The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy)

by Foster, Michael

  Master Glim would run up and down beside them, supporting one team or another—usually whoever had the ball at the time. Samuel watched him running along all afternoon, calling out and cheering without a hint of tiring. Samuel hoped that, one day, he could be as well-regarded as Master Glim. No student had a harsh word to say towards the man, for he was ever patient and thoughtful. Samuel knew that not all the Masters agreed with Master Glim’s kindly attitude towards the students, for most of the old teachers were very harsh and strict, punishing even the slightest whisper in class. These Masters, happening past the games, would shake their heads and scowl at the unsightly behaviour, no doubt thinking that the boys should be indoors being more constructive with their time. Samuel frowned at them, and then noticed the ball come flying towards him. He ducked just in time and felt the air whistle past his head. A knot of apprentices came charging in the same direction, so he spelled himself fresh with the tiniest trickle of magic and, hooting out loud, charged off after the ball before they could reach him.

  Samuel found himself in the Great Library one afternoon, as he often was, searching the many high-tiered shelves for any interesting snippets of information about the Old Tongue. He found the history of the world fascinating. For instance, he had learned that in the days of old, the entire continent of Amandia was one nation with one tongue—the Old Tongue. For some reason, that old society had collapsed and many nations were formed through ages of war. Time had passed and the people had diversified in culture and habit. Further from Turia, the local dialects had become more and more diverse until eventually, in the lands at the edge of the Empire, they became entirely different languages altogether. Now, the Empire spanned most of the known world and Turian was the dominant tongue.

  Garteny, in the frigid north, was the only civilised nation that still dared to challenge the Empire. Its remote location had made it difficult to conquer and its lands were vast stretches of plains and flatlands that turned frigid in winter. Those not used to such conditions had little chance of surviving there and the northern defenders could be summoned in enormous numbers whenever the need arose.

  There were a few other lands still free of occupation, such as the sprawling marshes of Kabush in the southeast, where Lomar was from, and the massive deserts of Paatin even further eastwards, but, populated only by primitive nomads and wanderers, they offered little in the way of benefit to the Empire. Tiny island nations dotted the western oceans, but again, the sum of them all was not worth the effort to invade. Occasionally, some of these people would come into contact with the civilised world via some of the merchants in the markets, but mostly they kept to themselves.

  Samuel considered some of the books he had found and gathered them into his arms, making for the study table where he had been making notes. He sat down and began reading, planning to pass the rest of the afternoon in that manner. He wet his thumb and began turning the pages, scanning each one for anything that might tweak his interest.

  He came upon a passage devoted to the history of the Old World and found a section of particular interest. The Lick of the Ancients, the author stated, was the language of the first civilisation. There was little other mention of the language, apart from the name, and Samuel dug through the volume from front to back in an effort to find more facts, for he had never even heard of such a thing in all his studies at the school. The book was already several hundred years old, and a copy of a copy of the original piece, so Samuel was not even sure it could be regarded as accurate. He flicked to the last page and found the author’s signature: Garrum. It meant ‘traveller’ in the Old Tongue.

  Going back through the book once more, Samuel was astounded to realise that some of the pictures and scrawlings he had passed over, thinking them just doodling and scribbles, could in fact be notes made by the author. If that proved to be so, they could actually be examples of this extinct tongue, far too few to be of any use in translation, but it would be something fascinating to show his friends and teachers. Samuel could not bring himself to leave the library and continued well into the evening, studying the book at length. He read in depth some of the references to the wondrous artefacts of the Ancients that could harness and direct magic for their operation. Many elaborate sketches were reproduced, depicting amazing and intricate creations, some the size of mountains, some minute in size. Samuel doubted such machines had ever existed, for they seemed preposterous and far-fetched. Nevertheless, it proved fascinating reading and Samuel finished by copying every possible example of the Ancient Lick he could find, as well as a short selection of the magical machines and artefacts that interested him.

  It was then that Samuel became aware of someone standing behind him. The sudden presence of magic had alerted him, as if the person had spontaneously appeared out of thin air. Samuel kept his head angled down towards the book he was reading, doing his best to peer back over his shoulder.

  ‘You are very perceptive, Samuel.’

  Samuel turned his head to see a figure standing there, arms folded. The man was middle-aged, stocky and quite muscular. He was surrounded by a magical aura like a storm of fire and Samuel had to squint his eyes while he dulled his sense of sight. He wore common clothes—trousers, shirt and a waistcoat—and so Samuel was at once on guard, for he was obviously not of the Order.

  ‘Garrum,’ the man said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Samuel said and then remembered the book in his hands. ‘Oh, yes. It’s very interesting.’ Samuel looked around for anyone else to call to, but he was completely alone with the stranger.

  ‘A legend among magicians. Quite a find, that book. It is said he lives still, travelling the earth in his eternal quest to be the ultimate magician—but I doubt it very much. It’s more likely he died in the battle of Warrenkeep long ago, when his fortress was plundered by marauding savages from the south.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Samuel asked, putting down his book and standing to face the man.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ the man said, pressing his palms together and bowing slightly. ‘I sometimes forget the most common of courtesies. I will not tell you my name, for it is in your best interest not to know—yet. But I must confess that I have been curious to meet you for some time—since I first learned you had arrived in Cintar. When someone of your nature is found, it attracts many of the curious.’

  ‘My nature?’

  ‘Come now, Samuel. Don’t be coy.’ The man stepped up to the shelves and fingered a few books. ‘We both know that you are no ordinary apprentice. Time is short and my presence here has probably already been noticed. I am sure that you have had many offers already, but you should know that of all the magicians in Cintar, only I can teach you what you need to know. The Order has many good men to instruct you, but they are in no way as gifted as you are. I’m sure you have already felt their limits, their weaknesses. It must be frustrating for you to be among them, having them treat you like an inferior.’

  ‘I have only just begun to learn.’

  ‘Exactly! How tiresome it must be.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me. I am quite happy here so far,’ Samuel professed.

  The man stepped away from the shelves, disappointment painted on his face. ‘Perhaps you are not ready for me yet, but that comes as no surprise. The black-cloaks enshroud you with their arms like worried mothers, then tell you their lies and use you as a pawn for their Emperor—and themselves. Very well, I shall leave you for now, Samuel, but remember, I shall return soon and I hope you are more receptive to my offer then. All the strongest come to me eventually, Samuel, and you will be no exception. Remember that.’

  Samuel swallowed. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest.

  The man seemed to sense his nervousness. ‘You have some gains to make yet, Samuel. Study hard and I will visit you again soon. Tell no one. It will only make matters more difficult for us both if you do.’

  With that, the man vanished before Samuel’s eyes. Samuel’s jaw almost dropped open with surprise. Quickly, howe
ver, curiosity took over as he wondered what manner of spell the man could have possibly used to disappear like that. He enhanced his sight again and examined the area for any remnants of magic. A glint in the corner of his eye caught Samuel’s attention and he turned in time to catch sight of faint sparks of magic flickering towards the library doors. The doors then quietly opened, just enough for a man to slip through, then closed softly behind. Samuel smiled. This man was certainly a very powerful magician, yet his vanishing act was not nearly as impressive as it first seemed. Still, Samuel admitted, the man had somehow learned to render himself invisible to the eye and almost invisible to magical detection, which was no trivial feat. Yet something about the man was certainly worrying. Samuel was intrigued. He sack back down and continued pawing over the book by Garrum, but his thoughts were on the man and his fabulous aura. He had never imagined a person could emit such incredible power. Samuel would keep this to himself, as he had been warned, for he hoped they would meet again and the next time, Samuel would be prepared to study the man and learn some of his wonderful spells.

  Samuel and Eric were out in the city, walking through the deafening din of the markets. Some of the busy vendors and passers-by let their eyes linger on the boys, showing a mix of curiosity and concern. Some cheered and laughed as the two passed. Some ignored them altogether. They had both become used to the many and varied reactions and had long stopped noticing any stares and whispers directed towards them.

  ‘Let’s see what they have in here,’ Eric called as they wandered down another jostling market street. The air in that direction was filled with the spicy odours of grilling meats.

  Just then, Samuel heard his name being called out from afar. Balthazar, of the Union of Modern Magicians, was hurrying towards them with his white robes billowing, almost tripping him over. He was calling out, ‘Master Samuel!’ at the top of his lungs. Samuel groaned. The man had been dogging him at every opportunity since their first meeting, ever insistent that he leave the Order and join his group. Samuel was growing sick of him. Some of the other magical societies had approached Samuel on occasion, as they did most apprentices, but none had proved so persistent or annoying.

  Samuel quickly looked for Eric, who had vanished into the nearest doorway, and pushed after him, hoping Balthazar had not noticed his route of escape.

  Inside, it seemed to be the business place of a tailor or cloth merchant. Enormous bolts of various colours and fabrics crowded the walls, leaning against each other, some at dangerous angles—Samuel suspected that if one fell on him, it would probably crush him to death. The small shop was dark and confining, smelling of camphor and other pungent odours. It could definitely do with another window or two.

  The merchant emerged from a back room, his smile faltering on sight of the boy’s dark clothes.

  ‘How may I help you, Young Lords?’ he asked with his hands pressed together lightly in the manner of someone from the Spice Islands. His eyes said that he was of Sammalan descent, yet his skin bore the paleness of Amandia, declaring his mixed heritage. Such men were scorned in their homeland, but were not uncommon in Cintar.

  ‘You have some fine cloth here, merchant,’ Eric said with a regal demeanour.

  ‘You have a keen eye, Young Lord,’ the tailor returned. ‘I keep some of the best linens in the city.’

  Eric rubbed the hem of a shirt, picking it out from a dozen others that were hanging from the ceiling on long lines of string. ‘This looks quite interesting.’

  The tailor immediately drew a long measuring tape from his pocket and put his arms around Eric to measure his girth. ‘That could not possibly do, Young Lord. It is but a simple rag. Let me prepare something befitting of your worth.’

  ‘No, no,’ Eric stated firmly. Samuel’s cheeks ached from suppressing his laughter. ‘We have no time for that. We need something at once. Something not black.’

  The tailor then stood back and rubbed his chin. ‘Ah, I see, Young Lords. Not black. Then I only hope there is something here that may fit you. That one is three sizes too small at least. Just give me time to find something a tad more suitable.’ And he began strolling between the rows of garments thoughtfully. ‘Ah, I believe there may be something in here.’

  With that, he began rummaging through one tight rack of clothing, pulling out first one, then another of the purest white shirts with frilled collars and billowing sleeves. The two boys immediately pulled their drab black shirts over their heads and laughed as they buttoned themselves into their elaborate new raiments.

  ‘You look like lords of the palace,’ the tailor proclaimed.

  Samuel ran his hands over the smooth cloth. It was a welcome change from their normal wear. Eric looked like a different person, appearing very strange in such a decorative garment.

  ‘Are they to your liking?’ the tailor asked.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Samuel replied.

  ‘Perfect!’ Eric echoed. ‘How much are they worth?’

  The tailor seemed taken aback. ‘I thought you were jesting, my Lord. These clothes have been measured for someone else entirely. They are far from suitable.’

  ‘No, I insist,’ Eric replied.

  The tailor sighed and continued, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘They are five and a half crowns each. I am sure you will not find as fine quality at such a price anywhere. I would normally not expect Lords of the Order to pay for anything, but my dear wife would not forgive me for giving away two pieces of such fine cloth.’

  Eric scooped some coins from his pocket and handed them to the tailor.

  ‘Thank you very much, Young Lords,’ the tailor returned with a contented smile, quickly sorting the coins in his palm.

  Samuel did not know how much Eric had given him—it did not really matter. They received a regular purse from the Order and, with nothing to spend it on, money held little value for them. Samuel had long ago given up counting his own collection of coins—something he could never have imagined himself doing once upon a time.

  ‘What shall I do with these?’ the tailor asked, plucking up their black shirts with his fingertips.

  ‘Keep them, burn them—as you wish,’ Eric said. Then to Samuel he turned. ‘Let’s have some fun.’

  Samuel nodded and could not keep from leaping and laughing as they re-entered the bright and bustling street, with the tailor shaking his head behind them.

  ‘What shall we do first?’ Eric asked. ‘Nobody knows who we are. We could do anything!’

  ‘We could go to a wrestling match,’ Samuel replied, squeezing between a farmer and a goat. ‘I hear they have them over in the south quarter. Or the races in Northbank?’

  Just then, a stream of children flew through the crowd shortly ahead. The two boys grinned and looked to each other. As one, they leapt into flight and followed the weaving children. Men and women alike swore as they pushed through them to keep up with the street-wise youths, men and women who would never swear at members of the Order. At last, out of breath, they emerged from the body-filled streets and out into a quieter square, lined with apartments and the occasional inn. For the first time, a trickle of fear touched Samuel as he realised the trouble they would be in if anyone from the Order recognised them. They would be polishing floors for a week. His anxiety was short-lived, however, as he found they had reached their destination.

  A circle of children had formed in the square and were kicking a ball.

  ‘Football!’ Eric gasped, bearing a great grin.

  They hung at the edge of the game with great expectant grins until one boy, perhaps the youngest of the lot, came over to them.

  ‘You can play if you like,’ he said, complete with dirty face and running nose. Samuel and Eric were quite a bit older than them, but the two young magicians were eager for some fun.

  ‘Which team can we join?’ Samuel asked.

  The boy turned and examined the game a moment. ‘One on each, I suppose.’

  Samuel walked to the boys on his team, who were now in a huddle, talk
ing tactics.

  ‘Are you new in town or just passing through?’ one of the older boys asked as Samuel joined them.

  ‘New in town,’ Samuel replied with a grin.

  ‘Are you any good?’ another asked him.

  Samuel bobbed his shoulders. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ the first boy asked. Samuel did suppose his new shirt was quite lavish. ‘Been to a funeral?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Samuel lied with a grin and the boys just shrugged back.

  The game began again and a cheer went up at once as Eric intercepted the kick off and was across the square in a flash, sending the ball like an arrow into the goal.

  ‘You didn’t tell us he was that good!’ another of Samuel’s team mates declared. ‘I wish we’d picked him!’

  ‘Sorry,’ was all Samuel could reply. Eric seemed even better than when they played in the school. The air of excitement had obviously empowered him.

  The next kick-off saw two of Samuel’s teammates attempting to guard the energetic Eric. Each time he tried to dart away from them, they were only a step behind and kicking at his ankles. Samuel laughed as he saw Eric’s patience starting to wear thin.

  ‘Here!’ someone cried and Samuel lurched into life as the ball sailed towards him. Instinctively, he kicked it, but it went high and wide, bouncing off the wall of a neighbouring building, then back down into the square. Eric laughed and Samuel scowled back at his friend.

  The game went on. Samuel tried his hardest to intercept the ball wherever he could, but these boys were all very good despite their age and he had not played for some time. His fitness and enthusiasm could only carry him so far before he began to tire. Spying his chance, Samuel leapt for the ball as it careered free from the opposition and he kicked it with all his might. He winced as he bruised the end of his toes within his soft sandals. The ball arced towards the goal area with too much force and not enough accuracy. It would have sailed far too wide, but Samuel would not have it. At the last instant, the ball curved sharply, bounced before the wide-eyed goalkeeper and ricocheted between his legs into the goal.