by Joseph Lallo
"What am I going to do now? I only awoke recently, and now I have to show up at dawn fully rested? I would never be able to sleep with all of this swirling about in my head even if I was tired," she said.
"Well, I suppose you could cast a sleep spell on yourself," he said.
"The only sleep I know is healing sleep," she said.
"Oh, no. Never use a spell for a purpose other than it was explicitly intended. You said that you were a student of white wizardry. How is it that you do not know sleep?" he asked.
"I was taught with the explicit intention of being a field healer for a rebel group. I do not think that sleep had placed highly on their list of requirements," she said.
"Well that is folly. In the repertoire of a pure white wizard, sleep is among the only spells that may be used to defend one's self. It is also one of the simplest spells. Though, to be fair, it is far wiser to have it cast upon you rather than to cast it upon yourself, unless you have also learned how to delay the effects of a spell until it has been fully cast. Delay falls within my realm, by the way," Deacon said.
"I would appreciate it if you would just put me to sleep," she said.
Deacon agreed and the pair, as always joined by Myn, went to her hut.
"Before you do this . . . is there any way that you can . . . prevent a dream from happening?" she asked.
"I am not certain. Why?" he wondered.
"I have not been having very pleasant dreams. In fact I have come to dread them," she said.
"How so?" he asked.
She quickly recounted the dreams of the dark field, the dreams of Lain's treachery, and the darkness that spoke with her voice. All the while Deacon nodded with concern.
"I see. The dreams of Lain are understandable, but the others . . . they seem to have an almost prophetic quality to them. Were I you I would not wish to silence them. In times to come they could provide much-needed clues about . . . well . . . times to come," he said.
"Well, if you really believe that, I suppose I can suffer through them," she said.
"Oh, indeed I do," he said. "And from now on, while we take our morning meal together, I would greatly appreciate it if you would tell me any dreams you may have."
"As you wish," she said.
Deacon held out his crystal and, with a few words, sent Myranda into a deep, pleasant sleep.
#
Perhaps as a favor, or perhaps as a coincidence, her dream that night was unusually muted. It was a clash of blurred images and muffled sounds, indistinct and incomprehensible. By the time she awoke the following morning, only one image had clearly revealed itself, but it alone was enough to leave her disturbed upon waking. It had been of a man, sitting solitary on a worn chair. His beard was long, with gray strands beginning to weave through it. The light that filtered over him was striped with shadows. His clothes were little more than rags. Everything about him radiated misery--save one powerful feature. His eyes, locked on some point in the distance, had a look of unbreakable resolve.
The man was her father. Having nearly escaped her dreams unscathed, the image was doubly shocking.
She took a moment to recover before grabbing her staff and heading out to Ayna's training ground. Myn trotted happily along beside her and watched intently as the fairy fluttered about impatiently. Apparently, despite the fact that Myranda had skipped breakfast in order to assure she would arrive before the sun had even fully slipped over the horizon, this was still not quite early enough.
"Well, I am pleased to see that you are no longer nocturnal," Ayna taunted. "I do hope you brought what little mind you have to spare, because I expect a lot out of you."
"I hope I can meet your expectations," Myranda said.
"Yes, well, you completed Solomon's little test, which is usually the last one, so at least you have the strength to do what is required of you. Regardless, enough dillydally. Listen carefully. Elemental magics differ greatly in technique, so you will be as good as starting over to learn my ways," she warned.
Myranda opened her mouth to give a response, but was swiftly admonished for it.
"When I want you to speak, I will order you to do so. Now, would you like to learn this through concentration, or incantation? Speak," she said.
"Concentration," Myranda said flatly.
"Oh, you mean you have forsaken your precious 'magic words'? Surely you would rather chant them again and again like a sing-along. Oh, what fun it would be," Ayna said with mock enthusiasm.
"Do not patronize me," Myranda said sternly.
"Oh, my! Patronize! That is a big word, isn't it? What else have you got rattling about in that head of yours? Not much, I imagine. But I digress. Close your eyes and focus," she said.
"I don't need to--" Myranda began.
"I will tell you what you need to do. Close your eyes and focus!" she demanded.
Myranda did so.
"Clear your mind of all but my voice. Nothing else exists," she said.
Normally she would have been able to enter the appropriate state of mind nearly instantly, but her infuriating new trainer had clogged her mind with anger that had to be coaxed away. Even so, it still was not long before she was ready. As though Ayna could feel her serenity, she began to speak.
"That is adequate. Now listen closely. I want you to focus on your skin. Feel the wind. Feel how it passes over you. Raise your hand," she instructed.
Myranda did so.
"Notice how, at your merest thought, your hand moves. Notice, too, how the air moves about it. Focus wholly on the air as it swirls and whirls. Always moving. There is an energy in it, just as there is an energy in fire. Sense the energy," she said. "Keep the flowing wind at the front of your mind. Remember how you moved your hand. You simply willed it forward. Exert that same will again, but let it slowly slip from your body. Let it flow forth into the shifting air. Mix your strength with that of the breeze. It is little more than an extension of your body. Another limb. Add more energy. Give the air more strength."
The hypnotic tone of Ayna's voice slipped easily into Myranda's mind. Whereas just days ago she had passed a test infinitely more grueling than this, she found herself straining slightly. It was not like learning again from the beginning, but it was measurably more taxing to her than fire had become. Already she could feel the fatigue. What's more, the trance she was in was not nearly as sound.
In the closing days of her fire training, she could conjure and control a flame with her eyes open and mostly aware. Now even the minor distractions of having to listen with her ears and feel with her skin were threatening to break her focus. The steadily increasing breeze was, at least, more appreciable than the minor warmth that had evidenced her fire skill in the first days. That, too, was revealed to be a curse. As the wind increased, she became both more excited about her success and more distracted by the sensation of it dancing over her skin. The stiff breeze she had managed began to waver until finally the hard fought battle with concentration was lost and the world came flooding back into her mind.
"Oh, come now. You must have discipline. You nearly had it," Ayna said with a swiftly vanishing look of admiration.
"I . . . I did it," Myranda said.
"Well, in the same sense that tripping over your own feet can be called taking a step forward. Still, it would seem that vacant head of yours is quite susceptible to concentration. It stands to reason, though. You never need to clear your mind," Ayna jabbed.
Myranda stood silent. Solomon very seldom gave any critique, good or bad. As a result, what little words of encouragement he did give were truly meaningful. Ayna, it would seem, felt almost obligated to qualify any compliment by hiding it in an insult.
"Don't just stand there slack-jawed. You have got a long way to go," Ayna said.
Myranda complied. This time her anger slowed the trance even further. Over the course of nearly an hour, she cast enough of her will into the air around her to match her previous achievement.
"That will do; now, open your eyes and I will show you where to direct it," Ayna instructed.
Myranda slowly opened her eyes, but she had not attained firm enough a grasp of this new magic to permit her mind to withstand this distraction. The wind instantly subsided. The strain of flexing this new mystic muscle suddenly became apparent, as an intense dizziness took the place of focus. She stumbled forward, failing to catch herself on with her staff and dropping to the ground.
"Endurance, girl, endurance. What good does it do to take your first steps so quickly if you stop before you get anywhere?" Ayna said with frustration.
"I am sorry. Let me . . . try again," Myranda said, struggling to her feet.
"No, go. It is obvious we will not get any further today. Just be sure to be better prepared next time. Make sure you rest. I will not be so patient tomorrow," Ayna warned.
As Myranda shuffled wearily away, Ayna fluttered back to her tree, twittering in her native language. Myranda had only found a handful of people in this place who shared the language, and she had learned little of it in the month she had resided here. She did know enough, though, to know that her tone was one of quiet awe. Regardless of what Ayna may have said, she was amazed.
It was still quite early in the day, but the effort had left her with the odd, deep weariness she had come to know so well. She longed for sleep, but knew that it simply would not come until her body became tired as well. After a long overdue breakfast, she made her way to Deacon's hut. The door was open and she could see that he was at work scribing this spell or that from his voluminous knowledge. When he noticed her in the doorway, a smile came to his face and he welcomed her inside.
"I am so sorry. I had meant to meet you," he said, glancing at the position of the sun as he helped her to a second seat that had not been present during her last visit. "But I didn't think that you would have been through so soon. So, how was your first day under the tutelage of Ayna?"
"I did what she said. I managed to get the air moving, but I couldn't keep it up for very long. I don't know what was wrong," she said.
"How many times did you try?" he asked.
"Twice," she said.
"You managed results after only two tries and you are asking what is wrong?" he said in disbelief.
"Actually, I managed after only one," she said.
"I assure you. You have nothing to worry about," he said, fetching a volume from one of the shelves.
It had an old-looking brown cover bearing the same rune that had been on Ayna's tree. He leafed through the book until he found the page he sought.
"I borrowed this book from the library on the hunch that you might feel this way. When Ayna was teaching novices, which you technically are in her discipline, she did not have a single student who could manage even the slightest breath of wind for the first three weeks. You are a gifted student," he said, closing the book and returning to his seat before another book in which he continued writing.
"But she is so insulting. She said that I had an empty head and--" Myranda began.
"It is just her way. I have said it before. Just ignore it," he said. "Her greatest virtue is that she is the finest expert in wind magic that we have. Her greatest fault is that she knows it."
Myranda sat with a dazed look on her face.
"Are you quite all right?" Deacon asked as he returned to his seat.
"Just a bit dizzy," she said.
"A few minutes of meditation will take the edge off of that," he said.
"I would rather just rest for a bit," she said. "It is not very serious. I only need enough wit about me to face Lain tonight."
"Very well. You have been at this long enough to know what you need," he said, putting pen to page again at his desk.
Myranda sat silently for a bit, listening to the distant rumble of the falls.
"Deacon," she said.
"Yes," he replied, without looking up.
"You say that no one can leave because of the falls," she said.
"That is indeed true," he assured her.
"But the most skilled wizards in the world are here, aren't they? Surely someone could find a way around the waterfall problem," she said.
"Were this any other place, I can assure you that such would be so. However, the selfsame crystal that makes casting so much easier for us is present in scattered clusters throughout these mountains and all along the cliffside," he said, flipping a page.
"Wouldn't that make magic all the easier to use?" she asked.
"Not as such. You can think of a well-refined crystal as a mirror. Quite useful. A cluster of small, rough crystals is like a broken mirror. It does nothing but distort and confuse things. As a result, save for very small, simple spells, any magic directed at the mountain or in the mountain falls apart quite quickly. There are theories we have developed that could conceivably offer a solution to the dilemma, but few are interested enough in leaving this place to develop them much," he explained.
"Ah . . . What are you up to?" she asked.
"Scribing, as usual," he said.
"What exactly?" she asked.
"The analysis of an efficient method of illusionary motion synchronization and appearance duplication," he said without looking up.
"Pardon?" she said, bewildered.
"Oh, I am sorry. I am required to phrase things in that way when I record them. What it is, is . . . well, let me show you," he said.
Deacon stood and took his crystal in hand.
"Now, for the duration of this demonstration, you will be able to recognize me as the one with the crystal. Ahem . . . most wizards have at least a basic understanding of illusion. They use a method that gives this result," he said.
Beside him a second Deacon appeared, indistinguishable from the first. It began to speak.
"As you can see, this produces an admirable result. It can look like, sound like, or be whatever I desire," the copy said. As it mentioned the different possibilities of appearance, sound, and form, the illusion shifted quickly through a series of examples. Suddenly, it faded away.
"Such illusions are difficult to create, though," he said, recreating the first, followed by another and another.
The three spoke simultaneously. As they did, they moved about, pacing in well-choreographed circles around Myranda.
"The trouble is making more than one is difficult. Keeping the illusion intact is more so. For long term or large scale pursuits, this method will not do," they said, slowly fading away until only the voice of original remained.
"I propose we use a new method," the real Deacon said. "In my new method, similar copies are made that are based on the original. These copies synchronize their movements and appearance. As a result, no more effort is used for the tenth as was used for the first."
As he spoke, one duplicate after another began to appear. Soon the room was crowded with them, all precisely mimicking the true Deacon, who had quickly been lost among the crowd.
"Now minor changes in appearance or movement can be added to each without much more effort," the crowd said. Immediately, each of the copies took on a slight change in appearance. Some walked more slowly, others more quickly. Voices changed. And then they all vanished. All but one.
"That is what I meant," Deacon said.
"That was remarkable," she said.
"Thank you. Illusions are one of the most refined aspects of my art," he said.
"Can you make an illusion of anyone?" she asked.
"Anyone I have seen or can imagine. It actually makes it possible, with the addition of some strategic invisibility, to create instant disguises. Observe," he said.
He proceeded to transform before her eyes into a myriad of different people. Some she did not recognize, others she had seen in Entwell. She even noticed herself appear briefly. Lain, too, made an appearance before he ended the effect.
"It is such practices that gave gray magic a poor standing in the mystic community," he said.
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"I don't understand," she said.
"It is used to create disguises. Therefore it is used for dishonesty. Dishonesty and treachery are among the worst crimes a wizard can commit," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"For the same reasons anyone else might be looked down upon for lying. Of course, there is a second stigma for a wizard who lies. The spirits who we so often call upon to aid in our conjuring judge us by the purity of our soul. Dishonesty twists a soul, rendering us distasteful to all but similarly twisted spirits. These spirits tend to take a far greater and far darker toll in exchange for their aid. Hence the gnarled appearance of the darker wizards and witches we hear of in children's stories," he said.
"I see," she said. "Couldn't you solve the problem of your art seeming to be a lie by making it the truth? Couldn't actually make the things appear?"
"In theory, yes, but that would not solve our problem at all. We can change things from one form or substance to another with enough effort, but to summon objects is strictly forbidden," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"It is fundamental to the rules that govern this place. All areas may be studied, but some may not be practiced. Chief among them are time travel and summoning or manifesting. Time travel has consequences that no one can fully comprehend, and is thus too dangerous to consider, and summoning . . . well. When you summon, you may accidentally or purposely draw something from another world. That is unacceptable. Things of this world belong here; things from elsewhere do not," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"They simply do not. It has never been made clearer than that, but it has been drilled into us from the first day of our training. I don't question it," he said.
"No one warned me," she said.
"You haven't received any gray training. For it to become an issue for you, you would have to stumble upon the appropriate spell by mistake," he said, his mind suddenly shifting directions. "Say . . . how is that dragon of yours?" he said.
"Come to think of it, I haven't seen her all day," Myranda said. "I suppose she could be with Lain. Or Solomon. She does look forward to hunting with him."