“Dringo, I’ll see you in my chamber before your dinner,” Lord Lychenbarr commanded.
Well, he knew it was coming. The morning they departed the inn for the collegeum, the seven of them had planned how they might pull off the ruse. To better look the part of a young aristocrat, his friends had each donated a few pieces of fine clothing. Tryllo offered to vouch for Dringo. “You will be a distant relative whose family is highly regarded by my father,” suggested Tryllo. “The worse that will happen is that Lord Lychenbarr will place his boot up my arse right after he does the same to Dringo.” The story would be that Dringo’s father, a mighty magician, was delayed in hearing word of the formation of the school and had sent Dringo on while he would make arrangements with the Guild.
Entering Lord Lychenbarr’s chamber, Dringo stiffened his shoulders and tried to appear assured. “Lord Lychenbarr, you wished to speak to me?”
Lord Lychenbarr stroked his wiry chin-whiskers and stared at Dringo. Finally he spoke: “Dringo, I have no authoritative documentation enrolling you into the collegeum. Nor have the appropriate funds arrived.”
Dringo held his gaze and answered with as much boldness as he dared. “I’m certain my credentials are enroute, Lord Lychenbarr. I traveled from lands west of the Flattened Sea. I must have outraced the messenger with the documents.”
“I’m afraid that explanation will not suffice,” said Lord Lychenbarr, shaking his head.
His friends had suggested that Dringo should use bombast and threaten Lord Lychenbarr with the wrath of a powerful father if necessary; however, Dringo was now certain that approach would not work. It was obvious that Lord Lychenbarr could not be intimidated, and it would only open the door to questions for which he had no answers. “I plead for your indulgence, Lord Lychenbarr. This first day has humbled me, but I eagerly await your instruction tomorrow. I will do better. I urge you not to dismiss me.”
Lord Lychenbarr regarded him with a look of contemplation, but then surprised Dringo by saying, “I’ll wait a few days. Go to your dinner and out of my sight.”
Dringo left determined to think no more on the matter. There was nothing else he could do, in any event. After all, the sun might neglect to rise tomorrow leaving that difficulty in obscurity.
The next day, Lord Lychenbarr drove them with relentless energy, demanding exactitude in all things and punishing errors with zest. Dringo, in particular, received painful attention. Late in the day, Lord Lychenbarr departed the room without a word and did not return, leaving them to debate whether they, too, could depart for dinner. Lugwiler’s Itch was very much on their minds.
The following day saw little improvement; nor the day after. On the fifth day, Dringo and Gasterlo managed a momentary Spell of Refulgent Luminosity. Their excitement spurred the others, and within two more days the entire class could duplicate the feat.
The following weeks saw a transformation in Lord Lychenbarr that was as magical as anything Dringo could have imagined. Their mentor had become a patient and enthusiastic teacher, now as quick with praise and encouragement as he had previously been cynical and invective. One evening, following a day of tedious dissection of Killiclaw”s Primer of Practical Magic, he asked them all to join him on his balustraded aerie for a drink. The speckled sun doddered on rays of pale, lavender beams as it fell below the rounded hills of the Ambit and the evening air was cool and fragrant with the sweet aroma of dymphny and telanxis.
“Initially, I resented having to leave my own manse,” began Lord Lychenbarr. “You have won me over with your youthful energy and enthusiasm.” He paused to refill their glasses with a rich, yellow wine. “I am so satisfied with your progress that I’ve decided you are ready for your first practical test tonight.”
This was greeted with loud moans and mumbled complaints.
Lord Lychenbarr laughed. “Here is your task: You are free to make the journey to Grippo’s this evening. I warn you, the dangers are plenitude: visps; erbs; fermines; asms; all the hideous creations of magic gone awry.” He waited a moment, and then added, “Of course, if you don’t feel ready…”
Dringo was the first to voice: “NO! We’re ready.”
A chorus of loud agreement echoed into the purple twilight.
The young mages returned the next evening, blurry-eyed and unsteady, but in a carefree and relaxed demeanor. Dringo also felt a renewed self-assurance. It was one thing to mouth a few words from memory, and quite another to come forth with precision the exact pervulsions necessary when under duress. He and Gasterlo had had a good laugh after arriving at Grippo’s the previous night as they recalled their first fearful meeting, now seemingly so long ago.
Lord Lychenbarr began joining them for dinner in the small common room laid out for that purpose. The evenings became as much a time for learning as any daytime lecture. The pragmatic aspects of thaumaturgy just seemed to make more sense following a fine meal lubricated with even finer wine.
The months progressed rapidly. The winter was mild in spite of little assistance from the sun that seemed to labor every morn to rise above the frosted edge of the horizon. Tryllo Makshaw, though not at all insufficient in ability, decided to leave the Collegeum of Mauge. “We labor while the dying earth exults in its release. We should be exuberant in joined celebration while this glorious planet gives forth its fruits and wines, its nymphs frolic in unabashed nakedness and the songs of the dying earth still echo in our ears.”
Though Tryllo was missed, especially during their occasional sojourns to Grippo’s, the demands of Lord Lychenbarr were unceasing, leaving them little time to think on the matter. Dringo continued to excel, but he still worried that Lord Lychenbarr might renew his investigation into the lack of his enrollment documents. He took solace in that at least he was much better prepared to meet the unknown challenges once he resumed the search for his father.
Lord Lychenbarr never allowed the young magicians to progress beyond the use of madlings, a lesser and thus more controllable form of sandestin. To attempt encodement of the working instructions of a spell into the unpredictable mind of a higher entity had caused misadventure to many wizards. He pointedly emphasized caution every day the lessons entailed practical employment.
Disaster struck, as is usually the case in all things subject to the hubris of young men.
Cavour Senthgorr was attempting a derivation of the Spell of Hastening Profundity. Failure to recite the pervulsion correctly triggered a lesser entity to enlist the aid of a demon of known irritability and vengeful retribution.
The demon stood swathed in the gases and stenches of his sub-world. He loomed above them turning his head back and forth with malevolent smaragdine-colored eyes. A ridged crest fanned the length of his back like the dorsal fin of a sea creature. Below a pouched gut that gave the appearance of a large, living meal just eaten, swayed a pendulous sex organ. It looked at Cavour and spoke: “Your beckoning is inconvenient. However, I subjugate my own desires to your will.” Its voice was surprisingly human-sounding and serene, made ghastly by his next words: “I will require an assistant.” He again looked around the room and returned his eyes on Cavour. “None of you will suffice. I will make a golem using the eyes of…” he looked at Gasterlo, “you.” He turned to Popo Killraye. “I will use your legs. They look sturdy enough. And I think…”
Cavour’s voice croaked as he yelled, “Halt! I discharge you from your task. You may return to your abode.”
The demon chortled. “One instruction at a time. Precedence requires me to forgo that option.” He turned back to his inspection of body parts with what may have been a grin splitting its maw.
Dringo looked over to Lord Lychenbarr who appeared deep in thought as he chuntered a spell in sotto voice. His brow was furrowed in worry. Dringo tried to deduce what type of spell Lord Lychenbarr would attempt: Probably the Agency of Far Dispatch. Whatever…it didn’t seem to be effective. What could fortify his spell?
On impulse he uttered Jonko’s Gentle Aswaggment of Imperious Desire
s.
With wonder and relief, they all looked at each other in silence. The creature had vanished.
Lord Lychenbarr, visibly shaken, said to Dringo, “Well done. What made you think that spell would work?”
“The demon seemed so obdurate in its intentions that it occurred to me that your spell couldn’t work without a mollifying additive. We’ve used Jonko’s Gentle Aswaggment to calm small forest animals before.” He shrugged and splayed out his arms. “It’s all I could contrive at the moment.”
Lord Lychenbarr approached Dringo and put a boney arm around his shoulders. It was the first physical contact any one of them had ever had with this enigmatic man. “I say again, well done. I would not have thought to co-join those spells. I can see now where the two used in conjunction could have many useful applications. I believe we shall have an extra ration of spirits with our dinner tonight. Certainly, I will.” He turned and departed the room.
Dringo could still feel lingering warmth on his shoulder. “Why, he is nothing but a frail, old man beneath those flowing robes,” he thought with a surge of affection.
Following dinner that evening Lord Lychenbarr asked Dringo to see him in his chambers. Dringo had no reason to be uneasy following an amiable meal where Lord Lychenbarr once more praised Dringo’s resourcefulness. That changed as he entered the chambers.
Lord Lychenbarr began sternly, “I have been instructed that without a sponsor you are to be dismissed.”
Dringo paled. “Surely, given some more time….”
Lord Lychenbarr’s raised a hand in a stopping motion. “You have done well here, Dringo; and I am not one who takes commands from my peers. His features softened and then a smile. “You have a sponsor, Dringo. I will be your benefactor.”
Lord Lychenbarr became cautionary at the Collegeum of Mauge. “I realize now that I have imposed too much of my own brashness in your tutorage. After that near disaster with the demon, we will again concentrate more on theory and put more emphasis on the usage of activans and potions. Even the dominant magicians of the Grand Motholam eventually undid themselves through impetuosity and lack of rigor.”
Powerful magicians began to visit the collegeum as rumor spread that Lychenbarr was developing potential rivals. Dringo thought them all uniformly haughty, boastful, arrogant, supercilious, and pompous. These powerful pandalects, without fail, immediately attempted to impose their own distorted imprimatur; and it was obvious to Dringo that Lord Lychenbarr realized that he had made a mistake in allowing such visits. None alarmed him more than when he announced that a communication arrived stating that Iucounu the Laughing Magician would honor the collegeum with an assessment.
Iucounu chose to use a whirl-away of grandiose design. Dringo and his fellow students watched from an upper window as the corpulent wizard bounded from the conveyance, crossed a short expanse of swaying grasses on his stubby legs and called into the manse commandingly, “It is Iucounu. Present yourself before my felicitous thoughts are overtaken by irritation and vex.”
A servant greeted Iucounu and led him inside and up the stairs to the audarium where they all awaited.
Lord Lychenbarr welcomed Iucounu. “Was your journey without trial?”
Iucounu, in his notably squeaky voice, giggled. “One minor annoyance that was quickly dispatched. Nothing of consequence to one such as myself.”
He wore an ill-fitting gown of pale gentian with maroon abstract designs. It did little to mask his rotundity. His large head rode above the silken mass like a boulder perpetually out of balance. “So these are the young mages I hear so much about,” he said, looking about the room. Suddenly, Iucounu screamed a high-pitched invective that tested the upper range of the audible spectrum. He held out an arm with his finger rigid in accusation.
“Cugel. It is you!”
Lord Lychenbarr followed the line of Iucounu’s venomous stare. He turned to him. “You are mistaken. This is Dringo.”
Iucounu squinted. He accessed a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from some hidden reservoir of fabric and walked a few steps closer. “Ahh…. The resemblance is uncanny. The same slender stature. Hair the color of a crow’s wing. The visage of a fox.” Iucounu frowned but seemed to calm.
A stunned Dringo stepped forward. “Then you know my father?” he asked without guile or premonition. “My quest is to seek him out.”
Iucounu squealed, “Do I know your father? Do I know your father? A thief and a trickster. He irritates me worse than a canker on my scrotum.” He raised an arm and rushed forward as if to strike Dringo.
Lord Lychenbarr raced forward and placed himself between the two. “Stop, at once! Iucounu, I will not allow you to disrupt the harmony of this collegeum. Whatever your annoyance, Dringo has done you no mischief. He is—”
Iucounu chanted a spell of spatial transposition hurling Lord Lychenbarr across the room and against the wall with such force that stones loosened and fell, ribbons of dust drifted from the rafters covering Lord Lychenbarr who lay slumped on the floor.
Dringo rushed to his side.
Lord Lychenbarr tried to raise his head but failed. Dringo knelt and cupped the back of his head.
“I’m sorry, Dringo…” Lord Lychenbarr managed in an old man’s voice. His hand searched for Dringo’s and placed an object the size and weight of a glass marble firmly into his palm. “My legacy to you, my dear friend,” he whispered.
Iucounu towered over them. “Dringo, you are too much in your father’s image. You want your father? You shall have him!” He invoked the Agency of Far Dispatch followed by an infliction of the Spell of Forlorn Encystment.
Dringo could hear the sound of Iucounu’s girlish whinny as reality shifted in a dizzying swirl of sky and stars and awareness.
Dringo looked at himself through an ocher err-light, his image distorted further by a strange opaqueness, as if looking through amber. His eyes were open but unblinking. No movement was discernable. Nor was there a trace of sound. He tried to move. It was a sensation beyond the scope of anything he could imagine. Null. Nothingness. An absolute disconnect between mind and body. He sensed no beat of his heart, and he realized at that moment that he did not breathe. There was no pain. There was no cold. There was no heat. Was there life, even? So this was the Spell of Forlorn Encystment. This was worse than being buried alive. Wait! He was buried alive. Forty-five miles beneath the surface of the earth to be exact. But there was no hope even for death to bring a cessation of this perpetual nullity. He turned his mind towards Iucounu. There was hate, at least. But he couldn’t even hold on to that because if it was possible to still “feel” anything, he did still feel the fragility of Lord Lychenbarr’s head as he cradled it in his hand. Was Lord Lychenbarr yet alive? Dringo cried. But he didn’t cry.
Time passed. Or he assumed it passed. His universe now ran on a different clock. He didn’t seem to sleep, but at times awareness of his own thoughts would recede without volition and then coalesce like a dream suddenly coming into focus. It occurred to him that madness would be the adjunct to his situation. He began to discipline his mind by recalling the entirety of every spell he had learned with each pervulsion recited in exactitude. A mistake required him to start from the beginning. Later, the slightest hesitation was cause enough to start all over again. More time passed.
Dringo was in one of his less cognitive states, his mind meandering as he gazed at himself in the strange reflection of his encystment, when suddenly he noticed a minor imperfection in his countenance that had gone unnoticed. Like passing a painting on a wall, day in and day out, while being unaware of the actual image until one actually looks at it. For the first time he concentrated on the image. Although indistinct and vague, there were other minor differences that suddenly seemed obvious. Now he understood what Iucounu meant when he told Dringo he could have his father!
He was looking at his father, not himself. Iucounu had placed him facing Cugel. The irony and the cruelty were manifold and magnified.
The reality shift was almost
physical. Where before there didn’t seem to be perception of depth, now he could see that Cugel was no more than an arm’s reach away. What might be going through his mind? He didn’t even know he had a son. Would he think that Iucounu had created a doppelganger as a further perverted punishment? Maybe Cugel’s sanity had already departed his body and his thoughts would be inconsequential. My father. Now that was something to contemplate.
Time progressed. Dringo existed in what he now thought of more and more as a dreamlike state, vacillating at various levels of awareness. His initial claustrophobic fears of insanity receded. At times he looked into his father’s eyes and had imaginary conversations in his head. He found other matters to dwell upon. Would he even be aware of the sun’s final struggle when it came?
It was during one such contemplative moment when he became aware of a sensation. It was infinitesimally slight. But when there is nothing, then anything seems immense. Some time passed before he could even place the locale on his body; so long it seemed that he had been disassociated from it. It was the orb that Lord Lychenbarr had given him. It moved.
Physical awareness grew. First his hand began to tingle, and then it felt like an animal was running up and down his arm. Next he became aware of heat and odors, and his lungs filled with a gasp of hot, stale air. He blinked. Realized he blinked, and blinked again.
Perched on a rock shelf of only a few inches width and approximately a foot away, there sat a miniature halfling with a smug look on its impish face. “My indenture is complete,” it said. “Release me—as I have released you—so that I may return to the sub-world.”
Dringo moved his head about. He was free. He need only say a spell to return to the surface. “I am indebted to you, little friend,” spoke Dringo. His words sounded strange to his ears.
The creature sneered, baring needle-sharp canines. “I am not your friend and I am not small. I only assume this size because crushing you would negate a satisfactory fulfillment of my obligation. How do you think I fit into Lord Lychenbarr’s orb? Now release me.”
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 57