by C. Night
“It’s the apothecary!” Cazing said excitedly. “For potion making.”
“Potions!” Rhyen repeated. He looked around eagerly. “What kind of potions?”
“All kinds!” Cazing raved, fingering the dusty silver instruments. “Mostly healing ones, though, in my time.”
“Will I learn how to make potions?”
Cazing bent over the drawers. “If you want,” he said distractedly. “It’s not really necessary—anything that you can do magically can be done without potions. You can just do a spell for the same effect.” He seemed to have forgotten his rule about not telling Rhyen anything regarding magic.
Rhyen slyly asked, “Why make potions then?”
“Well, really a potion is just a bottled spell. So you can give it to someone, and they can use the spell at a later date, and you don’t have to be there with them when—” At once Cazing stood up, looking with narrow eyes at Rhyen. Rhyen put on as innocent a face as he could muster. “Nice try, Rhyen. But no learning about magic yet. You’re not ready.”
Rhyen sighed. “It was worth a shot.”
Cazing dropped his stern demeanor and laughed softly.
They were very busy with the apothecary for several days, and Cazing’s enthusiasm was contagious. Rhyen worked so long in the room that he forgot to focus on the question, and it wasn’t until later in the week that he remembered to think on it. But rack his brain though he might, Rhyen could not figure out how to solve the riddle. Rhyen visited Cinnamon before supper that night, as he often did, bringing her and Brefen treats and stroking their sunshine-smelling manes. Usually this helped him think, solve problems, but today, as he brushed his horse, all he thought was that the question was unanswerable.
After dinner, Cazing pulled out his pipe. Rhyen slumped down in his seat, playing with his dessert. He sighed.
“What’s wrong?” his master asked.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing really.”
“Something on your mind?”
Rhyen laughed. “Just that damned question.”
Cazing relit his bowl. “Did you figure which was better?”
“I don’t think you can determine which is better,” Rhyen mused, tapping his spoon gently against the plate. He didn’t notice that Cazing had stiffened in his seat.
“Go on,” his master urged.
“Well, the question asks which is the lesser evil, right?” Rhyen narrowed his eyes, thinking. “But it also speaks of good and bad. It should be obvious that good is the lesser evil—and yet, that isn’t the right answer.”
Cazing was watching his apprentice puzzle his thoughts with baited breath. He leaned forward, eyes wide. The pipe was forgotten in his hand, the smoldering tobacco spilling unnoticed onto the floor.
Rhyen blew out his breath, frustrated. “It’s like this: Let’s say you help me—you give me your dinner, but then once you give your dinner away, you don’t have any. You helped me and one day I might help you. Would that be considered doing a good thing for a bad reason? Or would it be a bad thing—giving up your dinner—but done for a good reason, so that one day I will help you?
“You see, Master, this is what I’m thinking: The same thing can be construed two different ways. I think of it as a good thing for a bad reason, and you think of it as a bad thing for a good reason, but it’s the same situation! It depends entirely on your viewpoint.”
“So which is the lesser evil?” Cazing asked quietly. He was gripping the table, but Rhyen was lost in his thoughts and didn’t notice.
He raised his hands a few inches off the table. “It depends on who you ask. Your viewpoint is different than mine. A situation I think is evil someone else might consider just.” Rhyen shook his head. “And,” he added slowly, “who am I to decide?” Silence filled the kitchen. When his master didn’t say anything, Rhyen looked up. Cazing was smiling broadly at him, his eyes were shining with pride.
“Well done, Rhyen,” Cazing choked, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m very proud of you.”
“What?” Rhyen asked, confused.
“You answered the question correctly.” Cazing reached over and put a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. “You are now ready to start learning magic.”
Rhyen’s mouth dropped open. He slammed back his chair and bounded out of his seat. He was smiling wider than he ever had before. “What? You’re serious? That was the answer? I can start learning magic? When—now?”
Cazing laughed. “Sit down, Rhyen. Yes, I’m serious, that was the answer. Yes, you can begin to learn wielding. No, you can’t start now!”
Rhyen crashed back in his chair, beaming with happiness. “Why not now, Master?” he asked eagerly. He was too excited to care that he wasn’t going to start now.
“Because I want to explain the riddle to you first,” Cazing answered gently. “Are you listening?”
Rhyen nodded vigorously.
Cazing took a second to collect his thoughts. “You were correct when you asked who you are to decide what is right and what is wrong. That was the whole point of the question—I wanted you to arrive, on your own, at the conclusion that you do not know all the answers. And to understand that there is no one answer for every question. Like you said, the answer depends on who gives it. There is more than just good and bad, right and wrong. You have shown me that you see the world for many shades of gray instead of just black and white. That was what I needed to see before I could start to teach you magic.”
Cazing sighed, frustrated, and looked away. “Rhyen, as a sorcerer you will be approached by many people who want you to use magic to help them. Magic is not so complicated, after all. Truthfully, it is actually very simple. And this simplicity, once you master it, will make you even more eager to help these people—you could do it so easily. You will hear their side of the story, and inexperienced wielders jump quickly to provide magical solutions to problems. I’m trying to save you from making this mistake. Remember—you’ve only heard their side of the story. One side. How can you possibly make a decision based off one opinion alone? And even if you hear all the different renditions, should you interfere? Should you? Because you will be able to magically solve just about anything. One day you will be a sorcerer, and you will have almost limitless potential—you will be capable of helping them with almost anything. But should you? Just because you are presented with an issue you are able to solve does not mean you have the right or authority to do so.
“This is one of the hardest things to understand and accept as a wielder. In most cases, Rhyen, you should not interfere. You can offer advice, but rarely should you magically intervene.” Cazing ran a hand over his hair. “And if you do, you will have to take your emotions out of the equation—make a judgment based on facts alone, not the persons involved, or how you feel about them. So, yes, as a sorcerer you will sometimes have to do things that you personally feel are bad, but you make the decision to do it because in the end it will achieve a good goal. And you will sometimes do a good thing that furthers a bad cause. But the thing I want you to remember is that your opinion of the task—bad or good—is not important to a wielder. What is important is the task itself, and if, in the end, you are certain it is the right thing to do.”
Rhyen lowered his face to his hands, trying to process it all. “So what, sometimes I should get involved and other times no? How will I know which is which?” Who am I to decide? Rhyen thought again, feeling a great burden settle over his shoulders.
“That is what I’m trying to tell you. You can’t know. You will have to rely on your judgment and your instinct. But if you understand that you do not know all the answers, and accept that the only thing you can do is use your best judgment, you will do right by the world. That will help you decide when to interfere, and when to do nothing—when you can tell if the good deeds will outweigh the bad.”
“I thought you said good and bad depended on the person?” R
hyen asked, slightly accusingly. This was so confusing.
Cazing laughed. “So it does. But after hearing all the facts, you will have to make the decisions based on your opinion, which you should form in as unbiased a sense as possible.”
There was only the crackling of the fire for some time. Rhyen dropped his hands and looked at Cazing. “Why is it like this?” he asked dully.
“Well, when the world was new and the gods walked upon it, they used their natural magical abilities to shape it, to keep it balanced. Balance, Rhyen, is the key to everything—not just magic, but life. Everything needs balance. But the world became unbalanced by the Lesser Gods—or one of them, I should say, who set off a chain reaction that caused the rest to unbalance as well.
“You know that the High Gods all represent one natural Element on this earth—Water, Air, Fire, etc. The Lesser Gods, though not so powerful as the High Gods, evolved into more complex Elements, which were often intangible ideas, like War and Healing. One of the Lesser Gods, Persuasion, went rampant, possessing many people. They went to war with each other, and caused the other Lesser Gods to interfere. Eventually even the High Gods stepped in. It was a terrible time. There was too much magic. The world was chaotic—it was thrown off balance.
“So the High Gods decided to withdraw from the earth—they had interfered with the world too much.” Cazing looked pointedly at Rhyen, who started to understand the dangers of getting magically involved in worldly situations. His master continued. “Now, because the earth was made with magic, the gods couldn’t take it away. Not completely. It was needed to keep the earth balanced. So the seven High gods blessed the children of the royal human family of Thronder. Each god blessed one child, and that is how magic came to the humans. The seven High Gods gave a portion of their Elemental power so that the world would be balanced. And then they withdrew, closing the portal between Heaven and earth behind them.”
“What about the Lesser Gods?”
“They blessed people too, sometimes even multiple people. But their Elemental powers were not so great or natural as the High gods. And then all the gods withdrew to Heaven.”
Rhyen interrupted. “But I thought the Fallen god didn’t get to go to Heaven?”
“No. The Fallen was exiled to Limbo, the space between Heaven and earth.”
Rhyen shook his head. “I don’t understand why the High gods didn’t just kill the Fallen. It would have been justified.”
Cazing raised an eyebrow. “From your point of view, maybe. Never forget that everything has more than one answer, more than one side of the story. But even if the gods had agreed with you, they couldn’t have killed the Fallen.”
Rhyen tilted his head in puzzlement. “Why is that?”
“Balance, Rhyen! Have you listened to anything I’ve said?” Rhyen grimaced, abashed. Cazing rolled his eyes. “There were seven High Gods and however many Lesser Gods. The universe will always need that exact amount in order to remain balanced. And that is why they wouldn’t have killed the Fallen, even if they had wanted to. If they had, there would have needed to be another Lesser God.”
Rhyen pursed his lips. “Master,” he asked slowly, “if there were only certain people blessed with magic, why is it that there were so many wielders a thousand years ago?”
“Well, the original wielders married and had children, passing the capacity for magic to their offspring, who eventually had children of their own, and so on. In fact, all the wielders with an affinity for Earth were related, however distantly, by blood to the one original child who was blessed by the High god Earth himself. But as people intermarried, they became distantly related to people who had been blessed by other High gods, or Lesser Gods. And so, over tens of thousands of years, affinities became blurred. Eventually many wielders could wield many Elements. That’s why the gods sent the Pankara Stone through the portal—to boost affinities, because the world was becoming unbalanced again.”
“You’re only talking about humans, though.”
“What do you mean?” Cazing asked curiously.
“You said the gods only blessed humans. What about elves or gnomes or the other magical creatures of this world? I know elves and gnomes have magic, and dwarves as well.”
“They do. But their magic is inherent to their nature. They use it daily, but have absolutely no conscious control over it. So Sun elves like Rode, for instance, have an inherent magical ability toward living creatures. He uses magic daily. But he can only use magic in that specific Element—living creatures—and he cannot command his magic, as I can. Only humans have the ability to channel magic, and wield it to their own end. Which is why we as humans have a responsibility with our magic.” Cazing refilled and relit his pipe. He took a long pull. Rhyen watched him blow out a smoke ring. Silence rang through the kitchen. Even the sputtering fire was dying down, and Rhyen dutifully tossed another log into the hearth. Finally, Cazing spoke again, smoke pouring out of his mouth as though his words were made vapor.
“Responsibility, Rhyen.” Cazing peered up at him. “Wielders have a duty to use our magic to help those around us. Being a sorcerer is a life of service. But sometimes it is easy to mistake service for favors. You must keep your emotions at a distance. You must use your gift in whatever way will help the most people—this is a burden, Rhyen, and I’m sorry that you must bear it as I do. It is a lonely existence.”
Rhyen was confused. Being a wielder was one of the best things that could happen to someone. They were the most powerful, the most feared, and the most loved of all people, because of the amazing things they could do.
But as he thought that, Rhyen felt a pang of shame. Isn’t that just what Cazing had been telling him? His magic wasn’t a reward for anything he himself had done—Cazing had just told him the only reason he had it was the he was born to a family with magic blood. It was just the way it was. And he should remember that fact. Rhyen cringed. If he was being honest with himself, he had always prided himself on having magic. True, he couldn’t control it yet, but the fact that he had it meant that he was special, better than everyone else. Rhyen remembered with guilt that he had lorded the fact that he was a wielder over his siblings when the magic had first burst out of him. He thought he understood why Cazing was telling him this, except for one thing.
“But sir,” Rhyen said slowly, “if it is a life of service, of constantly helping others, why is it a lonely existence?”
Cazing answered him with a question. “How old am I, Rhyen?”
Rhyen was taken aback. “I don’t know, Master.”
“I’m nearly two hundred years old.” Cazing said simply.
Rhyen sucked in air, realizing his previous guesses about the matter had been far off. He’d never imagined that Cazing was so old—nearly two centuries old seemed impossible.
“I haven’t had family for almost two centuries. Friends come and go with the decades. The seasons pass in what feels like days.” Rhyen felt compassion settle in his stomach for Cazing. Though he himself never spoke with his family, Rhyen realized that it was a comfort to think of them, to know that they were all safe and happy in Yla. Cazing had been missing that comfort for a long time.
“You know that magic expands your life. You’ve heard that the stronger a wielder is, the more years the magic adds on to his life?”
Rhyen nodded. He said nothing. Cazing was in a strange mood, and Rhyen felt a little fearful.
“That’s not entirely true. It doesn’t add on years so much as it slows you, stops you where you are for decades at a time. I look the same today as I did a half a century ago. I barely change, but the world continues to pass me by.”
Cazing sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “And you have no choice. You have to use the magic. It is an uncontrollable compelling inside, and you become addicted. You want to use it, even knowing the terrible consequences.”
Cazing seemed to be talking more to himself
than to Rhyen. “But you also need to use it. If you bottle it up, if you refuse to wield it, it will burst out of you. It will be dangerous. You might hurt those around you. And in the end, the magic will kill you.
“So the choice is to die slowly and painfully and without control of who you hurt, or live forever and watch those you love die anyway while you stay exactly the same. People call it a ‘gift.’ ‘Blessed blood.’” Cazing laughed bitterly. “But it’s a curse.”
Rhyen said nothing. He felt for his master, who was clearly hurting, but he didn’t know what to do or say. And Rhyen felt his own spirits sinking as he realized that this was also his future. The silence stretched on, Rhyen pondering all that he had learned.
Cazing was looking bleakly in front of him. Rhyen had never seen anyone so miserable. Rhyen wanted to help him. He saw that his pipe had gone out. Rhyen fished in his pocket for a match and gently pulled the pipe from his master’s hand. He took some leaves from Cazing’s tin on the table, refilled the bowl, and struck the match. When the leaves began to smolder, Rhyen handed the pipe to Cazing.
“Here you are, Master. Let’s see some smoke rings. I’ll bet you can’t put one inside another,” Rhyen said, trying to sound encouraging. Cazing looked down at his hand, then up at Rhyen. Rhyen tried to smile at him.
A slow smile began to play around Cazing’s mouth. He sighed again, but reached out and grabbed Rhyen’s shoulder. “But you know what, Rhyen? In the end, it’s not that hard of a choice. Accept that this is a part of you, make peace with your long life and the consequences that will come with it. Enjoy the people you love while you have them. You will feel purpose when you use your gift to help others…” Cazing laughed. “And if every decade or so you feel a little down, I hope you have an apprentice to cheer you up, like I do.”
Chapter 12
“So, Master, why is magic simple?” Rhyen said enthusiastically. It was the next morning, and they had hiked after breakfast up the nearby hill. Cazing had said that he was going to begin to teach Rhyen wielding today, and Rhyen was almost beside himself with excitement.