Knights Magi (Book 4) (32 page)

Or a wand.  Or a rock.  Rondal wasn’t picky.

As if to add to his sour mood, Tyndal picked that moment to blunder by.

“My lords,” he said, with slight exaggeration.  He was wearing a green velvet tunic, suitable for formal occasions, and Rondal was loath to admit he looked quite regal in it.  “I hope that lecture didn’t keep you awake.”

“After Infantry Training,” Gurandor said, with a sneer, “there’s not much that could keep me awake.  My bones still ache!  So what have they been keeping you busy with while we’ve been at the Mysteries?”

“Mostly swordplay,” Tyndal admitted.  “There are some outstanding swordsmen here.  Masters of the mageblade.  I’ve been sparring as much as possible.  And occasionally hitting the Warmagic Library.”

“I didn’t know there was a Warmagic Library,” Rondal said, thoughtfully.  “And I’m twice as surprised that you knew of it.”

“I like to take the opportunity to improve myself,” Tyndal said, vainly.  “There are whole tomes of nastiness in there.  Some of it is even proscribed, marked with a big FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY – PENALTY FOR USE letter attached.  But . . .
fascinating.”

“I look forward to taking a run at it,” Rondal said, cordially.

“You’ll love it, Ron,” Tyndal assured.  “And . . . I actually passed a few examinations after you left Inarion,” he added, proudly.  “Mathematics, Geometry, Basic Elemental Theory, Practical Cantrips, a couple of others.”

“I’m delighted,” Rondal said through clenched teeth.

Tyndal finally caught that Rondal was behaving coolly toward him, and a look of confusion crossed his face.  “Uh . . .” he said, looking at Gurandor, “can we have a moment’s privacy?”

Gurandor sized up Tyndal.  “Let me know if you need help, Striker,” he said, and headed for the other end of the table. 

“What is wrong with you?” Tyndal demanded in a whisper, when they were out of earshot.

“Whatever do you mean?” Rondal asked, sarcastically as he bit into a sausage.

“I mean you’ve been acting like I took a dump in your hat since the moment I got here!” he said, harshly. 

“I have been occupied with my studies,” the older boy said, irritated.  “Did you need me to brush your hair or something?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Tyndal accused.  “Like I have the pox.”

“How do I know you don’t?” Rondal challenged. 

“See?” Tyndal pointed out.  “That’s just not like you!”

“What isn’t like me?”

“You . . . acting like a . . . a . . .”

Thankfully, they were interrupted by the imposing figure of Master Hartarian.  A High Mage like them, he carried his shard of irionite in a golden cage around his neck.  He towered over them both.  The former head of the Royal Censorate of Magic, he looked less at-ease in civilian life than he had as head of the order.  Here he fit in admirably.

“Hail, good knights!” he said, smiling just a little too broadly.  “I am pleased to see you both here.  I’ve been speaking with your master frequently, of late, and he asked me to check on your condition.  So . . . still have all your limbs, I see,” he chuckled.

“The night is still young, Master,” Tyndal said, slyly.  “But we appreciate your oversight.  Don’t we, Rondal?”

“Of course,” Rondal agreed, politely.  “And we look forward to the opportunity to improve our skills.”

“That’s encouraging to hear,” Hartarian sighed, filling his wine cup from the table. 
“As busy as things are at the capital, now, we’re going to need all the warriors we can field in Gilmora this summer.  I expect you two will be prominent?”

“That depends entirely on the mood of our master,” Rondal said, before Tyndal could say anything.  “He has yet to disclose what tasks he has in mind for us.”

“I’m sure fighting goblins will be mentioned,” Tyndal grinned.

“Sir Tyndal was just telling me how proud he was at passing his recent examinations at Inarion, Master Hartarian,” Rondal said, conversationally.  “Didn’t your niece attend Inarion?”

“Only for six months,” he sighed.  “She did most of her schooling at Alar.  Although I dare say she has picked up a few things at court,” he said.  Rondal could guess there was a story there, but he didn’t feel confident to ask of the mysterious Lady Isily.  She had been a close aid to their master during the Battle of Timberwatch, but apparently they’d had a falling out.  Tyndal knew something about it, but he had yet to share the intelligence with Rondal due to its sensative nature, and it remained a mystery.   “So what subjects did you complete, then, Sir Tyndal?”

“Uh . . . Mathematics.  Lesser Elemental Theory.  Geometry,” he said, each admission of success in the basic levels of knowledge making the boy squirm in front of the most senior mage in the kingdom. 

“Don’t forget ‘Practical Cantrips’,” Rondal reminded him with just a hair too much enthusiasm.

“Yes,” Tyndal said, slowly.  “Practical Cantrips.”

Master Hartarian looked at the boys thoughtfully.  “Well done,” he said, without much eagerness.  “And how about you, Sir Rondal?”

“I am well into my intermediate course of study in Thaumaturgy, Master,” he answered, ignoring Tyndal’s embarrassment.  “I’m hoping to pursue some Enchantment, if I have the opportunity.”

“Thaumaturgy and Enchantment?” Hartarian said, impressed.  “Those are difficult subjects.”

“You’ll find Sir Rondal excels at the difficult,” Tyndal said, recovering somewhat.  “It’s rare you find a book without his nose somewhere in the vicinity.”

“One must put them somewhere,” Rondal said, smoothly. 

“The kingdom will be full of opportunities for a couple of bright young lads like yourself,” Hartarian assured them, ignoring their blatant rivalry.  “I look forward to reporting to your master how diligent you’ve been.”

When the court mage had wandered off to speak to some more senior warmagi, Tyndal stepped uncomfortably close to Rondal.  “What the hells was that?”

“What?” Rondal asked, innocently.

“Pulling out my grades!” he said angrily, his nostrils flaring.

“I thought you were
proud
of your grades,” Rondal shrugged. 

“Not in my remedial classes!” Tyndal said.  “Nor was that news for Master Hartarian’s ears!”

“You said it plainly enough for mine and Gurandor’s!” Rondal countered.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Tyndal said, his face burning. 

“Do I?” Rondal said, pushing past him.  “You mean, how I pointed out that you are
years
behind me in study?  Or how you actually passed a few – remedial – examinations, finally?”

“Well . . .both!  Neither!  Bah!  You are infuriating!” Tyndal fumed as he stomped off.

Gurandor came back the moment Tyndal left the reception.  “What was that about?”

“A difference of opinion,” Rondal said, tight-lipped.  “It’s nothing.  What do you say we leave this lovely and utterly uninteresting reception and walk down to the village?  I’ll buy,” he added.  Among his other belongings he’d remade the re-acquaintance of, his purse was one of the most dear.  And while he rarely indulged in drink to any great degree, Rondal was suddenly feeling like doing so. 

“You’re buying?” Gurandor, who had arrived at Relan Cor with little coin in his purse, asked excitedly.  “Then let’s go.  I’m suddenly finding myself quite thirsty.”

“Me, too,” Rondal said, his eyes narrowing.  Perhaps, just perhaps, Tyndal would have the same idea, and they would chance to meet on the way down or back . . .

*                            *                            *

Classes began in earnest the next day, and despite drinking far more than he
was accustomed to, Rondal managed to make it back to bed in good order.  Interestingly enough, Tyndal had been in his bunk neither when he arrived or later, when he awoke.  Rondal was concerned for a moment, and thought about calling him mind-to-mind, but then decided against it.  Instead he wandered down to the mess hall, grabbed a mug of ale and a sweet roll, and headed for class. 

It was warwands, today, taught by Master Sirisan, a veteran warmage long retired, and it was in an auxiliary dining hall that had been converted to use as a classroom by the expedient of placing twenty long benches in front of the main table.  Master Sirisan was situated behind the lectern.  He looked five years older than dirt to Rondal, with a long flowing beard and voluminous red robes.  Rondal  quickly realized that Master Sirisan was enamored of the sound of his own voice.

Tyndal was there, too – sitting to the right, and all the way in the back.  Rondal made his way to the left, and moved all the way down to the front.  Master Sirisan had just begun the meat of his lecture.

“. . . the warwand, along with the mageblade, is the basic weapon of the warmagi,” the old instructor said, demonstrating with an eighteen-inch plain wooden wand.  “Why use a wand?  First we should ask . . . what
is
a wand?  Anyone?”

“A stick,” answered someone from behind Rondal.  There was a titter of giggles.

“Yes, a stick.  A wand is a
stick.
  A humble piece of wood, usually no longer than your forearm and no thicker than your wrist.  As such, it is the basis of many other weapons.  Put a rock at the end, it is a mace.  Put a thick piece of metal at the end, it becomes a hammer.  Sharpen it, it is an axe.  A thin piece of pointy metal at the end, a spear.  A wire or rope, it becomes a whip. 

“But a warwand is not a mere haft or handle,” he continued, beginning to pace slowly in front of the class.  “The purpose of the warwand is not to become other weapons, but to become a weapon itself.  So . . . why use a wand?”

“It’s free!” came another mage’s answer.  That inspired some giggles, too.

“Sometimes,” conceded Master Sirisan.  “But that is not why, it is merely a contributing factor.  No, we use a stick for our warmagic because first and foremost, it
points
.”  He indicated the function by pointing at various things around the room.  “As I’m sure we all remember from Geometry, any two points connected will form a straight line . . . and by extension, a ray.  From the tip of the wand,” he said, demonstrating with his inert model, “extending in a ray from base and point, the line will continue to be straight right off into infinity. 

“But it only points to one direction.  Direction is very important for many warmagic spells.  One does not want to hit one’s friend, after all, but the foe.  Sticks
excel
at pointing.”  More chuckles.  The old man smiled at the response and continued.

“Secondly, we use a wand for our warmagic in many cases because the effect of the spell we choose to bring down our enemies may be too potent to discharge in close proximity to our persons without injury. 

“The warwand has the advantage of keeping the magical death you have conjured at least a span away from your delicate fingers.  Indeed, a protective element is often a component of the enchantments used for warwands.  It also helps preserve the device for multiple uses.”  He walked in front of the lectern, and suddenly threw the stick to the floor.

“Thirdly, we use warwands because, unlike our mageblades, they are
disposable
.  That is, any given piece of wood will only hold so much enchantment before the arcane pressures overcome its natural resiliency.  Usually no more than one type of spell, and with limited energy.  Once those charges are discharged . . . well, your warwand may make a lovely conversation piece, but
don’t
try to re-enchant one.  Only a few specialized woods, such as weirwood, or socohol, can safely be used more than once.  Which is why weirwood is so precious.”  He picked another stick out of a basket of them next to the lectern.

“A warwand, once exhausted, can be safely discarded without regret.  Indeed, carrying a variety of warwands can be a decided advantage for the warmage, as not every permutation of magical expression is going to be unchallenged.  Finding your only means of attack is pointless because of counterspells is disappointing.  Being able to switch from, say, a direct physical attack to a more subtle magical one gives the warmage a powerful advantage.”

Rondal knew the pragmatic use of that rule himself – twice during the siege at Boval he had tried to discharge a wand at a goblin shaman, only to have the spell negated by some arcane defense.  Being able to switch to another wand with a different profile quickly had saved his life.

“The basic theory is simple: after proper preparation, the wand is invested with energy, directed, shaped, and tuned by the warmage, that can be converted into a useful – and by that I mean deadly – purpose.  These spells can cause fire, plasma, lightning, pure physical force, sound, and far more subtle and insidious effects.  Today we are going to use a very basic enchantment to create a simple Cisguyine Wand.  These were once very popular in antiquity, and were even provided to guardsmen in the great cities of the Magocracy to break up fights.”

“Are we just going to learn about stunning wands?” asked a young mage Rondal didn’t know.

“There are over three hundred varieties of warwand cataloged here in Relan Cor’s library – some haven’t been used since the Magocracy.   And practicing warmagi have been adding their own variations for centuries.  While we are using the Cisguyine Wand as an example I encourage you to explore the other varieties available to you.  You should have plenty of opportunity to find the wand enchantments that work best for you.