to be aware that his friend was being sized up by one or another of the castle girls. Pug was still young enough to think the whole thing silly, but old enough to be fascinated by it.
Pug chewed an improbable mouthful and looked around. People from the town and keep passed, offering congratulations on the boys’ apprenticeship and wishing them a good new year. Pug felt a deep sense of rightness about everything. He was an apprentice, even if Kulgan seemed completely unsure of what to do with him. He was well fed, and on his way to being slightly intoxicated – which contributed to his sense of well-being. And, most important, he was among friends. There can’t be much more to life than this, he thought.
• CHAPTER THREE •
Keep
PUG SAT SULKING ON HIS SLEEPING PALLET.
Fantus the firedrake pushed his head forward, inviting Pug to scratch him behind his eye ridges. Seeing that he would get little satisfaction, the drake made his way to the tower window and with a snort of displeasure, complete with a small puff of black smoke, launched himself in flight. Pug didn’t notice the creature’s leaving, so engrossed was he in his own world of troubles. Since he had taken on the position of Kulgan’s apprentice fourteen months ago, everything he had done seemed to go wrong.
He lay back on the pallet, covering his eyes with a forearm; he could smell the salty sea breeze that blew in through his window and feel the sun’s warmth across his legs. Everything in his life had taken a turn for the better since his apprenticeship, except the single most important thing, his studies.
For months Kulgan had been laboring to teach him the fundamentals of the magician’s arts, but there was always something that caused his efforts to go awry. In the theories of spell casting, Pug was a quick study, grasping the basic concepts well. But each time he attempted to use his knowledge, something seemed to hold him back. It was as if a part of his mind refused to follow through with the magic, as if a block existed that prevented him from passing a certain point in the spell. Each time he tried he could feel himself approach that point, and like a rider of a balky horse, he couldn’t seem to force himself over the hurdle.
Kulgan dismissed his worries, saying that it would all sort itself out in time. The stout magician was always sympathetic with the boy, never reprimanding him for not doing better, for he knew the boy was trying.
Pug was brought out of his reverie by someone’s opening the door. Looking up, he saw Father Tully entering, a large book under his arm. The cleric’s white robes rustled as he closed the door. Pug sat up.
‘Pug, it’s time for your writing lesson—’ He stopped himself when he saw the downcast expression of the boy. ‘What’s the matter, lad?’
Pug had come to like the old priest of Astalon. He was a strict master, but a fair one. He would praise the boy for his success as often as scold him for his failures. He had a quick mind and a sense of humor and was open to questions, no matter how stupid Pug thought they might sound.
Coming to his feet, Pug sighed. ‘I don’t know, Father. It’s just that things don’t seem to be going right. Everything I try I manage to make a mess of.’
‘Pug, it can’t be all black,’ the priest said, placing a hand on Pug’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you, and we can practice writing some other time.’ He moved to a stool by the window and adjusted his robes around him as he sat. As he placed the large book at his feet, he studied the boy.
Pug had grown over the last year, but was still small. His shoulders were beginning to broaden a bit, and his face was showing signs of the man he would someday be. He was a dejected figure in his homespun tunic and trousers, his mood as grey as the material he wore. His room, which was usually neat and orderly, was a mess of scrolls and books, reflecting the disorder in his mind.
Pug sat quietly for a moment, but when the priest said nothing, started to speak. ‘Do you remember my telling you that Kulgan was trying to teach me the three basic cantrips to calm the mind, so that the working of spells could be practiced without stress? Well, the truth is that I mastered those exercises months ago. I can bring my mind to a state of calm in moments now, with little effort. But that is as far as it goes. After that, everything seems to fall apart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The next thing to learn is to discipline the mind to do things that are not natural for it, such as think on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, or not to think of something, which is quite hard once you’ve been told what it is. I can do those things most of the time, but now and again I feel like there are some forces inside my head, crashing about, demanding that I do things in a different way. It’s like there was something else happening in my head than what Kulgan told me to expect.
‘Each time I try one of the simple spells Kulgan has taught me, like making an object move, or lifting myself off the ground, these things in my head come flooding in on my concentration, and I lose my control. I can’t even master the simplest spell.’ Pug felt himself tremble, for this was the first chance he had had to speak about this to anyone besides Kulgan. ‘Kulgan simply says to keep at it and not worry.’ Nearing tears, he continued. ‘I have talent. Kulgan said he knew it from the first time we met, when I used the crystal. You’ve told me that I have talent. But I just can’t make the spells work the way they’re supposed to. I get so confused by it all.’
‘Pug,’ said the priest, ‘magic has many properties, and we understand little of how it works, even those of us who practice it. In the temples we are taught that magic is a gift from the gods, and we accept that on faith. We do not understand how this can be so, but we do not question. Each order has its own province of magic, with no two quite alike. I am capable of magic that those who follow their orders are not. But none can say why.
‘Magicians deal in a different sort of magic, and their practices are very different from our practices in the temples. Much of what they do, we cannot. It is they who study the art of magic, seeking its nature and workings, but even they cannot explain how magic works. They only know how to work it, and pass that knowledge along to their students, as Kulgan is doing with you.’
‘Trying to do with me, Father. I think he may have misjudged me.’
‘I think not, Pug. I have some knowledge of these things, and since you have become Kulgan’s pupil, I have felt the power growing in you. Perhaps you will come to it late, as others have, but I am sure you will find the proper path.’
Pug was not comforted. He didn’t question the priest’s wisdom or his opinion, but he did feel he could be mistaken. ‘I hope you’re right. Father. I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me.’
‘I think I know what’s wrong,’ came a voice from the door. Startled, Pug and Father Tully turned to see Kulgan standing in the doorway. His blue eyes were set in lines of concern, and his thick grey brows formed a V over the bridge of his nose. Neither Pug nor Tully had heard the door open. Kulgan hiked his long green robe and stepped into the room, leaving the door open.
‘Come here, Pug,’ said the magician with a small wave of his hand. Pug went over to the magician, who placed both hands on his shoulders. ‘Boys who sit in their rooms day after day worrying about why things don’t work make things not work. I am giving you the day for yourself. As it is Sixthday, there should be plenty of other boys to help you in whatever sort of trouble boys can find.’ He smiled, and his pupil was filled with relief. ‘You need a rest from study. Now go.’ So saying, he fetched a playful cuff to the boy’s head, sending him running down the stairs. Crossing over to the pallet, Kulgan lowered his heavy frame to it and looked at the priest. ‘Boys,’ said Kulgan, shaking his head. ‘You hold a festival, give them a badge of craft, and suddenly they expect to be men. But they’re still boys, and no matter how hard they try, they still act like boys, not men.’ He took out his pipe and began filling it. ‘Magicians are considered young and inexperienced at thirty, but in all other crafts thirty would mark a man a journeyman or master, most likely readying his own son for the Choosing.’ He put a taper to the