Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  “Get Canthor,” he said.

  The second nodded and bolted from the circle. In an instant, he disappeared around the next bend in the trail. Jemidon watched him go, pushing away the upwelling of last-minute doubt. He set his jaw and stepped forward boldly. Speaking to Farnel without a large audience would have been better, but he must seize the opportunity when it presented itself.

  For a moment the others watched him advance. Then the ring of brown robes dissolved and regrouped in a line between him and the sorcerers.

  “I am Erid, lead tyro of master Gerilac.” The one in the center pointed a thumb to his chest. “And my master does not take kindly to interruption.” He paused for a moment and then leered a crooked smile. “For my own part, however, I welcome the opportunity, before the bailiff comes to snatch you away.”

  “My dealings are with master Farnel,” Jemidon said. “A tyro will not do.”

  “You should have heeded the warnings and stayed within the confines of the harbor,” Erid said. “Here in the hills, we practice glamours of our own choosing.” His smile broadened. “Even if you have a taste for art, you might find the experience somewhat, shall we say, disconcerting.”

  Laughter raced across the line, and menacing smiles settled on the tyros’ faces. Jemidon squared his shoulders and straightened to full height. He was five years older than any of the youths, but several stood a full head higher.

  “My intent is not to provoke,” he said slowly. “And I did not come to be the subject of your experimentation.”

  “Then your prowess is remarkable indeed,” another of the tyros said. “Tell us how you plan not to look one of us in the eye or keep your ears always protected against a whisper.”

  “Enough. Leave him be,” Farnel cut in. “You do your master no credit and waste what is most precious besides. Your talent should be channeled toward pleasing the moneyed lord, not baiting a bondsman who wanders away from the bazaar.”

  “I am no bondsman,” Jemidon said. “I am free to study what I choose. And my knowledge of the lore of Arcadia, the sagas of Procolon across the sea, and the chants of the savage northmen can be of great value to you. Let me speak more of my merit and you will be convinced.”

  “I am indeed the master you seek,” Farnel said. “But I see not merit but folly in one who wanders here alone. It is true that all the masters of Morgana strive to dispel the reputation of fear that sorcery enjoys elsewhere. Indeed, the livelihood of our small island depends upon it. The lords of the mainland would not come and pay good gold for our entertainments if there was a hint of greater risk involved. But our craft must be experimentally manipulated as well. Only near the harbor have we forsworn all glamours; only in the presentation hall do we enchant with consent. Here in our private retreats, one can rely only on the good judgment of whomever he encounters. The tyros cannot be kept under constant watch to ensure that they stay within the bounds of prudence.

  “And your luck today was not the best.” Farnel turned and cast a frown back at his peer. “You may be noted for your prizes, Gerilac, but your students in particular set no standards by their conduct.”

  “An easy thought for one who has no tyros of his own.” Gerilac flicked some dust from his rich velvet. “Although with no accolades in a decade, not even a minor mark of merit, one can understand why there would be none.”

  Farnel ignored Gerilac’s reply and turned back to Jemidon. “Come, I will escort you to the harbor. It would not do you well to be found by one of Canthor’s patrols.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” Jemidon insisted.

  “Not now.” Farnel waved down the path. “Let us get to the harbor without delay. Gerilac has babbled at me all afternoon, and I do not care to hear more of his plans to bedazzle the high prince.”

  “Discussion of the relative value of your skills and mine does bring discomfort,” Gerilac said. “Go ahead, take advantage of your excuse while you have it. Further conversation will not change your worth in the eyes of the other masters.”

  Farnel’s face clouded. He whipped back to stare at Gerilac without saying a word. Gerilac flung his arm across his face; then, after a moment, he slowly lowered it to return the stare. Warily, the two sorcerers closed upon each other, the first words of enchantment rumbling from their lips.

  As the masters engaged, Jemidon saw Erid and the other tyros exchanging hurried glances. With a sudden movement, Erid spun his way, but Jemidon guessed the intent. Quickly he stepped aside to avoid the push that would send him sprawling.

  Erid staggered to a stop and waved the others to his side. “This one talks of dealing only with a master, but now we will see how well he likes the skill of a tyro.”

  Jemidon looked at Farnel and Gerilac circling one another, arms across their eyes and loudly shouting to drown out each other’s charm. He would have to cope with the tyros himself. He took a half step backward; then, without warning, he reversed direction and drove his head into Erid’s midsection. They crashed to the ground and began to roll down the trail in a tumble. He heard Erid gasp for breath as he locked arms around the tyro’s back and began to squeeze. The sky and the ground rotated by in alternating streaks, but Jemidon kept his hold. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the sharp jabs from the small rocks that lay in their path.

  One stone scraped against Jemidon’s cheek; another scratched a ragged line along his bare arm. Then, with a jarring thud, his head cracked against the large boulder that blocked the path. Jemidon’s eyes blurred. Involuntarily he loosened his grip.

  Erid tore himself free. He grabbed for the branches of a scraggly bush and pulled himself to his feet. Jemidon groggily flung his arms out, trying to reestablish his hold, but Erid avoided the snares and pushed Jemidon to the ground. “And now the enchantment,” he slowly panted. “Perhaps one that will engender a little more respect.”

  The other tyros ran down the slope and seized Jemidon by the arms as he struggled to stand. He shook his head, but they grabbed his ears and forced him to look in Erid’s direction.

  “As to the fee—” Erid pointed at Jemidon’s chest. “The bauble of gold will do.”

  Jemidon struggled to free himself, but the tyros held him fast. His senses reeled. Erid’s image danced in duplicate. “Seize the coin at your peril,” he managed to gasp. “For fifteen years have I carried it, and even though I would have to track you to the northern wastes, I will have it back.”

  Erid looked into Jemidon’s eyes and hesitated. The fire that smoldered there was not to be dismissed lightly. “Perhaps not worth the trouble of taking,” he mumbled. “But if truly it carries with it the memories of when you were a boy, it will make the enchantment all the easier. Yes, that is it. Think of the coin, hapless one, while you look into my face.”

  Jemidon immediately slammed shut his eyes, but the tyros held him steady and forced his lids back open. Unable to avoid Erid’s stare, he heard the beginnings of the sonorous chant that dulled his consciousness.

  Jemidon tried to defocus Erid’s face into the blur of sky behind, but his thoughts became sluggish and lumbered away on their own. Erid’s eyes loomed larger and larger until they blotted out everything behind, finally engulfing Jemidon’s will and swallowing it whole. He felt the events of the morning wash into indistinct nothingness and then the day and the week before. With accelerating quickness, all his travels folded and were tucked into small compartments of his mind that he could no longer reach. He was a youth of twenty, fifteen, and finally ten.

  Jemidon felt the constraints which held him fall away and he took a step forward. The hillside shimmered and was gone…

  He found himself in a dimly lighted hovel, still hot from the blazing sun and choking in slowly settling dust. He heard the weak cough from the cot and saw the strained look on his mother’s face as she gently placed her palm on his sister’s forehead.

  Hesitantly he offered the coin in his hand back to his father. “But this brandel will pay for the alchemist’s potion,” Jemidon heard himself
say. “It will make her well. I can take the examination next month or even next year, if need be.”

  “The next month or the next year we will still be here, Jemidon.” His father waved an arm around the small room. “And no more sure of a coin of gold then than now. Take the payment for the testing. Even master Milton says you have a head for it; he remembers no one else in the village with your quickness.” The old man’s eyes widened and he looked off in the distance. “An apprentice thaumaturge. It is the first step to becoming a master. And then, after Milton passes on, you will be the one who nurtures the crops for lord Kenton and ensures his harvest. You will sit in honor at his table.

  “And when you wear that robe, this will be but a memory for us all. There will be pursefuls of coins—why, even tokens from the islands! Go, Jemidon; your sister wishes it as fervently as I.”

  Jemidon looked to the cot and grimaced. His sister did not care about apprenticeships and fees of the master. She was too young to know. All she wanted was to get well, to play tag again, or to ride on his back and laugh. He was taking away the one sure chance she had for a cure, leaving her and gambling that the fever might break on its own accord.

  But more important, when he finally succeeded, could he ever truly pay her back? Even as a master, could he compensate enough for the weeks of chills yet to come—or worse, the atrophied limbs that might result when it was all over? Was a robe of black worth so much that the choice was as easy as his father made it?

  “Go, Jemidon. Milton gathers the applicants in the square before the sun passes its zenith. Being late is not an auspicious beginning.”

  Jemidon felt the upwelling doubt; but looking in his father’s eyes, he could not find the courage to speak again. He clutched the coin, nodded silently, and turned for the door.

  Then the imagery of the glamour blurred. Days passed in a heartbeat. No sooner had he left the hut than he seemed to have returned.

  He was back outside his doorway, staring at the rough cloth which covered the entrance. How long he stood there he could not recall; the sun had set, and even the lights in the other shacks were long since extinguished.

  “Jemidon, is that you?” His father’s hand pushed aside the drapery and motioned him inside. “The four days of testing are done. You were to have returned by noon. Your mother could stand it no longer, and I was just going to look.”

  Reluctantly Jemidon entered the hut. A single candle cast slowly dancing shadows on the rough walls. He saw the rumpled covers and the empty cot, but felt no surprise. He had heard at noon, after Milton had discharged him in the square. Shyly he looked at his mother, kneading her hands in an endless pattern and staring into the darkness.

  Jemidon’s father followed his gaze and lowered his own eyes. “It was for the best,” he said huskily. “For the rest of us all, in the long run, it was for the best.”

  Jemidon opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry. Numbly he followed the sweep of his father’s hand to the small stool near the table.

  “But do not dwell on that now,” he heard his father say. “There will be time enough for tears. Tell us of your test. To which journeyman will you be assigned? Was it Aramac? They say he is the swiftest. Certainly Milton would pair the best with the best.”

  Jemidon shook his head and slowly unclenched his fist. He bit his lip as he looked down at the gold coin sparkling innocently in his palm. He saw his father’s eyes widen in amazement and felt the beginnings of the sobs that would rack his body for many hours to come…

  “Canthor. It is Canthor!”

  The yell cut through Jemidon’s spelled memories. The image of glinting mail and stern faces suddenly mixed with the receding dark shadows of his father’s hut.

  “To the keep, take the intruder to the keep!” a voice bellowed above the rest.

  Jemidon strained to separate the confusion, but he could not escape the charm. The last he remembered before collapsing into oblivion was choking the painful words to his father: “They collect no fee from those who fail.”

  The first rays of the rising sun slanted through the high window. Jemidon frowned and shielded his eyes. He rolled slowly on his side and stretched awake. The thin layer of straw had done little to soften the hard stone floor, and it seemed each muscle in his back protested the movement. Except for the one shaft of light, everything was in soft darkness. It took several minutes for him to see his surroundings.

  The room was shaped like a piece of pie with the central tip bitten off. The gently curved outer wall contained the only window. Descending sunlight illuminated dancing motes of dust and splashed on the rough flagstones of the floor that was held together by crumbling mortar. An iron grating prevented exit to a corridor to the interior. In the dark shadow beyond was the outline of a spiral staircase that led to other levels of the keep. Across the cell, hands resting on intertwined legs, sat the master sorcerer Farnel.

  “Any enchantment broken in the middle can produce undesired effects,” the sorcerer said. “Even one that tries to make you act as you once were. I decided to come and watch you through the night to see that you recovered well.”

  Jemidon shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs of memory. He rose to sitting and centered the coin on his chest. Grimly he pushed the old images away, back to where they had been safely hidden. He did not need their vividness to remind him of the debt he had to pay. For one gold brandel, somehow, he yet would become a master.

  Jemidon turned his attention to Farnel, who was patiently watching. With a final deep sigh, he focused his thoughts on the present and what he had to do.

  “Perhaps it is just as well that events transpired as they did,” he said. “Your attention is what I sought, and now it looks as if I might have it.”

  “Do not bore me with your proposition, whatever it is.” Farnel raised his hand. “I am content with my surroundings. I do not care for some reckless adventure for a lord from across the sea, regardless of the number of tokens dangled my way.”

  “Yet you have not won any prize in the competition for a decade,” Jemidon said, “nor even bothered to enter in the last three.”

  “A worthless exercise,” Farnel snorted. “A mere shadow of what it once meant. Before the high prince assumed his regency, the supreme accolade and the rest of the prizes were decided on merit, artistic merit. The old king may have ruled with too light a hand, but he could distinguish between a vision of true depth and a shallow thrill.”

  “The high prince is not the only judge,” Jemidon said. “Do not all the master sorcerers vote on the compositions of their peers as well?”

  “Swayed by the easy coin, every one,” Farnel said. “Once the visits of twenty lords were enough. They appreciated the images that we placed in their minds and paid fairly for the entertainments we gave them. It was not much, but we lived in adequate style.”

  Farnel rose to his feet and began to pace slowly about the cell. “But then, on some idle thought, the high prince and his followers came one year to see what transpired in this corner of the kingdom and left in one visit more gold than we received from all the rest combined. And with his bulging purse, he placed in our heads images as sharp as any of us could have formed with our craft: robes of smooth linen; soft beds; and not one tyro, but a dozen to do our bidding. Now none has the strength to vote his conscience. They all fear what would happen if this one small group were displeasured. The lesser lords, the bondsmen who accompany them, the principles of artistic composition—they do not matter as long as the high prince continues to add hundreds of tokens to the prize sack for the supreme accolade.”

  Jemidon nodded and chose his next words carefully. “The works of Farnel have remained cast in the traditional forms; this is well known,” he said. “But is it because of this steadfastness alone that they are now held in such low esteem?”

  Farnel stopped and scowled at Jemidon. “You have received an ample portion of my good nature. Do not presume it gives you license to judge.”

  “But I
do know something of sorcery and the artistic images you make with your craft,” Jemidon said. “The Antique Pastoral, Calm Sea in Winter, Mountain Sunlight, and many more.”

  Farnel stared at Jemidon. “My works of a decade ago,” he said slowly. “I see you have not sought me out unprepared.”

  The sorcerer closed his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips, savoring the memories. For a moment there was silence, but then Farnel snapped back and waved the thoughts away. “But they won no prizes. The drift to shallow forms and empty expression had already begun.”

  “I know also of what the others said of your works,” Jemidon rushed on. “Bold in principle and mood, but flawed in historical or geographic fact. Incorrect costuming of the period, a jutting sandbar in the wrong place, reflections from an impossible direction.”

  “Excuses, all of them,” Farnel said. “The works of Gerilac were the new sensation in the eyes of the prince.”

  “But had yours not been built on error, what then?” Jemidon persisted. “Without the nagging irritants, how might the artistic education of the high prince have proceeded? And who now might wear the robe of velvet?”

  “Your tongue is glib. I grant you that,” Farnel said, “but the sands have already been cast. What is done is done. It is a matter of style, and our craft suffers because of it.”

  “I am a scholar,” Jemidon said. “Between my attempts for what I must achieve, I have earned my bread in the libraries of the lords and the great cities, reading the old scrolls, tracking down obscure facts, finding the answer to ancient riddles so that one baron can show the power of his intellect to another. And in the course of all of this, I have learned many things that can serve you well.”

  Jemidon paused for a moment, then rushed on. “Two centuries ago, the capes of the lords hung only to their waists and their faces were clean-shaven. The sandbar in the Bay of Cloves is covered by the high tide. In the morning, when one is looking down into the valley beyond Plowblade Pass, the shadows are on the left.”