Book 1 - Magician Page 5

  He found Tomas leaving the soldiers’ commons, nearly as much in a hurry as Pug. When the two met, they both spoke at once.

  “Look at the new tunic—” said Pug.

  “Look at my soldier’s tabard—” said Tomas.

  Both stopped and broke into laughter.

  Tomas regained his composure first. “Those are very fine clothes, Pug,” he said, fingering the expensive material of Pug’s red tunic. “And the color suits you.”

  Pug returned the compliment, for Tomas did cut a striking figure in his brown-and-gold tabard. It was of little consequence that he wore his regular homespun tunic and trouser underneath. He would not receive a soldier’s uniform until Master Fannon was satisfied with his worthiness as a man-at-arms.

  The two friends wandered from one heavily laden table to another. Pug’s mouth watered from the rich fragrances in the air. They came to a table heaped with meat pies, steam rising from their hot crusts, pungent cheeses, and hot bread. At the table a young kitchen boy was stationed with a shoo-fly. His job was to keep pests from the food, whether of the insect variety or the chronically hungry apprentice variety. Like most other situations involving boys, the relationship between this guardian of the feast and the older apprentices was closely bound by tradition. It was considered ill-mannered and in poor taste merely to threaten or bully the smaller boy into parting with food before the start of the feast. But it was considered fair to use guile, stealth, or speed in gaining a prize from the table.

  Pug and Tomas observed with interest as the boy, named Jon, delivered a wicked whack to the hand of one young apprentice seeking to snag a large pie. With a nod of his head, Tomas sent Pug to the far side of the table. Pug ambled across Jon’s field of vision, and the boy watched him carefully. Pug moved abruptly, a feint toward the table, and Jon leaned in his direction. Then suddenly Tomas snatched a puff-pastry from the table and was gone before the shoo-fly lash began to descend. As they ran from the table, Pug and Tomas could hear the distressed cries of the boy whose table they had plundered.

  Tomas gave Pug half the pie when they were safely away, and the smaller apprentice laughed. “You’re the quickest hand in the castle, I bet.”

  “Or young Jon was slow of eye for keeping it on you.”

  They shared a laugh. Pug popped his half of the pie into his mouth. It was delicately seasoned, and the contrast between the salty pork filling and the sweet puff-pastry crust was delicious.

  The sound of pipes and drums came from the side courtyard as the Duke’s musicians approached the main courtyard. By the time they had emerged around the keep, a silent message seemed to pass through the crowd. Suddenly the kitchen boys were busy handing out wooden platters for the celebrants to heap food upon, and mugs of ale and wine were being drawn from the barrels.

  The boys dashed to a place in line at the first table. Pug and Tomas used their size and quickness to good advantage, darting through the throng, snagging food of every description and a large mug of foamy ale each.

  They found a relatively quiet corner and fell to with ravenous hunger. Pug tasted his first drink of ale and was surprised at the robust, slightly bitter taste. It seemed to warm him as it went down, and after another experimental taste he decided that he liked it.

  Pug could see the Duke and his family mingling with the common folk. Other members of his court could also be seen standing in line before the tables. There was no ceremony, ritual, or rank observed this afternoon. Each was served as he arrived, for Midsummer’s Day was the time when all would equally share in the bounties of the harvest.

  Pug caught a glimpse of the Princess and felt his chest tighten a little. She looked radiant as many of the boys in the courtyard complimented her on her appearance. She wore a lovely gown of deep blue and a simple, broad-brimmed hat of the same color. She thanked each author of a flattering remark and used her dark eyelashes and bright smile to good advantage, leaving a wake of infatuated boys behind.

  Jugglers and clowns made their appearance in the courtyard, the first of many groups of traveling performers who were in the town for the festival. The actors of another company had set up a stage in the town square and would give a performance in the evening. Until the early hours of the next morning the festivities would continue. Pug knew that many of the boys the year before had to be excused duty the day following Banapis, for their heads and stomachs were in no condition for honest work. He was sure that scene would be repeated tomorrow.

  Pug looked forward to the evening, for it was the custom for new apprentices to visit many of the houses in the town, receiving congratulations and mugs of ale. It was also a ripe time for meeting the town girls. While dalliance was not unknown, it was frowned upon. But mothers tended to be less vigilant during Banapis. Now that the boys had crafts, they were viewed less as bothersome pests and more as potential sons-in-law, and there had been more than one case of a mother looking the other way while a daughter used her natural gifts to snare a young husband. Pug, being of small stature and youthful appearance, got little notice from the girls of the keep. Tomas, however, was more and more the object of girlish flirtation as he grew in size and good looks, and lately Pug had begun to be aware that his friend was being sized up by one or another of the castle girls. Pug was still young enough to think the whole thing silly, but old enough to be fascinated by it.

  Pug chewed an improbable mouthful and looked around. People from the town and keep passed, offering congratulations on the boys’ apprenticeship and wishing them a good new year. Pug felt a deep sense of Tightness about everything. He was an apprentice, even if Kulgan seemed completely unsure of what to do with him. He was well fed, and on his way to being slightly intoxicated—which contributed to his sense of well-being. And, most important, he was among friends. There can’t be much more to life than this, he thought.

  THREE - Keep

  Pug sat sulking on his sleeping pallet.

  Fantus the firedrake pushed his head forward, inviting Pug to scratch him behind his eye ridges. Seeing that he would get little satisfaction, the drake made his way to the tower window and with a snort of displeasure, complete with a small puff of black smoke, launched himself in flight. Pug didn’t notice the creature’s leaving, so engrossed was he in his own world of troubles. Since he had taken on the position of Kulgan’s apprentice fourteen months ago, everything he had done seemed to go wrong.

  He lay back on the pallet, covering his eyes with a forearm; he could smell the salty sea breeze that blew in through his window and feel the sun’s warmth across his legs. Everything in his life had taken a turn for the better since his apprenticeship, except the single most important thing, his studies.

  For months Kulgan had been laboring to teach him the fundamentals of the magician’s arts, but there was always something that caused his efforts to go awry. In the theories of spell casting, Pug was a quick study, grasping the basic concepts well. But each time he attempted to use his knowledge, something seemed to hold him back. It was as if a part of his mind refused to follow through with the magic, as if a block existed that prevented him from passing a certain point in the spell. Each time he tried he could feel himself approach that point, and like a rider of a balky horse, he couldn’t seem to force himself over the hurdle.

  Kulgan dismissed his worries, saying that it would all sort itself out in time. The stout magician was always sympathetic with the boy, never reprimanding him for not doing better, for he knew the boy was trying.

  Pug was brought out of his reverie by someone’s opening the door. Looking up, he saw Father Tully entering, a large book under his arm. The cleric’s white robes rustled as he closed the door. Pug sat up.

  “Pug, it’s time for your writing lesson—” He stopped himself when he saw the downcast expression of the boy. “What’s the matter, lad?”

  Pug had come to like the old priest of Astalon. He was a strict master, but a fair one. He would praise the boy for his success as often as scold him for his failures. He had a qu
ick mind and a sense of humor and was open to questions, no matter how stupid Pug thought they might sound.

  Coming to his feet, Pug sighed. “I don’t know, Father. It’s just that things don’t seem to be going right. Everything I try I manage to make a mess of.”

  “Pug, it can’t be all black,” the priest said, placing a hand on Pug’s shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you, and we can practice writing some other time.” He moved to a stool by the window and adjusted his robes around him as he sat. As he placed the large book at his feet, he studied the boy.

  Pug had grown over the last year, but was still small. His shoulders were beginning to broaden a bit, and his face was showing signs of the man he would someday be. He was a dejected figure in his homespun tunic and trousers, his mood as grey as the material he wore. His room, which was usually neat and orderly, was a mess of scrolls and books, reflecting the disorder in his mind.

  Pug sat quietly for a moment, but when the priest said nothing, started, to speak. “Do you remember my telling you that Kulgan was trying to teach me the three basic cantrips to calm the mind, so that the working of spells could be practiced without stress? Well, the truth is that I mastered those exercises months ago. I can bring my mind to a state of calm in moments now, with little effort. But that is as far as it goes. After that, everything seems to fall apart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The next thing to learn is to discipline the mind to do things that are not natural for it, such as think on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, or not to think of something, which is quite hard once you’ve been told what it is. I can do those things most of the time, but now and again I feel like there are some forces inside my head, crashing about, demanding that I do things in a different way. It’s like there was something else happening in my head than what Kulgan told me to expect.

  “Each time I try one of the simple spells Kulgan has taught me, like making an object move, or lifting myself off the ground, these things in my head come flooding in on my concentration, and I lose my control. I can’t even master the simplest spell.” Pug felt himself tremble, for this was the first chance he had had to speak about this to anyone besides Kulgan “Kulgan simply says to keep at it and not worry.” Nearing tears, he continued. “I have talent. Kulgan said he knew it from the first time we met, when I used the crystal. You’ve told me that I have talent. But I just can’t make the spells work the way they’re supposed to I get so confused by it all.”

  “Pug,” said the priest, “magic has many properties, and we understand little of how it works, even those of us who practice it. In the temples we are taught that magic is a gift from the gods, and we accept that on faith. We do not understand how this can be so, but we do not question. Each order has its own province of magic, with no two quite alike. I am capable of magic that those who follow their orders are not. But none can say why.

  “Magicians deal in a different sort of magic, and their practices are very different from our practices in the temples Much of what they do, we cannot. It is they who study the art of magic, seeking its nature and workings, but even they cannot explain how magic works. They only know how to work it, and pass that knowledge along to their students, as Kulgan is doing with you.”

  “Trying to do with me, Father. I think he may have misjudged me.”

  “I think not, Pug I have some knowledge of these things, and since you have become Kulgan’s pupil, I have felt the power growing in you Perhaps you will come to it late, as others have, but I am sure you will find the proper path.”

  Pug was not comforted. He didn’t question the priest’s wisdom or his opinion, but he did feel he could be mistaken “I hope you’re right, Father. I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”

  “I think I know what’s wrong,” came a voice from the door. Startled, Pug and Father Tully turned to see Kulgan standing in the doorway. His blue eyes were set in lines of concern, and his thick grey brows formed a V over the bridge of his nose. Neither Pug nor Tully had heard the door open. Kulgan hiked his long green robe and stepped into the room, leaving the door open.

  “Come here, Pug,” said the magician with a small wave of his hand Pug went over to the magician, who placed both hands on his shoulders “Boys who sit in their rooms day after day worrying about why things don’t work make things not work. I am giving you the day for yourself. As it is Sixthday, there should be plenty of other boys to help you in whatever sort of trouble boys can find.” He smiled, and his pupil was filled with relief “You need a rest from study Now go.” So saying, he fetched a playful cuff to the boy’s head, sending him running down the stairs. Crossing over to the pallet, Kulgan lowered his heavy frame to it and looked at the priest. “Boys,” said Kulgan, shaking his head. “You hold a festival, give them a badge of craft, and suddenly they expect to be men. But they’re still boys, and no matter how hard they try, they still act like boys, not men.” He took out his pipe and began filling it “Magicians are considered young and inexperienced at thirty, but in all other crafts thirty would mark a man a journeyman or master, most likely readying his own son for the Choosing.” He put a taper to the coals still smouldering in Pug’s fire pot and lit his pipe.

  Tully nodded. “I understand, Kulgan. The priesthood also is an old man’s calling. At Pug’s age I still had thirteen years of being an acolate before me.” The old priest leaned forward “Kulgan, what of the boy’s problem?”

  “The boy’s right, you know,” Kulgan stated flatly. “There is no explanation for why he cannot perform the skills I’ve tried to teach. The things he can do with scrolls and devices amaze me. The boy has such gifts for these things, I would have wagered he had the makings of a magician of mighty arts. But this inability to use his inner powers . . .”

  “Do you think you can find a solution?”

  “I hope so I would hate to have to release him from apprenticeship. It would go harder on him than had I never chosen him.” His face showed his genuine concern. “It is confusing, Tully I think you’ll agree he has the potential for a great talent. As soon as I saw him use the crystal in my hut that night, I knew for the first time in years I might have at last found my apprentice. When no master chose him, I knew fate had set our paths to cross. But there is something else inside that boy’s head, something I’ve never met before, something powerful. I don’t know what it is, Tully, but it rejects my exercises, as if they were somehow . . . not correct, or . . . ill suited to him. I don’t know if I can explain what I’ve encountered with Pug any better. There is no simple explanation for it.”

  “Have you thought about what the boy said?” asked the priest, a look of thoughtful concern on his face.

  “You mean about my having been mistaken?”

  Tully nodded. Kulgan dismissed the question with a wave of his hand “Tully, you know as much about the nature of magic as I do, perhaps more. Your god is not called the God Who Brought Order for nothing. Your sect unraveled much about what orders this universe. Do you for one moment doubt the boy has talent?”

  “Talent, no. But his ability is the question for the moment.”

  “Well put, as usual. Well, then, have you any ideas? Should we make a cleric out of the boy, perhaps?”

  Tully sat back, a disapproving expression upon his face. “You know the priesthood is a calling, Kulgan,” he said stiffly.

  “Put your back down, Tully. I was making a joke.” He sighed. “Still, if he hasn’t the calling of a priest, nor the knack of a magician’s craft, what can we make of this natural ability of his?”

  Tully pondered the question in silence for a moment, then said, “Have you thought of the lost art?”

  Kulgan’s eyes widened. “That old legend?” Tully nodded. “I doubt there is a magician alive who at one time or another hasn’t reflected on the legend of the lost art. If it had existed, it would explain away many of the shortcomings of our craft.” Then he fixed Tully with a narrowed eye, showing his disapproval. �
��But legends are common enough Turn up any rock on the beach and you’ll find one. I for one prefer to look for real answers to our shortcomings, not blame them on ancient superstitions.”

  Tully’s expression became stern and his tone scolding. “We of the temple do not count it legend, Kulgan! It is considered part of the revealed truth, taught by the gods to the first men.”

  Nettled by Tully’s tone, Kulgan snapped, “So was the notion the world was flat, until Rolendirk—a magician, I’ll remind you—sent his magic sight high enough to disclose the curvature of the horizon, clearly demonstrating the world to be a sphere! It was a fact known by almost every sailor and fisherman who’d ever seen a sail appear upon the horizon before the rest of the ship since the beginning of time!” His voice rose to a near shout.

  Seeing Tully was stung by the reference to ancient church canon long since abandoned, Kulgan softened his tone “No disrespect to you, Tully. But don’t try to teach an old thief to steal. I know your order chops logic with the best of them, and that half your brother clerics fall into laughing fits when they hear those deadly serious young acolytes debate theological issues set aside a century ago. Besides which, isn’t the legend of the lost art an Ishapian dogma?”

  Now it was Tully’s turn to fix Kulgan with a disapproving eye. With a tone of amused exasperation, he said, “Your education in religion is still lacking, Kulgan, despite a somewhat unforgiving insight into the inner workings of my order.” He smiled a little. “You’re right about the moot gospel courts, though. Most of us find them so amusing because we remember how painfully grim we were about them when we were acolytes.” Then turning serious, he said, “But I am serious when I say your education is lacking. The Ishapians have some strange beliefs, it’s true, and they are an insular group, but they are also the oldest order known and are recognized as the senior church in questions pertaining to interdenominational differences.”