Commissioned Magic: Riala City: Painting Magician

By Felicia Fredlund

Mydala, a painting magician with a tarnished reputation and little income, once lived a life of prestige in Riala City. But a failed spell changed all that.

 

So, when a rich nobleman seeks out Mydala to commission a spell painting, but refuses to tell Mydala what magic the spell will cast, she reluctantly agrees.

 

But when more signs of danger build around her, Mydala must question not only the nobleman's motives, but also her own past—or she might lose more than just her reputation.

 

A powerful epic fantasy about magic's power to shape destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Pine Publishing
• Release date: Nov 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393035831

Book preview

Chapter One

Fragments of a chilly wind blew through the cracks around the poorly-made wooden window shutters. The blocking painting had been partly scraped off by some idiot, and Mydala hadn’t had the coins for good paint to redo it.

She had a chronic problem of never having enough coins to pay for paint, except when she was on an assignment. But while on assignment, she could demand coin for each speck of paint she used.

Any paint she used for herself came out of her meager income.

The dingy white walls could have used a whitewash, but of course, then she’d have to redo all the protection paintings she’d done in green earth pigment (it had been cheap!). The protection painting against small fires and light earthquakes was a simple fence design, several upright poles and then two long cross planks that went from one side of the only door around all the walls and to the other side of the door. The fence was as high as her shoulder.

Mydala was of average height, meaning easily lost in a crowd and not spectacular in any way. The long gray wool skirt and dingy white, loose linen shirt she wore made her even less likely to be noticed.

Her hair was the only pretty thing about her still. Perhaps if she could afford blue clothing again to highlight her medium blue eyes, she could consider more parts of her pretty again.

The beige flagstone floor held the cold that came in like it was its best friend. A continued chill that worked through Mydala’s thin, but whole, leather shoes—the last whole article of clothing from before the accident.

She sat on a simple four-legged blond wood chair with a rickety wood table in front of her, facing the door, with the window blowing cold at her back.

Shelves covered the two side walls from above the painted fence to the ceiling. They held earthen jars that should hold paints and powders, some even had spill drops on them; unfortunately most of them were empty. A few metal cups held paint brushes in several sizes with hair in all thicknesses and all of good quality.

Her brushes were her most valuable possessions, both for her trade and outside it. Another survivor of the accident.

She’d been the new exciting and skilled painting magician at court. She’d excelled at both the painter academy and the magician academy, and still wore the rose-gold graduation medallions she’d received from each.

Then she took on a task too complicated for her, or so everyone said. Mydala still wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong. But instead of the intended effect, when she finished the last stroke, there was an explosion.

She’d barely survived, and sometimes, when she brushed her hair and saw the gray streaks the explosion had left in her blonde hair, it was too easy to think that maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t.

It was darkening outside her window, the sun disappearing below the Bramble hills. Finally the work day was over and she could leave.

A powerful knock on the door had it shuddering in its frame. She hadn’t been attentive enough to hear the footsteps coming close.

She was slipping again.

She grimaced and toed the leather satchel that held a wineskin of sour, barely drinkable wine. She’d been indulging too much.

Come in! Her voice sounded husky, and she quickly cleared her throat.

A patron would help her put food on the table for the next few days; maybe she’d even get enough to buy paint to redo the blocking painting.

The door opened, and in strode a tall, broad-shouldered and handsome man.

His dark brown hair was slicked back in the style that was currently popular at court. His equally brown trousers hugged his muscled legs. Although the pristine white shirt he wore was loose, the emerald green vest above it pulled it tight to display how muscular his chest was under the clothes.

His green eyes, highlighted by the vest, focused on her, and his full lips quirked up on one side.

He shook his head. How far the promised can fall. His voice was deep, almost musical.

Mydala recognized him. Anyone at court would.

Felipe Drianté—eminent painter, despite being born to wealth, and eminent insulter.

My painting hasn’t slipped a bit, Driantéee. She dragged out the end of his name in a way that everyone knew he despised.

He shook his head. You are delusional. When was the last time you even saw ultramarine blue? Or worked with gold leaf? Or a canvas larger and cleaner than a— he paused and looked around her work room, —dingy wall?

Below the table, where he couldn’t see it, she fisted her hands so hard her nails bit into her palms. She’d let her nails grow long again. There was no need to keep them trim and pretty when no one who saw them cared and it made no difference for her painting.

The kind of painting Drianté was describing would need clean hands and nails, fingers and wrists lubricated, shoulders relaxed and full of energy, her mind open with a clear image of the painting spell she meant to do.

Ever since she’d recovered from the accident, she’d been taking any kind of painting magician work she could get to keep a roof over her head and a full belly. The latter did not always happen.

She’d even taken work that only loosely connected to her paint magic skill. If someone came to her door with a problem that she thought she could solve, she took it.

Things didn’t always turn out well.

Mydala took a deep breath, relaxed her hands and leaned back in her chair. It creaked ominously, but she didn’t move, more afraid it would break when she moved than if she stayed still. What do you want?

The chance of him being here for any other reason than to gloat was unthinkable. She was an outcast at the court. Pushed out before she was barely on her feet again. The court had no use for a careless painting magician.

Drianté pulled on his shirt sleeves, supposedly to straighten them. His gaze swept over the room. Shouldn’t you offer me a seat and something to drink? Is that not how you welcome patrons?

Patron… as if she was looking for a master, someone to pay for everything, while she solved their little problems. There were probably a couple of nobles that would have considered taking her on, but she wasn’t interested in the kind of work they would have asked for—and she was pretty sure they would be the kind of nobles she’d want to punch in the nose.

Mydala slowly looked around the room, making a point to look in every corner. I don’t know. Do you see another chair? I don’t. And I have a feeling that whatever I would serve to drink would not be fit for your delicate palate.

How she managed to say that with a straight face, she wasn’t sure, but since Drianté didn’t explode in her face, she most likely managed it.

He brushed invisible dirt from his green vest. I’m sure you are right.

Mydala waited for him to either insult her further or leave. She preferred the latter, although it wasn’t like she had clients breaking down her door to pay her for her assistance.

One thing she’d learned about courtiers, even those who managed to go through one of the craft academies, was that they were inherently impatient people. They were so used to servants and slaves seemingly being able to read their minds about what they wanted or needed, that when someone didn’t accommodate them, more spilled from their lips than they meant to.

Drianté tapped his foot.

For a courtier, he was taking his own sweet time in saying what he wanted.

Not that she could see why he’d make the trip to this part of the city just to insult her, but then courtiers were seldom predictable. Coming from a pretty humble background herself, daughter to a furrier and a tailor, she was more comfortable around common people, despite having been at court—or maybe because she’d been at court.

Mydala forced a smile on her lips. I appreciate you coming here. You will have to excuse me, but I cannot remain idle all day.

A look of insult passed over Drianté’s face, disappearing way too fast. He was being remarkably restrained.

Her stomach churned uneasily. Perhaps she’d had too much bad wine, but she had a feeling that was only part of it.

I understand. He pressed the fingertips of both his hands against each other in front of his chest. I… I have a slight problem, you see?

She blinked several times. A problem? And he was coming to her? She copied his hands and nodded slowly, as if she had any idea what he was talking about.

A courtier had come to her to solve a problem. Acid burned up her throat. She swallowed it back down.

What kind of problem would he come to her for? Not something embarrassing, no one