“A riveting tale of magic and death, of destiny and the power inherent in the choices we make, Glamour of the God-Touched is as thought-provoking as it is gripping. Ron Collins is a wonderful writer and a spellbinding storyteller.”

David B. Coe/D.B. Jackson, author of the Thieftaker Chronicles

The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:

Glamour of the God-Touched

Trail of the Torean

Target of the Orders

Gathering of the God-Touched

Pawn of the Planewalker

Changing of the Guard

Lord of the Freeborn

Lords of Existence

Other Work by Ron Collins:

Five Magics

Picasso’s Cat and Other Stories

See the PEBA on $25 a Day

Chasing the Setting Sun

Four Days in May

Links to these and more of Ron's work

Follow Ron at

www.typosphere.com

or his twitter feed: @roncollins13

Subscribe to Ron's Ramblings (*)

(*) We promise not to spam you with anything beyond information regarding Ron's work!

Copyright Information

Glamour of the God-Touched

Saga of the God-Touched Mage, Volume 1

© 2014 Ron Collins

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Rachel J. Carpenter

blackmoonbooks.com

© 2014 Ron Collins

All rights reserved.

Cover Images

© Sandago | Dreamstime.com - Abandoned House Photo

© Artranq | Dreamstime.com - Guy In A Black Robe Photo

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialog, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Skyfox Publishing

http://www.skyfoxpublishing.com

For Tim, Mike, Jackie, and Ken. And of course, for Lisa.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Appendix

Acknowledgements

About Ron Collins

How You Can Help

Prologue

There was so much Garrick did not know about himself.

He didn’t know where he was born. He didn’t know everywhere he had lived—though his earliest memories included a long journey in a rickety wagon. Garrick couldn’t remember if his mother had always been angry, or if she had just been worn down by the never ending stream of burdens put upon her by those she worked so hard to serve.

He remembered sleeping in dirty alleys and drinking milk cut by rain water. He remembered a blur of boarding houses, shopkeepers, and manors.

He knew that, when he was perhaps six years old, his mother had finally given up and sold him to Baron Alzo Fahid, a jeweler in Dorfort. Fahid was a loud man with wicked reliance on drink. He beat Garrick whenever his business lost money, he beat Garrick whenever his mistresses complained about the grime of their work spaces, he beat Garrick—it seemed—whenever the wind shifted to the north. But Fahid was also a gambler and, as gamblers will do, he eventually came to owe a Torean mage named Alistair compensation. In the time it took the men to nod their heads, Garrick was consigned to the manor of the mage.

At first Alistair’s home had seemed a dark and evil place. And he found that Alistair’s form of discipline—being made of arduous tasks such as scrubbing the floors or cleaning Alistair’s beakers and flasks to make them ready for tomorrow’s castings—were longer, harder, and arguably far more painful than the baron’s simple beatings.

The mage superior proved a patient master, though, and Garrick grew to appreciate both the solitude and the structure of a Torean mage’s life. A wizard was intruded upon only when a client needed to boost harvest, mend an unmendable, or scry whatever was needed to be known about a lover, an enemy, or even the occasional ally.

As he grew older, Garrick saw how Alistair maintained an air of mystery about himself that was thick enough to ensure the rest of Adruin would leave him alone. Garrick liked that. He enjoyed that Alistair created anxiety in his clientele—the idea that he could master something so difficult for others to comprehend that they would steer clear of him just to avoid dealing with it. It made him feel unique. It made him feel like he understood things about the world that the common people walking the streets could never manage. It helped him forget that only a few years prior Garrick himself had walked those very streets without even a pair of shoes to protect him from the dirty cobblestones below.

He could see himself living a Torean’s life—fully occupied, yet alone at the edge of the world. So, when Alistair said he would cast the spell to trigger Garrick’s full link to the plane of magic, that by summertime he would be a full mage, he had been excited beyond hope.

Alistair’s trigger meant freedom.

It meant new horizons.

It meant he would be his own master, no longer be tied to anyone else. It meant that as long as he lived, Garrick would never again be in the service of any other man.

Chapter 1

It was mid-afternoon and the crowd was light.

Garrick leaned against the rough-hewn counter, using bread to sop broth from his bowl. His scowl and sharp movements showed his disgust at the Koradictine mage sitting at a table toward the front.

“The wog needs to be taken down a peg,” Garrick said.

“Don’t do it,” Arianna whispered. But the glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes spoke a different tale.

She wore an apron tied around her waist. Her dark hair was tied behind her neck. She was stunning, even in the dim light of the diner, and even with the thin layer of kitchen grease that had built across her forehead as it always did later in the day.

The Ladle was a dive built of split lumber. It had a central fire pit and windows that were not quite square but were open to the air to give the place a breeze during the day. Though Evo had been talking about planking the floor for as long as Garrick had been coming here, it was still hard-packed dirt.

Garrick had first come to the Ladle because it was a favorite of Alistair’s, and because he liked the bread. But Arianna’s arrival changed everything. After seeing her, Garrick had lobbied Alistair to send him to Dorfort at every turn. Alistair would grumble and speak gruff sentences, but would then find he needed something important. Today, for example, he was in town to retrieve venison and salt, which they would use during their trip to Caledena next week, and a collection of spices, which Alistair always needed to augment his sorcery.

Garrick had taken to escorting Arianna home in the evenings, and last week they had shared a kiss. That kiss filled his mind constantly. It encompassed his entire sense of being throughout every minute of every day he had been away from her.

That kiss was his, and no weak-chinned Koradictine could take it away.

Garrick’s stomach curdled as the Koradictine wizard leered at Arianna. His eyes narrowed as the Koradictine glanced out the window and drank from his mug. The mage seemed anxious, like he was waiting for someone. It gave the man an air of arrogance that Garrick nearly choked on.

He felt Arianna’s focus from the other side of the counter. She was waiting to see what he would do, wondering if he would rise to her bait. Or, was she perhaps wishing he would?

“He’s Koradictine,” Garrick finally replied. “He deserves whatever he gets.”

“Evo will kill you if you chase his coin away.”

Garrick chewed his bread. It tasted like sand. “He looks like a crimson buffoon.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous of a Koradictine, and a grimy one at that?”

“He’s fair enough.”

“He’s too old for you.”

“That just means he knows the world. Perhaps he’ll sweep me off my feet.”

“Not likely.”

The Koradictine waved Arianna over. She wiped her hands down her apron and moved to attend to him.

Garrick grabbed her arm.

“I’m serious, Arianna. If he keeps talking to you I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Zap him with one of Alistair’s lightning bolts?”

He sized the mage up.

“Maybe.”

Arianna arched an eyebrow and removed his hand from her elbow.

“I’ve got to go to work.”

She went to the Koradictine then, leaving Garrick to daydream of raking the mage with his own high magic. What a stir that would cause—him, a Torean apprentice, taking down a Koradictine.

He would be able to do it someday.

Someday soon, too.

And now that Alistair was also bringing Garrick into his business dealings—his superior taking him to visit Caledena’s Viceroy next week being just one example—Garrick was feeling, perhaps for the first time, a sense of true confidence. He knew the basic structure of spell work, he had cast smaller cleaning magics and mending cantrips so often that his gates and the pathways to the plane of magic had scoured themselves into his mind. It felt good to actually have a future.

It gave him a swagger bold enough he was actually able to talk to a girl like Arianna. It was just a matter of time before he would be able to address this situation in the manner the Koradictine deserved. He hoped Arianna would not be fooled by this fop’s advances. Or, to be precise, he hoped Arianna would not be swayed by the lure of a full mage. At least not yet.

It could happen.

What did he know of her, after all?

They had talked often, and they had shared that one kiss. But who really was Arianna, daughter of Helene, floor maid of the Ladle? Certainly she was beautiful and quick witted, but was she trustworthy? Was she the kind of woman who could fall for a swarthy Koradictine?

These questions flashed through Garrick’s mind as Arianna approached the Koradictine.

The mage gestured out the window as she came to his table. Both of them laughed. She smiled at him, and put her hand on his shoulder as he pointed to the menu Evo had chalked on the wall earlier.

Garrick liked the Koradictine less every moment.

He hated the air of superiority that came with every Koradictine, the air that marked the order as certainly as that garish crimson vest did. He despised the aura of control the mage conveyed, and absolutely loathed the wiry patch of a beard the Koradictine was failing to grow.

It was all disgusting.

What was it about Koradictines today, anyway? Garrick had been in Dorfort for less than an hour, and he had already seen enough crimson to last a lifetime.

Made him sick to his stomach.

In truth, Garrick knew little about the orders—only that Lectodinians and Koradictines had very different ideas about how magic should be done, and that they detested each other. Their only area of agreement was that independent Toreans were the scourge of the plane, and that Torean wizards should, at best, be ignored.

He scowled and gripped the edge of the counter.

Garrick would alert Alistair to the Koradictines’ numbers later this evening, and if his superior was feeling talkative enough he might teach Garrick something more. If not, then Alistair would file the information away to index against other reports, and it would come back to Garrick later.

The Koradictine finished ordering and, as Arianna turned to leave, he pinched her high on her hip.

She jumped and batted playfully at him as she walked away.

Heat rose to Garrick’s cheeks. Was she actually encouraging this lout?

As Arianna neared, though, her face grew dark, her jaw set at a firm angle, and her step grew purposeful. She stalked toward the back to give Evo the mage’s order, and as she came to Garrick’s place she paused and spoke in a low, firm tone.

“Just don’t get caught,” she said.

The doors swung stiffly shut behind her.

Garrick and the Koradictine exchanged grins in the way men do when they think women aren’t watching.

To the Koradictine, Garrick was probably just some young punk, eighteen or nineteen. Maybe older. Garrick was thinner than most his age, and a shade taller, a combination that made him feel awkward. His dirty-blond hair was pulled off his face for travel, making his features even more peculiar. He wore a simple cloth shirt and riding breeches that were frayed and scuffed by long use—not that he ever dressed for much otherwise. Even if the Koradictine was aware of Garrick’s apprenticehood, he would probably not have cared. And, even if he had already been triggered, Garrick was a mere Torean—an annoyance at best.

He stood at the counter, feeling the pressure of Arianna’s comment and the Koradictine’s smugness. It was time to defend his woman’s honor, time to make this Koradictine into the fool he most certainly was.

He would have to be careful, of course. The Koradictine could not know what had happened or things could get out of hand—and Garrick most certainly didn’t want to cause a big enough furor that it got back to Alistair. His superior would be livid if he found Garrick playing pranks on a mage of the order, so he would have to be sly. But Garrick could link to the plane of magic, and he had a few useful little spells at his disposal. He was sure he could manage it.

As he reached for his link, Garrick focused on the Koradictine’s ale. The honey-sweet taste of magestuff pooled in his thoughts and wicked up through his gates until it was ready to go.

The mage brought the mug to his lips.

Garrick lidded his eyes and concentrated on the essence of the mug, then the ale. He imagined a hole in the ceramic just below the mage’s lip. He pictured a fine stream of amber liquid dribbling out of the hole to splash over the Koradictine’s vest. “Ajero,” he whispered while at the same time twisting a finger.

The flow of magic burned through his link.

The mug shattered with a resounding crack, pieces of ceramic flying in every direction. Amber liquid splattered across the table and—with the best of all blessed luck—all over the front of the Koradictine’s prized vest.

“Gods be damned!” the Koradictine cried as he held the remnant of his mug aloft, ale dripping from his beard and nose.

Conversation around the room drew to an abrupt silence.

All eyes turned to the Koradictine.

Garrick struggled to maintain a proper face as the mage’s cheeks grew to be as red as his vest.

“What are you grinning at?” the mage said to Garrick as he threw the handle away, slid from his seat, and dabbed at his vest.

Hearing the ruckus, Arianna came from the kitchen.

She stopped short, and stifled a chuckle. “Are you all right?” she said as she went to the Koradictine.

Evo arrived next, wiping his hands on a towel. He was a big man, and his bald head glistened with sweat from the cooking oven’s heat.

“What happened?” Evo said, his gaze flashing between Arianna and the mage.

Arianna opened her hands at each side, her eyes growing wide. “I don’t know.”

“Use your brain, cook,” the Koradictine said. “Your cheap mug soaked me.”

“It broke?”

“I was drinking, and it shattered. Ask the boy there.” He pointed to Garrick.

Evo looked at him.

Garrick steeled himself for the final touch.

“He poured it on himself,” Garrick said. “Then he broke the mug. I think he’s just looking for a free meal.”

“You’re a damned liar, boy.”

The mage took a step toward Garrick, but Evo interceded, biceps bulging.

“I think it’s time you left,” he said.

The Koradictine gathered his wits and glared at Garrick with a stare laced with venom.

For a moment Garrick thought the mage was going to cast a spell. He worried that the faint aroma of honey associated with his own magic might have wafted to the Koradictine and given him away.

“So be it,” the Koradictine finally replied.

He returned to the table to pick up his hat, and a walking stick he had leaned against the wall. He looked at Garrick. “You’re getting on to being a man someday, boy. You best think about taking care of yourself.”

Then the Koradictine pointed at Evo.

“And you, sir, have lost my meal coin.”

Then he was gone, and the place grew awkwardly silent.

Evo turned to Arianna. “That’s coming out of your pay.”

“But “

“Clean the table,” Evo said as he returned to the kitchen.

Everyone went back to their food.

Conversation rose.

Arianna picked up the bigger pieces of the mug, then swept up the rest. She grabbed her rag and flung it at the table, wiping in hard, circular motions. There would be a price to pay for this, Garrick saw. But it would be worth it. When the table was dry, she straightened and went toward the back to dispose of the debris.

“You owe me a mug,” she said as she passed him.

He could not help but smile.

Chapter 2

Garrick was nervous as they left the Ladle. The memory of last week’s kiss was firmly on his mind.

It had taken Arianna only a short while to forgive him, and by the time he returned with Alistair’s supplies she was already laughing about the expression on the Koradictine’s face. She even told the story to several patrons.

Now darkness was nearing, and he walked with Arianna through a woods stained red by the setting sun. The trees gave the coarse smell of wood, and a dry creek bed ran nearby. The thatch of the winter past scratched a thin tune in the faint breeze.

He left his hair free because Arianna said she was fond of it that way. His shirt and breeches were no defense against the evening chill, but the weight of his pack caused him enough exertion that he kept warm.

She walked with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her gait free and graceful, the skin of her face soft and dark in the evening light.

“Did you have to shatter the entire mug?” she said.

“I admit that was a mistake.”

“Indeed, it was. I thought Evo was going to throw me out.”

Garrick sighed.

“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to actually break the mug at all. I really just wanted to put a hole in it so the ale would flow into his lap.”

Arianna laughed—he liked it when she laughed.

“That was brilliant, then,” she said. “Perhaps you cost me a husband, though.”

“He would not have been good for you.”

“And you—the man who has stood at my counter and boasted of being a lone wolf in the forest, and who has said he could never tie himself to anything—you would be good for me?” Arianna replied.

He swallowed anxiety.

Garrick had never been in love before. He had never yearned to know another person, had never known it was even possible to feel this way. It was hard, after all. It hurt in such a strangely good way. The thought of exposing this desire brought a weird mix of excitement and nakedness that he just didn’t understand.

Did she think of him the same way?

“Perhaps your charms have changed me,” he finally said.

“Gods!”

“I don’t believe in them, and neither do you.”

She cast him a sideways glance as she stepped over a root. “Perhaps they are what have changed you?”

“Now you’re just laughing at me.”

She gave a perfectly wicked smile. “Perhaps a little.”

He turned to her.

“Let’s be serious, Arianna. You know I don’t want to be a mason, or a member of the city league. And I don’t want to be tied to the orders because I’ll not serve another if I can avoid it.”

“No self-respecting Torean would.” Arianna gave an understanding nod.

“You’re different, though. I can’t stop thinking about you—about our last walk. About…I’ve never thought about what might come later…I’ve never…”

He looked for words of poetry here, something befitting the moment, but his tongue was stuck to his mouth. Finally he blurted.

“Would you be with a mage?”

Arianna’s lips curved into a half-smile.

“Come now, Garrick. You are only an apprentice.”

“But you know I will be a mage.”

She gave a playful shrug. “And you would have us live out in the woods somewhere distant? My mother would kill me for moving that far away.”

“I come to town often enough. You could, too.”

“Not often enough for my mother’s view.”

They came to a halt and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“It can be a good life, Arianna. I’ve seen it. Alistair lives free.” A sly grin crossed his lips. “And I wouldn’t have you pay for any mug you broke.”

She hit him on the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow!”

“I’ll be having none of that from my husband.”

“It was a jest, Arianna.”

She looked at him, her eyes softening. “Was it, now?”

“Yes,” he said. “It was.”

He leaned down to kiss her.

She turned her face to receive him, but before they touched she pulled away, giving an un-girly snort of laughter at his expression.

“You’ll have to catch me if you want a kiss.”

She collected the hem of her dress and ran down the path.

She liked him.

He realized it with a rush.

Arianna, daughter of Helene, liked him.

He gave chase, pretending to clutch for her shawl as it trailed behind her, letting her lead him for a bit. He stumbled as she dodged. He was going to catch her, of course. He was going to catch her, and turn her around, and he was going to—

As he reached a hand out to her shoulder, Arianna gave a yelp, then a sudden lurch.

At first he thought it was one of the games she was so fond of, but she fell heavily, rolling down the creek bed and over the stones, leaves, and exposed roots that lined it before landing with a thud below.

“Arianna!” he called as he hurried down the slope.

She did not respond.

Blood welled from a cut at her hairline, and panic gripped him. He pressed his hand to her head, and crimson poured through his fingers. He stripped off his shirt to bandage the wound, but it wasn’t enough.

“Help!” he yelled.

Every bit of Alistair’s teaching flooded into his mind: fire, lightning, telekinesis—but his familiarity was with the simple spells of cleaning and mending, and even if he could cast those more powerful wizardries, none would stop Arianna’s bleeding. He concentrated on his spell gates and he reached for his link. Maybe something would come. Maybe he could create something in the moment. His link opened and raw magestuff poured forward. He set his thoughts, pressed trigger points, and molded the flow until power throbbed in his fingertips.

He had no spell for it, though. The raw magestuff merely pooled in his mind. He poured it directly into the cut, but felt no response. He tried a binding spell but her skin continued to grow ashen.

Still blood poured forth.

“Help!” he screamed again.

The evening’s darkness twisted his voice, and Arianna’s eyes glowed unearthly pale as they rolled to the back of her head. Tears rolled down his cheeks. What had he done? It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. He had to fix this, but he looked at Arianna and he saw her dying in his arms and he had nothing for it. Nothing. The musty aroma of mildew was overwhelming. He touched her forehead and felt slippery blood run between his fingers.

“Help!” He screamed into the nighttime sky. “Anyone! Help!”

The moon glowed above.

“Anyone,” he whispered, his throat raspy, his head sagging limply to hers. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

A strangeness filled the ravine then, a sensation unlike anything Garrick had ever experienced before. Energy rolled over the ground with a scent as sharp as a summer storm. It was high sorcery. Wizardry more powerful than even Alistair was able to use.

The hair on his arms rose. He was mesmerized, confused but oddly thrilled.

A voice spoke from inside his mind.

Would you truly accept responsibility for the power of life and death?

Fear rose inside him, but Arianna’s weight was dead in his arms and her slack cheek reflected the new moonlight with a chalky sheen. Her hair trailed over his wrist to seek communion with the black soil below.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “I would do anything to save her.”

And in that moment he knew it was true. Garrick would do anything to save Arianna, anything to save their future, anything to care about something as much as he cared about her.

A perfect silence grew in which even Garrick’s breathing seemed to halt. The wind died. Leaves hung toward the ground with silver-backed limpness.

“Anything,” Garrick whispered again.

So be it.

A new power filled him.

His heart pounded with unworldly drumming. Fluorescent flames danced on his fingertips and burned Arianna’s blood from his skin. He cradled her head in one hand and rubbed her temple with the other. Glorious energy flowed, sorcery fed from somewhere deep inside his being, blue and green and blue again. The smell of warm honey grew omnipresent as a river of power seeped into Arianna’s wounds to bring torn tissue together, mend damage, and give life.

He felt intertwined with her. He felt deeply together.

Then it was over.

The wind whispered. Trees creaked, and tears dried on his cheeks in the nighttime chill.

Arianna took a shuddering breath, then opened her eyes.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

Chapter 3

Elman Rigtha, a mage of the Lectodinian order, sat on his roan and waited for the Koradictine captain to finish his preparations. The night had grown dark, but the moon was bright enough to see by.

Six Koradictines and six Lectodinians prepared for their mission, whispering to themselves and playing through spell work as they tightened the binds on their mounts. Leather saddles squeaked and a sword rasped against its sheath. A horse gave an impatient nicker. They had been working together for eight days, yet the oddity of mages from the two orders casting spells side-by-side had not worn off.

The Torean House should be scoured quickly, though, then they would deal with the Koradictines once and for all.

That had to be the plan, right?

They smelled, after all. These Koradictines. They were pompous, and overbearing, and out of control—far too willing to take risks. A group totally without discipline, without a finger of respect for the art of their spell work itself. You couldn’t rely upon them to throw a decent spell if Hezarin herself were to do the casting. Just the idea of his Lectodinians taking seconds from the Koradictines made Elman’s stomach clench.

So, yes. Lectodinian leadership would eventually turn to the Koradictine problem. He was as sure of this as he was about the fact that the night chill was growing uncomfortable.

He glanced toward Dorfort. It was unlikely the city’s guard would patrol this far away so late at night, but it was better to be wary than be taken by surprise.

“Come on, Oldhamid,” he said. “Let’s not waste the evening.”

Oldhamid, the Koradictine captain assigned to this mission, finally spurred his horse to Elman’s side. He wore a maroon tunic, black cloth breeches, and a floppy-brimmed hat that made him look like a farmer. A slim dagger glinted from his belt.

“Are your men ready, yet?” Elman asked.

“Patience, my friend,” Oldhamid said with enough spite that Elman knew the Koradictine shared his feelings toward their working arrangement. “This Torean is strong, and he’s not going anywhere. He will be just as dead by morning, regardless of when we begin. It will go best if we are properly prepared.”

Elman hid his grimace. Had he sunk so far as to be lectured by a Koradictine?

This whole fiasco had done nothing for him beyond searing the true depth of differences between the Koradictine and Lectodinian orders into his mind.

Not that he needed the lesson.

The orders had split in the days after Corid de’Mayer’s rule—when the two most powerful mages of the time, Koradic and Lectodine, couldn’t agree on how to control magic. Lectodine wanted a hierarchy that monitored mages closely, and he proposed even to tax the triggering of each wizard as they came of age. Koradic had no respect for such structure, preferring each superior make decisions to trigger mages on their own but being held accountable through severe punishment for errors of judgment whenever such was discovered.

And that was just the beginning of their differences.

The Koradictine approach was obviously insane. It was sloppy.

Elman saw that in the Koradictines surrounding him today. Their magic was powerful, but their training was all over the map—meaning they cast their spells with such variability it made your head spin.

If the stories Elman heard were true, the orders were working together now only because neither one trusted the other enough to remove the Torean problem by themselves, and because neither one wanted to give the other the advantage of any new sorceries discovered in the process. That story made as much sense as anything.

“Have you briefed your mages on the plan?” Elman finally said.

“Such as it is.”

The rounded slope of the hillside rose before them, its ridge giving way to the Torean’s manor. Oldhamid was right about the mage—he was known to be strong, but he would also be tired after a long day. With twelve mages at hand, this job should be easy—if, that is, the Koradictines carried their weight.

“Be sure your men break the wards,” he said. “And let them know there’ll be blood to pay if they don’t set a reasonable blaze along the stables. I don’t want to lose his apprentices.”

Oldhamid nodded. “We understand.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

Elman motioned his men to join him. Oldhamid did the same.

An invisible weight lifted from Elman’s shoulders as the mission began. It was good to be doing something.

He would be glad when the Torean wizard was dead.

Chapter 4

Something was definitely wrong.

Garrick sat at the dinner table, wearing an over-large work shirt Arianna’s brother had given him to replace the one he had torn. He gnawed on a turkey wing Arianna’s mother had prepared.

He wanted to be happy.

He should be happy.

But Garrick felt something terribly, terribly wrong happening inside him. It was something different every moment—skin-crawling revulsion, then shivers, then a bout of nausea that left him breathless.

Arianna’s home was everything he had once dreamed his own might one day be—made by her father, cut from lumber from the woods, sealed tight with pine pitch and mud. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the kitchen was filled with the smell of cornbread, chicory, and roasted fowl. It was a rambunctious table—her brothers and sisters ringing around it, elbowing each other and sampling from each dish as they passed dinner around.

The closeness of this family hurt him in a physical way.

Its intimacy burned inside his chest.

He wanted to breathe, he wanted to be alone. He wanted this gnawing ache inside him to go away, but despite having eaten steadily for the entire meal, he was still as hungry as he could ever remember.

It was this hunger that was most definitely wrong.

It was deep and chilling.

It was the haunting presence of an owl on the hunt, the raw odor of wood fire in the open forest. It was the sensation of bone scraping bone.

Arianna was still blathering on, blissfully unaware of the severity of her accident.

She had chittered and chattered incessantly on their way here. Garrick had merely nodded and grunted at certain points while he fought the ache growing in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t know what happened, Mother. We were walking along the path and I must have tripped over a root. Next thing I knew, I was falling and falling. It was terrible…”

The hunger soared.

You have given, a whisper echoed inside his head. Now you must take.

He felt…energy. Power. Desire. Fear rose within the swell. His eyes grew dry, a film of sweat formed on his upper lip, and he felt suddenly dizzy.

What was happening to him?

He tried to focus on what Arianna was saying, but her words slipped away.

“…then I opened my eyes and saw Garrick.”

She gazed at him with wonder.

“You don’t look good, son,” Arianna’s father said. “Maybe you should go lie down?”

“Yes,” he tried to say, but he was uncertain if the word actually left his mouth.

He had to get away.

Garrick didn’t know what was happening, but he no longer trusted himself.

He staggered from the table to lie down on a small cot in the back room.

For one blissful moment, things grew quiet.

Then came movements from outside. Muted voices rumbled through haze. Arianna’s father lit his pipe, and the smoke’s odor burned like fine grains of sand against Garrick’s mind. He tried to push them away, tried to clear his thoughts, but the more he pushed the stronger each sense became.

“It’s about time you settled, Arianna,” her father said. “I had nearly given up hope your dowry would be claimed.”

Shayla, the youngest daughter, was playing with her doll just outside the room. Garrick felt her curiosity, sensed the questioning glances she cast his way. His head pounded. Shayla’s doll seemed to peer around the cracked doorway. He clenched his eyes to ignore her, but the vibrant beat of her heart pressed against him.

Her life force was strong and pure.

He wanted it.

No! He pressed his fists over his ears.

He picked himself off the cot and staggered out the back door, buckets and brooms clattering behind him. The nighttime darkness was as thick as pudding. The fire in his belly yearned for the pure life force of Arianna’s family in their cabin, but he stumbled and ran into the night.

“Garrick?” Arianna called as she chased after him.

Her sweet aroma tinged with energy and blood tantalized him in horrible ways.

He wanted to stop. He ached for them, and he could take them all. Arianna. Her parents. Her brothers and sisters. He could devour them.

It would feel so good.

The idea scared him, and through it all, he understood only one rational thought—he could not let Arianna catch him.

He ran harder, crashing through the nighttime forest.

Normally, the woods would smell of mildew and dampness, normally the moon’s reflection would give the leaves silver edges, but these sensations were muted tonight, colors dimmed to grays and indigo blackness, odors blunted to blandness. Garrick tripped, but somehow found himself still running. His lungs ached. A supple branch sliced his cheek, but the wound did not run with blood.

A small tavern loomed ahead, music and laughter coming from within.

Arianna’s footsteps drew nearer.

He dashed into the tavern.

The door slammed behind him.

Tallow candles smoldered at each table, casting thin shadows throughout the room. The handful of patrons glared at him in sudden silence.

“Shut up!” he cried. “Stop looking at me.”

Garrick threw himself into a dark corner and breathed heavily. He buried his head in the crook of his arm.

A serving boy drew near.

He was beautiful, pure and fresh, his aura salty.

For an instant, Garrick’s head cleared, and he thought he would be able to control his need. For an instant Garrick thought he would be able to warn the boy away. But instead he looked up and his terrifying hunger drew a breath.

The door opened as he reached a thin finger to the boy’s cheek. Arianna stepped through.

“Garrick?” she said.

A spark crackled from his finger.

The boy cried out.

Colors blurred.

Garrick’s hand burned, and an invisible fire ran up his forearm and shoulder. Energy filled his chest. The smell of honey and something wild became his entire world. Somewhere he heard a scream.

Then it was done.

And he felt bloated.

Fresh blood welled from the wound on his cheek, and a withered lump lay like clotted leaves where the boy had once stood.

Townspeople stared at him with slack faces.

“Garrick?” Arianna’s voice trembled, the expression on her face contorted between horror and revulsion. She turned and ran, leaving the door to rock back and forth in the empty doorway.

“Wait,” he said, holding out a pleading hand. “I didn’t mean…” His thoughts jumbled, but the look on Arianna’s face had said everything.

He was an abomination.

He stood, gaping at the open space she had left behind, and sensing fear from the gathering even before the barkeep turned a pitchfork toward him.

“Demon!” a voice bellowed from behind the bar.

More voices filled the tavern room.

“You don’t understand,” Garrick said. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

“Kill him, Jeb,” another man called out in a voice thick with ale.

Garrick crashed through the door to disappear back into the forest.

The moon followed him as he ran.

The memory of the boy’s freckled face loomed ahead, the vigor of the boy’s energy pounded inside his chest. He ran until bile rose in his throat and he had to stop to retch. When he was finished, Garrick sagged against an elm, panting for breath. The tree’s bark bit into his shoulder. He felt the entire structure of the wood, the slow power of leaves drawing sap from its roots, those same leaves inhaling the damp nighttime breeze and sending nutrients through the rest of the organism.

He put his head in his hands.

What had he done?

At least his hunger was gone. That much was good. But now energy flowed in his veins like a river. His senses felt overloaded. Blood pounded in his temples.

It was frightening.

You have taken, the unearthly voice rang inside his head. Now you must give.

Who was this voice?

This was all happening because of this thing, this creature, or … Anger boiled inside him. He clenched a fist and pounded the meat of his hand against the tree.

“Why?” he yelled at the voice, searching the clearing for the source. “Why are you doing this?”

There was no reply.

This was his fault, though. That’s what Alistair would say. He should have known better than to accept power without understanding its price.

But it had been Arianna.

Arianna.

Was it only a few hours ago he had asked if she would have him? All he had really wanted was to be worthy of someone like her, someone beautiful and with a real family and real roots. She was everything he had never had. Now he was terrified.

Tears welled inside him.

The truth of that word struck him: terrified.

A few hours ago he had actually been confident, but now everything was too big.

“Go away,” he said. “Please, just go away.”

Villagers shouted in the distance, and the oily aroma of burning torches wafted closer. The yapping of dogs echoed through the woods. He had to get away—had to get rid of this magic, whatever it was.

He clenched his fists while he listened to the villagers clamoring for his head.

Alistair.

He needed to go to his superior mage.

Alistair would understand. He would be mad, of course, but his superior would know what to do, and any punishment Alistair would mete would be better than dealing with this on his own.

Garrick turned and once again ran through the woods.

Chapter 5

Garrick became one with the forest, forgetting about the boy, forgetting about the pull of life force at Arianna’s cabin, forgetting about the expression on her face in the tavern.

He felt alive and in the moment.

The boy's life force was pure and buoyant. It made him stronger. It made him free to race, free to duck under sycamore branches and leap over downed trunks.

The sounds of villagers faded into the nighttime.

It was a long distance to Alistair’s manor, but he ran the entire way, pushing through brush like a bolted deer. Sweat rolled from his body and his breathing became hard, but still he ran. Smells of liverwort and mushrooms swirled in his wake, and the calls of animals echoed in the distance as he neared the manor. He leapt over a row of thicket, thinking about Alistair, thinking about how his superior would set this right and how then Garrick could start all over again. He thought these thoughts over as he ran.

Alistair would help him. Alistair would know what to do.

He thought them once again as he crested the final hill that led to his home.

It was only then that Garrick came to a stunned halt.

The manor smoldered in the moonlight, its stone surface reflecting a silver sheen against the black sky. A curtain of gray smoke rose like mist to obscure the splintered fences that had once circled the stables.

The horses were gone.

“Alistair?” he called as he walked forward.

Charred grass crackled as Garrick crossed the manor yard, its burnt reek laying heavy over the grounds. The odor of magic ripped at his throat—a bloody essence laced with metallic ammonia. Koradictine sorcery, he thought, his memory flashing to the mage at the Ladle.

Could this be revenge of some sort?

Could the mage he soaked have done this?

The front door hung from a hinge like a page half torn from a journal. The foyer was dark as he stepped through. The boy’s energy surged inside him, responding to imagined threats. He quelled it, drew his dagger, and stepped farther into the building.

The hallway walls were charred,. Melted remains of candles dripped over their scorched sconces. The stone floor was cracked and littered with debris. He and Kelvin had cleaned these stones just last week. He remembered Kelvin grumbling as he scrubbed. Garrick was the oldest of the apprentices, then came Balti, Kelvin, and Bryce. Little Jonathan, at six, was the youngest. He had arrived just this winter.

Where were they?

He stepped farther down the hall.

Once his eyes settled, Garrick realized he could see as well as if it were daytime. The boy’s energy, he thought, or rather, this strange magic he carried now—this curse—how much had it changed him?

“Alistair?” he called again. “Balti?”

The reek of sorcery grew as he climbed the stairs. An owl’s call came so clearly he thought the bird might be in the stairwell with him, but a glance backward confirmed he was still alone.

Jonathan’s room was empty, his cot in shambles, his clothes scattered. A few pages of his lessons lay littered on the floor.

The apprentices were all gone.

A pang of isolation overwhelmed Garrick, and he had to force himself to think.

Alistair would have defended himself from a position of power, a place where all his tools would be at his disposal—downstairs, Garrick thought. Alistair would have made his last stand in his laboratory.

He retraced his path to return to the ground floor, then went down farther.

The stink of sorcery grew even thicker as he descended, but it was a different smell. This was the cutting tang of lemon, the odor of Lectodinian magic.

Lectodinian magic?

Mixed with Koradictine?

Impossible. Even an apprentice knew the orders never worked together, yet there was no mistaking this for anything other than Lectodinian wizardry, just as there was no mistaking the magic above as Koradictine.

Could Alistair have gotten caught in crossfire between the orders?

Was this magewar?

Gripping the dagger, Garrick continued downward. Fear crept over him like the touch of a snake.

He pushed open the door.

The destruction within was complete—tables overturned, wood splintered, crystal broken. Alistair’s ceramic bottles were shattered and their contents strewn about. The walls were cracked and charred with massive black blotches.

Alistair lay across the room in a pool of congealing blood, his robe torn, his eyes still open but fixed with a glassy stare. There was no breath in his superior. That much was clear. Probably hadn’t been for some time now. That much was clear.

The boy’s life force surged inside Garrick, seemingly drawn to the empty shell of Alistair’s body.

He thought of how he had saved Arianna and the creek bed.

Could he do it here?

Could he save Alistair? Could he bring his superior back from the dead?

The idea grew like a weed.

He sheathed his dagger and reached inward.

New magic rose, wild and out of control, so much more powerful than anything Alistair had taught him. Images and half-formed concepts grew in his mind, but the harder he worked to merge them to a single focus the more mercurial they became. The energy crested, and he felt like he might be ripped apart from the inside. He could not wait.

He touched Alistair’s temple.

Life force burned through his body.

His muscles stretched.

He might have screamed, but the power rushing through him made it impossible to tell. The burst knocked him to the stone floor. A stabbing pain flared from above his elbow, and he heard a great crack.

Then silence fell like a hood.

Garrick lay flat on his back, his elbow blazing with pain. His sight, so crisp a moment ago, had now gone dark.

He moaned.

A soft sound came from the distance—a robe rasping against the stone floor.

“Superior?” Garrick whispered, already sensing something was wrong.

The room grew rigidly cold. Alistair’s voice wailed in pain.

Garrick looked over his shoulder and saw a pair of incandescent orbs floating in the blackness. They were Alistair’s eyes. Those blazing orbs of crimson fire were his superior’s eyes.

Alistair stood and towered over him, those eyes blazing red. He spoke magic in a wavering, ethereal voice. Then he pointed a single, glimmering finger right at Garrick.

Chapter 6

Elman was drained.

The Torean mage was dead, his manor razed, and his apprentices captured—but the fight had taxed him further than he wanted known. His legs burned like they had run all day, and his chest and arms felt like they had been stretched at the rack. His mind was numb.

So he assigned the Koradictines to guard the rear and ensure the apprentices did not escape.

The slaves, he corrected himself, the children ceased to be apprentices as soon as they had been captured. He had assigned the Koradictines to ensure the slaves did not escape.

It was a task even a Koradictine should be able to handle, and it should serve to keep them out of his business for the evening.

Elman rubbed his eyes.

He was no fool. He understood what was going to happen to those slaves.

These slaves would be herded into a camp with others, then marched to the deserts of Arderveer, home of Takril—the most powerful Torean wizard alive—to be offered as a gift. When this gift was accepted, however, it would likely destroy what little remained of the Torean House.

Then the Lectodinians could finally turn to the task of cleansing the world of its Koradictine blight. Despite his fatigue, Elman grinned. That time could not get here fast enough.

The clopping of hooves drew near, and Oldhamid appeared at his side, his eyes glistening in the moonlight.

“The superiors will be pleased, no?”

Darkness hid Elman’s smirk. “Yes, the superiors will be pleased.”

“I think it is important we report our successes together.”

“Fear not, Oldhamid. You will receive proper credit for your part.”

Oldhamid was silent a moment, then nodded and fell back.

Wonders of all wonders, Elman thought—a Koradictine who took a hint.

One of the slaves whined.

“Quiet,” a Koradictine mage said, drawing his sword. It was a bit dramatic for Elman’s taste, but achieved the desired effect.

Garrick pulled himself toward the stairs, but his elbow flared with pain.

He knew Alistair’s magic. The bolt of energy his superior was preparing would be powerful enough to bring the manor crumbling down upon them both. Garrick groped in the darkness with his one good arm, hoping to find something he could use as a weapon. His fingers closed on a lab book.

He winged it at his superior, but the tome fell short.

Alistair whispered the spell’s final syllables, and reached his hand forward.

Garrick braced for pain.

A clap of thunder shook the floor, and a green bolt snaked from Alistair’s fingertips. But instead of pain, Garrick felt another essence, a strong, quicksilver aura that appeared in the chamber, but that seemed to be just out of sight no matter where his gaze fell.

He felt power.

He smelled Torean wizardry more dense than the most arcane of Alistair’s experiments.

Then there was darkness, and an eerie silence where he had expected thunder.

The pain in his elbow was gone.

He could breathe without difficulty.

Alistair shuffled away, moving to climb the stairs.

Garrick rose gingerly to his feet. He wanted to understand what was happening, but things were moving too fast. He followed his superior at a distance, moving by force of will alone.

He felt it beginning then—the hunger coming, a hollow craving like acid in his belly, the same craving that haunted him after he had given life to Arianna, the same ache that had driven him to take the serving boy’s life.

Alistair ambled through the building with a grinding lurch.. His back was hunched, and his head hung at an odd angle. One arm was a bony stump, the other dragged his burnt staff behind him. When he came to the moonlit yard, he surveyed the remains of his manor—took in the charred stone, the gaping hole in the far wall, and the smoldering stables. Then Alistair loosed a wail that started low before building to a high-pitched scream.

A putrid cloud of green mist rolled over the field.

Garrick’s stomach boiled with nausea. He fell to his knees, wanting to wretch but finding nothing to bring up.

Then Alistair was gone, and the green mist was fading into the darkness.

The hunger returned fully to him, then, perhaps even deeper than before. It was a presence, a force foreign to his way of thinking, yet so embedded inside Garrick that it felt like a second skin.

He felt weak. His eyesight blurred.

You have given, the voice said. Now you must take.

“No,” he murmured.

He crawled, fighting this voice in some distant hope that he could get away.

“No,” he whispered again, his throat raw with pain. “No.”

Chapter 7

Garrick woke facedown.

The sun was high above, and he was baking in the grass. The sight of the crumbling towers of Alistair’s manor gave him a sense of emptiness. The front door swung in the random breeze with a discordant moan.

He was alone.

His muscles whined as he stood up. The sensation of all-consuming hunger hit him then as if he had dived into cold water.

Food.

Nothing else mattered. He needed food.

Garrick limped across the field toward Alistair’s pantry as quickly as he could. He kicked Bryce’s dagger as he stepped into the building. It skittered against the flagstone floor with a hollow clatter. He found dried venison and stale rye bread, and ate voraciously until he could eat no more. Only then did he turn his mind to what had happened last night. Only then did he think about saving Arianna’s life, killing the boy, and crawling away from Alistair’s broken manor to pass out on the yard.

It was over.

Alistair was gone. Balti, and Kelvin, and the rest.

Gone.

He was alone again.

It wasn’t fair. These were the only words that would come to him. Not fair. He pounded his chest and screamed out loud. It hurt, but at least the pain was real. He screamed again.

Yes, he had wanted power. He wanted to be a mage. What apprentice didn’t want that power? But he had never wanted this, never wanted to kill or maim, or to feel such pain.

“I’ve had enough,” he yelled. “Do you hear me? I’ve had enough!”

His forehead flushed with sweat, and he felt something at the edge of his perception—an essence that was not quite heat. Bodies. The exotic taste of…cinnamon? People. He sensed people outside the manor. Four separate presences moving. Walking toward him.

He went to the window.

A detail of Dorfort’s guards approached from the southern hill, each with a long sword that flashed with the sun. One had an unstrung longbow strapped to his back. Another wore a helmet made of pounded bronze.

The guards’ arrival was no coincidence. The blaze at Alistair’s manor was probably enough to color the nighttime horizon, and if the fire itself hadn’t been visible, the curtain of smoke rising against the morning sky would be. Either way, he felt his hunger rise as the guards drew near.

He also felt a more familiar panic, a more human fear.

He had seen it before. These guards would need a culprit, and there was no more simple story than that of an apprentice gone rogue. If they found him here, they would blame him.

The men spoke.

Their words were unintelligible, but the tone of their voices vibrated inside his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the memory of the rotting heap of flesh that had once been a serving boy. Wild magic droned in his ears, gaining power with each moment.

You have given, the power whispered. Now you must take.

“No,” he whimpered, feeling darkness grow inside him as the guards came forward. “I won’t do it.”

He lurched out the back door, pain burning in his chest, intending to run. He was halfway across the manor yard when he sensed more guards. They had surrounded the manor—he felt four more ahead, and another four to his right.

“Halt!” a voice came.

Garrick had nowhere to go. His hunger surged and he fell to his knees.

No, he thought. Go away.

“Who are you?” a rough voice came to him as if it was spoken from everywhere at once.

Garrick looked up to see a man standing between himself and the woods, feet firmly planted, his three compatriots coming into the area to encircle him further.

You have given, the voice urged again. Now you must take.

“I said, who are you, boy?”

It would be so sweet, he thought. So sweet. It took all of his self-control to avoid reaching out to the guard.

“Alistair’s apprentice,” Garrick managed to reply.

“What have you done here?”

“Nothing. I’ve done nothing. It was like this when I came home.”

“It’s a mage’s castle, Captain,” a second guard said. “No telling what goes on here.”

Garrick felt a difference between the captain and his mates. They all had airs of action, but the captain carried himself with more conviction. He was bolder and more certain.

“You’ll come with us,” the captain said.

“That’s not a good idea,” Garrick gasped.

“I’m not suggesting, boy. I’m telling you how it is. Stay here while we go take a look.”

Garrick’s head swam, but he stood still, pleased he had won this battle with the dark curse inside him. He could beat this. He had to beat this.

The captain directed one of his men, a man he named Sidney, to remain behind as sentry while he and the others went to investigate the manor. Garrick felt better as the men moved away.

“Don’t be gettin’ no ideas,” Sidney said to him, pulling a short sword from its sheath. “I ain’t got the patience o’ the captain.”

A sibilant whisper rose in the back of Garrick’s mind. He could escape. It would be easy. He may not even have to touch the man—he could just ease this man’s life force away, steal it without him even knowing what had happened.

Stop it! He screamed, hoping it was just inside his mind. He gritted his teeth, and his breathing became labored.

You have given, the voice whispered.

“Whatever you’re doing, you best stop it,” Sidney said.

But the void inside ripped at his gut and his breathing became even harder. As if moving on its own, Garrick’s hand reached out.

Sidney cried out and swung his blade.

Garrick sidestepped the attack without effort, and used the moment to gather his senses. He swallowed his hunger with a painful shove, then he set a simple spell gate, twisted his tongue around a word, and reached to the plane of magic. Magestuff flowed, and Sidney inexplicably tripped over his own feet.

Garrick was running before the guard hit the ground.

He did not know how long he ran, but it was long and long and longer. The guards gave chase, but he was slender and an able runner. The guards were older, bigger, and heavily encumbered. He pressed his hunger down, and he ran harder as the presence of the guards slipped away from his mind. This run had none of the grace of last night’s race through the woods, though. This was a pell-mell dash. He crashed through the forest, heedless of root or undergrowth. He scrabbled through brush and fern, falling and picking himself up, running harder, and bracing himself as if to crash against waves sent by the undercurrent of the world.

He cursed as he ran.

He cursed Alistair. He cursed Dorfort and their woeful guard. He cursed this pain inside that seemed never to leave.

When he was finally spent, Garrick fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

He was in a clearing of knee-high grass surrounded by elm trees. A pattern of fire pits, now days cold, marked it as a way-point for travelers. He felt his hunger, still there, still stirring beneath his anger.

He had beaten it, though.

Garrick rolled to his back and stared up into the blue bowl of sky.

He had beaten it. He had spared the guard’s life despite his pain. They wouldn’t get him. No one would. He was Garrick. He would not give in.

He laughed then, laughed with the pain of release, laughed with crazy, insane laughter that came from having done something to deny the thing inside him, even if that something was merely to run away.

Chapter 8

Whatever Garrick had been before was in the past, and whatever he had become now was…well, he didn’t know. But he had to find a way to deal with it before it consumed him.

He had to do something.

The problem was that he had too many questions, and not enough answers.

Questions like, what was this hunger? Where did it come from? How could he get rid of it? Questions like, why was Alistair’s manor attacked, and what did it mean that magical residue from both orders had colored the site? Being a Torean, he ignored the possibility of a magewar at his own peril. But if it was a magewar, why were there no Lectodinian or Koradictine dead? And if it was magewar, why did the orders hold their battle on Torean ground?

In the end, this reeked of raid more than it did of battlefield.

Had Alistair grown too strong? Had something of his winter studies caused the orders to fear him? And why take Kelvin, Bryce, and the rest of the apprentices?

These were Garrick’s thoughts as he lay in the clearing. The trees and the grasses of that place, however—cloaked in wind and rustling leaves and the calls of crows—had nothing to say on the matter. Frustration grew like a cancer in his gut. He felt exposed and defenseless. He was so tired.

Why was the world doing this to him?

“Your life is yours, Garrick,” Alistair had often said as he grew. “Take the world on its terms but stay true to your own thoughts, and things will manage themselves.” After long enough Garrick, like a blind fool, had bought it. But it turned out Alistair didn’t understand the world like Garrick did.

The world, it turns out, does not care how things arrange themselves.

Now Alistair was dead and Garrick realized he needed a new superior—someone strong enough to trigger his magic as Alistair had promised he would, someone capable of giving Garrick the power he needed to stand up to this terrifying curse, or at least someone experienced enough to help him unravel it.

Pacar, for example—a friend of Alistair’s who lived in the deep forests fairly close by to the west. Pacar made him uncomfortable, but his magic was strong enough. Or Dontaria Pel-An, another acquaintance who made house in the southern marshes—farther away, but a mage Garrick had always been comfortable with. He was a better choice.

Neither would work for free, of course—no Torean would ply magic without compensation, and sorcery strong enough to remove a curse like this would come only at a hefty price. So Garrick also needed funds.

A job, perhaps.

A task?

It was at that moment that the idea struck home.

Alistair had planned to take Garrick with him next week as he traveled to meet Caledena’s viceroy, a situation that always foretold of work. The viceroy would need a replacement.

Who better than Garrick?

He could make it on foot in a couple days—and merely making that trip meant he would stay away from people, out of Dorfort, and specifically out of the reach of Dorfort’s guard. If nothing else the trip would provide time to deal with this. It would give him time to settle down.

He had wanted to be his own man, Garrick thought with a grin. No better time than now.

If nothing else, it felt good to have a plan.

He was walking northward almost before he truly decided to go.

Chapter 9

Garrick walked until the sky darkened to purple. He scavenged as he traveled, picking berries and fruit, and digging tubers and roots where he could find them. It wasn’t nearly enough, though. His feet hurt, and his legs felt brittle. But his biggest ache was that he was hungry in ways he could not describe. In this condition, he could not help but turn toward the aroma of roasting meat when it came through the woods, he could not help but be drawn to fires from a small village.

Warmth enveloped him as he drew near—a warmth that he first thought was brought on by the flames of a fire pit, but was instead the tantalizing rise of the villagers’ life forces against the dark desires of his hunger.

He could stave off this need, though. He had done it before. He would not allow this thing inside him to become who he was.

The villagers’ essence grew deeper as he neared—farmers and shepherds, simple people who lived here by the grace of a clear spring and nearby grazing land. They were pure-hearted people, their life forces solid and firm. They reminded him of Arianna’s family.

He paused at that thought, and nearly turned back. The essence of Arianna’s young sister and the clotted remains of the serving boy remained locked in his memory. But the aroma of the roasting meat was stronger than the pain, so he continued through the dark wood until he came upon the clearing.

He could do this.

He was strong.

The village was a ramshackle place marked by dirt paths that ran between huts of wood and soil. He saw no guards or sentries. They should be more cautious, he thought with sudden anger. Didn’t they know how exposed they were out here in the open?

Anyone could steal upon them.

It was almost as if they wanted to be caught unaware, as if they wanted him to destroy them all.

And he could do it, too. He felt the truth of that as his hunger rose, he felt it in the way his legs seemed to move of their own accord, felt it as he drew closer to the gathering at the center of the village. They should be better defended. If he wasn’t so set on controlling this hunger, if he just let it free, he could cause such pain.

It felt strange to think of himself in that way. Almost arrogant. It was the hunger talking, wasn’t it? Yes. But it was also exactly what he had wanted to feel throughout his entire life. It was importance, a feeling that he actually mattered. The dissonance in these thoughts made his head spin.

Who was he?

The people of the village were gathered around a pit, cooking a skewered boar. Embers flared from the fire, and gray smoke rose through an open hole in the shelter’s roof. Women laughed at an unheard joke, and a large man stood beside the pit, examining the boar.

One of the villagers saw him and waved him closer.

“Ho, there! Come, join us.”

Expectant faces turned his way. Their attention was a flaming beacon. He felt rasps of air drawn into lungs. Heartbeats came to him as an avalanche.

He heard the voice, then.

You have given…

Garrick shut off his mind and stepped to the edge of the firelight.

“Oh, my,” a woman gasped.

He brought a hand to his cheek. Did he look that bad?

A man rushed to his side and grabbed Garrick by the elbow to lead him to a seat. The contact was like fire, but Garrick staunched his hunger by clenching his teeth hard enough to strain his jaw.

The man was built like a tree stump—short and squat, muscles solid, his legs thick, his neck nearly non-existent. A black beard covered his rounded face, and his eyes sparkled in the darkness.

A woman with similar proportions came forward.

“Are you well?” the man asked.

Garrick closed his eyes and fought to keep control.

“I’m just hungry,” he replied.

The woman ran her palm over Garrick’s forehead with the efficient motion of a chamber maid. Her hand traced a glorious rainbow of heat over his face.

“I’ve never seen skin so pale.”

A young girl peered from behind her mother’s skirts. “He’s scary,” she said.

“Shush,” the woman replied. “You’ll give the boy a reputation. Bring him some meat, Melli. And a cup of John’s mead. You’re thin as a twig, aren’t you?”

The boar was succulent. The honey sweetness of the mead exploded on his tongue and burned a trail through to his stomach.

“This is marvelous,” he said between bites.

“Can’t be nothing wrong with a boy who eats like that,” the woman said with a grin.

The villagers laughed.

“Welcome to Sjesko,” one said.

Garrick winced. The meal filled his stomach, but did nothing for the other hunger that surged inside him. And as the spirits of the village rose, darkness in his gut wrestled against the bindings of his willpower.

“After he’s eaten, maybe we can convince this lad to tell us his tale,” the stocky man said.

Heads nodded.

“You got a name, boy?” the man asked.

“Garrick.”

“Clem,” the man replied.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Garrick ripped meat from the bone as rapidly as he could chew, and the flurry of activity surrounding his arrival subsided. A lanky farmer told a story.

The young girl who had been afraid of him earlier still stared at him, though. Her attention was a steady, prattling rain against his mind. Her eyes were big and watery. They made him uncomfortable. He felt himself reaching toward her, gently, slowly, reaching like a warm wave toward those watery eyes.

You have given…

“No!” he screamed.

He looked up to face silent stares. An awkward stillness hung in the air.

“He’s scary,” the little girl said again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Clem said, putting himself between Garrick and his wife.

“Nothing,” Garrick replied.

But the word was forced, and he knew it was not the truth. He felt like he was dangling from a cliff that grew out of a dark morass, his grip slipping away with every moment.

Clem’s eyes slitted and his jaw set.

“Look at him,” a voice came from within the crowd, and Garrick sensed the heady flavor of fear. “He’s a demon!”

“No,” he whispered, his voice deep in his throat.

The hair tingled on his arms, and sweat came to his forehead.

“You’d best be leaving, son,” Clem said.

“He’ll just come back, Clem,” Another villager said.

“Kill him,” another voice cried.

His hunger surged at the aggression, burning inside, the heat of each villager etching pain into his senses.

Men brandished tools like weapons. Melli gripped her knife and stood beside her husband. A pick axe appeared further back.

“Don’t do this,” he said.

Fight as you will, Garrick. It will only be worse in the end.

The villagers of Sjesko edged forward.

“I’m dead serious, boy,” Clem said. “You'd best be moving along.”

Something clicked inside him.

Garrick felt release greater than anything he had ever known.

He felt power.

Desire.

Love.

Pain.

It was as if the world had turned itself inside out, and he could feel every bone in its skeleton. He had nothing left. No control. He reached through the noise of his hunger and the panic of the villagers to pull on his link to the plane of magic. Sorcery flowed through gates. Magestuff mixed with his hunger to form ecstasy so thick he thought he might suffocate. He spoke words of wizardry and twisted his fingers, pulling weapons from the villagers’ hands and twirling them into a maelstrom that rose around him.

Screams rang out.

An iron rake bit into Garrick’s leg. He ignored the pain and merely heaved the instrument back into the flow. Magic burned from his outstretched arms and he waded in the familiar scent of warm honey that laced his Torean sorcery. Green fire crackled between his fingers. The essence of this new magic bordered on spiritual—the expenditure of energy was a glorious release of pain.

He threw magic left and right, painting with it as if creating art, conducting his wizardry like it was a symphony. An ax sliced through a man nearby. A knife embedded itself in a woman’s thigh. Sorcerous wind howled, and the smell of blood colored the night crimson. Fire and wood flew through the air, burning thatch and crushing skulls. The villagers screamed, and the stench of human flesh rose.

As villagers died, Garrick breathed them in.

It was like inhaling fire.

What am I doing, he thought as he drank life force, what am I doing?

But he could not stop.

Time became suspended. Magic flowed, and there was only movement and energy and the sweet, rapturous scrub of magic.

When the flow finally subsided, not a hut remained standing.

Mutilated bodies littered the area. Clem lay on the ground, his chest split open. And the others–the others were no better off.

Garrick fell to his knees and held his head in his hands as he tried to understand what had just happened. His head pounded. His skin felt as if it had been scoured by fine sand. His blood ran hard through his veins, and every muscle in his body felt strained and torn.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”

But he was wrong.

It was his fault. He had done this. He had created this death and mayhem. It was exactly his fault.

The ghoulish presence of power surged inside him, then, a thing so large and so electric that he felt he might split apart. The skin on his arms crawled. His throat ached from the coarse smoke that hung like gauze in the air.

Garrick cast a bloated gaze over the destruction around him.

He could not hide from this, and he could not merely apologize his way to a new life. Nothing he did for the rest of his time would ever change the fact that he was now a monster.

Chapter 10

“Enough!” Garrick screamed into the nighttime sky, his voice harsh and ragged. He had nothing left to lose.

There was no response, though.

He picked up a short, but sturdy sword he found lying in the dirt. Its edge reflected orange fire as he held it before him. Falling to his knees, he reversed the blade and placed its sharpened point below his sternum.

Everything had happen so quickly.

Garrick thought of his mother, and of Alistair. He thought of Alistair’s apprentices. He thought of Arianna, beautiful Arianna. Had he actually loved her? Perhaps. But he had not really known her. She was beautiful, though. And she had liked him. If nothing else he could have grown to love her.

Not that it mattered.

Arianna was nothing but a bitter dream now. A life he could never have. But he could have loved her. He knew he could have, and as he felt the edge of the blade firmly against his breastbone, that seemed to matter.

He increased pressure on the blade.

He closed his eyes, and he sensed…

…the smell of honey…

…seeping into the clearing.

Garrick opened his eyes to see a cloud of smoke the color of deepest ocean roiling upon itself. It flowed together from the woods, coalescing in the clearing to become a slender man wearing a tunic and a pair of loose black breeches. The man rested one thinly gloved hand on the pommel of the ornamental rapier at his side. Half his face was obscured in shadow, but one green eye was exposed to the flickering light of Sjesko’s fire, and that one eye was piercing.

He lowered the blade from his chest.

“What’s wrong, Garrick? Are you finding the act of deciding who lives and dies to be less comforting than you thought it might be?”

“How do you know my name?”

The visitor smirked. “Perhaps you’ll think more clearly if you get off your knees.”

Garrick used the weapon to stand, feeling the villagers’ energy flow in his veins as he did so. Their flavor was growing stronger as time passed.

“Who are you?” he said.

“You know who I am.”

“You are clearly no mage of the orders.”

The visitor brought a hand to his heart with feigned indignation. “The mere idea stings.”

“But if you were a Torean I would have seen you before.”

The man raised an eyebrow. His gaze was ancient, his bearing firm. “You think so?”

Suddenly Garrick did know who this was—or at least what this was

And once he accepted this as fact, he realized he should have known what was behind this wild hunger all along. He had never needed to think at such levels before, though, and Alistair had mentioned such beings only in passing. To have missed it, in truth, said nothing about him at all.

“You’re a planewalker,” he finally said.

The man bowed with mock formality.

“Braxidane at your service. Though we prefer the term god.”

“I’m sure you do.”

A planewalker, Garrick thought. A life force who lived in the space between the thousand worlds. To mages, these beings were merely creatures of higher power, but to others—those with no understanding of magic—they were often worshiped as the gods Braxidane professed to be.

“You need to fix this,” he said.

“Would you have me create a whole village of the same walking dead you made of Alistair?”

Garrick had no reply.

“Consider this your first lesson, Garrick. I cannot fix what you have done here. Arianna survived because she was still alive as you tended her. You breathed life into Alistair’s dead husk and now he has nothing beyond that magic to keep him alive, so he will be eternally drawn to add to it. If you are to save a living creature, some shred of existence must remain in the body or your energy has nothing to build upon.

I didn’t know.”

Braxidane shrugged.

“You could have stopped me.”

“You chose your own course. The problem is that you did not think things through before you chose it.”

“You could have stopped me.”

“Lessons are best learned by experience.”

“Stop it.”

“The truth does not change merely because you find it inconvenient, nor does it care if you agree with it or not.”

Garrick stared at the planewalker, anger rising. The voices of villagers echoed inside his mind. “You tricked me,” he said. “This whole thing. You knew what was going to happen, and you gave me your magic anyway.”

Braxidane gave a lighthearted smile. “You asked for my help. How could I not reply?”

“I don’t want it anymore. Take it back.”

“I think not.”

“Why not?” Garrick was embarrassed by the pleading edge to his voice.

“I did not trick you, Garrick. You wanted this responsibility. You agreed to take it. I’ve paid dearly to give it to you, and I have no intention of giving you up.”

Garrick raised his sword. “I will destroy myself before I let you control me.”

Braxidane gazed over the bodies littering the ground.

“I don’t think you’ll do that—not today, anyway. Probably never.”

“You’ll lose that bet.”

“No, Garrick. I don’t think I will. You are free to make your own choices, but there will, of course, always be consequences. That’s all there is to life, really, actions and consequences. And you are a good man at heart. If you listen to the voices ringing inside your head for a moment I think you’ll come to understand that if you destroy yourself now, all of these deaths you have created will be for naught.”

Garrick glared at the planewalker.

“Don’t tell me you can’t hear them?”

Garrick grimaced. He could hear them. He could feel them.

The voices were growing more solid inside his mind every moment—the life forces of men and women with desires and dreams still eager to be released rolled through his core, with lessons waiting to be passed on. These lessons filled his senses—simple learnings of practical lives and the wisdom of common sense. He felt their power, tasted their humility. Their history welled up inside him—every person, every name singing him their stories in stanzas and melodies that wove themselves into a harmonic tapestry of sounds.

He had destroyed their bodies, but he had not yet destroyed who they were. If Garrick killed himself they would be gone forever, but if he lived Garrick could return their life forces to this world once again.

Braxidane was right about something else, too.

The more he let the voices in, the better he felt. The purity of Sjesko's life force rose inside him, and as time passed his angst slipped away. If he focused on the villagers Garrick felt…almost happy.

“This is horrific,” he said.

Braxidane gave a sad smile.

“It's not fair,” Garrick said.

“Garrick, Garrick,” the planewalker chuckled. “Sweet, sweet Garrick. Certainly you can see that things like fairness and justice are merely human constructs. Life is not like that, after all. Life is simple. Individuals act, and consequences occur. See? There is no room for thing such as fairness.”

Garrick swallowed. “Am I going to spend the rest of my life like this?”

“Actions and consequences, Garrick—that’s all there is, even for us gods.”

“That is no answer.”

“And, yet, it is the only one I have.”

“You are a fiend.”

Braxidane shrugged again, and a smile played on his lips. “I’ve been called worse. But don’t expect to be released from your agreement. The world is changing, Garrick. Forces greater than you can understand are aligning. Trust me when I say that if I were to grant you your freedom now, you would find yourself begging for these powers back sooner than you might think.”

Garrick ground his teeth.

“Do all planewalkers enjoy toying with defenseless people as much as you?”

“What else would you expect from gods?” Braxidane said.

Then he was gone.

Epilogue

Garrick looped the blade he carried into his belt.

Standing in the smoking remains of what had once been the village of Sjesko, he wanted to feel shame. He wanted to feel guilty. But, the essence of the villagers filled his body with an energy that could neither hate nor despair. It could not brook hopelessness. It could not allow for self-pity. He nearly swooned as the villager’s life force swelled inside him. A cool nighttime breeze was already working to cleanse the clearing of his foul deeds. The hair on the back of his hand rose as excess energy crackled over his fingertips.

Life, as Braxidane had said, is not fair. The villagers of Sjesko wanted to live.

So, despite himself, Garrick would learn how to live again. He would learn how use this magic of Braxidane’s. He would learn how it worked. He would give it to whatever purpose the villagers’ essence would put it to. In truth, he felt an awkward optimism rising within him as the moments passed.

But he would do it knowing this was all a false comfort. He had felt the darkness before. It would come again. This curse of Braxidane’s was the truest definition of servitude he could conceive.

Forces greater than you could understand, he thought. Begging for these powers back.

The absurdity of Braxidane's commentary made him angry. The notion that Garrick might choose this curse as his fate of his own free will was farcical. But all he could do now was grimace at the planewalker’s hubris.

Garrick could not just let this happen, though. Not if he wanted to live with himself. Life was not as simple as Braxidane wanted him to believe. Life was messy. It was complicated. Life should be fair, though, and justice existed. People mattered.

The planewalker’s magic was strong enough that Garrick didn’t think Dontaria Pel-an would be able to remove it, but he would still try. And he would need money regardless. So he would still go to Caledena. He would still take Alistair’s job.

He needed to break this link more than ever.

There had to be a way.

Prey can turn to predator, after all.

There was so much he had to learn, though. So much he had to absorb.

The breeze brought the scent of the woods around him. Move, his life force spoke to him. It’s time to move.

Garrick took a last moment to linger over the devastation before him, then strode into the dense forest.

* * * * *

This is the end of Glamour of the God-Touched, but the story of Garrick, Braxidane, and the struggle between the orders continues in Trail of the Torean, due to be published December of 2014!

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The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:

Glamour of the God-Touched

Trail of the Torean

Target of the Orders

Gathering of the God-Touched

Pawn of the Planewalker

Changing of the Guard

Lord of the Freeborn

Lords of Existence

APPENDIX

* * * * *

Map of the Plane of Adruin

image by Ron Collins

Acknowledgements

The universe of Adruin and All of Existence has many people to thank for its existence, not the least of which are Tim Brown, Mike Cox, Ken and Jackie Peters, and my wife, Lisa.

I need to single out a few others for their efforts beyond all the rest.

My friend, collaborator, and pre-reader John Bodin’s help was—as always—superlative. I want to thank my daughter, Brigid, for stepping into the fray when I needed her. And I want to give thanks to my cover artist, Rachel Carpenter, who was great fun to work with and who did a fantastic job bringing Garrick to life.

Thanks to David B. Coe (D. B. Jackson) for his kind comments on my work, and for his gentle prodding regarding the story itself. I owe you a dum-dum, David.

Mostly, though, I have to thank Lisa for everything she's done for me. Saga of the God-Touched Mage has gone through more twists and turns than I could ever have predicted when the idea first hit, and she's been with me through every step. (Don’t worry, honey. It's really done. Really, I mean it. It's done. You don't have to read it for the 111th time!).

About Ron Collins

Ron Collins is an award-winning author who lives in Columbus, Indiana, with his wife, Lisa.

Glamour of the God-Touched is the first volume in the eight-part Saga of the God-Touched Mage. He published Five Magics, a collection of his short fantasy, in 2012. Five Magics includes two tales from Dragon Magazine, a Marion Zimmer Bradley’s FANTASY MAGAZINE Cauldron Award winning story, and another tale that was awarded Honorable Mention in Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's “Years Best Fantasy.”

Ron is the author of two road trip, alternate-history, fantasy, science fiction baseball novels, the first being See the PEBA on $25 a Day (2010), and the sequel being Chasing the Setting Sun (2014).

He has contributed numerous short stories to professional science fiction publications including Analog, Asimov’s, and Nature. His writing has received a Writers of the Future prize, and a CompuServe HOMer Award. He holds a degree in Mechanical Engineering, and worked developing avionics systems, electronics, and information technology before spending a decade in Human Resource management.

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The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:

Glamour of the God-Touched

Trail of the Torean

Target of the Orders

Gathering of the God-Touched

Pawn of the Planewalker

Changing of the Guard

Lord of the Freeborn

Lords of Existence

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