The Galactic Mage (33 page)

Chapter
34

T
hree more nights went by before Taot finally came awake. Altin was seated on a crenel staring out morosely from the tower wall, his vision blurred into the green cloud of the Great Forest’s canopy where his thoughts had turned inward on himself. His perch was a fortunate one, for in mid-daydream Taot began to stir. What started as a grunting sort of noise quickly became a tantrum of terrifying might.

The huge beast woke suddenly with the last memories of orcish arrows, spears and icebolts firing in his mind. He roared and blew a reflexive gust of fire across the battlements by which the small hairs at the back of Altin’s neck were singed—a good thing Taot’s head was faced the other way. The dragon tried to heave itself up onto its feet, but its legs were weak and stiff, and one had been turned beneath him long enough as he slept for circulation to diminish, reduced to the point of putting the leg itself “to sleep.” The numb limb collapsed under Taot unexpectedly and brought forth yet another rumbling cry, this time pain and rage. Pebbles rained down from the cliffs as Taot’s confusion rattled amongst the rocks.

Flapping his great wings in what approached a panicked state, Taot again tried to rise, but by this time Altin had begun sending him some telepathic thoughts. He sent images of the ruined village and all the orcs lying dead into Taot’s mind. He sent the sense of a hot desert wind and a full stomach along with that as well. He sent the sense of calm.

Taot flopped about a moment longer, reluctant to believe at first, but finally his dragon’s brain caught up with his instinctive body and both began working in the present again. Altin quickly filled in the history of what had happened since the dragon’s fall, and included as best as possible the nature of his wounds and the many visits by Doctor Leopold, including images of the removal of the spear and the arrows in his wings.

Unfortunately, convalescence was a foreign concept for the dragon, and Altin had to struggle to get the idea across as Taot once more began to try to rise. The dragon’s forceful thoughts were clear, he wanted to return to his lair, but Altin insisted that staying here, close to him, close to deer and Doctor Leopold, would be a better choice, at least for another week. Taot could not fly, nor could he even stand for very long, and Altin was unwilling to leave the dragon in his cave subject to daring predators until the mighty beast was truly mighty once again. Ultimately, and only after being bribed with the promise of fresh venison, Taot eventually acceded to Altin’s insistence and settled in to rest.

When the dragon was safely sleeping again, Altin stared down at it ruefully, once more moping over what he was going to do. He was feeling a little less guilt now that it seemed Taot was going to mend, but that didn’t change much else. In his internal debate over which course to take regarding his magic, the pendulum had swung back to burning out his mythothalamus again. But he was not going to do it just yet. He needed his magic until Taot was nursed fully back to health. Which vexed him. His life, his habits were too caught up in the magic now. He was as dependant on his magic as a skunk was on its stench; awful as it was, take the spray away and all you’re left with is a rather clumsy cat. Altin didn’t relish the idea of becoming a clumsy cat, but he knew he’d never be able to just stop casting either. He could never simply stop using magic anymore, a fact made perfectly clear by the evidence of the deer in the meadow the other day. He couldn’t escape the magic even when he tried, which was why he had to fry the magical organ in his mind. But still, resigned as he was, it was a depressing concept now that he was resolved to get it done. He still had so many questions as to why his life had to come to this. There were so many things that didn’t make any sense.

If he was a Six, like everyone said he was, then he was probably going to kill himself eventually anyway. And he was fine with that. He always had been. It’s not like he’d been racing to his death on purpose, but he had always been perfectly resigned to having death looming all the time. He honestly didn’t mind. Frankly, he’d never given it much thought. He always felt he was a Seven anyway, somehow destined to avert the rule of Six. But none of that mattered anymore. Not now. Not sitting here watching Taot slowly recovering from a narrow escape from death that was entirely Altin’s fault. Altin knew there was no other way. It was as clear as water in a mountain lake what he had to do, because he knew, deep down, that he would never change. He could never stop using magic, no matter how hard he tried, and he could never stop posing a threat to everyone that mattered in his life. And that was the heart of it all, the root of his frustration over his life having come to such a pass.

For eight hundred years Tytamon had managed not to kill everyone he met by mistake. Tytamon had control. So what was the difference? Was it just luck? Was it time and experience? Or did the Ancient One have skeletons buried in his vault? Somehow Altin didn’t think he did. So it must really be the damnable law of Six. Altin hated that idea, but he began to believe it had to be the case, began to believe that’s why they called it the
law
of Six instead of something else.

And Tytamon was an Eight after all. Tytamon had full circularity. He had the perspective of all the schools of magic, each one giving insight into the possibilities of those on either side around the “ring.” Even if Altin had proved to be a Seven, it wouldn’t change a thing. Altin did not have the “perspicacity of roundedness” as it was called, and so there were things that he was always going to miss, things he did not know, things he could not know, at least not until it was too late. “You do not know what you do not know” was the magician’s curse, made worse with the more schools of magic a sorcerer has access too. Unless the sorcerer is an Eight. Then they are fully round.

Altin took out his guild card and studied the marks around the ring. He ran his thumb over the blank spot where his divination rank should have been, emptiness with scores on either side. He should have had a rank in that. All his life he’d felt it in his heart and mind and soul. It really did seem to break the rules, him skipping over it like that. He wondered if maybe he had some mental block. Knowing whether he truly was a Six or not was the one answer he wished he could have before he went and burnt the magic out for good.

Just then, Taot let out a long, slow wheeze as he fell into the deepest slumber, breaking Altin from his reverie. The sun had already dropped out of the sky. Altin hopped off the battlements and gazed down at the dark green form of his resting reptilian friend. Somehow the sight of him there made the young mage decide there was no reason why he shouldn’t give divination one last try. Sort of a parting shot, a magical farewell. One last attempt to see if he really was only just a Six. And if he could do it, if he focused this time and truly gave the attempt his full ability, maybe this time, just maybe the gods would answer why, before he let his magic go. Before he blinded the magical eye of his mythothalamus. Besides, if it wasn’t divining that he lacked, then it wasn’t anything. He’d always known, somehow intuitively, that he had never been meant to heal. He was too selfish for that. He knew it instinctively. The recognition didn’t even come with any guilt. Divining had to be the missing link.

He went downstairs to where the
Divining for Beginners
tome was still lying on the floor. He picked it up and took it to his bed, lighting the candle on the nightstand as he sat down. Curling his feet under him, he sat upon the bed and began to chant the words that would bring a sense of Tytamon’s location to him, wherever the elder wizard was. The divination wasn’t going to work the same as a seeing spell would, nor would it work like a telepathic nudge. According to the book, he would just have an intuitive sense instead. He would have an impression in his mind, an image that he might have to interpret to understand.

As he chanted, allowing the cadence of the child’s song “My Cat’s Paw” to lead him along, his mind wandered to little Pernie who’d been humming it the other day. He could see her in his mind’s eye towing the fawn along. She reminded him of his sister, and Altin suddenly understood why he had never liked the song. Neechy had sung that song. They both had, in the orphanage growing up.

He caught his thoughts drifting and realized he was not focusing on the spell. That or else he just couldn’t do it and he really was a Six. But he was not giving up so easily, and he started once again.

It still didn’t work, and no images of Tytamon came into his head. He went back to the beginning of the book, the parts that he had gone through too quickly, and read them again, this time forcing himself to patience, to the degree of focus that he’d always had for things that were important to him. He read every word twice, despite their childish tone. And then he started chanting once again.

He sat there, cross-legged amongst a nest of wrinkled blankets, with his eyes closed for quite some time, singing the spell and seeking a simple understanding of where his master was, when finally he got the sense that Tytamon was standing in the room. His brows furrowed as he tried to further focus the image down, to refine the impression that seemed as if he’d finally made a divination work, but then Tytamon cleared his throat.

Altin’s eyes snapped open to find that Tytamon was in fact standing at the door. Altin groaned. So much for divining, he thought. He laughed. What a fool. For a moment he’d actually thought the spell had worked.

“Divining, eh?” said his mentor. “I thought you’d given up on that.”

“I had. But I’m trying it again. It’s the least likely school for me to kill anyone with.”

“Oh, you’re wrong about that. Divination is the most dangerous of them all. Why do you think they put it at the top of the circle of schools?” He came into the room and walked over to the window, gazing out into the darkness. He stood there for quite some time before he finally spoke again. “I was going to talk to you about the opening in the wall and about the orcs, but I understand Kettle took that upon herself.”

“Aye, she did.”

A long silence followed as Altin stared absently into his book and Tytamon the night—it seemed Altin had been at it for quite a while.

“So now what?” Tytamon asked. “I divined your mood the other day. You’re in an uncomfortable place.”

Altin nodded.

“That’s why you’ve got that book?” Tytamon indicated the book in Altin’s lap with a nod as he turned back and took a seat at the table in the center of the room.

“Yes.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I just wanted to know why things have turned out the way they have. But I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end. I’m going to quit casting as soon as Taot’s healed.” He paused, and looked up for a moment from the book. “I just wanted to see if I really am a Seven rather than a Six, if being a Seven is why I’ve been nothing but a plague. It’s not in the history of Sixes to kill everyone but themselves. I wanted to know if maybe that’s the Seven’s curse, to kill everyone else instead. At least then I could tell myself I didn’t have a choice.” He expected Tytamon to protest or to say something wise and introspective like he always did, but the old man acted as if he’d barely heard a word.

“Another school would help,” the ancient mage superficially agreed. He reached a gnarled hand out and tore off a bit of Altin’s ever-present bread. Altin regarded the loaf with a shake of his head. He didn’t deserve the service of those people he’d put through such a horrible ordeal.

Tytamon chewed slowly, gazing into the candle sitting near the bread. “I heard Kettle told you about your family. Rumor has it she was a bit more abrupt than I would have been in choosing how to let you know those things.”

“Yes. She let me have it all right.” Altin turned a page in the book, though he wasn’t looking at the words.

“Well, I’d been putting it off. I’m sorry it had to come out like that.”

Altin nodded and turned another page.

“You’re not a bad magician, Altin. And ‘menace’ is too cruel a choice of words.”

“She told you that, eh?”

“Yes, she told me the whole thing. She’s very upset. She didn’t mean to hurt you. She was just afraid. You do know she raised Pernie since the girl was eight months old?”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t blame Kettle. I deserved everything that I got. Probably more.”

“Well, that’s why I came up here. I wanted you to know that you are a good man, Altin. You just get in a rush sometimes.”

“A rush that kills people,” Altin said. Tytamon had never referred to him as a “man” before. It felt… unfamiliar. He let it go. “I really don’t know what I should do. I think burning out my mythothalamus is the safest thing to do.”

Tytamon let him talk, taking another chunk of bread.

“I’ve tried to think if there were maybe some other way. I thought maybe I could become one of those reclusive wizards like you read about in books, stuffed off in some swamp somewhere, isolated from everyone, somewhere where it’s safe. I even thought I might just go live in outer space. I could be the Galactic Mage, far away, safely drifting beneath the stars. No danger to anyone but myself. But that feels like it’s letting me off the hook. And I could change my mind someday, come back. Blinding myself to magic is the only way.”

Tytamon shook his head as Altin spoke, shifting in his chair as if there were something crawling up his leg. But he waited until Altin was through. “Feeling sorry for yourself is not the answer, and you know it as well as I,” he said when Altin was finally done.

Altin went back to flipping through the book.

“Altin, you’re not the first mage to lose someone that he loves.”

Altin groaned silently, sensing that now one of the old man’s stories was on the way for sure. He rolled his eyes, still staring at the page. He knew what he had to do. Tytamon could talk until he was blue in the face; it wouldn’t change a thing.

Tytamon understood the essence of Altin’s resolve and stood up, stepping closer to the bed. “Altin,” he said as the younger mage leafed through the divination book. “There’s something I want you to see.”