The Keeper of Magical Things

One

Certainty Bulrush was in the midst of arguing with a particularly intractable quilt.

Which, as far as morning chores went, was not really something to complain about. Not when other novices were stuck transcribing dusty old scrolls, or mucking out the stables by hand for reasons as dubious as it builds character and the horses like to see you work. No; Certainty knew she was lucky to be warm and dry in the laundry rooms, with only a few dirty blankets between her and freedom.

But still. It’d be so much easier if the bedding could just be a little more reasonable.

Don’t you want to be nice and clean? That ink stain makes you look a mess; why don’t we just get rid of it…

I am a quilt. I display patterns. My purpose is to be beautiful. The object-voice of the quilt was soft and muffled in Certainty’s mind, but gave the strong impression of pouting nevertheless. The problem was simply that the quilt liked its splotchy new ink stains.

"Yes, but you’re also meant to keep people warm in bed, and no mage wants to sleep under a dirty quilt," she cajoled.

"I’m not dirty, it insisted. I’m decorative."

But she sensed a tremor of hesitation in its words. Aha—there was her angle of attack. What objects wanted, above all else, was to be used. To fulfill the purposes for which they had been made. To be valued.

Certainty knew this well because she was a physical mage. (Well, a mage-in-training.) However, unlike the Guild’s more powerful physical mages—ones who could hurl boulders great distances (preferably in the direction of an enemy army), or ones who wove enchantments into precious metals—her abilities were slightly more…mundane.

By touching objects, she could speak with them to understand their purposes and convince them to do small things for her. She could sweet-talk a cup of tea into being less bitter; she could shame a shirt into unwrinkling—but, unfortunately, that was about the extent of her powers.

Hence her being here in the Guild laundry rooms. A sixth-year novice, magicking ink stains out of bedsheets while trying not to think about how her entire family had pinned their hopes on her magical career.

Certainty set her jaw and pressed on.

Just the other day, I saw a steward get rid of some pillowcases. A novice spilled some potion ingredients all over them—wyvern blood, you know, impossible to clean—so the pillowcases had to be thrown out.

There was a pause as the quilt absorbed this information.

Thrown out? You mean—discarded?

"Left for rags," she confirmed. Latrine wipes, I think.

The fringes of the quilt twitched in alarm. But I’m a good quilt! I’m very comfortable…

I’m sure that’s true. Certainty patted the quilt, trying to be both stern and reassuring. Then her fingers skimmed over its dark splotches, and she frowned. Now that she was looking more closely, there was something funny about the way the ink had spilled…It almost looked like a floral pattern—were those roses? How did you get this stain, anyway?

"It’s not a stain," said the quilt, still sulky. I made it with some of the extra magic floating around. I thought people would like it.

Extra magic…? What could that mean? Sometimes objects spoke in riddles. Certainty supposed that they experienced the world rather differently, on account of being things and not people, and Mother and Sons knew that people were hard enough to understand as it was. She shrugged it off.

"I’m afraid not. And even if they did, you’d never match with the rest of the decor, see? Look, you’re a lovely quilt already, we can all see that—quality stitching, padding still nice and thick—so let’s just shake off all that messy ink so we can put you back where you belong, hm?"

The quilt wavered, rustling indecisively under her hand. …latrine wipes? Really?

Really.

The quilt shivered once more, and then—thank the Mother—finally complied, with a reluctant sigh like the whisper of fabric against skin. The ink welled up from the fibers, tracing the quilt’s edges before dripping in dark rivulets onto the floor. A puddle of ink gathered on the stones, and the quilt was soon crisp and clean once more.

Certainty beamed down at it. Hours of scrubbing saved, just like that.

Well done, quilt. Thank you!

A sullen silence was her only response. Certainty shrugged and withdrew her magic. Carefully, she refolded the quilt and balanced it atop the basket of clean bedding in the corner. The quilt was the dean’s favorite, apparently; the laundry staff would be grateful that she’d managed to salvage it. The Guildtower servants always were whenever Certainty was able to help with a favor like this. It was just too bad the servants weren’t the ones who decided which novices got to advance to magehood.

Certainty sighed and went to fetch the next basket of laundry—and that was when, as her da would say, everything went thoroughly pear-shaped.

First came the sudden deadening of noise—a heavy, disorienting silence that plugged her ears up as if she’d just jumped into a lake. Then there was a great shrinking sensation, as if the Guildtower itself were contracting with Certainty at its center. Her stomach swooped in a highly unpleasant fashion, and a little late, she wondered whether she ought to start panicking—then—

WHOMP.

The sound was so loud, yet of so low a register, that it vibrated right through the stone walls of the laundry room, rattling the contents of the shelves, the baskets, and Certainty’s skull in the process. She wobbled and grabbed at the wall for balance, heart thudding and breath coming short and jumpy. Was the Guildtower under attack? Had the alchemists blown up their laboratories in the Paper Quarter again?

But no further whomps or strange shrinking sensations followed, so Certainty edged toward the door, cursing the fact that she was alone. Blasted unlucky that the laundry staff were all taking their break and gossiping in the courtyard instead of here with her, where they might be able to protect her from…whatever this was. Certainty was not built for combat.

Still, a weapon couldn’t hurt. She grabbed a wicker rug beater from its hook on the wall before poking her head through the doorway to see if anyone else knew what was going on.

Hello? she called out.

Nobody responded, but strange and muffled noises were coming from the kitchens down the hall…

Mustering her courage and brandishing the rug beater like a floppy sword, she followed the sounds down the stone corridor and approached the kitchen entryway with caution. Then she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything inside looked fine: There were partially sliced loaves of bread on the counter, glistening chickens and ducks roasting on their hooks above the fire, an enormous stewpot simmering merrily away in the corner, cabbages rolling around on the floor…

Wait. Cabbages?

Ordinarily, the kitchen was staffed with a dozen-odd people: cooks, bakers, off-duty pages loitering hopefully near the ovens, and so on. It had been bustling and noisy with the day’s preparations when Certainty passed by earlier.

But now…the kitchen staff was nowhere to be seen.

And instead, there were a number of large, round cabbages, green and squeaking on the kitchen floor.

Oh dear, Certainty breathed.

The Guildtower was, of course, a place of magic. Unusual things happened often in places of magic; Certainty had seen her fair share of them. But they generally happened in controlled environments under the supervision of a senior mage—and transforming the kitchen staff into leafy greens didn’t seem likely to be on anyone’s syllabus.

She crouched down to examine the cabbage closest to her. It was a marvelous specimen whose size alone would have made it a prize contender at any Spring Fair. It looked properly vegetal—as cabbage-like as a cabbage could get, really—yet somehow, it also bore an uncanny resemblance to Ger the head cook. Something about the bumps and veins on the outer leaves…tentatively, she reached one finger out to prod it.

Squeak! said the Ger-cabbage, wobbling indignantly.

Certainty nearly fell over. She sprang to her feet, making a vaguely reassuring gesture with her hands while trying to remember the protocol for magical emergencies. Don’t worry, I’ll get help! Stay here—

She wasn’t sure if Ger could understand her, but supposed it didn’t really matter, as he didn’t look capable of going very far in his current state. Notify the dean—that was the first step. She dashed out of the kitchens, running so fast that she nearly knocked over the uniformed errand boy conveniently headed down the stairs.

Oy! Watch where you’re goi—

The dean, she said, grabbing at the boy’s shoulders. There’s been an emergency in the kitchens! Fetch the dean, and any other senior mages, too—

What? What kind of emergency?

"The kitchen staff have all been turned into cabbages—a transformation spell—look, just go get them, would you?"

The page’s eyes went wide, and he sprinted back up the stairs much more quickly than Certainty could have managed. She flopped against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She hated how powerless she felt. Undoing transformation spells on any living thing—let alone a person—was far beyond her capabilities; she knew better than to even try. So all she could do was send for help and wait for the real mages to show up. Stupid mages with their stupid circles, and spells that actually worked when they cast them…

The distressed squeaking increased in volume behind her, and it occurred to Certainty that the Guildtower’s kitchens were home to several cats and at least one dog, any one of which might pass by and decide that the cabbages rolling around on the floor looked like fun new chew toys. Sighing, Certainty headed back down the stairs to guard them while she waited. At least there was something useful she could do.

Fortunately, no curious animals appeared, and it was only a quarter-bell or so before a gaggle of senior mages clustered in the entrance to the kitchens. They looked as out of place in their elaborate robes as peacocks in a chicken coop. (It wasn’t often that senior mages deigned to descend all the way down to the kitchens, but Certainty imagined that the sudden and unexpected transformation of Guildtower staff into cabbages ranked fairly high on the faculty agenda.)

It wasn’t only senior mages, either. A woman whose dark hair was threaded with silver strode to the front of the group with a no-nonsense air, and Certainty swallowed. The High Mage herself had come.

High Mage Melea looked both older and sharper than Certainty remembered from the last novice assembly. Unlike the other mages, she wore plain blue robes adorned only by two golden pins: one bore the Guild circles, and just below, the other displayed the twin lions of the Eshteran Crown. It was this latter that marked her as elected leader of the Guild of Mages and Minister of Magic to the Crown, and therefore the most powerful mage in the kingdom—politically speaking, anyway.

Behind her spectacles, the High Mage’s shrewd gray eyes took in the kitchen, the squeaking vegetables, and then Certainty in an instant.

Novice…?

Certainty, High Mage. She bobbed a nervous curtsy.

Novice Certainty. Report, please. Her voice was crisp and authoritative.

There wasn’t much to report beyond the obvious—the kitchen staff seem to have turned into cabbages—but Certainty did her best, beginning with the strange sensations she’d felt immediately before finding them in their current state.

Hmm, said the High Mage. She made a complicated gesture with her fingers that Certainty recognized as a spell of magic detection, and her eyebrows drew together. No spell signature. It wasn’t a mage who did this. Dean Leverin, would you kindly return our cooks to their original forms?

The dean, a heavyset man with a neatly trimmed beard, nodded and rolled up his sleeves. He took on a look of great concentration—then muttered a spell that was followed by a gentle pop, and the cabbage by the stove abruptly turned into a woman wearing an apron and a bewildered expression. All watched (Certainty with a particular envy) as more pops followed, and one by one, with gasps and cries of relief, the kitchen staff reappeared safe and whole in their human forms. Many touched their limbs and faces anxiously, as if to make sure they were still there. Certainty couldn’t really blame them.

Thank you, Leverin. Nicely done. The High Mage turned toward one of the other mages. Mage Farid, your theories as to the cause of this?

A mage wearing pointed shoes was running his hands along the kitchen walls with a look of concentration. I cannot be certain yet, High Mage. I’ll need samples to study. There are several possibilities—

Perhaps accidental ingestion of a transformation potion… mused a female mage with a belt full of glass vials. Something in the stew?

But Certainty suddenly remembered what the quilt had said. Extra magic! she blurted.

The senior mages looked at her in faint surprise, as if they’d forgotten she was still there.

What do you mean, Novice? the High Mage asked.

I mean— Certainty felt their eyes on her and swallowed. I think the transformations might have been caused by an excess of magic. I was doing laundry just next door before it happened, and there was a quilt I was speaking with—my ability, you see—and it said something about there being…extra magic.

A muttering arose from the mages at this, and the High Mage nodded thoughtfully. Magical spillover…interesting. Farid—could this be possible?

Mage Farid stroked his beard. Well—yes, I suppose. My thaumic compass has had some erratic readings lately. I thought the thing was just old and needed replacing, but perhaps the girl’s right, and we’ve surpassed the safe threshold for magical energies.

But how? blustered Dean Leverin. We’ve always taken great precautions to prevent magic leakage in the Guildtower! Our spells cast only within containment fields, our magical artifacts stored only in warded vaults—

A small noise interrupted him. It came from within the group of mages. It sounded like a cough that didn’t especially want to be noticed.

Mage Mortimer, said the High Mage, narrowing her eyes at its source.

An unkempt-looking mage sidled reluctantly to the front. He was an older man with gray hair that shot out in all directions from beneath a red felted cap and bloodshot eyes that blinked a little too often. He looked how Certainty had felt the one time she’d accidentally taken a sip of dragon reviver instead of berry cordial; she hadn’t stopped vibrating for days.

I sent you a memo last week, High Mage, he said. His voice was scratchy, like a quill dragged across parchment. "When those adventurers delivered us another haul of artifacts from the Dungeons of Drakmar, if you remember? Two wagonloads! Mostly junk, mind you, all low-grade enchantments, nothing valuable—but still, there was nowhere to put them, because our vaults are so blasted full. They’ve been full for months, High Mage; I put in an official request, all the proper paperwork and everything, but the bursar said something about budget cuts—budget cuts, I tell you—"

The High Mage cut him off with nothing but the tiniest narrowing of her eyes.

"And where, she said, her every word crisp with intention, are these artifacts now?"

Mortimer blinked his jittery gaze away and mumbled something.

What was that?

Thekitchenpantry, he said, still barely audible. He looked as if he wanted to transform himself into one of the flagstones beneath his feet, or possibly a very small root vegetable.

There was a loud groaning from the other senior mages, and the High Mage drew a deep, vexed breath and opened her mouth—but Certainty couldn’t know what she would have said to the unfortunate Mage Mortimer because at that moment, there was another vast sucking noise, that same unpleasant swooping in her insides, and then—

WHOMP.

It began to rain figs.

A great deal of organized chaos followed. As Certainty kept out of the way and watched, High Mage Melea took charge of the situation with frightening efficiency. The raining fruits were banished with a spell; the kitchens were to be closed until the pantry was adequately warded (one of the mages looked mournfully at the roasting chickens); the kitchen staff would be given several days off to recover from their brief spells as vegetables; and Mage Farid was to immediately take measurements of the thaumic levels in the vaults and all other parts of the Guildtower to detect any other leakages.

And you, the High Mage said curtly to Mage Mortimer once they were no longer being pelted by fruit and the other mages had been sent away to their tasks. Come to my office as soon as you have a proposal for remedying the artifact overflow situation.

Certainty fidgeted. Nobody had asked her to do anything; could she just leave? She was going to be late to her afternoon classes, but then again, maybe the dean would excuse her—I’m quite shaken by seeing Ger like that, sir; not sure I’ll be able to concentrate on Advanced Spell Components today—

But then the High Mage’s eyes snapped onto her, and her expression was calculating in a way that made Certainty nervous.

Actually…Mortimer, I may have a potential solution for us. Novice Certainty, I’ll need you to join us in my office.

I— She had nothing to do with any of this; she’d just been unlucky enough to be on laundry duty at the wrong time! But there was only one correct response to such a request. Yes, High Mage.

So High Mage Melea turned to exit, followed by the miserable Mage Mortimer, and Certainty saw no alternative but to troop out of the kitchens and up the stairs toward whatever it was that fate had in store for her.

Two

Certainty, Mage Mortimer, and High Mage Melea strode out of the kitchen and through the corridor, then up the wide, spiral staircase that was the spine of the Guildtower.

As they passed each landing, Certainty caught glimpses of the four curving corridors branching out from the stairs to stretch north, east, south, and west, all looping back to the central column like the boundaries of a clover. The novices’ quarters, the classrooms, the libraries—a kaleidoscope of rooms snaked throughout the tower, the varied fiefs of the Guild’s vertical demesne. But they only continued to climb up and up, and Certainty tried not to wheeze too audibly; physical exercise was not traditionally a mage’s strong suit. Finally, they turned off into a corridor lit brightly with magelamps, and halted before a set of ornately carved doors.

I need a few moments to discuss matters with Mage Mortimer first, the High Mage said to her. Wait here, please.

The High Mage and Mage Mortimer disappeared between the heavy doors. As soon as they closed, Certainty let her shoulders slump, and she looked glumly around at the ornate tapestries adorning the whitestone walls. On one of them, a mage appeared to be riding a gryphon while hurling fireballs at the battlefield below. Charming. Whether it was meant as an inspiration or a warning, Certainty wasn’t sure.

It was Certainty’s first time on this particular floor of the Guildtower. She’d never been called to the High Mage’s office before—she wasn’t nearly important enough for that. Well, neither important enough nor enough of a problem, she supposed. Sometimes a novice could get in enough trouble that the High Mage would expel them from the Guild personally, but as far as she knew, she hadn’t broken any Guild rules.

Her conscience gave a guilty twinge.

All right, fine, she hadn’t broken any rules lately. That incident last spring with the starfruit wine and invisibility potions didn’t count, surely. It had all been Dav’s idea, and everyone’s heads had reappeared eventually.

But besides a few such minor infractions, Certainty was by and large a rule-abiding novice. She’d never do anything that put her in real risk of expulsion; why would she? She liked her life in the Guildtower. Granted, she was more than ready to move on from it—but only with a mage’s circles pinned firmly to her robes.

It had to happen eventually; that was what she kept telling herself. (And her family.)

She shifted her weight to her other foot, watching the closed doors with growing anxiety. What could the High Mage possibly want with her? Surely she didn’t blame her for the cabbages. Certainty tucked a loose curl back behind her ear but it sprang free again; her hair, like her, had a mild tendency toward rebellion. She accepted the futility of trying to make it behave and simply stood there trying to quell the nervousness that churned her stomach. Blast. She should’ve just signed up for door duty that morning instead of laundry. Better to have to wrangle eager applicants and fill out paperwork for the Guild testers than get caught up in…whatever this was.

Then the office doors finally opened again, and Mage Mortimer’s bloodshot eyes peered out at her. You can come in now, he muttered.

Steeling herself, she followed him in and found herself in an office that was grand without being ostentatious. Along the eastern wall, an immense window stretched from carpeted floor to inlaid ceiling. Through it was a magnificent view of the White Palace, gleaming in the midday sun and draped in a lush shawl of gardens. In the center of the room was a large desk crafted from dark wood that was presently covered in scrolls, parchments, and books whose disarray suggested they had very recently been rifled through. In front of the desk were two cushioned chairs, worn but expensive-looking, and seated behind the desk, wearing a thoughtful expression, was the High Mage.

Certainty ducked another quick, nervous curtsy. (It never hurt to be polite.) The High Mage gestured toward the chairs, so she sat in one while Mortimer merely stood to the side, twitching faintly and looking like he wished he were anywhere else.

The High Mage studied her for a moment. Then she pulled one of the parchments closer and peered down at it over her spectacles.

Certainty Bulrush of Potshire. A novice for six years now. The longest-tenured of our current novices, in fact. Accepted for training at seventeen, with a highly specific aptitude in physical magic—the ability to communicate with objects via touch. Is that all correct?

Yes, High Mage.

A highly specific aptitude. It didn’t sound so bad when you put it like that.

And yet, your magic has failed to progress sufficiently during these six years to qualify you for full magehood. You’ve attempted the advancement trials twice, and have failed twice.

Certainty’s stomach clenched. Had the Guild’s patience with her finally run out? But if so, why was the High Mage delivering the news herself? Surely the dean could have handled something as minor as one novice’s disappointing performance review.

Certainty tried to keep her voice level. Yes, High Mage. But I’ve been training hard, practicing my spellcasting—I’m hoping that next time…

Truth be told, she could barely even convince herself that she was improving. Sure, she could speak with objects all day long, but true mages didn’t rely solely on their unique magical talents. They learned to cast spells from across the magical disciplines; augmented their natural specialization with at least a basic repertoire of utility charms and incantations. But Certainty…even the simplest of spells were still a struggle for her.

The High Mage’s gaze flicked up at her and Certainty trailed off. Glumly, she wondered how much detail, exactly, was on that parchment. Depressing to think that her six-year Guild career could be summarized on a single page.

The High Mage went on.

Your instructors report that you’re a good novice. Diligent. Cheerful. A little impertinent, at times, but hardworking. Always willing to help.

Um. Thank you?

High Mage Melea put the parchment down and leaned back in her chair.

But Novice, I’m sure you’ve read all of the texts on the subject of magical development by now. So you know as well as I do that if your magic hasn’t gotten any stronger by now, it never will.

Her words stung all the more so because they were true. All mages eventually came up against a natural limit to their powers, and Certainty had found hers far too early. The innate magical spark that the Guild testers had seen in her at seventeen had simply never kindled into anything more.

It didn’t matter how hard she trained, how many books she read—the spells she cast always sputtered out as her feeble pool of magic spent itself dry. Even though, Mother and Sons knew, she’d tried. For six years, she’d tried! Everything from meditation techniques to questionable back-alley tonics; anything at all that offered the possibility of expanding her magic beyond the marginal and the mundane. But all she’d ever gotten for her efforts were splitting headaches and heartburn.

Certainty pressed her lips together, willing down the unpleasant creep of shame.

Please don’t expel me from the Guild. Please. I’ll try harder. I’ll… She wasn’t too proud to beg—wasn’t too proud to do anything at all that the Guild might ask of her.

But what could she do? More laundry? More chores?

She certainly couldn’t slink back to Potshire, to her family, with nothing to show for her six years in Margrave. She didn’t want to think of what her parents would say, let alone Asp. He’d looked at her like she was a heroine from the stories when they told him that she’d been accepted by the Guild. That his big sister was going to become a mage, fancy robes and all, and that she’d send home money to secure his apprenticeship—a future beyond the farm—as soon as she succeeded.

Gods, the day she’d left, he’d hugged her so tightly it’d hurt.

But across the desk from her, the High Mage looked surprised.

Expel you? That’s not why I asked you here.

Certainty let her eyes lift from the desk’s swirling woodgrain. It’s not?

No. The Guild has a task for you, Certainty. It’s unglamorous but essential. And, as your earlier insight demonstrated, one that may be uniquely suited to your particular ability.

Mage Mortimer made a skeptical-sounding noise—but Certainty’s heart had leapt to her throat. A task. Novices were rarely given formal assignments of their own. That sounded promising. Like the sort of thing that would incline a Guild committee to look favorably upon her candidacy for magehood. She sat up straighter in the chair, attempting to look very serious and responsible and mage-like.

What would you like me to do, High Mage?

You heard Mortimer speak of the Guild vaults when we were down in the kitchens, yes? I presume you know what they are.

They’re where all of the Guild’s magical artifacts are kept.

The High Mage nodded. Our treasury, of a sort. The vaults contain the enchanted items crafted by our greatest artificers, alongside relics recovered from the Mage Wars. And Mage Mortimer here… She cast a sharp glance at him. He is, at present, the Keeper of the vaults. An important responsibility, because these magical artifacts can be immensely dangerous—not only to their users, but to all around them. As we’ve seen.

It was an oversight, muttered Mage Mortimer. His felted hat had slid askew and he looked even more unbalanced than before. Certainty couldn’t help but wonder if constant exposure to powerful artifacts had affected his mind. She’d heard stories: cursed rings of power, demonically possessed lamps, that sort of thing. Or perhaps Mortimer only suffered from the particular brand of madness brought on by decades of bureaucracy and administrative work. "One mistake in years. I submitted the memo! The bursar—"

The High Mage only lifted one well-practiced eyebrow, and Mortimer subsided into sullen silence. He had not missed the at present, Certainty surmised.

"Mage Mortimer has brought to my attention that our vaults are over capacity. The hired heroes of Eshtera have been doing too good a job hunting magical treasures, it seems, and the Guildtower now has a dangerous surplus of artifacts. As a result, many are stored improperly, posing an immediate risk of further…incidents. We can contain the thaumic leakage temporarily, but there is an urgent need to move some artifacts out of the Guildtower as soon as possible."

Certainty was beginning to put together the pieces. You want me, she said, speaking slowly, to transport magical artifacts out of the Guildtower?

Precisely.

But… Some of those artifacts must be centuries old! Objects of indescribable power—they could level cities, part oceans—and they wanted to trust Certainty with them? But surely—

Her alarm must have been written all over her face. The High Mage shook her head, looking amused.

"Obviously we wouldn’t send the important ones with you. Just the recent delivery currently cluttering the kitchen pantries, and perhaps some other minor items. Mage Mortimer assures me—and will verify, won’t you, Mortimer—that only lesser artifacts with enchantments of the third degree or lower will be sent."

Lesser artifacts, repeated Certainty. So…junk.