by Beach, B. J.
Karryl pushed himself to his knees and found he was surrounded by a small crowd of people all laughing and cheering, applauding his efforts. With a firm grip on the limp chicken, he scrambled to his feet and began to brush himself down with his free hand. He looked up to see the poulterer puffing up to elbow his way through the crowd.
Stopping in front of Karryl, he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Thank you Grub” he wheezed as he finally straightened himself up.
Trying desperately not to collapse in fits of laughter, Karryl wordlessly proffered the chicken, which now showed every indication of being quite dead, most probably from fright. The small crowd who had gathered round started to drift away until only the flustered poulterer and a somewhat dishevelled Karryl were left standing in the middle of the street.
The man held out a thin, blood-smeared hand. “I’m Gosling the poulterer, but you probably know that anyway.”
Failing to conceal a grin, Karryl nodded as he briefly grasped the man’s slightly greasy fingers.
The owner of the chicken nodded ruefully.” Yes, it’s a silly name, but its been the family trade for generations and I’m stuck with it. Anyway, I do appreciate your efforts. We’ve been trying to catch that blasted dog for weeks. It’s not only my stall he’s been pinching off.”
Karryl gave the man a sympathetic nod. “It looks as though it’s a stray. I do hope you get him soon. Look, I really have to be off now.”
He held up the dead bird in silent query. The poulterer waved a dismissive hand. “Take it with my compliments. That bird should feed your little gang like kings for a day or two.”
About to enlighten the man as to how things stood, Karryl thought better of it, swallowing his words as the poulterer hurried back into the market. Firmly clutching his prize he had just set off again when he noticed a tall figure, dressed in a long dark blue robe and round embroidered cap, striding purposefully away from the scene. Watching the man out of sight, Karryl puzzled over what reason Andir the Scrollmaster might have for being there at that particular moment. Deciding it was probably coincidence, he put the matter from his mind. At the top of Broad Street he turned and looked down the long incline, a lump coming to his throat as he remembered how he and Legs had worked side by side in the market. Silently vowing that one day he would somehow make recompense for the death of his swift footed little friend, Karryl crossed the street, strode up into Stony Lane and on towards Symon’s tower.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Taking a couple of paces backwards to improve his view, Karryl craned his neck to look up at the top of the tower. All he could see was a tiny window high up, showing no light or signs of movement. Ten minutes or so of knocking and calling elicited no response, and for a few moments Karryl continued to look up while his brain worked its way through a number of options. Suddenly his skin began to prickle, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Certain he was being watched, he spun round and scanned the area around him, staring into bushes and tree shadows. “Symon. Are you there?”
The only reply came from the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, and the clatter and cackle of jackdaws on the tower above.
He frowned, muttering to himself, “Well, this is a fine how-d’you do.”
The chicken tucked safely inside the porch, he took another quick look round. Squaring his shoulders, he quickly strode off along the path round the side of the tower and into the woodland. The cluster of magical birch trees stood between him and Symon’s garden like whispering sentinels, their golden leaves shimmering and fluttering in the autumn sunlight. Grimacing with frustration, Karryl was about to go back to the tower when his skin began to prickle again, and once more he had the distinct feeling he was being watched. Standing very still, he allowed the feeling to subside before taking a few paces forward and looking long and hard at the stand of white-barked trees concealing Symon’s carefully tended garden. His heart began to beat faster as he made his decision.
Taking a few deep breaths, he waited until he felt calmer, using the time to delve into his memory. Outstretched hands raised, palms forward as he had watched Symon do, Karryl realised he didn’t know whether his eyes should be open or closed, or whether it even mattered. Deciding that having them closed would probably make it easier to concentrate, he began to utter the spell of revealing he had memorised whilst listening to Symon. As he completed the seven word phrase, placing what he thought was sufficient emphasis on the last word as Symon had done, he felt a surging tingle pass along his arms and into his fingers. His eyes flew open as his ears were assailed by the sound of near hysterical laughter coming from behind him. Not pausing to establish whether the first spell he had ever attempted had actually worked, Karryl whirled round. His jaw dropped in consternation as he caught sight of Symon sitting on a log and drumming his heels in the leaf-litter, tears rolling down his round rosy cheeks.
Filled with indignation, Karryl jammed his hands into his sides and leaned towards the helplessly chortling magician. “What’s so funny?”
“Ooh-hoo-hoo!” howled Symon, losing his balance and nearly falling off the log. Gasping for breath and wiping his eyes on a ridiculously large blue kerchief, he pointed a shaking finger towards the trees.
Karryl looked round to where the magician was pointing. Astonished and dismayed, he gasped at the scene which met his eyes. Instead of the view of the neat kitchen garden he had been hoping to see, the birch trees were still quite solidly there, fluttering their shimmering leaves as if in defiance of Karryl’s attempt to make them disappear. However, they now stood and waved their slender branches from behind a somewhat dog-legged row of red-berried holly bushes, dark green spiny leaves glinting in the dappled sunlight. Staring at his handiwork in disbelief, Karryl stumbled a few paces backwards then plonked himself down on the log beside the magician.
Accusation coloured his tone as he glared, first at the row of hollies, then at Symon. “I don’t think that’s funny. At least I tried. Didn’t you ever make a mistake?”
His mentor, having now recovered from his bout of near hysteria, regarded him from under frowning eyebrows. “Quite frequently, as it happens. But in those days I too was young and impetuous”
Karryl gave the magician a flat stare. “So, what did I do wrong?”
Symon gave a little shrug. “Simple. You used the wrong spell. And you mispronounced it. That’s why you’ve got holly bushes.”
Karryl scratched his head. “I was sure I had the words right.”
“Oh. You did, but you used the concealment spell by mistake, so you concealed the concealment, and the word for birch is very similar to that for holly. It’s all in the pronunciation. It’s the same with any spell. Get one vowel wrong and you could end up, as you have so clearly demonstrated, with something completely different.”
Karryl looked at him with suspicion. “Were you watching me the whole time?”
Symon’s answering grin wore a hint of mischief. “Of course. I wanted to see what you would do when you couldn’t find me.” He paused to let that sink in. “You did well.” he added, patting the palms of his hands together. “You showed initiative, and although the outcome wasn’t quite what you expected, there’s no harm done.”
He cocked his head to one side and studied the row of hollies. “Those do look rather pretty. I think we’ll leave them there for a while. Now, that’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s go and have a cup of tea.”
As magician and apprentice made their way back to the tower, Karryl asked about the prickling sensation he had felt, both at the docks and outside Symon’s tower, and the tingling in his arms as he had cast the spell.
Symon chuckled. “Ah. You obviously have the extremely useful ability to sense when someone is employing magic. To what extent you have that ability remains to be seen.”
He stepped off the path and sat down on a broad tree-stump nearby, indicating that Karryl should sit beside him. “You see, you may only have the a
bility to sense the use of magic at close range, whereas some magicians can detect it from miles away, especially if a powerful mage is working.”
Karryl picked a twig out of the leaf-litter and fiddled about with it as he pondered Symon’s words. “So, I might be able to sense it all the time then?”
“Oh. You will. We just don’t know how well.”
Karryl twiddled the stick thoughtfully. “Can you?”
Symon gave him an enigmatic smile, but said nothing, the smile developing into a chuckle as his young apprentice leaned back and threw the inoffensive little stick as far as he could into the undergrowth.
He turned and looked into the little magician’s round face. “So, what is magic?”
Lacing his fingers across his chest, Symon inclined his head. “A very good question, and one to which you will hear many different answers, depending on where you are. I have always maintained that magic is simply a skill which utilises the powers inherent in all living things, such as plants, water, animals, even soil, for that was once living if you think about it, and even in its transmuted state it holds many forms of life within it. All that is required is a clear understanding of those powers, and knowledge of the right way to request their help with whatever it is you intend to do.”
Karryl looked slightly baffled. “But I didn’t ask for anything. I just said what you said and did what you did. At least, that’s what I thought I did.”
Symon lifted an admonishing finger. “That is why it is essential to understand what you are saying, and not just repeat the sounds like a tame Hilnah bird. If you had understood the words you were speaking, you would have known that the first word of the spell is a request. So, for the next few weeks, or however long it takes you, I think it would be a good idea for you to study the language in which spells are written and spoken.”
Karryl picked up another twig and began to pick at it until, in the space of a heartbeat, his skin prickled and the twig flew out of his hand to join the one he had thrown moments ago. “Pay attention lad.”
Looking at his empty hands in amazement, Karryl shrugged before giving his mentor a sheepish grin. “Sorry. It’s just that I can’t see me learning any other language than the one I already know, and I have enough trouble with that sometimes.”
The two sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments, Symon with his head on one side as if waiting for the next question, which duly came. “Do all magicians speak the same language then?”
Symon gave an assertive nod. “Of course. It is a very ancient language, evolved from the spirit of the land itself, therefore it is a language that the forces of nature understand. If all magicians used different languages, the result would be confusion and almost inevitably, spell failure. The only difference is in the disciplines that are used.”
Karryl frowned.”I always thought that discipline was about behaving yourself properly.”
Symon nodded in agreement. “And so it is. Conducting yourself according to a certain set of accepted rules of behaviour. However, in our case these rules vary from place to place, depending on where the practitioner was trained, and also with whom. Unfortunately, each of the four continents employs a different set of disciplines. Fortunately for you however, I have books detailing each of the four disciplines, which you can begin to study. Only when you can recognise which one is being used will you be able to ascertain, fairly accurately, the place of origin of the magician using it.”
With that, he stood up slowly and stretched, then tapped the side of his head to indicate forgetfulness. “I’ll tell you of these as we go along. We were going to have a cup of tea, weren’t we?”
Karryl stood and waited while Symon brushed bits of leaf from the skirt of his long russet-coloured robe, then fell in beside him as they set off once more for the tower.
The little magician raised a finger in the air. “Now. There are four accepted disciplines, each one recognisable by the manner in which it is employed, and all four are, to a degree, interchangeable, although that is not a practice that is encouraged. It could lead to other bad habits.”
Karryl butted in, sounding not a little perplexed. “How do you know which is which?”
Symon stopped and gave him a long-suffering look. “Because they have names.” he replied with exaggerated patience, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Magician and apprentice gave a simultaneous sigh of relief as the tower came into view.
Halfway up the stairs, Karryl remembered the chicken tucked away in the porch and dashed down to retrieve it. His eyes twinkling, Symon listened as Karryl told him the story of the dog and the chicken.
The little magician chuckled as he tipped his head in the direction of the kitchen. “After all the effort you put into winning it, you’ll appreciate your dinner tomorrow all the more.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Their tea finished and everything cleared away, Symon crossed to a bookshelf and took down four rather slim volumes, bound in aged and creased dark red leather.
Reading out loud the names blocked into the spine of each one, he handed them to Karryl. “Rhamnic. Altic. Talmion and …Vedric.” He uttered the last name in a tone bordering on contempt.
Karryl turned the books over in his hands, and ventured a peek at some of the pages. “Strange names. Which do we use?”
Symon’s reply was emphatic. “Talmion. You must read that thoroughly, and learn it so that by the end of your apprenticeship its practise will come to you as naturally as breathing.”
Karryl gulped as Symon continued. “A good knowledge of Rhamnic can also prove useful, and the same applies to Altic, but that is up to you. It is not a complex discipline but tends to demand much of its practitioners.” Here he looked sternly at Karryl. “But unless you intend to travel to the continent on which Naboria lies, and become embroiled in their unsavoury practices, I suggest you give Vedric little more attention than is necessary to learn the basic spells.”
Karryl detected a note of warning within the indignation borne on Symon’s voice, and was slightly taken aback. He was beginning to see different facets to the personality of this normally mild-mannered little magician, and he found himself wondering what would happen if Symon ever got angry. His own experiences instilling a profound reluctance to dwell on the subject, he pushed the thought aside.
Placing the books carefully on the table, his eyebrows drew into a frown of consternation. “What is it about Naboria? That’s twice today I’ve heard it mentioned and I hardly know where it is!”
Symon gave him a stern glance. “There’s a globe in your room. Please go and fetch it.”
When Karryl returned carrying the brightly coloured globe in both arms, Symon was sitting at the table, drumming his fingers and looking not a little concerned. After placing the rather heavy globe on the table, Karryl sat down and pulled the small pile of books towards him.
Symon twitched with impatience. “Leave those for now. I will tell you a little of the country of Naboria, then that will do.”
He reached out and slowly spun the globe with his fore-finger as he looked askance at his young apprentice. “Where else have you heard that place mentioned then?”
It sounded to Karryl as if Symon had a bad taste in his mouth. Sparing the details of his visit to the abandoned campsite, Karryl told Symon about the conversation he had overheard, and how he had recognised one of the voices.
He frowned and drummed the table with his fingers. “What I don’t understand is who Master Winyard was talking to.”
Symon raised an eyebrow. “You just said yourself that the other man called him ‘father’.”
Karryl turned sideways in his chair and looked intently at Symon. “Yes, I know. The point is, as far as I know Master Winyard only has the two sons. There’s Joel, who I went to school with until…well…until I ended up with the streetboys, and Ghian, who’s the eldest by about nine or ten years. News on the street had it that he’d been shipwrecked some three years ago.”
He frowned and
worked his bottom lip with this teeth, as if trying to figure something out.
Symon patted his palms together. “Well, obviously he was not lost at sea after all. Somehow he has made his way back here to his homeland of Albita.”
Karryl looked dubious. “Well, if it is him, from what I could hear he’s done some kind of business in Naboria while he was away.”
Symon raised both eyebrows. “Did you happen to hear what kind of business?”
Karryl waggled his hand. “He said he’d done the kind of deal ‘of which dreams are made’. I just assumed he was talking about wine, seeing as his father’s a wine merchant. He was on a Naborian ship too, and he was the only passenger as far as I could tell.”
Symon’s eyebrows rose. “Huh! Wine from Naboria. I’ll believe that when I see it!”
The magician sat for some minutes, not speaking, his hands clasped under his chin, while Karryl peered at the names written on the globe.
Coming out of his reverie, Symon turned his attention to the geography lesson as if nothing had been said. “Right. I will explain the four continents to you, then we will have lunch, and after lunch you can spend the rest of the day studying the book of Talmion. It may take longer than you think as, although the books are not very thick, the writing is small and the language rather archaic.”
Karryl’s shoulders slumped, and Symon gave him a pointed look. “Was there something else you’d rather do?”
His hands raised in a gesture of helplessness, Karryl shook his head. “No. It’s just that you said earlier that for the next few weeks I’d be studying the language of spells. Which is it?”
Symon rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Both. Language in the mornings and Disciplines in the afternoon...or the other way about if you prefer.”