Crohn placed a feather on the table in front of Grimm. The Magemaster and his pupil were sitting on uncomfortable, tall stools in a bleak, unheated room in a deserted part of the Scholasticate. It was a cold winter day, and Grimm wished he were almost anywhere else.
"Make the chant of Levity for light objects in the third instance," Crohn commanded. With the ease born of endless practice, Grimm produced the necessary singsong chant. Nothing happened.
"You see," Crohn said, "the chant does not speak to the feather. To what should it speak?"
"To my mind," Grimm replied, suppressing the urge to sneeze. "The chant is not the spell, but a device to pattern my mind and my power to achieve the desired effect."
"That is correct, as far as your answer goes," Crohn said. "The textbook answer, if a little glib. Nonetheless, however suitable rote learning may be as an aid to memory, it is no substitute for true understanding. Let us see what more you can deduce. You have already learnt to see another's power, and you know how it changes form when turned to true magic. You must learn to feel your own power so that you can allow the chant to shape it for the spell. It is not sufficient to control and gather your power as you have done before. The chant must be directed to the power, the power to the effect, and the effect to the object. Watch me, and pay attention to my aura."
Crohn made the chant as Grimm had done, and Grimm noticed how the lines of power in Crohn's aura waved and twisted in exact counterpoint to the spell as they coalesced to a vibrating mass. Then a thin stream of golden light, which would have been invisible outside the dim cubicle, wound towards the feather. With smooth grace, the feather rose off the table as the chant ended.
"Notice that I must divert only the smallest portion of my will towards the feather once the magic is cast," Crohn said. "Once floating, the feather wishes to remain where it is. To all extents, I can now ignore the feather. This is made easier because the feather has a natural desire to float; this spell, in the tertiary form, is designed to take advantage of this. The first form is, of course, for objects that do not bear the signature of buoyancy or levity. The second is for repulsion, and requires the constant application of force."
Grimm nodded. He had been told this on many previous occasions.
"Observe, Afelnor," said Crohn, "I now relinquish the spell."
Crohn's aura became neutral, and the feather fluttered back to the table. "Now, you try. Try to feel the spell patterning your mind as it did mine."
Grimm started the chant, which was clear in his mind. At the same time, he began to feel the twists and turns of the spell. Remembering what the Magemaster had done, he tried to will the speckles of his power first into lines and then to move in unison with the chant. On the first chant, nothing happened and his head spun a little. He tried again, looking inwards to the depths of his mind. He felt convinced that the feather must move, but it remained firmly table-bound. On the third repetition, he felt his mind split in two, one part focused on a future vision of the rising feather and the other drawing the power into ordered lines inside him.
With an internal hot rush, he felt the lines of power coalesce from the sparkling motes. A giddy sensation filled his head, and he tried to force the lines into the spell's pattern. He felt the power build and mass within his body, but it was too fast and too strong. Struggling to marshal the careering sensations within him, he began to lose control of the spell: the feather rose two inches from the floor, trembled and fell back, although there was no breeze within the room.
Still, the chant echoed and rang in his head, growing louder and louder in his skull to an unbearable volume. In desperation, he aborted the chant, feeling nausea well up inside him. He leant, heaving, against the wall, his forehead beaded with cold sweat and bitter bile rising in his throat. He clutched his throbbing temples to try to quell the sensation.
"Excellent!" Crohn gushed with rare enthusiasm. "You have just had your first glimpse of real magic, Afelnor. You have also learnt that it is not good to abort a casting in midstream. Should you ever do this again, it is advisable to attempt the first instance of the spell of Nullity. This is, as you know, a short chant, but it is necessary to pattern your mind with it, as with any other spell."
"I found it hard to abandon the spell, Lord Mage," Grimm said. "It seemed to grow louder and more insistent in my head."
Crohn nodded. "That is what we call a 'spell resonance'. Your problem there was that you tried to use too much power, and your first instinct was to cut your power before you had closed off the spell. Remember; to cast a spell, one first gathers power and then commences the chant. In order to complete a spell, the caster must continue to apply power until the chant is finished.
"Resonance is most probable where the caster cannot control the power pouring from him; be on your guard for this, Afelnor. In extreme cases, a mage may become irretrievably caught inside a spell, sometimes with fatal results. You only needed to move a feather, not an albatross; such powers are still far beyond your capacity to control. Try again. This time, gather only a fraction of the power within yourself. See the effort required for the spell, and try to let the spell do the work. Once more, Neophyte."
Grimm stood upright, fighting nausea, and tried to repeat the spell with only a little power. This time, he felt his mind patterning to the chant and tried to direct a thin trickle of the patterned energy towards the feather. Just as he became convinced he was deluding himself, the power rushed from him in a torrent. The feather shot off the table and burst through the ceiling, sprinkling the Neophyte and his Magemaster with a shower of fine barbels ripped from the feather. Grimm blinked in amazement but managed to complete the chant before he cut off the energy stream. He then sneezed loudly, several times.
"Weapons training is not a normal part of a Neophyte's training, Afelnor," was Crohn's laconic comment. "You really need to work on the control of your power. You have considerable energy within you; indeed, a remarkable amount. You hold it in check quite well, but your control of the release of it leaves more than a little to be desired. However, I must congratulate you on your control of the spell, if not the energy."
"May I stop now, Lord Mage?" Grimm pleaded, feeling a deep ache in his head and his long bones. "I am suddenly very tired." Grimm began to see coruscating spots before his eyes and fought to maintain his equilibrium.
"I will give you some more potent meditation and relaxation exercises for you to practice in your cell," Crohn said. "Work on them with diligence, so that next time you do not injure yourself or me. Do not, under any circumstances, be tempted to practice any spells except when you are in tuition. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Lord Mage." Grimm had no intention of risking another spell resonance or worse.
"With the power you possess," the Magemaster continued, "the consequences of a miscast or garbled spell could be frightening. I want you to promise me you will not attempt the least spell, except in my presence. The temptation is too much for many Neophytes, and they may suffer grave consequences for their youthful folly. In the realm of Thaumaturgy, a casual dilettante is a dangerous liability."
Crohn rubbed his chin. "I have decided not to place you under a spell of Compulsion at this time," he said. "Such a spell removes free will and the necessity for the self-discipline I expect from a Neophyte. As your studies progress, however, I may find it necessary to impose such a restriction upon you."
Grimm gave a solemn, heartfelt oath that he would do no more than think about the day's learning and read his notes. Crohn wrote some instructions in a combination of plain text and runes on a piece of parchment, which he handed to Grimm.
"You are dismissed. Go and rest before recreation."
When Grimm reached his cell, his mind reeled at what he had learned and the power he had released. Despite his wheeling thoughts, he fell quickly asleep after a cursory review of Crohn's notes, surrendering to the deep torpor within him. It was a sensation with which he would become familiar in the succeeding days.
After a further month of daily two-hour sessions, Grimm was able to control the feather as required, at will and on demand. He moved on to others of the Minor Magics, and he began to develop a feel for the object to be affected, so as to be able to divert just enough energy to bring about the desired change.
When his sessions with Crohn were finished, he moved on to other lessons. He found Herbalism fascinating, and he was a quick study. He still found Courtly Graces somewhat difficult, but even Magemaster Faffel did not fail to note that Grimm was making rapid progress. Music, as ever, was a blessed release, and Grimm quickly became the skilful player of a number of instruments, preferring the intimate embrace of stringed instruments such as the viol and the chitarra.
Grimm felt a new confidence in his step as he moved around the Scholasticate. He spent much of his spare time in the Library, looking in ancient librams and magical treatises, and he was allowed to keep irregular times in the Refectory so he could find convenient points at which to adjourn his studies. He found great pleasure at being able to ignore the strident, nagging Refectory bell, although he needed to locate a Magemaster or Adept who might open the Refectory door for him.
He spent little time in the recreation yard with the other boys, and he bore dark circles around his eyes and a pallid complexion: these, he learned, were the signs of the diligent Neophyte. Despite his gruelling work schedule, he felt happy and content, feeling that he was making slow but steady progress towards the coveted ring and staff of a true Guild Mage.
One afternoon, he decided to take a brisk stroll around the yard during the daily recreation period instead of his habitual hour in the Library. He was joined by Madar, now sporting a healthy growth of russet beard and in full control of a firm baritone voice.
"Grimm, wait!" Madar cried. "Don't you have any time these days for your old friends?"
Grimm started and turned to face Madar. "Oh, I'm sorry, Madar, I didn't notice you," he said in a distant voice. "It's really good to see you. I do keep meaning to take time to see you and Argand, but this Neophyte business is hard work, and I don't keep standard hours."
The redhead snorted. "It looks like it, too, Grimm. You look like death warmed up-or even death cooled down. You need to get some fresh air and good food; not the slop they give you in the Refectory. You know I'd be only to happy to give you some of my goodies."
"You are good to me, Madar, and I do appreciate that so much," Grimm replied with heartfelt intensity. "I'd really love to meet up and talk over old times, and I will, I promise. I can't make it tonight, I'm afraid; I have some spells to practice for tomorrow. And don't worry too much about my victuals; I'm allowed better food now, although not quite as good as the food you used to share with me."
"The phrase, 'used to', sounds awfully final, Grimm," Madar said. "Which slave-driver's pushing you right now?"
"Magemaster Crohn."
"That bloody tyrant! I'm not surprised you look as you do. Argand's a Neophyte, too, of course, and he's studying to become a Scribe under Dothan, who's no bundle of laughs either. You remember when we had him for Interpretation when Kargan was away?" He grimaced.
"Oh, Crohn isn't as bad as he seems when you get to know him," Grimm said. "But, if I want to become a Reader, I've really got to work at it. It'll be all worth it when I'm Acclaimed."
"Come on, now, Grimm! A Reader? False modesty sits ill on you; you've got to be considering Weatherworker at least, surely!"
Grimm smiled. In truth, he did expect to become more than a Reader, the lowest rung on the ladder of Magedom. "All right, Madar. If I want even to become a Reader."
Madar smiled. "That's the Afelnor I thought I knew. So, Grimm, how does magic really work? What do you do all day?"
Grimm felt a tight band form around his head; now that his spell-studies were at such an advanced stage, Crohn had decided to place a Compulsion on him, after all: a spell that prevented him from revealing what he had learned. Although it irked him a little that the Magemaster did not trust him to keep his mouth shut, the Neophyte knew only too well that it might be dangerous to satisfy his friend's curiosity.
"I can't tell you, Madar. No, look, I mean it; I can't tell you, even if I want to. I'm under a bloody Compulsion Crohn put on me, and you can guess how powerful that is. All I can say is that now I really understand why they're so secretive about this.
"Look, Madar, how about you and me and Argand getting together tomorrow in the Refectory, so we can chew over old times, if not old food? I've got a couple of free hours in the evening, too, and I'll be in my cell if you want to stop by. It'd make a real change for me, and I'd really enjoy it."
"It's a date," Madar said with warm sincerity. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be seeing Argand in the refectory tonight, and I'll see if he's free tomorrow night. I surely hope so, because I don't get to see much of him, either, these days."
The two Neophytes shook hands, and Grimm had to rush off; he knew Crohn wouldn't take kindly to him being late for his evening session.
"So, Argand, how do you like it as a Neophyte?" Grimm asked the next day.
"Well, my arm aches from pushing a quill over the paper all day, and the hours are long, but Dothan isn't anything like old Crohn. If I've done well, at least he tells me so."
"I always heard Dothan was a bit of a tyrant," Madar said. "I was talking to some of the boys that had him as Magemaster, and none of them has a kind word for him."
"It's true he doesn't have much love for snotty Students who think they know it all," Argand responded. "But he says he feels he's doing worthwhile work when he trains a Neophyte who really wants to learn.
"He certainly lets me know it if I miss out a curlicue or joining line when I'm Scribing, but he's patient and doesn't hammer the point home. The difficult thing is that Dothan's a great mimic. He can reproduce any regional accent you care to name, and he tends to switch accents in mid-chant, which causes no end of problems for me. Imagine 'effuther' in Frasian! It comes out like 'afforthe' and, unless the spell context is clear, you can get into all sorts of trouble trying to join the runes up. The runes themselves are easy enough; after all, they're only the usual straight lines. But the joining cadences link the spell together, so if you get it wrong you end up with nothing, or worse."
"But you can't link 'affa', 'ore' and 'thek' together smoothly unless you change the pitch; there'd be a 'quack' in the middle-you couldn't miss it," Madar protested.
"When you're a Student, the Magemasters chant at one-tenth the speed of real mages, Madar. The 'quack' would be gone before you had time to register it."
Argand looked frustrated, as if he had a little difficulty in conveying his thoughts. "All the chants you two have ever met are standard ones. Scribes have to cope with all sorts of new chants.
"Imagine some Scholar has come up with a new spell, and he wants it recorded. It could take hours at Student speeds; he wants it scribed and notarised as soon as possible, so his work is recognised and rewarded without delay. These Scholars are famous for their impatience and not always as careful with their diction or tone as Readers are."
Grimm frowned. "Surely, Scholars go through the same repetition and chanting practice as the rest of us. After all, even they were Students and Neophytes once."
Argand grimaced. "Unfortunately, Scholars rarely cast spells," he said. "Unlike Readers, who strive for perfection to the last detail with every spell they cast. It seems it's almost a point of honour for Scholars to pronounce their arcane chants in any way they choose. After all, they're just repeating, not casting. You can bet they're really careful how they sing it when they're trying it out for real in their cells or outside the House, sure! But then they get bored with it and want to get it down on paper as soon as possible, so they can get back to their scrolls and librams, ready to invent their next masterpiece."
"Still, rather you than me, Argand," Grimm replied. "When you start to actually expend power, it can really tire you out. On most days, I just want to crawl back to my cell and sleep. But how did you get into this Scribe business? If you don't mind me saying, you haven't exactly got the best ear and voice around here, and, from what you're saying, you need good pitch reading to do what you do."
"It's different for Scribes, Grimm," Argand said. "You need a quick ear, sure, but not a perfect one. Dothan says I have something called 'relative pitch'; as long as the Reader first hums me the note he uses to start the chant, I can work out the intervals quite well.
"I can't discriminate small intervals as well as you can; but, once you know the start note and the structure of the chant, the cadence becomes quite clear. Music is still a complete mystery to me as an enjoyment, but I do understand it as applied to magic. I can tell jumps of a semitone, and intervals of less than that are signalled by accents and so on. You do need a good ear and voice to Read, but not so much to Scribe."
"Enough shop talk, anyway," Madar said. "Who's for a game of Three-handed Slap?"
"We aren't meant to gamble, Madar. You know that," Grimm admonished his friend.
"There you go again, always quoting the damn rules. We won't be gambling for money, idiot. Loser agrees to clean the other two players' shoes for a week."
"That's an obligation," Grimm observed. "We can't do that, either; that's Rule 5.2.2."
"All right, then. Loser has the option to renege without prejudice. Then it's not obligation, it's your choice."
Grimm sighed. "Well, all right then, Madar, as long as that's all there is. I like being a Neophyte, and I'm not going to do anything to jeopardise that."
"It's all right by me," Argand said, as Madar brought out a pack of cards from his robe.
"Right, so it's odd pictures wild every fourth hand, two points per trick over the line, red sixes change the order, aces low and prime numbers null unless matched," Madar said, shuffling the cards with bewildering dexterity.
"Just a moment, Madar," Grimm protested. "I've never played this game before."
"Really?" Madar's smile suggested a hungry wolf that had just spotted easy prey. "It's no worse than old Kargan's runes. Well, we'll soon teach you, won't we Argand? It's ever such an easy game really. I learnt to play it at Lower School. Let me just go through the rules once more…"
Grimm knew he hadn't a chance, and he knew the state his two friends got their shoes into. Madar and Argand liked to play in the muddiest corners of the yard. However, perhaps, a little judicious application of Mage Sight could make the difference.
"Another thing," Madar said with a sweet smile. "We check each other's aura on every hand. Just to make sure it's all fair and above board, of course. And it's good magic practice, too."
Grimm sighed. It looked like he might be in for a lot of shoe-cleaning.