The Magician Carward rose early, as was his practice, and over a light breakfast, perused a newsheet.
Some might be surprised that so great and powerful a practitioner of the magical arts would bother himself with anything so mundane. However, if anyone were to express such surprise, he would have told them that there was little point in expending magical energy when other, perfectly adequate means of disseminating information existed. His argument may have been somewhat weakened by the fact that the newsheet in question was currently pasted on a board in the town of Huxenthorn, some twenty miles distant.
His attention was particularly drawn to a discreet box printed in the lower right-hand corner. This quietly announced that anyone wishing to seek out magic should attend the residence of the Magician Carward on the day following the next full moon, no later than an hour after sunrise.
His Butler attended him with a pot of hot herbal tea. “Well, today’s the day!” said Carward in a conversational tone. “Have any supplicants arrived?”
“Indeed sir, but only five in number.”
“Only five?” Carward frowned, the effect of which was much enhanced by his large, grey -bristled eyebrows. “I had hoped for more.”
“If I may say so, sir, I believe the wording of the advertisement may be to blame.”
Carward snorted and frowned again. Which, given who and what he was, would have struck fear into many stout hearts. The Butler, however – being who and what he was, and having served Carward for many years – was unimpressed. “If you had been more specific in your statement, perhaps, and made it clear that you were seeking an Apprentice, it might have attracted more attention.”
Carward shook his head. “As you should recall, I’ve tried that. Several times. Oh, it does get a big response, but all the wrong sort. Young layabouts, mostly, looking for an easy life where everything’s done by waving a hand and spouting gibberish.” He waved a hand and the image of the newsheet disappeared. “Only one remotely likely candidate in years – and you know how that worked out.” He gave the Butler a significant look, which was blandly ignored.
“So something more subtle was called for,” the Magician continued. “Something that would attract more varied attention. Pour the tea, if you’ve done with your critique!”
The Butler did as he was bid. “I believe that you have succeed in that, sir. Our guest list is not large, but it is varied. A young woman – heavily pregnant. A more mature woman, a peasant by her clothing. A wealthy but (in my estimation) somewhat unsavory gentleman. A rather angry young man, and a boy.”
'Interesting.”
“Yes sir. There was one other, a nobleman. Youngest son of the Duke of Nordu. He arrived last night with a large retinue. However, he found the accommodations offered him unsuited to his station, and moreover took exception when I refused entry to his various guards, servants, secretaries, cooks, grooms and two young women of unclear purpose. He therefore left to find something more appropriate. He declared his intention to return, but has not yet done so."
Carward's snorted, a sound conveying amusement and contempt. "Well, the designated hour has passed, so he fails the first test! Should he deign to put in an appearance later on, he is to be refused entry."
Some servants might have been concerned at the thought of turning away so lofty a personage as the son of a Duke. But the Butler was seven feet tall, green and scaly, with significant fangs and tusks besides. Carward did not anticipate any problems.
"Show the first supplicant to the Great Hall," he continued. “Let us commence with the angry young man – best to let him get it of his chest, I think – and then the others, in whatever order you see fit.”
Several minutes later, the young man arrived in the gloomy vastness of the Great Hall. He was shaking somewhat - the Butler often had that effect on people - but nevertheless he strode determinedly across the flagstones towards the pool of light in which Carward awaited him.
What the young man saw as he approached was a cloaked and hooded figure, seated on a chair not quite impressive enough to be considered a throne and with a staff of time-blackened wood leaning against it. Beneath the hood, a long beard – and the previously mentioned eyebrows – were to be seen. This was, in fact, Carward's true appearance. It was close enough to what people expected of a magician to serve the purpose, and he saw no need to bolster it with illusion. And the chair was more comfortable than any throne.
What Carward saw was a strongly built but raggedly dressed individual, clearly poor but with a zealous fire in his eyes.
"Why do you want magic?" the Magician asked, without the formality of a greeting.
The supplicant was not disconcerted. "Sir, my family and my village have suffered grievous wrong at the hands of Baron Shuuld! We have been turned out of our homes and forced from our lands, against all law and custom. I want magic that I may uphold our rights and claim redress from the Baron!"
"In short, you seek justice," Carward observed.
"Yes! Justice!" the young man cried passionately.
"Not magic." Carward continued, and the supplicant gaped.
"But..."
"Magic has no moral component. It will not distinguish right from wrong. What you do in the name of justice, others may perceive as injustice - and before long I will have an endless stream of supplicants hammering on my door, each seeking justice against each other!"
"But sir..."
Carward lifted a hand, and the power of speech was denied the ragged young man. At the same moment a sheet of parchment appeared before him, somehow floating in mid-air.
"Go to the city of Huxenthorn, to the premises of Olson, Donice and Hegel, Practitioners of Law. Present there this parchment, and at my request you will be given an apprenticeship. Apply your passion for justice to diligent work, and in due course you may achieve what you seek - along with a lucrative career, which will prove even better."
The young man reached out and took the parchment. Carward lowered his hand, and speech burst forth.
"But that might take years!"
"Little that is worthwhile is quickly done. And how long do you suppose it would take you to learn magic? Go now. You have a long journey ahead of you."
The young man might have protested further, but the Butler was suddenly standing by his side, ushering him towards the door. And when the Butler ushered, people went quietly.
The next supplicant was better dressed, though not nobility, and had a calculating air about him.
"Why do you want magic?" Carward asked.
The supplicant smiled. Not a nice smile, in Carward's opinion.
"Because magic is power, and power is everything."
"Magic is indeed power, but there are other things than power. Love, beauty, wonder, joy. Happiness. All accounted as important by many, and all with their own measure of power."
The supplicant laughed. "Now then, sir - you tease me! We both know how the world works. You have your magical arts, I have talents of my own, but we both understand that power is the only thing that matters. All else is in its shadow and under its control! So..." He stepped closer and lowered his voice "...share your magic with me, and you will gain a loyal servant who will fail you in nothing! All my skills, all my knowledge, my network of contacts, my spies, informers and those under my control - they will all be at your disposal. Your power and mine together will put the world at our feet!"
"I do not want the world at my feet," said Carward.
His answer was a frown, but followed at once by a slow smile. "Of course, I should have known. You have larger plans, do you not? No doubt your magical arts have revealed other worlds ripe for conquest! Well, then, you will need someone to rule here in your name. And I can be that man - your Viceroy, O Emperor of Worlds!"
Carward raised his hand again, with much the same effect as before, except that this time what appeared in the air was a beautiful flower. The petals were of a white so pure that it seemed to glow in the gloomy hall, and faded subtly to rich purple edging. The flower itself was set off by a surround of deep green leaves, and was mounted on a thorny stem. A gentle but distinct and pleasant odour drifted from it.
"You assume that because you have power, and I have power, then we must think alike. But for you, power is an end in itself. You will never have enough of it, yet you use it only to gain more power. But for me, power - magic - is but a means to an end. This flower, for example. It took me fifteen years to learn how to create it. I am rather proud of this accomplishment. But my Gardner grows an abundance of them every year, and in greater variety than I can yet achieve! So my magic has its limits, and has best served to teach me what truly wonderful things real flowers are."
He gestured, and the flower was no longed in the air but in the palm of the man's hand.
Growing out of his palm, in fact. The supplicant stared at it in shock.
"Study it. Learn to appreciate it. Do not try to destroy or remove it: it is part of you now, part of your flesh. And so it will stay, until you have learned its lesson.
"Wha… what lesson is that?"
"That power must have a purpose. Yet there are those things - such as beauty, and others I have mentioned - which are complete in themselves, and require no purpose. They simply are. Your lust for power alone will consume you in time. But the flower will remind you to seek that which is deeper, more precious – and healthier. This is the best I can do, the rest is in your hands." He smiled. "Well, in your hand, at any rate!"
And then the Butler made his appearance, and the power seeker made his exit.
The third supplicant was a young woman, possibly the daughter of a merchant, and definitely pregnant. Carward did not need to be a magician to tell this story, but nonetheless questioned her as he had the others.
"Sir, my lover has left me, and in such a condition as you see. My father has turned me out, and I am alone in the world... I want magic to bring my man back to me and make him love me again."
The Magician shook his head. "It cannot be done."
Her face crumpled. "Oh, but sir..."
He held up his hand and she was silent.
"Magic could force your man back to your side. It could drive him wild with desire for you and you alone, or cause him to kneel before you in fear. But it could not make him love you again, for in truth he never loved you at all."
Shock crossed her face, and she tried to speak, but the magician's spell restrained her.
"I know you do not wish to hear this, but you shall. No doubt others have tried to tell you the same, and had you listened, you would not be before me now. But what is done is done. You should consider this, though: If he loved you at all, would he have treated you thus?"
She hung her head in eloquent silence.
Carward shook his head, and spoke on, but in gentler tones. "Nothing can force love, not even magic, because if it is forced it is not truly love. Love must be given freely. Anything other is imitation."
He paused, stroked his beard, and sighed.
"In any case, your most pressing need just now is not love, but security. For yourself and the child. Take this letter..." (It appeared before her as he spoke) "... And present it at the address indicated. There are good people there, a religious order of the better sort. They will care for you both. And who knows, you might also learn something of the true nature of love."
The Butler appeared by her side, but somewhat to his surprise, the young woman was reluctant to go. Carward restored her speech.
"Sir... my thanks, truly... But this place is in Huxenthorn, and I..."
"Of course, you cannot walk so far in your condition. Be at peace. A carriage will be provided for the journey. One which, moreover, will get you to your destination before the sun sets! Magic does have its uses, after all."
"Oh, Sir, how can I repay your kindness? Perhaps I may be permitted to name my child after you?"
Carward smiled, but shook his head. "That is a nice thought, but I'm sure you can think of something more suitable for your daughter."
"My... I will have a daughter?"
"So it seems. But if you wish to show gratitude, then perhaps you would be willing to share your carriage? A young man left here not long past, and coincidentally he is also traveling to Huxenthorn. If you are in agreement, then I shall arrange for the carriage to stop for him. You should share your stories. As you will learn, he is very much concerned over matters of injustice. I think it likely, therefore that you will find him sympathetic to your situation."
The young woman departed, still in tears but now more of relief and gratitude. In due course the Butler returned to inform Carward that the magical carriage had been dispatched, with the young lady aboard and instructions given for the collection of the young man on the way.
"So, now you are a matchmaker as well as a magician?" the Butler added, with a ferocious display of fangs that Carward understood to be a smile.
"I merely create an opportunity. What becomes of that is a matter for those involved. But I don't deny that I would be delighted if love were to blossom. There are some things more wonderful than magic, my friend!"
The Butler let out a snort, which may have been contempt or amusement. "You're a sentimental old fool, Carward!"
"Indeed, and I take pride in it! You, however, are supposed to be my Butler, much as you delight in being my critic - so kindly attend your duties, and bring in the next supplicant.
This proved to be the youngest yet, barely more than a boy, and so overawed by the experience (and by the Butler) that he could hardly speak. Carward adopted a more kindly demeanor.
"Be at ease, lad. I am the Magician Carward, whom you have sought, and I will help you if I can. Now, tell me your name." He had found that such an approach, along with a little magical influence, did much to calm nerves and thus help matters move forward apace.
"S..Sir, I am Troyce, son of Brazen, the Reeve of West Rios." A quaver in his voice as he continued. "I mean, he was. He, he died, this midsummer past."
Carward nodded. "I see. And you seek magic in order to avenge him?"
Troyce shook his head. "Oh, no sir. My father's death came by an accident, of no blame to any."
"Indeed? Then perhaps you and your family are left destitute, and you hope for magic to restore your fortunes?"
"No, sir. We are taken in by my uncle, a good man who cares for us very well."
Carward leaned forward, now showing much greater interest in the youngster. "Why, then, do you seek magic?"
"Sir... this may seem but foolishness to you, and I promise that I mean no offense..."
"I will take none. Foolishness and wisdom are rarely what people think they are! Continue."
"When my father was, was still alive, he would tell me many stories. And most often these were stories concerning magic, for such were our favorites. And as he spoke to me of the great deeds done by magic, and of the hero-magicians and their exploits, it was as if my blood sang in my veins for the wonder of it! Sometimes I could not sleep at night for thinking about magic, what it had done and what it might do. So it was when he... passed on... I could not forget the stories. When my Uncle asked what I might make of my life, I told him that I wished to study magic. And so he sent me here."
Carward nodded slowly. "Your blood sang? Well then, perhaps the study of magic is for you. We shall see."
At his gesture, a door became apparent where previously no door had been noticeable.
"Go through, and await me in the room beyond. You may sit, or look around, and you may avail yourself of the refreshments provided. Other than that, touch nothing!"
Troyce needed no ushering, but went eagerly, profusely offering thanks as he did so. Carward prepared himself for the final supplicant, with perhaps a touch of impatience, since he was eager to see what might be made of young Troyce. He had been seeking a suitable apprentice for many years - could this be the one?
However, the practice of magic encourages self discipline. Carward therefore focused his attention and sent forth a summons.
The Butler brought before him a most unlikely candidate. An elderly peasant woman. Carward's first thought was that she must be a destitute, but he at once dismissed that thought. Her clothing was rough and well worn, but not ragged. Moreover, although she appeared used to hard work, she was not worn down by it, but stood up strongly and looked at Carward with a bright and appraising eye.
He liked her at once, but followed his normal pattern of questioning.
"Well then, Mother, why do you seek magic?" He used the common term of courtesy for addressing an older woman of no rank: it produced a broad smile from her.
"I doubt that I'm your mother! Old as I am, I think you to be older."
She was not disrespectful, Carward noted, but nor was she in the least intimidated, either by himself, her surroundings, or even by the Butler, who raised an eyebrow at her.
"Then how should you be addressed, since you deem this inappropriate?"
"Latellian' s my born name, and Goodwright was the name I took from my husband, rest his soul. Lia to my friends, but Mother only to family, if it's all the same to you."
Carward wondered what would happen if he said it wasn't, but he was not about to start playing games.
"Very well, Latellian Goodwright: why do you seek magic?"
She frowned, and considered the question. "Sir, in honesty I cannot say why I seek it. But I have known since I was little girl that someday I would learn magic."
Her answer sent a thrill through the magician. Could this be possible? Two potential candidates in one day, after so long with none at all?
But it was yet to be confirmed, he reminded himself, and decided to probe further.
"Yes, but why do you wish to learn magic? For what purpose, to what end?"
"For no particular purpose or end, sir. Indeed, I cannot truly say that I seek it. It is simply something that will happen someday." She shrugged. "Perhaps you think it makes no sense, and perhaps you are right. Nobody else ever understood either - not that I spoke of it much to anyone."
It made perfect sense to Carward, but he decided on another question or two. "You say you've known this from childhood? How then is it that you come here only now?"
"I had other matters to see to. I've never been some lady of leisure, with time on my hands to spend going here or there on a whim! And first with my parents, then my husband, then children of my own, there was never time to pursue these things. Until now. My own mother and father have long gone to their rest, and my man Jaderan Goodwright passed nearly a year ago now, bless his soul. My own children are all grown and married, and though they are always begging for help with my grandchildren, I'm not really needed. So when I heard tell that you were offering magic, I decided that since there was nothing more pressing, I would come looking for it at last."
Carward's mind was now quite decided, but from curiosity he asked on further question.
"And if I turn you away, what then?"
"Then perhaps I was wrong. Or perhaps magic will find me in some other way." Latellian paused, and met the Magician's gaze directly, eye to eye. In that moment, knowledge passed between them, and when she spoke again it was with absolute certainty.
"But you won't."
There was no more to be said. Carward opened the portal once more. She passed through, and he followed after.
The room beyond was remarkable in several ways. Firstly, it had no door, not even the one through which they had just entered. Latellian noted this, but made no comment. It was, after all, a magician's house, and strange things could therefore be expected.
Carward himself noted that she made no comment.
The room itself was completely circular, perhaps twenty paces across, and the walls were entirely lined with identical wooden drawers (another notable feature). Each drawer was about a hand span square and bore a shiny brass knob in its center, each row ran uninterrupted around the room, each column rose to just above the height of the magician's head. At this point it was interrupted by an ornate walkway of wrought iron which circumnavigated the room and was accessible by iron stairways at several points.
The drawers continued upwards above the walkway for the same distance until they reached another, identical walkway, a pattern which was then repeated - and repeated - and repeated...
As her eyes followed the drawers upwards, Latellian realised the third remarkable thing about the room, which was that it had no discernible ceiling. The drawers and walkways seemed to be infinite.
"It's best not to look too long," said a voice. "It makes you dizzy if you stare."
The voice belonged to a young lad who sat at a table placed in the exact center of the room. The table carried an assortment of glasses, goblets, jugs and plates. The plates, in turn, were well loaded with pies, pastries, cakes and sweetmeats. A considerable collection of crumbs suggested that the lad had made use of his time for other than staring.
"Sound advice," agreed the Magician. "Now allow me to make introductions. Mrs Goodwright, this young man is Troyce, son of Brazen, from West Rios. Troyce - this is Mrs Latellian Goodwright."
Troyce stood quickly, wiped crumbs from his mouth and bowed to Latellian. An expert in etiquette might have said that he bowed too long and too deeply for a Reeve's son meeting a peasant woman, but it showed politeness and respect. Carward approved. So, it seemed, did Latellian. She smiled and sketched a curtsey.
"Just Latellian will do well enough," she said. "I'm not much accustomed to ceremony."
"Thank you, M... Latellian. Are you a supplicant as well? I arrived last night, but I thought I was the only one."
"It is my policy to keep supplicants apart," Carward explained. "But it is such a rare thing for anyone to progress this far, let alone two of you, that I thought it fitting that we should acknowledge the occasion together. Have you yet had a drink, Troyce? Well then, do try this."
Selecting a jug and a glass, he poured out a clear golden liquid. "Honey wine from Far Ulonia. Not dissimilar to the mead you will be familiar with, but a little lighter. I think you'll like it..."
He turned to Latellian. "Ale for you, perhaps?"
She nodded. Carward took up a flagon and poured a dark brown brew into it.
"Farmer's Rest - that is your local tipple, is it not?" At her nod he handed the flagon over. "And I think I'll treat myself to drop of port," the Magician continued, filling a small glass with ruby fluid.
It was not lost on either of the supplicants that Carward had used the same jug throughout. They exchanged glances, but said nothing.
"And what shall our toast be?" Carward looked at the other two, making it clear that this was not a rhetorical question. "No, don't worry, this is not part of the test!" He added, noting that Latellian was looking wary and Troyce appeared worried.
"Well..." The lad said hesitantly, "perhaps we should drink... to magic?"
"Very appropriate!" Carward agreed, and raised his glass. "So here's to magic - and all the wonderful forms it takes."
They all drank. The Magician drained his glass and set it down with an appreciative smack of the lips. "Excellent. Now then, to business! You must each perform one task before I can accept you as apprentices. And that task is to open a drawer and remove the contents."
Carward was somewhat amused by the looks he received in response. Latellian raised an eyebrow, Troyce gaped.
There was a long pause, as they waited for Carward to elucidate. He, however, said nothing, merely returned their gaze with a bland expression.
Eventually, Troyce broke the silence. "Is that all, Sir? Just... open a drawer?"
Carward nodded. "And remove the contents. Why don't you go first, Troyce?"
"Yes, sir." The lad looked round at the myriads of drawers. "Which one should I open?"
"Ah, yes." The Magician nodded. He was disappointed by the question, but took care not to show it. "Well, that is the nub of it, really. It is for you to decide which drawer. That is the test."
Troyce turned slowly, looking around, looking up at the infinite rows of brass knobs in wooden faces. "I can choose any one?"
"Yes. But it must be the right one."
On Troyce's expressive young face, bewilderment was being replaced by panic. "How do I know which is the right one?"
"The magic will tell you," Carward told him, and sighed inwardly. "Just be open to it. Go, choose."
The boy walked over to the wall, and reached out to touch a brass knob.
"But be sure to choose correctly," Carward added. "It is not sufficient to simply open a drawer at random. Magic becomes dangerous if not respected. An example: my Butler was once a normal man and a supplicant like yourself. He chose... poorly."
Troyce snatched back his hand. "What if I can't choose?"
"If it does not call to you, then magic is not for you. Choose - or leave!" Carward produced a door.
Troyce looked at the door, then back to the drawers. He began walking round the room, scanning the rows until he had completed a full circumnavigation. Then he climbed one of the ladders, and began again on the next row. He was almost running now, and quickly returned to his starting point, where he began to climb the ladder to the next level.
Latellian shot a quick glance at the Magician - something between a rebuke and an entreaty.
"Troyce!" she called.
He had reached the third level now. He looked down over the rail at them.
"Slow down. Take a deep breath. Then close your eyes and try to reach out with your feelings," she told him. "Stop thinking about it so much."
"But..." He paused. Then took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
For a moment, he stood still. Then, with his eyes still shut, he began to walk slowly along the walkway, left hand trailing along the rail for guidance, right hand held out in front of him, palm forward.
He had gone perhaps a third of the way round before he stopped, hesitated, stepped back.
Eyes still closed, he slowly extended his hand until it was resting on a drawer.
"This one!" he shouted. "That is, I think it is."
"Then open it!" commanded the Magician.
Troyce took a deep breath, then very slowly pulled it open.
"Take the contents, and bring them down here to me."
Troyce extended a tentative hand, and took what appeared to be a large feather from within the drawer - which slid shut of its own volition as soon as his hand was clear.
The lad returned down the ladders and presented the feather to Carward.
"Did I choose correctly, sir?"
The Magician took it, and smiled brightly. "Of course you did! Don't you see, lad? Magic has given you a quill pen."
He handed it back, and Troyce took it with a frown. "I don't understand."
"I do! It's quite simple, really. You said that your blood sang when your father told you stories of magic?"
"It did sir, truly it did!"
"I know. But it was not the magic that called to you, it was the stories themselves."
Troyce was still looking puzzled. "Does that mean that I don't have magic after all?"
Carward laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Indeed you do have magic, lad - magic more potent than mine in its way. You have the magic of words, of ideas, of wonder distilled, preserved and laid down for anyone who wishes to partake of it. In your magic is the power to make people see what their own eyes have never seen, for their hearts to feel how others feel, for their minds to be filled with thoughts they never had themselves - and never would have, without your words!"
He stood and watched as the puzzlement in the lad's face was slowly overtaken by a dawning wonder.
"You have the magic of stories," Carward said. "Use it wisely."
"So this is just a quill?" Troyce looked at the feather with some disappointment.
"Just a quill?" The Magician's eyebrows shot upwards (an impressive sight). "Well, of course not! You took it from a box in The Room at the Center of Magic - how could it be 'just a quill'?"
"Well, what do I do with it?"
"You write, of course! Try it out. You do have your letters, don't you?"
"Yes sir, I do." Troyce looked around. "But there is no paper, nor any ink."
"Haven't you understood that it's magic? Just write, lad! Write your name, if nothing else!"
Puzzlement had returned to Troyce in full measure, but he held the pen as if for writing, and began to make letters in the air.
Except that the letters were not in the air. For as soon as he began to write, a sheet of parchment appeared beneath the quill.
With a gasp, Troyce sprang back, dropping the feather. Both it and the parchment floated gently to the floor, the latter clearly bearing the letters TRO in rich black ink and a slightly shaky hand.
"Why don't you try that again?" the Magician suggested. "Perhaps it would be easier if you used the table. Here you are."
At his gesture, the quill floated from the floor and into the lad' s hand. Troyce took hold of it gingerly and sat down, barely noticing that the table's surface was now entirely clear. After a moment's hesitation, he began to write.
As before, a sheet of parchment appeared beneath the pen, and letters formed thereon as he continued to write.
My name is Troyce and I have a magic pen
"Excellent! Well, I think you've got the idea now. Do bear in mind, however, that the pen will not aid you with grammar or spelling. And content, of course, is entirely your responsibility." Carward gestured towards the door. "It only remains, then, to wish you the best of fortune. I shall look forward to reading your work in the future."
Troyce looked at the Magician, at the pen, at the door.
"Was there something else?" Carward asked with a frown.
"Yes... I'm sorry sir, but what should I write?"
"Why, whatever you wish, my boy! Write the stories inside you, write the stories that you see around you, write the ones you hear from others."
"Yes, sir," said Troyce, but without much confidence.
Latellian sighed. "Back when I was teaching my lads and lasses how to milk cows, I didn't just tell them to go and do it. I gave them a cow to practice on." She appeared to be addressing her remarks at the wall, and Troyce looked puzzled once more. Carward, however, understood her perfectly. He bristled his eyebrows in her direction, muttered something about 'homespun wisdom', then snapped his fingers.
One of the drawers opened, apparently of its own volition. The contents jumped out and marched smartly over to the Magician. He bent over and picked up a small and somewhat battered looking pair of boots.
"Troyce, these boots will take you to meet a carriage. One that left here not long ago. You'll recognize it by the absence of horses. Within you will find a young man and a young woman. Talk to them, write down their stories. The carriage will take you all to Huxenthorn. There present yourself at the offices of J. Markin and Mawley, Printers and Publishers. Mention my name, show what you have written, and matters will proceed as they will. Does that seem satisfactory?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir," said Troyce - though Carward's last remark had in fact been directed towards Latelian. Who smiled brightly back at him.
The Magician handed the boots to Troyce, and they at once grew to a more suitable size. The young man sat down and began removing his own footwear.
"Goodness, lad, don't put them on in the house!" Carward exclaimed. "You'll make holes right through the walls! The Butler will show you out."
The Butler appeared and beckoned to Troyce. Who left, clutching quill, boots and an expression somewhere between excited and bemused.
"Great future for that lad," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Must keep an eye on him." He turned to his final supplicant. "Now, then..."
"This one," said Latellian. She stepped over to the wall and, without hesitation, pointed to a drawer. "I knew as soon as I entered the room."
"Excellent!" Carward beamed at her. "Well, open it, then!"
"What's inside?" she asked.
"How would I know? You chose it."
She gave him a long look. "It's your drawer. Your magic."
Carward shook his head firmly. "First lesson of magic: it does not belong to anyone. No one can own it, and no one can fully know it. Magic simply is, and no matter how long you study it or how proficient you become in its use it will still surprise you, awe you, thrill you and threaten you."
Latellian pursed her lips, considering.
"Sounds like Life," she said.
Carward inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Which is why the joining of life and magic is not something to be done lightly. Will you open the drawer?"
There was no challenge in his voice, no impatience, no urging her to do one thing or the other. Simply a choice for her to make.
"Life is all about choices," Latellian said, with the authority of someone who had made a lot of choices.
She opened the drawer and took out a small round jar with a tightly fitting lid. Both jar and lid were made of something like frosted glass; nothing could be seen of its contents. She turned to Carward and held it out.
"Take off the lid," he told her.
It was tight fitting. Latellian had to exert some effort.
"My hands don't have the grip they used to... ah, that's got it!"
With a final twist, the jar came open, and out poured a fountain, a column of silver water that shot high above the first level of drawers then curled over in a smooth arch to fall again, directly on top of Latellian.
With a shriek, she dropped the jar and stepped back, putting her hands up in a vain attempt to avert the deluge. But the water continued to pour out, a far greater quantity than could ever have been contained in the jar: and it followed her as she moved.
It splashed from her upraised hands, flowed down her arms and along her sleeves, soaked her hair and her clothes, drenching her to her skin and deeper. Filling her boots, the water overflowed them in miniature waterfalls that joined the puddle spreading across the floor. Carward took a step backwards to stay clear of it. Then another.
Finally, the water ceased to flow, and a bedraggled Latellian stood glaring at at him through strands of grey hair plastered to her face.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" she said tightly.
"Not at all," Carward assured her, though she did, in fact, present an amusing picture. However, he had not lived these many years without knowing when it was safe to laugh, and when not.
"Then what..."
"Look, " he said, and conjured a mirror, full length.
She looked, and saw the water still flowing from her, far more quickly than was natural.
And as it did so, it washed the gray out of her hair, leaving it the straw-gold colour of her distant youth.
It washed the wrinkles from her skin, leaving it firm and clear as it not been in more years than she could say.
And she could feel it wash the aches from her bones, some of which she had lived with so long that she barely noticed them until they were suddenly gone. It washed away the sharp pain she had been feeling deep inside, and largely ignoring, except to decide that if she was ever going to seek out magic, she had best be about it soon, or she would have no further say in the matter.
The water, now dark and heavy with the years it had washed from her, commenced to pour itself back into the jar. Which it did so completely that there was not so much as a damp patch left on the floor. Carward picked it up, replaced the lid, and returned it to the drawer from which it was taken.
Latellian, in the meantime, was still staring dumbfounded into the mirror, where the reflection showed a young woman no more than twenty years of age, albeit dressed in an old woman's clothing.
"What was that?" she asked him.
"Water of Life, Fountain of youth - something of that sort, anyway. Very rare to see magic manifest in such a fashion. Rather dangerous stuff, as well. The unwary have washed themselves back to babyhood, or removed all their memories."
"But why? I didn't come here to ask for my youth back!"
"You haven't got it. Not entirely. You still have all the hard-won knowledge and wisdom of your life. Which you will need. But the study of magic is long, and sometimes arduous. You will need that youth and health if you are to complete it. This the magic itself knew, and acted accordingly."
"The study of magic?"
"Indeed." Carward's face suddenly broke into a smile, a huge grin that seemed about to split his face. "Welcome to your Apprenticeship!"
Some might be surprised that so great and powerful a practitioner of the magical arts would bother himself with anything so mundane. However, if anyone were to express such surprise, he would have told them that there was little point in expending magical energy when other, perfectly adequate means of disseminating information existed. His argument may have been somewhat weakened by the fact that the newsheet in question was currently pasted on a board in the town of Huxenthorn, some twenty miles distant.
His attention was particularly drawn to a discreet box printed in the lower right-hand corner. This quietly announced that anyone wishing to seek out magic should attend the residence of the Magician Carward on the day following the next full moon, no later than an hour after sunrise.
His Butler attended him with a pot of hot herbal tea. “Well, today’s the day!” said Carward in a conversational tone. “Have any supplicants arrived?”
“Indeed sir, but only five in number.”
“Only five?” Carward frowned, the effect of which was much enhanced by his large, grey -bristled eyebrows. “I had hoped for more.”
“If I may say so, sir, I believe the wording of the advertisement may be to blame.”
Carward snorted and frowned again. Which, given who and what he was, would have struck fear into many stout hearts. The Butler, however – being who and what he was, and having served Carward for many years – was unimpressed. “If you had been more specific in your statement, perhaps, and made it clear that you were seeking an Apprentice, it might have attracted more attention.”
Carward shook his head. “As you should recall, I’ve tried that. Several times. Oh, it does get a big response, but all the wrong sort. Young layabouts, mostly, looking for an easy life where everything’s done by waving a hand and spouting gibberish.” He waved a hand and the image of the newsheet disappeared. “Only one remotely likely candidate in years – and you know how that worked out.” He gave the Butler a significant look, which was blandly ignored.
“So something more subtle was called for,” the Magician continued. “Something that would attract more varied attention. Pour the tea, if you’ve done with your critique!”
The Butler did as he was bid. “I believe that you have succeed in that, sir. Our guest list is not large, but it is varied. A young woman – heavily pregnant. A more mature woman, a peasant by her clothing. A wealthy but (in my estimation) somewhat unsavory gentleman. A rather angry young man, and a boy.”
'Interesting.”
“Yes sir. There was one other, a nobleman. Youngest son of the Duke of Nordu. He arrived last night with a large retinue. However, he found the accommodations offered him unsuited to his station, and moreover took exception when I refused entry to his various guards, servants, secretaries, cooks, grooms and two young women of unclear purpose. He therefore left to find something more appropriate. He declared his intention to return, but has not yet done so."
Carward's snorted, a sound conveying amusement and contempt. "Well, the designated hour has passed, so he fails the first test! Should he deign to put in an appearance later on, he is to be refused entry."
Some servants might have been concerned at the thought of turning away so lofty a personage as the son of a Duke. But the Butler was seven feet tall, green and scaly, with significant fangs and tusks besides. Carward did not anticipate any problems.
"Show the first supplicant to the Great Hall," he continued. “Let us commence with the angry young man – best to let him get it of his chest, I think – and then the others, in whatever order you see fit.”
Several minutes later, the young man arrived in the gloomy vastness of the Great Hall. He was shaking somewhat - the Butler often had that effect on people - but nevertheless he strode determinedly across the flagstones towards the pool of light in which Carward awaited him.
What the young man saw as he approached was a cloaked and hooded figure, seated on a chair not quite impressive enough to be considered a throne and with a staff of time-blackened wood leaning against it. Beneath the hood, a long beard – and the previously mentioned eyebrows – were to be seen. This was, in fact, Carward's true appearance. It was close enough to what people expected of a magician to serve the purpose, and he saw no need to bolster it with illusion. And the chair was more comfortable than any throne.
What Carward saw was a strongly built but raggedly dressed individual, clearly poor but with a zealous fire in his eyes.
"Why do you want magic?" the Magician asked, without the formality of a greeting.
The supplicant was not disconcerted. "Sir, my family and my village have suffered grievous wrong at the hands of Baron Shuuld! We have been turned out of our homes and forced from our lands, against all law and custom. I want magic that I may uphold our rights and claim redress from the Baron!"
"In short, you seek justice," Carward observed.
"Yes! Justice!" the young man cried passionately.
"Not magic." Carward continued, and the supplicant gaped.
"But..."
"Magic has no moral component. It will not distinguish right from wrong. What you do in the name of justice, others may perceive as injustice - and before long I will have an endless stream of supplicants hammering on my door, each seeking justice against each other!"
"But sir..."
Carward lifted a hand, and the power of speech was denied the ragged young man. At the same moment a sheet of parchment appeared before him, somehow floating in mid-air.
"Go to the city of Huxenthorn, to the premises of Olson, Donice and Hegel, Practitioners of Law. Present there this parchment, and at my request you will be given an apprenticeship. Apply your passion for justice to diligent work, and in due course you may achieve what you seek - along with a lucrative career, which will prove even better."
The young man reached out and took the parchment. Carward lowered his hand, and speech burst forth.
"But that might take years!"
"Little that is worthwhile is quickly done. And how long do you suppose it would take you to learn magic? Go now. You have a long journey ahead of you."
The young man might have protested further, but the Butler was suddenly standing by his side, ushering him towards the door. And when the Butler ushered, people went quietly.
The next supplicant was better dressed, though not nobility, and had a calculating air about him.
"Why do you want magic?" Carward asked.
The supplicant smiled. Not a nice smile, in Carward's opinion.
"Because magic is power, and power is everything."
"Magic is indeed power, but there are other things than power. Love, beauty, wonder, joy. Happiness. All accounted as important by many, and all with their own measure of power."
The supplicant laughed. "Now then, sir - you tease me! We both know how the world works. You have your magical arts, I have talents of my own, but we both understand that power is the only thing that matters. All else is in its shadow and under its control! So..." He stepped closer and lowered his voice "...share your magic with me, and you will gain a loyal servant who will fail you in nothing! All my skills, all my knowledge, my network of contacts, my spies, informers and those under my control - they will all be at your disposal. Your power and mine together will put the world at our feet!"
"I do not want the world at my feet," said Carward.
His answer was a frown, but followed at once by a slow smile. "Of course, I should have known. You have larger plans, do you not? No doubt your magical arts have revealed other worlds ripe for conquest! Well, then, you will need someone to rule here in your name. And I can be that man - your Viceroy, O Emperor of Worlds!"
Carward raised his hand again, with much the same effect as before, except that this time what appeared in the air was a beautiful flower. The petals were of a white so pure that it seemed to glow in the gloomy hall, and faded subtly to rich purple edging. The flower itself was set off by a surround of deep green leaves, and was mounted on a thorny stem. A gentle but distinct and pleasant odour drifted from it.
"You assume that because you have power, and I have power, then we must think alike. But for you, power is an end in itself. You will never have enough of it, yet you use it only to gain more power. But for me, power - magic - is but a means to an end. This flower, for example. It took me fifteen years to learn how to create it. I am rather proud of this accomplishment. But my Gardner grows an abundance of them every year, and in greater variety than I can yet achieve! So my magic has its limits, and has best served to teach me what truly wonderful things real flowers are."
He gestured, and the flower was no longed in the air but in the palm of the man's hand.
Growing out of his palm, in fact. The supplicant stared at it in shock.
"Study it. Learn to appreciate it. Do not try to destroy or remove it: it is part of you now, part of your flesh. And so it will stay, until you have learned its lesson.
"Wha… what lesson is that?"
"That power must have a purpose. Yet there are those things - such as beauty, and others I have mentioned - which are complete in themselves, and require no purpose. They simply are. Your lust for power alone will consume you in time. But the flower will remind you to seek that which is deeper, more precious – and healthier. This is the best I can do, the rest is in your hands." He smiled. "Well, in your hand, at any rate!"
And then the Butler made his appearance, and the power seeker made his exit.
The third supplicant was a young woman, possibly the daughter of a merchant, and definitely pregnant. Carward did not need to be a magician to tell this story, but nonetheless questioned her as he had the others.
"Sir, my lover has left me, and in such a condition as you see. My father has turned me out, and I am alone in the world... I want magic to bring my man back to me and make him love me again."
The Magician shook his head. "It cannot be done."
Her face crumpled. "Oh, but sir..."
He held up his hand and she was silent.
"Magic could force your man back to your side. It could drive him wild with desire for you and you alone, or cause him to kneel before you in fear. But it could not make him love you again, for in truth he never loved you at all."
Shock crossed her face, and she tried to speak, but the magician's spell restrained her.
"I know you do not wish to hear this, but you shall. No doubt others have tried to tell you the same, and had you listened, you would not be before me now. But what is done is done. You should consider this, though: If he loved you at all, would he have treated you thus?"
She hung her head in eloquent silence.
Carward shook his head, and spoke on, but in gentler tones. "Nothing can force love, not even magic, because if it is forced it is not truly love. Love must be given freely. Anything other is imitation."
He paused, stroked his beard, and sighed.
"In any case, your most pressing need just now is not love, but security. For yourself and the child. Take this letter..." (It appeared before her as he spoke) "... And present it at the address indicated. There are good people there, a religious order of the better sort. They will care for you both. And who knows, you might also learn something of the true nature of love."
The Butler appeared by her side, but somewhat to his surprise, the young woman was reluctant to go. Carward restored her speech.
"Sir... my thanks, truly... But this place is in Huxenthorn, and I..."
"Of course, you cannot walk so far in your condition. Be at peace. A carriage will be provided for the journey. One which, moreover, will get you to your destination before the sun sets! Magic does have its uses, after all."
"Oh, Sir, how can I repay your kindness? Perhaps I may be permitted to name my child after you?"
Carward smiled, but shook his head. "That is a nice thought, but I'm sure you can think of something more suitable for your daughter."
"My... I will have a daughter?"
"So it seems. But if you wish to show gratitude, then perhaps you would be willing to share your carriage? A young man left here not long past, and coincidentally he is also traveling to Huxenthorn. If you are in agreement, then I shall arrange for the carriage to stop for him. You should share your stories. As you will learn, he is very much concerned over matters of injustice. I think it likely, therefore that you will find him sympathetic to your situation."
The young woman departed, still in tears but now more of relief and gratitude. In due course the Butler returned to inform Carward that the magical carriage had been dispatched, with the young lady aboard and instructions given for the collection of the young man on the way.
"So, now you are a matchmaker as well as a magician?" the Butler added, with a ferocious display of fangs that Carward understood to be a smile.
"I merely create an opportunity. What becomes of that is a matter for those involved. But I don't deny that I would be delighted if love were to blossom. There are some things more wonderful than magic, my friend!"
The Butler let out a snort, which may have been contempt or amusement. "You're a sentimental old fool, Carward!"
"Indeed, and I take pride in it! You, however, are supposed to be my Butler, much as you delight in being my critic - so kindly attend your duties, and bring in the next supplicant.
This proved to be the youngest yet, barely more than a boy, and so overawed by the experience (and by the Butler) that he could hardly speak. Carward adopted a more kindly demeanor.
"Be at ease, lad. I am the Magician Carward, whom you have sought, and I will help you if I can. Now, tell me your name." He had found that such an approach, along with a little magical influence, did much to calm nerves and thus help matters move forward apace.
"S..Sir, I am Troyce, son of Brazen, the Reeve of West Rios." A quaver in his voice as he continued. "I mean, he was. He, he died, this midsummer past."
Carward nodded. "I see. And you seek magic in order to avenge him?"
Troyce shook his head. "Oh, no sir. My father's death came by an accident, of no blame to any."
"Indeed? Then perhaps you and your family are left destitute, and you hope for magic to restore your fortunes?"
"No, sir. We are taken in by my uncle, a good man who cares for us very well."
Carward leaned forward, now showing much greater interest in the youngster. "Why, then, do you seek magic?"
"Sir... this may seem but foolishness to you, and I promise that I mean no offense..."
"I will take none. Foolishness and wisdom are rarely what people think they are! Continue."
"When my father was, was still alive, he would tell me many stories. And most often these were stories concerning magic, for such were our favorites. And as he spoke to me of the great deeds done by magic, and of the hero-magicians and their exploits, it was as if my blood sang in my veins for the wonder of it! Sometimes I could not sleep at night for thinking about magic, what it had done and what it might do. So it was when he... passed on... I could not forget the stories. When my Uncle asked what I might make of my life, I told him that I wished to study magic. And so he sent me here."
Carward nodded slowly. "Your blood sang? Well then, perhaps the study of magic is for you. We shall see."
At his gesture, a door became apparent where previously no door had been noticeable.
"Go through, and await me in the room beyond. You may sit, or look around, and you may avail yourself of the refreshments provided. Other than that, touch nothing!"
Troyce needed no ushering, but went eagerly, profusely offering thanks as he did so. Carward prepared himself for the final supplicant, with perhaps a touch of impatience, since he was eager to see what might be made of young Troyce. He had been seeking a suitable apprentice for many years - could this be the one?
However, the practice of magic encourages self discipline. Carward therefore focused his attention and sent forth a summons.
The Butler brought before him a most unlikely candidate. An elderly peasant woman. Carward's first thought was that she must be a destitute, but he at once dismissed that thought. Her clothing was rough and well worn, but not ragged. Moreover, although she appeared used to hard work, she was not worn down by it, but stood up strongly and looked at Carward with a bright and appraising eye.
He liked her at once, but followed his normal pattern of questioning.
"Well then, Mother, why do you seek magic?" He used the common term of courtesy for addressing an older woman of no rank: it produced a broad smile from her.
"I doubt that I'm your mother! Old as I am, I think you to be older."
She was not disrespectful, Carward noted, but nor was she in the least intimidated, either by himself, her surroundings, or even by the Butler, who raised an eyebrow at her.
"Then how should you be addressed, since you deem this inappropriate?"
"Latellian' s my born name, and Goodwright was the name I took from my husband, rest his soul. Lia to my friends, but Mother only to family, if it's all the same to you."
Carward wondered what would happen if he said it wasn't, but he was not about to start playing games.
"Very well, Latellian Goodwright: why do you seek magic?"
She frowned, and considered the question. "Sir, in honesty I cannot say why I seek it. But I have known since I was little girl that someday I would learn magic."
Her answer sent a thrill through the magician. Could this be possible? Two potential candidates in one day, after so long with none at all?
But it was yet to be confirmed, he reminded himself, and decided to probe further.
"Yes, but why do you wish to learn magic? For what purpose, to what end?"
"For no particular purpose or end, sir. Indeed, I cannot truly say that I seek it. It is simply something that will happen someday." She shrugged. "Perhaps you think it makes no sense, and perhaps you are right. Nobody else ever understood either - not that I spoke of it much to anyone."
It made perfect sense to Carward, but he decided on another question or two. "You say you've known this from childhood? How then is it that you come here only now?"
"I had other matters to see to. I've never been some lady of leisure, with time on my hands to spend going here or there on a whim! And first with my parents, then my husband, then children of my own, there was never time to pursue these things. Until now. My own mother and father have long gone to their rest, and my man Jaderan Goodwright passed nearly a year ago now, bless his soul. My own children are all grown and married, and though they are always begging for help with my grandchildren, I'm not really needed. So when I heard tell that you were offering magic, I decided that since there was nothing more pressing, I would come looking for it at last."
Carward's mind was now quite decided, but from curiosity he asked on further question.
"And if I turn you away, what then?"
"Then perhaps I was wrong. Or perhaps magic will find me in some other way." Latellian paused, and met the Magician's gaze directly, eye to eye. In that moment, knowledge passed between them, and when she spoke again it was with absolute certainty.
"But you won't."
There was no more to be said. Carward opened the portal once more. She passed through, and he followed after.
The room beyond was remarkable in several ways. Firstly, it had no door, not even the one through which they had just entered. Latellian noted this, but made no comment. It was, after all, a magician's house, and strange things could therefore be expected.
Carward himself noted that she made no comment.
The room itself was completely circular, perhaps twenty paces across, and the walls were entirely lined with identical wooden drawers (another notable feature). Each drawer was about a hand span square and bore a shiny brass knob in its center, each row ran uninterrupted around the room, each column rose to just above the height of the magician's head. At this point it was interrupted by an ornate walkway of wrought iron which circumnavigated the room and was accessible by iron stairways at several points.
The drawers continued upwards above the walkway for the same distance until they reached another, identical walkway, a pattern which was then repeated - and repeated - and repeated...
As her eyes followed the drawers upwards, Latellian realised the third remarkable thing about the room, which was that it had no discernible ceiling. The drawers and walkways seemed to be infinite.
"It's best not to look too long," said a voice. "It makes you dizzy if you stare."
The voice belonged to a young lad who sat at a table placed in the exact center of the room. The table carried an assortment of glasses, goblets, jugs and plates. The plates, in turn, were well loaded with pies, pastries, cakes and sweetmeats. A considerable collection of crumbs suggested that the lad had made use of his time for other than staring.
"Sound advice," agreed the Magician. "Now allow me to make introductions. Mrs Goodwright, this young man is Troyce, son of Brazen, from West Rios. Troyce - this is Mrs Latellian Goodwright."
Troyce stood quickly, wiped crumbs from his mouth and bowed to Latellian. An expert in etiquette might have said that he bowed too long and too deeply for a Reeve's son meeting a peasant woman, but it showed politeness and respect. Carward approved. So, it seemed, did Latellian. She smiled and sketched a curtsey.
"Just Latellian will do well enough," she said. "I'm not much accustomed to ceremony."
"Thank you, M... Latellian. Are you a supplicant as well? I arrived last night, but I thought I was the only one."
"It is my policy to keep supplicants apart," Carward explained. "But it is such a rare thing for anyone to progress this far, let alone two of you, that I thought it fitting that we should acknowledge the occasion together. Have you yet had a drink, Troyce? Well then, do try this."
Selecting a jug and a glass, he poured out a clear golden liquid. "Honey wine from Far Ulonia. Not dissimilar to the mead you will be familiar with, but a little lighter. I think you'll like it..."
He turned to Latellian. "Ale for you, perhaps?"
She nodded. Carward took up a flagon and poured a dark brown brew into it.
"Farmer's Rest - that is your local tipple, is it not?" At her nod he handed the flagon over. "And I think I'll treat myself to drop of port," the Magician continued, filling a small glass with ruby fluid.
It was not lost on either of the supplicants that Carward had used the same jug throughout. They exchanged glances, but said nothing.
"And what shall our toast be?" Carward looked at the other two, making it clear that this was not a rhetorical question. "No, don't worry, this is not part of the test!" He added, noting that Latellian was looking wary and Troyce appeared worried.
"Well..." The lad said hesitantly, "perhaps we should drink... to magic?"
"Very appropriate!" Carward agreed, and raised his glass. "So here's to magic - and all the wonderful forms it takes."
They all drank. The Magician drained his glass and set it down with an appreciative smack of the lips. "Excellent. Now then, to business! You must each perform one task before I can accept you as apprentices. And that task is to open a drawer and remove the contents."
Carward was somewhat amused by the looks he received in response. Latellian raised an eyebrow, Troyce gaped.
There was a long pause, as they waited for Carward to elucidate. He, however, said nothing, merely returned their gaze with a bland expression.
Eventually, Troyce broke the silence. "Is that all, Sir? Just... open a drawer?"
Carward nodded. "And remove the contents. Why don't you go first, Troyce?"
"Yes, sir." The lad looked round at the myriads of drawers. "Which one should I open?"
"Ah, yes." The Magician nodded. He was disappointed by the question, but took care not to show it. "Well, that is the nub of it, really. It is for you to decide which drawer. That is the test."
Troyce turned slowly, looking around, looking up at the infinite rows of brass knobs in wooden faces. "I can choose any one?"
"Yes. But it must be the right one."
On Troyce's expressive young face, bewilderment was being replaced by panic. "How do I know which is the right one?"
"The magic will tell you," Carward told him, and sighed inwardly. "Just be open to it. Go, choose."
The boy walked over to the wall, and reached out to touch a brass knob.
"But be sure to choose correctly," Carward added. "It is not sufficient to simply open a drawer at random. Magic becomes dangerous if not respected. An example: my Butler was once a normal man and a supplicant like yourself. He chose... poorly."
Troyce snatched back his hand. "What if I can't choose?"
"If it does not call to you, then magic is not for you. Choose - or leave!" Carward produced a door.
Troyce looked at the door, then back to the drawers. He began walking round the room, scanning the rows until he had completed a full circumnavigation. Then he climbed one of the ladders, and began again on the next row. He was almost running now, and quickly returned to his starting point, where he began to climb the ladder to the next level.
Latellian shot a quick glance at the Magician - something between a rebuke and an entreaty.
"Troyce!" she called.
He had reached the third level now. He looked down over the rail at them.
"Slow down. Take a deep breath. Then close your eyes and try to reach out with your feelings," she told him. "Stop thinking about it so much."
"But..." He paused. Then took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
For a moment, he stood still. Then, with his eyes still shut, he began to walk slowly along the walkway, left hand trailing along the rail for guidance, right hand held out in front of him, palm forward.
He had gone perhaps a third of the way round before he stopped, hesitated, stepped back.
Eyes still closed, he slowly extended his hand until it was resting on a drawer.
"This one!" he shouted. "That is, I think it is."
"Then open it!" commanded the Magician.
Troyce took a deep breath, then very slowly pulled it open.
"Take the contents, and bring them down here to me."
Troyce extended a tentative hand, and took what appeared to be a large feather from within the drawer - which slid shut of its own volition as soon as his hand was clear.
The lad returned down the ladders and presented the feather to Carward.
"Did I choose correctly, sir?"
The Magician took it, and smiled brightly. "Of course you did! Don't you see, lad? Magic has given you a quill pen."
He handed it back, and Troyce took it with a frown. "I don't understand."
"I do! It's quite simple, really. You said that your blood sang when your father told you stories of magic?"
"It did sir, truly it did!"
"I know. But it was not the magic that called to you, it was the stories themselves."
Troyce was still looking puzzled. "Does that mean that I don't have magic after all?"
Carward laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Indeed you do have magic, lad - magic more potent than mine in its way. You have the magic of words, of ideas, of wonder distilled, preserved and laid down for anyone who wishes to partake of it. In your magic is the power to make people see what their own eyes have never seen, for their hearts to feel how others feel, for their minds to be filled with thoughts they never had themselves - and never would have, without your words!"
He stood and watched as the puzzlement in the lad's face was slowly overtaken by a dawning wonder.
"You have the magic of stories," Carward said. "Use it wisely."
"So this is just a quill?" Troyce looked at the feather with some disappointment.
"Just a quill?" The Magician's eyebrows shot upwards (an impressive sight). "Well, of course not! You took it from a box in The Room at the Center of Magic - how could it be 'just a quill'?"
"Well, what do I do with it?"
"You write, of course! Try it out. You do have your letters, don't you?"
"Yes sir, I do." Troyce looked around. "But there is no paper, nor any ink."
"Haven't you understood that it's magic? Just write, lad! Write your name, if nothing else!"
Puzzlement had returned to Troyce in full measure, but he held the pen as if for writing, and began to make letters in the air.
Except that the letters were not in the air. For as soon as he began to write, a sheet of parchment appeared beneath the quill.
With a gasp, Troyce sprang back, dropping the feather. Both it and the parchment floated gently to the floor, the latter clearly bearing the letters TRO in rich black ink and a slightly shaky hand.
"Why don't you try that again?" the Magician suggested. "Perhaps it would be easier if you used the table. Here you are."
At his gesture, the quill floated from the floor and into the lad' s hand. Troyce took hold of it gingerly and sat down, barely noticing that the table's surface was now entirely clear. After a moment's hesitation, he began to write.
As before, a sheet of parchment appeared beneath the pen, and letters formed thereon as he continued to write.
My name is Troyce and I have a magic pen
"Excellent! Well, I think you've got the idea now. Do bear in mind, however, that the pen will not aid you with grammar or spelling. And content, of course, is entirely your responsibility." Carward gestured towards the door. "It only remains, then, to wish you the best of fortune. I shall look forward to reading your work in the future."
Troyce looked at the Magician, at the pen, at the door.
"Was there something else?" Carward asked with a frown.
"Yes... I'm sorry sir, but what should I write?"
"Why, whatever you wish, my boy! Write the stories inside you, write the stories that you see around you, write the ones you hear from others."
"Yes, sir," said Troyce, but without much confidence.
Latellian sighed. "Back when I was teaching my lads and lasses how to milk cows, I didn't just tell them to go and do it. I gave them a cow to practice on." She appeared to be addressing her remarks at the wall, and Troyce looked puzzled once more. Carward, however, understood her perfectly. He bristled his eyebrows in her direction, muttered something about 'homespun wisdom', then snapped his fingers.
One of the drawers opened, apparently of its own volition. The contents jumped out and marched smartly over to the Magician. He bent over and picked up a small and somewhat battered looking pair of boots.
"Troyce, these boots will take you to meet a carriage. One that left here not long ago. You'll recognize it by the absence of horses. Within you will find a young man and a young woman. Talk to them, write down their stories. The carriage will take you all to Huxenthorn. There present yourself at the offices of J. Markin and Mawley, Printers and Publishers. Mention my name, show what you have written, and matters will proceed as they will. Does that seem satisfactory?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir," said Troyce - though Carward's last remark had in fact been directed towards Latelian. Who smiled brightly back at him.
The Magician handed the boots to Troyce, and they at once grew to a more suitable size. The young man sat down and began removing his own footwear.
"Goodness, lad, don't put them on in the house!" Carward exclaimed. "You'll make holes right through the walls! The Butler will show you out."
The Butler appeared and beckoned to Troyce. Who left, clutching quill, boots and an expression somewhere between excited and bemused.
"Great future for that lad," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Must keep an eye on him." He turned to his final supplicant. "Now, then..."
"This one," said Latellian. She stepped over to the wall and, without hesitation, pointed to a drawer. "I knew as soon as I entered the room."
"Excellent!" Carward beamed at her. "Well, open it, then!"
"What's inside?" she asked.
"How would I know? You chose it."
She gave him a long look. "It's your drawer. Your magic."
Carward shook his head firmly. "First lesson of magic: it does not belong to anyone. No one can own it, and no one can fully know it. Magic simply is, and no matter how long you study it or how proficient you become in its use it will still surprise you, awe you, thrill you and threaten you."
Latellian pursed her lips, considering.
"Sounds like Life," she said.
Carward inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Which is why the joining of life and magic is not something to be done lightly. Will you open the drawer?"
There was no challenge in his voice, no impatience, no urging her to do one thing or the other. Simply a choice for her to make.
"Life is all about choices," Latellian said, with the authority of someone who had made a lot of choices.
She opened the drawer and took out a small round jar with a tightly fitting lid. Both jar and lid were made of something like frosted glass; nothing could be seen of its contents. She turned to Carward and held it out.
"Take off the lid," he told her.
It was tight fitting. Latellian had to exert some effort.
"My hands don't have the grip they used to... ah, that's got it!"
With a final twist, the jar came open, and out poured a fountain, a column of silver water that shot high above the first level of drawers then curled over in a smooth arch to fall again, directly on top of Latellian.
With a shriek, she dropped the jar and stepped back, putting her hands up in a vain attempt to avert the deluge. But the water continued to pour out, a far greater quantity than could ever have been contained in the jar: and it followed her as she moved.
It splashed from her upraised hands, flowed down her arms and along her sleeves, soaked her hair and her clothes, drenching her to her skin and deeper. Filling her boots, the water overflowed them in miniature waterfalls that joined the puddle spreading across the floor. Carward took a step backwards to stay clear of it. Then another.
Finally, the water ceased to flow, and a bedraggled Latellian stood glaring at at him through strands of grey hair plastered to her face.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" she said tightly.
"Not at all," Carward assured her, though she did, in fact, present an amusing picture. However, he had not lived these many years without knowing when it was safe to laugh, and when not.
"Then what..."
"Look, " he said, and conjured a mirror, full length.
She looked, and saw the water still flowing from her, far more quickly than was natural.
And as it did so, it washed the gray out of her hair, leaving it the straw-gold colour of her distant youth.
It washed the wrinkles from her skin, leaving it firm and clear as it not been in more years than she could say.
And she could feel it wash the aches from her bones, some of which she had lived with so long that she barely noticed them until they were suddenly gone. It washed away the sharp pain she had been feeling deep inside, and largely ignoring, except to decide that if she was ever going to seek out magic, she had best be about it soon, or she would have no further say in the matter.
The water, now dark and heavy with the years it had washed from her, commenced to pour itself back into the jar. Which it did so completely that there was not so much as a damp patch left on the floor. Carward picked it up, replaced the lid, and returned it to the drawer from which it was taken.
Latellian, in the meantime, was still staring dumbfounded into the mirror, where the reflection showed a young woman no more than twenty years of age, albeit dressed in an old woman's clothing.
"What was that?" she asked him.
"Water of Life, Fountain of youth - something of that sort, anyway. Very rare to see magic manifest in such a fashion. Rather dangerous stuff, as well. The unwary have washed themselves back to babyhood, or removed all their memories."
"But why? I didn't come here to ask for my youth back!"
"You haven't got it. Not entirely. You still have all the hard-won knowledge and wisdom of your life. Which you will need. But the study of magic is long, and sometimes arduous. You will need that youth and health if you are to complete it. This the magic itself knew, and acted accordingly."
"The study of magic?"
"Indeed." Carward's face suddenly broke into a smile, a huge grin that seemed about to split his face. "Welcome to your Apprenticeship!"