My Path to Magic (3 page)

No, I have nothing against discipline, but I would like to note that some of the so-called "mere humans" turned out to be bigger assholes than any dark magician.  Look at Ronald Rest, who got his nickname because each time before getting piss drunk he demands "just a quarter" of booze and, having loaded up, begins harassing all males and flirting with all females.  Taught by bitter experience, his classmates learned to leave a pub at his appearance.  Well, Quarters perceived correctional work as an outrageous indulgence for the dark magicians.

Anything but the stables...

I came up to the door of the Vice Chancellor's Disciplinary Office for problematic students (a euphemism used at the university to name the dark mages), feeling apprehensively sick in advance.  A brass plate on the door announced that Prof. Darkon dwelled behind it.

Contrary to my expectations, the prorector did not look angry or irritated.

"I was told that you spent a couple of hours in our favorite facility yesterday," he winked conspiratorially, while I shuddered at the memory.  "Do not take the incident to heart."  In response to my puzzled look he explained, "All dark magicians are brought to the police at least once during their studies.  This is another law of nature, and you are not the one to break it."

Personally, I did not care about the statistics, but keen interest flashed in the prorector's eyes:

"Did you try your magic on the cop?"

I shook my head frantically.  "How could I dare?!  An assault on a law enforcement officer with application of magic would be pure suicide."

"Congratulations!  Therefore, the first record in your file will be 'very trustworthy'.  Believe me, for your career it will mean more than the best references," the professor switched to a confidential tone.  "With years of experience behind my back I believe that they aim at driving detainees out of their wits; perhaps, it's the only way to understand a magician's potential.  A rather risky way, though."

I parted with the prorector; we shook hands as people united by the injustice we both experienced.  I was dying to learn what offense he had committed in his time.  After leaving the office, I recalled that I did not mention that Empowerment had already happened to me.  Okay, maybe next time.  I will just be a little more careful.

Now that my affairs with NZAMIPS had been settled, another problem loomed: making cash.  Recount and rigorous calculation of my expenses showed that my savings would last for a month or two.  My acquaintance with the goblin was still too fresh in the memory, and I did not dare to earn money illegally.

I had to find a job.

As a man of action, I walked around the neighborhoods adjacent to the campus, looking for a vacancy that would open by summer.  The University of Higher Magic was a special school; it did not impose any exams, except at admission and graduation, which was quite logical.  The art of magic could not be mastered in a hurry.  Education was divided into many, many intermediate control points; however, following an ancient tradition, teachers took a break twice a year: two months in summer and three weeks in winter.  During winter breaks, most of my classmates stayed in town, but in summer the university was almost deserted.  The time just before the summer vacation was best to grab someone else's place...

Alas!  Most vacancies implied a job for white magicians; in rare cases, for ordinary people, but no employers wanted problems with a dark mage student, especially on the eve of Empowerment.  Despicable discrimination!  If you are a dark magician, do you not need money?

The only real option was to clean the floors in the tram depot at night.  No, thank you, when would I sleep then?  In the third year, students began specializing.  Since I had already been initiated, it made sense to take the full course of witchcraft.  To cerebrate over a pentagram after physical work, risking my life?  No way, better to hit myself in the head with a stone.

I had two choices: to apply for a credit from Gugentsolger's Bank or ask my family for assistance.  The problem had to be solved fast.  I decided to start with the family.  What the hell?  A lineage of hereditary dark magicians could not be poor!  I didn't need much—just 50-60 crowns a month; my mother was sending me 20, or occasionally 30 (on Christmas), and sincerely believed that was sufficient.  We needed to talk seriously in person, not through the mail.  For the first time in two years I decided to use one more privilege of the Roland the Bright's Fund fellowship—a paid roundtrip home.

Actually, summer visits home are more typical for the white mages.  I always wondered how they managed to come back on time, if they did not travel in an "iron horse."  Ron Quarters was about to leave for the Southern Coast accompanied by two sophomore girls and invited me along, but I stubbornly declined his invitation and spread rumors that I had some serious business to do at home.  I desperately did not want to look like a poor beggar in the eyes of my friends.

Purchasing a ticket was easy—the first railcar in the train was not popular among passengers.  Very few people traveled to our region in summer, just like in any other season for that matter.  For starters, the mountainous plateau at the western extremity of the continent was famous for the worst climate throughout Ingernika.  It was neither cold nor hot, the number of sunny days in a year could be counted on one's fingers, and fog was very common.  Second, the inhabitants were kind of savages: Krauhard's peasants were full of prejudices and superstitions, they interweaved silver threads into horses' manes and dark cat fur into their blankets, and they nailed ram's horns over the gates.  A place of depression, with icy rain and squally winds—the white mages would not be able to stand it.  Furthermore, this was the place for the otherworldly creatures.  The supernatural manifestations occurred here much more frequently than in any other place.  To the local folks, it was a matter of pride and a source of permanent anxiety.  Even children knew of the simplest rituals of expulsion; ancient, covered with cryptic signs and stelae were on every street corner, and on clear days one could see from the shore the frightening and alluring King's Island.  Hardly a surprise, then, that one in five Krauhardians was a dark magician.

I sat on the bench of a railroad car alone and mindlessly gazed at the passing landscape through puffs of smoke.  The thick greenery of the windbreak looked like a tunnel; fields, cows, white cottages, and enormous straw bales flashed through the rare breaks in the trees.  With hidden impatience I waited for the evergreen trees to be replaced with low-lying shrubs and weeds, and fields with rocky wastelands and deep ravines, but the first greeting from the motherland came as rain.  Of course.

I slept through most of the trip, and the time of our arrival—despite its early hour—was cheerful and fresh.  Luggage-wise, I had almost nothing: a small backpack and a wicker basket.  I also could not resist the temptation and had bought a couple of gifts for my mom and younger siblings, firmly sending my finances into the red.  The conductor, heroically restraining his urge to yawn, courteously unfolded a ladder onto the platform.  He helped me off and sincerely wished me a good trip, while thick, milky fog reigned all around.

As soon as I dove into the moist, faintly roiling haze, I realized how badly homesick I was.  All that I liked in urban settings—the fumes of vehicles and their never-ending movement—was only a poor surrogate for this mysterious, enveloping pseudo-existence.  The steam engine, invisible in the fog, whistled pitifully, the departing train faintly clanged, and I strode along the platform, past the "Wildlife Outpost," trying to remember the location of the descending path.

The fog started barely breaking away from the ground; in an hour there would be no trace of it.  Thanks to its lift, I first noticed feet of people meeting me and only later discerned their faces.  I was greeted by a pair of ladies' shoes on low heels (simple and worn-out), men's boots of the type "not afraid of mud," and four horse hooves.  It was the hooves that I recognized—you do not often see a horse with all four legs of different colors.

"Hi, Mom!"

A woman in a black knitted jacket rose out of the fog.  I would have recognized her anytime and anywhere.  She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.

"Hi, Tommy!  How are you?  How was your trip?"

"Excellent!"

"Hello, Thomas.  The children have been waiting for you for three days; all the neighbors know that their brother is coming back.  Don't be alarmed."

Before turning to the speaker, I took a deep breath, bringing myself into the state which I commonly used when communicating with my clients: detached benevolence, respect without familiarity.  I was sure I was better at it now than two years ago.  He stood next to my mother, smiling, one of only three white magicians in Krauhard.  My stepfather.

"Let's go," my mother hurried me to a horse carriage.

I caught myself thinking that, while imagining this meeting, my memory had been skipping over, in some tricky way, a man I had known for more than ten years; that is to say, not even a sole thought of him had arisen in my mind.  Perhaps the brain cannot remember what it does not understand.  My stepfather climbed onto the coach box, and my mother sat down next to me, while I, smiling, was still striving for a sense of recognition.

Dark and white magicians cannot unite in a single family.  These are two different species of people, different universes.  As common interests, we had food only; indeed, we even slept in different ways.  Regarding to my upbringing, my stepfather could not argue with me at all, and punishing me was completely unrealistic.  Since our first acquaintance (me—eight, him—thirty-two) he was just Joe to me, but I was Thomas to him (at first, even Mr. Thomas).  I always considered myself senior to him.  The reason did not lie in any magical metaphysics, because my dark talent was still asleep, and his white one was never too strong.  Personalities, attitudes, perception of the world—everything was different between us as night and day.

He liked to sit by the fire and read a book, while I showed up at home only long enough to eat.  He tended and nurtured flowerbeds with exotic daisies; I repaired a lawn mower in the barn.  He brought a good-natured rough-legged horse to our house that took pleasure in carrying our family to the market and to neighbors on weekends.  I had bought a scooter on my first salary, awfully rattling and reeking of alcohol, and, whenever I had time, rolled it out to the driveway in front of the house and cleaned, adjusted, and fine-tuned.  That way, we grated on each other's nerves for long six years after his marriage to my mother.  Only now, after studying at Redstone University for two years, did I understand the nightmare he had been living in.  The day I received a scholarship from Roland the Bright's Fund must have been the happiest day of his life.

"Well, how are things at home?" I tried to be polite.

"Fine.  Thomas," my mother hesitated, but I patiently waited, "we need to have a serious talk."

When she called me by my full name, I knew it was something serious.

"Yes?"

"Lyuchik has revealed a talent," she took a deep breath.  "A white one."

"Congratulations!"

What else could I say?  A young white magician is like a naked nerve, totally susceptible to any outside influence.  A wrong word, a sharp look, and the kid would fall into deep emotional distress.  Later he would grow older, stronger, but right now…  And moreover, his brother, a dark one, came to see him.

"You see..." my mother began in embarrassment.

Now, after two years at Redstone, I was genuinely able to see.

"I'll be careful!" I promised sincerely.

I was sure of myself, but what about the others?  There was no place less appropriate for a young white mage than Krauhard.

"How will he cope in our village?"

The best for them would be to move away from here; it was long overdue.  Mother shrugged:

"We are trying to accommodate him, but with our income one cannot expect much."

"Has my father left nothing?  I cannot believe that a dark magician did not know how to make a living!"

“You probably do not remember…  We did not struggle like now when he was alive.  There were some savings, but when your father... died so suddenly, I could not find what he had invested his money in."

A silly situation, isn't it?

"We had a state pension previously, but when you turned eighteen, they took us off the payroll."

And a family of four was left to live on only a schoolteacher's salary.

"You should have mentioned that to me; I would have sent you money!"

She smiled: "What kind of money does a student have?"

Indeed, what money was I talking about?  Oh, the money...

"I would have thought of something!" I replied stubbornly.

"Do not spout nonsense; you need to focus on studying.  You are very talented!  Your father would be very proud of you."

The cunning plan to increase my monthly allowance failed splendidly.  Well, now my conscience would not let me take a cent from her.  It was a blow...  But if I did pick up something from the white magicians, it was their ability to treat all setbacks philosophically.  A very important quality!  Well, I will enjoy my vacation in Krauhard then.

The horse hoofs clicked loudly on a cobbled road, and the old carriage's springs creaked in accompaniment.  The fog thinned, revealing moss-covered granite boulders, curved trees, and trailing shrubs.  It was summer and bindweed was in bloom.  The carriage had passed a cleft, and a valley, fairly wide for Krauhard, opened up in front of us.  Its gently sloping southern side was covered with greenery, cattle grazed in the pastures, and the windows of houses with roofs of brown shale glimmered happily.  Another half an hour, and I would be at home!

The reception was cordial and loud.  Lyuchik, all grown up, shouted and jumped as if there were four of him, although his younger sister barely remembered me at all and felt shy.  But virtually nothing had changed.  It was the same country house with boisterous chickens in the yard and a neat small front garden, where my stepfather tried to grow roses in a climate perhaps only suitable for sagebrush.