A Touch of Magic (15 page)

“Not all materials resonate with all kinds of magic, of course. So while you may use a holly branch to augment some kinds of magic, perhaps you would use cold iron for other kinds,” he said, his demeanor warming as he began lecturing in earnest. “You might use several materials on a wand, and might even make a talisman out of it by inscribing it with symbols, but ultimately, it’s a tool to enhance spoken magic. And it’s a tool for the lazy, boy. Don’t ever rely on it,” Erliand said, some of the hardness creeping back into his features as he finished.

“How come, Master? We use bindrunes to make symbol magic easier. It seems to me that it’d make spoken magic easier if we used…”

“Who’s the Mage here boy?” Erliand thundered. Randall was taken aback by the depth of his anger. “You apprentices are always looking for the easy way, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where it leads you, does it?”

With each word, Erliand raised his voice and pushed his face a little closer to Randall’s, until Randall was cowering back against the brick surrounding the fireplace. “I’m sorry Master! I’m sorry! Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me!” he babbled, trying to escape his master’s wrath as Erliand raised his hand.

Erliand seemed to catch himself. “No, boy. I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry at,” he said as he wearily rubbed his temples.

Randall felt his fear begin to drain away as Erliand let go of the large charge of magic he had drawn. Randall hadn’t even felt the Mage connect to Llandra, but he now realized that a large portion of his boot-quaking terror could be attributed to his reaction to the amount of power his master had drawn. A large portion of his fear, but not all of it—Master Erliand had never raised his hand to Randall before. Randall had crossed some unwritten line with his master. He just had no idea what it was he had done.

“I’m not going to hit you. It’s just…painful memories. You go on up to your room and practice.”

Shaken, Randall scrambled back to his room without protest for once.

Chapter 6

Randall gradually improved in his ability to inscribe runes over the course of the winter. Eventually, he grew accustomed to the drudgery of the daily routine, learning to focus on the tasks at hand and rid his mind of distractions. The quiet solitude of practice was starting to become a welcome, meditative time that left Randall feeling at peace, even if he was often frustrated in his efforts.

After the incident in the study, Randall was more comfortable working alone than with Erliand. His master’s sudden and unpredictable rage left Randall feeling nervous around the old man. There was no telling what would set him off next. Randall’s fifteenth birthday came and went, and he did not mention the occasion to his master.

By the time the frost started to melt, Randall had learned three different symbols, in addition to the runes Buk and Eoin. He hadn’t made any progress at all with the word Tsan’laran, though he practiced every night. Of the five runes he could draw, Randall was only able to make one combination every time he tried: Buk paired with a bindrune that subtly changed its meaning to “durability”. Master Erliand mentioned that Mages often used this combination to extend the lifespan of an object. For instance, inscribed on a lantern, this combination would cause it to burn twice as long before its fuel was exhausted. Eventually, of course, the metal of the lantern itself would get used up by the rune, but Erliand assured Randall that if the lantern was made of a good metal, it could take years. The cost of a new lantern would be far less than the amount saved in kerosene! Anything that dulled, wore out, or used fuel could potentially benefit from these runes. Why, Randall could probably make his fortune selling his services on the strength of these runes alone!

Erliand laughed out loud when Randall detailed his plan to get rich. “The idea shows ambition, boy,” he conceded. “But you came up with it in what, a day? Think you’re the first? In the more magic-rich lands, that rune-set is as common as dirt,” he had explained. “The ‘Mages’ that make their living selling it often can do little else in the way of the Art, and probably earn as much as a travelling tinker or minstrel. You’d never catch a
real
Mage at such work.” He made no effort to hide the superior contempt in his voice.

Randall tried to envision a country where magic was so common that everything was ensorcelled in some small way, and threadbare, ragamuffin Mages peddled their wares door-to-door like a chimney sweep. It was beyond comprehension!

Of course, even such lowly work was above Randall for now. For him, “consistency” actually meant that he could make a working rune set only once every five or six tries. Erliand said that he was making excellent progress, but it didn’t feel that way to Randall. He assumed Erliand was just saying that to keep him from becoming depressed about how poorly he was actually doing. Even in magic, it seemed Randall was destined to be second-best. But still, he was beginning to realize that for all the drudgery, what he was learning was far more interesting than any other apprenticeship he could have gotten at the job fair!

The thought reminded him of home. He had eventually gotten over his bouts of homesickness, but still he was eager to see his family. Erliand had last mentioned visiting home weeks ago, and Randall intended to ask him about it again today after lunch.

 “Master, may I have a moment?” Randall asked after lunch.

“Sure, boy. What can I help you with? Making any progress on your studies?” Erliand replied.

“A little,” Randall said. “But I mostly wanted to ask when we were going back to Geldorn, like you said. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents.”

“Geldorn?” Erliand asked, seemingly thrown off track by the question. An instant later, he made the connection, and said “Hells, boy! I forgot all about it, with all of the work I’ve been doing trying to copy your success with the Buk rune. We are completely behind in your training. You won’t be ready for another year.”

“Another year?” Randall asked, incredulously. “But you said we would go this spring! And I’m sure my parents would be worried sick. They may even start asking around to see if anyone had seen me…”

Randall knew that the last thing Erliand would want would be to have the King’s guard nosing around. With magic outlawed, that was tantamount to a death sentence! Erliand fumed silently for a long moment, obviously trying to find a suitable counter, but in the end he was persuaded by the argument.

 “Bah!” Erliand exclaimed in frustration. “Geldorn’s a small town. If we work hard, no one will know the difference. We’ll go in three weeks, and stay no more than ten days. Until we get back, your magical training is suspended.”

“Whoop!” Randall shouted, beaming broadly. While he was genuinely thrilled with the thought of visiting home, there was also no small satisfaction in having bested Erliand in an argument.

And so began one of the toughest three weeks of Randall’s training to date. In the morning, Randall would wake up and have an intense two hours class of “social studies”. Erliand would tell Randall the name of cities and towns, the names of bars, and the names of people who owned them. Randall was expected to learn new ones every day, and remember at least one of them the following day. In addition, Randall had to memorize notable characteristics of a city or person, and be able to recite those back as well.

For instance, Harris the butcher made the finest tasting sausage in all of Bree, but he picked his nose when he didn’t think anyone was looking, so the locals never bought his wares. They left it to the tourists who didn’t know any better. Erliand said that people would want to know news of his travels, and these kinds of details made the lies seem more real.

“More importantly,” Erliand had said, “All these stories are true. I’ve met these people, so anyone else that has met them will find your stories credible.”

Randall would then practice his sword and dagger alone for two hours, until lunchtime. After lunch, there was no break, and Erliand and Randall would spend another two hours practicing “attitude”. Erliand claimed that if Randall carried himself with the proper swagger and wore the proper clothes, most people would just assume he was a caravan guard, and give him wide birth. Randall felt silly pacing around the house with his chest and chin stuck out, giving curt nods to imaginary people. But Erliand said that if Randall didn’t get good at it, they wouldn’t be visiting Geldorn this year. Randall sighed and did the best he could.

After swaggering for a couple of hours, it was more weapons drills. These Randall practiced with Erliand, and were an intense two hours of sparring with wooden swords. Over and over, they would come together for a flurry of blows and feints, only for Randall to end up “killed” in some new and cunning way. One time Randall thought he was getting the better of his master, backing him toward a corner with a flurry of vicious cuts, until Erliand lashed out with his free hand and launched a full mug of hot tea into Randall’s face! Randall felt the hard point of Erliand’s practice sword in his ribs before he could clear the scalding liquid out of his eyes.

“I know it’s not fair, boy.” Erliand said in answer to Randall’s howls of protest. “But you’re still dead, ain’t ya? I don’t care what kind of stories you’ve heard, on the battle field, there are only two kinds of fighters. Those who fight fair, and those who live. If you ever find yourself in the position of someone trying to kill you, you do whatever it takes to be sure you kill them first, because I guarantee that they won’t be offering you any courtesies. Better you learn that now than out there. Bards who write war stories usually don’t see battles first hand. Ain’t nothing glorious about stickin’ a man, and then watching him gasp out his last breath with terror in his eyes. It’s disgusting. But better him than you.”

They would spar until Randall was practically falling down with fatigue. Then, with the sweat still pouring off of each other, they would launch into “role play”. Erliand would pretend he was somebody that Randall might run into in town, such as his father, or Frank the innkeeper. Erliand would ask him questions, and they would pretend to hold a conversation. During the conversations, Erliand would stop and tell Randall when his performance was not convincing, or when he made an error.

They would continue the game through dinner, and then it was back to more fighting practice. Again Erliand trained with Randall, this time focusing on “tricks”, as Erliand called them. Randall especially liked the one where he feinted with his sword in one direction only to twist at the last minute and stab his opponent’s exposed left side with his dagger. The trick was to not put too much power into his sword swing, so that he could pivot on the ball of his foot when his sword was deflected. This was only one of several tactics that they drilled on together until Randall could barely lift his arms.

Erliand stressed that these maneuvers were really just tricks and wouldn’t fool a seasoned soldier on the battlefield. But a bandit or street thug without any soldiering experience would probably fall for them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t live long enough to learn from the experience.

In the flurry of constant activity, the days flew by. At the end of the three weeks, Erliand declared Randall “ready enough to fool a bunch of country bumpkins at least.”

The night before they left, Randall found himself so excited he could hardly sleep. He tossed and turned, wide awake and thinking about the forthcoming trip. At one point Master Erliand came into his room and threatened to leave him behind if he didn’t go to sleep.

“We’re leaving at the crack of dawn, boy!” he barked. “I don’t want you nodding off when it’s your turn to drive the cart. Now go to sleep!”

Master Erliand needn’t have worried. Even with his fitful rest, Randall arose with the sun, bright-eyed and eager to be off. It was Erliand that held them up in the morning, groggily telling Randall that they weren’t going anywhere until he’d had his tea. Randall packed the cart and double-checked their supplies while his master finished his mug. And then, finally, they were on their way.

The time passed quickly, with Master Erliand quizzing Randall on all of the places he had supposedly visited as a caravan guard. Randall didn’t miss a beat. He had gone over these details so many times that he almost felt as if he’d actually been there.

Some part of Randall hoped that they would be attacked by bandits, so that he could test his fighting prowess. Springtime was the beginning of the merchant travel season, after being on hiatus during Tallia’s long winters. And more bounty on the roads meant more bandit attacks. But for all of his wishing, the trip was smooth and uneventful.

Soon they found themselves on the outskirts of his hometown, Geldorn. Without the hustle of the job fair, the town seemed practically deserted. Folks generally spent their days at their labors, and only really socialized on special occasions such as quilting socials or barn raisings. It was early evening, and most folks were already sitting down with their dinners and settling down for the day.

Their first stop was Frank’s Inn. Randall took a seat at a table near the door while Erliand spoke with Frank about hiring a room for the week. As usual, there were a few of the provincial militia hanging about inside. Now that Randall thought about it, being posted to Geldorn had to be dull work; it was a relatively peaceful town. If not for the occasional excitement stirred up when bog-wights had to be cleared out of the swamp nearby, there wasn’t really anything for them to do. Except drink. And they seemed to do plenty of that.

“Hey Randall! Is that really you?”

Randall’s stood up, and turned his head toward the voice. It had come from one of the guardsmen. It took Randall a few seconds of scrutiny in the dark bar before he recognized his childhood friend.

“Bobby? Hey! Great to see you!” he exclaimed as Bobby made his way over to the table. He crinkled his nose at his friend’s arrival; his friend had brought the sour stench of stale ale with him.

As they hugged, Erliand called over. “I’ll get settled upstairs, then. Feel free to sit tight and visit with your friend about your travels.” Master Erliand’s tone warned Randall not to get so comfortable that he forgot his lessons.

“Look at you!” Bobby said as he clasped Randall’s forearm. “You’ve put on some muscles! Wow! I hardly recognize you! I think you’re taller too!”

Randall had noticed that he was getting stronger with all of the physical labor Erliand put him to, but he didn’t think it was really that big of a change. Embarrassed, he tried to change the subject.

“What about you?” Randall asked. “You look like you’ve put on some weight too!” Randall laughed as he poked his friend in the gut. His finger only sank in a little; there was the beginnings of a spare tire there, but the muscle underneath was hard.

Bobby laughed, and puffed his chest out proudly, rather than the embarrassed response Randall expected. “Just means I’m getting settled down,” he said as he sat at the table. “Wait ‘til I tell you the good news. I’m getting married!” He finished his proclamation proudly as Melinda walked over to their table.

Randall recognized the innkeeper’s daughter, of course. For the longest time, he’d had a huge crush on her, though he didn’t admit it to himself at the time. But a year of introspection at Erliand’s house let him see her in a new light. She had a bit more potbelly than he remembered, and her face seemed a little chubbier. She looked tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t nearly as cute as Randall remembered.