“Why ainchoo drunk?” he slurred.
“Well, I’ll be!” Earl exclaimed, playing the mock innocent. “I must be drinking the wrong stuff! Now, if you’re all done wasting a good meal, we should get you upstairs and put to bed.”
A few minutes later, Randall was tucked away in a nice warm bed, though the room was still spinning dizzily.
“Gon-be sick ‘gain” Randall gulped.
“Shh, boy. Just sleep.” Earl whispered. And then he said something else that Randall didn’t hear because he was fast asleep.
The next morning, it sounded like an entire cavalry was holding maneuvers in Randall’s room. He moaned and pulled a pillow over his head to try and block out the noise. It didn’t help any, and the racket continued unabated until Randall couldn’t stand it any longer. He peeked out from under the pillow, and saw Earl packing their gear.
Earl noticed Randall’s glance and smiled brightly. “Good morning young squire!” he said, with entirely too much enthusiasm, and entirely too loudly. “I see that you’re up bright and early! I trust your sleep was sound, and that you dreamt of the serving girl’s rounded posterior?”
Every word was like a hammer blow to Randall’s pounding head. He groaned and tried to burrow back down beneath his pillow.
“Ah, headache?” Earl asked, bright and cheery. Randall only moaned in response. “That’d be called a ‘hangover’, lad. Happens when you drink ‘til you’re falling down. Nature’s way of punishing the stupid, I think. You remember that next time you’re in a pub and have the urge to get hammered.”
He snatched the pillow off of Randall’s head and gave him a wicked grin. “Now rise and shine, boy. It’s time we were off.”
Randall helped Earl carry their traveling gear downstairs, trying to shake some of the cobwebs from his head. His tongue felt coated and his teeth gritty. The sunlight stabbed directly into the center of his brain, even through closed lids. If this is what drinking does to you, I’m never touching another drop, Randall thought miserably. He weakly loaded the cart while Earl settled up with Frank.
Before long, they were back on the road and heading away from Geldorn. The bumpy dirt road didn’t help Randall’s head, or his mood. Still feeling miserable, Randall barely took note of the fact that he was further away from home than he had ever been before. They rode for a couple of hours in silence, until the pounding in Randall’s head diminished to a more bearable level.
“Why don’t you have a hangover?” Randall asked accusingly, when he felt up for conversation.
“Didn’t get drunk,” Earl replied, matter-of-factly. Now that they had left civilization behind them, Earl had dropped the smiles and boisterous tones. Randall realized that they must have just been part of Earl’s disguise.
“But, I saw Melinda bring you more drink than I had!” Randall protested.
“Sure she did. But I’m bigger than you, lad. I can drink more. Besides, how much of it did you actually see me drink?” Earl asked.
Randall thought about it. He could form a clear picture in his mind of Earl bringing the tankard to his lips and taking a swallow while rowdily telling a story. But he couldn’t really get a clear idea of how many times he’d actually seen Earl do it. He had been much more focused on his own drinking, and simply assumed that because he saw Earl drinking, and because he had seen Melinda bring him a lot of drinks, that Earl had drunk them all. But he was forced to admit that he couldn’t be sure of how many pints Earl had actually downed in the course of the evening. “I dunno,” he concluded.
“Exactly so,” Earl said, as if that settled things. “Now since your curiosity seems to be returning to normal, you must be ready for the morning’s lessons. Let’s go over yesterday’s lessons first, so we can see what you’ve learned.”
“But we didn’t have any lessons yesterday!” Randall said.
“We didn’t?” Earl asked. “You mean to tell me you didn’t learn anything yesterday?”
“Well,” Randall started, thinking. “I learned that I don’t like the taste of beer, that and you say King Priess has Mages in Court. And….Melinda’s butt isn’t as soft as I imagined.”
Earl smirked at that last comment. “Ah, sounds like you learned that there’s still a lot you don’t know. It would serve you well to keep that in mind. I’m getting to be an old man, and there’s still a lot I don’t know. Anything else?”
Randall thought some more. “I probably shouldn’t say,” he started.
“Out with it boy,” Earl demanded.
“Well, you’re an awfully good liar,” Randall said meekly, unconsciously shying away from the Mage. Where he grew up, calling someone a liar was a fighting offense.
Earl laughed out loud before fixing Randall with a look. “True enough. But I want to be crystal clear about something. I’m serious about having you as an apprentice. You need to trust me if I’m going to teach you properly. I’m promising here and now that I’m not going to lie to you boy. You won’t always want to hear the truth, or want to believe it, but the truth is what I owe to you if I’m going to make a Mage out of you. Got it?”
Randall nodded, but wasn’t entirely sure he believed.
“Good. Now, let’s talk about my ruse as a caravan master. We both know what the folks in your town would have done if I had come in as Mage Erliand Kestorn. They’d have been beside themselves with apoplexy, and a very frosty reception I’d have received.”
“Your real name is Erliand?” Randall asked, interrupting.
“Right as rain, it is. That name’s got a fair reputation in some parts of the world, too. Not that it should matter to you, lad. For the next few years, only thing you’ll be calling me is Master,” the Mage replied.
“Now, where was I? Oh yes,” Erliand continued. “Geldorn’s a fairly small and backward village. Don’t cut your eyes at me…it’s the truth. Practicing magic is illegal in Tallia anyway, but even on the big continent the uneducated are superstitious about us, especially when there are no Mages in the community to help set a good example. Your people wouldn’t have accepted me as a Mage, that’s for sure. Probably would have called out the militia on me. So, it was much easier to be Earl, the caravan master. It’s a part I’ve played before.”
“But what do we learn from it, boy? Two things, really. First, magic isn’t always the easiest way to get things done. I could have whisked you away from your family in the dark of night, using magic to prevent your parents from stopping me. And the next day there’d have been a hue and cry, and the entire village would eventually tear up the countryside looking for you. That wouldn’t do at all, all that noise and fuss wrecking my peace and quiet. If they found us, they’d probably try to string me up for kidnapping, and then I’d have had to kill a few of your friends and neighbors just to get them to leave me alone. And then the law would have to get involved, and eventually, knights from the palace. Pretty soon, I’d be calling all sorts of attention to myself killing off the King’s own Mages. And that just wouldn’t do at all.”
Randall looked closely at Erliand for a wink or a grin, but there was nothing whatsoever to indicate that the man was joking. He shuddered, but didn’t interrupt.
Earl continued, “As it is, just about everyone’s happy. I got what I want, and your parents saw their boy off to a respectable profession, and got heavier purses because of it. And nobody’s going to raise a fuss and come looking for you later. Only one who seems unhappy is you, lad. But I’m not to blame for that. I didn’t force you to become a Mage. Being a Mage isn’t something you learn. It’s something you are. You’d begin using your power soon enough, with or without my help. But without it, you and your family would have been in grave danger.”
Randall just looked down at his feet, glum, and Erliand continued. “The second thing to learn is that people are going to see what they want to see, boy. Most people are generally easy to fool, because they don’t like anything to upset their little apple carts. Your father wanted to believe I was a caravaner, because I
seemed like a nice man, and I dangled money in front of his eyes. Remember that if you ever need to disguise yourself or hide. Even with the help of magic, it’s a lot easier to fool people if you fit in with their expectations and play to their vices. Nobody expects a balding, slightly chubby old man named Earl to be a Mage,” he chuckled.
Erliand’s words echoed almost exactly what Bobby had said. Randall realized how easily Bobby had been fooled by Erliand’s outward appearance, because Erliand had shown people exactly what they expected. Randall would probably have been fooled himself if ‘Earl’ had not revealed himself at the first opportunity. “You can’t judge a situation at first glance.” Randall summarized.
“See? I knew I’d picked the right lad,” Erliand said. “Appearances can be deceiving. You remember that if you ever face real evil. So, let’s talk about what you’ve learned today so far.”
“The only thing I’ve learned today is that my head hurts!” Randall complained.
“I imagine so, lad” Erliand said. “But why does it hurt?”
“Because I drank too much?” Randall said, half answer, half accusation.
“Right. Actions have consequences. And just because you may be having fun doing what you’re doing doesn’t mean you won’t pay for it later.” Erliand lectured.
Randall nodded, and lapsed into thought. His mind wandered from yesterday’s events to his possible future. The more he thought about it, the more Randall realized that since he had no choice in the matter, being a Mage wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He pictured himself snapping his fingers and conjuring up gold coins on command, or making people do whatever he wanted by his will alone. His mind conjured up all kinds of fun and interesting things that he could do if he knew how to work magic.
“Master,” he said.
“What is it?” Erliand asked.
“When do I learn about magic?” Randall asked.
“What do you think you’ve been learning about, boy?” Erliand asked, his voice rising. “Everything we’ve talked about relates to magic in some way! I’m not just going to give you the keys to power without some kind of ethical framework for using it, boy! You think I’m daft?”
“No sir…uh…Master,” Randall quickly said, taken aback.
“Good thing,” Erliand said. “Men have died making that mistake.”
Randall shuddered. When he wasn’t being ‘Earl the Caravan Master’, it was impossible to tell whether Erliand was joking or not. He lapsed into silence as they drove on.
Erliand continued driving the cart on little-used roads for the entire day, and into the evening, stopping only to rest the horses and eat. Occasionally, he would ask Randall questions about his life, and they would talk for a while. Almost always, he had a moral point to make, such as the time they talked about when Randall got caught stealing figs from a neighbor’s fig tree.
“So, why’d your father give you a whipping for it, boy?” Earl asked.
“Because they weren’t my figs to take,” Randall offered.
“Well, that’s the simple answer, lad. But it doesn’t get to the heart of the social contract.”
“The what?” Randall asked, puzzled.
“The social contract, boy. It’s the rules that people agree on, so that they can live together in harmony. Let me give you an example. Let’s say that your friends each stole some figs, too. And let’s say that your parents thought it was all right to sneak down at night and get them some figs.” Randall giggled at the image of his father jumping fences and filling his pockets with figs, while Erliand continued. “In fact, let’s say that everyone thought it was just fine to take figs without paying. What then?”
“Then the Browns wouldn’t have any figs?” Randall asked.
“Well, they wouldn’t. But not because everyone stole them. Don’t forget, in this game, the Browns think it’s okay to steal figs, too,” Erliand reminded him.
Randall thought for a while before it came to him. “So there’d be no point in growing them if you could steal them from someone else!” he cried, excited at the insight.
“Good,” Erliand said. “So, then, tell me who would bother growing figs, then?”
“Nobody,” Randall said slowly. “And so there wouldn’t be any figs to steal, either.”
“And wouldn’t that be a shame,” Earl said with a slight grin, fishing a dried fig out of their journey rations and popping it into his mouth. Then his face turned serious again. “Anyone who tries to get something for nothing is cheating. And they always pay the price, eventually.”
Randall and Erliand continued this way until well after sundown, until they reached a small out of the way homestead on an overgrown plot of land. It wasn’t large, and it was far enough away from the main roads that it didn’t attract any unwanted attention. Randall had a hard time coming to grips with the fact that this was to be his new home. But, there it was, and after gathering up his courage, in he went.
Chapter 3
For a Mage in training, Randall was doing frustratingly little practice with magic. He was doing absolutely none, as a matter of fact. The first task Master Erliand had set him to had been weeding his ‘garden’. Randall thought the term gave too much credit to the overgrown plot that Erliand had indicated. A barely visible fifteen-foot square brick outline was the only way Randall could tell there used to be a garden where knee-high weeds had taken over. There was positively no way to tell what had grown there prior to the weed invasion, if anything else had ever grown there at all.
Some of the weeds had thorns, or sharp spiny leaves. Others had deep roots and were hard to pull, and still others broke easily, leaving roots behind that had to be dug up, or they’d grow right back. A couple of particularly loathsome varieties combined several of these features.
“How goes the progress on my garden?” Erliand asked at dinner after Randall’s second day of labor.
“Slow, Master,” Randall replied hesitantly, still a little uncomfortable with the title. “The crimson nettle has been giving me trouble. Its roots are spread out like a spider’s web just under the surface, and the stems break off pretty easily. And if you touch any of those hairy bristles, your hand’ll swell up and burn like crazy. Found that out the hard way once working the fields with Pa. It’s easier to dig the whole system up than it is to try to pull them one at a time. If you leave any roots behind, they’ll re-establish themselves under the surface and end up taking over the whole plot again. By the time you see the first nettles come back up, you’ve got to dig the whole thing up again.”
“I see,” Erliand said. “So, if the roots are just under the surface, you should just be able to dig up the top layer?” he asked. “That shouldn’t be too challenging.”
“Normally, yes,” Randall lamented, “but some beggarweed has managed to grow among the nettles. It’s got a big taproot. I’ve got to get it out first, or I’ll just cut it with the shovel and it’ll come back. That means carefully getting in among the nettles to pull the beggarweed, without touching the nettles. My back is killing me from the odd positions I’ve been standing in all day!”
“It sounds like you have your work cut out for you then,” Erliand said.
“Master,” Randall began, desperation creeping into his voice. “You said that I had magical Talent. Can’t I use some kind of magic to clear the garden?” Randall pleaded.
“So then you want to use magic?” Erliand asked, and looked at Randall with an expression that was impossible to gauge.
Randall dropped his eyes and fidgeted. Just days earlier, he had been frightened of Erliand because he was a Mage. Truthfully, he was still frightened of the man. But if he wanted to be completely honest with himself, there were several times over the last couple of days when he had really wanted to just wish the whole garden problem away. He thought for several long seconds before answering.
“Yes, Master,” he replied in nearly a whisper.
“Why now? What happened to that moral high horse you were riding all the way here?”
Erliand asked levelly, his face betraying nothing of his feelings.
“Well,” Randall said slowly, “I’ve given it some thought. If magic can make your life easier, it can’t be all bad.” The truth of the matter was that Randall was simply tired of pulling weeds, and would be willing to accept any help at this point—devil touched or otherwise.
Erliand appeared to be considering Randall’s request as he fished his pipe out from his vest and packed it with tobacco. He muttered a bit to himself, as he stood up from the table and walked into his study for a light. Randall could smell the sweet smell of pipe smoke before Erliand’s voice called out from the study.
“Well, lad. I’ve given it some thought. Can’t think of any good reason why you shouldn’t use magic to clear that garden. So, go right ahead. Knock yourself out.” Erliand’s cackling laughter quickly followed.
Randall sighed and his shoulders slumped. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that he really didn’t like Master Erliand’s sense of humor. He finished his meal of bread and barley soup and sulked his way to his room, sighing loudly. At least here he had his own room, even if it was barely bigger than a pantry. It was awfully quiet compared to home, but Randall was too exhausted to feel homesick. He fell asleep just minutes after crawling into the straw bed.
Each day in the garden saw another new challenge. Randall couldn’t let himself fall into a rhythm of pulling weeds, and let his mind wander, because doing so invited disaster. The weeds were too haphazardly spaced to have been cultivated, but there were days when Randall would have sworn that someone had deliberately laid out their placement to ensure maximum frustration. It seemed that every time there was a weed that required pulling by hand, there was some kind of stinging nettle or thorny ivy right there next to it.
A Touch of Magic Page 5
