“But how does it all work?” Randall asked, growing more excited by the moment.
“Hah! Straight to the point,” Erliand chuckled. “Alright then. You’ve heard people talk about the ‘spirit world’, I’m sure. You know, where everyone’s spirit goes to live after they die, and where ghosts and haunts come from when they’re restless. Well have you ever seen a ghost, lad?”
“No, Master,” Randall answered. “But Bobby’s cousin Jeremy said he met a girl in Paranol who said she saw one once. I didn’t believe him.”
“I don’t believe him either. I’ve never seen a ghost, Randall,” Erliand said, shaking his head. “And I’ve seen a lot of things.”
“Bog-wights!” Randall suddenly interrupted. “Bog-wights are the ghosts of men who died in the bog, and I know they’re real! Black Eel Marsh gets overrun with them every couple of years and the militia has to go clean them out. Sometimes people die.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, son. Bog-wights aren’t ghosts. They’re animals. Particularly gruesome animals, it’s true, but they live, eat, breathe, breed and die just like you and me. But back to the point—I don’t know about a ‘spirit world’, but there
is
another invisible world sitting next to ours. Its name is
Llandra
. When Mages touch that world with their mind, something of that place leaks into ours. That something is a kind of energy
.
With it, you can do wonders, but by itself, it’s pretty worthless.”
“I don’t understand,” Randall said. “I thought magic could do anything!”
“Magic is a force, lad. Weren’t you listening? Like the wind, or heat from a fire, it’s invisible, but its effects can be felt. But by itself, it’s dumb. Does the wind know which way a sailor wants to sail? Magic will dissipate in a few moments if you don’t give it some purpose, some focus. Giving a purpose to magic is the Art. And it’s through the Art that miracles happen.”
Randall’s eyes glazed over as he tried to make sense of what Erliand was telling him.
“I can see by the look on your face that you don’t understand. Let me give you an example,” Erliand continued. “When you were fighting Bobby at fighter practice, you were lit up with magic like a full moon on a cloudless night. Anyone trained to spot it would have sensed you a hundred yards away. And what did it do for you?”
“Nothing,” Randall answered. “Bobby hit me in the head with his practice sword and knocked me out.”
“Right. You pulled some of the stuff of magic out, but you didn’t tell it what to do,” Erliand said.
“Oh…oh!” Randall exclaimed, his memory giving him another flash of insight. “Just before Bobby hit me, I remember thinking that I should be doing something right then, but not knowing what to do!”
“Yes boy! That’s it exactly!” Erliand said with excitement. “Power from Llandra
wants
to be used. Once summoned, it needs purpose. And you had no purpose to give it.”
“But why could I summon it in the first place?” Randall asked. “Why me and not Bobby?”
“We call the ability to summon magic the ‘Talent’ because it’s something you’re born with. You can’t learn it. Either you have it or you don’t. It’s just part of who you are,” Erliand said, poking his finger into Randall’s chest. “At least, near as anyone can figure out, the Talent is passed by blood—which means you had a Mage in your ancestry somewhere. You can bet on that. Folks in your family probably have had different degrees of Talent for generations, some might even have made good Mages if there had been someone around to teach them.”
“What do you mean degrees of Talent? You mean some people are better at it than others?” Randall asked.
Erliand nodded. “Better, stronger, more able. Just like one singer might be naturally better than another, some folks are born with different degrees of Talent. When you have only a small amount of Talent, you can touch Llandra, but not pull any power through. But that touch can give you insights, visions, premonitions, or even sometimes foretellings. We call that degree of Talent having the
Sight
, the same name common people use when talking about wise women and fortune tellers. In some parts of the world, any degree of Talent is shunned by the superstitious, or even illegal as here in Tallia. In such cases, wisefolk usually learn to keep their insights to themselves or are driven out of their homes. But in other parts of the world, such people are revered, and use their Talent to help their neighbors and loved ones, often making it their life’s profession.
“Now if you have a stronger Talent, you can not only touch Llandra, but you can pull some of its stuff into our world. This destroys much of the subtle information carried in the flux, so Mages don’t make good Seers. For this reason, many people consider them two separate Talents altogether, though the underlying principle is the same.”
“How come I never did it before, then?” Randall’s brain was going a mile a minute trying to assimilate all of this new information.
“Well, how old are you boy? Eleven, twelve?” Erliand asked.
“Fourteen,” Randall answered softly, a little embarrassed to be mistaken for being so young.
“Ah, a late bloomer then,” Erliand nodded. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of. Everyone comes into his manhood at a different time. And if you’re meant to be a Mage, that’s about when it’ll start showing itself. A body goes through a lot of changes during that time; you just have one more to deal with than most people. Chances are that you
have
drawn power before and just never noticed it.
As Randall drew breath to speak, Erliand held up his hand to forestall any further questioning. “That’s enough for today. If I fill your head too full, things are going to start leaking out of it. So, tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Well,” Randall started. “I learned that making magic has nothing to do with making pacts with devils, it’s just something some people are born with.”
Erliand looked uncomfortably down at his lap for a moment before clearing his throat. “Yes, well, that’s right enough. What else?” Randall got the impression that there was more that Erliand wasn’t telling him, but he decided not to press the issue.
“Uhm…to make magic, you somehow pull energy from a kind of spirit world called Llandra, and then give it a purpose. So, how do I do that? Give it a purpose, I mean,” Randall asked.
Erliand seemed to regain his good humor, smiling and patting Randall on the shoulder. “That’s a lesson for another day. First, you’ll need to practice gathering and holding energy before you learn how to shape it! Anything else?”
“Oh yeah; some people aren’t strong enough to pull magic out of Llandra, but they can still get visions and stuff from it. They’re called Seers?”
“Yes they are. It sounds like you’ve gotten a good start. After supper, spend some time in your room writing down the things you’ve learned. If you have any time afterwards, you could practice summoning magic,” Erliand said.
“Okay…but
how
?” Randall asked. He was beginning to get frustrated with asking the same question over and over.
“That…I can’t tell you.” Erliand replied. “It’s a Talent—an instinct. Every Mage feels it differently. Just try to do what you did when your friend was attacking you.”
“But I don’t know how I did it!” Randall protested.
“That’s something you’ll have to work out for yourself, lad. It’s different with every Mage. Some think about a certain tune they like. Others may imagine a doorway or portal through which the power flows. Some think about a feeling, or a person. It’s different for everyone,” Erliand admonished. “Just try. You’ll figure it out eventually. If not, I’m sure you still have a bright future as a caravan guard.”
After supper, Randall dutifully retired to his room to write his notes by lamplight. He wrote slowly and methodically, not because he was being particularly studious, but mostly because he wasn’t particularly good at writing. While he had learned how to read and write for the family business, he had spent lot more time reading than he had writing things down. He had to take care forming each letter or he wouldn’t be able to read his own handwriting later. But he had to admit to himself that he was taking his time because he was also procrastinating against practicing drawing power. He had no idea what to do! Eventually, however, he could put it off no longer. He shut his study book with a sigh and blotted his quill dry before putting them both away.
He had no idea how to begin.
Well, Master Erliand did say that some Mages thought about doors,
Randall thought.
That doesn’t seem too hard.
Randall closed his eyes, and tried to picture a closed door in front of him. He spent several moments trying to make it as real in his mind as he could. In his imagination, it was a heavy wooden door with iron bands, set in a stonework frame. A large ring served as the handle used for pulling the door open. He pictured the door kind of floating in space. On this side was his world; on the other, Llandra. It was hard to hold onto the image; Randall would catch his mind wandering, thinking about all of the things he and Erliand had talked about that day. Or he’d start thinking about home, and wondering how well his family’s larder was stocked for the winter. Then, he found himself fixated on the flickering flame of the lamp that Master Erliand had provided to him. Even when he closed his eyes, the tiny flame danced shadows against his eyelids. With a sigh of frustration, he blew it out and tried again.
After several long minutes, Randall had finally managed to fix a fairly firm image in his mind of a doorway. Before his mind could wander again, Randall imagined his hand reaching out to grasp the door handle to pull it open. In his mind, the door opened, and…nothing happened. Randall didn’t know what to imagine on the other side of the doorway; he’d half-expected that the image would come to him unbidden when the door was opened. Instead, his carefully formed mental construct rapidly dissolved as Randall tried to figure out what went wrong.
He sighed and thought that picturing a window in his mind might be better.
Maybe it fits the idea better
, he thought. So Randall spent long minutes clearing his mind, and attempting to focus on the image of a window. He still struggled with distractions: the old house creaked at night, and there were the ever-present night sounds. Normally he never even noticed the frogs and crickets chirping at night, but now they seemed thunderously loud! Still, he slowly worked on adding details to the window: a wrought-iron curtain rod with red velvet drapes, a wooden window frame with a deep windowsill, and wooden shutters to keep the worst of the elements out. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Randall stabilized the mental image to the best of his ability. Then, instead of imagining himself opening the shutters, he imagined them opening on their own, letting a cool fall breeze blow into the room.
Randall held his breath in anticipation, but again, nothing happened. Randall loudly blew out the lungful of stale air in a frustrated sigh.
Figures,
he thought.
Guess I’m a second-rate Mage too
.
This time, I’ll try something simple, like a hole or something
. He began clearing his mind to try again, but his mind was wandering more than ever, and Randall found himself daydreaming about what kind of magic he might use on his brothers the next time they fought. He indulged himself in his flight of fancy, and, before he knew it, he had fallen fast asleep.
With his new gardening tools, Randall found that his chores quickly became mindless, repetitive labor. Though it was still physically demanding, it wasn’t the back-breaking effort that it had been before. The more familiar Randall became with the daily routine, the more he found himself daydreaming about magic. As his body worked at keeping the yard and garden in good condition, his mind worked on a completely different problem: his complete inability to summon power. It was still a few days until his next lesson, but he hadn’t yet been able to summon even the tiniest spark of magic from Llandra. And he was beginning to suspect he never would.
What if Master Erliand was wrong? Randall thought worriedly. After all, he wasn’t exactly standing right there when I was sparring Bobby. He just had his ‘feelings’ to go by. Maybe it was someone else that was nearby, and he just thought it was me? Randall suddenly dropped his scythe, his hand flying to his mouth. Bobby! What if it was really Bobby that he was looking for? We were standing right next to each other, after all. A mistake would have been easy!
Randall picked his scythe back up, and continued cutting back the grass at the far end of the yard, though with far less enthusiasm as he continued to brood.
It had to have been Bobby. How else could he have suddenly gotten so good with that sword? Magic, of course! That would explain why I haven’t been able to draw power no matter how hard I try.
The more Randall thought about it, the more he convinced himself that it was Bobby that Master Erliand was looking for. Compared to Randall’s life, everything seemed to come easily to Bobby: he was good looking, naturally good at sports and games, and had an easy-going nature that people seemed to naturally gravitate toward—almost like…like magic!
If that were true, that meant that Randall would be going home. If he didn’t have the Talent, there would be no point in Master Erliand wasting any more time with him. Surprisingly, Randall found himself more than a little disappointed at the notion.
Well, at least father got two talens for my training. It’s not our fault that Master Erliand picked wrong. Pa should be able to keep that money! Maybe Pa will even use one or two of the florns to buy me some kind of training somewhere.
Randall thought about what kind of skill he might want to learn, and let his mind wander back to that first eventful day of job fair.
Well, soldiering’s out, that’s for sure,
he thought, smiling bitterly. But even though he had not done well on the practice field, Randall had to admit that he
had
done well otherwise. Spurred on by his fear to find a job before Master Erliand took him, he’d managed to land the interest of a baker and a woodworker both on the very first day! He thought about what life as a baker might be like, in a cozy warm kitchen surrounded by the smell of bread and sweet cakes all day. Rather than being a pleasant thought, Randall was surprised to find himself feeling disappointed by the banality of it. After all, if he was even a halfway decent baker, he’d come to know the preferences of all of the villagers in his town, and would be making those same breads and sweet cakes until the day he died.
Booo-ring!
In the fairly short amount of time that he’d lived at Master Erliand’s home, Randall had completely lost his revulsion at the thought of being a Mage. On the contrary, his days were generally filled with daydreams of him impressing pretty girls with amazing feats of magic. He fantasized that he was back at Frank’s Inn, shooting fire from his fingertips and facing down all of the soldiers that he had seen harassing Melinda. Surely she would swoon and offer him a kiss in gratitude! Or perhaps he would meet a fine noble lady on the road, waylaid by bandits. He would turn them to stone, or call up the forest creatures to rise against them. Then she and Randall would fall in love, marry, and live happily on her estate…
Compared to what he could have done as a Mage, all of the crafts at job fair seemed rather common and pathetic, except perhaps for mercenary or soldiering work. And Randall was painfully aware of his natural inclination for
that
kind of work. Life as a Mage meant excitement and adventure. It meant facing new challenges and constantly learning new things. Instead, it looked like Randall was going to get to be a baker after all—or something just as dull.
Well, I’m not going to give up yet,
he thought with determination.
I’ve still got a couple of days. Who knows? I might get lucky.
Even so, he felt like he’d come to the right conclusion: Erliand had made a mistake and it was someone else that was supposed to be here, not Randall Miller. But for the money Erliand had paid, Randall was going to at least try his best until Master Erliand sent him home.
Over the next few nights, Randall had the usual success in drawing magic from Llandra: none. He tried everything he could think of, including visualizing various ways of breaching the veil between the two worlds: doorways, windows, tearing veils, breaking glass, and tearing down walls. He tried humming tunes, or thinking of his family. He even tried swinging his rake around like a practice sword in the yard, thinking maybe that his swordfight with Bobby might have had something to do with it. Other than feeling extremely silly, there was no effect at all.
Randall went to his next lesson with a heavy heart. By this time, he was convinced that Erliand had made a mistake, and that he simply didn’t have the fundamental ability for magic. Erliand was waiting for him in the living room, already puffing away at his pipe. Randall flopped down in the chair opposite him and slouched back with a huge sigh.
“Well,” Erliand chuckled, “I see your teenage years are fully upon you. Sit up straight, lad. Very good. Now, do you wish to talk about what’s bothering you now, or wait until after our lesson today?”
Randall slouched back again, and looked at the floor dejectedly. “What’s the point? We might as well not have a lesson today, anyway.”
“Oh?” Erliand asked, with raised eyebrows. “Giving up after only one lesson then, are we? Well then, if you’d do me the kindness of telling me where I went wrong, so that I can avoid making the same error in my
next
apprentice, I would be ever so grateful.”
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Randall answered, missing the bite of sarcasm in Erliand’s voice. “I think you mistook me for someone else. I just can’t summon the magic.”
“What are you talking about?” Erliand asked, with genuine puzzlement in his voice. “Are you or aren’t you the boy that got thoroughly whipped on the practice field in Geldorn that day?”
“Yes. Thanks for reminding me.” Randall felt his cheeks burning. He still hadn’t gotten over the embarrassment of that incident.
“But I think you got me confused with Bobby. He suddenly got really good with his sword. Maybe he was the one using magic! I sure can’t.” Randall slouched back into his chair with another sigh as he finished.
“Then you don’t remember being infused with magic? I dare say that the effect is quite memorable.” Erliand peered at Randall closely.
“Not really. I don’t remember the fight so good at all. It’s kind of fuzzy when I think about it.” Randall said, truthfully.
“Well, I admit, I may have made a mistake.” Erliand clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times. “Since you don’t remember the fight
very well
at all, maybe we should go over what you do remember. We might be able to figure out who in your town caught my eye that day.”
Randall’s heart sank. He half-hoped and half-expected Erliand to give him some kind of pep talk, telling him to keep trying and not to give up hope. But instead he was readily admitting that Randall’s worst fears were true, that Randall was no Mage. Maybe Erliand had already been suspecting it. The thought caused Randall’s mood to darken even further.
“Then I guess I’ll be going home? Will my father be able to keep his money?” Randall asked timidly, barely above a whisper.
Erliand waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, of course, lad. But I
did
pay good money for you, so you’re still my apprentice until I dismiss you. So help me figure out who’s
supposed
to be here, so we can quit wasting each other’s time, eh?”
“Well, I think that it’s Bobby you want,” Randall started.
Erliand interrupted, eyebrows furrowing. “You just tell me what you did that day and everyone you met, and I’ll decide who I was wanting, if you please. I’m the one most qualified to judge, after all.”
“Yes, Master,” Randall said, chastened. “I was with Bobby pretty much all morning until we got to the tent where the militiamen were set up.”
“Pretty much?” Erliand asked.
“Well, Momma did make me hunt down Melinda in the morning to deliver some flour. But she was mean to me, as usual, and we only talked for a few moments. After that, I met up with Bobby and we went to see the militia pretty much straight away.”
Erliand’s eyes unfocused and he tapped the stem of his pipe against his chin while he spoke. “Melinda…Melinda…Oh! Oh yes, the pretty little strumpet at the inn.”
Randall gasped in outrage. He knew very well what a ‘strumpet’ was. “She is
not
! She’s just a serving girl for her father. She’d never be like that!”
“Much to the disappointment of her father’s customers, I’m sure, lad,” Erliand retorted. He went on while Randall silently fumed. “So, you met Melinda, and then hurried right to the soldiers’ camp with Bobby, and then the next thing you know, you were unconscious?”
“Well, no. Bobby and I were kind of making fun of this boy who was taking a turn swinging practice swords at the dummies. We didn’t know a soldier was behind us, and he heard us. He told us if we could prove we were better, he’d sign us up on the spot.”
“Ah, and then you were trapped by your own mouths and youthful pride. I begin to get the idea. I take it that this is the part of the story where you find out sword fighting is not as easy as it looks.” Erliand’s smile stretched to become a big grin.
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault!” Randall protested. “My armor was too big. The helmet wouldn’t even stay straight on my head. It must have been made for someone huge!”
“Oh ho!” Erliand burst out into a full belly laugh. “When I heard the stories about you running around the practice field with your helmet on backwards, I thought they were just exaggerating! Oh what a sight that must have been!”
Randall’s face turned so red he thought he might burst a vein. “Stories?” he squeaked.
Erliand laughed even harder. “Hell yes, boy! It was the only thing people were talking about in the pubs all day! Half the folks at the job fair had to have seen it, and the other half ended up wishing they had. Didn’t you notice? That had to be the funniest damned thing I’d ever heard!”
Erliand’s taunting jogged a memory. The image of a jeering, screaming crowd welled up in his mind, Melinda in the heart of it screaming gibes and insults, right along with the rest of them. People were
always
insulting him! There was Joshua, shaking his butt and running to Ma for protection, Eric punching him in the arm and calling him names, his father’s constant reminders that one day Eric would inherit the land, so Randall had to get used to being second. And Melinda! All he ever wanted was to be nice to her and for her to like him, and all she ever did was heap scorn upon him. Even here it didn’t end. Here, he at least had the hope that he could fit in and make a name for himself. But even that hope was gone now, as Erliand made his true feelings known. Erliand was laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. The pain built up until something snapped inside of Randall, turning his anguish into cold fury.
“It’s not funny!” Randall screamed as he surged from his chair, his hands balled into fists.
Erliand leaned back in his chair, surprised at Randall suddenly towering over him.
“Whoa, lad. Easy now,” he said softly, all trace of humor gone from his expression. “Let’s not do something we’re going to regret later, hmm? Have a seat, why don’t you?”
“I’m not going to just sit here while you make fun of me!” Randall screamed. “It’s not funny! And I don’t have to take it!”
“Yes, yes, I know. Look, I’m sorry. Half the things I said weren’t even true anyway. But I was hoping my guess was correct. Can’t you feel it?” Erliand asked.
“Feel what?” Randall snapped, his fists clenched so tightly that he could feel his nails digging into his palms. He stubbornly decided that he wasn’t going to sit back down.
“If you’d calm down you’d feel it for yourself, lad. There’s a reason you’re feeling man enough to strangle me right now, and it’s more than just hurt feelings.”
What is he talking about?
Randall thought.
I don’t feel anything…
Except, now that Randall thought about it, he
was
feeling something. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up like he was in an electrical storm and lightning was about to strike nearby. His nerves felt jittery and on edge, like it was his birthday and he couldn’t wait another minute to open his presents. His mind seemed to have so much energy it was buzzing, like the time that he and Bobby had tried smoking some tobacco that Randall had stolen from his father. Only this time, he didn’t feel sick. He felt big and powerful. The man in front of him seemed old and feeble by comparison.
“I see by your expression that you feel it, lad. That’s what it’s like to touch Llandra. We call that feeling ‘power euphoria’. It’s one of the reasons too many Mages end up turning bad. Right about now, you’re probably thinking about how you’re ready to take on the world, and wondering why you’re wasting your time with such a foolish old codger. Don’t expect you to deny it.”