ideas? Should we make a cleric out of the boy, perhaps?’
Tully sat back, a disapproving expression upon his face. ‘You know the priesthood is a calling, Kulgan,’ he said stiffly.
‘Put your back down, Tully. I was making a joke.’ He sighed. ‘Still, if he hasn’t the calling of a priest, nor the knack of a magician’s craft, what can we make of this natural ability of his?’
Tully pondered the question in silence for a moment, then said, ‘Have you thought of the lost art?’
Kulgan’s eyes widened. ‘That old legend?’ Tully nodded. ‘I doubt there is a magician alive who at one time or another hasn’t reflected on the legend of the lost art. If it had existed, it would explain away many of the shortcomings of our craft.’ Then he fixed Tully with a narrowed eye, showing his disapproval. ‘But legends are common enough. Turn up any rock on the beach and you’ll find one. I for one prefer to look for real answers to our shortcomings, not blame them on ancient superstitions.’
Tully’s expression became stern and his tone scolding. ‘We of the temple do not count it legend, Kulgan! It is considered part of the revealed truth, taught by the gods to the first men.’
Nettled by Tully’s tone, Kulgan snapped, ‘So was the notion the world was flat, until Rolendirk – a magician, I’ll remind you – sent his magic sight high enough to disclose the curvature of the horizon, clearly demonstrating the world to be a sphere! It was a fact known by almost every sailor and fisherman who’d ever seen a sail appear upon the horizon before the rest of the ship since the beginning of time!’ His voice rose to a near shout.
Seeing Tully was stung by the reference to ancient church canon long since abandoned, Kulgan softened his tone. ‘No disrespect to you, Tully. But don’t try to teach an old thief to steal. I know your order chops logic with the best of them, and that half your brother clerics fall into laughing fits when they hear those deadly serious young acolytes debate theological issues set aside a century ago. Besides which, isn’t the legend of the lost art an Ishapian dogma?’
Now it was Tully’s turn to fix Kulgan with a disapproving eye. With a tone of amused exasperation, he said, ‘Your education in religion is still lacking, Kulgan, despite a somewhat unforgiving insight into the inner workings of my order.’ He smiled a little. ‘You’re right about the moot gospel courts, though. Most of us find them so amusing because we remember how painfully grim we were about them when we were acolytes.’ Then turning serious, he said, ‘But I am serious when I say your education is lacking. The Ishapians have some strange beliefs, it’s true, and they are an insular group, but they are also the oldest order known and are recognized as the senior church in questions pertaining to interdenominational differences.’
‘Religious wars, you mean,’ said Kulgan with an amused snort.
Tully ignored the comment. ‘The Ishapians are caretakers for the oldest lore and history in the Kingdom, and they have the most extensive library in the Kingdom. I have visited the library at their temple in Krondor, and it is most impressive.’
Kulgan smiled and with a slight tone of condescension said, ‘As have I, Tully, and I have browsed the shelves at the Abbey of Sarth, which is ten times as large. What’s the point?’
Leaning forward, Tully said, ‘The point is this: say what you will about the Ishapians, but when they put forth something as history, not lore, they can usually produce ancient tomes to support their claims.’
‘No,’ said Kulgan, waving aside Tully’s comments with a dismissive wave. ‘I do not make light of your beliefs, or any other man’s, but I cannot accept this nonsense about lost arts. I might be willing to believe Pug could be somehow more attuned to some aspect of magic I’m ignorant of, perhaps something involving spirit conjuration or illusion – areas I will happily admit I know little about – but I cannot accept that he will never learn to master his craft because the long-vanished god of magic died during the Chaos Wars! No, that there is unknown lore, I accept. There are too many shortcomings in our craft even to begin to think our understanding of magic is remotely complete. But if Pug can’t learn magic, it is only because I have failed as a teacher.’
Tully now glared at Kulgan, suddenly aware the magician was not pondering Pug’s possible shortcomings but his own. ‘Now you are being foolish. You are a gifted man, and were I to have been the one to discover Pug’s talent, I could not imagine a better teacher to place him with than yourself. But there can be no failing if you do not know what he needs to be taught.’ Kulgan began to sputter an objection, but Tully cut him off. ‘No, let me continue. What we lack is understanding. You seem to forget there have been others like Pug, wild talents who could not master their gifts, others who failed as priests and magicians.’
Kulgan puffed on his pipe, his brow knitted in concentration. Suddenly he began to chuckle, then laugh. Tully looked sharply at the magician. Kulgan waved offhandedly with his pipe. ‘I was just struck by the thought that should a swineherd fail to teach his son the family calling, he could blame it upon the demise of the gods of pigs.’
Tully’s eyes went wide at the near-blasphemous thought, then he too laughed, a short bark. ‘That’s one for the moot gospel courts!’ Both men laughed a long, tension-releasing laugh at that. Tully sighed and stood up. ‘Still, do not close your mind entirely to what I’ve said, Kulgan. It may be Pug is one of those wild talents. And you may have to reconcile yourself for letting him go.’
Kulgan shook his head sadly at the thought. ‘I refuse to believe there is any simple explanation for those other failures, Tully. Or for Pug’s difficulties, as well. The fault was in each man or woman, not in the nature of the universe. I have often felt where we fail with Pug is in understanding how to reach him. Perhaps I would be well advised to seek another master for him, place him with one better able to harness his abilities.’
Tully sighed. ‘I have spoken my mind of this question, Kulgan. Other than what I’ve said, I cannot advise you. Still, as they say, a poor master’s better than no master at all. How would the boy have fared if no one had chosen to teach him?’
Kulgan bolted upright from his seat. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, how would the boy have fared if no one had chosen to teach him?’
Kulgan’s eyes seemed to lose focus as he stared into space. He began puffing furiously upon his pipe. After watching for a moment, Tully said, ‘What is it, Kulgan?’
Kulgan said, ‘I’m not sure, Tully, but you may have given me an idea.’
‘What sort of idea?’
Kulgan waved off the question. ‘I’m not entirely sure. Give me time to ponder. But consider your question, and ask yourself this: how did the first magicians learn to use their power?’
Tully sat back down, and both men began to consider the question in silence. Through the window they could hear the sound of boys at play, filling the courtyard of the keep.
Every Sixthday, the boys and girls who worked in the castle were allowed to spend the afternoon as they saw fit. The boys, apprentice age and younger, were a loud and boisterous lot. The girls worked in the service of the ladies of the castle, cleaning and sewing, as well as helping in the kitchen. They all gave a full week’s work, dawn to dusk and more, each day, but – on the sixth day of the week they gathered in the courtyard of the castle, near the Princess’s garden. Most of the boys played a rough game of tag, involving the capture of a ball of leather, stuffed hard with rags, by one side, amid shoves and shouts, kicks and occasional fistfights. All wore their oldest clothes, for rips, bloodstains, and mudstains were common.
The girls would sit along the low wall by the Princess’s garden, occupying themselves with gossip about the ladies of the Duke’s court. They nearly always put on their best skirts and blouses, and their hair shone from washing and brushing. Both groups made a great display of ignoring each other, and both were equally unconvincing.
Pug ran to where the game was in progress. As was usual, Tomas was in the thick of the fray, sandy hair flying like a banner, shouting