A Touch of Magic

by Gregory Mahan

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Looks like a combination of emotions gets you started. A little anger, a touch of embarrassment. I’m sure there was some desire in there, to get even and show everyone who was boss.”

  Randall thought it over. “I suppose so, Master. I guess I wanted to show Melinda and everyone else that I wasn’t a fool. I just wanted to whip Bobby and prove my worth to them all,” Randall replied.

  Erliand nodded. “That’s not uncommon, really. Strong emotions and desire can help some new Mages touch Llandra. But it’s a crutch, lad. You’re going to have to train yourself out of it.”

  “What do you mean, Master?” Randall asked. “Why is it a crutch if it works?” He was getting excited about the prospect of finally being able to draw power and using it whenever he wanted. He’d be a real Mage in no time!

  “Remember when we first met?” Erliand asked, and Randall nodded. “You were so spooked when I told you that I was a Mage that I had to use a Word on you that calms the heart and mind. If an enemy did that to you, how then would you draw power to protect yourself? Besides, you may not think so now, but that little incident with Bobby on the practice mound won’t embarrass you forever. One day, you’ll look back on it, and it’ll seem terribly funny.”

  Randall wasn’t sure about that, but he nodded anyway.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, Randall’s schedule got even busier. Usually, the later fall months were the easiest on a farm, even with the added chores of raking leaves and clearing underbrush. After he harvested the broccoli, Randall would finally be able to relax and take his ease.

  Instead, Randall had a new daily task: learning to fight. He could hardly believe it! Erliand knew his way around a short sword and dagger, and had resolved to teach some of those skills to Randall. When it wasn’t too cold outside, Randall would practice with Erliand in the yard for two hours a day. He was to then continue practice for another two hours on his own. It was a grueling schedule that left Randall more exhausted than all of the weeding and yard work that he had to do when he first came to Master Erliand’s.

  “After all,” Erliand had explained one afternoon, “if I’m supposed to be teaching you to be a caravan guard, you’ll need to show some skills when you visit home in the spring.”

  Home! The thought was exciting. Randall hadn’t really had much time to be homesick, and keeping busy had made the time fly. But now that the seed had been planted in his mind, he found himself really looking forward to seeing his family and friends again. He often found himself daydreaming about what they might be up to these days. He imagined Bobby at sword practice, drilling and learning all the ways of being a soldier—only he was certain that Bobby was doing better at it than he was. Master Erliand regularly embarrassed Randall on the practice field with some move or feint that left Randall in an exposed position. Then the old Mage took great delight in explaining exactly which organs he would have cut to kill Randall in the most painful or prolonged manner. For an old man, he was surprisingly agile, and never failed to take advantage of the mistakes that Randall inevitably made, no matter how hard he practiced.

  His magic practice was going equally slowly. For weeks now, Master Erliand had taught him nothing new, only checking on Randall’s progress each week to see how much success he had drawing power from Llandra without first getting angry. Randall wasn’t very good at it, and he had to admit that it was getting harder and harder to work himself up into self-righteous anger to summon the spark of magic. And now that he was practicing swordplay, he had something new to practice as well: not drawing power, even when he was angry or embarrassed!

  That task proved just as tricky as drawing power in the first place. It seemed that almost every time Erliand got the better of him in the practice field, Randall got flustered and found himself drawing from Llandra. He was supposed to learn how to get angry without drawing power, but it seemed to be easier for Randall to learn to push his embarrassment deep down inside where he couldn’t feel it instead.

  Since he didn’t have much new magical instruction, Randall didn’t have much to write in his study book. Instead, he spent most evenings either reading the notes he’d already written, or fantasizing about home. One day when he was doing a little of both, a thought occurred to him. Why do they call Llandra a ‘world’? Why not a ‘power’, or an ‘ether’ or ‘vapor’? He resolved to ask his master about it the next day before weapons practice.

  He approached Erliand while the old man was warming up with some blocking exercises before practice. “Master Erliand, what makes Llandra a world?”

  “What do you mean, lad?” Erliand asked, looking at Randall closely.

  “Well Master, I’ve been reading my notes, and it seems to me that you’ve always been fairly clear that magic is simply a type of energy that comes from a world that you call Llandra.”

  “Right. And your question is?” Erliand asked, still probing Randall with his eyes.

  “Well, Master, I don’t mean any disrespect, but how do you know magic comes from a world? Why can’t it be coming from me, or you, or even the air around us? I don’t understand why you say it comes from another world. How do you know where it comes from at all?”

  Erliand smiled at Randall. “That’s a fair question, Randall. And a good use of your study book; it is supposed to prompt you to think and open avenues for research. Someday, you’ll ask a question that nobody knows the answer to, and then you’ll have to find out for yourself. In this case, however, the answer is simple. We call Llandra a world, because things live there.”

  “They do? Live where? What kind of things? People?” Randall asked incredulously.

  “Not exactly, Randall,” Erliand said, turning serious for a moment before brightening again. “But that’s a discussion for another day. Now, go get warmed up. We have disarming lessons to work on today.”

  Over the course of the entire autumn, Randall did weapons drills and practiced drawing power every day. His muscles eventually grew accustomed to the new tasks and stopped complaining. Over time, he eventually learned to draw power from Llandra without having to get angry first, though he still wasn’t very good at it. To do it, he learned to re-create the odd tugging sensation in his mind that always seemed to accompany the flow of magic. But whenever he consciously realized what he was doing, the tugging would stop and so would the magic. It was infuriating, like trying to wiggle your ears without knowing what muscles to pull and without thinking too hard about wiggling them. Erliand told him that it would just take practice and patience for Randall to improve, but for Randall, it was frustratingly slow going.

  Even more frustrating was that Erliand hadn’t yet shown him how to use the magic he was drawing. Every time he filled himself with power, it seemed to croon to him. His mind would fill with all of the uses he could put the power to. But instead of being put to use, the power would sit impatiently within him teasing him with possibilities, until it slowly ebbed away. As the power drained away, Randall was left feeling inept and inadequate. Filled with magic, there was so much he could do, so much he could be, but because he didn’t know how, he did nothing. It was all Randall could do not to beg Master Erliand to teach him some of the real Art—those skills that actually made magic work. But long experience had taught him such begging would be futile. The waiting was maddening, however.

  When the first snows came, Erliand cancelled outdoor weapons practice. Instead, he instructed Randall meet him in the study after finishing his chores. Randall completed the day’s chores as quick as he could. Master Erliand had also asked him to bring his study book! He was finally going to learn something new about magic!

  “Today, we’re going to start learning about the tools of magic,” Erliand began. “You’ll still need to keep up your sword practice an hour a day; clear the living room during that time if you need to if the weather is foul. But the bulk of your afternoon should now be devoted toward developing these new techniques you’ll be learning. Y
ou’ll be learning the nuts and bolts of how magic works. But first, I need to instruct you in some theory.”

  Randall’s wide grin fell and he let out a groan.

  Erliand laughed. “Oh, come now! I know lectures are boring. But if you pay attention you’ll understand magic better. And understanding really is the key to power.”

  “Yes, Master,” Randall sighed, impatient to get to the meat of the matter.

  “Let’s get on with it, then. You’ve been spending a couple of months now developing your ability you draw power from Llandra. But you’ve never yet used it for anything. Why is that?”

  Randall shrugged. “Because I don’t know any spells?”

  “Precisely! That cuts directly to the heart of how magic works. By itself, the power from Llandra is useless for working magic. Only elves and the fae have the ability to work magic from will alone. The rest of us need tools. You can’t just draw up power and wish for a thing. You’ve already learned the futility in that. You need skills and techniques to make that power have an effect.”

  “But how come elves don’t?” Randall interrupted.

  Erliand scratched his chin. “It’s complicated. Elves don’t share their history with outsiders, but it’s generally believed by scholars that elves once lived in Llandra. Pixies, sprites and other fae can work limited magic with will alone, because they come from Llandra. Elves can do the same, even though they live and breed in our world. The magic they wield is subtle and not very powerful, but it’s dangerous all the same. Elves and fae live and breathe magic. It’s wise to step carefully around them when they cannot be avoided altogether.”

  “Pixies and sprites aren’t real, though, are they Master?” Randall asked.

  “I just said they were, didn’t I?” Erliand snapped. “Tallia’s a pretty magic-empty land, so the gap between worlds is pretty thick here. Not easy for them to get through, and I doubt many do. In other places, such as the forests where elves make their ancestral homes, the veil is very thin. There, fae are common, and most of them should be avoided.”

  Erliand sat back and resumed his lecturing pose, with one hand gesturing with his pipe stem like a pointer and the other rubbing his chin.

  “Now, since neither you nor I are fae, we need tools to direct magic. What kinds of things do you think of when you think of tools of magic?” he asked.

  Randall thought for a moment. “Well, spells, talismans, wands and stuff, I guess.”

  “As would most common folk.” Erliand grinned at the dark look that Randall made. “But in truth, those things aren’t tools. A tool is defined as that which directs magic and gives it purpose. There are four such tools. The first is Will as I have already mentioned, and since our race cannot use this tool, it bears no further discussion. Besides Will, the other three tools of magic are symbols, words, and elements. We’re going to start with symbols.

  “When you think of a thing that is magical, symbology is probably at work. It could be a talisman or a sword, magic boots or perhaps a hat. All of these things wouldn’t be magical without a symbol being inscribed on them somewhere. You’ve seen my healing talisman.”

  Randall nodded. He remembered the talisman; it had been completely covered in hundreds of tiny symbols.

  “Good. The symbols etched all across its surface are what make it work. Without it, it’d simply be a piece of rock, incapable of doing anything. A magic-infused sword might have the symbols etched directly on the blade, or hidden underneath the leather wrapping on the hilt. But rest assured, there’s symbology there somewhere.

  “Now, common folk would have you think that magic is all-powerful. They have the notion that Mages can just wish something to happen and it will, but that’s just nonsense. Magic has limits, and those limits are defined by the tools that are used to make it. Symbols are known as ‘personal magic’. Can you guess what that means?” Erliand asked.

  “I think so, Master.” Randall said. He knew from folklore that talismans generally had to be held or worn, and that weapons had to be wielded. “You have to be touching the symbols?”

  “Good guess, lad.” Erliand said. “Symbols have to be in close contact with the thing they’re affecting. Now, close contact doesn’t necessarily mean touching directly. You could hold a talisman with gloves and it would still work. It may even work an inch or two away from your body. But best results are gotten from directly touching the symbols.”

  Randall had a thought. “So, you’re saying a magic sword might make someone fight better, but wouldn’t it make his opponent fight better, too?”

  “You’d think so,” Erliand answered, obviously pleased that Randall was actually thinking about what he was being told rather than just listening impatiently to the lecture. “But symbology, like all forms of the Art, has many esoteric rules that govern how the magic works. A talisman knows who owns it, and it affects them alone. Nobody knows how that works, exactly, and it is a rare artifact that can affect many people at once. But these are lessons for another day. For now, let us practice drawing a symbol.”

  Randall sat up straight in eager anticipation. Finally! I’m going to make real magic! Erliand retrieved a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal from his desk, and quickly sketched a symbol in one corner. When he was done, he passed the parchment to Randall.

  “That’s a simple symbol named ‘Buk’. It means ‘strength’,” Erliand lectured. “Though it’s technically a rune.”

  “A rune?” Randall asked.

  “There are two kinds of symbols really,” Erliand said. “Some stand on their own, mystical symbols with no known relatives. Some of the most powerful symbols we know fall into this category. Other symbols fall into families. These kinds of symbols belong to a group of symbols, all related. Usually these groups of symbols can form a kind of secret language, as each related symbol has a different meaning. These kinds of symbols are generally known as runes, and are usually the weaker of the two types. A single rune might have a barely-noticeable effect, though later I’ll show you some ways to compensate for that.”

  “Are all runes sharp and pointy looking like this one, then?” Randall asked, trying to understand the concept.

  Erliand laughed. “No, boy. That’s a dwarven rune. Most dwarven runes are all straight lines and sharp angles, because it’s easier to carve them into rock. On the other hand, the runes the elves have developed are all loops and swirls and knot-work. Rock-carving’s not a big part of the elven lifestyle, so the elves discovered and developed a completely different magical language.”

  “I think I understand, Master,” Randall said. “Dwarven runes would then probably all look kind of like this one, but runes from other races might be different.”

  “Close enough. Now, enough chatter. Why don’t you copy that rune a few times on the parchment, and we’ll see what comes of it?” Erliand said.

  Randall did as he was instructed, his face screwed up in concentration. Writing the rune was much more difficult than writing in his journal, because of the unfamiliarity of the symbol. Checking the original frequently, Randall scribed about five copies of Erliand’s symbol, though the work was a little shoddy in comparison to Erliand’s immaculate work.

  “Finished, Master!” Randall said holding his paper up proudly.

  “Is that so? If you think you’re done, then draw a little magic, and imagine it entering your symbols.” Erliand ordered.

  “Yes, Master.”

  After a couple of false starts, Randall gathered a small amount of magic from Llandra. He was getting used to the associated euphoria, and focused his mind on the task at hand. He picked up the parchment that had been working on, and focused his thoughts on it, willing the power within him to flow into the symbols he had drawn. For several long moments, nothing happened, and Randall pushed harder. Still nothing. Randall pushed and prodded, until the last of the power had nearly ebbed away. Then, finally, he felt the last bit of power seeping into the page—into Erliand’s rune.

  Randall sighed and lo
oked at Erliand. “It didn’t work, Master.”

  “Of course it didn’t,” Erliand, looking vexed. “Your runes were sloppy. Symbol work requires precision, Randall. If you do not draw the symbols precisely, they will not take a charge. But, look on the bright side of things! You have taken a big step. That’s a fully functioning magical artifact you hold in your hands. It takes some people a few tries before they can charge up even a weak rune like that.”

  “So holding this paper makes me stronger?” Randall asked excitedly.

  Erliand laughed. “Not exactly. Try to fold that paper.”

  Something in his master’s voice made Randall shoot him a suspicious look before trying to fold the paper. It wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to fold a wooden plank.

  “Very funny,” Randall said grumpily, tossing the paper on the desk where it landed with a resounding thud. Erliand’s humor always annoyed him.

  “Not meant to be funny, boy. Think of carving that rune on a plow blade, or a sword, or a shield. Seems a lot more useful now, doesn’t it?” He waited for Randall’s dubious nod before continuing. “Good. Now, I’ve got one more thing to show you before I send you out to practice your drawing skills. Try to fold that paper again.”

  “But I just tried! I can’t fold it. It’s hard as steel!” Randall protested.

  Erliand frowned, but didn’t say anything, fixing Randall with a disapproving look. Randall snatched the paper back up with an exasperated “Fine.” He tried to bend it again, and found that the paper could be bent, slightly. In fact, the more he bent it, the easier it got. After working it back and forth a couple of times, the entire parchment had reached the consistency of heavily starched cloth.

  “It’s getting weaker, Master! I can’t do anything right!” Randall cried.

  “No, no no! Not at all, Randall,” Erliand assured him. “Look at the rune that I drew.”