He found the spell eventually, of course. It was considered a minor curiosity, of dubious value, but one could speed perceptions alone, without the power-consuming enhancements. And the spell was simple, once you grasped the concept.
He tried it out. A scroll he was to read – a monograph on sigils – lay before him. Tyndal summoned power, formed the necessary symbols in his head, and cast the spell . . . but nothing seemed to happen.
He thought he had futzed it, until he noted how slowly a moth flew through his magelight.
Grinning, he began reading the monograph, doing his best to absorb the material as he normally would. It wasn’t a huge scroll – only eight feet of parchment – but he was done before the moth had finished flying through his magelight.
He let the spell fail, and his perceptions returned to normal. His retention of the information, he found, was completely intact.
Delighted, he then cast the memory spell, and began to chew through the stack of scrolls and books with blinding speed.
* * *
The next day passed in a daze. While Tyndal’s discovery had allowed him to read four books in one night, as well as a dozen scrolls, his mind could only understand a limited part of them. As it was, his dreams were filled with the writings of obscure magi and perturbations in the Otherworld. But he remembered what he’d read. He awoke feeling barely refreshed, and followed his assigned tutoring as best he could.
After a disappointing morning working on Photmantics theory with Master Honreed, instead of working out in the yard Tyndal went back to the Manciple’s Library, where he wouldn’t be disturbed, and began the process of stuffing his brain anew. With dedication and devotion, he managed to read another six books before dinner - more than he’d read in his first six months’ apprenticeship.
Even though the spell took little power, the mental energy required was immense. He ate voraciously that evening, heading back to the serving table for seconds and thirds. He was so engrossed in his meat that he did not see the lovely alchemist come up behind him.
“I didn’t see you fighting today,” Estasia said, shyly, approaching him as everyone was finishing their meal. She looked very attractive today. Her hair was perfectly combed under her wimple, her dress a simple but elegant Remeran style in a dark red velvet. It suited her complexion. And her figure.
But he was too wise to note it to her – the remark may have flattered her, but it also might reveal to plainly Tyndal’s interest in her. He didn’t mind being interested in her, but the moment she knew he was interested in her, according to the Laws of Love, she would actually become less interested in him. While it might be confusing, he could see Sire Rose’s point.
“Too busy studying,” Tyndal said, looking at her with his mouth full.
She looked like she was about to deliver a witty response to which he could repay a wittier reply, thus escalating into more and more when they were suddenly interrupted -- by the person he wanted to see the least, at the moment, barring Sheruel the Dead God. That idiot Rondal.
“I find that incredibly difficult to believe,” Rondal said, setting down his trencher next to Tyndal’s and bowing far too low for the occasion. Moron. “Hello, milady, I’m Sir Rondal of Sevendor, this brutish thug’s junior apprentice.” He was trying to sound interesting and important and playful, all at the same time -- which was what Sire Rose and his commentators recommended -- but his delivery was embarassingly bad.
“I’m Estasia,” the pretty student replied to the boy, without visible enthusiasm. She ignored him and kept talking to Tyndal -- a minor victory. “So why didn’t you really fight today?”
“It’s not fighting, it’s sparring,” Tyndal explained, swallowing. “Whole different thing. I’m just practicing. Working up a sweat.”
Estasia wrinkled her nose at the thought, but she didn’t seem to mind the image it invoked. “Well, if you plan on sparring tomorrow, let me know,” she asked. “I find it entertaining to watch. Like a cockfight.”
“I’ll see if I can oblige,” he said with a shy smile. Her beautiful brown eyes caught his, and she caught her breath and looked away.
“I’m a knight mage, too,” Rondal said, lamely.
“I know,” Estasia said. “I heard. I’ll see you anon, Tyndal!”
“So it’s ‘Tyndal’, not ‘Sir Tyndal’,” Rondal groused, as the shapely mage left the hall with grace and a backward glance over her shoulder. “And she’s far more beautiful than you gave her credit for!”
“I didn’t think you were interested in her looks,” taunted Tyndal, feeling cocky. “I thought you lusted for her mind?”
“Well, if the mind happens to have . . . a couple of heavy thoughts like that associated with it, all the better!” Rondal blushed.
“She’s pretty,” conceded Tyndal. “But I wouldn’t spend any coin on it, in your boots. She seems to have eyes for me, not you.”
“But I’m the smart one!” Rondal protested. “She’s supposed to like the smart ones!”
Tyndal laughed and shook his head. “You sure don’t know much about girls, do you, Ron?”
“Does anyone?” asked Rondal, miserably.
“If I said ‘yes’, would you believe me?” asked Tyndal, studying his fellow apprentice for once. Perhaps if he gave him some actual, useful advice about girls he’d quit being so . . . painfully awkward. Certainly, it made Tyndal look that much better, but he didn’t need the help.
Rondal studied him back, warily. “Mayhap,” he admitted, grudgingly, just loud enough for Tyndal to hear it. He looked around nervously. “I’m . . . kind of bad at it. So bad Lady Alya and Lady Estret tried to help.”
Tyndal scowled good-naturedly. “I thought as much. I know not what our mistress told you, but . . . well, they all say they like smart ones. Or funny ones. Or rich ones. Or good ones. But . . . well, Ishi has her own ideas about that. Girls . . . girls tend to like a certain kind of man. And if you are not that kind of man - or can’t portray him effectively - then you will be, at best, a lady’s second choice. An a lady for whom you are the second choice, well, she is less likely to share your feelings. Therefore, you need to learn how to be that kind of man . . . or fake it convincingly,” he added, as he saw his fellow’s face grow more ashen.
“Lady Alya told me all I needed was to be true to my pleasant character and treat ladies with courtesy and deference, and I would soon have their attention in abundance,” he said defensively. Tyndal could tell that he doubted the words even as he said them.
“And she’s seduced how many girls?” snorted Tyndal. “I may not know a lot about women, Ron, but one thing I do know is that they rarely tell you what you really need to know about courting one. Indeed, their advice often is worse than your own pathetic bumbling. And you wouldn’t think that possible.”
Rondal did not contest his assessment. While Tyndal did not have much familiarity with girls – or at least not as much as he would have preferred – what he had far outweighed the older boy’s experience.
“So tell me, oh wise master, where lies the key to Estasia’s heart? Purely as an academic exercise,” he added, dismissively.
“Estasia? I’d say with that one, for all of her pretensions of academics you would likely catch her attention more by flexing your muscles than showing off your knowledge.”
“A lady of her renowned intellect?” asked Rondal, surprised.
“She might respect intelligence,” Tyndal reasoned, “but it’s not her mind that controls her heart. She likes big muscles as much as any girl.”
“Gods be praised,” Rondal said, sourly, as he studied his own spare physique. “Now all I have to do is conjure some muscles.”
“Muscles would be a start, but they wouldn’t be enough,” Tyndal said, sagely, as he considered his courting from an academic perspective. “Estasia isn’t that dumb. What attracts her, in my opinion, is confidence and competence. Not achievement, exactly,” he said, appraisingly, “she’s not the type to be allured by position or title.
Nor, alas for you, pure intellect. She admires spirit, character and confidence, more than anything else, I’d say. And that’s good news for you,” he added.
“Why?” Rondal asked, suddenly interested.
“Because confidence is easier to conjure than muscles,” he pointed out, stabbing the last bit of meat on his trencher with his knife and flipping it into his mouth with a sigh. “And far easier to fake.”
“Pretend to be confident?” Rondal asked, bitterly amused.
“Essentially,” agreed Tyndal, finally pushing himself away from his plate. “It’s actually not that hard. You just have to practice. And Estasia is a good girl to practice on.”
“Why?” asked Rondal, surprised and hopeful. “Do you really think I have an opportunity to catch her eye?”
“Oh, Ishi’s left nip, no!” Tyndal laughed at the prospect. “Not with me around. She’s already decided that she likes me.”
“Well, maybe I can get her to change her mind!” Ron said, standing from the table defiantly.
Tyndal studied him. “Do you really think so? Really? Honestly?”
Rondal continued to look defiant, but then doubt stole his attention. “No, probably not,” he finally admitted through clenched teeth. “So why are you helping me? Just to witness the humiliation of my inevitable failure?”
“No,” shrugged Tyndal. “Not at all. I said Estasia would be good practice, and I was genuine.It is good practice, and not without design. Because around every girl like Estasia, there’s another girl hiding behind her skirts, coveting what she has and will strive to change the stars in their courses if it would mean she gains the prize.”
“And you’re that prize?” Rondal asked, skeptically.
“I didn’t say it was a good prize,” Tyndal smirked. “But there’s almost always a girl on the lookout for the boy who can’t get the girl he wants, which keeps the boy that girl likes too busy fighting her off to pursue that girl properly, hence she has recourse to that boy as a consolation. And that boy is you,” Tyndal said, confidently.
“It is? There is? She is?” he asked, confused.
“I’d stake my life on it,” boasted Tyndal. “Now, before you go looking for her and making an ass of yourself, there’s a certain scroll you need to read . . . “
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^
Tyndal continued his studies late into the night, long after the campus was silent. With judicious use of his newly-learned spells he was able to make significant progress on his list, doing days worth of reading in hours. And thanks to Blue Magic, every work he read he could recall at need, word for word.
Much to his own amazement, he was starting to understand it, too. Even thaumaturgy, his nemesis. Things began making sense.
How Callidore’s etheric field interacted with sapient thought, allowing willful direction of its energies, for example - that revealed itself with incredible clarity in his mind that night. How the same magical architecture that allowed elementals to mimic the movements of life could be adapted to influence any inert system, if properly understood. How photoni, the bricks of light that ricocheted around the universe, acted as both matter and energy – all of it started to make sense. Slowly, sometimes, or in great leaps of understanding, some obscure and darkened area of his education lit-up.
He found it startling, when it happened. Sometimes it occurred when something he read in an apparently unrelated topic triggered a thought, and then another, and then whole new areas of understanding would open like a sudden avalanche.
His instructors began to notice a difference, as well. The next day’s lessons went much easier, and he was able to manifest some far more complicated spells than he’d previously dared, earning some grudging praise from the dour photomantics instructor before lunch.
He was feeling in a generous mood while he ate, and for once he was happy to be discussing academics with his fellow apprentice. Not about magic -- he was nearly sick of it -- but a subject he was far more conversant with: girls. Rondal had found the reading he’d recommended and devoured the short treatise in one sitting.
But where Tyndal had seen the beautiful pragmatism of Sire Rose’s discourse, Rondal was troubled about the ethics of the matter. He tried to answer questions for Rondal, who had brought the elegant scroll containing Sire Rose’s Sixteen Laws with him. Among his difficulties with it was the nature of its very existence.
“It just seems scandalous to take what should rightly be left up to Ishi’s Will and turn it into a base trade,” Rondal complained, not for the first time.
“But why not? If we study magic, and warfare, and all of the other things we must to master them, why would not a man apply the principles of science and magic to the realm of the heart? It is no dishonor to Ishi -- on the contrary, by knowing the Laws we pay her homage. The Laws are as fundamental to Ishi as the Lesser Table is to Yrentia. Do you think that the maids you court are not preparing themselves against the day they find their love?”
“Well, the very first of the Laws ‘Pray ne’er to a maiden profess thy love lest she hath first declared her heart to thee; to do else is to invite her scorn.’ Why should a man not tell a woman he holds affections for her?” he demanded.
“Because it shows weakness of the heart, and women cannot abide weakness in a man. A man who forces her to declare her heart first holds his hand above hers in the affair. It proves his strength, and therefore vindicates the risk she takes in such a revelation.”
“And the second Law? ‘Seek ye always to inspire jealousy within the castle of her heart by her vision of your flirtations and enjoyments with other maids.’ Such an action is cruel to her, and dishonorable to the other maids!”
“Is it?” countered Tyndal, breaking a loaf of soft bread. He was eating naught but bread today so that he would have energy for sparring later. “Would you not say that maids contest for the attention of men the way men contest amongst themselves for feminine attention?”
“Well . . . yes . . . “
“The world condemns a woman who too freely grants Ishi’s Blessing, does it not?”
“Yes,” blushed Rondal.
“Yet you would encourage a man to not just declare his affections before he knows a maiden’s heart. Then you would urge him to spend his commitment to her favor so cheaply, without knowing if she shares his feelings or the worthiness of the maid in question. Should he value his own company so little, so soon will she. When she sees that other maids are eager to share your affections, she naturally seeks to guard her mate. Or mate presumptive.”
“The third law is easy enough to understand,” he continued - that was “Forever shall the errant make the mission, not the maid, the target of his desire, and thus shall the maid come to desire him whose eye lights elsewhere.’ It was one of Tyndal’s favorites. “You wouldn’t want a knight throwing a mission over a girl - that would be stupid. But this one,the Sixth Law, “Certainty in the mind of a maiden about your thoughts is Love’s festering foe. Instead in conversation challenge her assumptions, evade her inquiries, tease her for her motivations, and obfuscate your mind from her. Thus she preoccupies herself with your heart as an initiate ponders a mystery.’”
“What about it?” It seems clear enough.”
“Well . . . it’s saying don’t tell a girl what you’re thinking.”
“Yes,” Tyndal agreed, flatly.
“Even if she asks,” Rondal continued.
“Yes,” Tyndal agreed, pouring a mug of the weak campus ale for himself from the common pitcher.
“But . . . isn’t that . . . cruel? Mean-spirited, at least, and certainly unfair.”
“Rondal,” Tyndal said, catching his fellow’s eye, “think back, carefully: have you ever once had something good happen when you told a girl what she wanted to know? Or did it somehow turn in your hand like a rusty knife?”
The question hung in the air for a few moments, as Rondal searched his memory.
Then he sighed. “The Eighth Law, then, ‘Apologize unto a M
aid only at great need, for such sorrows professed smell of weakness in a Maiden’s nose. To be strong in word and deed and character draws a maid’s attention even as needless apologies repel it’. I can sort of see this one, I guess, but . . . shouldn’t you be sorry for something? That’s just basic politeness.”
“That took a while for me to understand, too, until I remembered that awful woman at Yule, the one from the new domains? Before things got . . . crazy,” he said with a grin, “do you remember how her husband kept apologizing to her? It was ‘I’m sorry we were late, my wife,’ and ‘you were right, my love, I’m sorry I ever doubted you’ . . . do you remember?”
“Yule is a bit . . . hazy,” Rondal admitted, shooting Tyndal a nasty look.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Uh . . . any way, first you felt sorry for that man, but then you realized that he was doing it to himself. She had grown so used to his little apologies, like a cat to milk in the morning, that she stopped hearing him altogether. She . . . despised him. And everyone else despised him for allowing it to happen.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Rondal said, without expression.
“Sorry,” Tyndal repeated. “A legitimate apology for a specific wrong is one thing, but to have one fall from your lips with every breath . . . well, it’s just damn annoying. To a man or woman. But particularly to a woman. If the man she’s with admits he’s wrong over and over again, she’ll quickly start to wonder why she’s with him.”
“I . . . can see that point,” Rondal conceded.
“The key is strength,” Tyndal summed up, as he gathered his belongs together before his next session. “You have to appear strong, even if you aren’t. Confident even if you’re scared. Bold, not timid.”
“You’re not really helping my case,” Rondal said, dejectedly.
“It’s not a mountain you can climb in a day,” Tyndal said, standing. “It’s like magic. You have to understand the theory, then practice the drills until you reach mastery.”
“Seems an awful lot of trouble to go through for love.”
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 9
