tell the Lord-mage was nervous.
“Well, ah, we have another intern. New arrival, as you can see.”
She rose to her full height, steel in her spine, anger in her eyes, and a blade for a tongue. “We have discussed this before. THERE ARE NO M
The Lord-mage was clearly at a loss of what to say, what to do.”
“The attic would be fine, if that’s all there is.”
The head house-mistress, Marcus found out later that was her title, and the Lord-mage turned to face Marcus. During their arguing he had moved quietly to the side. She spoke before the Lord-mage could do so. “So, you’re the maker of this grief? A bit old to be enrolling as a first-turn.”
“Hand-and-five, ma’am. Early grown and large for my age.”
“And willing to stay in the attic?” she said with a humpf in her voice. “Well, let’s go see the attic then!” She pushed her way past her two guests and the Lord-mage, grabbed Marcus by the hand, and half-marched, half-dragged him out of the room and down the hall. There she released his hand and sighed. “I’m sorry, young man. It has been nothing but chaos this seven-day. ‘I’m a full prince and want a bigger room.’ ‘I can’t stand my room-mate, she snores and smells bad.’ On and on it goes. It’s like this every turn. At least you seem willing to take whatever we have. Trust me, that’s a change.” She paused. “Your accent is strange. Where are you from.”
“Iber, it’s far away.”
“I know, across the Betting. How did you get here?”
“Walked. Except over the Betting, of course.”
“Walked? That’s over two-hand-fists away. Tell me you at least had a horse.”
“Yes m’am, and a mule as well.”
“Why two animals? One not enough?”
“Stable-mates. One wouldn’t come without the other. It’s the reason I could afford them. No one wanted to feed two mouths when all they needed was one.”
“Sounds like quite a story.” She pointed to the nearer staircase. “This way. To the third floor. Just keep going and don’t stop. Second story is for the girls and maids. Boys are not permitted.” She gave Marcus a stern look. “Never!”
The third floor followed the pattern of the bottom two. The nave was a full three stories tall, ending in an ornately-decorated ceiling. The transept was only two. There was a doorway to the third-floor above. She pulled a large ring of keys from the pocket of her robe and thumbed her way through them, finally selecting the one she needed. She unlocked a door and swung it open, its hinges voicing a rusty complaint. “The door just to your right is a comfort station. Looks like you will have to leave the attic to use it.”
The room they entered was very large, very dark, and very dusty. “You sure you want to stay in the attic?” In spite of her brusque manner, she had a pleasant laugh. “I wasn’t exactly serious, only making a point.”
“But it looks fine to me,” said Marcus, partly in humor but serious nonetheless. “It just needs a bit of dusting and a few pieces of furniture. A bed, maybe? A desk, a chair, perhaps a small wardrobe? Really, this would be quite acceptable. No roommate, right?”
“You’re serious? You would be willing to stay in here? It would be miserable. There are no windows, no fresh air. Well, there are windows, but who knows if they’ll even open. They probably haven’t been opened in a couple of life-times. As for a desk and chair? Take your pick.” She pointed to dusty piles of fabric-covered furniture. “We put the old stuff up here, most of it broken one way or another. I can get a carpenter to repair anything you find usable. But really, perhaps I can find something else. We always lose an intern or two in the first turn. So I’m sure I can get you something better within the turning.”
Marcus could see many possibilities in the attic. It was especially attractive for its privacy and space. He had never shared a room with another person, except in the military barracks. There he had shared with an entire company of men. Lacking a roommate would make keeping his gift-powers that much easier to hide. “Do people use the attic much? Would my belongings be secure here?”
“What is your name, young man?”
“Marcus, ma’am. Marcus of Iber.”
“Well, Marcus of Iber, there is but one key to this space. And I’m holding it here in my hand. As for use, well, you heard the door’s complaint. It’s the first time it’s been opened for more than a turn. If you are serious, and it solves a big problem for me if you are, I’ll arrange for a second key to be made. And I’ll get the door oiled up a bit. You’ll have to clean the place up, though I can get you some help with that as well. And I’ll have to find you a handful of candles so you can see your way around.”
Marcus mentally invoked lucia, and suspended a bright globe above their heads.
“Ah, I don’t think you’re allowed to do that, not until you’ve been properly trained.” She paused, almost whispered. “But if you won’t tell, I certainly won’t. Candles are expensive, and it being so dry up here …”
“I understand. I should probably have a few candles, though, for the times casting light be ill advised.”
The head house-mistress gave him a long look. “Marcus, you are so different from the other interns we get here. You act a lot older, and much more accommodating.”
“A couple of hand-fists walking can do that to you, I suppose. If I’m so different, what are the other interns like?”
“Well, you have to realize this is a very expensive school. But then, I guess you know that. So it attracts two kinds of youth. The spoiled rich and the spoiled royalty. I’m not sure which is worse.”
“But they all have gift, right? That’s the point of being here?”
“Hah! Well, I guess I shouldn’t be quite so cynical. Yes, I suppose they must all have gift, to one degree or another. As you say, just to be here. But to do what you just did?” She pointed to the light still suspended from the ceiling. “Many won’t get much further than that the whole four turns they’re here. Gift is a status symbol among the rich and royal. And even the smallest amount is celebrated. Coming here is a confirmation of its presence. And hopefully, attendance will lead to an increase in its power. Leaving here with the title of mage is enough for some. So what are you, rich or royal?”
“Very little of one, less of the other. My parents are deceased but my grandfather was the Lord High-mage to the King of Iber. So though I’m not royal, we, tended to travel in that circle. He much more than I. Our office is hereditary and has been for over four-hand generations. Eventually I expect to become what my grandfather was, before his recent passing.” If I’m ever allowed back into the Kingdom he said to himself.
They had been walking about the attic while talking, lifting an occasional covering. They sent billowing clouds of dust into the air, along with fragments of the old fabric. They found a large desk that looked promising, a drawer front lying loose within the drawer. “I can get a carpenter up to fix this, if you wish.”
“Yes, please, I think it will do nicely.”
“And here is a bed, and there, a broken chair. Are these acceptable? If he can repair them to support your weight?”
They came to an old wooden chest, bound in tarnished brass straps. There was actually a key in its lock. Opening it, they found some very old manuscripts scattered about the bottom, written in an archaic form of Rontal.
“I suppose we can throw these old papers away, if you want the use of the chest.”
“Or leave them? I should like to study them, perhaps improve my understanding of your dialect. They’re certainly written in an interesting hand.”
“As you wish. They wouldn’t be here if anyone wanted them. Now, I have to be on my way. I’ll have a couple of cleaning maids up shortly with brooms, brushes, buckets and mop. Decide how much we have to clean. I can’t see putting everything up here to right, just for a bed and desk. I’ll also summon up a carpenter for the furniture. Maybe he can wrestle up some partitions to separate off a section to keep the dust in its place. You will want to hold on to this key and be here to grant the others entrance.” She pressed it into his hand. “Return it tomorrow before you start classes and I’ll have a duplicate by your mid-day meal. Oh, just ask one of the maids to show you the dining hall. It’s probably too late for mid-day, but the last-meal will be at six bells. You’ll know it when you hear it. You weren’t here for orientation, so there are a few more things for you to know. Baths are in the basement. Girls even days, boys odd. Baths are open day and night, but only heated for a short time after last-meal. I’ll have the maids explain the laundry process to you.”
