Master of the Five Magics, 2nd Edition

Master of the Five Magics

2nd edition

Lyndon Hardy

Volume 1 of Magic by the Numbers

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©  2016 by Lyndon Hardy All rights reserved.

Except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, reproduction or use of this book or any portion thereof in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author is prohibited, illegal and punishable by law.

Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

All characters and business entities appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Second edition

Version 7

epub ISBN: 978-0-9971501-3-1

Other books by Lyndon Hardy

Secret of the Sixth Magic, 2nd edition

Riddle of the Seven Realms, 2nd edition

The Archimage’s Fourth Daughter

Visit Lyndon Hardy’s website at: http://www.alodar.com/blog

Map by Ana Maria Velicu http://facebook.com/ancart7

To my wife, Joan

Contents

  The Laws of Magic

  Map

imageName   Prologue

imageName   Part One The Thaumaturge

imageName   Part Two The Alchemist

  Part Three The Magician

  Part Four The Sorcerer

imageName   Part Five The Wizard

  Part Six The Archimage

  Author’s Afterword

  What’s next?

imageName   Glossary

Part One The Thaumaturge

  1  The Iron Fist

  2  Incantation and Counter

  3  Heritage Denied

  4  Adrift

  5  A Promotion

  6  The Besieged Queen

  7  Craftsman at War

  8  Honor for the Victorious

  9  The Master’s Proposal

10  Under the Keep

11  The Lady In Waiting

12  The Castle’s Secret

13  Rails and Handcranks

14  The Hero’s Reward

15  Alodar’s Choice

Part Two The Alchemist

  1  Honeysuckle Street

  2  A New Bargain

  3  The Warmaster’s Trial

  4  Luck of the Potionmakers

  5  Student and Teacher

  6  New Terms and Conditions

  7  Nighttime Visitors

  8  The Random Factors Align

  9  Manners of the Court

10  Return to the Shop

11  Moltenrock Treasure

12  Reunion

Part Three The Magician

  1  The Essence of Magic

  2  The Palace of the Cycloid Guild

  3  Another Performance

  4  Breach of Bargain

  5  Hall of the Initiates

  6  Eavesdropping

  7  On the Trail

  8  A Drink in the Tavern

  9  Puppetry

10  The Unfettered Dragon

11  The Key to Entry

12  The Library

13  Discovery

14  The Improvised Ritual

Part Four The Sorcerer

  1  The Warmaster’s Trust

  2  Illusions of the Court

  3  Life of the Sorcerer

  4  Attack at Sea

  5  A Captain of Marines

  6  Temptation

  7  First Enchantments

  8  The Sorcerer’s Revenge

  9  Suitor for the Hand of the Queen

10  A Reach Too Far

11  Challenge of the Nomads

12  Alodar Enchanted

Part Five The Wizard

  1  A Choice of Directions

  2  Along the Trail

  3  Vendora and the Chieftain

  4  Alodar Alone

  5  At the Base of Demontooth

  6  Sleep No More

  7  Wizard and Demon

  8  Possession by Design

  9  The Townfolk of Bardina

10  A Convergence of Forces

11  The Second Quest

Part Six The Archimage

  1  Before the Dawn

  2  Leverage of the Arts

  3  The Pendulum of War

  4  Journey into an Uncharted Realm

  5  A Prince of Demons

  6  Strength and Weakness

  7  The Final Battle

  8  Order Restored

  9  Alodar’s Parade

Glossary

  1  Abramelin

  2  Adler

  3  alchemy

  4  alembic

  5  almanac

  6  aludel

  7  alure

  8  amulet

  9  Arcadia

10  archimage

11  ashlar

12  athanor

13  Avagadro

14  bailey

15  ballista

16  bartizan

17  beat frequency

18  belfry

19  cantrip

20  charm

21  corbel

22  crenellation

23  crucible

24  cucurbit

25  curtain wall

26  cycloid

27  Dandelin

28  demon

29  devil

30  djinn

31  elixir

32  enarmes

33  enchantment

34  ensorcellment

35  fetish

36  glamour

37  grimoire

38  imp

39  Iron Fist

40  keep

41  machicolation

42  magic

43  magic square

44  mangonel

45  Maxwell

46  mêlée

47  merlon

48  philter

49  Procolon

50  robe

51  rod

52  sorcery

53  Southern Kingdoms

54  spell

55  sprite

56  stairs

57  subordinate

58  talisman

59  Tesla

60  thaumaturgy

61  trebuchet

62  wizardry

63  wyvern

The Laws of Magic

Thaumaturgy

The Principle of Sympathy — like produces like

The Principle of Contagion — once together, always together

Alchemy

The Doctrine of Signatures — the attributes without mirror the powers within

Magic

The Maxim of Persistence — perfection is eternal

Sorcery

The Rule of Three — thrice spoken, once fulfilled

Wizardry

The Law of Ubiquity — flame permeates all

The Law of Dichotomy — dominance or submission

Prologue

SHAKEN, SHAKEN so hard the morning meal rumbled with the smell of nausea. A loud din. Far too loud. Hands over ears. Eyes squinted closed. Little help.

Without warning, wrenched high in the air. Sailing. Spinning. Head over heels, a long falling arc. Unexpected, a splash of ice-cold water. Involuntary gasp. Choking. No air. Panic. Sinking. Darkness.

Part One

The Thaumaturge

The Iron Fist

ALODAR CLOSED his mind to the pounding of the stones against the lower walls of the keep. He ignored the growl of his stomach and tried to concentrate on the spinning disk. Forty-one days of siege, he thought, and the last five on half rations. Half rations for himself and the other craftsmen, while the men at arms still received full shares.

It wasn’t just the hunger of course. There had been whole winters that were worse. It was the leaflets hurled yesterday over the walls. If they did not surrender, then as the blood red script had proclaimed, none would walk out alive.

That could not be true, could it? Surely somehow, from somewhere, maybe even from the north, help would arrive.

Faster Morwin, faster until it buzzes like an angry hive, Alodar refocused his attention and listened as the apprentice pushed against the two-handed crank. The massive flywheel slowly increased its speed. After several minutes, a faint tone from the serrated edge mixed with the crash of rock and cry of pain below. Morwin stepped back from the rough wooden frame that supported the rotating wheel and sat panting on the smooth and hard alure that ran along the curtain wall.

Make the rest of your preparations, journeyman, the sergeant in mail next to Alodar barked. You two may rest if this air gondola proves its worth, but not before.

Alodar tried to disregard the harsh tone. He squinted up at the sun midway between the east and overhead. They will have to look directly into the glare to see us, he said. Your men can begin.

It was worth a try. Better than sitting on ones hands like so many of the others and wondering if the next day would bring a breach of one of the walls. A breach? No, of course not. The Iron Fist had never weakened. It held the west firmly secure, repulsed all invaders for hundreds and hundreds of years. Bandor’s siege could end no differently.

The sergeant shrugged and turned to the group of men crouching within the archway into the keep. To your positions then, he ordered.

The men rose. Two edged out to the crenellations that framed a deep cut in the hills to the west. The third and the smallest of the three climbed into a waist-high wicker basket that stood by the spinning disk. He looked about, nervously.

Alodar stepped to the woven basket, withdrew a chisel from one of the pockets in his cape, and hacked a splinter from it. His cowl was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a narrow face topped with fine yellow-brown hair. His nose and mouth were drawn with an economy of line, plain and straight, neither handsome nor uncomely.

Only his eyes removed him from the nondescript; they were bright and alive, darting like dragonflies, missing no detail of what happened around him. His face held the smoothness of youth, now marked only by two short furrows above his nose as he concentrated on the task before him.

He stepped back from the box, holding the scrap of wood at waist level, glanced again at the position of the sun, and began the incantation. The words came quickly, but with the sharpness necessary for success. His tone was even and the rhythm smooth. The two words of power sounded with a lack of distinction. They fitted unnoticed into the stream of improvised nonsense that surrounded them. In a moment he was done.

Alodar nodded a warning to the man-at-arms facing him and slowly began to raise the splinter upward. Simultaneously the basket lurched and cleared the stonework of the platform. The splinter rose with almost imperceptible slowness, but the gondola with its passenger climbed at a rapid rate.

The sergeant returned to Alodar’s side. Can you go faster? They will spy him before he lines with the sun.

No, Alodar said. He kept his attention on the small splinter he held in his hand. "This sliver is about one part in a thousand of the basket as a whole. For each palm that I raise it, your man climbs another quarter rod. If I moved faster, we might use too much of the wheel’s spin in fighting the wind we would make in our haste. I do not yet wear the cape of a master, but I understand enough thaumaturgy to do what is proper for this task."

The sergeant grunted, and Alodar continued to raise the splinter upward. Several minutes passed, and the basket climbed to become a speck in the sky.

High enough, one of the men shouted while sighting through his sextant. Alodar glanced at the wheel. The crank now turned lazy circles about the axle with no hint of the blurring speed it had possessed moments ago. The sergeant followed his gaze and looked back at Alodar.

If there is little wind, Alodar explained, there is enough spin left to keep the gondola properly positioned for some time. It takes far less energy to resist a sideward thrust than to fight the earth for height.

While he spoke, Alodar began to step in the direction of the hills. The platform far above moved in proportion. The two observers darted their instruments about, sighting first the sun, then the basket, and finally the crags in the middle distance. Alodar took two short steps and part of another before one of the observers called him to stop.

A little more forward now. Hold it an instant. To the left a knuckle’s worth. Now, freeze it in place, he directed as Alodar shifted the splinter back and forth.

Morwin jumped from his inactivity beside the slowly turning disk and ran through the archway to the chamber beyond. He fetched a tripod with a small clamp attached and returned to where Alodar stood with the splinter still at arm’s length. After a few moments of adjustment, the clamp was in position to secure the scrap of wood firmly, and Alodar relinquished his grip. He moved to the edge of the wall to see the results of his efforts.

He whisked his own scope from his cape and scanned for the basket. The gray hills in the west stretched from horizon to horizon stark and unbroken except for the one deep and wide notch like a missing tooth that faced him about a mile distant. The walls on the right rose tall and sheer, monoliths, smooth and inaccessible; the slopes on the left were as steep but cracked with fissures, chimneys, and ledges. There Alodar sighted the basket. It now stood fixed in the sky, suspended directly in front of one of the sheer cliffs that was the target. As he watched, the man Alodar had transported there clambered out of the basket and onto the slope.

Between the two cliff faces, a train of wagons and carts, piled with baggage and arrayed with no pattern hid the floor of the pass from view. Alodar could make out a motley collection of tents rising in its midst, and from the pinnacles of each flew a blue and silver banner.

Much closer stood an orderly array of artillery, drawn out in a precise circle that Alodar knew completely surrounded their stronghold. With drilled exactness, their crews would load and fire in unison. The great bows of the ballistas hurled their rock hard and flat against the battered outer walls, while the mangonels sent theirs high and lofted to rain down on the foundation of the keep and the surrounding courtyard. Lighter but more accurate trebuchets blasted at the spots already weakened by the heavier siegecraft. Like gnats swarming around a decaying carcass, the fusillade converged on the castle from all directions.

Nearer still, in more irregular array, many clusters of armed men crouched behind full-length shields shining angrily in the morning sun. The groups farther back used their protection, casually bobbing heads and torsos to see the battle’s progress. Those closer, within range of the defender’s long bows huddled in tight balls, exposing no arm or leg as a target.

With each volley of the rock throwers the answering fire from the machicolations and loopholes in the castle’s walls would cease and the men in the field would creep a little closer, their scaling ladders and belfries dragging behind them. Long before the clusters reached the outer wall, they would converge into a continuous ring of attackers.

Luck be with him soon, the sergeant muttered as he watched with his own glass. If he does not find a ledge wide enough for the catapult within the hour we will not strike a blow for ourselves this day. And tomorrow, who knows? Tomorrow may be too late for any scheme, sound or foolish to prevent the fall.

But the sagas say that the Iron Fist has withstood each and every attack, Alodar protested. The walls are too thick. The towers too well placed.

It takes more than stone and iron to defend this mound, the sergeant said. "Muscle pulls tight the bowstrings and swings the broadswords, and at last muster we numbered fewer than two hundred able fighting men. Two hundred for over half a mile of wall.

He shook his head, his lips pulled into a tight line of disapproval. "A mere two hundred because Vendora wanted to flaunt her might along the southern border. Almost every garrison in Procolon including this one stripped to nothing so that those petty border kingdoms think to stop their raids and return to bickering among themselves. Hah, I wonder if those raids seem so important to her now that there is a real threat from the west. Vendora, Queen of all of Procolon — she is but a shadow of her departed father.

Fully provisioned we could withstand anything that Bandor could throw at us, the sergeant continued, but the siege has been too long without relief. Provisions are finally running out. Soon even the men-at-arms will be too feeble to defend.

And then?

The sergeant did not answer at once. It depends, he said at last. "For men such as myself, ones that do survive the final onslaught, there will be an offer to join the forces of the victors. Each able sword is a welcome addition. No questions will be asked.

Then all of the women, regardless of station will suffer of course. Soon enough they will wish that they had been immediately dispatched.

The sergeant paused for a moment and then continued more slowly. For the rest, for the rest such as yourself, yes, many will die in the bloodlust of victory. Most that do not will survive only as cripples, the butt of cruel revelries — limbs sundered in contests of strength, ears deafened with glowing embers, eyes gouged out by those with the longest nails.

Alodar’s shoulders slumped. He tried to suppress the feeling of panic that has been growing since the beginning of his captivity. The words were not ones he wanted to hear. Once was enough. It had been long ago, but the fall of his parent’s stronghold still haunted his memories. No, surely it was not meant to be that he would have to suffer such a fate a second time.

And if this time, he did not escape, if this time was to be the end, then what had been the purpose of it all? What was the point of all his wanderings, the goat herding, the tavern keeping, and the toils of the past? What was served by all those dirty and laborious tasks — wriggling down into rodent holes to snatch a few hairs while keeping his fingers intact, carrying bucket after bucket up rickety stairs until the landing would hold no more, memorizing catalogs of nonsense syllables, reciting them over and over again until he could do so without error?

Yes, for the last few years, for the first time in his life at least the hours of the day were filled. Master Periac had kept him busy enough that he did not really have time to ponder the emptiness, the why of what had gone on before.

Master Periac, Alodar thought. What had been his words that got them here? ‘Be in the same place at the same time as the queen and we are sure to be noticed. How hard can it be?’

Incantation and Counter

THE SERGEANT continued as if Alodar were not even there. The queen’s immediate followers are more loyal than most, I give you that, but eventually they too will all be dead or accepting of their new masters. As it is, only the great height and thickness of these walls have saved her crown and pretty neck this long.

Alodar scanned along the curtain wall to the next tower. Like the other three, its bartizan completely ringed its circumference. Between each of its corbels gaped a large machicolation for dropping stones and boiling oil on assailants who ventured too close. The alure running the length of the curtain wall was wide and firm, made of iron rather than wood that would rot. The tower across the bailey and the last in the other direction were the same. Together the four defended the keep in their center like proud sentinels who never slept. The doors to the towers’ interiors were also of iron, their hinges embroidered with symbols that no one living understood.

The castle was not large. Others to the south were much more massive in bulk and area. But the ashlar of which it was built were huge, not rubblestone held together by mortar. Each the height of a man’s waist and width and depth the same, they fit together like a mosaic of inlaid jewels, the gaps between thinner than a page of the finest parchment. It was hard to imagine how they could have been planed so fine and even more how they were moved and lifted into place.

But her miscomputation was no worse than my master’s, Alodar returned his attention to the sergeant. How could anyone but a sorcerer surmise that one of her most faithful vassals would suddenly lose his reason and plunge through that gap in the west just when she was here? The gates clanged shut on noble and craftsman alike who happened to be here, and none claim to have foreseen it.

Yes, it is strange, the sergeant said. The ferocity of the attack, the way Bandor drives his men on with no regard for their exhaustion. I have heard it whispered about more than once at night that he has lost not only his reason but also his will. It is as if he has become possessed.

Alodar started to answer, but the man on the cliff face caught his attention. Look, he said. He has found a spot and is signaling for us to proceed.

Sweetbalm, luck is with us today, the sergeant exclaimed. Start bringing up the beams and lashings.

Alodar stepped to the stand and released the splinter from the clamp. Holding it at arm’s length, he dropped his hand a fraction of an inch. The basket sank correspondingly, and the wheel again started to spin. He retraced his steps, and the box shot across the sky to hover directly overhead. Finally, as he lowered the splinter, it settled gently onto the floor of the bartizan. Again the enormous crank was a blur as the wheel spun, but it turned not nearly as fast as when Morwin had first propelled it.

Alodar recited another incantation, virtually indistinguishable from the first. When he was done, he flung the splinter high into the air with a dramatic flourish while the basket remained unperturbed on the ground.

The men-at-arms wasted no time in loading two large notched beams into it. Morwin again cranked up the wheel, and Alodar removed a fresh splinter and spoke the incantation. Moving with more haste than before, he brought the splinter to the clamp. The basket with its burden hurled from the castle to the cliffs. The sergeant commanded some small corrections until the basket hovered directly below the ledge that the rider had found. Morwin moved the clamp and secured the splinter in the new position.

After the gondola was unloaded, the entire process was repeated many times with each worker intent upon his tasks. Alodar broke the binding upon each return. Morwin rewound the crank, and the men-at-arms packed a new load of beams, brands, or lashings. Another incantation and another bundle would be delivered to the ledge in the distance. Several hours later, the men-at-arms were the passengers for the final two trips, and then the job was done.

Weary from the concentration, Alodar gazed to the west. How long will it take for them to assemble it? he asked.

At least six hours. They must take care to tune it to exactly the same tension as it had here. Every shot will count, and they can waste none on range calibration, the sergeant’s voice now showed some excitement. With a scant more luck, Bandor’s entire siege train will be smoldering ashes by nightfall.

They fell silent and waited, listening to time being marked off by the rhythmic crash of rock and swish of arrows below.

Near dusk, Alodar sprang up from his vigil. Look they are signaling that they are ready.

As he spoke, a flaming brand arched upwards from the ledge and down into the valley, disappearing into the silhouettes of the tents formed by the settling sunlight. A minute passed with no discernable change in the campsite, but then, as the second shot was launched, the central tent became alive with fire.

A hit, a direct hit on Bandor’s tent, the sergeant shouted. Look at it take hold of that dry canvas! It will spread to the others in no time at all. And look, here comes the next missile right on the mark as well.

A second tent burst into flame and then a third. Even from the distance, Alodar could hear an alarm gong sound and the rising hubbub of confusion.

They are shifting targets now, good men, the sergeant banged his fist down on the wall. Let us see now if those wagons can stand a little heat,

The incendiaries began falling more rapidly as the crew on the ledge gained confidence in their engine, raking their fusillade back and forth across the pass, starting fires at random in the densely packed train. Some of the blazes were snuffed out quickly. But for each one extinguished, two more sprouted elsewhere in the camp. In some places, the isolated flickers of light had converged into large walls of leaping flame, brilliant even against the setting sun.

Finally, trumpets sounded from somewhere within the widening conflagration, and the siegecraft directly between the camp and the castle ceased their firing. Throwing arms and cranks were battened down, rocks heaved back upon supply wagons, and the engines began to withdraw. A mob of men burst from the flame and confusion like seeds from a flattened melon and ran to meet them, alternately waving greater haste and pointing up into the cliffs from which came the rain of fire. The zing of arrows from the castle walls increased in intensity as the defenders, unchallenged for the first time in days, vented their frustrations. The assault from the west halted.

The range is too great for them to be accurate enough, the sergeant crowed. They will never dislodge us from there. A few more hits will put the fire completely out of control. Let us see what kind of siege Bandor can conduct with no supplies and only this brush land on which to forage.

The mangonels were turned around into a straight line, halfway between their previous positions and the enemy camp. A hint of hope soothed the rumble in Alodar’s stomach as the first volley fell short of the ledge, crashing into the face of the cliff far below. His eyes swept back and forth across the panorama, up to the ledge, into the burning camp, and back to the engines and the growing mass of men surrounding them.

Wait a moment! he said suddenly. I see the logo of similarity on that cape down there, the two wavy lines, one above another. See, the tall one, next to the second mangonel. He is a master, just as is Periac.

The master thaumaturge directed the three running up behind him to dump the sacks they carried onto the ground. A pile of small stones discharged from each. Two more men lugged into position a cauldron and began filling it from a wagonload of jars that halted alongside.

Lodestones, Alodar cried with sudden recognition. Tracers! By the laws, let us hope there is no marksman good enough for this task among them.

A group of archers formed a single file next to the master. As each bowman filed past, the thaumaturge chipped a fragment from one of the small rocks and gave it and its parent to him. After receiving his charge, the archer bound his smaller piece to the shaft of an arrow and let fly at the catapult in the cliff above.

The missiles hurled upwards. Most were wide of the mark, splintering into shards against the hard rock and falling back onto the floor of the pass. Several minutes passed, as volley after volley did no harm. But finally, one shot struck the frame of the catapult and held fast. The triumphant archer returned the larger portion of his lodestone to the thaumaturge.

Quickly! Alodar shouted. Signal them to remove the shaft before the incantation can be completed.

A single arrow does no harm, journeyman. Let them use their time to continue firing while it is still light, the sergeant said. You remain with your craft, and I will manage mine.

Get it removed or they will hurl nothing more today. See, they are putting part of another lodestone into the acid already.

As Alodar spoke, the master cracked one of the remaining untouched rocks in two and dropped one half into the cauldron steaming atop a hastily constructed fire. The brew frothed like storm-driven surf for several minutes and then three heavy-set men slowly tipped the contents of the crucible onto a pile of artillery stones stacked at their feet, spilling the dissolved essence of the lodestone onto the bigger rocks. The crews from the siegecraft each retrieved one wet projectile and loaded and cocked their engines.

The thaumaturge held his hands high overhead. In one was the stone from which the chip now affixed to the catapult had been cleft. In the other was the remains of the one consumed in the acid bath.

Alodar held his breath, knowing what was to come next.

A mailed figure astride a horse surveyed the ready engines and the waiting craftsman. He signaled the crews to fire and the projectiles sprang from their beds in unison. An instant later, with the missiles already rising high into the air, the thaumaturge brought the two stones swiftly together.

The flying rocks wrenched out of their natural trajectories, and, like sunlight focused by a glass, they converged on the ledge. The catapult exploded in a mass of ragged timber, splinters, and dust. The bombarding rock shattered into an avalanche of gravel against the cliff face and cascaded into the plain. The hills rocked with the violence of the impact, and the shock threw Alodar to his knees. Where once there had been form was now a shattered ruin of timber and flesh.

The scene was quiet, attacker and defender alike shaken by the force of the blow. Only a few wisps of smoke rose from the enemy camp from where the fire had raged moments before. Of course, the perfect energy source, he thought.

As the last rays of the sun faded, the detachment of artillery returned to the besieging circle and both sides made ready for the cessation of action for the day. Up on the high keep as elsewhere the stunned silence continued for several minutes more.

The sergeant surveyed the field one final time and then headed for the archway. In seven days at the most, he muttered. In seven days if not sooner, it will all be over but the bloodletting.

But Alodar did not hear. He did not want to hear. He forced his thoughts away from the future that the sergeant painted. It had happened to him once, and that had been enough. As he trudged back to the courtyard and half bowl of gruel, his thoughts were years away.

Heritage Denied

ALODAR’S ARMS trembled as he tried to hold the sword erect in front of his chest. It was heavy, too heavy to do anything other than present it point upward. He stood uncomfortably in the courtyard and wished that he were anywhere else but this.

Pay attention, his father growled. You must be prepared to parry. The attack can come from any direction.

Alodar flinched, knowing what would happen next. His father’s own sword moved in a blur, easily tipping Alodar’s blade aside, and then lightly swiping his arm. The small cut stung, but he grimaced and said nothing. He had already learned all too well what happened if he were to cry and ask for his mother or the nursemaid.

Alodun, he is barely five years old, his mother protested from a few yards away. Let him be. There is time enough for training when he grows older.

No, not nearly time enough, Alodun shot back. Each day the king listens less and less to reason. His advisors turn his thoughts away from what is right. Soon enough, things will boil over like an alchemist’s untended cauldron. The only way that I and the others who side with me can preserve our lands is to have sufficient strength in arms to make royal confiscation not worth the cost.

He looked at his wife. Where is the dagger that I have given you, Megan? All of us must be prepared to fight.

I have it within the folds of my gown, Alodun, although I am loathe to ever try to use it.

Alodar was glad for the distraction. He lowered his sword tip to the ground. With one hand, he tried to flick away the fly that buzzed about his fresh wound. The sun was high overhead, almost noon, the worst time of the day to stand in front of his father and endure these sessions.

They started calmly enough. His father’s voice droned on for the first few minutes explaining what the day’s lesson would be about, most of which he could barely understand. But with each misstep that followed, the patience of his instructor grew thinner and thinner, and finally, after receiving two or three cuts to emphasize what was being done wrong, his father would storm off into the main hall muttering to himself.

Alodar gazed longingly at the hall. It was a simple one-story structure, not nearly grand enough to be called a keep, but as far as Alodar could tell, it served well enough to keep out thieves and bandits after nightfall. The walls were thick with loopholes for archers around the entire perimeter. Inside the room that was used for dining was a fountain fed by a spring that brought cool comfort in the summer’s heat.

Suddenly, the gate in the outer wall exploded into splinters. A dozen heavily armed men rushed into the courtyard, their swords drawn.

Quickly, into the hall, Alodun waved Megan to retrieve Alodar. In a rush, the three stumbled inside and barred the door. All hands, arm and prepare, Alodun shouted. The king acts even more rapidly than even I assumed.

Megan set Alodar to the ground and began fumbling in her skirts for her dagger. The servants and guardsmen banged against one another, putting on what armor they had and unsheathing their arms. The three archers took up positions in the slits nearest the hall door and began firing at the targets outside, but to little avail. The attackers were already too close.

Voices rose in panic, and Alodar put his hands over his ears to drown out the noise. He tried to grab hold of his mother’s leg, but she thrust him aside, flexing her fingers around the dagger’s hilt and concentrating instead on the loud repeated booming on the hall’s main door.

In barely a minute, it gave way, and the armed men stormed into the anteroom. Drop your weapons and line up against the far wall, the leader commanded. The defenders all looked at Alodun and followed his lead in lowering their swords. You are too many, he said grimly, I suppose I should be flattered. He drew Megan to his side.

Alodar felt a tug on his arm. The servant standing next to his mother pushed him down the line of defenders. Like a coin with a curse on it, he was passed from one to the next until he reached the end near the door to the next chamber where the warm arms of his nursemaid, Nana, scooped him to her.

The leader of the attackers advanced to stand directly in front of Alodun. He unfurled a scroll from his belt and began to read. Whereas, Alodun, Lord of Middleshire, had shown egregious disrespect to his king and sovereign. He has steadfastly refused repeatedly to comply with royal command. He has committed acts of sinister treason against the crown. I, King Victor of Procolon, therefore, strip said Alodun of all title. He and all his heirs are lords no more. All of his lands are forfeited. All income shall henceforth flow into the coffers of the king.

The leader paused for a moment waiting to see what Alodun’s outburst would be but Alodar’s father did not speak in protest. There is one more line at the bottom, he said at last with a cruel smile. Slay them all!

A mad shuffle erupted in the room. The men lined against the wall reached down to retrieve their dropped weapons. The attackers rushed forth to engage them. Megan found her dagger at last and raised it awkwardly towards the leader’s face. The leader’s smile broadened. He slashed downward, knocking the uplifted knife aside. There was nothing more to stop rush of sharp blade. Alodar felt Nana’s grip tighten about him. She whirled and bolted from the anteroom, running as fast as she could deeper into the hall. Held close to the woman’s chest Alodar could not see what more was happening behind him. But he had seen enough.

He closed his eyes and burrowed as best he could into the nursemaid’s bosom. At first, he thought he heard pursuing footfalls, but as Nana kept running, he was not so sure. The entire experience became a blur, something to be forgotten. After some time, how long Alodar could not tell, things came back into focus. He felt Nana stop and set him to the ground. Like a bewildered puppy, he peered into her eyes for an explanation for what had happened.

They gave up trying to follow us through the cornstalks, Lord Alodar, but the danger is not over. If the king wanted your father dead, then so would he want you also. We must hide and make no outward indications of your heritage to anyone. My brother is a goatherd in the low hills. We will live with him and let the years pass. Perhaps sometime in the future, when the king too is gone, when it no longer matters, you might be able to reclaim what is rightfully yours. In the meantime, though the sheets be much coarser than silk and the tunics of simple leather, you will still be lord of two, Alodar, me and my brother.

Adrift

ALODAR SURVEYED the serving room of the tavern. It was not yet evening. Like the glow from a wizard’s exotic flame the rays of the hot sun poured through the windows on the west. Only a single patron sat at one of the tables, an older man encumbered with a brown cape in the heat of the day.

He glanced down at the scatter of wine bottles, serving plates and utensils still at his feet and paused in his task. After this is done, it will be like the final year with the goats, the last month at the smithy’s shop, or the three days nailing bills to posts and walls around the village, he thought. Nothing more to learn or to try with any of them. The emptiness would return.

Fifteen years, Alodar mused. For fifteen years before the brother passed and then finally Nana herself, it had not been so bad. He had endured. But even those times were incomplete. He had wanted to love her as a mother, but the nursemaid would have nothing of it. You are a lord, Alodar, she said on more than one occasion. A common woman such as I cannot be on such close terms with one of your station. I do your bidding with pleasure and rejoice as I see you round into manhood. But your deeper feelings must be reserved for your peers.

Alodar returned to shelving the clutter. How could this place have been run without some order to where things were to be found? The wines all should be in one place, down low where it was cooler, the serving plates stacked at chest level for easy retrieval.

Is there anything else that you could possibly change, Alodar? a voice from behind him said. Alodar turned and smiled. The serving wench was comely, blond and full figured. Her smile responded to his.

Alodar hesitated a moment and then said, Sophia, after we close, perhaps this evening I could escort you to the lakeside where the breeze is cool.

Sophia’s smile faded. No, not tonight, Alodar. Someone else will …

Then perhaps another time.

She lowered her head. No, no. I think there will be no other times.

Why not? In the months that I have been here, have I not treated you with courtesy and respect?

Yes, far more so than Mendac with his stiffening joints that made him stop and ask you to replace him.

Then certainly I am not so ugly that you could not bear being seen with me.

Sophia did not immediately reply. She looked down for a moment. Finally, she said softly, Oh, Alodar, why did you sell all of the goats?

Alodar blinked with surprise. I had learned all there was to raising them. Indeed, the number of kids in the spring of the last year was the greatest any can remember.

Yes, you were the talk of the entire village, Sophia said. How you methodically, one by one, drank wine here in the tavern with each of the other goatherds and listened to them tell all they knew about their craft.

And then by weaving all of it together — when to go to higher pasture, what extra to feed the billys to make them the most ardent, where to shelter the pregnant nannys, and the rest — last year was the best ever, Alodar said.

Then you gave all of that up to come into the village to try your hand at errand running and smithing. And after that, hosting a tavern for some absent owner. You are a hungry hummingbird, Alodar, flitting from one blossom to then next without drinking deeply of any single one.

Perhaps so, Alodar shrugged, but between the two of us what does all of that matter?

Glidermil, the one you sold the farm to, did you tell him all that you had learned about goat herding?

Yes, I did that, Alodar said, I do not begrudge him succeeding as well.

Glidermil is the one escorting me tonight. Sophia paused. I think he will ask me to be his wife. She paused again. And I think I will say yes.

Glidermil!

Yes, he does not have your quick wit, Alodar, and I suspect that in the long run he will show me less courtesy than you as well. But I will not have to wonder that he will tire of whatever he is doing and move on to the next new endeavor. The lifelong wife of a goatherd is a far better one than that of a serving wench. Life is not about learning, Alodar, it is about doing.

Alodar did not immediately respond. In the silence, another voice was heard.

The older man in the cape rose from where he sat. Alodar is it, is that what you are called? I am Periac, a master thaumaturge. I have a proposition for you.

A Promotion

I CAN still hear the change in stress, Periac tugged at his well-groomed goatee. He flicked a piece of lint from his cape that hung with not a single crease. Age had cut great furrows in his face, and few wisps of black hair were atop his crown, although none were the slightest out of place. There was a wind that billowed the dust outside of the small hut, but Periac looked as if he had just stepped from an elegant hall.

Of course, Alodar grumbled from where he sat at the master’s feet. You know what to listen for.

For all the others you have learned to speak so far, Alodar, I detect no difference between the words of power and the nonsense around them. Keep practicing this one until you do as well with it.

And then? Alodar asked.

And then you start studying the next, Periac replied. You learn quickly, but there are years of study before one can don the cape of the master.

You have taught that there are only two basic principles, Alodar scowled. Once those are understood, it seems to me that all the rest is rote repetition. I must confess, Master, that I am growing quite tired of it.

He waited a moment and then continued respectfully. Perhaps it is time that you find a new apprentice.

I have observed your increased restlessness, Alodar, and I agree. It is time for a change. In fact I have already found another.

Alodar blinked in surprise. So just like a spell for quick blooming, it is done. It has already been decided?

Not quite. First, we will observe the formality. Stand up straight and give me your full attention.

Alodar rose to his feet.

So you claim that, with just barely two years of apprenticeship and a few dozen spells, you understand all there is to know about the principles of thaumaturgy, Periac said.

I think I do, Alodar answered.

Prove it! Periac demanded.

Alodar had never heard Periac use such a tone before. This conversation with the master was somehow different. He cleared his throat and began to recite.

"Thaumaturgy is the most clear and straightforward of the five arts in its execution. Unlike alchemy, magic and the rest, it requires no great erudition or dedication to effect its result. Here in Procolon we regard thaumaturgy as we do masonry or smithing. With it, we forge large works of stone or metal from models in our shops. We increase the yields of whole fields while carefully tending only a part. We purge the body of plague and mend it whole again.

But the true potency of thaumaturgy is limited only by the cleverness of the man who understands its basic concepts — the principles of sympathy and contagion. It is through such cunning that new spells are constructed and proven worthy.

Even the youngest of apprentices knows the names of the principles, Alodar, Periac growled. Get on with it. What do they mean?

Two principles, Alodar continued, ‘sympathy’ and ‘contagion’. The first simply stated is ‘like produces like’. By manipulating objects in a simulation, we can cause corresponding effects to occur on a different scale in time and distance. A wart withers from a finger just as does a cloth rubbed against it and then buried in a damp hole. The logos on a master’s cape denotes these truths."

So then, challenged Periac again, why do we not rule the world? Why can we not build models of castles and then smash them to dust with our fists, thereby causing their large counterparts to crumble as well?

Because there is another important ingredient of any incantation, and that is a supply of energy, a force or power to do the work, Alodar replied. "It does no good to smash a model unless one controls the forces necessary to level the larger one as well. Without the heat of a roaring fire, the spin of a flywheel or perhaps the cascade of a waterfall to draw upon, nothing can be done. Practitioners of our craft seek ways to channel