by Joseph Lallo
In a flash she was gone.
"What just happened?" Myranda asked.
"It would seem you are caught in a little power struggle. That makes two of the Highest Masters who have demanded you be passed right to them. This is a huge opportunity for you. If you pick things up quickly, you can trim years off of the path to mastery! Outstanding!" he said.
"Air magic, fire magic. I never said I wanted to learn anything like that. All I ever wanted was to heal people," Myranda said.
"Don't worry, you'll have your white magic training. It is actually the smallest of our areas of study. Not many white wizards found it necessary to experience trial by beast," he said. "But, in addition, we require that you reach at least a basic understanding of all four elemental magics. I believe I mentioned that."
"I am not sure I like her. Ayna, I mean," Myranda said.
"That's all right. By the time you're through with her you will be quite sure that you don't like her," he said.
"How comforting," she said flatly. "What are these buildings?"
Deacon looked about.
"Well, this hut is the home of Caloth. He is an apprentice to Twila right now. She is one of our few dedicated white wizards. That is the hut of Milla. She is fresh out of elemental training and working on her first steps into purely black magic," he said.
"Why do you allow black magic here?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't we? It is a vast and highly developed field," he said.
"But it is evil," she said.
"Oh, no. Magic is a tool. It is no more evil than a hammer or a saw. I see you are confused, and understandably. You see, there are as many different interpretations and classifications of magic as there are languages and peoples in this world. This can cause difficulty when there is a clash in the way magics are understood between Master and pupil. As a result, we have chosen one set of classes that we feel is most accurate and made it standard," he said.
"Go on," Myranda said.
"Well, black magic is first. Quoting our founder, 'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole intention of damaging or destroying a physical or spiritual form shall this day forward be known as black magic.' It is the mystic equivalent of a sword. It is only evil if it is used for evil, though I have been told the more common use of the phrase black magic in the outside world is as a blanket term for acts of evil through magic. Granted, it is the area that lends itself most readily to dark intentions," he said.
"Then white magic is the opposite? It heals," she said.
"'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole intention of healing or enhancing a physical or spiritual form shall this day forward be known as white magic,'" he quoted.
"Then why do you have people who specialize in fire and air?" she asked.
"Well, the pure magics are specifically non-elemental. Thus the four elements, in our system at least, are considered separately. Within each elemental class, spells are said to have white or black alignments if they are most commonly used to help or hurt, respectively. Either that or they are considered neutral, or gray," he said.
"Gray?" she asked.
Deacon tugged at his gray tunic.
"My specialty. In the words of our founder, 'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with no clear intention or ability to purely aid or injure shall this day forward be known as gray magic.' This is simultaneously the largest and most neglected of the classes of magic," he said.
"Why is that?" she asked.
"Well, gray magic is very much the basis, as well as the next logical extension of, all other magics. As a result, it is very intuitive, and all other wizards know at least a bit of it. A person who devotes his life to the study and development of gray magic is something akin to a chef who specializes in boiling water or a poet who specializes in punctuation. No one will deny the importance of the area, but few will call for work to be done to improve it," he said.
"Why did you become interested in it, then?" she wondered.
"It wasn't the subject that interested me, it was the practitioner. We had only one wizard who was at all versed in the complexities of gray. His name was Gilliam, and he seemed to have devoted his life to being as different from the rest of the world as possible. He was something of a scoundrel. You see, illusions are included in my area, and they were his forte. He could make it appear that he had done anything. Cure the sick, summon creatures, even raise the dead. None of it was real, but he made it seem so long enough to make off with the reward for solving the problem at hand.
"He entered the cave in hopes of conjuring up an illusion of the mythic beast so that he could chase it outside to kill in the view of all around, thus stealing the position of the world's finest warrior. He became lost on the return trip and ended in this place. Before long, he began to irritate the other people here. When I was growing up, I found him to be the most entertaining thing in my life. By the time I was old enough to know why he had no respect among us, I was already hopelessly addicted to his brand of magic," Deacon reminisced.
"Have you managed to add any respect to the field?" Myranda asked.
"I am only twenty-five. Gilliam died six years ago--and, unfortunately for me, he never recorded a single page of his methods. He resented the lack of respect that the others showed his work, so he kept his ways secret. Over the eight years that I studied under him, I managed to memorize the majority of what he had to teach, and I have been spending the years since his death scribing everything he taught. I have barely had time to develop a single spell of my own," he said.
"That spell you used on me, to help me after I got out of the water. What about that one?" she asked.
"That is one of mine . . . well, a variation on one of his. It is a specialized form of transformation," he said.
"Why does everyone seem concerned when they learn you tried it on me?" she said.
"Oh, don't listen to them. They want to chide me about the fact that I have been toying with the idea for so long. Also, transformation was the spell that killed Gilliam. Well, transubstantiation," he said.
"What!?" she gasped.
"Relax, I worked out the fatal flaws. At least, I think I did. You see, he used a full change in his version of transformation, and I use a shift. The difference is that when you cast a change, you must cast a counter spell to change back. When you cast a shift, the transformation ends when the spell ends," he said.
"What happened to him?" Myranda wondered, more than a bit disturbed at the potentially fatal spell she had been used to test.
"I'll show you," he said.
Myranda swallowed hard and followed as he led her to a small hut in the seaward portion of the village. Beside it was a statue, immaculately carved, of an elfin gentleman with his hands out. Hanging from one hand was a gold chain with a rather rough-cut crystal mounted in it.
"Behold, Gilliam," he said.
"A statue was made of him? Or . . ." she questioned, slowly realizing the truth. "Oh my goodness . . ."
"He wanted to show me how a man could change himself to stone and back again. He succeeded at half," he said. "Poor fellow started to change before he finished the spell. He foolishly cast it in the wrong order. As a result, he did not include the ability for his new form to store his consciousness, so when the change occurred, his soul just drifted away. I could change him back--I have discovered the method--but I would merely be bringing back his corpse. I thought this was a more fitting memorial," Deacon said.
"It's so sad," she said.
"Indeed. At any rate, his death left us without a gray Master, so the task fell to me," he said, "and it has consumed me ever since. I have seldom been asked to aid with the research of others, and I have never had a student. This is my life. Please, come inside."
He pushed open the door to the hut and the pair entered.
As soon as Deacon and Myranda cross
ed the threshold of the hut, a series of crystals mounted in lamps flared to life, filling the interior with light. Inside, there was a single room that resembled Wolloff's tower, in that it was utterly filled with books. Unlike the tower, though, there was order. All of the books were stored on shelves, the titles clearly inked, though in another language.
Vials and canisters were stored in a separate shelf with the utmost of care. In one corner, there was a bed that looked as though it hadn't been used in a week. At the center of the room was a desk with a crystal for light, an open book, and the only chair in the room. The immaculate room was in stark contrast to its resident. Deacon's dark brown hair was in a constant state of chaos. His clothes were in a terrible state of disrepair, and the side of his left hand was apparently permanently stained with ink.
He walked up to his desk, where a book with blank pages lay open.
"This is your hut?" she asked.
"Indeed it is," he answered as he led her inside. "Oh, no."
"What?" Myranda asked.
"I failed to refill the ink. I have to write at least a dozen pages over again," he said, selecting a canister from one of the shelves.
"What do you mean? How could you fail to notice that you had run out of ink until after you'd written pages?" she asked.
"Oh, I wasn't writing in this book, I was writing in this one," Deacon explained, pulling the ubiquitous tome from his bag and laying it on the table.
Myranda gave a long, confused stare.
"Watch," he said.
First, he refilled the ink. Next, He opened the book from his bag and pulled the stylus from behind his ear. After flipping through his book to see that there were far more than a dozen pages to be recorded, he found the first page and began to trace over the first word. As he did so, the quill on the desk rose up and dipped itself in the ink. It then floated to the blank page and began to duplicate the strokes made by the original. Deacon reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew the crystal. Clutching it briefly, he removed his hand from the stylus. Without skipping a beat, the stylus continued tracing over the words on its own. He stood back with a smile as the words from the page were transcribed automatically.
"Had I been bright enough to keep the ink bottle filled, this would have been finished just a few moments after I had stopping writing in my travel book," he grumbled.
"That is incredible!" she said.
"If that is incredible, then you are quite easily impressed. I was able to perform that particular feat when I was twelve years old," he said, putting the crystal away.
"Twelve!? When did you start learning magic?" she asked.
"Shortly after I was born. As a matter of fact, my first words were an incantation. I believe that it was . . . Oh, what did they tell me? Illuminate. I would babble the words over and over and the little crystal that they had given me would start to glow," he said.
"This is a wonderful place," Myranda said, walking about and looking over the books.
"Now that I can agree with," Deacon said, turning to make certain that the page automatically turned as it should.
"Did you write all of these?" Myranda asked.
"Well, I wouldn't say that I was the author, but I put ink to my former teacher's ideas," he said.
"And they are all on the same subject?" she wondered.
"Well, different shades, but all gray," he answered.
"Then why are the titles in different languages?" she asked, as she leafed through a book to discover a language that she absolutely could not identify.
"Oh, that. Well, as you have no doubt noticed, very few people here speak the same language. One of the policies of our founder requires each resident of Entwell to learn to understand each and every other language. In this way, everyone may speak whatever language that he or she is most comfortable with without fear of being misunderstood. I, for one, was fascinated with the different tongues. Language became something of a hobby for me, and I am Entwell's unofficial expert on it. To stay sharp, I alternate which language I use with each book," he said.
"But I speak Northern and Tresson. I was unaware that there were different languages to be had," she said.
"Perhaps not now, but our village has existed for six hundred years. Until the war started, there were eleven languages in common use on this continent alone. The language known as Northern was originally called Varden. It was spoken in Kenvard and Ulvard, though the Ulvardians spoke a different dialect. Vulcrest spoke a language called Crich. The eight kingdoms that make up the Tressor region spoke nine different languages prior to joining together.
"Then there are the small continents to the east and their languages. And, of course, the dead languages. There are a handful of non-spoken languages, as well. Finally, there are the beast languages. All told, there are no less than thirty, and I know them all," he said.
"You should be proud," she said.
"I am," he said.
Myranda was mystified by the number of books as she looked around. Wolloff had had his share, to be sure, but these were all hand-written by Deacon himself. The amount of work it must have taken was mind boggling.
"I have only been to two libraries. One was in a monastery to the west of my former hometown. The other was just recently in the tower of a wizard called Wolloff. This puts Wolloff's collection to shame, and rivals the monastery," she said.
"It is not a contest. This is merely how I have chosen to fill my days," he said. "Now as for--"
There was a knock at the still-open doorway that interrupted him. It was one of the many men that Myranda had seen milling about in the village as they were walking earlier. He delivered some sort of handwritten message to Deacon, who thanked him in what must have been his native language. After reading the note, he folded it and placed it in his pocket.
"Well, the time has come. The Elder wants to see the newcomers now. Let us not keep her waiting," he said.
"We will have to awaken Myn and bring Leo," Deacon explained, leading her out the door. "The Elder will need to see them as well."
"Who is the Elder? Why do we have to see her?" Myranda asked.
Deacon answered as they walked.
"The Elder is the most learned member of our ranks. She represents the very wisest and balanced of the Masters, and is one of only two Archmages. She is essentially our leader, making sure that all relevant decisions are well-made. She will determine what skills you and your friends have, and what training will suit you best. In fact, despite the fact that Solomon and Ayna both chose you to be their student, the Elder must be the one to allow it. If she thinks poorly of the choice, then you will have to work your way through the ranks like everyone else," he said.
The two reached Myranda's hut, where Myn was still sleeping. Deacon focused a brief flash of concentration on her and she was immediately awake. She thanked Deacon by pouncing on him once again for being too close to Myranda. With the dragon keeping the pair carefully separated, Deacon and Myranda sought out the healer's hut, where Leo was just testing out his freshly repaired legs. Myn scampered about him while Myranda gave him a stern look.
Finally, the group entered the large hut at the center of a very large courtyard in the middle of the village. Inside it was solemn as a church. Unlike the crystals that gave light to the other huts, this one was lit entirely with flickering candles. At the back of the room, in a simple wooden chair, was the woman who could only be the Elder that they spoke of. She did not appear very old, but one glimpse of her told of a wisdom that would have taken two lifetimes to gain. She was dressed as simply as the others; only a gold-colored sash draped about her neck made her stand out. Her hair was gray and pulled gracefully back behind her shoulders. She was clearly elfin in nature, with a tall, thin physique and distinctive ears.
The only other occupants of the room were a handful of men and women who were busy at various tasks, mostly involving large leather-bound books.
When the three stood before her, Deacon introduced them in yet an
other new language. Myranda bowed when she heard her name. Leo stood firm when his was spoken. Myn had locked her gaze on the Elder the moment she had seen her, and refused to look away. The little dragon must have sensed something about her, felt her power, and was entranced by it. The Elder surveyed the trio with a measuring stare. Finally she spoke, her voice clear and confident. The language matched that of Deacon.
"The girl will be a fine wizard. Her mind is strong and her heart is pure. The malthrope may go. I am satisfied with his past accomplishments here. Allow him whatever he requires to further himself. The dragon is still young. Her potential is great. See that she is brought before Solomon. And prepare them. I want each ready with the coming of the blue moon. They must witness the ceremony," she decreed in her complex language.
Leo, clearly understanding her words, took his leave, while Myranda stood confused.
"Just one moment! I will not stand for this!" came a gruff voice from the door, shattering the solemn environment. He, too, spoke the strange language.
Barging into the hut was a dwarf. He wore a look of anger on his bearded face. Every inch of him seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dirt, as though he had spent the day rolling around on the ground. His clothes were brown, though a few shades darker than the tailor had intended, and he was brandishing staff that appeared to be nothing more than a tree root with an unrefined crystal tangled at one end. Myn quickly positioned herself between the intruder and Myranda as the dwarf launched into a rant.
"I will not let this stand! Ayna has just come to me grinning that infuriating grin and twittering about this new student of hers, and how after Solomon finishes with her, she will see what real magic is. I had heard of no newcomers, and my underlings had seen neither hide nor hair either. So, I ask you, why would two of our Masters be anticipating a student that had not had even the most rudimentary of earth training? Because I am being passed over!
"None of you have ever given Earth magic the respect it deserves, and now you have gone to ridiculous lengths to hide the new students from me for the duration of their training. And what is she doing traipsing about with Deacon? He is not even a part of the curriculum!" he raged, all without Myranda understanding a word.
