by Guy Antibes
Magician In Training
POSES OF POWER
BOOK ONE
By
Guy Antibes
MAP
Magician In Training
Power of Poses – Book One
Chapter One
TRAK LOOKED OVER HIS TINY DITCH, straight as an arrow and precisely a hand deep and a hand’s width wide. He leaned over and placed the seeds a hand apart in the middle of the ditch using the same pattern every time, keeping his body within the constraints of a pattern, a form. Although sweat trickled from his brow, he continued to cover the seeds and watered the row of corn after marching to the well and drawing the water in the exact same way multiple times.
“You’re a funny kid,” said Neel Cardswallow, one of the regulars at the common room of his father’s inn. “Why all of the precision? It’s just a row of corn, for the gods’ sake.”
Trak smiled. Neel asked the same kind of question every time he passed Trak working the little field and adjoining orchard that Trak tended for his father. “I want to enter into the King’s service. Military men march specific steps and fight using precise forms. I’m learning to discipline myself.”
Neel shook his head. “Why does a fifteen-year-old stableboy need precision?” The question had be been answered the same way for the past six years. Trak had learned the forms for all the weapons from him, anyway.
“I won’t be working for my father forever,” Trak said as Neel left him. He moved on to his next task, chopping weeds in the orchard. Cardswallow enjoys needling me, Trak thought, and I don’t mind it at all. The verbal abuse will just make me a better soldier. Discipline is everything.
After half an hour of chopping down emerging weeds underneath the apple and pear trees, Trak heard the bell that his father used to call him back to his inn, The Blunted Sword. He probably had to take care of a guest’s horse, but enjoyed the exercise. It only made him stronger.
“Slow down,” Able Bluntwithe, Trak’s father, said, handing the reins over to him. “Take care of this horse and then come into the common room.”
The common room? His father rarely invited him to the common room after tending horses before. Generally he had to meet his father in the lobby to take the guest’s belongings up to his room. He looked back at the horse and remembered the brown and black-stained tack. The rider brought messages from Herring’s Bone, the little port that lay directly north. Trak used the forms he’d made up for taking care of horses. Every move pre-determined as much as he could make them. The forms had turned every tedious chore into a game for Trak, something to discharge his never-ending boredom.
Even though Greenbrook wasn’t exactly the center of the world, outside of his duties at the inn, Trak didn’t have much time for friends, not that there were many opportunities. There were four children in the village roughly his age that he had grown up with and none were close friends. The thought always made him sigh. He knew he led an insular life and the thoughts of leaving for the military always kept his spirits high.
The horse needed a bit of a brushing before Trak rushed into the inn and hustled to the rough table where the messenger sat eating a bowl of stew while his father looked on. He quickly looked about the room to see if he had left everything in order. Trak cleaned the place much better than his father did. He took care of all of the rooms, too. The room sported clean bleached wood floors. The tables and chairs were oiled once a month after a solid scrubbing. His father helped him do that. He was proud of the way he took care of the place. The inn may look a little shabby from the outside, but Trak often heard compliments on how clean Able kept the place and that meant him.
Trak stood at attention, just as if he were reporting to duty, his fingers straight down, his arms held downward with his elbows barely bent. His toes were spread apart an inch so that his heels touched perfectly.
“I am here, Father,” he said, his eyes focused on the wall, not on his father.
Able waved his hand at him. “At ease, soldier.” He gave his son a grin and shook his shoulder with his massive hand. Trak looked at the messenger, who didn’t smile at Trak, but smirked.
“Uppity sort of kid,” the messenger said derisively. He then took a deep breath and brought up a leather tube. “The uppity kid gets the message, all the same.” He squinted at Trak, but handed the tube over to Able. “As you can see, it is still sealed by the Probate Commissioner at Pestledown.” Trak never liked the messenger, who often used the inn. A sneer never seemed far from the messenger’s face. He could never trust such a man.
Able shook his head as he held the tube in both hands, staring at the seal. “Wish I could read the damned letter sure to be inside.”
“He doesn’t either?” the messenger jerked his head towards Trak, who now stood with his legs half a pace apart with the back of his hands pressing into the small of his back. The messenger shook his head at Trak’s military posture. “I don’t know how you can put up with such shenanigans. In some countries, people obsessed with getting everything in precise order are put up in madhouses.”
“How would you know? As far as I know, you’ve been born and bred in Herring’s Bone,” Able said.
The messenger just sneered again, but Trak could see that he didn’t do that with the confidence he had in his demeanor before Able put the man’s comment down.
The messenger didn’t understand him at all. Trak could relax when he needed to, but when was the last time he did that? He couldn’t remember. Sleep was for relaxing.
“Neel? A pint for your services,” Able said to his friend sitting on a chair sideways with his back leaning against the wall and a foot on the rungs of another chair.
“At your elbow, I am, ready to be of some small help,” Neel said, rubbing his hands and grinning. The man was nicest when sober, which wasn’t very often. Nicest was a relative term, Trak thought. He often thought of Neel as surly and then surlier, but he had never doubted that Neel was a friend to him as well as to his father.
“Read it aloud, so Trak can hear. The letter is addressed to him, after all,” Able said, sitting down and smiling while he folded his arms. He leaned back in a chair, something he generally didn’t do except before he joined Neel and his friends in the evening for a few drinks. Few? What an understatement!
Neel cleared his throat. “Parched, I am. Perhaps a tiny bit of lubricant.”
“Trak, pull three fingers of ale for our friend,” Able said.
Trak nodded and marched behind the bar and returned with Neel’s requested throat soother. Neel took a large swig and let out a belch. Neel generally won the belching contests between his father’s friends. The dark-haired man undid the seal of the leather tube and let the letter slide down with a collection of big coins carefully wrapped in rough cloth so they wouldn’t clink in the tube. Trak noticed the eyes of the messenger grew.
Able unwrapped the coins. “Eight gold sovereigns, death money, I reckon.” He slid them over to Trak.
Need cleared his throat and finished off the lubricant and waited a moment for the ale to do its job, and then began to read.
“This is dated 35th day of the seventh month of the 735th year of the Honeygold Dynasty.
Written and sealed by the Probate Commissioner, Pestledown of the country of Pestle.
To Master Trak Bluntwithe of The Blunted Sword, Greenbrook,
Your mother’s brother, Willbest Youngblood, having passed away ten days ago, has bequeathed an EDUCATION —Neel precisely pronounced the word— up to and including obtaining a degree of his choosing at Pestledown University or its equivalent. A trust has been set up at the Pestledown Royally Chartered Financial Depository and Bank
to fund said EDUCATION. The funds to be kept under trusteeship by my firm, Beanmouth Solicitations & Bookkeeping.
It is known that your EDUCATION has been sorely neglected and the grant will include sufficient tutoring to allow you to pass the University admission tests to be taken between your eighteenth and twentieth year. The admission test must be passed in order to pursue your degree. Your tutoring will be conducted through the Pestledown Preparatory Organization. Further instructions are in possession of Podor Feeley, Administrator of the organization. There are eight golden sovereigns to use to transport yourself and a modest amount of belongings to Pestledown.
You are to present yourself and this scroll to Administrator Feeley by the fifteenth of Fourmonth.
Signed,
Horsent Beanmouth
Lawyer
Neel laughed. “What do you say, Trak? It looks like I was wrong, this afternoon. You are going to leave us.”
“I can’t,” Trak said, looking at his father. The man could barely manage the inn with him. The place would fall apart without Trak to keep things going. Trak would fall apart without the constant work the inn provided him. He knew every move he would make and how all of the forms of his life shifted and moved from task to task. He didn’t want to go. He wouldn’t go.
Able rose slowly to his feet. His knees had gradually given him increasing pain in the last few years, although he hadn’t seen fifty years yet. Trak looked at his shaggy brown hair, now becoming lighter with gray. Able put his arms around his son. “Relax, Trak and give me a hug,” he whispered in Trak’s ear.
The words that Neel spoke still bounced around in his head. “My place is here, with you, Father.”
Able pushed on his son’s shoulder to put him at arm’s length and looked into his eyes. “Galinda came from excellent stock. It shows in you, but I’m not the one to shape you. You barely know how to puzzle out letters, which is better than I can do. I insist that you go. I’ve got enough support to keep me going. Testor’s son is coming up on your age and Testor needs the money for seed. I’ll buy myself the boy and maybe another as an apprentice.” Able nodded to Trak and hugged him again. “There are enough folks around Greenbrook who need to make some money. Bad times could be on us in an instant. Anyway, if I have to pay for workers, I’ll finally be forced to increase my prices like you and Neel have been after me to do for so long.”
Trak’s eyes began to water and he found it hard to focus. “I can’t leave, I can’t.” Everything Trak had known came from Greenbrook. He felt his military resolve weaken with emotion.
“Don’t say you can’t!” Neel said. “This calls for a celebration tonight. I’ll summon Terence and Astun. The five of us will join our mugs to each other a thousand times this evening.”
“Maybe five or ten,” Able said glaring at Neel and then he nodded his head. “Will you be joining us, messenger?”
“No. A quick meal and then I’ve got to ride to Missy’s Vale to deliver a few letters. You better be on the road first thing in the morning young man, or you’ll miss a ship to Pestledown,” the messenger said. Why would he say anything to help him? Trak went out and prepared the messenger’s horse for departure.
~
“Did you ever meet Uncle Willbest Youngblood?” Trak said. His mind still worked even though he had been soaking it in alcohol for a while. His father hadn’t crossed over into muddled thinking, yet.
“He came to visit his two sisters, who lived here soon after you were born. I don’t think the man ever approved of me.” Able looked at Neel. “He didn’t approve of you neither, did he?”
Neel just shook his head and took another drink.
“You actually look more like him than Neel or I do. Tall, spare, blue eyes and a sense of order. A bit of a nasty man, he was and that is definitely not in your nature. Willbest traded rare woods and cloth. He wasn’t a magician, not like your aunt and your mother, he wasn’t. Oops.” Able covered his mouth with his hand and looked at Neel. “I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?”
“But they are forbidden in Pestle! My mom was a magician?”
Neel grabbed Able’s wrist. “It’s time he knew a bit about his heritage, Able. Yes, your mother and her sister were magicians and very good ones. And yes, it was forbidden just after your parents were married, like it is now.”
Able waved Neel’s comment away and took another sip of ale. “Forbidden doesn’t mean magic doesn’t exist. Jeena, your aunt, and Galinda had power, like Neel said. They both knew a bunch of magical poses that worked well when coupled with a word or two of power.” He belched, a sign that he was heading for a muddled head. “That’s how magic works if you have enough power running through your veins.”
Trak couldn’t believe Able’s words—his mother possessed power? Did he? “Did she ever show you any tricks?”
His father nodded. “Your mother could light a fire with her finger. Once I saw Jeena blow over a tree.” Able shivered as if a cold wind blew through the nearly empty common room. “You saw her that day, didn’t you, Terry?”
The village blacksmith nodded. He was a bit further gone that Able, Neel or Astun, his father’s other drinking friend. Terry slurred out, “I just about wet my pants. She was a careful one, Jeena was. The sisters swore us all to secrecy, they did. Swore us to say nothin’ ‘bout it, but I remember that smile. She liked to pull all of our legs. Metaphorically speakin’ of course.” He began to giggle, uncontrollably.
Neel perked up during their talk about magic. “I know of a woman who can teach you some magic in Pestledown. You can’t tell anyone, but should you want to learn, tell her I sent you.” Neel squinted his eyes in thought. “Better yet, don’t. Her name is Honor Fidelia. I knew her growing up. Not exactly a woman a man would fall in love with. Least of all me” He laughed as if his relationship with her had been a joke and took another drink. They all took another drink.
Trak didn’t remember much else about his going away party. He left his father, Neel, Astun and Terry asleep in the common room and left to spend his last night in his room, more of a shack really, tacked onto the back by the kitchen.
He laid, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He had built his own space, complete with a water pump, iron stove and water closet. Trak wondered if he could take military science and become an officer in the king’s army? The education could get him a commission. Commoners, such as himself, generally marched in the ranks of the infantry, but Trak knew so many forms that he knew with a little extra training, he could fight rather well.
Trak had practiced his military forms often enough. He knew he’d probably learn new ones in the army, but the time had come to fill his head with knowledge. He couldn’t help but smile. An education. He never thought he’d learn to read properly, but now the opportunity came and he would grasp it.
~
A merchant from further inland, staying the night at Greenbrook, had offered to take Trak to Herring’s Bone. From there, Trak could sail to Pestledown. Trak wondered how his father had ever managed to get the man’s horses taken care of and checked into his room, being in the state he left him the previous night.
He poked his head in the water barrel to rinse out any cobwebs and stiffened up to march to the stable to get the merchant’s wagon ready to go.
Before he took it around to the front of the inn, Trak slipped his meager bag of possessions into the back of the wagon. He looked around the unpainted wood of the stable yard and wished he could have talked Able into doing it up proper. Maybe sometimes he could take a break in his studies and do it himself. His mind moved to picturing the kinds of new forms he could use to do the job.
“I’ll be back, soon enough,” Trak said as he gave his father a hug. “I’m only fifteen, but I know how to take care of myself and I’ll be sixteen in a month or two.”
Neel laughed. “You might at that, but watch out for thieves and those who would fool you out of your money. Remember to visit Honor Fidelia. She runs Fidelia’s Dancing Studio
. Remember that.”
“Don’t talk our boy into learning magic, Neel. It was bad enough having to put up with Galinda’s tricks. That’s what ended up getting Jeena and her killed,” Able said quietly to Neel and Trak. It wouldn’t do to have the merchant know that Trak might seek out a magician.
His father took the merchant aside, Trak knew they had known each other for a long time, and then he turned to his son. “You learn how to apply what you know. At least I taught you what’s right and what’s wrong. Just don’t do anything wrong.”
“I won’t.” He put his mouth close to his father’s ear. “Magic’s not for me.” Trak grinned and tossed his small bag on the wagon and slipped the leather tube’s strap over his neck. At least he knew how to make change out of all the money he possessed. It was more than three month’s income of renting rooms and selling ale. He climbed up by the merchant on the driver’s seat and his life headed in a new direction.
He waved back at his father and the three men who were like uncles to him and settled in for a day on the road with the merchant. Trak looked back as the roofs of the little village disappeared behind a hill. He hadn’t felt any fear before, but he did now.
“Going all the way to Pestledown?” the merchant said. Trak didn’t object to his nosiness, even though his father had paid his way.
“I am getting an education.”
The merchant paused for a few minutes, gazing at his horse as it ambled down the road ahead. “Pestledown might not be the place you expect it to be,” he said. “There are some who might be who they seem, but more often than not, folks there tell you to act one way and then you see them act differently. Don’t give your trust easily. I’ve learned that to my chagrin twice in my life and it hasn’t happened since. Do you understand?”