Mages of Aven
A Sampler!
I thought I would share a little of what will be regular paid content on this channel, as it has been on my Patreon for some years now! The Mages of Aven series is microfiction set in the world of the Aven Cycle.
These were born out of my first editor asking me exactly how many mages were in the city. So, I had to do math. Figuring one in a thousand-ish births and a city of a little over 300,000 gives us a little over 300 mages.
And then, worldbuilding masochist that I am, I was compelled to go further. I needed age and gender distribution. I needed a breakdown of which elements were more common than others. I needed to know their social classes. And, eventually, I started giving them all jobs and identities.
I couldn’t help myself, really.
Most of them never grace the pages of the books, but I still wanted to give them life and, through them, showcase the diversity of Aven and its magic. So I started the Mages of Aven series, sharing 100 words each week.
In this post, you’ll find the first six and the most recent four, just to give you a little sampler. If you like these and want a monthly round-up, hit that subscribe button! (And if you’re already a member here or on Patreon, you’re awesome! Maybe share the post with someone else who might be interested?)
I.
They said she spoke the language of the bees.
That was ridiculous, of course. Bees didn’t have a language. What need had they for one? They understood each other perfectly well. And Anca understood them.
As she walked behind the clay apiary, checking the cubbyholes for honeycombs, she reached out with her magic, feeling the patterns that her flying friends wove in the air. A few darted out towards her, nuzzling at the edges of the kerchief keeping her sable hair neatly bound. She hummed as she walked, never minding their curiosity.
Anca had, of course, never once been stung.
II.
It was one year since his manumission.
Not that Nikandros expected anyone else to remember, but he did: one year since the day the stars had spoken to him, one year since divine Asteria made her mark on him known. Within hours, he had been freed and apprenticed to one of the city’s finest astrologers, another mage of Light.
The night air was cooler on top of the roof, and Nikandros hardly heard the carts and wagons in the streets below. The stars sang to him, telling tales of destiny, if he could learn the wisdom to decipher their songs.
III.
They would love him.
Well, they would hardly have a choice. Dimo the Thessalan was not the strongest gladiator walking into the arena, nor the tallest, nor even the best with trident and net. But he had something the others lacked: a divine touch on him, the talent of Spirit, to dazzle the eyes and make the crowds cheer his name. He had style, he had flourish, things no ludus could teach!
As soon as he turned on the charm and the shouting started, his opponent rolled his eyes. “Just once,” he grumbled, “you might let them like me better.”
IV.
“How could you?” her sister hissed. “Gaia, how could you?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Gaia, how could you? He chased our cousin from the city--”
“Because she’s a proud fool who wouldn’t yield.” Gaia stayed on her knees before the statue of Ceres, though her sister paced angrily behind her. “I don’t have enough power to protect us. I have Earth magic enough to do the goddess grace, no more! So, yes, Min, I said what the Dictator wanted. I assured the Assembly his ascension heralded bounty and prosperity. To keep us safe, I did. You should be thanking me.”
V.
“It’s simple, really, daughter of Shadows.”
Concordia shivered, terrified of this man. She’d never so much as spoken to a Senator before, and now one had followed her home from her market stall.
“Your Dictator requires his dreams interpreted. You will serve.”
“I--” Concordia squeaked, hardly able to find her voice. “I will do the best I--”
“You will do better than that. You will interpret his dreams to his advantage, or I will haul you, your mother, and your little brothers into the treason court, where you will all be convicted and executed.”
Tears dewing her cheeks, Concordia nodded.
VI.
‘I will qualify as an equestrian before I die. This I vow.’
So Octavius Atellus thought, as he sacrificed to Neptune, thanking the god of the seas for his blessings and his bounty. Atellus had built his entire life upon Neptune’s gifts: a mage of Water was a natural fisherman. Atellus took that talent to the utmost, charming a fleet of ships, from Massena to Massilia, hauling in the bounty of the ocean. Never had one sunk. Never had one lost its cargo.
Octavius Atellus was wealthy, through Neptune’s glory.
Building on that wealth, his sons could be far more.
CCLXI.
“It doesn’t work!” the pale woman complained, throwing a red-painted amulet down on the table. “You promised it would keep out vermin, but--”
“What offerings have you made?”
“Offer--”
“I told you, when I made it,” Trura said, poking a finger at the amulet, “regular offerings to Ceres. Clay votives, flowers, wine--”
“It’s magic!” the woman squealed, still indignant. “It should just--just work!”
Trura tsked. “The goddess is busy! You still must call her attention, do her proper honors. The amulet is a focal point for her power, far better than prayer alone could manage, but you must show piety.”
CCLXII.
If an Air mage was credited for having nerves of iron, it was usually a tactician. Some devotee of Minerva, mind like a snare.
Not a musician with musculature like overcooked asparagus and a tendency to stammer if anyone looked him in the eye.
Yet no one, seeing Nurvo work, could fault him for cowardice, not when in the tunnels outside the circus, luring beasts into their transport cages. Fierce lions and dancing bears, with teeth and claws; boar and deer, eager to gore.
Nurvo played a gentle tune on his aulos, and all became biddable as a shepherd’s dog.
CCLXIII.
Cadmillus was not a gladiator.
He drew that line firmly. A magical duelist was not at all the same thing -- and he, whose traced Aventan ancestry back to the days of kings, was a cut above the fighting rabble with their weapons and sweat.
He could not throw a thunderbolt, of course -- but his illusions could make the spectators think he had. Throwing sparks, raising smoke, calling on spirits, all this Cadmillus could conjure through tricks of Light -- ephemeral and utterly harmless. He and his opponents never even touched each other. His work was not a melee; it was artistry.
CCLXIV.
Solace of the heart was not always that of the flesh.
Publia Della knew what everyone assumed about the service of Venus, and to be fair, it was more generally true than not. But when supplicants came to her chamber, they sought a different sort of ease.
“It’s just so hard!” her current client sobbed. “And I don’t mean to resent them for it, I love them, but they--they need me, all the time!”
A familiar refrain. Della used her magic to ease the strain, to help them see their way through life’s most difficult moments.
Everyone needed care, sometimes.