Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (namjoon book recommendations txt) 📗

his face. A second later, the prickling subsided and he couldn’t feel anything on his eyes.

“Open your eyes,” Imrah said, and when Milo did, a breathless curse of amazement tumbled out of his open mouth.

The world had been reborn in brilliant shades of darkness and twilight.

Ever since coming to Ifreedahm, the smokeless fire of the azure braziers and green hearths had kept the darkness at bay, but only enough so that everything was in perpetual dusk. Milo could see well enough to move around, but everything was cast in stark lines, and the shadows were deep, almost solid barriers. Now, though the colors had not changed, Milo could decipher between the shades of unlight, a nameless palette of blacks and grays so fine and yet so definite that he could decipher everything as clearly as though it were broad daylight, or perhaps even better.

Turning this way and that, he beheld the towering spires of the citadel and then the manors in the city below. It was like he was seeing the capital of the Underworld for the first time.

“Is this how you see the world?” he asked, marveling at the fierce but beautiful architecture of the citadel again.

“More or less,” Imrah said, and though he wasn’t looking at her, Milo could almost hear the satisfied smile tugging at her mouth. “At least it should keep you from groping for so much ugly light.”

Milo nodded and then noticed that the lights did seem a touch harsher. Not painful, just unpleasant to look at.

“Why have the lights at all?” he asked, turning back to his teacher. “And is this permanent?”

Imrah had set the mortar and pestle aside and was busying herself with combining several ingredients on a bronze tray.

“Because ghuls are not the only beings to frequent the city,” she answered absently. “Even now, my father is meeting with fey envoys who will see him by those lights, though admittedly, the pix don’t need such accommodations.”

Her assembly done, she turned back to Milo.

“And no, it is not permanent, but you will learn to make your own soon enough. First, though, we need to go about waking up the rest of you. Don’t worry, none of this should be too painful.”

By the end of that second lesson, Milo was not sure human and ghul tolerances for pain were comparable, but he was sure that it was worth it.

It was like he’d been sleepwalking through the Underworld since he’d been dragged down those steps, but now for the first time, he was awake. The paste for his eyes−a combination of candle-wick ash, moonflower stalks, spit, and bone meal, he reminded himself−had only been the beginning. There was a salve for his ears that rendered him able to understand any language, even Ghulish, and a wafer that, once dissolved, allowed his speech to be understood by any creature, even the undead and beasts. After that had come a fetish worn as a pendant that when anointed with a drop of his blood and worn around his wrist, let him sense magical energies that were within arm’s reach more quickly.

“If there is magic in your food or drink and you didn’t put it there, it would be wise to abstain,” Imrah had warned.

She showed him the ingredients necessary for all she had done or made for him, having him transcribe the formulas onto parchment and then repeat them to her. She told him that once he began to make these things on his own, he would detect the resonances in them and should be able to supplement them with his own tailored ingredients. Just as some of the ingredients were not responsive to Milo’s intuitive probing earlier, he would learn that some responded much more powerfully or precisely than others.

Why that was, Imrah wasn’t sure.

“There are theories that it has something to do with a combination of fate and celestial alignments.” She shrugged as though the subject didn’t interest her. “Others suggest it is personal experiences and the Magus’ psychological reactions to them. For example, you seemed quickest to detect those that were charged with the emotions resulting from fear and direct tragedy. The theory would be you’ve been shaped by tragedy and fear, so that is what responds to you.”

“Fear and tragedy,” Milo mused, subconsciously letting his hand slide to the folded tarot card in his pocket. “I think that’s not too far off.”

“In the end, it doesn’t matter.” Imrah sighed, not seeming to notice Milo had even spoken. “Things are the way they are, and they don’t seem likely to change.”

Despite being drained mentally and physically by the magic experienced and formulas learned, the last part of the lesson had been Milo’s favorite. Imrah had instructed him to take up his new skull-topped cane, and in a process that was uncomfortable at first and intuitive afterward, she had him place his hand on the avian skull and then placed her sharp grip over his. She reached inside the skull and down into the rod of stone it was mounted on, prodding the alchemical agents preserved within with little pulses of her will.

She showed him what could be called on to produce light, what could be coaxed to produce flame, and what would provide the strength and speed to wield the weighty fetish as a weapon. After that, she had him try, still with her hand over his, to more precisely feel what his will and magical ability were doing. He was clumsy and weak by comparison, but with guidance and coaxing, he managed to quicken each of the alchemical processes.

“In time, you may find new uses, new variations, but for now, these should serve you for facing future assassination attempts. Now, let’s try you out.”

From there, she had stalked to the center of the circular platform, where a small black circle was inscribed. Crouching, she pricked her tongue between two fangs and spat the blood onto the stone.

“RISE, MOVE,” she commanded in magic-compelling tones that hours ago would have just been more