Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

flesh weren’t enough,” Imrah fumed, twisting on her heel and stomping over to the couch where Ambrose’s ruined jacket lay.

With a good deal of fumbling that Milo told himself not to watch but somehow wasn’t able to look away from, Imrah managed to enfold herself in the big man’s coat, which looked like a blue tent draped around her small shoulders.

“Happy?” She huffed.

“Not to speak for the Magus,” Ambrose said, giving his ward a wink, “but I’d say we’re about halfway there.”

15

A Warning

The next day, their party came together at the arched entrance to Ifreedahm: three fey, two humans, and two ghuls wearing convincing skin-shawls. To the relief of Milo, both ghuls had managed to acquire adequate if eclectic clothing. They insisted their garments were common dress for the area, but Milo was fairly certain the strange collection of drab essentials with brightly colored head coverings and fringed shawls were whatever was close at hand.

Without fanfare and hardly a word shared between them, they’d crossed the causeway and were soon being led through the tunnels by the two disguised ghuls. The plan was for Imrah and Fazihr to lead them out to the foot of the mountain, which Milo had heard in passing was called Shah Fuladi by the human population. Fazihr, in the guise of a small man with dusky skin and a mop of curly dark hair that fell nearly to his shoulders, stated that there was an outpost of ghul sentries near the access to the surface who should have a report of any activity involving human ground forces. Assuming they had the all-clear from the sentries, they would proceed to the surface, where the fey, who were far more accustomed to traveling above ground and knew the area somewhat, would bring them along a forgotten road to Bamyan, where the German forces were supposed to be stationed.

Everything after that point would be up to Milo and Ambrose to sort out.

Every step they took in the tunnels leading away from Ifreedahm, Milo felt like his feet were getting heavier. He kept remembering his last glimpse of the venomous jewel that was the capital of ghuldom and wondered if he would ever see it again. He told himself it wasn’t that he’d forgotten how the city’s denizens had tried to kill him on multiple occasions, but that while he was there, magic was everywhere, and it was somehow easier to believe that he could become a wizard. If magic and wonder, even the most terrible kinds, were water, he felt like he was leaving the only oasis to head back into the desert, and he couldn’t say for certain that he would ever return.

Milo tried to remind himself that his teacher was going with him and his pack was stuffed with tomes of magical lore, some translated but many still in the eye-searing Ghulish script. Imrah had promised to teach him how to make a fetish that would let him read any untranslated language so that he could read Ghulish. Then according to her, he would have the framework to become “a passable necromist.” Coming from his sour tutor, he supposed he should have taken that as a sign to be hopeful, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shake his melancholy at returning to the drab, dusty, and no doubt deadly world above—the world at war.

Absorbed in such grim navel-gazing, Milo didn’t notice the faint silvery light suffusing the air around him until Contessa Rihyani was walking right beside him.

“Magus,” she said softly, her eyes locked ahead where her two companions walked.

“Contessa,” Milo replied, stifling his shock. “What can I do for you?”

The fey gave him a sidelong glance, complete with a small smile.

“How very genteel of you,” she said. “I’d heard that the age of manners and chivalry was gone among mankind, but I am glad to see that isn’t true.”

Milo studied the elfin creature, certain she was mocking him but not wanting to be rude on the off-chance she wasn’t.

“If my manners don’t offend you, you might be the first,” Milo said with a wry chuckle. “It seems that being abrasive is a singular talent of mine.”

“I’ll second that,” Ambrose called from his place at the rear of the party.

Lady Rihyani laughed, a sound that made Milo’s heart ache.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” the contessa said, adjusting her muffling robes as they walked. “The fact is that things have been stacked against you since the Magpie sent you on your way. Unfortunately, much has been shaped by forces far outside your knowledge and control.”

Milo wasn’t going to argue with that, but the mention of birds struck him as an odd interjection.

“Did you say ‘magpie?’”

Lady Rihyani nodded, and few silver strands fell free. She tucked them back behind the tapered ears within her hood.

“Yes, forgive me.” She sighed, a gentle sound that Milo felt he could have bathed in. “For a long time, Colonel Jorge and I communicated using codenames and ciphers, each trying to measure the intentions and abilities of the other. I sometimes revert to old habits.”

Milo looked at her, unable and unwilling to hide the surprise on his expression.

“How do you know Colonel Jorge?”

Rihyani smiled, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I was the agent sent to contact him when he first began his explorations into our world. It was my job to assess him to resurrect the tradition of the Merry Fellows and reconnect our world and the world of men.”

Milo eyed the contessa warily. What had first seemed like merely a wandering aristocrat had turned out to be in cooperation with the Bashlek, and she was now telling him she’d been part of the cloak and dagger games when Jorge was in military intelligence. Milo was not adept at games of subterfuge and covert operations, but he felt the conclusion to be drawn was clear.

Contessa Rihyani was not someone to trifle with, and though she seemed friendly enough, he would be a fool to let his guard