Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

Grimm's eyes filled with tears. He thought of his bear of a grandfather, a man who worked as hard as others half his age, but who was never to busy to listen to a child's questions or to soothe a hurt.

Often, Loras would refuse payment from poor people, or he would charge a price well below the going rate. It was Loras who would send anonymous parcels of food to people who had fallen on hard times; it was always he who was at the forefront of a search for a missing child. Such a man could not have an evil bone in his whole body, no matter the opprobrium placed on his name.

"Gramma," Grimm said, fighting strong emotions, "I love you both. I know that Granfer is a good man, and I will work hard to become a good mage. It is hard for me here sometimes, but it will be worth it to make you proud of me."

"We're always proud of you, Grimm," Drima said, her voice hesitant and her eyes misty. "Just do your best; that will always be more than enough for us. You're a good boy, and we love you so much. All I ask is that you work hard, and please don't tell your Granfer that I know some of his secret. It would hurt him so much, and I know you would never want him to be hurt."

"Don't worry, Gramma," Grimm assured her, "I promise I won't say anything. I love Granfer as much as I love you. I wouldn't say anything to hurt him for all the world."

"In that case, Grimm, I don't think we need to say any more on the subject, do we? Please; do tell me about your friends and your teachers."

"Oh, Gramma," giggled Grimm, "you should know by now that they aren't called teachers, they're called Magemasters.

"I have two good friends that I wrote about in my letters. One day last month, we started a new game here. It's called Scaffle-ball, and everyone's playing it now…"

A whole hour passed whilst Grimm and his doting grandmother exchanged news. When Magemaster Crohn came to tell them that the audience was at an end, Grimm was surprised; it seemed as if only a few scant minutes had passed. The boy hugged his grandmother in a tight embrace and whispered, "I'll remember, Gramma. You can rely on me. I love you all."

Drima whispered back, with tears in her eyes, "We love you, too, Grimm. It may take a long time, but we know you will do your best. If you ever become sad, think of us. You can be sure we'll be thinking of you."

A heartfelt kiss, and the visit was over. Grimm went to his cell and read his grandparents' letters for a while, drawing sustenance from the pages through his tearful eyes until the Refectory bell tolled its insistent chime. Eating seemed a chore, and he went to bed with a barely-satisfied stomach, but with a full heart.

For the remainder of the winter break, he confined most of his reading to serious subjects. He studied the four main classifications of spells: Perceptive, Manipulative, Transformative and Translocative. The standard work recommended by Crohn was Thrumal and Thring's Principles of Thaumaturgy, and he devoured the dull tome with an intensity and interest he had never known before; he would make the Afelnor name shine again. When the new year began, he would work as he never had before.

Another year passed in almost frenzied activity, and another. Three more boys left and more study subjects were added, such as Basic Herbalism and Patterning. Grimm found himself with little time to think or meditate, and he only managed to keep pace with considerable effort.

The Students' days were now so full of different studies that there was little time for petty animosities, and, since most of the boys were now skilled at one discipline or another, dissatisfaction and envy were dimmed. However, the reverse of this coin was that there was now little time even for friendships. Grimm's study and play sessions with Madar and Argand suffered accordingly, as they argued about which subject to pursue.

These arguments were normally nipped in the bud by the even-handed but ever more muscular Argand before they became too heated.

Grimm began to wonder, however, why the magical studies taught by Crohn and Kargan, which once had been foremost amongst the class's subjects, were now swamped by the more mundane disciplines of Courtly Decorum, Poetry and Languages.

The Students still practiced ever more complex 'spells' under Kargan, and Crohn still gave his monologues on the classifications and variations of magic, but they seemed to spend far longer with Faffel than with the other two Magemasters. Frustration grew as time went on, until one day when Madar nudged Grimm in class before Crohn's arrival.

"Grimm, we're all fed up with this courtly stuff," the redhead declared. "Crohn seems to like you a bit better than some of us, so why don't you ask him when we'll start learning some real magic? You're good with words; I bet you could put it better than we could."

Several other boys concurred, and Grimm felt flattered that they would accept him as their spokesman. Once, he would never have dreamed of speaking up to the Senior Magemaster, but he had grown in confidence since his fight with Shumal Tolarin.

"All right, I'll do it," he replied, with rather more self-assurance than he felt. "You lot had better back me up if he explodes, though." A vigorous series of nods decided the matter.

Three taps on the floor announced Crohn's arrival, as usual.

"Gentlemen," Crohn boomed, "this afternoon, we will explore the thaumic resonances of runic groups of the Second and Third Families when combined…

"Yes, Afelnor, what is it?"

Grimm rose to his feet and stood before Crohn, his head lowered in a respectful attitude. The black-robed Magemaster towered over the boy like some huge crow.

"Lord Mage, I am sure that we all appreciate the wisdom and learning you give us," he began, trying to be as diplomatic and deferential as possible.

From the corner of his eye, Grimm saw Madar give a slight but definite nod of approval, as if to say, "That's right, Grimm; butter the old fool up first!"

"I am sure that is not all you wish to say to me, Afelnor." Crohn's voice was as cool as ice. "Out with it, Student."

Grimm licked his lips with a tongue that felt as dry as cured leather. "Lord Mage; we, that is, I," he stammered, "feel we might all learn a little better if we were actually shown how to do some… some real, practical magic, instead of just learning theory all the time."

Crohn moved to glower over the boy, who paled a little, trying to stand tall and unbowed before the Magemaster's baleful gaze.

Crohn's tone was low, often a sign of impending fury. "One answer, Afelnor," he said in clipped, curt tones, "is that the Scholasticate curriculum has been developed over many decades, indeed centuries, by heads far wiser than yours. A shorter reason is that I am the Senior Magemaster, and you are not!

"How dare you presume yourself more knowledgeable than those who are your elders and betters? Perhaps you would prefer to complete your education as a cook's drudge or a scullery-boy? Believe you me, Afelnor, this can be arranged with ease!"

Inwardly, Grimm quailed, but he stood his ground. "If you will it, Lord Mage, then so be it," he said, willing his voice not to tremble. "May I please be allowed to speak my mind?"

Crohn's eyes opened wide, and Grimm realised that he had delivered his words in a soprano version of the Magemaster's own voice, with not a trace of tremulousness. However, Crohn maintained his irate appearance and gave a grave, curt nod.

"Pray continue, Student."

"Lord Mage," Grimm said, determined to maintain the correct, formal speech expected of a potential mage; he was certain this was the only way to persuade Crohn of the depths of the malaise and exhaustion that had subsumed his companions and him.