by Lyndon Hardy
From simple beginnings, the hints of form transmuted into bright images. Sounds and smells blended with the rest. Like the impossible union of a masterful composition of music, a stunning work of art, culinary delights, and innermost euphorias and fears, they all swirled together in an integrated whole.
Gasps of pleasure, cries of surprise, and screams of simulated pain poured forth from the enraptured audience as the spell wrapped them in its grasp. With a rising crescendo, the emotional intensity of the imagery reached its climax, and then, with an abrupt transition back to reality, it was done. There was a moment of stunned silence, a timid clap, and finally a roar of applause. Jemidon, they would call, Jemidon, master of sorcery, master of the arcane art. Choose his work for the supreme accolade! Choose it as the best for the prince…
“And so from this dozen we must choose the four to present to the prince.”
Jemidon jarred his thoughts back to why he was there as he felt Farnel’s elbow in his ribs. He blinked and quickly looked about. He had heard one of the masters addressing the others.
“As usual, a difficult choice; they all have merit. But we cannot expect the lords to sit through more than four and still retain their good humor.”
“There is yet another.” Jemidon shook himself fully alert. “Master Farnel breaks his long absence with a submission for consideration by his peers.”
“It is growing late.” Gerilac rose and looked at Farnel. “Besides, the master does not look all that well. Perhaps he has decided at the last minute to withdraw after all.”
“For this selection, I will cast the glamour.” Jemidon forced out the words, trying to ignore the queasy feeling building in his stomach. If he were going to be a master, then performing a simple charm for a single row should be of no concern at all. Despite the lack of practice, he knew the words well enough. “Master Farnel will observe with the rest of you, in order to gain a better critique of the results.”
“A tyro—and one who has received instruction for less than a year. Most unacceptable,” Gerilac said.
“But Farnel’s coming out of his withdrawal should be encouraged,” another replied. “Have with it, tyro. I am curious as to what your master has to offer.”
Jemidon nodded and quickly relayed the instructions to the runners for which properties to fetch and position. A few minutes later, the stage was alive with activity. While the fabric boulders and mountain skyline were pushed into place, Jemidon descended into the chanting well. He placed his sandals in the footprints painted on the floor, as Farnel had instructed, and slid his forearms into the rests.
Jemidon blinked at the strong light and turned his head slightly, so that the glare was not directly in his eyes. In the proper position, an image of his face reflected up onto the mirrors overhead and then was projected to all the recesses of the hall.
The curtain closed. After a moment, the final scrapes and thumps behind it halted. In the silence that immediately followed, the churning in Jemidon’s stomach intensified. Why hadn’t he spent more time learning the words to the simple charms? At the time it had appeared so easy. He should at least have gone through them once to cement them in his memory. Now, instead of the studied calm that Farnel said was so necessary, visions of hurried flight streaked through his mind. He tried to concentrate on utter blackness and to push the thoughts away; but, like minnows swimming through a large net, they passed through his barriers with ease.
The curtain rose. In a mounting panic, Jemidon grabbed for the first word of the charm. He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated and frowned. Somehow the way it formed on his tongue was not quite correct. If he spoke, something subtle would be wrong. He strained to recall the proper enunciation, as Farnel had taught it to him, but the sharp edges that made all the difference blurred. He raced forward to the second word, hoping by association to recover the first, but it, too, dissolved into a meaningless garble. With a feeling of sudden helplessness, he tore through the first stanza, searching for some phrase that remained firm and solid; but as he did, it all slipped away, until not a single syllable remained.
“Well,” he heard Gerilac boom down from above, “we are waiting for the effect. At least something to cover the seams and rips in the properties. They are meant only to be a hint. The glamour is to carry the burden of it all.”
“The first scene is morning in Plowblade Pass,” Jemidon called back. “From the west come the lightning flashes of a storm.”
“Ah, opening with a riveting display,” someone said. “Eye-burning bolts of yellow, claps of thunder that hurt the ears. It seems that Farnel has come around at last.”
Jemidon tried a final time to recall the glamour, but it was totally gone. There was no point in trying further. His mind was blank.
“Come, come, the lightning,” the voice persisted.
“No, that is not the main effect,” Jemidon called up. “You see, master Farnel intended to focus on the commanders.” Quickly he shuffled through the easel sheets. “Here, I will show you the outline. It begins in the second scene.”
“But the thrill of the storm.”
“It is not directly in view.” Jemidon raced up the stairs in a flapping of papers. “Just muted rolls and brief flashes at the periphery of vision. More of an ominous foreboding, to set the mood. It is later that the principle theme is brought forth.”
“The prince will not sit still for such empty art!” Gerilac exclaimed. “There are three or four here with much more interest and impact.”
“If you could see the effects and how they mix together, you would better understand,” Jemidon said weakly.
“Understand, understand!” Gerilac shot back. “It is for you to understand, tyro. We pick the four to present to the prince on the merit of what we see here and now. No credit is given for hasty preparation and promise of improvement later on.”
Jemidon looked down the row of solemn masters, their faces all stern and one or two nodding agreement. “Master Gerilac is right,” one of them said. “It would be unfair to the others to judge on scribbled notes alone. At the very least, there should be some Power of Suggestion. Why, even a tyro of a week should know it well. Return with your master. There is nothing more here that you can do.”
Farnel pushed forward, but then staggered, clutching his stomach. For a moment, he strained to launch a protest of his own, but no words could he force out. No one spoke. After a long silence, the master’s shoulders slumped. With a deep sigh, he grabbed Jemidon’s arm and turned for the stage door, a look of bitter disappointment clouding his face. Jemidon pulled himself free but did not protest further. In a daze, he slowly followed the master out of the hall.
Like a drowning man, he reached out for the blur of explanations whirling in his mind, trying to grab a reason as it spun past, a reason besides the one he shunned for why he had failed again.
He had been rushed, or perhaps he had not studied as diligently as he should have. The chanting well was unfamiliar and threw off his composure. Farnel had said to use the Power of Suggestion when, deep inside, he had thought Shimmering Mirrors would have been better. Or maybe it merely was a matter of luck. Even the best of the masters did not complete every charm they attempted. A single slip of the tongue in the beginning was all that it would take. A random slur, or a moment’s forgetfulness, and the spell would be broken.
For a long while, the two walked the path of white stones in silence, Jemidon’s thoughts tumbling, and Farnel with his hands clamped in a tight knot behind his back.
“Gerilac and the supreme accolade,” the master whispered as they finally approached the hut, the deepness of his voice beginning to return. “Again it is a possibility.”
He grabbed at a branch that poked onto the trailway and snapped it in two with a savage twist, hurling the free piece up the hillside. “Gerilac knew the prince would come today and acted accordingly. And incapacitating my voice for a few hours was enough. I should have been more alert during the instruction. The signs were there,
but I was distracted by the preparations. You absorb a lot quickly, Jemidon, but not once did I see you try even the simplest of charms. Yes, your mind is quick, but somehow, deep inside, you rebelled against sorcery.”
“No!” Jemidon exclaimed, breaking out of his reverie. “I will do better. We have an agreement. My help in a production in exchange for your instruction.” He felt drained from the disappointment in the hall and did not like where Farnel’s thoughts were leading.
“The opportunity of this year’s production has been lost.” Farnel shrugged grimly. “It again will be Gerilac or some other bragging at the feasting when it is done. But that is not any different from what it has been so many years before. Somehow I shall find the will to endure it. I will go and raise my tankard with the rest and look them all in the eye, if they dare to return my stare.”
Farnel paused for a moment in thought. His eyes narrowed as he studied Jemidon before him. “But as for you, trust the experience of the master. The end-of-season celebration should be avoided. Aye, not for you the celebration, and perhaps not even sorcery. I think, Jemidon, that one of the other arts might be better to your liking.”
“I know something of them all,” Jemidon said. “But now sorcery is my only choice.”
Farnel’s brows contracted, and Jemidon rushed on before the sorcerer could speak.
“Yes, I know of thaumaturgy with not one law but two: the Principle of Sympathy, or ‘like produces like’; and the Principle of Contagion, ‘once together, always together.’ The craft is much used to fertilize the crops and increase the yields in the wheatlands where I was born.
“And I know some of alchemy with its Doctrine of Signatures: how ‘the attributes without mirror the powers within’ to guide the formula maker concocting his potions, salves, and the sweetbalms which close the deepest wounds.
“And I also know of magic and the Maxim of Persistence, which states that ‘perfection is eternal.’ Even you must have some notion of the craft. The indestructible tokens of Pluton come from the guild there that performs its rituals for the trading houses and monetary exchanges.
“And finally, I know of wizardry with two laws of its own: the Law of Ubiquity, which states that ‘flame permeates all’ and is the channel to the domains of the demons, entire worlds totally different from our own and filled with the likes of great djinns, flittering imps, rockbubblers, and ticklesprites; and the Law of Dichotomy, ‘dominance or submission,’ which tells that one must totally control the devil he calls or submit to its will instead.
“Yes, I know all the laws which define and guide the arts—the principles from which all else follows.”
“Then select one and gain its mastery,” Farnel said. “Sorcery is but one of many from which to choose.”
“I have chosen!” Jemidon exclaimed. “I have chosen them all! There are none left to sample. Why do you think I come to you at such an age? Because I have struggled with each of the other arts for several years before. And for each, the result has been the same. Somehow, somehow when it has come to the first test, the first chance to prove my worth, I have failed. I have failed at them all—thaumaturgy, alchemy, magic, and the lore of the wizard. For them all have I labored to no avail. Sorcery is my last chance to become a master.”
“I should have known all of this before we made our agreement,” Farnel said.
“Evidently a few months were not enough,” Jemidon protested. “I guess I did not concentrate on the fundamentals.” He licked his lips, straining for the right words. “But now we have a whole year. And we will be on guard for petty tricks besides. Yes, the next year will be different, and I will be well on my way to becoming a master.”
“And does the robe mean so very much?” Farnel asked.
“So very much?” Jemidon choked. “So very much?” The vision of his dying sister, the look he saw in the eyes of others when Milton passed by, the riches, the power, the prestige, all danced in his thoughts. “There is no question of how much,” he said. “It means everything. Everything! Besides the robe of the master, there is nothing else at all.”
For a moment, Farnel did not speak. Finally he turned back in the direction of his hut. “You can stay until after the end-of-season festivities in a week,” he said. “With you still about, Gerilac might wonder if there is some scheme of my own that is hatching. The uncertainty is the least I can repay.” He glanced a final time at Jemidon. “And after that, we will see, we will see if there is any profit in instructing you further.”
CHAPTER THREE
Stormflight
JEMIDON pulled his arms tighter around his knees to shut out the onshore breeze. The wind whipping up and over the granite cliff seemed to whisper dark secrets as it sped by. The moon was full, shining in a gap in a cloud-filled sky. Its cold and sterile light cast pale shadows among the dark buildings of the harbor below. The lights were all out; the ships of the prince had left hours before.
Only in the presentation hall, Jemidon knew, was there any activity. The masters and tyros celebrated the end of the season with an all-night revelry that lasted until the award of the supreme accolade at Canthor’s keep the next day. Even Farnel was attending the festivities. He would not sulk and planned to be as merry as the others to prove that he did not really care. But he had sent Jemidon away. After a few bottles of ale, the sorcerer could no longer count on eyes sharp enough to keep his tyro from trouble with Erid and the others. And after what had happened at the preliminary selection, it was doubtful that Jemidon could hold his own.
The week after the failure in the chanting well had been a total numbness. Farnel had said no more about the future. It was clear enough that Jemidon would have to prove he could at least cast simple charms if he were to stay. And since Farnel was no longer preparing a presentation, there had been ample opportunity to try. But each time Jemidon had found an excuse and shrunk away from the test. The possibility that the master was right and he had no skill was too frightening to face. And he had acted like a child as it was, pouring out his past in a babble and pleading for another chance. How could the master give him even the smallest portion of the respect he hoped to have when he finally won the right to wear a robe?
Jemidon looked down to the beach at the base of the cliff. He had had no interest in watching the flurry of tent striking during the afternoon as the hawkers hurried to depart for the next market. With the sailing of the nobility, Morgana was transformed in a single day to a moribund isolation that would not be shaken until the beginning of the season the next year.
Jemidon shrugged and hurled a small stone into the air, trying to follow its descent into the gently lapping water below, his eyes sweeping over the deserted bazaar. All but a few of the attractions were furled and stowed away on ships bound for other islands. As the rock fell, a spark of light grabbed his attention. He looked closer, to see Drandor’s oddly shaped tent still standing in almost perfect isolation on the sandy beach.
As Jemidon watched, a sudden movement focused his attention more. He saw the trader pull a heavy roll of fabric from the opening and drag it with short jerks across the sand to a scaffolding newly erected nearby. Drandor grabbed one corner and stepped on a short stool, uncoiling what looked like some sort of rug or tapestry. Then he paused, uncertain, and looked back in the direction of the tent. One of the flaps was rolled up, and Jemidon thought he saw fleeting motions in the dimness within. The gusty breeze carried hints of garbled whispers, lilting phrases that he could not quite understand.
Drandor appeared to be listening as well. Several moments passed before he turned his attention back to his burden. Then, straining to full height, he looped one corner onto the edge of the framework and moved to the other end to do the same. After some struggle, a large panorama, five times the length of a man and easily as tall, was boldly displayed to the grounds of the bazaar.
Drandor brushed his hands and started for his tent, when a sudden gust of wind toppled the scaffolding onto its side. Faint curses drifted up to Jemi
don on the cliff. A cloud dimmed the moon and a few warning drops started to fall.
Jemidon pulled his cape around him and started for cover. But then he stopped as he wondered why Drandor did not do the same. In the quickening wind, the trader struggled to right the tapestry and ignored the coming storm. With ropes anchored to some large boulders, he steadied the mural in the proper position and, with two quick incisions, created rifts to spill the wind.
A gentle sprinkle began to fall as Drandor pulled a large oil lamp, backed by a reflector, from the tent. For several minutes, he struggled to get it lighted. Finally a circle of light beamed to the tapestry flapping in the wind. The scene was an unfamiliar one, a rock-strewn foreground set against a reddish sky. Strange beasts grazed and hunted in splayed grasses and tangled briars.
Drandor lugged forward a large box and pried off the lid, just as the first sheet of heavy rain crashed from the sky. Jemidon felt the water quickly soak through his clothing, but he wiped his face dry and followed the action below. Again Drandor appeared uncertain and looked to the tent. Finally he nodded and reached into the box, pulling out a panel of paper stretched across a light frame. He held it up for inspection, but the falling rain immediately shredded it to ribbons. Shrugging, the trader brought forth a second. Careful to keep it vertical, he placed it in front of the lantern. The lamplight shone through the paper onto the mural and another beast appeared, grazing among the others. Drandor quickly threw the panel aside and reached for a third. The same beast was projected again, although in a slightly different orientation than before. Quickly the trader ran through a fourth, a fifth, and then many more. Jemidon saw that the set of figures was in a sequence, each one showing the next posture as the animal extended his neck to reach for a fruit dangling from a low branch.
As the scenario unfolded, more figures came into view. Meteorlike rocks streaked across the sky. One swooped low, almost touching the plant tops, and men with grayish skin and wearing loincloths descended among the beasts. While some stalked the animals with nets, others used picks and shovels to pry into the boulder-strewn ground. The soaring stone that had dropped them to the surface reappeared over the horizon. Pieces of discovered crystal were dumped onto the net-ensnarled beasts, and then the tangles of rock, animals, men, and nets lifted back into the sky. Like swords drawn to a lodestone, they were attracted to the flying monolith as it sped away.
