‘That much I’ve heard.’
‘Then you’ll know that spells vary in quality and durability.’
‘Of course. That’s what determines their price.’
‘I’m not talking about their coin value. I’m referring to their strength. For example, there’s no reason why a building couldn’t be a glamour, and last forever. But creating and maintaining it would be incredibly expensive.’ He pointed to a boulder at the side of the track. ‘That rock could be a glamour. It would only take a simple spell. Except nobody would bother. What would be the point?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m guessing that what’s wrong with you is magical in origin.’ Caldason gave no hint that Kutch was right. The youth carried on. ‘If you are under some kind of enchantment, it should be possible to convert its energy from malignant positive to benign negative. In the same way that the rock could become non-rock or the building cease to be and rejoin the energy pool. At least, that’s the theory.’
Caldason looked thoughtful. ‘You put it better than most other magicians I’ve spoken to, Kutch. But why haven’t any of them been able to do it?’
Kutch felt a glow at the compliment. He also took the Qalochian’s words as tacit confirmation that his problem
was
magical. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the spell, if it
is
a spell we’re talking about, is especially powerful. Or the result of some really esoteric branch of the Craft. There are many different disciplines, you know.’
‘Something rare enough to be unknown to most sorcerers, you mean?’
‘It might be. Or it could be a question of balance.’
‘Balance?’
‘Another cardinal law of magic. The Craft has rules just like the mundane world, as we call it. For instance, drop a stone and it falls to the ground. It’s obeying a rule. A glamour looking like a stone might fall upwards, or fly, or mutate into something else. But it would still be following a rule; one dictated by the type of spell governing it.’
‘I don’t see where balance comes in.’
‘My master would have said that a real stone falls because of the balance between our expectation and experience. We expect the stone to fall. Stones have always fallen. So the stone falls. In magic the balance is between reality and unreality. There has to be symmetry for the spell to work. The same way the military and magical balance between Rintarah and Gath Tampoor stops one empire overcoming the other.’
‘I think I almost understand that,’ Caldason said. ‘But how does it apply to me?’
‘Maybe you’re caught too tightly between the real and the unreal. As if you were in a clamp.’
‘Like Bhealfa.’
Kutch smiled. ‘Yes. Or it could be that the balance is out of kilter, blocking rescue.’
‘Neither seems a comforting thought.’ If Caldason resented learning from someone so much younger, he had the grace not to show it. ‘Ironic that it should take a humble fourth level…’
‘Nearly a fifth.’
‘…practically a fifth level apprentice to make it clear to me.’
‘I’ve not told you anything you couldn’t have found out for yourself. You look for a solution in magic, Reeth, but take little interest in its workings.’
‘I see it as a malevolent force.’
‘It’s the foundation of our culture.’
‘Yours, not mine. Not Qalochian. For you, magic is a needful, benevolent thing. To me it’s deceiving and pernicious. It helps maintain injustice.’
To Kutch that seemed close to blasphemous. ‘My master always said that magic has no morality, any more than the weather does. The people who command it decide if it’s light or dark, as suits their purpose. Your argument should be with them.’
Caldason’s severity mellowed a little. ‘I grant there’s wisdom in that. But if there was no magic the temptation wouldn’t exist.’
‘I intend using my skills only for good.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And when you speak on the subject you show more passion and insight than you do about anything else. You shed the half-child and talk more like a man.’
The youth’s cheeks coloured, underlining the point.
‘I can see magic’s your calling,’ Caldason added. ‘But who can say what enticements the future might bring?’
Kutch tried steering back to the issue he thought more important. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not advanced enough to help, I know that, but I’d be better armed to find you somebody who could.’
‘What I suffer from tends to… trouble people.’
‘It wouldn’t vex me. Together, we could -’
‘
No.
I don’t form attachments. I’ve no need of them. Anyway, I have to move on, you know that.’
Kutch was disappointed, but knew the futility of arguing with the man. ‘You’ll not go before my master’s funeral?’
‘I promised you I wouldn’t. But let’s make haste, I want to be out of these parts today.’
They pushed on, exchanging few further words.
Twenty minutes later they reached a wood. This they skirted, their journey taking them by the cultivated fields that served the village. A handful of farmers tended the fledgling crops. Though none of them acknowledged their passing, the duo had the distinct feeling of being watched. Beyond the meadows the hamlet itself came into sight, nestled prettily in the palm of a shallow valley. Even from this distance the indigo power line that slashed through the settlement could be plainly seen.
But the village wasn’t their destination. When the path forked they took the coastal road. A short climb brought them to the cliff’s edge. Beyond its rim and far below lay a vast expanse of calm, shimmering ocean.
On the grassy ribbon of land running to the lip of the cliff stood a funeral pyre and atop it lay the seer Domex, resplendent in the robes of his calling, hands crossed on his chest. Paraphernalia was heaped about his body – a grimoire, journals and scrolls, pouches of herbs and a sceptre were among the personal belongings that would accompany him to the next world.
The whole of the pyre was encased in a glistening, transparent half bubble, rainbow-hued like an oil and water mix.
Kutch’s first act was to remove the protective barrier. He took a small, flat runestone from his belt pouch and approached the pyre. Mouthing a barely audible incantation, he placed the stone against the bubble. The magical shield soundlessly discharged itself into non-being.
He looked around. The cliff-top was deserted, as were the modest hills on either side. ‘No mourners,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘I’d hoped somebody would turn up, given how much he did to help the people hereabouts.’
‘I expect they were too afraid to come because of the circumstances of his death,’ Caldason told him. ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’
Kutch nodded. He dug into his pouch again and brought out a sheet of parchment. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it. ‘There are some words that need to be spoken,’ he explained.
‘Of course.’
Falteringly, and in a soft tone, the apprentice began reading his lament in the old tongue. When he stumbled over a particular phrase, eyes brimming, just a boy after all, Caldason laid a hand on his heaving shoulder. It seemed to strengthen Kutch and he carried on more or less evenly.
What was being said meant nothing to Caldason, though somehow its rhythm and feeling conveyed something of its poignancy to him. His gaze went to the horizon and he contemplated the scurrying clouds and distant sea-birds.
At last the dirge was over. Kutch screwed up the parchment and tossed it onto the pyre.
After what he thought was a decent interval, Caldason asked, ‘How do we apply the flame?’
‘I have to do it,’ Kutch sniffed, ‘and it has to be kindled using the Craft.’ He gave the Qalochian a shy, lopsided grin. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about that bit.’