A Mage in the Making

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Part of me burns with eagerness to go, another is anxious in case I fail, and a third is scared witless at the prospect of going outside. I haven't seen anything except this House for eighteen years. And there will be women! They intrigue me and faceless temptresses sometimes trouble my dreams, but I know nothing about them except what I could learn from anatomy books."

  The distaff sex was, of course, just as much a mystery to the seven-year-old Grimm, but it seemed strange to live in an environment with no women or girls. “Are there no girl Students or mages here, Dalquist?” he asked, although the prospect of the absence of females did not bother him too much.

  "That's out of the question, Grimm.” Dalquist looked uncomfortable, but he carried on. “One thing you will be taught later is that ... shall we say, very close relationships with women are forbidden to Guild mages. They say that one kiss dulls the mind and ... and anything more serious destroys a mage's power. I very much want to have a family some day, but I cannot until I have paid off my debt. A married mage is an ex-mage, although he can still remain a full Guild member if he so wishes.

  "The Guild allows no female incumbents because of the risk of ... dalliances amongst the older Students."

  Grimm frowned. “What's a dalliance, Dalquist?"

  "Well ... it's a ... it's a special kind of friendship, Grimm. Can we just leave it at that?"

  Grimm did not know why Dalquist had become tongue-tied, but he decided not to press the matter. He nodded, despite being none the wiser.

  Chapter 10:

  Magemaster Crohn

  Over the next two weeks, Grimm explored every corner of the Scholasticate open to him, until it seemed as if he had spent his whole life there.

  He flitted like the shade of a brown mouse through the corridors of the Scholasticate, familiarising himself with its myriad complexities.

  Often, he secluded himself in some dusty yet comfortable nook of the Library, finding its marvels inexhaustible. On a few occasions, he played and tussled with some of the older charity Students, but at the age of seven, an age gap of a year or two was a vast chasm. He needed some friends of his own age.

  At last, his homesickness began to fade, and he began to think of the Scholasticate as his new home, although he often thought of his grandparents and the smithy in which he had been raised.

  Dalquist returned from his Quest a changed man. He carried himself with greater confidence, but he was quieter and reticent to talk about his adventure. His earlier good nature was still apparent, but, from time to time, a dark expression would flash across his face for no clear reason.

  Dalquist told Grimm that he would soon be his old self again, but he wished to be alone for a while.

  * * * *

  To a small boy, a fortnight can seem like an eternity, but it passed, nonetheless.

  On the first day of his magical education, Grimm's solitude was shattered as he moved uneasily through the Scholasticate assembly hall amongst a vast multitude of Students.

  The imposing, walnut-panelled hall was enormous, yet it barely seemed able to contain the milling throng of Students, Neophytes, Adepts and mages.

  An imposing stage was at one end of the hall, but the Students seemed to know better than to encroach upon it.

  Grimm felt like a ship in a stormy sea as he was buffeted through the crowd of chattering, shouting boys. Most of them had a confident air and wore expensive clothes; many had obviously met others of the throng before, and they talked in loud voices of earlier schools and good times so that Grimm felt quite adrift, dizzy and claustrophobic. He had never been comfortable with crowds, and he had never encountered such a horde of people in his life.

  He wandered aimlessly around small knots of oblivious boys until his sleeve was tugged by an earnest, energetic lad. The boisterous student wore fine, colourful clothes of blue and red, and an unruly mop of red hair threatened to swamp a pale, freckled face as he was jostled from time by the restless throng.

  "You new?” the boy shouted. “Me, too. What's the matter?"

  Grimm gesticulated towards the other boys and shrilled, “I don't know anybody here."

  "Oh, you don't want to take any notice of this stuck-up lot,” yelled the redhead. “I'm called Madar, by the way."

  "I'm Grimm Afelnor. I do feel a bit lost. I've never seen so many noisy boys in one place before."

  "Oh, they're big-mouths for sure. I've been in Lower School with a lot of these before. Where did you go to school?"

  "My gramma taught me at home in Lower Frunstock. She's a teacher.” He felt rather small at this admission of lowly birth, eyeing the expensive satin robes that Madar wore with such panache.

  Madar snorted. “You're lucky. I hardly ever got to see my family at all. As soon as my Da got rich, he got a bunch of nannies to look after me. I got rid of most of them easy. A frog in their bed, a paint-pot over the door, a spider in their tea; they just screamed and ran out the door. It didn't do any good because Da always got someone else. Usually it was somebody with a harder hand.” He put on a mournful expression for Grimm's benefit at this tale of heroic defiance in the face of unbending authority, but Grimm could tell that the outwardly confident Madar was, in reality, as nervous as he.

  A loud gong sounded from the stage, and the babble of voices stilled in an instant. Grimm and Madar turned to see an imposing grey-haired figure in white silk robes standing on the dais with a confident air of magisterial authority, his tall mage's staff at his side.

  "I bid you welcome to another year in Arnor House Scholasticate,” the tall man boomed, every inch the image of a mage.

  "For the benefit of those of you who have just joined us, I am Urel Shelit, Mage Illusionist of the Seventh Rank, called the Dream-weaver, Senior Magemaster of the Scholasticate.

  "All of those names refer to me. You will find a lot of mages here with many names and titles, many of them among the ranks of our estimable Magemasters. Despite the panoply of appellations, they are still human beings, and you can take your troubles to them. Just be sure that you have genuine problems before you complain; do not bother them with idle chit-chat, at your peril!

  "All of you are here for a minimum of seven years; charity pupils for as long as twenty-two. I know that seems a mighty gulf of time, but I can assure you that you will find your time so full that the years will seem to fly past.

  "I spent seven years here as a Student, nine as a Neophyte and thirty-five as an Adept before I was finally elevated to the First Rank of my calling; it was the proudest day of my life.

  "If you work hard and persevere, you may one day feel the same joy and the warm embrace of an ancient and mighty brotherhood that I felt on that day, so long ago. I bid you welcome to this House, and I wish you success and happiness here.

  "To the older hands here: welcome back. This new scholastic year will bring new challenges, new opportunities and new responsibilities. Work hard and make us proud, as you have done before."

  Urel's speech went on for nearly three hours, including references to each section of the crowd, which showed that the Senior Magemaster was someone who cared deeply for his charges, and who took deep interest in the day-to-day events in the Scholasticate; he was evidently also a man with a keen eye who missed little. Grimm might have appreciated the speech more had his legs not begun to develop a fierce ache, and had he understood more of what the mage was saying.

  At the end of the speech, Senior Magemaster Urel received a raucous but good-natured accolade from the older Students and Neophytes, steering a close, careful course around the border of the onerous House rules on comportment. The mages and Adepts confined themselves to respectful applause, which was almost drowned in the noise.

  As Urel finished his speech and departed, the loud hubbub started again. Doorkeeper, who had been standing by the hall door for the whole performance, clapped his leathery hands and rapped the base of his staff on the wooden floor of the hall. He pulled back his shoulders and, with some effort, managed to stand fully er
ect. This added six inches to his height, and Grimm realised that the ancient mage was even taller than he thought.

  "Come on, boys, stand still. Get into line, do: you know the routine. Chop, chop,” he cried. Doorkeeper's booming voice carried through the hall with ease, but to little immediate effect. Some Students stopped talking, others carried on chatting to their friends, but, at last, all moved into slack, ragged lines and the volume of chatter decreased a little.

  Having failed almost completely to cow the throng of boys before him, Doorkeeper slumped into his familiar, hunched pose, opening a door at his right side.

  "Class Wyvern!” he cried. “This is your classroom for the year. Wait here quietly until Magemaster Tarvel arrives.” About forty boys came to the fore, and, for the most part, they filed into the room in a more or less orderly fashion.

  The hall was like the hub of a wheel, with twelve classrooms arrayed around it like spokes. The hubbub in the hall began to lessen as more boys were ushered into their appointed places of learning.

  The new Students were left until last, and Doorkeeper motioned the thirty remaining boys towards a door on the far side of the hall. The boys trooped inside, nervous and mute, and Grimm was carried along by the stream of Students.

  The room was painted in a mixture of dun and bile-green. The furniture consisted of long ink-stained benches, all battered and well-worn, set in five rows, behind which were arrayed hard, wooden trestles.

  Grimm saw that many boys had brought silk or velvet cushions in apparent anticipation of the uncomfortable seating arrangements.

  Instead of the more usual elementary school charts showing lists of words and numbers, three walls were covered by a mural consisting of strange symbols. There were no paintings or essays pinned to the walls.

  Since most of the boys had taken positions next to their particular friends, Grimm sat at the back of the lower schoolroom, resisting the urge to chew his fingernails in his nervousness.

  All of the other boys in the room had accents and clothes that spoke of wealthy upbringing, which made Grimm all too conscious of his simple woollen robes. Small groups of boys engaged in desultory conversation. Few spared the plainly-attired Grimm the least glance, except for Madar, sitting at the front, who gave Grimm a friendly smile and a wave, which Grimm returned.

  The door opened, and the chattering diminished by a considerable amount, as a tall man strode in to stand before the class. He wore green silk robes with a voluminous hood, and he carried a gnarled, brass-shod staff as tall as he, with seven gold rings at its upper end.

  The man had steel-blue eyes, and his thick white beard reached the middle of his chest. To Grimm, he looked the very archetype of wizardry, and the very force of his presence cowed most of the boys. This was a mighty magic user, and no error!

  The man beat his heavy staff on the floor thrice to attract the boys’ attention. The last few chatterers abruptly fell silent, and the majestic mage cleared his throat.

  "I am Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer,” he intoned in a powerful, rumbling, bass voice that made Grimm want to clear his own throat. “I am your Magemaster, and that means that I have the ultimate responsibility for your tuition in this House. If you have any insurmountable problems, bring them to me and I will attempt to resolve them as well as I can. Just make sure that you do not bring me every trifling little issue and triviality, or we may well fall out.” The blue eyes scanned the room, inviting challenge; none came.

  "For whatever reasons, you have been sent here to follow the difficult path to mastery, and I am to try to lead you there. For now, I will be teaching you Perception, Interpretation, and Visualisation. They may not be particularly interesting subjects, but none of you will progress to a higher level until he has mastered each of them to my satisfaction and mine alone.

  "Some of you are related to members of this House, or may have some small awakening of power, and you may believe that this gives you some kind of precedence or advantage over others. Correct this impression at once! Here, what you were is forgotten and of no consequence. You are all ignorant, a state that I intend to correct."

  Crohn paused for effect, letting the words sink into the young minds. He was a potent mage, but he had found that his true vocation came in the education of the young and impressionable.

  "A mage is not some simpleton, bumbling in the dark, or a blind scatterer of raw power,” he boomed, “but one who understands the meaning and practice of his craft, who can use this to control the powers within him, and who can direct those powers to a desired end. It matters little if you have enough power to shame the mightiest Weatherworker in the land if that power cannot be marshalled, controlled, directed and understood. I may have no more innate power than do many of you, but I am confident and controlled in the use of that power, and I am fully aware of my limitations. Even moderate power can be used to great effect when allied to mastery of the craft."

  Crohn smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his pristine robes. “One thing I cannot do,” he said, “is to increase your level of magical power or intelligence. All I or any Magemaster can do is to lead or draw out the power and intelligence already present within you. This is actually the root meaning of the word ‘education'."

  Fishing a small piece of chalk from a pocket, Crohn wrote the words 'EDUCATION: drawing out' on the blackboard, underlining the phrase twice, his robes fluttering around him like birds’ wings. Cowed by his commanding presence, the boys were transfixed by his earnest intensity; or so Crohn hoped.

  "If you have no power, you will never be a mage, no matter how diligently you may study. If you have power and cannot, or will not, learn to direct it, you will never be a mage. If you fail to persevere, or do not heed what you are taught, you will never be a mage."

  Crohn loved the rapt attention of the boys. There might be no love or admiration in their eyes, but he knew that he was where he had always been destined to be.

  He cleared his throat. “Only if you have both power and control in full measure,” he said, “and only if you exercise true diligence and industry in the understanding of your chosen craft, will you be acclaimed a master.

  "I can put your minds at rest on one score: all of you have been accepted as Students only because you have been interviewed by a member of the Guild and are known to have some degree of magical power. Maybe two-thirds of this class will leave the Scholasticate with some small competence in the Art, but without being judged fit to wear the Guild Ring.

  "Of the remaining ten boys, perhaps five will show the strength and determination to progress to eventual Acclamation. For every ten such dedicated Students, it is expected that seven will become either Readers or Scholars, the backbone of the Guild's magical capability.

  "Out of sixty Students, it is expected that three—one-twentieth—will become what we call Specialists; true masters of the Craft of Thaumaturgy."

  Crohn let this last sink in. Nobody was guaranteed mastery, whatever his inheritance or his breeding.

  "Know and understand that I will be proud of each and every Student, no matter his achievements, should I know that he has worked to achieve his full potential. You will only learn to fulfil yourself if you dedicate yourselves to your studies. If you apply yourselves and master what you have as best you are able, I will be happy to acknowledge you as brothers."

  Crohn scanned the group, but he was pleased to see no hint of mockery or dissension. “Until then, you are merely Students, here to learn what few inklings you may of an abstruse and arcane art.

  "Whatever you have been taught until this point in time is irrelevant. Here begins your magical education. Attend well."

  Chapter 11:

  First Class

  The Magemaster scanned the class with a slightly disapproving eye, as if expecting misbehaviour, but the Students were still displaying a reasonable amount of attention, so he continued.

  "What, then, is magic? It is the controlled extension of one's will and power to effect a change in what is. In
some measure, this is no different to the act of picking up a book."

  To illustrate his concepts, Crohn picked a book from his table and held it aloft.

  "Consider the actions that need to take place in order for me to do something as simple as lifting a book,” he said, warming to his theme. “I see the object, I form the desire to lift it, and I direct my will to it. My will is conveyed to the object by my arm and my hand. These are given power from the air I breathe and the food I eat.

  "I can lift the book only when all these factors are present. If I lift too strongly, the book flies into the air. If my grip is too tight, I crush it. If my grip is too weak, it slips through my fingers. My senses need to inform me of the success or failure of the action so that I can learn from the experience."

  A boy at the back raised his hand and Crohn motioned him to speak. “Lord Mage, your will doesn't lift the object, does it? Your hand does."

  Crohn suppressed a smile; he knew such a question would be raised at some point, and he was ready for it. “If I were to sever my hand and cast it from me, could it still lift? What does my hand know of the book? Without my will to direct it, it is no more than a piece of meat on a butcher's slab."

  Perhaps encouraged by the other boy's bold example, a serious-looking charity Student at the back of the room and raised his hand, and Crohn acknowledged him with a nod. “Lord Mage,” the boy said, “you said that it was important to see the object so you could lift it. But blind people can still lift things. I don't think I know what you mean."

  "Indeed, I know several blind mages who are easily as powerful and skilful as I am, if not more so,” the Magemaster replied. “As you will all soon appreciate, ‘sight’ is merely a metaphor for ‘perception', acquisition of data by means of a physical sense. It is necessary to perceive an object in some sensory manner in order to interact with it in a controlled and meaningful way.