Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

"It's different for Scribes, Grimm," Argand said. "You need a quick ear, sure, but not a perfect one. Dothan says I have something called 'relative pitch'; as long as the Reader first hums me the note he uses to start the chant, I can work out the intervals quite well.

"I can't discriminate small intervals as well as you can; but, once you know the start note and the structure of the chant, the cadence becomes quite clear. Music is still a complete mystery to me as an enjoyment, but I do understand it as applied to magic. I can tell jumps of a semitone, and intervals of less than that are signalled by accents and so on. You do need a good ear and voice to Read, but not so much to Scribe."

"Enough shop talk, anyway," Madar said. "Who's for a game of Three-handed Slap?"

"We aren't meant to gamble, Madar. You know that," Grimm admonished his friend.

"There you go again, always quoting the damn rules. We won't be gambling for money, idiot. Loser agrees to clean the other two players' shoes for a week."

"That's an obligation," Grimm observed. "We can't do that, either; that's Rule 5.2.2."

"All right, then. Loser has the option to renege without prejudice. Then it's not obligation, it's your choice."

Grimm sighed. "Well, all right then, Madar, as long as that's all there is. I like being a Neophyte, and I'm not going to do anything to jeopardise that."

"It's all right by me," Argand said, as Madar brought out a pack of cards from his robe.

"Right, so it's odd pictures wild every fourth hand, two points per trick over the line, red sixes change the order, aces low and prime numbers null unless matched," Madar said, shuffling the cards with bewildering dexterity.

"Just a moment, Madar," Grimm protested. "I've never played this game before."

"Really?" Madar's smile suggested a hungry wolf that had just spotted easy prey. "It's no worse than old Kargan's runes. Well, we'll soon teach you, won't we Argand? It's ever such an easy game really. I learnt to play it at Lower School. Let me just go through the rules once more…"

Grimm knew he hadn't a chance, and he knew the state his two friends got their shoes into. Madar and Argand liked to play in the muddiest corners of the yard. However, perhaps, a little judicious application of Mage Sight could make the difference.

"Another thing," Madar said with a sweet smile. "We check each other's aura on every hand. Just to make sure it's all fair and above board, of course. And it's good magic practice, too."

Grimm sighed. It looked like he might be in for a lot of shoe-cleaning.

"Gently now, Afelnor," whispered Crohn, "let the power trickle out of you. The spell-casting was perfect; now you just need to control its application."

Grimm felt veins standing out on his forehead from the effort. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, as he fought to hold in the torrent of power that threatened to burst from him. Even with his eyes closed, the Sight showed him all that he needed to do.

Gently, gently…

With a blue flash, the carefully-constructed building flew apart, as the Neophyte lost control of his tempestuous inner energies. "I am sorry, Lord Mage," he gasped. "I could not hold it in any longer." Pasteboard cards fluttered around the room like so many butterflies: some slightly scorched; some bent; and others torn.

"You managed four levels, Afelnor," Crohn said. "That is excellent. Tomorrow, we will attempt to complete the entire card house."

We, thought Grimm. Does Crohn intend to share the load with me? I don't think so!

"Very well, Afelnor," Crohn said, after careful appraisal of his pupil. "I think you have done all you can for today. Your reading tonight: Frubel and Squorn, chapter thirteen, section four. 'Spells of Levity in the first form; extended application with regard to multiple objects'. Read carefully what is said about the partition of power. Go and have something to eat, and we will talk again tomorrow. Well done."

Grimm bowed, and trudged off to the Refectory, alone and exhausted, as he often was these days. Once he had learned to pattern his mind to a spell and to link his power to the spell, he had thought he was well on the way to mastery, but that demon lurking within him was so hard to control.

No wonder, he thought, that it takes so long for a Neophyte to become a mage. I've spent four months toiling over a single spell, and I still can't control it properly. Nevertheless, now that he was performing real magic at last, he felt elated. He was doing something the majority of people would never understand. He felt a keen pang of joy at the moment that he harnessed his power, and released it into a perfectly-cast spell.

"Do sit down, Crohn," Thorn said, with easy bonhomie. "How go your Neophytes these days?"

"The boy, Hunar, shows a rare talent for projection," replied the Senior Magemaster. "He should make an excellent Reader. Koni has some problems with patterning, but he appears to have some ability with Healing. Empathy, you know."

"And Afelnor?"

Crohn sat in thought for a minute. "He has made remarkable progress in Reading, and he is working so hard to control his power." He is quite good at Healing and Scrying, too. It seems such a waste to use him on the Minor Magics; whilst he can form the patterns and he chants well, he has so much untapped power, and it roils around inside him."

Crohn rubbed his chin and meditated for a few moments before saying more.

"He added a new cadence to the Closure chant without my coaching," he blurted, "which makes the spell equivalent to the major Walling spell in the Discontinuous Surface class. I do not know how he managed to do this; it took me five years to learn that spell. I have been careful not to let him try it out yet, but the principle appears unassailable; Scholar Geban is looking at it in his spare time, and he seems quite impressed.

"Last week, I was called away unexpectedly. On my return, he was controlling his feather without words; Afelnor said he could form the pattern without the need for any chant. I chided him for practising in my absence, but I feel that the Minor Magics cannot suffice for long. I have no idea as to his limits. The level of energy within him is, quite frankly, frightening."

"A Questor, do you think? Is it possible?" asked Thorn, leaning forward in sudden, eager interest.

"Perhaps… perhaps. It has been a long time. If only I could be sure."

"He has self-control?"

"Like iron, Lord Thorn. But the Ordeal is no minor matter, as you know well, and the risks are great."

"Nobody knows that better than I do, Crohn. But we need new Questor blood. Only Xylox and Dalquist Rufior are available for Guild Quests, and the need is great. High Lodge expects more of us, and it is my duty to explore all possible avenues." He sat for a while in contemplation.

"Has he friends?" the Prelate asked.

"Two close friends: one a Neophyte Scribe, the other showing signs of a strong calling to Illusionism. Afelnor is on good terms with most of the other boys, and he shows no signs of loneliness. He also gains great solace from spending time in the Library."

"That will make it easier," Thorn said, nodding. "You will arrange for Afelnor's Ordeal from this day. It means extra work for you, of course. Are you up to the task?"

Crohn spoke with a touch of pride. "I may be old, Guildmaster, but I am still strong. I have never trained a Questor before, but if you are certain that it is necessary for the good of the House, I will try."

His face darkened. "But I feel for the boy."

"A Questor, Crohn!" Thorn pounded his fist on the desk. "A Questor; a true weapon of the Guild! Personal feelings must not interfere with this; you must start his Ordeal at once."