The Lab was never a comfortable place, but tonight it was worse than usual. Viper dragged his gaze out of the mildew-stained book when his foot cramped for the third time. He’d been trying to decipher the spikey handwriting for what seemed like hours, in between running up and down the spiral staircase fetching trinkets. The old man suffered from sand in his socks over something today.
Whatever it was, he didn’t care anymore. His eyes were so tired they itched, and his legs ached from too many pointless errands. He’d never wanted to snuggle with his pillow so much in his life.
Trevor stretched and bumped the back of his head on a bookcase. “I have decided that you are ready to pass the first level examination.”
Now? Who was the old man kidding? Viper glanced across the Lab, searching for the water clock amongst the clutter. “Master Trevor, in ten minutes it will be midnight. Can’t we wait until morning? You’ve had me running since dawn.”
“Nonsense. In eleven minutes it will be morning.” Trevor pulled a notebook out from under a pile of papers and sat it next to the slim book he’d been studying. “I have gone through all of the traditional test questions, and I am quite certain that you can answer most of them.”
“What happens if I fail?”
“In that case, you may not retake the test for another three lunars.” Trevor found a pen and sat it upon the notebook. “It is stated most specifically in the manual. Besides, if you fail it will have been entirely my fault. I won’t disown you because I’ve been less than adequate as an instructor.”
“Thunderous.” That gave him plenty of time to study all the stuff he expected mess up. Zedisti history made no sense at all. He’d pass it for sure next time. He certainly wasn’t in any hurry to pass all the exams and get tossed out on his own.
Trevor looked at the little table, at the shelves surrounding it, and finally under the table. “Where is my ink pot?”
Exactly where the old turybird left it yesterday. Viper rescued the ink from a shelf of pickled ocean specimens and handed it over.
The old man smiled at the ink pot like he considered it a feast day present. Or the opening line of a favorite joke. Now that was a worrisome thought. Was this whole exercise a joke?
“Bring a chair to this table, please.”
Why had the old man picked a table without any chairs?
He threaded his way across the room, headed for the only chair that seemed to have an open route to Trevor’s chosen table. His own life twisted as badly as the ephemeral path did.
Was he the only one who lived like this? “Why aren’t there any other young sorcerers? Or should I ask, where are they? I’ve never seen one at the society meetings, and no one talks about having an apprentice. Surely there are a few new sorcerers around.”
“Of course there are.” Trevor smiled and held up a glass flask. “Who do you think runs the glasswork fires?”
“I don’t understand.” Careful to avoid knocking anything over, he eased the chair back through the labyrinth of dusty specimens and piled books. One of these days he needed to find the time to clean and organize the Lab. How did Trevor find anything?
“If the glassworks used only wood or coal for heat, soon the forest would be denuded.” Trevor held the crystalline flask up to the light. “We choose to prevent that, since it would mean the end of the industry. The factories hire journeymen and low grade sorcerers to generate the necessary heat from a small fire rather than using a huge fire to accomplish the same results. Simply an application of the Theory of Efficiency.”
The theory of what? How did efficiency apply to magic?
“Fire doesn’t release energy in the form of heat in an efficient manner if left to itself. I’ve explained that to you haven’t I?”
No, he hadn’t, but there was a book in here somewhere that would. Or maybe he’d ask later, when he wasn’t so tired he could barely focus his eyes.
“Therefore, all the attendant sorcerer needs to do is coax the fire into releasing more heat at the appropriate time.” Trevor shrugged. “A rather boring job. However, you needn’t worry. I have plans in mind for you. Oh, I suppose you might try it as a lark sometime, or to earn pocket money, but other than keeping one’s own home warm, there is no reason to spend much time at it. Indeed not. I have much better employment planned for you.”
Thunderer protect him. Those plans were likely boring and useless, like the map copies he’d made yesterday. Otherwise they’d be extraordinarily dangerous, like going through Deathsong Pass for the sole purpose of making a map. No point in asking what he meant, though. The old turybird changed his plans daily, and sometimes they included him and other times they didn’t.
“Come now, apprentice.” Trevor bubbled with appalling good cheer. “Let’s get started. Sit down, sit down, you’re not a little golden heron to stand up all day, or night as the case may be. No, don’t perch, you are not a bird. Sit.”
Viper sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Much better. We will start with your grasp of the languages one must know as a sorcerer. Old Tongue will be first. You only need to know the basic structure, child, so stop wiggling. Tlk’likaq will be second, then Nashidran and Duremen-Lor. You obviously know Zedisti and Setoyan, so I won’t test you on those.
“You see, you’ve passed two sections of the exam before we’ve even started. Next you will be tested on history, natural and cultural.
“Stop rolling your eyes. I’ve quizzed you on every book you’ve read, and you’ll cope with this exam as easily as you did my questions. Yes, you will. You really should believe in yourself more, child. I’ll have to work on changing that.”
So much for the vaunted Setoyan impassivity. He needed to work on hiding his thoughts better. Letting the old man change any part of him would be as bad as asking hyenas to guard the kitchen on a feast day.
Trevor hummed and referred to his manual. “After history, we will evaluate beginning algebra and chemistry. I do hope you’ve studied the elemental table lately. That’s all the chemistry you’ll need to know tonight. We can start on trigonometry and geometry tomorrow, whether you pass or not.”
What a list. He’d studied more than he’d realized. Too bad so little of it seemed to be inside his head tonight.
“Your final exam must be a test of will. Now that’s not so dreadfully much, is it?”
Viper rolled his eyes back to the ceiling, but forced himself to smile. He checked the clock again. He’d be lucky to be finished by lunch and he was hungry already. But he wasn’t ready to start this charade.
“Master Trevor, when can I learn how to create an illusion?”
Trevor stared blankly for a moment. “Are you referring to the illusions that wizard Clay performed for us yesterday? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you pass the second level. Illusions are part of the third-level course. Second level involves chants and self-control, the extension of will. Those must be fully mastered before illusions can be performed.”
The old man glared at him. “I don’t see why you would want to learn them. Illusions are magicians’ tricks. A sorcerer needn’t be bothered with such nonsense.”
What brought on that fit of temper? “I apologize, sir. That hadn’t occurred to me.”
The poor old turybird probably couldn’t create a decent illusion. He’d have to teach himself. He’d seen a book on the theory of illusions in here somewhere. He’d read it tomorrow. Or the day after, whenever he recovered from this current madness.
“You are quite forgiven.” Trevor bounced on his toes and grinned. “I most certainly won’t hold ignorance against you. I’m here to cure that affliction. Shall we begin?”
˜™
Wasn’t he finished yet? It was nearly noon, and he hadn’t been allowed any sleep. Would the old man let him sleep down here? Like for a day or two, or a dreizhn? He wasn’t going to make it up those sandblasted stairs until he’d had some rest.
His neck drooped until his forehead rested on the hand that held his
pen.
“Wake up, child.” Trevor reached across the table and tugged the exam paper free. A streak of ink appeared below the blot where his pen had rested. “One more test. Come, walk with me.”
Viper forced his stiff body to stand and follow. One more test. Afterwards he planned to collapse on the floor. If the old man wanted him to sleep upstairs, he could thundering well carry him.
Trevor stopped beside the Lab doorway. “Will this door open.”
“I haven’t managed to yet.” He kicked at a chair. The three-foot-tall stack of books on the seat wobbled. He grabbed the pile before it fell over.
“Try.”
He balanced the books back on the chair and edged sideways, not daring to relax until he was several feet away. After a few more steps, he halted in front of the door. How quickly could he get this over with? All he wanted right now was his mattress. “Open. Open already. Open, please?” He glanced up at Trevor.
Thank the Thunderer, the old man wasn’t in the mood to quarrel about his lack of effort.
Trevor shook his head and willed the door open. He led the way out of the Lab and down the hall. After walking for several minutes, the old man willed open another door, but only part way.
Intense heat poured through the half open entryway.
Viper stumbled back a step. Where did that come from? He squinted into the brightly lit room.
The cubicle was small, scarcely four feet across and four tall. He’d be able to stand upright, but Trevor would be forced to sit on the floor. The glowing, acid green floor.
All six surfaces of the room were lit in contrasting colors. His eyes ached from their harsh light. A discordant buzz whined a different note from each of the walls. His empty stomach flopped and writhed with the soaring and sinking whine.
He wouldn’t be taking a nap in there.
“This is the final test.” Trevor glanced into the cell. “I shall seal you in. You must will the door open. The heat, light, and noise are designed to distract you. The manual directs that you must be exhausted for the same reason.”
Sandblast. This had to be the old man’s idea of a joke. Just standing here, a full yard from the door, he was already covered with sweat.
“You have two hours. At the end of that time, I shall open it for you, should you fail to do so for yourself. However, I highly recommend that you remove yourself as quickly as possible. Two hours in this chamber has been known to leave an apprentice in a vegetable state for a full lunar after the fact. Many never recover completely.”
Never recover? And he was supposed to walk in there? Willingly?
Trevor smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I want you to know I believe in you unequivocally. I predict you will succeed in opening the door within an hour. So, in with you, and start getting yourself out again.”
Maybe it was a vulture dream. He’d fallen asleep at his desk, and he was hallucinating this torture.
Trevor gestured at the door. “In with you, apprentice.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Absolutely. Shoo.” Trevor prodded him into the perilous room and closed the door with a gesture.
The door snicked shut and vanished into the shrieking purple wall.
He squinted his eyes against the brilliant light. Sweat trickled down his back. It felt too real to be a dream.
He lurched to the door and leaned against it. “Open,” he whispered.
The gut-wrenching whine tore through him. Heat baked his throat.
The door did not so much as tremble.
He thought of all the times Trevor had asked him to try and open the door to the Lab, and how he failed every time. Sometimes the stubborn Lab door would quiver, occasionally it would shake, but it never had opened.
He groaned, lowered his head, and banged both fists against the door while launching a mental assault, pushing against the hot purple stone with both hands and mind.
This door did not respond at all.
Purple blurred into orange. The green floor splashed into stunning pink.
His concentration broke. His legs lost the strength to hold him upright. He sank to his knees and rubbed his aching head against his sore fists.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t open it and he was going mad. He’d run amuck like the rogue warriors did, and Trevor would be forced to lock him up. Or even to kill him, just to stop his berserker rage. The poor old man didn’t understand what he was getting into, leaving a Setoyan to go mad.
The tiny room suddenly felt even smaller. Could it be shrinking?
He tried to rest. He hoped to salvage enough strength for a second attack, but the painful light and soul-wrecking discord tore at his mind. The heat grew worse with every passing breath. Surely the room was shrinking. He didn’t have much time. Madness was closing in on him.
Orange corkscrewed into icy blue. Pink exploded into graveyard black.
He worked on the breathing exercises that Trevor had taught him. They helped control the spiraling fear, but he knew he was losing the battle. His clothes dripped with sweat. The room seemed to spin. He didn’t dare let himself pass out. There wasn’t a chance he’d ever wake up again.
Balanced on his knees and forehead, Viper arched his back and pounded on the stone door with both fists. If only he were as large as his father. He’d break the sandblasted door with a single blow. Well, it might take a lot of blows, but he’d break it down eventually.
He might never get free. If Trevor so much as left to visit the crapper, he’d forget to come back and let him out. He’d be trapped for days and dreizhn, until the turybird remembered to look for him. By then he’d have died of madness.
The old man could have already forgotten him. How long had he been in here? One hour? Two? It had been a long time, now. Too long. Of course Trevor had forgotten him. The old man couldn’t remember the name of the lunar, much less anything as insignificant as an apprentice.
He had to get out of here. And he had to do it by himself. Nobody out there would help him. He needed to look to himself for the strength to do anything. But where could he look? Where would he find the will?
Acting physically would defeat him. What else was there?
He had to look to inward.
Viper placed both hands on the fiery door and closed his eyes. He balanced against the door and turned inwards. In and farther in, deep into his soul, he searched for the illusive ‘will’ to open the door.
There was nothing in his mind labeled ‘will.’
There wasn’t much in his mind at all. He was too tired to think. Could he follow his gut? That wouldn’t work. His gut wanted to puke up everything he’d eaten over the last three days.
He turned his attention back to the door. He couldn’t see with his eyes closed, so he fashioned an imaginary door in his mind.
What would happen if –
He leaned on the imaginary door.
The glaring lights went dark, the grating whine ceased. He fell face down into the icy hall.
Immediately Trevor knelt beside him and scooped his limp, sweat-soaked body off the cold floor. He squashed Viper against his warm, bony chest. “Well done, lad. I’ll have you know you took only twenty three minutes to open that door. Excellent time, indeed.”
Twenty three lightning-blasted minutes. It felt like twenty three hours. “I passed?”
“You passed the entire exam with a score of ninety seven percent. That is an exceptionally high mark. We must have a grand party to celebrate. I’ll gather our friends together and we’ll dance until midnight.”
“That’s nice,” Viper murmured. “I hope you enjoy yourselves.”
Much to Trevor’s consternation, he faded into sleep, and no amount of pleading or shaking could awaken him.
Chapter 25.
He was still so sleepy he had trouble holding his head up, but Viper did his best to stay attentive while Trevor lectured at him. Finally he’d hear the truth about magic.
“Chants are not spells in a
nd of themselves.” Trevor paced around the Lab, stepping over piles of books and around tables stacked with over-filled glass jars. “They are aids to concentration to enable to the mind and will union to accomplish the result desired. With sufficient practice, voiced chants become unnecessary. They become the mark of a novice or an individual under stress.”
As many times as he’d heard the old man mumble his chants, the poor turybird must be under a lot of stress. He was decades too old to be a novice. But what could worry him? He had a nice home, money, and a dedicated apprentice. Well, the house was ancient. And who knew where the money came from. The problem couldn’t be the apprentice.
Trevor handed him a tall green booklet. “I want you to memorize the first ten chants immediately. Moreover, I expect you to learn the sweep-the-floor chant so thoroughly that you no longer need to say the words. I will quiz you on the words tomorrow night, and on the results of your chanting at the end of two dreizhn.”
With a brisk nod, the old sorcerer walked away.
Wait. That couldn’t be the end of the lecture. There wasn’t hardly anything about magic in it. There wasn’t the slightest explanation on how the chants worked. Or on how to make them work. It wasn’t fair.
Trevor wandered off to the far corner, picked up a book, and settled into his own studies.
It wasn’t fair. He’d barely gotten the hang of the will-business, and now he had twice thirteen days to figure out how to make a will-chant work? Next the old man would want him to suck water out of air or to make the dead dance.
Half the time the turybird said his own chants aloud. It simply wasn’t fair.
Viper smacked the booklet down on the table, opened it, and read through the list. The titles looked like the toddler stories his mother made up for his younger siblings. ‘Sweep the floor.’ Or worse, ‘Stir the pot.’ That’s how mothers taught babies to do a little work. How humiliating.
Better magic awaited him.
Without ever turning from the title page, he pretended to read until he was certain Trevor was absorbed in his own project. Moving as cautiously as a coney creeping to the waterhole below a hawk’s nest, he slunk over to the shelf where he’d last seen the book he wanted.
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 22