The Book of Magic

by George R. R. Martin

  Archie said, “There is no shame, Effendi. Only honor.”

  Jack said nothing, just shook his head.

  Suddenly, Carolien said, “Jack, come here.”

  Jack didn’t want to move. “What?” he said.

  “Come look at the gargoyles.”

  Jack went to the window, conscious of the djinni and his teacher watching him. He looked uptown to the Chrysler Building, where the silver gargoyles jutted out from the corners of the tower. He saw it almost immediately. All the tarnish and dullness had vanished, so that now they gleamed in the sunlight with a luster beyond their metal.

  And then they began to sing. Layers and layers of harmonies, melodies beyond human comprehension. Jack nearly fell backward, grabbed the windowsill. He looked uptown, at the Empire State Building’s antenna lit up in streams of color. They’re free, he thought. The Kallistochoi’s songs had returned to them. He wanted to scream out with joy, but he could hardly stand. Those songs—

  And the Djinn. He looked across the city, saw great flares of fire coming to life everywhere, in offices and bedrooms, schools and buses, in people and dogs, in pilgrims and rats.

  He turned to Archie, but all he could see was a wild flame, brighter than the sun. He closed his eyes, but it still burned through his skin.

  “Enough!” Anatolie said, and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You have done a great service,” she said. “And now you may open your eyes.”

  She’s taken the sight from me, Jack thought. For a moment, anger tried to force its way into his mind, only to have gratitude push it aside. He looked at his teacher. “Thank you,” he whispered. Anatolie nodded.

  Jack turned to Archie. The high prince of the Djinn once more looked like an elegant businessman.

  Archie placed his palms together before his heart. He said, “Effendi. Magister. Now and forever the Djinn will know you and honor you. Habib. Our beloved.” And then he was gone.

  Anatolie said, “Jack, Ms. Hounstra, I too must leave. Jack, my apologies to Miss Yao for any discomfort I may have caused her. I do not expect to see her again.”

  Carolien said, “One moment. Please.” She walked over and picked up the Extasia Lux Tenebris. Holding it out with both hands, she said, “May I return this now?”

  “Of course,” Anatolie said. She, too, held the Book of Alterations in both hands.

  Carolien said, “I knew you were watching me when I stole it.”

  “Of course. All Travelers are thieves, Ms. Hounstra. I appreciate skill.” And then she left.

  Jack was mildly surprised to see her use the door. He’d thought she might just vanish, like Archie.

  Carolien came and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Schatje,” she said, “you did a good thing today.” Jack tried to answer, found he couldn’t speak, so he just nodded. Carolien brought him to the window, then went and got a couple of chairs and angled them to face north.

  For a long time they sat there, holding hands, silent, watching the sunlight as it shone on the gargoyles.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Eleanor Arnason published her first novel, The Sword Smith, in 1978, and followed it with novels such as Daughter of the Bear King and To the Resurrection Station. In 1991, she published her best-known novel, one of the strongest novels of the nineties, the critically-acclaimed A Woman of the Iron People, a complex and substantial novel that won the prestigious James Tipree Jr. Memorial Award. Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Amazing, Orbit, Xanadu, and elsewhere; some of them were collected in Big Mama Stories, and her story “Stellar Harvest” was a Hugo finalist in 2000. Her other books are Ring of Swords and Tomb of the Fathers, and a chapbook, Mammoths of the Great Plains, which includes the eponymous novella, plus an interview with her and a long essay. In 2014 she published Hidden Folk: Icelandic Fantasies, a collection of stories based on Icelandic medieval literature and folklore. Her most recent book is a major SF retrospective collection, Hwarthath Stories: Transgressive Tales by Aliens. She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her longtime partner.

  Here she takes us to the troll-haunted hills of eighteenth-century Iceland, for the story of an apprentice sorcerer who steals forbidden magic, only to find that some things are easier to do than undo.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  ELEANOR ARNASON

  There was a man named Loft, who attended the school at Holar in northern Iceland. This was early in the eighteenth century, when the country was governed by Denmark and very poor. In spite of the poverty, Iceland had two bishop’s seats. One was at Holar: a fine, handsome, wooden church set in the middle of a wide, green valley. Black mountains rose above the valley, often streaked with snow.

  The bishop had a wooden house, as did the school’s provost. The rest of the buildings were sod, since wood was rare and expensive in Iceland. These were low and dark, homes for the bishop’s servants and the students in the school.

  When Loft arrived, the provost took him around, showing every part of the school. They ended in the library, which was a room in the church. As libraries went in Iceland, it was large, holding books that were handwritten in Icelandic, as well as books that had been printed in foreign countries. Most of these last were in Danish or Latin.

  “You are free to read all of this,” the provost said, gesturing at the books. “But there is a cabinet with books you must not read. They are malevolent and magical. We keep the cabinet locked.”

  You may wonder why the provost told Loft about the cabinet. He was a fair man, who warned everyone, though he did not tell them everything: the cabinet was protected by magic as well as a lock. If anyone tried to open it, a bell would ring in the provost’s house, and the student—it was always a student—would be expelled. Loft nodded, as if he agreed with the provost. But he decided to open the cabinet, if he could.

  At this point, he should be described: a slim lad of seventeen, with dark hair and bright blue eyes and a handsome, ruddy face. His parents were farmers, who got by without ever becoming rich. Loft was clever, but not as clever as he thought, and ambitious. He planned to learn all he could at Holar, then go to Copenhagen and learn more. After that, he would become a famous cleric or a scholar working for the Danish government.

  Loft settled at the school and studied hard, but the cabinet stayed in his mind. At last he went to visit it, where it sat in a dark corner of the library. It was wood bound with iron and had a thick iron lock.

  How could he open it? He was clever enough to suspect a trick and did not touch the lock.

  “It isn’t difficult,” a voice said behind him.

  He turned and saw a lad about his age. Like Loft, he was slim and dark-haired, but his eyes were black. Looking at them, Loft thought he was looking into deep pools or pits.

  “I can open it,” the lad said. He touched the lock, and it opened. “There you are.”

  At this time, Loft did not know about the bell in the provost’s house, so he didn’t worry about it ringing. But, as he learned later, it did not ring.

  The books inside the cabinet were old—not paper but parchment, bent and twisted by time.

  “How did you do that?” Loft asked.

  “It’s a knack you learn from reading these. Here.” The dark lad took a book out and handed it to Loft. The leather cover felt warm in his hands, and he felt a prickling sensation, as if he were rubbing the rough fur of an animal.

  “What if the provost notices this is gone?” Loft asked.

  “These books belonged to Bishop Gottskalk the Cruel. He left them behind when he died, though he took the most powerful—the one called Redskin—into the grave with him. No bishop or provost since then has had the courage to open the cabinet. Don’t worry that anyone will discover a book is missing.”

  The dark lad closed the cabinet. Loft asked his name, so he c
ould thank him properly.

  “You don’t need to know that. I’m a visitor and will be gone soon.”

  A wise man would have wondered who the visitor was. But Loft was young and ambitious and not as clever as he thought he was. He paid more attention to the book in his hands than to the man who had opened the cabinet.

  He carried the book to his quarters. Whenever he was able, he studied—at night when the other students were asleep and by day in the fields.

  It was early summer. The wild swans and ducks were nesting, keeping a wary eye for predators. Several times Loft saw gyrfalcons swoop down, grab a duckling, and fly away. They were nesting too and had hungry chicks to feed.

  This was the way of the world, Loft thought. The weak do the best they can. The strong prevail.

  The dark lad was right. There was a spell for opening locks in the book, a powerful one that undid any spells of protection. The provost’s bell would not ring, and the provost would be left in ignorance. After Loft finished the book, he went back for another volume. With one exception, the books were devoted to the kind of magic that came to Iceland with Christianity, and much of their power came from blasphemy. This meant the person using the books was putting himself into the devil’s hands. There was another kind of magic, the pagan kind, which drew its power from the old religion and gods who did not believe in the devil, but only one book in the cabinet contained this. If he had studied that, he might have gotten Odin as an ally and done better. But it was written in runes he did not understand.

  At first, Loft used the magic for minor tricks. He could make a student he disliked stumble or develop an itch that would not go away. These seemed like ordinary problems, due to clumsiness or fleas. No one thought anything of them.

  If he felt hungrier than usual, he would use magic to steal food from the students eating around him. The spell made them think they had a full plate or bowl, but they were eating an illusion and soon complained of hunger. Loft put on weight, looking more and more healthy and prosperous.

  The provost should have noticed, but he didn’t, due either to Loft’s magic or to preoccupation. He was a pious man, who paid more attention to religion than the students.

  This went on for some time. Loft became more and more confident. There was magic he could not use. He would have liked a pair of necropants. To make them, he had to find someone on the verge of death, who would agree to being flayed after death, so Loft could use his skin for the pants. Most people wanted to be put intact into a grave, missing nothing important, including the skin on their lower limbs. Loft could not imagine making the suggestion, even if he could find someone on the verge of dying.

  There were other kinds of magic, which he found in the books. He contented himself with these. Things went on in this way for some while.

  One of the bishop’s servants was a woman named Freydis. She had white-blond hair and blue eyes that were even brighter than Loft’s, and was as lovely as a woman could be in Iceland. Remember that it was a poor country. Beauty faded quickly. For the moment, Freydis was beautiful. In addition, she had a merry personality and flirted with the students, though she always made it clear that she was above them, since she worked for the bishop. In time, she would find a prosperous farmer and marry him. The bishop would perform the marriage. Of course, the students were in love with her, including Loft. He tried to court her, but irritated her.

  “You are poor,” Freydis said finally. “At best, you will be a minister in Iceland or a clerk writing out documents in Denmark. I want a man with sheep and horses and a well-built, comfortable house, with servants I can order around.”

  This reply made Loft angry. The lads around him might be poor students with impoverished futures. He was a magician!

  He had promised his parents he would visit them at the end of summer. Loft cast a spell so Freydis thought she was a horse. She left the servants’ quarters at midnight, her mind in a daze. Loft threw a saddle over her back and put a bit in her teeth. A full moon shone. He climbed into the saddle, feeling her bend down with weight, and dug his heels into her sides.

  She started off. He carried a whip and used it to beat her. “Faster! Faster!”

  Her hands came down onto the ground, and she ran with a smooth, tolting gait.

  This was magic! This was power! Loft thought.

  At dawn, they reached his family farm. Freydis was soaked with sweat. Loft dismounted and took off her saddle and bridle. He left her with the other horses and went in to meet his parents.

  His mother was up, making porridge. She gave him a kiss and told him to sit down and eat. Soon his father arrived, a solid man of middle age. There were no other children. All of his siblings had died in childhood. He was a prized only child. His parents would have preferred that he stay home and inherit the farm, but it wasn’t big enough to contain his ambition.

  Loft told them about the school. “I’m sure I will be able to go to Copenhagen.”

  His father, a man of few words, grunted and rose and went outside. He returned quickly. “There is a woman with the horses. She is clearly exhausted. I think she has been beaten, as well as pushed too long and hard. Her mouth is bruised. She has no idea how she came here.”

  Loft said nothing.

  “What did you do?” his mother asked him.

  Loft kept his mouth shut.

  His father went out and brought Freydis in, guiding her to a seat at the table. She was stumbling, clearly dazed. Her blond hair hung in loops around her face. Her mouth was red and swollen.

  Loft’s mother brought milk, porridge, and skyr, setting these in front of the girl. She petted the girl’s matted hair, saying, “There, there, darling. Eat.”

  Loft watched with anger and fear. Why were his parents making so much of the girl, who was no better than a horse?

  His father said, “I have always thought well of you, though you always seemed too sure of yourself. Now I begin to question your behavior. It’s one thing to learn the sagas and Christian theology. These are harmless. But I believe you have started to learn magic.”

  “What of it?” Loft asked angrily.

  “The sagas are our past. Theology is our future, if the ministers are right. Magic is nothing, an illusion. I don’t want you to come here again. One of your cousins can take over the farm when I am old.”

  “Very well,” Loft said and stood. “I bid you farewell.”

  He left and walked back to Holar, a long journey. As he walked, he thought about what had happened. How could his parents side with a woman they didn’t know, rather than with their only son? Freydis was no one important, only a serving girl. He was a scholar, becoming skillful in magic.

  Under his anger was sadness, which he did not want to recognize. Whenever he began to feel it, he said something boastful to himself. Let his parents live on their farm, which was small and had poor soil. Let them do as well as they could. He would become powerful and famous. In this manner, he went onward until he reached Holar.

  His parents cared for Freydis. She gradually recovered, but she had no desire to return to Holar. Instead, she stayed at the farm, helping Loft’s mother. She was less proud and more grateful than she’d been before. Loft’s parents treated her as a daughter.

  Loft continued his studies, learning both the books in the library and those in the cabinet. He was sorry to lose his parents, but they were wrong to condemn magic and him.

  Another girl worked for the bishop. This one was named Thordis. She had honey-blond hair and gray eyes and was lovely, though not as lovely as Freydis. Loft did not feel love for her, but rather lust.

  He found a love spell and cast it. Soon they were meeting. This was the first time Loft had made love to a woman, and he enjoyed it, congratulating himself on his success.

  After a while Thordis came to him and said she was pregnant. She had told no one so far, but she would have to soon.
Such a thing could not be hidden long. The bishop would be angry, Loft knew, and the bishop was a stern, unforgiving man. This would reduce Loft’s chances of going to Denmark. He went back to the magic books, finding another spell. Thordis disappeared. The bishop sent his servants out searching, and the provost questioned the students, but no sign of her was found.

  Everything was going well, Loft thought. One day as he was studying in the fields, a large swan flew down beside him. The bird glared at him, flapping her wide, white wings.

  “You can hardly mind your present situation,” Loft said. “I am sure you have a nest and fine cygnets.”

  The swan’s long neck struck out. Her beak almost hit him. He jumped up and shouted, “Begone!”

  The swan flapped her wings again and rose into the sky. This was the last he saw of her. But he was always cautious around swans after that. If they were nearby, and they nested every spring in the fields around Holar, he would stay inside.

  His fellow students noticed this and made jokes. He responded with spells that made them itch and sneeze.

  A year later, a minister’s wife in the East Fjords opened her door and saw a naked woman. The minister was known to be generous, and the wife was used to seeing beggars, but not like this. She pulled the woman inside and wrapped a blanket around her. “What has happened? Who are you?”

  “Thordis,” the woman said.

  “Who are your relatives?”

  After a long pause, the woman replied, “There was a child, but she flew away.”

  It was obvious the woman was out of her mind. The minister’s wife settled her down and brought her food. “What else do you know, Thordis?”

  The woman regarded her with blank eyes. “Sky. Green fields. The mountains. The sea.”

  Life was hard in Iceland. More than one woman had been driven insane by poverty and the loss of children.