Page 37 of The Discount Damsel

Dirk needed a map. Where was this library located? Was it close by? Was it on the same continent or was it nestled on one of the island kingdoms? As he shot into the air to look for an atlas, the pages of Arcane Practices fluttered, and a strange loose leaf of paper drifted to the floor.

“Um, Bradley?”

“Hn?”

“Firstly, I didn’t do it. Secondly, you should look at this.”

The sorcerer apprentice straightened out of his hunch to peer overtop the stacks of books, rose fully when he saw the old piece of paper on the floor. It took only a glance to confirm from its different coloration that it did not belong to the book open in front of the luck dragon.

Frowning, Bradley moved around the desk and retrieved the paper. It was thick and dark, as if stained with tea or coffee, and very old. It was surprisingly supple, unfolding as if made of fabric. Or skin. Maybe it was.

Dirk swirled to Bradley’s shoulders, layered upon them like very heavy feather boa, and peered down as the apprentice unfolded the strange parchment. The scent of licorice greeted them as softly as a whisper.

Inside were writing in faded black ink and cross-section diagrams of the world, its heavens and underrealms, detailed drawings of hand gestures, and something held in a sorcerer’s hands that resembled a circle loom which pulled in the threads of magic that connected all life towards its center.

Dirk read only a few lines of the ancient text before the phantom hand of dread traced an icy fingertip along his spine.

“Bradley,” he began softly, as if speaking above a whisper and faster than a drawl would somehow activate the script on the page, “that’s an instruction guide for conjuring and summoning. Why would Master Excelsior have a page with dark magic written on it hidden in his library?”

CHAPTER 17

DARK MAGIC AND CRUMBS IN THE BED

“Y-you c-c-can r-r-read th-this?” Bradley struggled, his hands full of the parchment.

“I’m a dragon,” Dirk answered, his voice still soft and nervous. “Of course I can. It’s some kind of ancient Aetherial. Ugh, put it away. I hate the smell of dark magic. Black licorice. Bah!”

Bradley hesitated, eyes lingering on the drawing, before obeying. He didn’t replace it in Arcane Practices of the Wise but rather set it on a bare patch of desk. Heart racing, he strode over to the clutter and began sorting through this and that for an appropriate container. It wouldn’t do to leave it exposed, and he wasn’t about to slip it back into a book and forget its title. What if he wanted to look at it again?

Why would he want to look at it again? It was dark magic. But surely Master Excelsior had kept it around for a reason. Or had he hidden it here because he knew the wards at the College would’ve activated against the dark magic and sent the gargoyles after him? Had he intended to return here and examine it further before destroying it and just forgotten about it?

Bradley Donmarin knew the moment he saw that parchment that he would never ever forget it, for good or for ill.

Summoning was a topic only briefly touched upon at the College. As it was a dark art, it wasn’t explained past the fact that it was forbidden and that a gruesome fate awaited those who attempted it on campus.

If incantation was light magic and summoning dark, then conjuring was smack dab in the middle in an alluring shade of sterling gray. Both conjuring and summoning involved the tangible manipulation of the unseen. Depending on the object of your desire, free will became an issue. A plate of steaming blueberry rolls with lemon icing had no free will, and thus could be conjured to appear on your table if you were in need of a sugary treat. As did any inanimate object. Summoning would bring the baker, apron still powdered with flour and fingernails stained with blueberries, to your table, enthralled to obey your bidding. No baker would appreciate that, especially if they had cakes in the oven or dough in the proofing drawer.

Summoning was magical slavery, and forbidden. Since conjuring, at its core, was a lesser form of summoning, it was also forbidden to all below the level of Grand Master, lest the young fall into temptation and one technique lead to the other.

His search through the sorcerous clutter finally paid off. The apprentice extracted a wooden box with a beeswax seal that had once contained ink supplies. Bradley found the interior stained but dry and slipped the parchment inside. After placing the box on the edge of the desk, away from the spread of books, he sank into his chair and turned to the three texts open to him.

He read only a few lines from each before his gaze wandered to the box.

Focus, he chided himself and returned to his books.

But like a leaky faucet with a sporadic drip, the presence of the box gnawed at the fringes of his concentration. His eyes strayed to the simple cherrywood rectangle, and the brass horn latch winked at him like a street-corner strumpet.

Bradley sank deeper over his books and drummed his fingers against the pages.

He picked up a quill and twirled it in his fingers, willing his eyes to stay upon the text in front of him and not wander over to where they certainly shouldn’t look.

There had to be a reason for this seemingly random piece of dark magic. A good explanation. The man he trusted most, the one who had plucked him from a life of subjugation and suffering, who had seen his worth and given him an honored place at his side, surely that man wasn’t a dark sorcerer in disguise, was he?

The quill slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor like a shed leaf.

“Bradley?”

“Pen!” The apprentice would’ve shouted Miss Penelope’s full name had he been able to manage the syllables.