A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) by A. Christopher Drown

smiled at the confession. “How long can you make it last?”
    “I can make one object go for days, if it’s small. The circle I’d put around me usually lasted the night. Whenever the rocks stopped and clattered into each other, I’d wake up.”
    “And you can do this whenever you wish?”
    “Pretty much.”
    The swordsman raised a suspicious eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Sounds like freemagic to me.”
    Centuries ago, peasants in Lyrria’s remote regions began dabbling in freemagic, a form of folk-conjuring independent of Canon and since banned by the College. Stories likened its practitioners to wild-eyed diabolists, sacrificing animals and children to appease grotesque, blood-thirsty gods. Niel knew that while most civilized areas had long considered freemagic more lore than fact, magicians still avoided the implication.
    “Well, true,” he said. “Cantrips aren’t like spells. They don’t require nearly as much effort, but I don’t think—”
    Arwin laughed. “You sound afraid I’ll turn you in. Relax. Although, I would like to know what actual spells you know.” He winked. “From Canon, of course.”
    Niel licked his lips. “I had a scroll in my pack that contained a Conjuring of Light.”
    Arwin stood, waiting. “That’s it?”
    “I’m an apprentice,” Niel said. “I expected to be on my way to the College by now.”
    Arwin clearly had hoped for more. “Well then,” he said, “we shall have to remedy that as soon as we can.”
    “How?” Niel asked.
    Arwin grinned. “I might have an idea or two.”
    ***
    Niel lay on the floor in his bedroll, miserably exhausted yet thoroughly awake, hands folded behind his head, counting the cracks in the plaster between the dark, bumpy ceiling beams. After hours of battling the endless parade of errant thoughts marching through his head, he’d grudgingly resigned himself to going wherever his mind chose to roam.
    For the moment, that wherever was back once more to the first trip into town he’d ever taken with Biddleby. He hadn’t been much older than five.
    In exchange for the occasional spell that kept pests from his crops, Edgas, the farmer who lived a short walk from their house, loaned Biddleby an ill-tempered dray mule whenever needed along with a small cart for carrying back supplies. Niel remembered having to clutch the bare driver’s bench to keep from being bounced off into road, and how sore his arms and backside were after arriving home again.
    On that first excursion, though, Edgas had decided his crops could do without Biddleby’s help and asked that he have the mule’s feet shod instead. After their errands, which mainly consisted of Biddleby catching up on news and selling back items he’d augmented with a minor charm, they parked the cart atop a steep hill in front of the farrier’s shop. Biddleby set the brake, untethered the mule, and as he led the animal into the paddock commanded Niel to stay with their belongings.
    Being so young, it hadn’t taken Niel long to grow deathly bored with waiting. So, he made a game of hopping from the driver’s bench to the rear of the cart and back, over and over. On his final vault, Niel’s foot caught on the driver’s bench and he tumbled into the open back. When he sat up again, a horrid old man in rags stood beside the wagon, his yellow eyes wide in a frightening gaze.
    Niel scrambled away and fell over the driver’s bench yet again, releasing the wagon’s brake. By the time he collected his wits, he and the cart were racing down the hill toward town. All he could think to do was hold on amidst the rush of faces and shouts, through the glimpses of people grabbing up their own children and jumping out of his way.
    Just as he’d been about to cry out for his teacher, Biddleby emerged from the sidewalk at the bottom of the hill and put himself directly into the path of the runaway cart. He made a quick motion with his hand, and the cart skidded to a stop but a half-pace from where the