The Invisible College

Book 1: The Invisible College

by Jeff Wheeler

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

A mortal sorcerer sets out to defy the dark magic of an ancient race awakening to wage war on mortals in an epic fantasy of adventure and love by Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jeff Wheeler.

Millennia ago, a magical race called the Aesir found a new home on a distant world. Attracted to the cold during an ice age, they hibernated for hundreds of years at a time. With each awakening, however, they saw their world changed by ever-evolving mortals encroaching on their territory and way of life. Two civilizations with opposing magic, poised to clash over and over. Now, the Aesir are awakening to wage a new war—this time to exterminate their enemy once and for all.

Robinson Hawksley is an elocutionist at the Invisible College who has perfected a way of teaching speech to train sorcerers by using the intelligences that create magic. The world needs more sorcerers to protect against the looming Aesir threat, and Robinson’s newest charge is McKenna Foster, a barrister’s daughter rendered deaf after a bout with a plague unleashed by the Aesir. As their lessons progress and they grow ever closer, there also comes a strange connection to the Aesir—one that crosses the boundaries of time itself and the unfathomable mysteries of the Unseen Powers.

Emerging from their icy fortresses, the Aesir begin their bombardment. Can Robinson and McKenna, brought together by magic, stop an endless war with powers even they have yet to fully understand?

 

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Release date: November 12, 2024

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 415

Sample

Prologue
THE ICE TRENCHES

The sled dogs gobbled up the chunks of meat thrown to them, and several began fighting each
other for the scraps. Joseph Crossthwait whispered a musical Aesir command, and the metal skis
of the sled began to warm, melting the ice crusts that had formed along the journey from the
glacier’s front.
Joseph felt comfortably warm despite the frigid temperatures as he hiked over the icy crest
toward the encampment below. He’d veered off the main supply route earlier to ensure he would
arrive unseen. The metal buckles and button studs on his uniform produced heat through the
magical effect of incalescence. As he walked, he gazed across the interconnected maze of
trenches cut into the embankment. These trenches had been built in every mountain pass, every
hollow valley, every border where the permanent ice field stretched edge to edge in the empire.
There were always guards stationed in them, even in summer, but as the season edged toward
winter, the reserves were called in. No one knew when the Aesir would next awaken, but to be
unprepared was to die.
Evidence suggested it would be happening soon.
When he reached the command post, he lowered the silver-edged cowl of his kappelin, which
deactivated the spell of invisibility—and frightened the two soldiers standing guard, both
wearing thick beaver-pelt helmets.
“Aesir’s blood!” one of them gasped in shock. “Where’d you come from?”

If he had been an Aesir, he could have slain both of them without a word with the harrosheth
blade fixed to the bracer on his left arm.
“Where’s Colonel Wickins?” Joseph asked, ignoring the guard’s impertinent question.
The soldier chafed his gloved hands together. Like many of the soldiers stationed out here,
they were bearded, something that helped against frostbite.
“I’ll take you, sir,” said the other sentry, who escorted Joseph to one of the command yurts
ringing the area.
Joseph entered the tent, while the sentry remained outside.
Colonel Wickins, a man in his midfifties with a balding front, stood next to a table on which
an incalescent heater radiated shimmers of heat beneath a copper teapot. The yurt was
comfortably warm, and the colonel’s possessions were strewn about the space haphazardly.
The colonel’s adjutant stood near him, a man half his master’s age.
“Ah, good of General Colsterworth to send you,” Wickins said gruffly, reaching out to shake
hands. He made a hand sign of rank from the Invisible College, revealing himself to be a Knight
of the Eagle, a fifteenth-degree sorcerer. Joseph responded with a higher-level sign, which
established in seconds the supremacy of his authority despite the colonel’s rank in the military.
“Tell me what happened,” Joseph said.
“It might be better if I showed you,” Wickins answered. His expression was equal parts awe
and confusion. How would it not be? He’d seen a myth in the flesh. “We still have the body.”
“You caught an Aesir? Alive?” Joseph asked incredulously. Eagerly. In all his training, in all
his missions, he’d never confronted such a situation. No one had until now.
“No, sir. He’s dead. Murdered sixty before a lad took him down with a lucky shot.”

“The Aesir don’t consider it murder,” Joseph answered with a narrowed look. “Take me
there.”
“I don’t pretend to know the Mind of the Sovereignty on such matters,” Wickins said,
grabbing a beaver-pelt helmet and donning it. “All I know is we each have an allotted time on
this planet and now sixty men are dead and frozen. That’s why I sent word to Bishopsgate. Come
along.” He gave the teapot a wistful look before deactivating the heater and leaving it behind.
Their boots crunched in the packed snow, and they started down one of the trench walls. The
glacier was an interlocking maze. Joseph heard the colonel mutter the command to activate his
buckles and buttons. He probably spent more time in the yurt than he did inspecting the men and
positions.
“Your uniform,” Wickins said, glancing at Joseph with puzzled and wary eyes. “It’s not
ours.”
“I just returned from spying on the Andoverian lines,” Joseph said. “But none of that is your
concern. Tell me what happened while we walk.”
“I’ve only got fragments. Some men found soldiers frozen to death, their skin blue as ice.
That’s how we knew it was an Aesir. An entire line was like that by the time the alarm was
raised.”
“Were the officers playing music?” Joseph asked. Even a flimsy magical shield conjured by a
single sorcerer with a tune was better than nothing. It was a gross neglect of duty to be caught so
unaware at the front.
“It was night. They were cold and huddling in the yurts.”
Joseph sighed with contempt. “Go on.”

“We raised the alarm. Sung the shields. Started firing our rifles to raise a fog of saltpetr.
Boxed him in, you see.”
It was about as wise as locking yourself in a room with a wolf. In his mind, Joseph could
imagine the night, the trenches illuminated by chains of magic stanchions using quicksilver gas.
The soldiers bewildered, shooting at anything that moved.
“What happened then?” Joseph asked.
“See for yourself,” answered the colonel as they reached the death chasm. There were no
guards stationed at the entrance of the kill zone. The colonel, the adjutant, and Joseph entered it
and found the frozen corpses littering the way. Joseph stopped and knelt by one of them, seeing
the telltale marks of blue on the vacant face. It wasn’t frostbite. It was too soon for that. The
Aesir only fought during the wintertime or near the network of glaciers inside the mountain
ranges. They could come and go at will, quiet as the morning haze.
Joseph straightened and nodded to the colonel to lead the way. Each network of ice trenches
had a command hub with a respite shelter for the men to warm up in. That’s where they’d
dragged the Aesir’s body. The incalescent heater had been shut off, so the space was frigid. Their
breath could be seen.
Awe washed over him, though he did his best not to let it show. Unlike a stone effigy or a
centuries-old painting, this was real and startling and vivid. The Aesir was seven feet tall,
wearing the thin bands of armor of his race. The hair was silver. The skin like snow crystals. The
eyes were open, pale as diamonds. The skin beneath the eyelids showed violet smears—not
paint, it was part of their anatomy. A jewel wrapped in white gold was embedded in his forehead.
Looking from face to neck to chest, he found it. A bullet rupture. No blood, of course, but that
was to be expected. The wound had already cauterized. The body was dressed in a kappelin, the

famous cloak of the Aesir. Like the one that Joseph wore, the cowl had a silver duckbill fringe
decorated with magic runes that would shield the wearer’s thoughts. The kappelin was untouched
by the damage, so it would be worth thousands on the open market. A bidding war in the
Invisible College would be held soon.
“The man who shot him,” Joseph said, examining the Aesir’s body with great interest, seeing
the flesh of the enemy for the first time. It had been a century since the last Awakening. “Who
was it?”
“Lieutenant Snell,” said the colonel. “Lucky shot, as I said. He was the only one who
survived.”
“Bring him here,” Joseph ordered the adjutant.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the man, a young sorcerer himself no doubt. Only someone from the
Invisible College would have been allowed to serve such a high-ranking officer.
Once the adjutant departed, Joseph turned to Wickins.
“What do you make of it?” asked the troubled colonel in a worried tone. “You think . . . you
think it’s the Awakening?”
“We have to assume so,” Joseph answered in a near whisper, afraid that saying it too loudly
would make the nightmare real. This wasn’t the first indication the Awakening was upon them,
but it had been the most deadly event so far. “There has not been one in well over a hundred
years. I must reprimand you for your dereliction of duty, Colonel. You’ll be demoted. We cannot
afford such lapses in security. Where is the lieutenant colonel?”
Wickins grimaced, but the demotion could not have been unexpected. He had failed at his
most important obligation, one they’d all trained for their entire lives. Vigilance was necessary,

even if it was a nearly impossible task to stay vigilant against a threat last active during the time
of one’s great-grandparents. “Dead, sir. He came rushing into the fight.”
“And where were you?”
The man stiffened at the rebuke. “I had to send orders. We needed reinforcements. What if
there were more of them?”
“Your ignorance is appalling,” Joseph said. “The last time the Aesir attacked, we were using
flintlock pistols, muskets, and silver-rune bayonets. The Industry of Magic was still in its
infancy. Why do you think we have so many soldiers living in trenches during the heart of
winter, year after year, decade after decade, century after century! When they awaken, it’s worse
than a slaughterhouse!”
The colonel’s eyes began to water with fear. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen—”
“How wealthy have you grown because of your rank, your position in the college? Hmmm?
You think your life is worth cuppers if the Awakening is upon us? You’re fat and lazy and
contemptible. You would have abandoned your men and fled for your life if not for a lucky shot
from a greenling who doesn’t even know why we’re here adapting to the cold, to be ready for the
real danger when it comes. A time like now!”
Joseph Crossthwait was furious. He needed to get back to Bishopsgate. If he could sprout
wings, he’d fly there. But there was something that needed to happen first. He could not go back
to General Colsterworth without being able to answer one question about the attack. He’d seen
enough evidence of the damage one Aesir could do. On rare occasions, a single Aesir would rise
before the rest to test the boundaries. But the tales agreed on one thing—usually the sighting of
an Aesir in the flesh meant more were on the way.

What would mankind do when thousands of them emerged from their glacial fortresses and
began to wreak havoc on humanity? Again. The humans, the deaf and the whole, would be
massacred like sheep. Some, a few, would be chosen by the immortal race to be servants and
slaves. The gifted of all ages—the poets, the musicians, the craftsmen, the scientists. Slaves. All
of them. The innocent people farther south had no idea what was about to come. He’d hoped, as
had his commander, that they would still have more time to prepare.
While Wickins cowered in shame and fear, they waited for the adjutant to return. When he
came back, he was with the lone survivor. A young man in his early twenties.
“Lieutenant Snell,” Joseph said.
The young man had light brown hair and blue-green eyes. He looked so young and was
clearly shaken by the ordeal he’d been through that night. As Joseph watched, he rubbed his arm
with a gloved hand, trying to coax more warmth from the incalescent buckles.
“Yes, sir. Who are you, sir?” asked the young man in a troubled voice.
“I’m General Colsterworth’s adjutant,” Joseph said. “You were very brave during the attack.”
“I did my duty, sir.” He looked at the body of the Aesir with bewilderment. “What is that . . .
thing? Is it really a man?”
“No,” Joseph replied curtly. “No, they’re not like us. They speak. They sing. But they have
no feelings for our kind. The Aesir are our enemies. And you killed one.”
“I shot him,” Snell said, “but he didn’t bleed. Why didn’t he bleed?”
“Blood is too hot for them,” Joseph answered. “Were you injured, Lieutenant?”
He rubbed his breast muscle nervously. There was a sizeable gash in his jacket, Joseph
noticed, and the fabric was stained with blood.
“He . . . he cut me,” Snell said. “Medic gave me stitches and bandaged it up. Still hurts.”

That’s all Joseph needed to know. He drew his pistol and shot Lieutenant Snell. The crack of
gunfire was loud in the hut. As the young man crumpled to the ground, Joseph turned, drew a
second pistol from his belt, and shot the Aesir in the temple.
“What in the Sovereignty’s name—!” Wickins shouted in sudden terror, gazing at Joseph
with abhorrence. The delicious tang of saltpetr flavored the air as smoke curled from the weapon
and seeped into the hut.
Joseph ignored him, watching the dead lieutenant’s lips part and a single puff of icy breath
emerge from them.
“Now he’s dead,” Joseph said, holstering the weapon. He turned to the two shaken men.
“Snell died last night. That wasn’t him. It was a Semblance.”

 

Chapter One
A NEW LIFE

The iron-studded hull of the Hotspur-class warship loomed over the edge of the smaller
merchant vessel that Robinson and his parents had just disembarked from. He gazed at it in awe.
He’d never seen one up close before, but the fleet rarely did more than sail past the isle of
Covesea, the home they’d left behind to make changes. Hopefully for the better.
He helped his mother climb onto the street tram, which was already crammed with
passengers. It was pulled by a literal iron horse, a complex mechanical invention animated by
intelligences that pulled the trams without tiring. The river quay teemed with ships carrying
various cargoes, the waters befouled by seagull dregs and the smell of decomposing fish, but
those were familiar smells and comforting in a way.
A big meaty hand clamped onto his shoulder. Robinson turned his neck and saw his father’s
agitated eyes. “I put two coins in the head. Why don’t you go to the hotel with your mother? I’ll
follow with the cart and luggage.”
Robinson had had another coughing fit as they’d walked down the gangway, and he was still
wheezing. The dreaded disease that had killed both of his brothers was still lingering in
Robinson’s lungs, but he was determined not to be a burden on his parents. He was twenty-six
and should be able to manage such a simple task as transporting luggage, which had already been
loaded onto the cart and was waiting. Gripping his violin case in his free hand, he shook his
head.

“You go ahead. I’ve got it, Father. I haven’t been to Auvinen since you took me when I was a
boy. I want to see the city with fresh eyes in that two-wheeled gig, not in a cramped tram. I’ll see
you at the hotel.”
“Are you sure?” Father asked. He was nearly twice the breadth of his only living son, but that
was because of Robinson’s illness and his propensity to ignore mealtime while working on his
experiments.
“I’ll be there soon.”
The sorcerer driving the tram whistled the tune that would power up the iron horse pulling it.
Father gripped the rail and climbed aboard, wedging his hips into the small space left on the
bench. Robinson waved to his mother, then watched in awe as the contraption began to move.
The whole city was crisscrossed with iron rails embedded in the cobblestone streets, and these
magical contrivances hauled people all over the city. It fascinated him. Indeed, the whole of
Auvinen did. It was the thriving hub of the Industry of Magic, and he knew he’d be able to see
some of the inventions he’d only heard about in Covesea.
Ambling through the crowd, Robinson reached the gig and plow horse hauling the luggage.
The driver scratched his bristly bearded neck and gave the newcomer a sour look. “Hop on, sir.
Let’s get moving.”
Something felt off. Wrong. Robinson held up his hand and walked to the back of the gig
where the trunks had been stowed. It was missing a bag. His alchemy trunk was gone.
“One of the trunks is missing,” Robinson said.
The driver turned and looked confused. “I watched the porters load it myself. It’s probably at
the bottom. Let’s get going.”
Robinson could sense it was missing. A nagging feeling, a sense of wrongness. Of loss.

“It’s not there,” he insisted, but how could he explain the truth to a fellow that wasn’t part of
the Invisible College? One who didn’t have any rank on the rites of sorcery.
“Sir, we need to get going. I don’t have all day.”
“Then go ahead and take the freight to the hotel without me. My parents took a street tram.
I’ll meet you there.”
“Or you’ll get lost,” grumbled the driver, giving Robinson a look like he was being
ridiculous. “Hip, hip,” he commanded, and the horse tossed its mane and started. As soon as it
moved along, a little mechanical device on wheels scooted over from its position at the edge of
the street. It began to scoop up the manure the horse had dropped during the wait. Robinson
stared at the little machine in fascination, wondering where it took the manure, then reminded
himself of his missing trunk.
“Calex epso,” he sang under his breath, summoning an intelligence within the trunk to
activate, one that would guide him to it. Immediately, he felt a pop of connection. It wasn’t far
away.
Robinson strode forward purposefully, feeling another itch of a cough in the back of his
throat, but he subdued it as he passed the people along the edges of the road. There were
dockworkers aplenty, loading up other ships with merchandise. The rank odor of the water was
momentarily blotted out when he smelled a delicious creamy soup and baked bread from a shop
just across the street. The same kind of shop he’d visit at home in Greenholh for a mess of
pottage, which would invariably lead to a particular floppy-eared stray dog following him and
whining for a bit of meat. That stray had been run over by a carriage on the day of his brother’s
funeral. It still hurt to think about cradling the bloodied animal in his arms and then burying him
no more than an hour after he’d witnessed his brother’s burial. But he stuffed the memories away

and wound his way toward some buildings with soot-choked windows, which meant there were
no magical braziers inside and the inhabitants were forced to burn coal.
His stiff leather shoes thumped on the paving stones, and then he saw two men hoisting the
trunk and heading down an alley, a third man leading the way. He called out to them, but his yell
caused a coughing fit, which made him put his hand against the wall of the alley and pause to
catch his breath. After it subsided, he set off after them and, after turning a corner, caught up to
them.
“Excuse me!” he said, huffing. “That’s my trunk. I . . . I need it back.”
He wasn’t strong enough to carry it back on his own, so he’d probably have to hire the men
to do it for him. Robinson had a little money saved from tutoring and teaching, though he was
loath to part with the funds he would need to establish himself in the new city.
The one walking in front of the two carrying it turned and looked at him. He was a big
fellow. A sturdy dockworker wearing the cap and shirt of his trade. His muscles bulged beneath
the shirt. Robinson was a scarecrow in comparison.
“Run along, little man,” the fellow said in a dangerous tone.
Oh, so they were robbing it on purpose! Robinson rubbed his nose, feeling a fool. When the
men at the dock in Greenholh had carried the trunk on board, they’d commented on its unusually
heavy weight. The various instruments in Robinson’s alchemy trunk were naturally
heavy—stone grinding bowls, quicksilver measuring devices, lead ingots, jars of chymicals,
various sizes and shapes of magnifying glasses and burning tools. All packed carefully, wedged
together with sawdust to prevent them from breaking. Surely one dockworker had told another
that the trunk belonged to a sorcerer of the Invisible College and would fetch a hefty price in
Auvinen.

“Please set the trunk down; it’s very precious to me,” Robinson said as he lifted his violin
case and unlocked it. He could use magic with solely his voice but feared another coughing fit if
he were to try.
“Imagine so. You’re pale from axioma. Can hear it rattling in your breath,” said the leader in
a taunting way. “You won’t be needing this stuff for long.”
“All the same, I’d rather not part with it,” Robinson said. He set the case down on the street
and pulled out his violin and bow.
“Get on,” the leader said to the two men straining to hold the trunk. “I’ll deal with him.”
Robinson lifted the violin to his chin and played an offset chord, summoning a magical shield
to block the trunk from leaving the alley. With another chord, the trunk began to move toward
him, while the two men wrestled powerlessly to stop it.
Robinson gazed at the biggest fellow and began to play his instrument fast, vigorously, and
with skill. The magic worked quickly—a flare shooting up into the sky and exploding like a
firework. The alert would summon other sorcerers—hopefully those in law enforcement—to
rush to his aid. Robinson quickly shifted the tune to invoke a protective spell to safeguard
himself from their fists.
“Can’t stop it!” growled one of the men, shoving his whole body against the now floating
trunk as it pressed inexorably toward its owner.
Robinson arched an eyebrow at the leader, who was advancing on him with open menace.
Surely the man wasn’t that stupid? Three thugs against a sorcerer? Even in his weakened
condition, Robinson was more than a match for them. If they had any sense, they’d run, although
they wouldn’t get very far since he’d blocked the alley.

The burly man reached behind his back, under his shirt, and withdrew a dagger. The blade
glittered with the sheen of magic.
“A harrosheth blade,” Robinson said, impressed, still playing music, shifting from one tune
to another. “A blade so cold it can pierce anything.” He was summoning intelligences to aid him,
and they came to him in droves. In Covesea, it took much more coaxing, but Auvinen was
clearly bursting with them. It was a startling response to such a simple magical request.
“I know what you are,” the burly man said grimly. “And I know what this can do.”
Robinson changed the tune again, going into a minor chord, and the dagger was yanked out
of the man’s hand. The man watched, dumbfounded, as it embedded itself into the stone wall. A
harrosheth blade could cut through metal, stone, or wood. It was an Aesir weapon, very costly.
This one was undoubtedly stolen.
The burly man’s eyes bulged as he continued to watch it. The blade was worth three trunks
like Robinson’s. Maybe four. With wild eyes, he rushed to the dagger and grabbed the hilt, which
was exactly what Robinson had expected him to do. He’d noticed the ring on the man’s littlest
finger. The thief wrenched and pulled, trying to free his weapon, but no amount of physical
strength was going to do the trick. Not when Robinson had the Unseen Powers at his command.
The man might as well try lifting the entire building off its foundation.
Robinson shifted to another chord, and the ring on the man’s finger and the hilt of the dagger
fused together with an alchemical bond. Shrill whistles from Marshalcy officers came from both
ends of the alley, and a force of six men appeared around both corners, wearing their dark blue
uniforms with the brass buttons in rows and odd-shaped little helmets, which reminded Robinson
of his previous childhood visit.

The other two would-be thieves had already tried to flee, but they were clawing against an
invisible force that was blocking their escape. The burly man, realizing his danger, was now
trying to pry his hand off the dagger hilt and failing miserably.
Robinson let a final strain of music linger in the air and then tucked the violin and bow back
into the case and released all the magical constraints except the one holding the trunk aloft. For
that, he asked the intelligences to set it down gently, which they did.
A young officer approached Robinson. He had a neatly trimmed handlebar mustache and
keen eyes, and they quickly shook hands. As expected, the clasp he used identified him as
another ranking member of the Invisible College.
“I’m Detective Lieutenant John Prescott Bigelow of the Marshalcy,” the officer said before
releasing the clasp. “Thanks for the timely summons.”
“I’m Robinson Dickemore Hawksley. Thank you for the timely response. These three tried to
steal my alchemy trunk.”
“Do you go by Rob?”
“Robinson will do.”
“Well enough. I can tell by your outfit and speech that you’re new to Auvinen. I apologize
for the sordid welcome. Are you visiting?”
Robinson watched as the officers apprehended the dockworkers, one of whom earned a
thump from a club for his resistance. The sight made him reflexively grimace. He didn’t like to
see any creature suffer. Even if earned.
“A change of scenery was needed. Just arrived with my parents. My father has given lectures
at the university before, and he secured an interview for me with one of the deans.”
“Who?”

“Lennox Warchester George. Do you know him?”
“I know of him. He’s part of the Storrows. One of the better quorums of the Invisible College
in Auvinen. You could do much worse.”
“How many quorums are here?” Back home, there’d only been one quorum; here, they were
probably scattered throughout the city.
“Dozens,” the detective lieutenant said. “Preensby, Gaulter, Wellrip. That’s mine . . . Wellrip.
If you need a situation, you could always start there. I’d speak for you. For now, I need you to
come to the station to make a statement about these fellows and what they did.”
“My parents are expecting me at their hotel. Can we do it there instead? I could use some
help with the trunk as well.”
“Brother to brother,” said the officer with an accommodating grin. “I’ll bring you myself. We
can talk on the way. Your word is all we need.”
“Thank you,” Robinson said, shaking the man’s hand again, this time without the secret
clasp. “I’m much obliged to you.”
One of the officers approached with the harrosheth blade, showing it to the detective
lieutenant. The burly man’s ring was still affixed to it. It would take some time in an alchemy to
break the bond between metals. “He could have done some damage with this,” the officer said
grimly.
The detective lieutenant snorted and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “He picked the wrong
man to rob.”
Robinson shrugged self-deprecatingly at the quip. Rob was a nickname only his most
intimate friends called him. He hoped he would make such friends here in such a vast,
formidable city.

A city teeming with magic. ...