The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy) (50 page)

Samuel bound his spell in place upon Jess’ small lump. It was the same sensation as leaving the mage-lights to float on their own—like tying a bootlace—and the spell would hold its position until its energy faded. Day after day, Jess’ discomfort became less as the lump diminished, until the point where his spell and her injury both faded together. He surmised that if he had made the spell much stronger, it would actually serve to protect the area from future harm, much like magical armour. How stupid of him! Of course, this was true! It was merely an extension of what he already knew. Sometimes, Samuel embarrassed himself with his own ignorance. He decided he would spend some time each day theorising on other such possibilities that may have slipped his notice. He could not let his studies suffer just because of his current predicament.

Samuel soon found that, with practice, he was getting much better at controlling all the animals. He could actually promote specific actions in the creatures, such as walking or turning around, and could control their bodily functions, such as passing faeces and urinating. He could even time an event for a predetermined moment, as the animals seemed greatly in tune with the seasons and the time of day. Simpson watched on in wonder as in unison his goats all walked together and formed a circle with their bodies.

‘Very impressive, lad,’ the old man declared, ‘but I’m not sure it will be of much use. I suppose I could take them to the market in Gilgarry and entertain the crowds?’

‘I could try to improve their produce,’ Samuel suggested, contemplating his alternatives. ‘What makes better milk?’ Samuel asked.

‘A stressed or sick animal gives bad milk, as well as one with poor feed or water. I suppose one that has good health and sufficient food and water has the better milk.’

‘Well, I can’t do much about their diet, so I’ll see what I can do to cheer the poor creatures up,’ Samuel said with a smug grin.

Simpson and his wife were amazed when the milk improved in quality and flavour virtually overnight. The village folk and other customers who bought their milk each day were amazed at the change in quality. ‘
The best milk around,
’ everyone was soon saying. The cows soon came waddling in with near bursting udders, which was fortunate, because demand for their goods increased as word of its quality spread. Samuel had even begun casting spells upon the varying sized jars they carried the milk in: one spell to fortify the vessels and protect them from breakage, and another to chill the milk, keeping it as fresh as if straight from the teat. They were simple spells that he had to repeat each morning, but they had a great effect upon increasing their profits.

‘What did you do to improve their milk so much, Samuel?’ Mrs Down asked.

‘I made them happy,’ Samuel answered. ‘It only lasts for a few days at a time, but for the time being you have cheerful goats and merry cows. I’ll see what I can do to make it last longer, if you like.’ He kept the other spells to himself for now. Despite their kindness, these were still quite superstitious people and would perhaps find that amount of tinkering with nature disturbing.

Simpson nodded and rubbed his whiskered chin. ‘Aye. As long as it don’t do them no harm.’

‘Happiness rarely does someone harm,’ Samuel noted.

‘So you say, but I’ve seen my fair share of young fools fall onto their arses at the village dance because they were
too
happy.’

Samuel laughed. ‘I’m not getting your animals drunk, so that shouldn’t happen. They’ve not got bony arses, anyway, so I don’t think it would hurt them if they did.’

Mrs Down laughed and they set into their supper. It was noticeably larger and tastier than usual.

Neighbours began calling and talking, poking around for a clue to anything new that Simpson might be doing with his stock but, as usual, he mostly just sat on his rock talking with the new hand.

‘What did you do to Branner’s sheep?’ one fellow asked one night as he called in to their home for tanabil tea.

‘What do you mean?’ Simpson asked.

A tiny smile started on Samuel’s lips as he scribbled some notes, listening in.

‘Branner says that the other day about ten of them came filing into his house and, all at once, lifted their tails and sh—I mean, deposited their leavings on the floor, and then all went out again. Him and his missus were dumbstruck. And he says that since then, they don’t come anywhere near here any more.’

‘Why that’s strange behaviour, to be sure,’ Simpson said, drawing on his pipe and looking at Samuel, ‘but I can’t say why sheep would do such a thing, sheep being sheep, that is. I’ve never really cared for sheep.’

Samuel’s skills were improving steadily and one day, as he sat next to Simpson, he decided to test his newfound ability on a human subject. He was fully confident of his capacity and so he turned his attention to the old man beside him.

At first, Samuel’s efforts went without fruition, but with each attempt he found his way deeper through the maze of complex energies of the man’s mind until he began at last to feel the strange sensation of foreign thoughts. He could sense a rhythmical pulsing that changed in speed and intensity seemingly randomly. Then, he began to hear a cascade of tones, rising and falling in sequence. It was a song. Samuel realised that old Simpson was humming it in his head. As Samuel delved inwards, he found Simpson’s mind to be a complex and shifting weave of memories and events, far beyond what he had experienced before. The energy around him was overwhelming, like massive hives of delicate lacework. He decided it would be very difficult to do anything in such a sophisticated place. It might even be dangerous for them both.

Another time, as Samuel sat and listened to the old man whistle merrily to himself, Samuel had an idea for a simple experiment. He began humming quietly in his mind. Carefully, he felt out for the energies of old Simpson. He let the two vibrations overlap, so that his own tune was mingled with Simpson’s. It was very difficult work. He had to concentrate on maintaining his own tune, feeling for Simpson's and then keep them bound together all at once.

After only a short time, Simpson took up Samuel’s tune as his own. Samuel smiled to himself smugly, for it confirmed his theory: two things did not even need to be touching to affect each other. All things were connected by the ether, whether it was obvious or not, and vibrations could travel between them easily enough.
Damn himself
for being so stupid! Of course, it was what his teachers had always told him; but, until now, he had never fully understood the notion. In theory then, distance did not matter as long as a spell was correctly directed. If he knew how, Samuel could read the mind of a field mouse in Garteny as easily as one in the palm of his hand, as long as he tied something unique into the spell—something that would only identify that particular mouse. Of course, it was not quite that simple, but the premise seemed fair enough. The theory would need much more attention, as it had the potential to change the way he cast his spells entirely.

Simpson carried on merrily singing his new tune high up on the rock, while Samuel pondered over his new train of thought.

A few days later, after much contemplation and deliberation, Samuel again risked an exploratory sortie into Simpson’s consciousness. It was only after a few moments that Samuel suddenly felt every thought in the old man vanish and acute pain rang out from every direction. He was thrown from Simpson’s mind and reeled onto his side as he struggled to orient himself to his surroundings. The sudden purge left him dazed and it was some moments before Samuel could fully realise who and where he was. Pain and confusion clung to him stubbornly.

Looking over to Simpson, Samuel could see the old man was clutching his jaw in obvious discomfort.

‘What is the matter?’ Samuel asked with concern as he rushed to Simpson’s side.

‘My damned tooth!’ the wincing farmer moaned. ‘It’s gone bad and I just broke it gnawing on my pipe.’

Samuel scolded himself for not having noticed the injury before. ‘I can do something for you, if you would like?’

‘Not gonna make me crap on the floor are ya?’ the old man asked suspiciously, still grasping his jaw.

‘No,’ Samuel laughed, ‘but I can numb the pain a little.’

Simpson nodded and Samuel gingerly entered the man’s mind, following the overpowering feeling of pain. It led to a throbbing knot of sensations and Samuel immediately began testing the site for ways to reduce the old man’s anguish. He did not want to totally stop the feeling—not truly knowing what effect it would have, but instead worked to lessen it to a mere soreness. When he withdrew once more, Simpson already appeared very pleased with the result.

‘It’s almost gone,’ he noted aloud with some amusement.

‘Yes, and I’ll see what I can do about fixing your tooth. It’s always better to treat the cause, rather than the symptom.’

‘As you say,’ Simpson responded, pushing his pipe straight back into his mouth and looking back out over the hillside with a stern gaze, as if ascertaining all the changes that may have occurred in his few moments’ distraction.

Samuel examined the aura of the old man and found the region where it seemed slightly deformed, beneath his chin. He applied the same mending technique he had used on Jess. He had no idea what would happen in this instance, but time would tell.

‘Mrs Down’s got some pain in her hands on cold nights,’ Simpson then mentioned, still staring out over the valleys. ‘Perhaps you could find your way to helping her a little with whatever you just done to me?’

‘I will,’ Samuel promised.

‘Any sign of rain yet?’ the old man then asked, glancing towards the sky. Great grey clouds rolled by, bearing towers of mist that stretched up to the heights.

Samuel looked up momentarily and felt for the tremendous mountains of energy carried aloft. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think these clouds will pass us by and unload their burdens further to the east. I cannot feel any rainfall here for at least the week.’

‘Another week,’ the old man repeated forlornly. He said no more than that, but Samuel could guess what he was thinking, for the hills were dry and dusty. Every footfall sent up puffs of choking dust.

Samuel began to think of what he could do with all he had recently learned.

Another new name appeared on Simpson’s list of milk buyers, along with the many others who had now begun requesting the Downs’ milk. It was the village elder, a man by the name of Manfred Sallow.

‘Is having an elder still a custom here?’ Samuel asked, as they bounced along the road behind Jess.

‘Aye,’ Simpson replied. ‘When the Empire came through here they tried to finish most of the old traditions like that, but we still manage to hold to a few of our old ways. Manfred doesn’t actually have much to do with running the village, except when someone needs to settle a dispute or make peace with the Imperials. His family’s been doing it for as long as anyone can recall and he’s too stubborn to give it up. He’s quite familiar with that Count Rudderford down in Gilgarry, so he generally gets things sorted out reasonably quickly. It’s a double-edged sword, unfortunately, as Manfred is also responsible for collecting the taxes. It can make him unpopular with some, but most folk realise that if Manfred didn’t do it, someone worse would. Of course, I haven’t quite gotten round to paying my dues just yet,’ he added, with a mischievous grin.

The house was on the far side of the village and the early morning villagers still gawked at Samuel as they passed. He was not as tall or strange as people had been told. Indeed, he looked much like a normal young man, sporting the beginnings of a fuzzy moustache and beard. Still, Samuel could virtually see the curiosity pouring from them.

‘Good morning, Simpson,’ some called. ‘Good morning, Samuel.’

Samuel smiled and waved back, returning their greetings.

The home of Manfred Sallow was easily the finest in the village. It was made from great lengths of timber and smooth, stone slabs, as opposed to the roughly hewn stone and mortar houses of the others.

‘You had better let me take care of this one,’ Simpson declared as he gingerly stepped down from the cart. His manner told Samuel everything. This fellow required Simpson’s personal, tactful attention.

He knocked on the door and a finely dressed man of late middle-age opened it in response. His clothes seemed almost in the style of the Empire, as if he had been plucked up from some manor near Cintar and dropped into the middle of the village.

‘Simpson, how pleasant to see you,’ the man announced.

‘As you say, Mr Sallow. I have what you ordered.’

‘Wonderful! Bring it in and put it on the table.’

‘Samuel!’ Simpson called back from the doorway and the young magician jumped down from the seat and began to drag the appropriate jars towards the cart’s edge. ‘I’m growing older and managed to injure myself a spell back. Young Samuel helps me out and has proven priceless around the farm,’ he explained to Mr Sallow.

‘Indeed,’ Mr Sallow said. ‘It’s unusual to meet any form of stranger in our village, let alone an Imperial. Some say this young man is responsible for your turn of good fortune.’

‘I’d probably agree, Mr Sallow. He’s a fine young lad and I don’t know how we ever managed without him.’