Magician: Apprentice

by Raymond Feist

  “Have you thought about what the boy said?” asked the priest, a look of thoughtful concern on his face.

  “You mean about my having been mistaken?”

  Tully nodded. Kulgan dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Tully, you know as much about the nature of magic as I do, perhaps more. Your god is not called the God Who Brought Order for nothing. Your sect unraveled much about what orders this universe. Do you for one moment doubt the boy has talent?”

  “Talent, no. But his ability is the question for the moment.”

  “Well put, as usual. Well, then, have you any ideas? Should we make a cleric out of the boy, perhaps?”

  Tully sat back, a disapproving expression upon his face. “You know the priesthood is a calling, Kulgan,” he said stiffly.

  “Put your back down, Tully. I was making a joke.” He sighed. “Still, if he hasn’t the calling of a priest, nor the knack of a magician’s craft, what can we make of this natural ability of his?”

  Tully pondered the question in silence for a moment, then said, “Have you thought of the lost art?”

  Kulgan’s eyes widened. “That old legend?” Tully nodded. “I doubt there is a magician alive who at one time or another hasn’t reflected on the legend of the lost art. If it had existed, it would explain away many of the shortcomings of our craft.” Then he fixed Tully with a narrowed eye, showing his disapproval. “But legends are common enough. Turn up any rock on the beach and you’ll find one. I for one prefer to look for real answers to our shortcomings, not blame them on ancient superstitions.”

  Tully’s expression became stern and his tone scolding. “We of the temple do not count it legend, Kulgan! It is considered part of the revealed truth, taught by the gods to the first men.”

  Nettled by Tully’s tone, Kulgan snapped, “So was the notion the world was flat, until Rolendirk—a magician, I’ll remind you—sent his magic sight high enough to disclose the curvature of the horizon, clearly demonstrating the world to be a sphere! It was a fact known by almost every sailor and fisherman who’d ever seen a sail appear upon the horizon before the rest of the ship since the beginning of time!” His voice rose to a near shout.

  Seeing Tully was stung by the reference to ancient church canon long since abandoned, Kulgan softened his tone. “No disrespect to you, Tully. But don’t try to teach an old thief to steal. I know your order chops logic with the best of them, and that half your brother clerics fall into laughing fits when they hear those deadly serious young acolytes debate theological issues set aside a century ago. Besides which, isn’t the legend of the lost art an Ishapian dogma?”

  Now it was Tully’s turn to fix Kulgan with a disapproving eye. With a tone of amused exasperation, he said, “Your education in religion is still lacking, Kulgan, despite a somewhat unforgiving insight into the inner workings of my order.” He smiled a little. “You’re right about the moot gospel courts, though. Most of us find them so amusing because we remember how painfully grim we were about them when we were acolytes.” Then turning serious, he said, “But I am serious when I say your education is lacking. The Ishapians have some strange beliefs, it’s true, and they are an insular group, but they are also the oldest order known and are recognized as the senior church in questions pertaining to interdenominational differences.”

  “Religious wars, you mean,” said Kulgan with an amused snort.

  Tully ignored the comment. “The Ishapians are caretakers for the oldest lore and history in the Kingdom, and they have the most extensive library in the Kingdom. I have visited the library at their temple in Krondor, and it is most impressive.”

  Kulgan smiled and with a slight tone of condescension said, “As have I, Tully, and I have browsed the shelves at the Abbey of Sarth, which is ten times as large. What’s the point?”

  Leaning forward, Tully said, “The point is this: say what you will about the Ishapians, but when they put forth something as history, not lore, they can usually produce ancient tomes to support their claims.”

  “No,” said Kulgan, waving aside Tully’s comments with a dismissive wave. “I do not make light of your beliefs, or any other man’s, but I cannot accept this nonsense about lost arts. I might be willing to believe Pug could be somehow more attuned to some aspect of magic I’m ignorant of, perhaps something involving spirit conjuration or illusion—areas I will happily admit I know little about—but I cannot accept that he will never learn to master his craft because the long-vanished god of magic died during the Chaos Wars! No, that there is unknown lore, I accept. There are too many shortcomings in our craft even to begin to think our understanding of magic is remotely complete. But if Pug can’t learn magic, it is only because I have failed as a teacher.”

  Tully now glared at Kulgan, suddenly aware the magician was not pondering Pug’s possible shortcomings but his own. “Now you are being foolish. You are a gifted man, and were I to have been the one to discover Pug’s talent, I could not imagine a better teacher to place him with than yourself. But there can be no failing if you do not know what he needs to be taught.” Kulgan began to sputter an objection, but Tully cut him off. “No, let me continue. What we lack is understanding. You seem to forget there have been others like Pug, wild talents who could not master their gifts, others who failed as priests and magicians.”

  Kulgan puffed on his pipe, his brow knitted in concentration. Suddenly he began to chuckle, then laugh. Tully looked sharply at the magician. Kulgan waved offhandedly with his pipe. “I was just struck by the thought that should a swineherd fail to teach his son the family calling, he could blame it upon the demise of the gods of pigs.”

  Tully’s eyes went wide at the near-blasphemous thought, then he too laughed, a short bark. “That’s one for the moot gospel courts!” Both men laughed a long, tension-releasing laugh at that. Tully sighed and stood up. “Still, do not close your mind entirely to what I’ve said, Kulgan. It may be Pug is one of those wild talents. And you may have to reconcile yourself for letting him go.”

  Kulgan shook his head sadly at the thought. “I refuse to believe there is any simple explanation for those other failures, Tully. Or for Pug’s difficulties, as well. The fault was in each man or woman, not in the nature of the universe. I have often felt where we fail with Pug is in understanding how to reach him. Perhaps I would be well advised to seek another master for him, place him with one better able to harness his abilities.”

  Tully sighed. “I have spoken my mind of this question, Kulgan. Other than what I’ve said, I cannot advise you. Still, as they say, a poor master’s better than no master at all. How would the boy have fared if no one had chosen to teach him?”

  Kulgan bolted upright from his seat. “What did you say?”

  “I said, how would the boy have fared if no one had chosen to teach him?”

  Kulgan’s eyes seemed to lose focus as he stared into space. He began puffing furiously upon his pipe. After watching for a moment, Tully said, “What is it, Kulgan?”

  Kulgan said, “I’m not sure, Tully, but you may have given me an idea.”

  “What sort of idea?”

  Kulgan waved off the question. “I’m not entirely sure. Give me time to ponder. But consider your question, and ask yourself this: how did the first magicians learn to use their power?”

  Tully sat back down, and both men began to consider the question in silence. Through the window they could hear the sound of boys at play, filling the courtyard of the keep.

  —

  EVERY SIXTHDAY, THE boys and girls who worked in the castle were allowed to spend the afternoon as they saw fit. The boys, apprentice age and younger, were a loud and boisterous lot. The girls worked in the service of the ladies of the castle, cleaning and sewing, as well as helping in the kitchen. They all gave a full week’s work, dawn to dusk and more, each day, but—on the sixth day of the week they gathered in the courtyard of the castle, near the Princess’s garden. Most of the boys played a rough game of tag, involving the capture of a ball
of leather, stuffed hard with rags, by one side, amid shoves and shouts, kicks and occasional fistfights. All wore their oldest clothes, for rips, bloodstains, and mudstains were common.

  The girls would sit along the low wall by the Princess’s garden, occupying themselves with gossip about the ladies of the Duke’s court. They nearly always put on their best skirts and blouses, and their hair shone from washing and brushing. Both groups made a great display of ignoring each other, and both were equally unconvincing.

  Pug ran to where the game was in progress. As was usual, Tomas was in the thick of the fray, sandy hair flying like a banner, shouting and laughing above the noise. Amid elbows and kicks he sounded savagely joyous, as if the incidental pain made the contest all the more worthwhile. He ran through the pack, kicking the ball high in the air, trying to avoid the feet of those who sought to trip him. No one was quite sure how the game had come into existence, or exactly what the rules were, but the boys played with battlefield intensity, as their fathers had years before.

  Pug ran onto the field and placed a foot before Rulf just as he was about to hit Tomas from behind. Rulf went down in a tangle of bodies, and Tomas broke free. He ran toward the goal and, dropping the ball in front of himself, kicked it into a large overturned barrel, scoring for his side. While other boys yelled in celebration, Rulf leaped to his feet and pushed aside another boy to place himself directly in front of Pug. Glaring out from under thick brows, he spat at Pug, “Try that again and I’ll break your legs, sand squint!” The sand squint was a bird of notoriously foul habits—not the least of which was leaving eggs in other birds’ nests so that its offspring were raised by other birds. Pug was not about to let any insult of Rulf’s pass unchallenged. With the frustrations of the last few months only a little below the surface, Pug was feeling particularly thin-skinned this day.

  With a leap he flew at Rulf’s head, throwing his left arm around the stockier boy’s neck. He drove his right fist into Rulf’s face and could feel Rulf’s nose squash under the first blow. Quickly both boys were rolling on the ground. Rulf’s greater weight began to tell, and soon he sat astride Pug’s chest, driving his fat fists into the smaller boy’s face.

  Tomas stood by helpless, for as much as he wanted to aid his friend, the boys’ code of honor was as strict and inviolate as any noble’s. Should he intervene on his friend’s behalf, Pug would never live down the shame. Tomas jumped up and down, urging Pug on, grimacing each time Pug was struck, as if he felt the blows himself.

  Pug tried to squirm out from under the larger boy, causing many of his blows to slip by, striking dirt instead of Pug’s face. Enough of them were hitting the mark, however, so that Pug soon began to feel a queer detachment from the whole procedure. He thought it strange that everybody sounded so far away, and that Rulf’s blows seemed not to hurt. His vision was beginning to fill with red and yellow colors, when he felt the weight lifted from his chest.

  After a brief moment things came into focus, and Pug saw Prince Arutha standing over him, his hand firmly grasping Rulf’s collar. While not as powerful a figure as his brother or father, the Prince was still able to hold Rulf high enough so that the stableboy’s toes barely touched the ground. The Prince smiled, but without humor. “I think the boy has had enough,” he said quietly, eyes glaring. “Don’t you agree?” His cold tone made it clear he wasn’t asking for an opinion. Blood still ran down Rulf’s face from Pug’s initial blow as he choked out a sound the Prince took to mean agreement. Arutha let go of Rulf’s collar, and the stableboy fell backward, to the laughter of the onlookers. The Prince reached down and helped Pug to his feet.

  Holding the wobbly boy steady, Arutha said, “I admire your courage, youngster, but we can’t have the wits beaten out of the Duchy’s finest young magician, can we?” His tone was only slightly mocking, and Pug was too numb to do more than stand and stare at the younger son of the Duke. The Prince gave him a slight smile and handed him over to Tomas, who had come up next to Pug, a wet cloth in hand.

  Pug came out of his fog as Tomas scrubbed his face with the cloth, and felt even worse when he saw the Princess and Roland standing only a few feet away as Prince Arutha returned to their side. To take a beating before the girls of the keep was bad enough; to be punished by a lout like Rulf in front of the Princess was a catastrophe.

  Emitting a groan that had little to do with his physical state, Pug tried to look as much like someone else as he could. Tomas grabbed him roughly. “Try not to squirm around so much. You’re not all that bad off. Most of this blood is Rulf’s anyway. By tomorrow his nose will look like an angry red cabbage.”

  “So will my head.”

  “Nothing so bad. A black eye, perhaps two, with a swollen cheek thrown in to the bargain. On the whole, you did rather well, but next time you want to tangle with Rulf, wait until you’ve put on a little more size, will you?” Pug watched as the Prince led his sister away from the site of battle. Roland gave him a wide grin, and Pug wished himself dead.

  —

  PUG AND TOMAS walked out of the kitchen, dinner plates in hand. It was a warm night, and they preferred the cooling ocean breeze to the heat of the scullery. They sat on the porch, and Pug moved his jaw from side to side, feeling it pop in and out. He experimented with a bite of lamb and put his plate to one side.

  Tomas watched him. “Can’t eat?”

  Pug nodded. “Jaw hurts too much.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and chin on his fists. “I should have kept my temper. Then I would have done better.”

  Tomas spoke from around a mouthful of food. “Master Fannon says a soldier must keep a cool head at all times or he’ll lose it.”

  Pug sighed. “Kulgan said something like that. I have some drills I can do that make me relax. I should have used them.”

  Tomas gulped a heroic portion of his meal. “Practicing in your room is one thing. Putting that sort of business into use while someone is insulting you to your face is quite another. I would have done the same thing, I suppose.”

  “But you would have won.”

  “Probably. Which is why Rulf would never have come at me.” His manner showed he wasn’t being boastful, merely stating things as they were. “Still, you did all right. Old cabbage nose will think twice before picking on you again, I’m sure, and that’s what the whole thing is about, anyway.”

  Pug said, “What do you mean?”

  Tomas put down his plate and belched. With a satisfied look at the sound of it, he said, “With bullies it’s always the same: whether or not you can best them doesn’t matter. What is important is whether or not you’ll stand up to them. Rulf may be big, but he’s a coward under all the bluster. He’ll turn his attention to the younger boys now and push them around a bit. I don’t think he’ll want any part of you again. He doesn’t like the price.” Tomas gave Pug a broad and warm smile. “That first punch you gave him was a beaut. Right square on the beak.”

  Pug felt a little better. Tomas eyed Pug’s untouched dinner. “You going to eat that?”

  Pug looked at his plate. It was fully laden with hot lamb, greens, and potatoes. In spite of the rich smell, Pug felt no appetite. “No, you can have it.”

  Tomas scooped up the platter and began shoving the food into his mouth. Pug smiled. Tomas had never been known to stint on food.

  Pug returned his gaze to the castle wall. “I felt like such a fool.”

  Tomas stopped eating, with a handful of meat halfway to his mouth. He studied Pug for a moment. “You too?”

  “Me too, what?”

  Tomas laughed. “You’re embarrassed because the Princess saw Rulf give you a thrashing.”

  Pug bridled. “It wasn’t a thrashing. I gave as well as I got!”

  Tomas whooped. “There! I knew it. It’s the Princess.”

  Pug sat back in resignation. “I suppose it is.”

  Tomas said nothing, and Pug looked over at him. He was busy finishing off Pug’s dinner. Finally Pug said, “And I suppose you don�
�t like her?”

  Tomas shrugged. Between bites he said, “Our Lady Carline is pretty enough, but I know my place. I have my eye on someone else, anyway.”

  Pug sat up. “Who?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “I’m not saying,” Tomas said with a sly smile.

  Pug laughed. “It’s Neala, right?”

  Tomas’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

  Pug tried to look mysterious. “We magicians have our ways.”

  Tomas snorted. “Some magician. You’re no more a magician than I am a Knight-Captain of the King’s army. Tell me, how did you know?”

  Pug laughed. “It’s no mystery. Every time you see her, you puff up in that tabard of yours and preen like a bantam rooster.”

  Tomas looked troubled. “You don’t think she’s on to me, do you?”

  Pug smiled like a well-fed cat. “She’s not on to you, I’m sure.” He paused. “If she’s blind, and all the other girls in the keep haven’t pointed it out to her a hundred times already.”

  A woebegone look crossed Tomas’s face. “What must the girl think?”

  Pug said, “Who knows what girls think? From everything I can tell, she probably likes it.”

  Tomas looked thoughtfully at his plate. “Do you ever think about taking a wife?”

  Pug blinked like an owl caught in a bright light. “I…I never thought about it. I don’t know if magicians marry. I don’t think they do.”

  “Nor soldiers, mostly. But Master Fannon says a soldier who thinks about his family is not thinking about his job.” Tomas was silent for a minute.

  Pug said, “It doesn’t seem to hamper Sergeant Gardan or some of the other soldiers.”

  Tomas snorted, as if those exceptions merely proved his point. “I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like to have a family.”