A mage in the making cogd-1

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "May I stop now, Lord Mage?" Grimm pleaded, feeling a deep ache in his head and his long bones. "I am suddenly very tired." Grimm began to see coruscating spots before his eyes and fought to maintain his equilibrium.

  "I will give you some more potent meditation and relaxation exercises for you to practice in your cell," Crohn said. "Work on them with diligence, so that next time you do not injure yourself or me. Do not, under any circumstances, be tempted to practice any spells except when you are in tuition. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Lord Mage." Grimm had no intention of risking another spell resonance or worse.

  "With the power you possess," the Magemaster continued, "the consequences of a miscast or garbled spell could be frightening. I want you to promise me you will not attempt the least spell, except in my presence. The temptation is too much for many Neophytes, and they may suffer grave consequences for their youthful folly. In the realm of Thaumaturgy, a casual dilettante is a dangerous liability."

  Crohn rubbed his chin. "I have decided not to place you under a spell of Compulsion at this time," he said. "Such a spell removes free will and the necessity for the self-discipline I expect from a Neophyte. As your studies progress, however, I may find it necessary to impose such a restriction upon you."

  Grimm gave a solemn, heartfelt oath that he would do no more than think about the day's learning and read his notes. Crohn wrote some instructions in a combination of plain text and runes on a piece of parchment, which he handed to Grimm.

  "You are dismissed. Go and rest before recreation."

  ****

  When Grimm reached his cell, his mind reeled at what he had learned and the power he had released. Despite his wheeling thoughts, he fell quickly asleep after a cursory review of Crohn's notes, surrendering to the deep torpor within him. It was a sensation with which he would become familiar in the succeeding days.

  ****

  After a further month of daily two-hour sessions, Grimm was able to control the feather as required, at will and on demand. He moved on to others of the Minor Magics, and he began to develop a feel for the object to be affected, so as to be able to divert just enough energy to bring about the desired change.

  When his sessions with Crohn were finished, he moved on to other lessons. He found Herbalism fascinating, and he was a quick study. He still found Courtly Graces somewhat difficult, but even Magemaster Faffel did not fail to note that Grimm was making rapid progress. Music, as ever, was a blessed release, and Grimm quickly became the skilful player of a number of instruments, preferring the intimate embrace of stringed instruments such as the viol and the chitarra.

  Grimm felt a new confidence in his step as he moved around the Scholasticate. He spent much of his spare time in the Library, looking in ancient librams and magical treatises, and he was allowed to keep irregular times in the Refectory so he could find convenient points at which to adjourn his studies. He found great pleasure at being able to ignore the strident, nagging Refectory bell, although he needed to locate a Magemaster or Adept who might open the Refectory door for him.

  He spent little time in the recreation yard with the other boys, and he bore dark circles around his eyes and a pallid complexion: these, he learned, were the signs of the diligent Neophyte. Despite his gruelling work schedule, he felt happy and content, feeling that he was making slow but steady progress towards the coveted ring and staff of a true Guild Mage.

  One afternoon, he decided to take a brisk stroll around the yard during the daily recreation period instead of his habitual hour in the Library. He was joined by Madar, now sporting a healthy growth of russet beard and in full control of a firm baritone voice.

  "Grimm, wait!" Madar cried. "Don't you have any time these days for your old friends?"

  Grimm started and turned to face Madar. "Oh, I'm sorry, Madar, I didn't notice you," he said in a distant voice. "It's really good to see you. I do keep meaning to take time to see you and Argand, but this Neophyte business is hard work, and I don't keep standard hours."

  The redhead snorted. "It looks like it, too, Grimm. You look like death warmed up-or even death cooled down. You need to get some fresh air and good food; not the slop they give you in the Refectory. You know I'd be only to happy to give you some of my goodies."

  "You are good to me, Madar, and I do appreciate that so much," Grimm replied with heartfelt intensity. "I'd really love to meet up and talk over old times, and I will, I promise. I can't make it tonight, I'm afraid; I have some spells to practice for tomorrow. And don't worry too much about my victuals; I'm allowed better food now, although not quite as good as the food you used to share with me."

  "The phrase, 'used to', sounds awfully final, Grimm," Madar said. "Which slave-driver's pushing you right now?"

  "Magemaster Crohn."

  "That bloody tyrant! I'm not surprised you look as you do. Argand's a Neophyte, too, of course, and he's studying to become a Scribe under Dothan, who's no bundle of laughs either. You remember when we had him for Interpretation when Kargan was away?" He grimaced.

  "Oh, Crohn isn't as bad as he seems when you get to know him," Grimm said. "But, if I want to become a Reader, I've really got to work at it. It'll be all worth it when I'm Acclaimed."

  "Come on, now, Grimm! A Reader? False modesty sits ill on you; you've got to be considering Weatherworker at least, surely!"

  Grimm smiled. In truth, he did expect to become more than a Reader, the lowest rung on the ladder of Magedom. "All right, Madar. If I want even to become a Reader."

  Madar smiled. "That's the Afelnor I thought I knew. So, Grimm, how does magic really work? What do you do all day?"

  Grimm felt a tight band form around his head; now that his spell-studies were at such an advanced stage, Crohn had decided to place a Compulsion on him, after all: a spell that prevented him from revealing what he had learned. Although it irked him a little that the Magemaster did not trust him to keep his mouth shut, the Neophyte knew only too well that it might be dangerous to satisfy his friend's curiosity.

  "I can't tell you, Madar. No, look, I mean it; I can't tell you, even if I want to. I'm under a bloody Compulsion Crohn put on me, and you can guess how powerful that is. All I can say is that now I really understand why they're so secretive about this.

  "Look, Madar, how about you and me and Argand getting together tomorrow in the Refectory, so we can chew over old times, if not old food? I've got a couple of free hours in the evening, too, and I'll be in my cell if you want to stop by. It'd make a real change for me, and I'd really enjoy it."

  "It's a date," Madar said with warm sincerity. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be seeing Argand in the refectory tonight, and I'll see if he's free tomorrow night. I surely hope so, because I don't get to see much of him, either, these days."

  The two Neophytes shook hands, and Grimm had to rush off; he knew Crohn wouldn't take kindly to him being late for his evening session.

  ****

  "So, Argand, how do you like it as a Neophyte?" Grimm asked the next day.

  "Well, my arm aches from pushing a quill over the paper all day, and the hours are long, but Dothan isn't anything like old Crohn. If I've done well, at least he tells me so."

  "I always heard Dothan was a bit of a tyrant," Madar said. "I was talking to some of the boys that had him as Magemaster, and none of them has a kind word for him."

  "It's true he doesn't have much love for snotty Students who think they know it all," Argand responded. "But he says he feels he's doing worthwhile work when he trains a Neophyte who really wants to learn.

  "He certainly lets me know it if I miss out a curlicue or joining line when I'm Scribing, but he's patient and doesn't hammer the point home. The difficult thing is that Dothan's a great mimic. He can reproduce any regional accent you care to name, and he tends to switch accents in mid-chant, which causes no end of problems for me. Imagine 'effuther' in Frasian! It comes out like 'afforthe' and, unless the spell context is clear, you can get into all sorts of trouble tryin
g to join the runes up. The runes themselves are easy enough; after all, they're only the usual straight lines. But the joining cadences link the spell together, so if you get it wrong you end up with nothing, or worse."

  "But you can't link 'affa', 'ore' and 'thek' together smoothly unless you change the pitch; there'd be a 'quack' in the middle-you couldn't miss it," Madar protested.

  "When you're a Student, the Magemasters chant at one-tenth the speed of real mages, Madar. The 'quack' would be gone before you had time to register it."

  Argand looked frustrated, as if he had a little difficulty in conveying his thoughts. "All the chants you two have ever met are standard ones. Scribes have to cope with all sorts of new chants.

  "Imagine some Scholar has come up with a new spell, and he wants it recorded. It could take hours at Student speeds; he wants it scribed and notarised as soon as possible, so his work is recognised and rewarded without delay. These Scholars are famous for their impatience and not always as careful with their diction or tone as Readers are."

  Grimm frowned. "Surely, Scholars go through the same repetition and chanting practice as the rest of us. After all, even they were Students and Neophytes once."

  Argand grimaced. "Unfortunately, Scholars rarely cast spells," he said. "Unlike Readers, who strive for perfection to the last detail with every spell they cast. It seems it's almost a point of honour for Scholars to pronounce their arcane chants in any way they choose. After all, they're just repeating, not casting. You can bet they're really careful how they sing it when they're trying it out for real in their cells or outside the House, sure! But then they get bored with it and want to get it down on paper as soon as possible, so they can get back to their scrolls and librams, ready to invent their next masterpiece."

  "Still, rather you than me, Argand," Grimm replied. "When you start to actually expend power, it can really tire you out. On most days, I just want to crawl back to my cell and sleep. But how did you get into this Scribe business? If you don't mind me saying, you haven't exactly got the best ear and voice around here, and, from what you're saying, you need good pitch reading to do what you do."

  "It's different for Scribes, Grimm," Argand said. "You need a quick ear, sure, but not a perfect one. Dothan says I have something called 'relative pitch'; as long as the Reader first hums me the note he uses to start the chant, I can work out the intervals quite well.

  "I can't discriminate small intervals as well as you can; but, once you know the start note and the structure of the chant, the cadence becomes quite clear. Music is still a complete mystery to me as an enjoyment, but I do understand it as applied to magic. I can tell jumps of a semitone, and intervals of less than that are signalled by accents and so on. You do need a good ear and voice to Read, but not so much to Scribe."

  "Enough shop talk, anyway," Madar said. "Who's for a game of Three-handed Slap?"

  "We aren't meant to gamble, Madar. You know that," Grimm admonished his friend.

  "There you go again, always quoting the damn rules. We won't be gambling for money, idiot. Loser agrees to clean the other two players' shoes for a week."

  "That's an obligation," Grimm observed. "We can't do that, either; that's Rule 5.2.2."

  "All right, then. Loser has the option to renege without prejudice. Then it's not obligation, it's your choice."

  Grimm sighed. "Well, all right then, Madar, as long as that's all there is. I like being a Neophyte, and I'm not going to do anything to jeopardise that."

  "It's all right by me," Argand said, as Madar brought out a pack of cards from his robe.

  "Right, so it's odd pictures wild every fourth hand, two points per trick over the line, red sixes change the order, aces low and prime numbers null unless matched," Madar said, shuffling the cards with bewildering dexterity.

  "Just a moment, Madar," Grimm protested. "I've never played this game before."

  "Really?" Madar's smile suggested a hungry wolf that had just spotted easy prey. "It's no worse than old Kargan's runes. Well, we'll soon teach you, won't we Argand? It's ever such an easy game really. I learnt to play it at Lower School. Let me just go through the rules once more…"

  Grimm knew he hadn't a chance, and he knew the state his two friends got their shoes into. Madar and Argand liked to play in the muddiest corners of the yard. However, perhaps, a little judicious application of Mage Sight could make the difference.

  "Another thing," Madar said with a sweet smile. "We check each other's aura on every hand. Just to make sure it's all fair and above board, of course. And it's good magic practice, too."

  Grimm sighed. It looked like he might be in for a lot of shoe-cleaning.

  Chapter 22 Darkness Falls

  "Gently now, Afelnor," whispered Crohn, "let the power trickle out of you. The spell-casting was perfect; now you just need to control its application."

  Grimm felt veins standing out on his forehead from the effort. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, as he fought to hold in the torrent of power that threatened to burst from him. Even with his eyes closed, the Sight showed him all that he needed to do.

  Gently, gently…

  With a blue flash, the carefully-constructed building flew apart, as the Neophyte lost control of his tempestuous inner energies. "I am sorry, Lord Mage," he gasped. "I could not hold it in any longer." Pasteboard cards fluttered around the room like so many butterflies: some slightly scorched; some bent; and others torn.

  "You managed four levels, Afelnor," Crohn said. "That is excellent. Tomorrow, we will attempt to complete the entire card house."

  We, thought Grimm. Does Crohn intend to share the load with me? I don't think so!

  "Very well, Afelnor," Crohn said, after careful appraisal of his pupil. "I think you have done all you can for today. Your reading tonight: Frubel and Squorn, chapter thirteen, section four. 'Spells of Levity in the first form; extended application with regard to multiple objects'. Read carefully what is said about the partition of power. Go and have something to eat, and we will talk again tomorrow. Well done."

  Grimm bowed, and trudged off to the Refectory, alone and exhausted, as he often was these days. Once he had learned to pattern his mind to a spell and to link his power to the spell, he had thought he was well on the way to mastery, but that demon lurking within him was so hard to control.

  No wonder, he thought, that it takes so long for a Neophyte to become a mage. I've spent four months toiling over a single spell, and I still can't control it properly. Nevertheless, now that he was performing real magic at last, he felt elated. He was doing something the majority of people would never understand. He felt a keen pang of joy at the moment that he harnessed his power, and released it into a perfectly-cast spell.

  ****

  "Do sit down, Crohn," Thorn said, with easy bonhomie. "How go your Neophytes these days?"

  "The boy, Hunar, shows a rare talent for projection," replied the Senior Magemaster. "He should make an excellent Reader. Koni has some problems with patterning, but he appears to have some ability with Healing. Empathy, you know."

  "And Afelnor?"

  Crohn sat in thought for a minute. "He has made remarkable progress in Reading, and he is working so hard to control his power." He is quite good at Healing and Scrying, too. It seems such a waste to use him on the Minor Magics; whilst he can form the patterns and he chants well, he has so much untapped power, and it roils around inside him."

  Crohn rubbed his chin and meditated for a few moments before saying more.

  "He added a new cadence to the Closure chant without my coaching," he blurted, "which makes the spell equivalent to the major Walling spell in the Discontinuous Surface class. I do not know how he managed to do this; it took me five years to learn that spell. I have been careful not to let him try it out yet, but the principle appears unassailable; Scholar Geban is looking at it in his spare time, and he seems quite impressed.

  "Last week, I was called away unexpectedly. On my return, he was controlling his feathe
r without words; Afelnor said he could form the pattern without the need for any chant. I chided him for practising in my absence, but I feel that the Minor Magics cannot suffice for long. I have no idea as to his limits. The level of energy within him is, quite frankly, frightening."

  "A Questor, do you think? Is it possible?" asked Thorn, leaning forward in sudden, eager interest.

  "Perhaps… perhaps. It has been a long time. If only I could be sure."

  "He has self-control?"

  "Like iron, Lord Thorn. But the Ordeal is no minor matter, as you know well, and the risks are great."

  "Nobody knows that better than I do, Crohn. But we need new Questor blood. Only Xylox and Dalquist Rufior are available for Guild Quests, and the need is great. High Lodge expects more of us, and it is my duty to explore all possible avenues." He sat for a while in contemplation.

  "Has he friends?" the Prelate asked.

  "Two close friends: one a Neophyte Scribe, the other showing signs of a strong calling to Illusionism. Afelnor is on good terms with most of the other boys, and he shows no signs of loneliness. He also gains great solace from spending time in the Library."

  "That will make it easier," Thorn said, nodding. "You will arrange for Afelnor's Ordeal from this day. It means extra work for you, of course. Are you up to the task?"

  Crohn spoke with a touch of pride. "I may be old, Guildmaster, but I am still strong. I have never trained a Questor before, but if you are certain that it is necessary for the good of the House, I will try."