In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (15 page)

“I
don’t know, Kari. I’m not exactly sure how it happened. It was a simple spell, one we’ve both used before dozens of times.  The air hammer was a lot bigger and much more powerful than I’ve ever seen it. You know I’d never hurt Kyle.  It was an accident.”  Magi turned to Marik, their Master, who had just returned to the Square.  “Do you know what happened?  Is he all right?”

Marik turned to face them.  No matter how many times Magi had stared at a real Mage
—a true Master that has climbed the Staircase—it was always disconcerting to see their eyes.  Marik was no different.  His white eyes made him look eerie because it was harder to gauge his emotion in some ways.   It was said that long ago, God had marked these individuals as a warning for all who would associate with them.  Of course that was just balderdash—there was no evidence of God anywhere in the land.  And having grown up in Marik’s care, Magi could read him as well as anyone.

His face was kind and gentle.  “Kyle will be fine.  He needs rest now more than anything.  May I have a word with our young mage, Kari?  Thank you.”  His voice was reassuring.

“Yes.  Of course.  Thank you, Master.  My brother looked awful after that spell.  Magi—will you come by later?”  The edge had left her voice now.

“Absolutely.  I’m so sorry, Kari.” 
I never wanted to face Kyle in The Tournament.

Kari gave the slightest of nods to Magi without saying a word, and left.

“Magi,” Marik said.  “Walk with me.”

They walked to a small grove of trees near the boys’ barracks.  Off to one side was The Tree.  Magi’s Tree.  It was
18 years old, just like him. Marik had told him the story of how his close friend, Magi’s real father, had wanted Marik to plant a sapling in the village when Magi was born, hoping it would grow and blossom and be his same age whenever he sent him off to learn at Marik’s school.  His father could have never dreamed he would leave for Marik’s school before Magi’s first birthday.

His father had been a
jewelry maker and very poor, and his mother was always in terrible health, according to Marik.  He had a gift for working with objects, and though his passion was trinkets, few could afford his gem work.  He began making other small objects out of wood and less precious materials, such as spoons and mugs, but it was hard to sell these for more than a few coppers.  His parents were poor, but ambitious.  Obsessed with riches, his father began experimenting more and more with alchemy, looking for ways to convert iron to gold.  Marik was visiting one day, before Magi had yet turned one, when it happened.  His mother and father…their faces close to the edge of a bubbling cauldron…Magi and Marik in another room…an acid explosion.  His parents both died from the explosion and subsequent burns, despite Marik’s best efforts and spellwork to cure them.  Marik took him in as a baby, and his introduction to Marik’s school began early. 

He had heard that story many times since then, though Marik mercifully spared him the gory details
.  Magi looked at his Tree again.  He wasn’t even sure what kind of tree it was, but it was
his
. Seeing it always reminded him of the father he’d never known.

He often studied under the Tree; he felt more aware
—
more alive
—near it.  The way he felt right before the magic coursed through his body was the same way he felt under this Tree.  He couldn’t explain how, but he felt things, heard things, sensed things that others couldn’t when he was under its boughs.  Like the far off scent of a rare unicorn moving its bowels, or the distant sight of Lionel’s arrow stuck in a tree, or the near silent footfalls of a murderer’s footsteps on the cold marble of a library…Magi’s senses were finely tuned underneath this Tree.  He loved being shaded underneath its leafy branches more than just about anything in the world, save for his Art.  He took a familiar seat underneath the Tree, where the grass had been worn away long ago from countless hours of sitting.

Marik sat down next to him.
“How do you feel, Magi?”

“Puzzled, truth be told.”

“How so?” The Master asked.

Magi continued twisting his ring.  A slight breeze caressed the leaves
overhead.  Somewhere, off in the woods near the foothills of the Crystal Mountains, a leopard was dining on a fresh kill, Magi mused, before thinking,
feels likely to rain tonight. 
“I’m puzzled by the strength of that spell.  I’ve cast it dozens of times.  It should have merely disoriented Kyle.  I don’t understand what happened,” Magi said, like a man stuck on a math problem.

“Isn’t it obvious?”  Marik asked.

Here we go. 
“No.  If it was obvious, I wouldn’t be puzzled.  What happened—Master?” Magi quickly added.  Insolence was not tolerated, even from star pupils.

Marik
’s answering smile was patient. “Magi, your skills are developing faster than most.  I’ve taught you many times that a spell’s power is not in the casting, but comes from the caster.  The same spell cast perfectly from mages of different skill levels will have dramatically different results.  For example, take the simple light spell.  It can create a light no brighter than a candle, or illuminate an entire underground cavern with the strength of a thousand torches.  You have mastered many spells.  We must continue to focus on controlling the power of those spells—how much of your own energy you allow to be consumed during casting.  You have great skill, but are not yet in command of your strength.  Tell me, what were you thinking about right before you cast?”

“Your unicorns taking a dump.”  He distinctly remembered that.

“I think something else.”  Marik smiled again, this time it was a knowing, sly smile.  “I could smell Kyle sweating.”  He could almost hear a distant stream slashing its way down the Crystal Mountains.  He twisted his ring again, not about to admit who else he’d been thinking of.

“Fine
.” Marik sighed. “My unicorns and Kyle.  It doesn’t matter about
what
—or whom—you were thinking, it could have been puffy cloud shapes.  The point is that you must learn to regulate the energy you put forth.  Even the simplest of spells can be devastating if you don’t properly control their strength.  And, just as important, even you do not have an endless amount of energy.  It is replenished with rest, but you can waste your energy on one spell and find yourself unable to cast another.  This, too, can be devastating in the wrong situation.  You are gifted in that your well of energy is deeper than most—but it has its limits.  This will continue to be my greatest point of emphasis with you—control.  Kyle was fortunate.  You could have killed him.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”
A lump rose in Magi’s throat as he was overwhelmed by guilt.
Why, Kyle?

The Master shook his head.
“Don’t be sorry!  You miss my point.  Every apprentice who aspires to be a Wizard, a True Mage, must learn this.  What makes you different is that you must begin mastering this skill—this
restraint—
at a younger age than most.  Most mages do not attempt to climb the Staircase until they are well into their twenties.  You may be ready much sooner than that.”  Marik could not hide the pride in his voice.

“Will you tell me what the Staircase is
now?”  Magi felt a raindrop hit his cheek.

“No.  Not yet
—”

Of course n
ot
, Magi thought.

“I’m going to check on Kyle, and speak with his sister.  You should come, too.”  Marik got up to leave.

“In a minute, Master.  I’ll join you soon, if that’s ok.”

“Very well.  I’d hurry, it looks like rain is coming.”  Marik turned to head back to the barracks.

Magi smiled to himself as large, plump drops began to fall.

~Strongiron~

“Where is King Alomar, my Queen?”  asked Strongiron, kneeling formally as he always did.  He was tired after his long voyage across the strait, but his message could not wait.  “It would be best if both of you were present to hear the news I bear.”

“Strongiron, I—” the Queen’s voice faltered, just slightly.  She quickly gathered herself.

“My Queen?” Strongiron looked up, and rose.  “Where is King Alomar?” he repeated softly.

“Strongiron, King Alomar is dead.  He fell ill shortly after you left for the pits, and there were no healers in the land capable of saving him.  Our mages tried to apply herbs and some spells, but disease ate away at him quickly, and he—he just left us.  He did leave some instructions, and they may be pertinent to your update.  As you know he personally chose to lead our army.  He made it known that should you come back from the pits a True Warrior intact, that you should not only be knighted, but that you should be promoted to Commander of our army at Rookwood and take a seat on my small council as a Warrior General.  Do you accept this?”

Strongiron was dumbfounded.  He had been gone maybe six months?  His King…dead?  The Queen was a strong woman, for sure—but King Alomar was different.  He loved his King.  The realm was blessed to have had such a wise and just leader. 
And with the news that I bring
...  He sat down.  “The healers were unable to help him?”

“You know most Clerics are worthless charlatans.  We haven’t had a real one for hundreds of years.  In the end, it was a farce that wore Alomar’s strength and my patience.  The mages were of some comfort.  Quentin, especially.  But in the end they only helped the pain, mostly.”  She fixed Strongiron again with a penetrating stare.  “I would ask you again, before you continue, will you join my small council, accept your
knighthood, and lead our armies?  Consider well before you answer, as I may have someone else join this discussion if you refuse.”

I suppose she has already grieved, but God she is direct! 
“Yes, my Queen.  I may not be worthy, but you have my service, as your husband had before.”  He knelt and bowed his head.  The Queen couldn’t be bothered with scepters or swords, she simply said, “Arise, Strongiron, son of Peace-arm, Commander of the Realm, Knight of the Order of Thunder, as is befitting of the House Tuitio.”  She paused, and smiled briefly as he lifted his head.  “Now then.  What is your update?”

“Evil cloaked in truth, my queen.”  Strongiron
stood up at that point and could not sit still.  He restlessly paced up and down the humble throne room.  Compared to Lord Kensington’s palace half a world away, the fairly practical surroundings were an encouragement to him.  He was a loyal, practical man, and he stared up at his loyal, practical queen. 
I’ll say this about my Queen: if God existed and handed out both wisdom and beauty, Queen Najalas must have asked for extra wisdom and skipped the beauty, for sure. 
One of her favorite sayings was, “I asked to be a fair queen, but instead became a fair queen.”

Queen Najalas raised one eyebrow.  They were dirty blond
, and matched her nondescript hair, which hung long and flat about her shoulders.  Her nose was thin, as were her lips, and her eyes were the color of mud.  Her elaborate crown had no place on her head, so she left it on the side of her throne, preferring no adornment.

Strongiron looked at her and repeated, “I tell you
—it is Evil cloaked in Truth.”

“Go on.”  She listened patiently.

Strongiron continued to pace.  “At first, we all marveled at his skill.  He fought well—too well.  I’ve never seen a man train in the fighting pits and never earn a scratch.  This man never lost, never even got nicked in training.  Now you know me and trust my right arm—I tell you that even I did not parry every blow, and bear a dozen new scars that I gladly exchanged for the Mark of a True Warrior.  I fear no man.  And I tell you, this man—his name is Xaro—he is a threat.  I would not waste your time, my Queen, if it was just a bad man trying to earn his Mark.  The world is full of rogues and mercenaries, some of whom we employ in our own armies as need warrants it.  But he is different.  I saw Lord Kensington
kneel
before this man!”

“Lord Kensington is a weakling who cares only for the money his pits generate.  He would kneel before you or I as well if we dropped enough gold in his palm.  Why should we care about this Xaro?”  The Queen did not really think Lord Kensington would kneel before her, but she was growing a little impatient.  What did her
new general see in this man that was so different?

Strongiron set his massive jaw.  “He emptied the pits.  He turned the entire group of warriors into his personal army. 
Two thousand strong, if there were a dozen.”

“So this man just gathered up
two thousand swords in training?  How, and to what end?”  The Queen focused her eyes intently on the commander of Elvidor’s massive army.

“You have hit upon the question, my Queen.”  Strongiron said.  He grabbed the dirk off the inside of his belt and began twirl
ing it restlessly in his hand as he stopped pacing.  He looked up at his Queen.  “As to the ‘how,’ that I can answer:  he deceived them all.  Once Lord Kensington had marked him as a Warrior, he showed his true colors.  He is a True Mage, who has somehow bewitched his eyes to make them appear normal.  But that is not the half of it.  I know that this man intends to invade Rookwood.”