Chapter 14 The Magicsmith
THE MAGICSMITH
CEDRIC
Naturally, he wouldn’t get it.
Time, that was. Not with yet another call to action as the Victor of Havensreach.
The air was crisp, just on the far side of chilly, as Cedric strode through the city. Tristan had offered to accompany him, but he had waved him off. If there was one mercy to be found in all this, it was in these rare moments of peace—even if he had to steal them for himself.
At least he had a legitimate excuse to take the long path down to the Walk. His mana token swung against his chest, the embedded emerald barely glowing. It was long overdue for a recharge.
Sighing, Cedric turned down an alley to his right, hand skimming along the cool stone bricks lining his path.
The hanging sign indicating he’d arrived at the mana forge creaked as it swung in the cool breeze.
He sucked in a breath and dredged up the will to exchange pleasantries as he crossed the threshold, feeling the slight shimmer that came with walking through the protective wards.
The building that held the smithy was not by any means an impressive sight.
But the forge itself? It stole Cedric’s breath every time he saw it.
A towering, iron-wrought structure, half-sunken into the ground, with a basin full of bright, turquoise liquid swirling at its center.
Large black pipes belched steam, the tang of raw magic hitting Cedric like a punch to the nose, smelling faintly of embers and metal and something sweet that he couldn’t name.
Above the basin, a hole was cut in the ceiling, sunlight filtering into a great dome of twisted sea glass, painting the room in shades of blue and green.
The sounds of clanking metal and bubbling liquid rent the air, and Cedric found himself working to keep his mouth shut as the magicsmith emerged from behind the forge to greet him.
“Ahhh, our glorious Lord Victor has finally come to call!” cried Master Llewis, red cheeks swelling with a genuine smile as he wiped the sweat from his bald head with a cloth. “Was wondering when we might see you again, good sir.”
“I know, I know. It has been too long,” Cedric said, inclining his head, both in deference to the man, as well as for the practicality of removing his token from his neck. “I only just returned to town and—”
“Just returned, he says.” Llewis barked a laugh, turning to his apprentice, a gangly, red-haired youth whose name, Cedric recalled, was Kelcifor.
“Ain’t that cute, Kel? He thinks the entire city isn’t constantly buzzing with updates as to his comings and goings.
We are more than aware you’ve been back in Kingshelm for over a week, my lord. ”
“You were never one for formalities before the Crucible,” said Cedric, his mouth caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace as he offered the smith his token. “Let’s not start them now. Just Cedric is fine.”
Llewis dipped his chin, carefully turning Cedric’s token over in his hands before snapping his fingers at Kel, who immediately began pumping a set of nearby bellows. “You want it fully charged?”
“If you please.”
“Right you are, my lord—Sir Cedric.” He flashed another toothy smile.
“Good timing too. A fresh cartload of mana was dropped off only this morning, straight from the Midlands.” He gestured to a stack of large metal barrels lining one side of the room.
“Had you visited yesterday, we might not have been able to accommodate you.”
Cedric’s brow furrowed, his gaze going to the mana forge sitting in the center of the room.
“I thought this forge was connected to the mana spring outside the city walls? I am glad to hear that the accords have given you access to additional mana, but I confess I find myself confused. You make it sound as though you were about to run out.”
Llewis removed Cedric’s token from the chain on which he normally wore it, then lifted a tool off the wall—what looked like a large pair of pliers with an extra-long handle, and a bulbous ball at the end.
He chuckled as he placed Cedric’s token inside.
“Well, that’s good news, ain’t it? ’Cause that’s exactly how I meant it to sound. ”
Cedric’s mouth dipped at the edges. He was of course well aware that mana was not a limitless resource, that it had to be carefully rationed, doled out purposefully.
That it could not be harvested from the earth in too great amounts, too quickly, lest the veins of magic running through the land dry up entirely.
It was why not every citizen in Kingshelm, let alone in all of Havensreach, could take advantage of the privileges it afforded humanity.
While the peoples of Old Arcanis—fae, dwarves, sylvans, nocterrians, and beyond—wielded the magic in their veins as easily as they drew breath, humans were left to scrape it from the earth.
To harvest it from the mana springs that dotted the land—springs that, unfortunately, only naturally occurred in two places within Havensreach’s borders.
Still, the fact that they had access to magic through the land’s mana was an incredible gift.
One given by the Guardian of Balance, the banished star god, Aurelia.
Even if she likely regretted it these days, stuck as she was in the Celestial Sanctum, bound there by her siblings after the dark sorcerer Malakar’s power-hungry betrayal.
Master Llewis sighed, looking wistfully at the glowing turquoise mana simmering in the forge basin.
Kel shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Spring’s been giving less and less each day, and it’s taking longer to recover each time. I think maybe the lord paramount overdid it when he asked us to—”
“That’s enough, lad,” Llewis admonished softly. Kel’s cheeks reddened as he went back to manning the forge.
Cedric couldn’t help but think about the dozens of brightly lit, fully charged tokens he’d seen decorating the chests and necks of the nobles at the welcome ball.
Couldn’t help but think about the extra level of grandeur that seemed to be painted over every surface of King’s Keep, all signs meant to impress their Arcanian visitors.
Meanwhile, he was about to head to the Walk, where the mana- and magic-less were barely scraping by.
Llewis placed the end of the tool, now containing Cedric’s token stone, directly into the swirling pool of mana.
There was a slight hiss as it broke the surface, followed by a flare of blue-tinged silver light.
The magicsmith hooked the end of the tool onto a loop at the edge of the basin, clapping his hands together twice before returning to Cedric’s side.
“You know how it goes, my lord. It’ll be a bit. ”
Cedric pulled his coin purse from his belt. “I shall return for it later. How much will this—”
Llewis gave a fervent shake of his head. “You’re an esteemed guest of His Majesty now. Your money’s no good here. We can settle the bill directly with the lord paramount.”
“Surely, that will take some time. Please, allow me to pay now so you do not have to wait. You both have families to feed.” Cedric shook his purse, the coins inside jangling.
“Bah. Save it for the barnacles I know you’ll be soon visiting at the Walk,” Llewis said affectionately.
“Yes,” chimed in an eager Kel. “And please don’t worry about us, sir. Lord Church visits nearly every other day. He oversaw this morning’s mana delivery directly, in fact.”
“Ah. Of course.” Cedric pasted a cordial smile on his face as he retied his purse to his belt. “I’ll leave you to it, then, and see you again upon my return. You have my thanks.”
Llewis turned back to the forge with a grunt of affirmation, and Kel offered a perky farewell to Cedric as he left. Cedric barely heard either. Something prickled at his mind with the mention of Lord Church.
Why was the lord overseeing the deliveries of mana to the magicsmith himself? Moreover, when did he find the time to do so? With endless council meetings and fabricated ceremonies taking place each day, Cedric’s own schedule barely gave him time enough to eat, shower, and sleep. Although . . .
Upon further reflection, Cedric supposed that the lord had indeed only been present at perhaps half of the events Cedric attended. Still, it hardly seemed worth the time and effort of the king’s most esteemed advisor to oversee the logistics of mana deliveries.
Perhaps Kel had simply misspoken. Perhaps he was embellishing. Or . . . perhaps Lord Church’s personal interest in the mana being mined from the Midlands was far greater than Cedric realized. He just wasn’t sure why.
What he was suddenly sure of, with a clarity that made him feel like somewhat of an idiot for not realizing it sooner, was that it made a great deal of sense why both King Callum and Lord Church were stalling the Arcanian efforts to hunt down Varyth Malchior.
Why they did not seem nearly concerned enough that he was after the Crown of Concord.
Granted, Lord Church certainly did seem invested in Cedric’s progress in figuring out the whereabouts of the lost princess and the other half of the crown.
After Cedric had updated the lord with his revelation regarding the princess’ sylvan nanny—conveniently leaving Elyria’s name out of it—he’d sent an emergency missive to Magister Yvan bidding the requisite tomes be rushed to Kingshelm.
But regardless of whether he possessed half a crown or both pieces together, the fact remained that Malchior did not pose the same kind of threat to humans as he did the Arcanians.
The Cult of Malakar’s goal had never been to usurp power from the throne of Kingshelm, but to take down the Arcanians whose magic they resented, whose power they coveted.