They watched him head off toward a group of buildings to the south.
"I'll be waiting there when you come out," Mouseglove said. "Don't trust anybody while you're inside."
"Why not?"
"I've gotten the impression here and there that Madwands are looked down upon and resented by those who have served regular apprenticeships. I don't know how strong the feelings might be, but there'll be nine of them in there with you. I wouldn't turn my back on them in any dark corridors."
"You might have a point there. I won't give them any opportunities."
"Shall we stroll back and see whether Ibal is receiving company yet?"
"Good idea."
But Ibal was not yet receiving. Pol left a message that the schedule had been advanced and that he would be leaving that afternoon. Then he returned to his own quarters and stretched out upon his bed, to rest and meditate. He thought over the entire story of his life as he now knew it--the story of the son of a powerful and evil sorcerer, his life preserved in exchange for his heritage as he was exiled to another world, one which knew no magic. He recalled the day of his return, his bitter reception in this world when he was recognized by means of the dragon birthmark upon his right wrist. He remembered his escape, his flight, his discovery of the ruined family seat at Rondoval and all that went with it--his identity, his powers, his control over the savage beasts that slept there. He relived his conflict with his brilliant but warped step-brother, Mark Marakson, in the anomolous center of high technology which that one had resurrected atop Anvil Mountain in the south. He thought of his brief but doomed affair with the village girl Nora, who had never stopped loving Mark. And now...
The Seven. The peculiar manipulation of his life by the seven statuettes, which seemed to have ended that day atop Anvil Mountain, returned to plague his thoughts. He still had no notion as to their true functions, purposes, aims. He felt that he would never enjoy full freedom from apprehension until he came to terms with them. And then the recent unexplained attempt upon his life, and the midnight encounter with the sorcerer who seemed to have answers but did not care to share them...
About the only personal thing that did not pass through his mind was a consideration of his recurrent dreams. Soon he fell asleep and had another.
He took his loaf and his water flask with him to the Arch of the Blue Bird. Mouseglove accompanied him to that point. Larick and six of the others were already present. The westering sun had encountered a cloudbank and the city took on its evening sheen prematurely. The other candidates were uniformly young and nervous; and Pol forgot their names--except for Nupf, with whom he was already acquainted.
The sky continued to darken while they waited for the others, and Pol idly let his vision slip into the second seeing. As he cast his gaze about he noted a blue-white pyramid or cone near the center of town, a thing which had not registered itself upon his normal perceptions. Continuing to watch it for a time, he gained the impression that it was growing. He moved his seeing back to its normal mode and the phenomenon faded.
Making his way past the other candidates, he approached
Larick who stood, obviously impatient now, watching the massing clouds.
"Larick?"
"What do you want?"
"Just curious. Would you know what that big cone of blue light growing up over there is?"
Larick turned and stared for several moments, then, "Oh," he said. "That is for our benefit--and it reminds me again just how late things are getting. Where the devil are the rest of them?" He turned, looking in several directions, and then a certain tension seemed to go out of him. "Here they come," he said, noting three figures on a distant walkway.
He turned back to Pol.
"That cone you see is the force being raised by an entire circle of sorcerers," he explained. "By the time we enter Belken, it will have reached the mountain and filled it, attuning all ten stations within to greater cosmic forces. As you move from one to the other, each a symbolic representation of one of your own lights, the energies will flow through you and you will thereby be shaped, reshaped and attuned yourself."
"I see."
"I am not certain that you do, Dan. The other nine candidates, serving proper apprenticeships, should have developed their lights properly, in the natural order. For them, tonight's experience should only be an intensification with some minor balancing. With you, though--a Madwand may take any path. It could prove painful, distressing, even maddening or fatal. I do not say this to discourage or frighten, merely to prepare you. Try not to allow anything that occurs to cause you undue distress."
Here Larick bit his lip and looked away.
"Where--where are you from?" he asked.
"A very distant land. I'm sure you would never have heard of it."
"What did you do there?"
"Many things. I suppose I was best at being a musician."
"What about magic?"
"It was not known in that place."
Larick shook his head.
"How could that be?"
"It is just the way that things were."
"Then yourself? How did you come to this land? And how did you become a Madwand?"
For a moment, Pol found himself wanting to tell Larick his story. But prudence put a limit to his desire.
"It is a very long tale," he said, looking back over his shoulder, "and the other three are almost here."
Larick glanced in that direction.
"I suppose that you had some interesting experiences once you discovered your abilities?" he said hurriedly.
"Yes, many," Pol replied. "They might fill a book."
"Do any stand out in your memory as particularly significant?"
"No."
"I get the impression that you do not like to talk about these things. All right. There is no requirement that you do so. But if you would tell me, I would like to know one thing."
"What is that?"
"A white magician may on occasion use what is known as black magic, and vice-versa. We know that it is all much the same and that it is intent that makes the difference--and that it is from intent alone that the magician's path might be described. Have you yet chosen one path or the other?"
"I have used what I had to use as I had to use it," Pol said. "I like to think that my intentions were relatively pure, but then most people so justify themselves in their own eyes. I mean well, most of the time."
Larick smiled and shook his head.
"I wish that I had more time to talk with you, for I feel something very peculiar behind your words. Have you ever used magic with great force against another human being?"
"Yes."
"What became of that person?"
"He is dead."
"Was he also a sorcerer?"
"Not exactly."
" 'Not exactly'? How can that be? A person either is or is not."
"This was a very special case."
Larick sighed and then smiled again.
"Then you are a black magician."
"You said it. I didn't."
The three final candidates now approached the group and were introduced. Larick looked them all over and then addressed them:
"We are late getting started. We will head along this way immediately and then proceed until we have departed the city. The trail will commence shortly thereafter and we will begin our climb. I do not know yet how many--if any--rest stops we may make along the way. It depends on our progress and the time." He gestured toward a heap of folded white garments. "Each of you pick up a robe on the way by. We'll don them right before we enter."
He turned and passed under the arch, moving away.