by John M. Ford
Hywel hung the lantern from a peg and opened the shutter; the wizard winced and turned his face away.
It was all he could turn. A chain went through his collar, twice around the post and his upper body, holding him upright. The chains from his ankles were fixed to two old cart wheels. Hywel had seen Sion Mawr the smith going home, and could not have missed the murder-black look Sion gave him; now he understood it.
"It was you after all," the chained man said, and Hywel nearly dropped the food. "Is that for me?"
Hywel took a step. The voice in his head was gone, but he still felt somehow drawn to the wizard. He stopped. "The soldiers say you can't work magic, in those chains."
"But you know better, don't you?" His English had only a little foreign sound. "Well, they're mostly right. I can't do much, and I truly can't escape. Come here, boy." He moved his hands. Hywel turned away, not to see the sign.
"At least put my supper in reach. Then you may go. Please."
Hywel moved closer, looked again at the wizard. The cloak was spread out beneath the man; it was lined with glossy black—more silk. Beneath the cloak he wore a dark green gown of heavy brocade, torn at every seam, showing the white silk shirt. Gown and shirt were embroidered all over with interlocking lines in gold and silver thread, with brighter colors worked between. The patterns drew Hywel's eye despite himself.
He set the plate down in the straw, uncovered it. The man's eyes widened, becoming very liquid, and he ran his tongue over very white teeth specked with dirt. He reached out, one-handed. Hywel saw that his wrist chains were linked behind his back. The wizard set the plate in his lap, and his delicate fingers hovered over it, talonlike, straining; there was not enough chain for his two hands to touch.
Hywel thought of offering to feed him, but could not say it.
The hands ceased to strain then. The wizard groped for and reached the napkin, shook it out, and arranged it as best he could over his shiny, filthy shirt. Then the thin fingers picked up a single kernel of corn and raised it to the swollen mouth. He chewed it very slowly.
Trying not to watch the wizard's hands or eyes, Hywel uncapped the pot of ale. He took a twist of greasy paper from his belt pouch, opened it, and slipped the white butter within into the blood-warm ale. He stirred the pot with a clean straw and pushed it as close to the man as he dared. The wizard waited for Hywel to draw back, then picked up the ale and took a small sip. His eyes closed and he pressed his head back against the post, loosening the iron at his throat just slightly.
"Nectar and ambrosia," he said. "Thank you, boy." He put the ale down and picked up the mutton, took small, worrying bites.
Finally Hywel said, "You called me by magic. No one else could hear.... Why?"
The man paused, sighed, wiped his hands and lips. "I thought you were... someone else. Someone who could help."
"You thought I was a wizard?"
"I called to the talent…it spent me before I heard the answer.
Hard to work with a boot in your ribs." He reached for the bread, nibbled.
"I'm not a wizard," Hywel said.
"No. I'm sorry. But I am glad you brought me this supper."
They sat for a little while like that, the wizard eating slowly, Hywel crouched, watching him. To Hywel it seemed the man wanted to make his supper last all night. He said, "You thought I was a wizard."
"I believe I explained that," the man said patiently. "Isn't it late for you to be awake still?"
"Dafydd doesn't care, long as the fire doesn't go out. You said it was somebody else you called. But I heard you. You called me."
The man swallowed, licked his damaged lips. "I called to the talent. The power. It... radiates, like the light from a candle. I felt it, and answered back. That's all."
"Then I am a wizard," Hywel said, breathless, triumphant.
The man shook his head, rattling iron. "Magus latens... no. Someday you could be, if you were taught. But now..." There was a noise within his throat that might have been a laugh. "Now you're catalyzed. And I did it, now that I would not do it."
Hywel said "Could you teach me?"
Again the choked laugh. "Why do you think I'm in chains, boy? I'd be dead now if they didn't fear my death-curse so, and my tongue and eyes aren't sure through tomorrow. Go to bed, boy."
Hywel put his foot against one of the cartwheels chained to the wizard's feet. He pushed. The chain shifted; in a moment it would be taut. It was astonishingly easy.
"Please," the man said, "don't." There was no pleading in it, nor command. Hywel turned, saw the dark eyes ringed white and red, the face white as bare bone. And he stopped pushing. Perhaps if sparrows had voices...
"I am very tired," the man said. "Please come tomorrow, and I will talk with you."
"Will you tell me about magic?" Hywel's foot was still on the wheel, but it had suddenly become very heavy and hard to move.
The man's voice was weak, but his eyes were black and burning. "Come back tomorrow and I will tell you all I know about magic."
Hywel picked up the plate and napkin, the ale pot. He stood, moved away backwards.
"My name," said the wizard, "is Kallian Ptolemy. With the letter pi, if you can write."
Hywel said nothing. Everyone knew that wizards gained power by knowing names. He took the lantern from its peg, shuttered it.
Kallian Ptolemy said "Good night, Hywel Peredur."
Hywel did not know whether to shudder or cry for joy.
Hywel did not sleep much. All he knew, Ptolemy had said. Maybe Ptolemy was not a very strong wizard. A few soldiers had caught and chained him, after all.
Owain Glyn Dwr had been a mighty wizard, Hywel knew. Everyone in Wales did. Glyn Dwr and a few English lords had almost taken the crown from King Henry IV. And he really had taken Wales away from Henry V, though that Henry was a Monmouthshire man; Glyn Dwr sat for years as King in Harlech, with his own lords and armies.
The English had finally scattered Owain's soldiers, but they never took Owain, and no one ever saw Owain die. It was said he never died; that he slept like Arthur; that he would come back when the time was right.
Hywel could remember Owain's son, Meredydd, visiting The White Hart; a tall man with big shoulders, much more like a warrior than a great sorcerer. But he u/as a wizard. He made a glass marble out of the empty air and gave it to Hywel, holding Hywel's hand, treating him just as if Hywel were a great chief of Wales.
And Dafydd had been angry, very silently angry, after Meredydd ap Owain had gone.
Hywel dressed before dawn. The air was calm and cold, the moon down and the sky like black glass; Hywel made his way mostly by touch and memory. He looked to the fire in the serving hall, poking ashes and evening out the peat covering. The red glow beneath seemed full of mysteries and power. All he knew of magic. Hywel wondered if he would be able to turn lead to gold. If he could fly.
Just at daybreak he looked in on Ptolemy. The wizard was awake, looking disturbed.
"You've come early to lessons," he said tightly.
"No—I—uh—"
"I am about to soil myself. If you could be of some help, perhaps..."
Hywel fetched a pail, then made some slack in Ptolemy's ankle chains, allowing the wizard, with Hywel's help, to slide up the post enough to squat.
"What's the noise?" Tom, the soldier who had spoken to Hywel, stuck his head inside. He saw Ptolemy, his hose down and his gown lifted, straining with gravity and iron; and Hywel behind, with his hands in Ptolemy's armpits.
"Why, you filthy pair of—"
Then the truth dawned, and the soldier burst out with snorting laughter. Hywel got the bucket into place and the wizard used it, noisily. The soldier sniffed the air as if smelling sweet flowers, turned, and went out still choking with laughter.
Hywel helped Ptolemy with his clothes, neither of them speaking. Settled again, the sorcerer said "I'm sorry."
Hywel shook his head, picked up the pail.
Ptolemy said "These are the only cloth
es I have. I—"
"You tell me, next time," Hywel said, and went out to the dung-heap.
The sun was brilliant on the hills, the sky a perfect blue. It was going to be the longest day of Hywel's life.
"An' then I thought, I knew 'e was a Greek, but—"
The soldiers howled with laughter, pounding their mugs on the table, splashing beer. Annie, the ugly barmaid, went around filling the mugs again; she was pinched and groped as she passed. Dafydd had sent Glynis to Caerhun for "a while."
"An' the boy, Tom? Did 'e look pleased?"
"Ah," Tom said, "just like an English wife; not pleased but wor- kin' with a will."
Hywel, his cheeks burning, turned away—though they were not looking at him—and went down to the cellar, hearing behind him, "No wonder Welsh rebels fight so foul—"
Downstairs, Dafydd was cleaning a fish packed in ice and sawdust. He looked up for a moment as Hywel appeared, then went back to his work.
"I did nothing," Hywel said in Cymric. His eyes hurt and his voice kept catching.
"I know what you did," said Dafydd, in English. Hywel waited, struggling against tears; Dafydd said no more.
Hywel finally said "He was looking for a wizard, here. I wonder if he was looking for Glyn Dwr, to help him."
Dafydd stopped cutting at the fish. He held the knife lightly, looked at the flash from the blade. "Did he say that?"
"He—" Hywel's anger was all turned to fear by Dafydd's sudden softness. "He said he was looking for a wizard."
"Well then. Let's hope his friend finds him. Somewhere other than here, gods willing." Dafydd took a few more strokes at the fish, then tossed it onto the kitchen lift and stomped up the stairs, wiping his hands furiously on his apron.
Hywel wept.
The sun was below the hills; Hywel was headed toward the kitchen to get Ptolemy's dinner when a hand touched his shoulder.
"Easy, boy! Didn't mean to scare you." It was Tom the soldier. His bow was over his shoulder; he slipped it off and held it out to show Hywel. "Ever drawn one of these?"
Hywel shook his head vaguely.
"Takes practice," Tom said. "We say, to make a bowman, start with his grandfather. I'm going to shoot a bit while there's light left.... Would you like to come along? Yew Alice is long for you, but..."
"No," Hywel said. "I... can't." The bow was white and beautiful. Hywel had seen longbows before, of course, but never been offered the chance to shoot one.
"I shouldn't'a laughed at you. Serjeant said so. I... didn't mean anything." Hywel realized suddenly that Tom was only four or five years older than himself.
All I know of magic.
"Tomorrow?" Hywel said, in a small voice.
"I'll be gone tomorrow. Serjeant said."
Then Ptolemy would be gone, and there really was no choice. Hywel tried to hate the soldier, for his mockery, but it was impossible; like hating Dai, or Dafydd more than two hours after a whipping, or...
"I have work," Hywel said, and left Tom and his beautiful Alice behind. When he came back from the kitchen, they were not in the yard.
Ptolemy ate not quite so slowly as the night before. When he had finished, wiped his mouth, pissed into the bucket, he motioned Hywel around to sit facing him, and arranged his ruined clothing.
"These seemed like such finery in Ireland," he said. "When I knew they must take me at last, I put on my best. They did not seem impressed. Are English lords so fabulous?"
"They wear silk," Hywel said.
"Oh, I know. Our silk. All silk passes through Byzantium at some time, did you know that?"
Hywel shook his head.
"Do you think my clothes are fine... were, I mean?"
"Yes, very fine."
"Ordinary stuff, on the streets of the City."
"Constantine's City? Byzantium?"
"There is no other City in the world."
"Are there many wizards there?"
"There is everything there. Wizards, merchants, priests... kings come to the City, and they say that they would rather be beggars in Byzantium than kings in their own country...."
Ptolemy talked on of the City Beautiful. Hywel listened, dutifully at first, then willingly, then rapt, hearing of the miles of triple walls, patrolled by men in armor of hammered gold, pierced by seven times seven gates plus one, but never the engines of an enemy army. There were armies within, of gladiators, who fought at an arena in the Roman style but larger than any in Rome.
Byzantium's wide streets met at forums set with columns of porphyry and ivory and gold, passed beneath arches proclaiming the greatness and wisdom of the City and its builders, wound into bazaars at which all the fruits of Earth and the crafts of Man could be purchased, with coins that British and Chinese, Slav and African, German and Portuguese and Dane all accepted as true currency ... and for which all their traders brought goods to the gates and the seven walled harbors.
Stone-arched aqueducts brought pure water to the City. Man- made tunnels carried its waste away. In Byzantium were more palaces than most cities had temples, and more temples than cities had houses. And at the heart of the conurbation, glory among glories, stood the Pantheon Kyklos Sophia, the Circle of Wisdom.
"Its dome could cover any temple in Britain; it reaches to the sky, the stars. It contains the stars: a thousand lanterns of gold, each one the sacred light of a different deity. To enter it is itself worship."
"Who is your god?" Hywel said, nearly whispering.
"The same as the builders of Kyklos Sophia worshiped. The perfection of the curve. The meeting of the stones. Time and energy and precision; those are the wizard's true gods, though I daresay we find others more convenient to curse by."
Hywel's thoughts were drawn suddenly back. "Teach me about magic."
Ptolemy sighed. "They are taking me to Eboracum... your York, where there is a Pantheon, to kill me. Perhaps York will cause me to think of the City before I die."
"You said you would teach me."
"I said that I would tell you all I know."
Hywel nodded.
"Magic destroys," Ptolemy said. "Every spell, enchantment, effect, ruins the worker a little more. If you are strong-willed, the wrecking takes a little longer... but it happens in the end, just the same."
Ptolemy was silent. Hywel waited, suddenly fearing Ptolemy would say what indeed he did: "That is all I know."
Hywel trembled. This time there was no difficulty in hating. He looked at the chains. Ptolemy's eyes shut tight and his face went white.
Hywel felt a rumbling, not physical but mental. He stared at the iron wrapping Ptolemy's chest. His eyes felt hot. He moved his hands, fingers curling.
The chain clinked and slithered tight, squeezing the wizard's chest. Little creases formed in his shirt and gown, like cracks.
Hywel gaped. His fingers tightened. So did Ptolemy's chains, without the touch of hands.
Ptolemy's head turned. "If you kill me—" Then his air ran out.
Hywel relaxed his fingers. The chain slackened. Ptolemy gulped a breath.
Hywel's head hurt. His limbs felt weak, limp, and his heart beat fast, as if he had been running very hard. He tried to stand, but his legs only flopped on the straw. He knew that Ptolemy would kill him now; still, he tried to crawl away with arms that were soft tallow.
I will not hurt you, novice, said the voice inside his head. Your strength will return. This is your first lesson.
Hywel turned back to Ptolemy, who sat back, head cocked to one side, eyes dark and very deep.
"Time and energy," Ptolemy said quietly, "never energy alone. Spirit is to matter at... I've forgotten the numbers; some astounding ratio. You cannot push down a stone wall with your hands... but if you will wait, find the keystone of the wall, the effort you can make will produce the result you want. So with magic. And the stones, falling, will crush something. So with magic.
"Can you walk now, Hywel?"
Hywel found that he could.
"Then good night... novice
."
Hywel staggered from the barn without taking the plate or lantern. He looked back once at Ptolemy; the wizard was smiling at him, teeth bare and white, and there was nothing like love in the look.
Dafydd and Nansi were in the kitchen when Hywel came in; the room was lit poorly by a tallow-dip. Dafydd was drinking from a glass goblet; Hywel could smell the strong brandy.
Nansi said, "You ought be in bed."
"I did..." Hywel was unsteady, as when he drank too much beer. "I did a magic."
"The Bezant?" Dafydd said, and Hywel saw his hand tighten on the glass, as if he might throw it.
"I did. I'm a...wizard."
Dafydd tensed further. Nansi touched his wrist, and he relaxed ... no, collapsed, as if he were dying right there in his chair. "Your uncle," he said weakly.
"My...uncle was a wizard?" Dafydd had not ever spoken on Hywel's ancestors, except to say they were all dead fighting.
Nansi said "Your grandmother was Owain Glyn Dwr's sister." Just like that. Just as if it were nothing at all."
"Listen, Hywel... son," Dafydd said, in a thick, tired voice. "Glyn Dwr allied with the Bezants. They sent wizards, soldiers. They said they'd help Owain make Wales free. He trusted 'em... and Owain's trust wasn't earned light, I know."
He drank more brandy. "I don't know if they ever meant to help... or if they did, but turned their coats... or if they just honest lost; but the fact is, they aided Owain. And Owain's gone. And that Empire's surely not."
"Ogmius choke me if I offer love to English soldiers, Sucellus break my head if I bow to an English king... but if they want to cut off that wizard's head they can have my axe and Esus bless the blow."
Hywel was in no danger of tears this time, tired as he was; now at last he knew whom he could trust.
