A Touch of Magic

by Gregory Mahan

  “That’s right!” Randall said, slapping his forehead. “Will! I forgot will! But didn’t you say only elves could work magic using will?”

  “Not just elves but all of the fae can do it, lad. And only they have the power to use magic by will alone. That’s why we’re going to work on spoken magic. But it’s important to not forget the power of will. When facing the fae, it behooves you to remember that they can be weaving magic over you, while seeming to be carryin’ on an innocent conversation. You shouldn’t ever let your guard down around them.”

  Randall nodded. “Yes, Master. So which spells am I going to learn? How to call fire, or turn invisible? Or change my enemies into toads, maybe?” He was practically hopping with excitement.

  “Well, let me show you.” Erliand said, and instantly the room felt full of magic. Randall couldn’t help but still be jealous and a little awe-struck at how easily his master was able to connect to Llandra and draw large amounts of magic nearly instantly.

  Then Erliand spoke a word. It was a musical word, spoken with an odd inflection. It sounded almost familiar. Randall kept repeating the word to himself in his head, trying to figure out where he had heard it before. Something about the cadence of the word was annoying in the way it teased his memory. The accent seemed to be on the wrong syllables, but he wasn’t quite sure. The slight lengthening of the last ‘n’ and the trill of the ‘r’ gave the word an exotic sound. Finally, he sighed and gave up, looking back to his mentor.

  He was immediately hit with a wave of disorientation. What am I doing in the snow? He looked at his feet and realized that he was in the garden. What the… Spinning around in a panic, he slipped in the snow and fell on his posterior.

  He heard Erliand laughing from over his shoulder, and jerked his head over to see his master sitting on a clump of firewood, smoking his pipe.

  Randall was still too confused to be embarrassed about falling on his rear end. “Why…what…?” he tried to ask. His discomfiture caused Erliand to laugh even harder.

  “I’ve been following you around for fifteen minutes to make sure you didn’t do something daft like fall into the well! Get your bearings and let’s get out of the cold boy!” he guffawed. “I’ll explain inside next to the fire.”

  Randall stood up groggily, and did his best to brush the snow off of his breeches. He tried to collect this thoughts but his mind was sluggish and he felt as though someone had wrapped his head with cotton. He stamped the snow off of his boots and followed Erliand into the house and into the study.

  “Have a seat on the hearth and dry off.” Erliand ordered. “I was showing you an elven word of power. It confuses the mind and causes forgetfulness.”

  The word had seemed maddeningly familiar to Randall, even though its features were totally alien to every word he knew. “Tsan’laran,” he said to feel the word on his tongue, more to himself than his master.

  Erliand’s eyebrows shot up. “Now that’s surprising! You shouldn’t remember anything, much less the very word that brought on your insensibility. But yes, that’s the word. And your pronunciation’s already pretty good, too.”

  “Then how come nothing happened when I said it, Master?” Randall asked.

  “Gotta empower it, lad, same as all magic!” Erliand said. “With symbol magic, you draw power into yourself and then push it into the symbols after they’re drawn. With words of power, it’s a lot more complicated.

  “With spoken magic, you don’t just push the magic out there into something that already exists. You sort of weave the magic together with the word as you speak it. The word infuses the magic and gives it purpose. I can’t really tell you much more than that, though. It’s something you have to work on and figure out for yourself through practice.”

  Randall pulled a face. “I’ve heard that before,” he groaned.

  “That’s the spirit, boy!” Erliand said, laughing. “But before I send you off to your room to practice, there are some more things you should know about spoken magic.”

  “Yes Master?” Randall asked, suppressing another groan. He felt another lecture coming on, but getting too insolent would earn him extra chores in the morning.

  “Well, I’d told you before that symbols were ‘personal magic’. They can also be known as ‘inward’ magic. They only affect the person who has possession of the symbol, or the thing the symbol is drawn on. You can’t point a talisman at someone else and make something happen. It just doesn’t work that way.”

  Randall nodded at that, though something at the back of his mind was bothering him. He ignored the feeling for the moment and continued listening.

  “Spoken magic is different. We can call it ‘external’ magic. You say a word, and it affects something or someone else. You can’t use it on yourself, even if you wanted to,” Erliand continued. The thought that had been teasing Randall came into sharp focus.

  “Master?” he asked, figuring out what it was that had been bothering him.

  “What is it boy?” Erliand snapped. He hated being interrupted when he was lecturing.

  “What about magic wands? In all the stories, wizards have magic wands, and use them to do all kinds of magic! If symbols and talismans are personal magic, how does a wand work?” Randall asked.

  “You ever see me with a wand, boy?” Erliand asked, looking angry.

  “Uh, no Master,” Randall answered, beginning to feel stupid.

  “That’s right. Now tell me how ‘all of these stories’ go.” Erliand ordered sarcastically. Randall was taken aback by Erliand’s reaction. He knew that his master hated being interrupted, but the Mage seemed more bent out of shape than usual by this line of questioning.

  “Well,” Randall started carefully. “The wizard pulls out his wand, says ‘abracadabra’, and…”

  “Exactly!” Erliand snapped, cutting Randall off. “Spoken magic! The wand’s a crutch, is what it is, boy. These wands you’re talking about are just folk tales of wizards who had to use elemental magic to give their spoken magic some power.”

  “Elemental magic?” Randall asked.

  “Got wax in your ears boy? Elemental magic. I know I’ve mentioned it to you before. It’s not even real magic.” Erliand said, still sneering. “Some materials have an affinity for magic. It makes it a little stronger, gives it a better effect.” As he began warming into the lecture, some of Erliand’s nastiness began to subside.

  “Not all materials resonate with all kinds of magic, of course. So while you may use a holly branch to augment some kinds of magic, perhaps you would use cold iron for other kinds,” he said, his demeanor warming as he began lecturing in earnest. “You might use several materials on a wand, and might even make a talisman out of it by inscribing it with symbols, but ultimately, it’s a tool to enhance spoken magic. And it’s a tool for the lazy, boy. Don’t ever rely on it,” Erliand said, some of the hardness creeping back into his features as he finished.

  “How come, Master? We use bindrunes to make symbol magic easier. It seems to me that it’d make spoken magic easier if we used…”

  “Who’s the Mage here boy?” Erliand thundered. Randall was taken aback by the depth of his anger. “You apprentices are always looking for the easy way, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where it leads you, does it?”

  With each word, Erliand raised his voice and pushed his face a little closer to Randall’s, until Randall was cowering back against the brick surrounding the fireplace. “I’m sorry Master! I’m sorry! Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me!” he babbled, trying to escape his master’s wrath as Erliand raised his hand.

  Erliand seemed to catch himself. “No, boy. I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry at,” he said as he wearily rubbed his temples.

  Randall felt his fear begin to drain away as Erliand let go of the large charge of magic he had drawn. Randall hadn’t even felt the Mage connect to Llandra, but he now realized that a large portion of his boot-quaking terror could be attributed to his reaction to the amount of power his master had dra
wn. A large portion of his fear, but not all of it—Master Erliand had never raised his hand to Randall before. Randall had crossed some unwritten line with his master. He just had no idea what it was he had done.

  “I’m not going to hit you. It’s just…painful memories. You go on up to your room and practice.”

  Shaken, Randall scrambled back to his room without protest for once.

  Chapter 6

  Randall gradually improved in his ability to inscribe runes over the course of the winter. Eventually, he grew accustomed to the drudgery of the daily routine, learning to focus on the tasks at hand and rid his mind of distractions. The quiet solitude of practice was starting to become a welcome, meditative time that left Randall feeling at peace, even if he was often frustrated in his efforts.

  After the incident in the study, Randall was more comfortable working alone than with Erliand. His master’s sudden and unpredictable rage left Randall feeling nervous around the old man. There was no telling what would set him off next. Randall’s fifteenth birthday came and went, and he did not mention the occasion to his master.

  By the time the frost started to melt, Randall had learned three different symbols, in addition to the runes Buk and Eoin. He hadn’t made any progress at all with the word Tsan’laran, though he practiced every night. Of the five runes he could draw, Randall was only able to make one combination every time he tried: Buk paired with a bindrune that subtly changed its meaning to “durability”. Master Erliand mentioned that Mages often used this combination to extend the lifespan of an object. For instance, inscribed on a lantern, this combination would cause it to burn twice as long before its fuel was exhausted. Eventually, of course, the metal of the lantern itself would get used up by the rune, but Erliand assured Randall that if the lantern was made of a good metal, it could take years. The cost of a new lantern would be far less than the amount saved in kerosene! Anything that dulled, wore out, or used fuel could potentially benefit from these runes. Why, Randall could probably make his fortune selling his services on the strength of these runes alone!

  Erliand laughed out loud when Randall detailed his plan to get rich. “The idea shows ambition, boy,” he conceded. “But you came up with it in what, a day? Think you’re the first? In the more magic-rich lands, that rune-set is as common as dirt,” he had explained. “The ‘Mages’ that make their living selling it often can do little else in the way of the Art, and probably earn as much as a travelling tinker or minstrel. You’d never catch a real Mage at such work.” He made no effort to hide the superior contempt in his voice.

  Randall tried to envision a country where magic was so common that everything was ensorcelled in some small way, and threadbare, ragamuffin Mages peddled their wares door-to-door like a chimney sweep. It was beyond comprehension!

  Of course, even such lowly work was above Randall for now. For him, “consistency” actually meant that he could make a working rune set only once every five or six tries. Erliand said that he was making excellent progress, but it didn’t feel that way to Randall. He assumed Erliand was just saying that to keep him from becoming depressed about how poorly he was actually doing. Even in magic, it seemed Randall was destined to be second-best. But still, he was beginning to realize that for all the drudgery, what he was learning was far more interesting than any other apprenticeship he could have gotten at the job fair!

  The thought reminded him of home. He had eventually gotten over his bouts of homesickness, but still he was eager to see his family. Erliand had last mentioned visiting home weeks ago, and Randall intended to ask him about it again today after lunch.

  “Master, may I have a moment?” Randall asked after lunch.

  “Sure, boy. What can I help you with? Making any progress on your studies?” Erliand replied.

  “A little,” Randall said. “But I mostly wanted to ask when we were going back to Geldorn, like you said. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents.”

  “Geldorn?” Erliand asked, seemingly thrown off track by the question. An instant later, he made the connection, and said “Hells, boy! I forgot all about it, with all of the work I’ve been doing trying to copy your success with the Buk rune. We are completely behind in your training. You won’t be ready for another year.”

  “Another year?” Randall asked, incredulously. “But you said we would go this spring! And I’m sure my parents would be worried sick. They may even start asking around to see if anyone had seen me…”

  Randall knew that the last thing Erliand would want would be to have the King’s guard nosing around. With magic outlawed, that was tantamount to a death sentence! Erliand fumed silently for a long moment, obviously trying to find a suitable counter, but in the end he was persuaded by the argument.

  “Bah!” Erliand exclaimed in frustration. “Geldorn’s a small town. If we work hard, no one will know the difference. We’ll go in three weeks, and stay no more than ten days. Until we get back, your magical training is suspended.”

  “Whoop!” Randall shouted, beaming broadly. While he was genuinely thrilled with the thought of visiting home, there was also no small satisfaction in having bested Erliand in an argument.

  And so began one of the toughest three weeks of Randall’s training to date. In the morning, Randall would wake up and have an intense two hours class of “social studies”. Erliand would tell Randall the name of cities and towns, the names of bars, and the names of people who owned them. Randall was expected to learn new ones every day, and remember at least one of them the following day. In addition, Randall had to memorize notable characteristics of a city or person, and be able to recite those back as well.

  For instance, Harris the butcher made the finest tasting sausage in all of Bree, but he picked his nose when he didn’t think anyone was looking, so the locals never bought his wares. They left it to the tourists who didn’t know any better. Erliand said that people would want to know news of his travels, and these kinds of details made the lies seem more real.

  “More importantly,” Erliand had said, “All these stories are true. I’ve met these people, so anyone else that has met them will find your stories credible.”

  Randall would then practice his sword and dagger alone for two hours, until lunchtime. After lunch, there was no break, and Erliand and Randall would spend another two hours practicing “attitude”. Erliand claimed that if Randall carried himself with the proper swagger and wore the proper clothes, most people would just assume he was a caravan guard, and give him wide birth. Randall felt silly pacing around the house with his chest and chin stuck out, giving curt nods to imaginary people. But Erliand said that if Randall didn’t get good at it, they wouldn’t be visiting Geldorn this year. Randall sighed and did the best he could.

  After swaggering for a couple of hours, it was more weapons drills. These Randall practiced with Erliand, and were an intense two hours of sparring with wooden swords. Over and over, they would come together for a flurry of blows and feints, only for Randall to end up “killed” in some new and cunning way. One time Randall thought he was getting the better of his master, backing him toward a corner with a flurry of vicious cuts, until Erliand lashed out with his free hand and launched a full mug of hot tea into Randall’s face! Randall felt the hard point of Erliand’s practice sword in his ribs before he could clear the scalding liquid out of his eyes.

  “I know it’s not fair, boy.” Erliand said in answer to Randall’s howls of protest. “But you’re still dead, ain’t ya? I don’t care what kind of stories you’ve heard, on the battle field, there are only two kinds of fighters. Those who fight fair, and those who live. If you ever find yourself in the position of someone trying to kill you, you do whatever it takes to be sure you kill them first, because I guarantee that they won’t be offering you any courtesies. Better you learn that now than out there. Bards who write war stories usually don’t see battles first hand. Ain’t nothing glorious about stickin’ a man, and then watching him gasp out his last breath with terror in his eyes. I
t’s disgusting. But better him than you.”

  They would spar until Randall was practically falling down with fatigue. Then, with the sweat still pouring off of each other, they would launch into “role play”. Erliand would pretend he was somebody that Randall might run into in town, such as his father, or Frank the innkeeper. Erliand would ask him questions, and they would pretend to hold a conversation. During the conversations, Erliand would stop and tell Randall when his performance was not convincing, or when he made an error.

  They would continue the game through dinner, and then it was back to more fighting practice. Again Erliand trained with Randall, this time focusing on “tricks”, as Erliand called them. Randall especially liked the one where he feinted with his sword in one direction only to twist at the last minute and stab his opponent’s exposed left side with his dagger. The trick was to not put too much power into his sword swing, so that he could pivot on the ball of his foot when his sword was deflected. This was only one of several tactics that they drilled on together until Randall could barely lift his arms.

  Erliand stressed that these maneuvers were really just tricks and wouldn’t fool a seasoned soldier on the battlefield. But a bandit or street thug without any soldiering experience would probably fall for them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t live long enough to learn from the experience.

  In the flurry of constant activity, the days flew by. At the end of the three weeks, Erliand declared Randall “ready enough to fool a bunch of country bumpkins at least.”

  The night before they left, Randall found himself so excited he could hardly sleep. He tossed and turned, wide awake and thinking about the forthcoming trip. At one point Master Erliand came into his room and threatened to leave him behind if he didn’t go to sleep.

  “We’re leaving at the crack of dawn, boy!” he barked. “I don’t want you nodding off when it’s your turn to drive the cart. Now go to sleep!”