The Choice of Magic

by Michael G. Manning

  “They’re linked, idiot!” said the old man. “Your life and the candle flame are one and the same.” When that statement failed to impress his grandson, he reached out with two fingers, as if to snuff the candle out.

  Will slapped his hand away, suddenly afraid.

  His grandfather laughed, then leaned forward and blew hard on the flame. It jumped, burning higher in response to a jolt of adrenaline as panic ran through Will, but nothing else happened. The fire didn’t even respond to the sudden puff of air. “It reflects you,” said the old man, “not the other way around.”

  Awed by the strange behavior of the candle flame, Will blew on it himself. It didn’t move at all. “So it isn’t real?”

  “Oh, it’s real,” said his grandfather. “Or rather, it represents the reality within you. Nothing out here can affect it.” He waved his hand through the flame, which remained perfectly still. “The only thing that can change it is you.” Bringing his hand up suddenly, he smacked his palm against Will’s forehead, and the flame guttered and swirled.

  “Enough!” exclaimed Will, annoyed. “You made your point. I thought you were going to teach me something interesting. This is a party trick.”

  “You said you wanted to learn magic,” said the old man.

  “You said you wouldn’t teach me magic,” Will shot back.

  His grandfather rolled his eyes. “And I won’t, but if it makes any difference to you, this lesson is the first lesson any wizard learns. It’s the most important thing I could ever teach you, whether you ever become a wizard or not; the first and greatest knowledge you will ever gain.”

  Will glanced sideways, impatient and annoyed. “Why are you talking about wizards? I don’t want to be a wizard. They’re just librarians and assistants. They can’t do much of anything.”

  The old man closed his eyes. Will could see the muscles in his jaw working as he cussed under his breath. “Give me patience to deal with fucking morons,” muttered the old man. Will waited, expecting his grandfather to explode once again, but after a moment the old man let out a long breath and opened his eyes, his face calm.

  “Listen up, boy,” said his grandfather. “I’m only going to give this speech once, so pay attention. I’ve been making allowances, since you’re entirely ignorant. I’m going to explain a few things. Interrupt me and I’ll rip your tongue out and use it to make breakfast tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  Will nodded, afraid to speak.

  The old man smiled at his caution. “First, do you know the difference between mages, warlocks, sorcerers, and wizards?”

  Still unsure whether he should open his mouth, Will shook his head no.

  “Mage is a general term,” continued his grandfather. “Anyone capable of magic is a mage. Mages aren’t born, they are trained. Almost anyone has the necessary potential, but very few ever become aware of it, and fewer still gain the skill to do anything.

  “Wizards are mages who have learned to control their turyn, and with it they can affect the world around them. Through training and practice, they can accomplish a wide variety of things, including the use of spells and the creation of potions and other magic items.

  “Warlocks are mages who bargain with external powers to gain advantages.” His grandfather pointed at the candle flame. “This flame represents your turyn. As you might have guessed, it isn’t a large amount of power and can easily be exhausted. Warlocks seek to augment this power via agreements with supernatural agents. They may deal with spirits, the lords of faerie, demons, or any number of other beings. In general, I think this is a bad idea, as you almost always give up far more than you gain.

  “Long ago, most of the early mages were shamans, which was basically a type of warlock dealing with primal nature spirits, but over time, some became more skilled. Magic was studied and better understood. It was codified, and spells were created. This was the beginning of true wizardry.

  “The candle flame spell I just showed you is the beginning of that new understanding. It was the foundation that all wizardry rests upon. That may not make sense to you now, but someday, you’ll understand why.

  “Sorcerers are mages who hold the heart-stone enchantments of one or more elemental spirits. You can think of a heart-stone enchantment as a leash or binding. It gives them absolute control over an elemental. Elementals range in power from very weak to extremely powerful, but controlling any of them grants a vast amount of power to the mage, crude though it may be.

  “A few centuries ago, there were no sorcerers. The first was a wizard of great skill, who designed the heart-stone enchantment and trapped the first elemental. Most of the sorcerers of today are no better than leeches, resting on the achievements of their ancestors. The heart-stone enchantments are passed down through the generations, and those that receive them gain vast power through no effort of their own. Many of them can barely manage a spell, if they have any training at all.” The old man stopped for a second, then asked, “Any questions?”

  “What are you?” asked Will directly.

  His grandfather sighed. “I’m an herbalist, and an old man who knows a little too much for his own good.”

  It was clear he wasn’t going to say more about himself, so Will changed tactics. “Why do you hate sorcerers?”

  “None of your damned business,” snapped the old man. “All you need to know is they’re lazy, useless individuals. Also, what they do is morally repugnant.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s slavery,” said his grandfather. “Rather than develop their skills and use their own innate gifts, they trap and enslave the most basic spirits of nature. The most benign of warlocks makes a victim of himself, at the very least, but a sorcerer violates the purest and simplest spirits in the world. Compounding their wickedness, the power they gain is generally used to exert control over others.”

  Will thought about it for a minute, then tried to summarize his thoughts. “So, you’re saying that all mages are evil, except for wizards, and they’re the weakest of the bunch.”

  “If wits were food, you’d starve to death,” answered his grandfather, “but at least you’re trying to think.” He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “No. It’s entirely possible for a warlock to be good, though he or she would still be a fool. A good warlock trades only what they already possess—elixir of turynal, blood, or even their own soul—but most of them wind up stealing to gain more than they deserve. They’ll take children, or other helpless sorts, and use them for their own ends. A good sorcerer, by contrast, would no longer be a sorcerer, because he’d free the elementals that serve him.

  “As for wizards, I guess that’s true, these days at least. Most of them spend their time bowing and scraping for the sorcerers, hoping to be given scraps. Not one of the current lot has the courage to rely on their own strength or learn the secrets of true mastery.”

  Will stared at his feet, feeling sad and deflated. He had never expected magic to be so depressing.

  “So now you understand why I won’t teach any more than you absolutely need to know,” said the hermit. “You can’t be a sorcerer because unless you’re born into one of the noble families, they’d never give you an elemental, and I certainly wouldn’t train you to become a wizard capable of enslaving one on your own. Far better for you to be an herbalist. At least then you can help people.”

  Something about that statement caught Will’s attention, for it implied the old man had far more knowledge than he should. “You know how to create the heart-stone enchantment?” he asked suddenly.

  “Hah!” barked his grandfather. “Only the most skilled of today’s sorcerers can manage that. If I did have that knowledge, I’d certainly never allow it to be used again. No sense in repeating the mistakes of the past.”

  “Oh,” said Will, dejected. But he noticed that the old man didn’t actually answer the question. He could have denied it, but he didn’t.

  “We’ve spent enough time on bullshit,” said his grandfather abruptly. “Time for you to
learn. Stare at the candle flame.”

  Will did so, but nothing happened. “Now what?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” said his mentor. “Just keep a close eye on it from now on. Pay close attention to any changes.”

  Frowning, Will asked, “For how long?”

  His grandfather scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “That depends on you, but most likely for a couple of years or so. Actually, I take that back. As dumb as you are, it will probably be even longer.”

  Jumping to his feet, Will exclaimed, “What? That’s crazy!” The flame flared up briefly, then swirled violently in response to his anger.

  “See that!” said the old man, pointing at the candle. “That’s the sort of thing you need to observe.”

  “But why?” said Will, exasperated.

  “So you can control it,” said his guardian smugly. “For you to keep from doing magic, you first have to learn the difference between your insides and your outsides, and how one affects the other. Now, go get the broom and sweep the room out before you go to bed.”

  “I don’t have a bed,” Will announced, bitterly.

  “And you never will, with that attitude.”

  A low growl rose from Will’s throat, but he did as he was told. Snatching up the broom from one corner, he began vigorously sweeping.

  “Watch the flame, idiot!” shouted his grandfather. “Were you paying attention to anything I told you?”

  “How can I do that and sweep at the same time?” said Will in frustration.

  “Hold it in one hand. It won’t burn anything. It isn’t a real flame. If that’s too awkward, just put it somewhere in your line of sight. You really are daft. Why do I have to explain every little thing?”

  Swallowing an angry retort, Will moved the candle and resumed his work, beating angrily at the floor with the broom. The flame danced in time with his movements, flaring now and then as he silently cursed his tormentor.

  “That’s better, moron,” encouraged his grandfather. “Make sure you finish before you go to sleep. I’m off to bed. I want eggs and toast for breakfast. If you’re smart, they’ll be ready when I get up.”

  Will’s temper finally snapped. “We don’t have any bread! How do you expect me to make toast?”

  The old man ignored his insolence. “Oh, right. One second.” Leaving the room, he stepped through the door into his bedroom. When he returned a moment later, he held a large, relatively fresh loaf in one hand. “Use this.”

  Dumbfounded, Will asked, “Where did that come from?” The bread was obviously less than two days old and he knew for a fact the hermit hadn’t gone to town in that time.

  “None of your damn business,” said his grandfather. Then the old man gave him a smile and added sweetly, “Good night.” Disappearing into his bedroom, he shut the door and Will was left alone.

  Chapter 9

  Will woke the next morning, cold, sore, and irritated. The candle sat a few feet away on the floor, still burning and with no sign of having gotten any shorter. Remembering the old man’s words, he got up and started breakfast.

  There weren’t any eggs in the house, so he went outside and walked to the back. A small trail led through the brambles and into a wide-open space where his grandfather grew a variety of beans, squash, turnips, and other vegetables. The chicken coop was at the far end, farthest from the house, though still within the defensive, thorny barrier. Idly, he wondered how deer managed to get in, since there was a small gate to prevent them from entering through what he assumed was the only opening.

  He managed to collect a handful of eggs with only minor injuries from the offended hens, then went back to make breakfast. His grandfather was waiting on him. “You left the candle behind.”

  “I just went to get eggs,” explained Will.

  “Leave it behind again and I’ll cook dinner without letting you have any,” warned the old man.

  “Fine with me,” said Will sullenly. “You never cook anyway.”

  “It wouldn’t be a punishment if I cooked it,” said the hermit dryly. “Speaking of which, why isn’t breakfast ready?”

  “I just woke up a few minutes ago.”

  The old man scowled. “If you have that much trouble rising, you can start sleeping on the porch. The sun will wake you up that way.”

  Will stared at him, trying to decide if his grandfather was joking or not. Knowing how mean the old bastard is, he probably does mean it, he reasoned. The candle flame burned violently.

  “Stop cussing me and get busy,” said the old man.

  Will glared at the flame, realizing it had betrayed his emotions. “Stupid candle.” He got busy, heating an iron skillet and cutting the bread into rough slices.

  “Have you never handled a knife before?” The old man’s tone was belligerent, as usual.

  Will gave him a blank stare. The old geezer had watched him cutting turnips up just the day before.

  His grandfather stepped closer and took the knife from his hand. “Gently. Don’t cut bread like you’re trying to chop through a carrot. Use a light touch and pull.” Under his skillful touch, a perfect slice emerged from the loaf of bread.

  The old man never ceased to surprise him. Will was about to say something when he felt a sudden movement against his leg. Looking down, he saw a large, grey cat. “What’s this?” he asked.

  His grandfather glanced down. “Oh, him. That’s the goddamned cat.”

  “You never mentioned having a pet.”

  “Pet? Hell no,” protested the hermit. Cracking one of the eggs into a small wooden bowl, the old man placed it on the ground, whereupon the cat began to eat.

  “If he isn’t your cat, why are you feeding him?” asked Will, puzzled. “If you feed strays, they won’t leave.”

  “Who says I’m feeding him?” quipped the hermit. “I’m just paying rent. And don’t call him a stray; you’ll piss him off.”

  He really is crazy, thought Will. Reaching down, he tried to pet the grey feline, but it hissed and bared its teeth at him.

  “See?” said his grandfather smugly. Cracking the rest of the eggs one by one, he began frying them in the pan.

  “You just called him the ‘goddamned cat,’” argued Will. “How is that any better than ‘stray’?”

  “He’s got his pride,” said the hermit.

  “Is he your familiar?” The cat looked up at Will’s words and hissed at him. If he didn’t know better, he might have believed the creature understood him.

  His grandfather slid the eggs from the pan to a waiting plate with a smooth, practiced motion and then used his other hand to swat the back of Will’s head. “Don’t be a jackass!” Then he addressed the cat, “Don’t mind him. He’s a charity case I picked up. He’ll learn better manners.”

  The stray blinked once, slowly, then returned to eating the raw egg.

  The old man split the eggs between two plates and then arranged the toast beside them and began spreading butter on the slices on his own plate. He pointed the knife at Will. “No butter for you.”

  Will was very sure his grandfather didn’t have a cow. “Where did you get butter?”

  Predictably, the old man replied, “None of your damn business.” Then he lifted a knob of butter on the end of the knife and offered it to the cat, who had just finished his raw egg. “Want any?”

  The cat turned its head away and began cleaning one paw.

  “Suit yourself,” said Will’s grandfather. Turning back to his grandson, he added, “Let’s get one thing straight. The goddamn cat owns this place. We’re his tenants, so mind yourself when he’s around.”

  Will wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It seemed every day that his guardian showed a new facet of his personal insanity. “What’s his name?”

  “How the hell should I know?” responded his grandfather. “He’s a cat. If you feel the need to be formal, call him ‘the goddamn cat.’ He likes that.”

  Will shook his head. “I can never figure out if you’re being seri
ous or not.”

  The old man looked up, spearing him with pale blue eyes. “I’m dead serious. The goddamn cat comes when he pleases, leaves when he pleases, and if he wants anything, you damn well give it to him.” Stuffing more egg into his mouth, Will’s grandfather mumbled the rest.

  Will wasn’t sure, but it sounded as though he had said, “I don’t want to have to move again.”

  The cat soon wandered off, with nary a goodbye, and Will put thoughts of the strange conversation out of his head. The eggs and toast made that fairly easy to do, since they were perfectly cooked. It would have been better if he’d had some of the butter for his toast, but the eggs were so tasty he almost didn’t care. He really is a good cook, despite being nutty.

  After breakfast, and the inevitable washing of dishes, they moved on to Will’s literary education. In spite of the fact that Will had only just learned the alphabet, his grandfather insisted he begin trying to puzzle out words from a small book. As if that weren’t enough, the old man occasionally interrupted him with reminders to keep an eye on the candle flame, as though something might happen while he was trying to puzzle out the meaning of the writing.

  In fact, the flame did shift and change while he was concentrating. Most of the changes were subtle, but at times, usually when his frustration began to build, it would grow noticeably brighter.

  He got so engrossed in his task that he lost track of time, so it was a surprise when his grandfather’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “I’m stepping out. The garden needs some tending.”

  The old man was wearing a leather cap with long thongs tied under his chin to keep it in place. Sticking out from the top were two rather large deer antlers. The effect was simultaneously frightening, and ridiculous. “Wha—what?” Will stuttered. “What is that?”

  “A hat, obviously,” spat his grandfather. Then he was gone.

  It was a strange testimony to the fact that Will had gotten used to such weirdness that he spent no more than a few seconds thinking about it before returning to his study. Or perhaps it was that he genuinely enjoyed trying to figure out the words in front of him. He had never been confronted with a purely mental task before, and he found considerable satisfaction as he sorted out some of the simpler words by sounding out the letters.