Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  As bad as reading was, he reserved his real despair for the examinations, each one an exercise in humility and humiliation. The tests came in many forms, and in different fashions, administered by different masters. But they came relentlessly. For two long winter weeks the two knights magi were shuffled from room to room in the labyrinthine campus and had their knowledge of magic tested by the acknowledged masters of the land.

  Not their powers – both had power far beyond the lot of masters put together – but what they knew about their power, and how to efficiently manifest it.

  Power, as Master Secul, the esteemed lecturer in the Philosophy of Magic, had told them repeatedly, was pointless without control, and control could only come through understanding. And understanding could only come through knowledge. And knowledge could only come through study.

  Long, tedious, odious hours of study.

  Tyndal thought that was bullshit, of course – he’d seen just how useful raw power could be. But he humored the magical adepts because, in truth, the young mage was intimidated by the sheer age and gravity of the men and women who were examining and tutoring him.

  He was a mage, a warmage-in-training, and a nascent Knight Mage. The folk of Inarion Academy were true wizards, adepts who had devoted their lives to the study of the Art he had just begun to tame. The sixteen-year old could not help but feel intimidated. And respectful.

  So he answered their questions, as best he could, even when – regrettably – he had to answer “I don’t know” to whole areas of study his master had neglected to explain to him – or, if he was honest, he had neglected to recall because he was distracted at the time. He could read, and did, but remembering what he’d read – especially now, when he had so much to read – was a trial.

  Master Secul said as much, when he walked Tyndal down to the dining hall after his particularly exhausting morning of examinations in Magical Philosophy and History. The old wizard was almost apologetic about his findings.

  “Lad, I cannot fault your master for his instruction. The education an apprentice undertakes is by its nature a different experience than Imperial Academy training,” he explained, sympathetically. “Far more emphasis on practical magic, far less on theory – it’s to be expected. But,” he added, with a kind twinkle in his eye, “it does help if the student is willing to remember the boring parts, not just the parts he’s interested in. Your friend Rondal seems to have more of a knack for that,” he added. That didn’t help matters.

  “Rondal is my junior apprentice, not my friend,” Tyndal snapped back automatically. That was about all he could correct of the man’s assessment, however. He couldn’t argue with the rest. Rondal seemed to have a facility for remembering the most obscure and occult aspects of magic, and had a genuine understanding of its workings.

  Tyndal guessed a lot.

  That put the two boys at odds frequently in matters arcane. They had different Talents, in addition to different magical educations, so there were often gaps in their spellcasting abilities, gaps Master Min had tried to repair, but . . . he had been busy of late. But Rondal’s superior, smug attitude about his abilities and knowledge had made an already tense situation almost unbearable.

  It had been hard, living with Rondal. Since they had embarked together downriver from Sevendor a few days after Yule, they traveled in stony silence or conducted gruff arguments of mutual antipathy, each finding fault in everything the other did. Rondal was a devious know-it-all, in Tyndal’s opinion, always ready to kiss an arse or cite a rule. He never wanted to actually do anything.

  Tyndal, on the other hand, considered himself a man of action. He loved magic, of course, but he loved it for its power and utility, not for its subtlety. The difference in approach infected their styles. It also fueled their rivalry. Rondal had a nasty habit of adhering to the letter of the rules, even when it was clear a little improvisation was called for. Tyndal could only imagine how far advanced he might be if he didn’t have Rondal’s cautious nature constantly slowing things down.

  As fervently as he felt that, Master Secul had not thought it legitimate to blame his fellow for his own failures.

  “Junior or not, academically speaking he’s about three years ahead of you,” Master Secul said, frankly. “He’s nearly ready to take his journeyman exams. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “I know,” Tyndal sighed, defeated. “I’m still . . . learning.”

  The old wizard laughed. “Oh, we’re all still learning, lad. Myself more than anyone. But there is a definite need for some remedial work on your part. And it’s not a lack of intelligence. I think it’s more a lack of exposure. Do you know how many books Rondal has read?” he asked, his voice challenging him a little.

  “Thousands?” Tyndal asked, sarcastically.

  “Closer to two hundred,” Master Secul smiled. “His first master apparently had a decent library, and your current master has made a point of giving him more of the basic texts to read. And he’s made a point of borrowing books or reading them when they are available. From what I’ve seen you . . . haven’t.”

  “What? He’s been reading books he didn’t have to read?” he asked in disbelief. That sounded like signing up for extra bonus torture. Just like a miserable little snot like Rondal to kiss ass at that level.

  “Oh, my, yes. He’s made a point of it. He’s read some rather obscure works in the libraries of Castabriel, for instance. Weren’t you there, for King Rard’s coronation?” the wizard prompted.

  Tyndal suppressed a frustrated sigh. Yes, he had been there when Duke Rard had become King Rard, but he had been too busy attending receptions and running errands and standing around in his tabard looking Mage Knight-ly to waste his time with mere reading.

  And there had been the girls . . . plenty of city girls were curious about the stories a dashing young knight mage from the deepest Wilderlands could tell them in private. Soft, sweet-smelling girls who had sweet voices and gentle hands and a terrible curiosity about his many adventures. He’d done his best to entertain them when he was at the capital. Rondal, on the other hand, had studiously avoided girls in the capital and had kept to the libraries when not required to be elsewhere.

  Tyndal had thought he was an idiot, at the time. He was reconsidering that estimation now, despite his reluctance to do so. But a choice between girls and books . . . well, he never had considered the latter more important than the former. Until now.

  “And how many books have you read?” prompted Master Secul.

  “Fourteen,” he said, proudly. And he had. From the first primers Master Minalan had used to teach him how to read to the basic texts on magical theory and practice he’d copied in his own crude hand, to more specific books on various areas of magic. He’d even read a book of poetry, once, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. “That was all we had, back up in the Mindens,” he said, defensively as he watched the master’s face. “And since then my time to read has been . . . limited.”

  He almost felt justified reminding the old man just why it had been limited – he had been fighting goblins and protecting the people and other useful stuff instead of becoming a bookworm.

  “So you can see my point,” Secul said, ignoring the lad’s sarcasm. “You’ve read fourteen books, and Sir Rondal has read a hundred and eighty or so. It’s not that he’s more intelligent,” Secul added in a quieter, more conspiratorial voice, “it’s that he’s just read more. He’s educated himself. That’s all the journeyman exams are for – to see if you have the knowledge you need to practice magic at the professional level.”

  “But that takes years!” Tyndal exploded, angrily. “We haven’t got years!”

  “It does take time,” agreed the teacher, as he opened the door to the dining hall, “but it also takes opportunity. And here you have a small measure of both,” he reminded him, as the noise of the assembled students forced him to raise his voice. “Inarion Academy has an excellent library, more than one, free to all students – save some restricted texts. All may ma
ke use of it. And you are to be here at least another five weeks, if not more. Your master has asked that you stay and study until you can pass at least the first two forms.”

  Tyndal’s heart fell, but he knew there was no arguing the point. When Master Minalan made up his mind on something, there was just no budging the most powerful mage in the world.

  “But I’ll be here forever!” Tyndal whined, dejectedly, as he considered the prospect. “I’ll grow old and gray while I struggle through all of . . . that!”

  “Just play to your strength, lad,” the old sage advised him, kindly. “Every mage has rajira,” he said, referring to the magical Talent that allowed them to work their will upon the universe through their spells. “And every mage has a varied measure . . . but every mage has strong points he can often use to compensate for the weak ones.”

  “I’m a warmage,” Tyndal said, as he stared out across the sea of tables where his fellow students were dining. “Unless I can hack and slash my way through the library . . .”

  “Please don’t,” the wizard said, sharply. “It took five centuries to assemble, and I don’t think I could restrain the faculty from slaying you on the spot if you did so. What would you say your greatest strength is?”

  “Swordplay,” Tyndal said, knowing it was not the answer Master Secul was looking for. To his surprise, the old mage did not reject it as an analogy.

  “Then you might consider that learning swordplay is but another discipline you have studied. Approach the others as you approach swordplay, and you may find your studies bearing riper fruit. Mistress Selvedine will be examining you for your knowledge of the Lesser Elements after lunch in the Monk’s Study,” he reminded him. “Good day, Sir Tyndal, and good luck.” With that he left the depressed young mage staring at door of the crowded dining room, looking for a spot.

  All of the regular tables were filled, of course – seating assignments had been handed down at the beginning of the term, and were rigorously enforced. He had to eat at the “special” tables, the ones designated for guests and visiting dignitaries. They were at the front of the room, on the dais just below the Master’s Table . . . where everyone could stare at him.

  Worse, Rondal was already there. And he had a book sitting open next to his trencher. Could he not even eat without reading?

  Tyndal was starting to resent Rondal, resent him mightily, as the examination process continued. The reminders of Rondal’s successes and his failures seemed to come hourly. The scrawny, brown-headed apprentice had zoomed through the basic First Form examinations quickly, and had done most of the Second Form the second week, earning passing grades in biology, natural science, symbology, basic elemental theory, physics, magic theory and philosophy, mathematics and practical cantrips.

  Now he was into the beginning stages of the Third Form: high elemental magic, alchemy, thermomantics, photomantics, magical history, thaumaturgy, spellcraft, geometry. Every master they’d had in common had mentioned how impressive Rondal was, before learning just how poorly trained Tyndal was.

  Worse even than that humiliation was Rondal’s attitude. He was rarely prideful and almost never boasted about his more advanced education. Instead he was humble, displaying a pronounced humility in the face of his opportunity. In fact, he was frequently apologetic and tried to be helpful to Tyndal as he struggled through the sea of parchment. It was perhaps his most annoying trait.

  There was no avoiding him, however. He had to eat. And they had been quartered in the same room, upon their master’s request. That didn’t mean they had to talk overmuch, he reasoned.

  Sighing and steeling himself for the encounter, he pulled a trencher from the great basket at the serving table, added a few sausages, beans and some vegetables, sliced off a wedge of cheese, and poured an earthenware mug of the weak ale they served before he made his way to the spot directly across from Rondal. Tyndal was not one to avoid a confrontation, even when he was not eager for it.

  “How did you fare?” Rondal asked quietly, as he sipped his ale.

  “Beastly,” Tyndal admitted, despite his inclination not to discuss it. “I know as much about the Philosophy of Magic as I do necromancy, now.” Since neither boy had studied that obscure branch of their Art, Rondal nodded his head.

  “Don’t worry,” his fellow soothed, “Philosophy of Magic isn’t that important. Not really,” he added, unconvincingly as Tyndal drank.

  “Do you really think Master Min is going to share that opinion?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he put down his mug. The ale was terrible here. Watery, like it was brewed in a mop bucket. He swallowed half of his mug in his first pull.

  “No,” Rondal admitted. “But I can—”

  “Don’t,” Tyndal said, sharply, setting down his mug with a thud. “If I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I don’t need you to make my excuses for me!”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest I do,” Rondal said, indignantly. “I was just going to try to explain that you hadn’t had the time to immerse yourself in the proper texts on Philosophy of Magic. It’s First Form stuff. Hells, the only reason I know so much about it is because Garky kept throwing The Mirror Beckons at me, instead of teaching me anything useful. I’ve read that monstrosity four times,” he said, disgustedly.

  “I haven’t even read it once,” Tyndal snapped.

  “There are three copies in the library,” Rondal suggested. “It’s only about a hundred, a hundred and twenty pages.”

  “That would take me days!” Tyndal said, frustrated. “And I wouldn’t know half of the words in it! It’s mostly in High Perwynese. I can barely read Narasi.”

  “Just relax and read it,” Rondal urged. “It’s really not that hard. I can help you with the—”

  “I don’t need your help!” Tyndal said, angrily. “I will fail on my own, thank you!”

  Rondal blinked. “Ishi’s tits, Tyn. Calm down. I’m not trying to make you feel like an idiot. I just want to help.”

  “I don’t see what the point of all of this is, anyway,” he said, sourly, as he started in on the sausage. “We’re High Magi – hells, we’re Knights Magi. All of this remedial crap is just insulting, after what we’ve done!”

  “It’s not about what we have done,” Rondal said, patiently, “it’s about what we know. This isn’t a punishment, Tyn. This is to help us get more out of our witchstones. Make us more useful. Think of it that way.”

  Rondal let Tyndal finish his meal in silence, as he went back to the book he was reading. Tyndal noted with annoyance from the script that it was entirely in the flowing script of High Perwynese – a language he barely recognized, let alone could read fluently.

  Unfortunately, most of the classic texts on magic that he was expected to know were in the ancient tongue of the Archmagi, not the barbaric, runic script of the Narasi he knew . . . sort of. His frustration almost palpable, he finished his meal as quickly as possible and stood up.

  Rondal’s eyes followed him. “Where are you going?”

  “To the one place here where I know what I’m doing,” Tyndal shot back. “The practice yard.”

  * * *

  Since the first time Tyndal had held a blade in earnest – his master’s long Farisi “knife,” a prize of war from the Farisian campaign he had given him the night the goblins had invaded – Tyndal had found a sense of power and control in swordplay that eluded him otherwise. While he loved magic, the song of steel and footwork and sweat was what drew him when he needed to think.

  He had taken every opportunity to practice with the blade. From the long days during the siege of Boval Castle, to the few weeks spent at this very academy as a refugee, to the brutally active Battle of Timberwatch, where he had been able to spar with some of the finest blade masters he knew, he had learned all he could to become a better swordsman.

  He had even spent hours and hours with Sir Cei and Sir Forondo, back at Sevendor Castle, working on the finer points of his technique. And of course his master had made a point of passing along all the
wisdom of steel he possessed when he had begun training his apprentice as a warmage.

  Inarion Academy was in a peaceful village, and its new Royal Charter affirming its rights and prerogatives under the new Kingdom ensured that it could not be attacked by its neighbors the way most feudal domains could be.

  But that didn’t mean that the school lacked guards. A full guardhouse, with nine veterans enjoying the easy duty, stood at the entrance of the school. Most students passed by without even noticing the burly men who guarded their peaceful studies. Tyndal could not pass by without watching.

  He wasn’t entirely alone in his interest. Most of the students at the Academy were from noble families, and until the emergence of their rajira, their Talent for magic, they had trained to be knights and warriors. To those who found an affinity with arms, the prospect of a life of books instead of steel was as appalling as Tyndal found them. Every day one or two of the students would sneak down to the practice yard out behind the guardhouse and work out with the guardsmen.

  Tyndal had acquaintance of them since the first time he had come to Inarion – through the magical portal of the molopor from Boval, a refugee fleeing an invasion. The weeks he had spent here while the authorities sorted out what to do with the four thousand Bovali suddenly appearing in the courtyard had introduced the apprentice to the guard captain, Ancient Galdan, a grizzled old mercenary with a limp and a strange accent.

  Galdan had been in dozens of campaigns and hundreds of fights, but age and weariness had convinced him to apply for an easy position guarding snotty magical students.

  He’d liked Tyndal from the first, partially because he wasn’t a student, and partially because Galdan was Wilderlands-born himself, he said, from just south of Vorone, and he liked Tyndal’s enthusiastic approach to swordplay. He’d started working with the lad back then, in his off time, right up until Tyndal departed for Tudry-on-Burine with his master’s pregnant intended bride. Now that he was back, a year older and a few campaigns more experienced, the old soldier enjoyed working with him even more.