Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

"And so from this dozen we must choose the four to present to the prince."

Jemidon jarred his thoughts back to why he was there as he felt Farnel's elbow in his ribs. He blinked and quickly looked about. He had heard one of the masters addressing the others.

"As usual, a difficult choice; they all have merit. But we cannot expect the lords to sit through more than four and still retain their good humor."

"There is yet another." Jemidon shook himself fully alert. "Master Farnel breaks his long absence with a submission for consideration by his peers."

"It is growing late." Gerilac rose and looked at Farnel. "Besides, the master does not look all that well. Perhaps he has decided at the last minute to withdraw after all."

"For this selection, I will cast the glamour." Jemidon forced out the words, trying to ignore the queasy feeling building in his stomach. If he were going to be a master, then performing a simple charm for a single row should be of no concern at all. Despite the lack of practice, he knew the words well enough. "Master Farnel will observe with the rest of you, in order to gain a better critique of the results."

"A tyro-and one who has received instruction for less than a year. Most unacceptable," Gerilac said.

"But Farnel's coming out of his withdrawal should be encouraged," another replied. "Have with it, tyro. I am curious as to what your master has to offer."

Jemidon nodded and quickly relayed the instructions to the runners for which properties to fetch and position. A few minutes later, the stage was alive with activity. While the fabric boulders and mountain skyline were pushed into place, Jemidon descended into the chanting well. He placed his sandals in the footprints painted on the floor, as Farnel had instructed, and slid his forearms into the rests.

Jemidon blinked at the strong light and turned his head slightly, so that the glare was not directly in his eyes. In the proper position, an image of his face reflected up onto the mirrors overhead and then was projected to all the recesses of the hall.

The curtain closed. After a moment, the final scrapes and thumps behind it halted. In the silence that immediately followed, the churning in Jemidon's stomach intensified. Why hadn't he spent more time learning the words to the simple charms? At the time it had appeared so easy. He should at least have gone through them once to cement them in his memory. Now, instead of the studied calm that Farnel said was so necessary, visions of hurried flight streaked through his mind. He tried to concentrate on utter blackness and to push the thoughts away; but, like minnows swimming through a large net, they passed through his barriers with ease.

The curtain rose. In a mounting panic, Jemidon grabbed for the first word of the charm. He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated and frowned. Somehow the way it formed on his tongue was not quite correct. If he spoke, something subtle would be wrong. He strained to recall the proper enunciation, as Farnel had taught it to him, but the sharp edges that made all the difference blurred. He raced forward to the second word, hoping by association to recover the first, but it, loo, dissolved into a meaningless garble. With a feeling of sudden helplessness, he tore through the first stanza, searching for some phrase that remained firm and solid; but as he did, it all slipped away, until not a single syllable remained.

"Well," he heard Gerilac boom down from above, "we are waiting for the effect. At least something to cover the seams and rips in the properties. They are meant only to be a hint. The glamour is to carry the burden of it all."

"The first scene is morning in Plowblade Pass," Jemidon called back. "From the west come the lightning flashes of a storm."

"Ah, opening with a riveting display," someone said. "Eye-burning bolts of yellow, claps of thunder that hurt the ears. It seems that Farnel has come around at last."

Jemidon tried a final time to recall the glamour, but it was totally gone. There was no point in trying further. His mind was blank.

"Come, come, the lightning," the voice persisted.

"No, that is not the main effect," Jemidon called up. "You see, master Farnel intended to focus on the commanders." Quickly he shuffled through the easel sheets. "Here, I will show you the outline. It begins in the second scene."

"But the thrill of the storm."

"It is not directly in view." Jemidon raced up the stairs in a flapping of papers. "Just muted rolls and brief flashes at the periphery of vision. More of an ominous foreboding, to set the mood. It is later that the principle theme is brought forth."

"The prince will not sit still for such empty art!" Gerilac exclaimed. "There are three or four here with much more interest and impact."

"If you could see the effects and how they mix together, you would better understand," Jemidon said weakly.

"Understand, understand!" Gerilac shot back. "It is for you to understand, tyro. We pick the four to present to the prince on the merit of what we see here and now. No credit is given for hasty preparation and promise of improvement later on."

Jemidon looked down the row of solemn masters, their faces all stern and one or two nodding agreement. "Master Gerilac is right," one of them said. "It would be unfair to the others to judge on scribbled notes alone. At the very least, there should be some Power of Suggestion. Why, even a tyro of a week should know it well. Return with your master. There is nothing more here that you can do."

Farnel pushed forward, but then staggered, clutching his stomach. For a moment, he strained to launch a protest of his own, but no words could he force out. No one spoke. After a long silence, the master's shoulders slumped. With a deep sigh, he grabbed Jemidon's arm and turned for the stage door, a look of bitter disappointment clouding his face. Jemidon pulled himself free but did not protest further. In a daze, he slowly followed the master out of the hall.

Like a drowning man, he reached out for the blur of explanations whirling in his mind, trying to grab a reason as it spun past, a reason besides the one he shunned for why he had failed again.

He had been rushed, or perhaps he had not studied as diligently as he should have. The chanting well was unfamiliar and threw off his composure. Farnel had said to use the Power of Suggestion when, deep inside, he had thought Shimmering Mirrors would have been better. Or maybe it merely was a matter of luck. Even the best of the masters did not complete every charm they attempted. A single slip of the tongue in the beginning was all that it would take. A random slur, or a moment's forgetfulness, and the spell would be broken.

For a long while, the two walked the path of white stones in silence, Jemidon's thoughts tumbling, and Farnel with his hands clamped in a tight knot behind his back.

"Gerilac and the supreme accolade," the master whispered as they finally approached the hut, the deepness of his voice beginning to return. "Again it is a possibility."

He grabbed at a branch that poked onto the trailway and snapped it in two with a savage twist, hurling the free piece up the hillside. "Gerilac knew the prince would come today and acted accordingly. And incapacitating my voice for a few hours was enough. I should have been more alert during the instruction. The signs were there, but I was distracted by the preparations. You absorb a lot quickly, Jemidon, but not once did I see you try even the simplest of charms. Yes, your mind is quick, but somehow, deep inside, you rebelled against sorcery."

"No!" Jemidon exclaimed, breaking out of his reverie. "I will do better. We have an agreement. My help in a production in exchange for your instruction." He felt drained from the disappointment in the hall and did not like where Farnel's thoughts were leading.