Magician (7 page)

He lay back on the pallet, covering his
eyes with a forearm; he could smell the salty sea breeze that blew in
through his window and feel the sun’s warmth across his legs.
Everything in his life had taken a turn for the better since his
apprenticeship, except the single most important thing, his studies.

For months Kulgan had been laboring to
teach him the fundamentals of the magician’s arts, but there
was always something that caused his efforts to go awry. In the
theories of spell casting, Pug was a quick study, grasping the basic
concepts well. But each time he attempted to use his knowledge,
something seemed to hold him back. It was as if a part of his mind
refused to follow through with the magic, as if a block existed that
prevented him from passing a certain point in the spell. Each time he
tried he could feel himself approach that point, and like a rider of
a balky horse, he couldn’t seem to force himself over the
hurdle.

Kulgan dismissed his worries, saying
that it would all sort itself out in time. The stout magician was
always sympathetic with the boy, never reprimanding him for not doing
better, for he knew the boy was trying.

Pug was brought out of his reverie by
someone’s opening the door. Looking up, he saw Father Tully
entering, a large book under his arm. The cleric’s white robes
rustled as he closed the door. Pug sat up.

“Pug, it’s time for your
writing lesson—” He stopped himself when he saw the
downcast expression of the boy. “What’s the matter, lad?”

Pug had come to like the old priest of
Astalon. He was a strict master, but a fair one. He would praise the
boy for his success as often as scold him for his failures. He had a
quick mind and a sense of humor and was open to questions, no matter
how stupid Pug thought they might sound.

Coming to his feet, Pug sighed. “I
don’t know, Father. It’s just that things don’t
seem to be going right. Everything I try I manage to make a mess of.”

“Pug, it can’t be all
black,” the priest said, placing a hand on Pug’s
shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you,
and we can practice writing some other time.” He moved to a
stool by the window and adjusted his robes around him as he sat. As
he placed the large book at his feet, he studied the boy.

Pug had grown over the last year, but
was still small. His shoulders were beginning to broaden a bit, and
his face was showing signs of the man he would someday be. He was a
dejected figure in his homespun tunic and trousers, his mood as grey
as the material he wore. His room, which was usually neat and
orderly, was a mess of scrolls and books, reflecting the disorder in
his mind.

Pug sat quietly for a moment, but when
the priest said nothing, started, to speak. “Do you remember my
telling you that Kulgan was trying to teach me the three basic
cantrips to calm the mind, so that the working of spells could be
practiced without stress? Well, the truth is that I mastered those
exercises months ago. I can bring my mind to a state of calm in
moments now, with little effort. But that is as far as it goes. After
that, everything seems to fall apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“The next thing to learn is to
discipline the mind to do things that are not natural for it, such as
think on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, or not to
think of something, which is quite hard once you’ve been told
what it is. I can do those things most of the time, but now and again
I feel like there are some forces inside my head, crashing about,
demanding that I do things in a different way. It’s like there
was something else happening in my head than what Kulgan told me to
expect.

“Each time I try one of the
simple spells Kulgan has taught me, like making an object move, or
lifting myself off the ground, these things in my head come flooding
in on my concentration, and I lose my control. I can’t even
master the simplest spell.” Pug felt himself tremble, for this
was the first chance he had had to speak about this to anyone besides
Kulgan “Kulgan simply says to keep at it and not worry.”
Nearing tears, he continued. “I have talent. Kulgan said he
knew it from the first time we met, when I used the crystal. You’ve
told me that I have talent. But I just can’t make the spells
work the way they’re supposed to I get so confused by it all.”

“Pug,” said the priest,
“magic has many properties, and we understand little of how it
works, even those of us who practice it. In the temples we are taught
that magic is a gift from the gods, and we accept that on faith. We
do not understand how this can be so, but we do not question. Each
order has its own province of magic, with no two quite alike. I am
capable of magic that those who follow their orders are not. But none
can say why.

“Magicians deal in a different
sort of magic, and their practices are very different from our
practices in the temples Much of what they do, we cannot. It is they
who study the art of magic, seeking its nature and workings, but even
they cannot explain how magic works. They only know how to work it,
and pass that knowledge along to their students, as Kulgan is doing
with you.”

“Trying to do with me, Father. I
think he may have misjudged me.”

“I think not, Pug I have some
knowledge of these things, and since you have become Kulgan’s
pupil, I have felt the power growing in you Perhaps you will come to
it late, as others have, but I am sure you will find the proper
path.”

Pug was not comforted. He didn’t
question the priest’s wisdom or his opinion, but he did feel he
could be mistaken “I hope you’re right, Father. I just
don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”

“I think I know what’s
wrong,” came a voice from the door. Startled, Pug and Father
Tully turned to see Kulgan standing in the doorway. His blue eyes
were set in lines of concern, and his thick grey brows formed a V
over the bridge of his nose. Neither Pug nor Tully had heard the door
open. Kulgan hiked his long green robe and stepped into the room,
leaving the door open.

“Come here, Pug,” said the
magician with a small wave of his hand Pug went over to the magician,
who placed both hands on his shoulders “Boys who sit in their
rooms day after day worrying about why things don’t work make
things not work. I am giving you the day for yourself. As it is
Sixthday, there should be plenty of other boys to help you in
whatever sort of trouble boys can find.” He smiled, and his
pupil was filled with relief “You need a rest from study Now
go.” So saying, he fetched a playful cuff to the boy’s
head, sending him running down the stairs. Crossing over to the
pallet, Kulgan lowered his heavy frame to it and looked at the
priest. “Boys,” said Kulgan, shaking his head. “You
hold a festival, give them a badge of craft, and suddenly they expect
to be men. But they’re still boys, and no matter how hard they
try, they still act like boys, not men.” He took out his pipe
and began filling it “Magicians are considered young and
inexperienced at thirty, but in all other crafts thirty would mark a
man a journeyman or master, most likely readying his own son for the
Choosing.” He put a taper to the coals still smouldering in
Pug’s fire pot and lit his pipe.

Tully nodded. “I understand,
Kulgan. The priesthood also is an old man’s calling. At Pug’s
age I still had thirteen years of being an acolate before me.”
The old priest leaned forward “Kulgan, what of the boy’s
problem?”

“The boy’s right, you
know,” Kulgan stated flatly. “There is no explanation for
why he cannot perform the skills I’ve tried to teach. The
things he can do with scrolls and devices amaze me. The boy has such
gifts for these things, I would have wagered he had the makings of a
magician of mighty arts. But this inability to use his inner powers .
. .”

“Do you think you can find a
solution?”

“I hope so I would hate to have
to release him from apprenticeship. It would go harder on him than
had I never chosen him.” His face showed his genuine concern.
“It is confusing, Tully I think you’ll agree he has the
potential for a great talent. As soon as I saw him use the crystal in
my hut that night, I knew for the first time in years I might have at
last found my apprentice. When no master chose him, I knew fate had
set our paths to cross. But there is something else inside that boy’s
head, something I’ve never met before, something powerful. I
don’t know what it is, Tully, but it rejects my exercises, as
if they were somehow . . . not correct, or . . . ill suited to him. I
don’t know if I can explain what I’ve encountered with
Pug any better. There is no simple explanation for it.”

“Have you thought about what the
boy said?” asked the priest, a look of thoughtful concern on
his face.

“You mean about my having been
mistaken?”

Tully nodded. Kulgan dismissed the
question with a wave of his hand “Tully, you know as much about
the nature of magic as I do, perhaps more. Your god is not called the
God Who Brought Order for nothing. Your sect unraveled much about
what orders this universe. Do you for one moment doubt the boy has
talent?”

“Talent, no. But his ability is
the question for the moment.”

“Well put, as usual. Well, then,
have you any ideas? Should we make a cleric out of the boy, perhaps?”

Tully sat back, a disapproving
expression upon his face. “You know the priesthood is a
calling, Kulgan,” he said stiffly.

“Put your back down, Tully. I was
making a joke.” He sighed. “Still, if he hasn’t the
calling of a priest, nor the knack of a magician’s craft, what
can we make of this natural ability of his?”

Tully pondered the question in silence
for a moment, then said, “Have you thought of the lost art?”

Kulgan’s eyes widened. “That
old legend?” Tully nodded. “I doubt there is a magician
alive who at one time or another hasn’t reflected on the legend
of the lost art. If it had existed, it would explain away many of the
shortcomings of our craft.” Then he fixed Tully with a narrowed
eye, showing his disapproval. “But legends are common enough
Turn up any rock on the beach and you’ll find one. I for one
prefer to look for real answers to our shortcomings, not blame them
on ancient superstitions.”

Tully’s expression became stern
and his tone scolding. “We of the temple do not count it
legend, Kulgan! It is considered part of the revealed truth, taught
by the gods to the first men.”

Nettled by Tully’s tone, Kulgan
snapped, “So was the notion the world was flat, until
Rolendirk—a magician, I’ll remind you—sent his
magic sight high enough to disclose the curvature of the horizon,
clearly demonstrating the world to be a sphere! It was a fact known
by almost every sailor and fisherman who’d ever seen a sail
appear upon the horizon before the rest of the ship since the
beginning of time!” His voice rose to a near shout.

Seeing Tully was stung by the reference
to ancient church canon long since abandoned, Kulgan softened his
tone “No disrespect to you, Tully. But don’t try to teach
an old thief to steal. I know your order chops logic with the best of
them, and that half your brother clerics fall into laughing fits when
they hear those deadly serious young acolytes debate theological
issues set aside a century ago. Besides which, isn’t the legend
of the lost art an Ishapian dogma?”

Now it was Tully’s turn to fix
Kulgan with a disapproving eye. With a tone of amused exasperation,
he said, “Your education in religion is still lacking, Kulgan,
despite a somewhat unforgiving insight into the inner workings of my
order.” He smiled a little. “You’re right about the
moot gospel courts, though. Most of us find them so amusing because
we remember how painfully grim we were about them when we were
acolytes.” Then turning serious, he said, “But I am
serious when I say your education is lacking. The Ishapians have some
strange beliefs, it’s true, and they are an insular group, but
they are also the oldest order known and are recognized as the senior
church in questions pertaining to interdenominational differences.”

“Religious wars, you mean,”
said Kulgan with an amused snort.

Tully ignored the comment. “The
Ishapians are caretakers for the oldest lore and history in the
Kingdom, and they have the most extensive library in the Kingdom I
have visited the library at their temple in Krondor, and it is most
impressive.”

Kulgan smiled and with a slight tone of
condescension said, “As have I, Tully, and I have browsed the
shelves at the Abbey of Sarth, which is ten times as large. What’s
the point?”

Leaning forward, Tully said, “The
point is this: say what you will about the Ishapians, but when they
put forth something as history, not lore, they can usually produce
ancient tomes to support their claims.”

“No,” said Kulgan, waving
aside Tully’s comments with a dismissive wave. “I do not
make light of your beliefs, or any other man’s, but I cannot
accept this nonsense about lost arts. I might be willing to believe
Pug could be somehow more attuned to some aspect of magic I’m
ignorant of, perhaps something involving spirit conjuration or
illusion— areas I will happily admit I know little about—but
I cannot accept that he will never learn to master his craft because
the long-vanished god of magic died during the Chaos Wars! No, that
there is unknown lore, I accept. There are too many shortcomings in
our craft even to begin to think our understanding of magic is
remotely complete. But if Pug can’t learn magic, it is only
because I have failed as a teacher.”

Tully now glared at Kulgan, suddenly
aware the magician was not pondering Pug’s possible
shortcomings but his own. “Now you are being foolish. You are a
gifted man, and were I to have been the one to discover Pug’s
talent, I could not imagine a better teacher to place him with than
yourself. But there can be no failing if you do not know what he
needs to be taught.” Kulgan began to sputter an objection, but
Tully cut him off. “No, let me continue. What we lack is
understanding. You seem to forget there have been others like Pug,
wild talents who could not master their gifts, others who failed as
priests and magicians.”