K. Mills - The Accidental sorcerer

'All right, all right,' said Reg, rallying. 'That's enough with the cut glass repartee, sunshine. Why are you here?'

'Why do you think, Reg? He wants to find out how I did it,' he said tiredly. 'How I made the dragons and all the rest of it.'

'On the contrary,' said Sir Alec. 'I know precisely how you did it.' 'So?'

'So the question is: what are we going to do with you as a result?'

He made himself meet Sir Alec's cold, grey gaze. Here we go. 'You're saying I'm dangerous.'

Sir Alec smiled. 'Everyone is dangerous, Mister Dunwoody. In their own way, in their own time. All it takes is the right catalyst, the right circumstances. The perfect confluence of events.'

He shook his head, rejecting the cynicism. 'No. Not — '

'Everyone, Mister Dunwoody' Sir Alec flicked a speck of dust from his knee. 'Shall I tell you how you're feeling, sir? Yes, I think I shall. You're feeling… betrayed. As though the world has betrayed you. And do you know why you feel like that? It's because you've lost your innocence. Like the vast majority of people, Mister Dunwoody, until New Ottosland came into your life, you bumped along happily enough. Oh, you had dreams that didn't seem likely to come true, but they were comforting and you dreamed them. You'd had career disappointments, yes, but you trusted they were temporary. Your faith was a little battered, perhaps, but you still believed. You looked upon the world with a benevolent eye. Oh yes, of course you knew there were scoundrels among us, certain gentlemen whose company you preferred to avoid, but on the whole you found the world good. And then you came here. With the best of intentions — eager and anxious and so terribly naive. Without ever meaning to, you kicked over the rock of New Ottosland… and from under it crawled Lional.'

Deep inside, Gerald felt himself shiver. 'You make me sound like a fool.'

'A fool?' said Sir Alec thoughtfully. 'Not at all. Before this… adventure… you were no more foolish than any other ordinary man. You saw the sunlight, not the shadows. The trouble is, Mister Dunwoody, the shadows exist. And if we're not very careful, very vigilant, they will swallow us. And our good world will be plunged into darkness.'

Gerald watched his fingers clench, his knuckles whiten. Sir Alec was right. And I hate it. I never, ever wanted to know this. 'All right. Say I agree with you. So what? What has any of that to do with me?'

Another flick of manicured fingers, banishing dust. 'In the time that's passed since the incident with the two dragons and the late King Lional,' said Sir Alec, 'certain of my colleagues have been conducting an exhaustive search into your ancestry. Also your medical, educational and various employment records, the results of your original Thaumaturgical Aptitude test and several eyewitness accounts of what happened at Stuttley's.' 'You really are a nosey bugger,' Reg grumbled.

Sir Alec rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, apparently quite at ease. But a dynamo of tension hummed inside him, thrumming the invisible air. 'The technical term for your condition is "thaumaturgical distillation". The slang term is "rogue". In metaphysical parlance, Mister Dunwoody, it means you're a sport. An anomaly. It means you are irregular.' He sniffed. 'Highly irregular, if you must know. And as I said, it's causing no end of a stir in certain circles.'

Gerald breathed out slowly. How did this happen? My dad's a tailor…'That sounds inconvenient.'

'Let's just say you've added a new level of complexity to my already complicated life,' said Sir Alec, his tone extremely dry.

'All right. So I'm thaumaturgically distilled. Is it fatal?' Sir Alec's smile was wintry.'Only to other people.' 'You miserable shitl' snapped Reg. 'That's not funny!'

Sir Alec considered her for an arctic moment then nodded. 'Point taken. Forgive me, Mister Dunwoody. A macabre sense of humour is an unfortunate side effect in my line of work.'

Ninety-seven dead. Twelve of them children. 'How does it happen?' said Gerald, when he could trust his voice again. 'This… distillation?'

Sir Alec shrugged. 'Nobody's certain. We believe it's the result of no wizards being born to a particular bloodline for three or more generations. In your case, however, it appears to be more like fifteen.'

Fifteen. That sounded… impressive. Or maybe inconvenient. 'Is the condition common?'

'Quite the contrary. Many experts consider it something of a myth. No rogue has been born in the modern era.'

'That you know of,' he pointed out. i mean I was tested, wasn't I, and classified Third Grade.'

Sir Alec frowned, it would appear the condition remains dormant until something triggers it.'

Ah. And that would be the sound of the third shoe dropping.'You mean something like Stuttley's?' 'Exactly'

Meanly, viciously, he felt vindicated. 'So if that prig Scunthorpe hadn't — '

'Mr Scunthorpe,' said Sir Alec repressively, 'is no longer your concern, Dunwoody. I'm here to discuss your aberrant potentia, not the decisions, prudent or otherwise, of your past supervisors.'

Aberrant. It was as good a word as any. Gerald thought about that for some time. About the implications of this aberrant, inconvenient condition. Its ramifications for himself and everyone who knew him.

At last he looked up. Sir Alec was watching him, still coiled inside like an overwound spring. 'All right, Sir Alec. We know what I am. But what does it mean?'

'Don't ask him,' Reg said sourly, as Sir Alec hesitated. 'He hasn't got a bloody clue. Accidents like you are so rare you're nothing more than a footnote in a mouldering textbook in the back room of the Department's basement library. Isn't that right, mate?'

Incredibly Sir Alec looked faintly discomfited. 'I'm afraid so.'

A footnote? He was a footnote? Practically a myth? 'Then… what's going to happen to me? Is there some way of switching off this — this — aberrant potentia? Can I go back to being a common or garden variety Third Grade wizard?'

The question appeared to take Sir Alec by surprise. 'You'd do that? Surrender all your power? Mister Dunwoody, do you know what you're saying? Do you have any idea how strong you are?'

I'm strong enough to make two dragons. Strong enough to survive the sympathetica. Strong enough to get ninety-seven innocent souls killed.

But not strong enough to stop any of it happening.

Sir Alec leaned forward. 'Princess Melissande tells me her brother tortured you for many days. With curses from texts listed on the Internationally Proscribed Index. One of them was Grummen's Lexicon which I'm pleased to say is now safely dismembered and under lock and key' Again, that grimness in Sir Alec's face. 'Mister Dunwoody, I'm not sure you understand. No other wizard I know — or have ever heard of- could have survived an ordeal like that. If the physical stresses of such brutality didn't prove fatal then prior evidence indicates the mind of the tortured wizard would simply… snap. But you didn't die and your mind appears intact. And then of course there's the matter of Lional being unable to steal your potentia. Don't you see? At the risk of sounding melodramatic… you are something of a miracle!

He made himself meet Sir Alec's gaze, i don't want to be a miracle.' Sir Alec snorted. 'What sane man would?' 'Then can't you — '

'No,' said Sir Alec. 'I'm afraid that's not possible. I'm aware of no incant or potion capable of undoing whatever the accident at Stuttley's did to you. You are what you've become, Professor, and will remain like that till the day you die. I am very sorry, but there's no going back.'

Was that pity in Sir Alec's grey eyes? If so he didn't want it. Above him on the bedrail he could feel Reg's consternation. She'd been unnaturally quiet through all of this; he wasn't sure what that meant.