The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (4 page)

Something tickled Karryl’s cheek. Swiping his hand over his face, he opened one eye. The other quickly followed as what he was seeing registered on his brain. Its autumn foliage shimmering in the afternoon sun, a tall Silver Birch waved its slender branches above him, lightly showering him with honey gold leaves. Quickly he sat up, then groaned as his bruised back and shoulders prompted a painful reminder of recent events. Scrambling to his feet, he brushed leaves from his jerkin, then massaged his behind where a small branch he had been lying on had dug in. He rubbed his eyes and looked about him, not that the sight which met his eyes was unfamiliar.

Every nook, cranny, wall, shrub and tree was imprinted indelibly on his memory. For most of the morning he had wandered in the vicinity of the tower, striving in vain to find a path down into the city. Whichever path or opening he chose, he always ended up on the narrow, stony hard-packed path which led to the rear of the well. By mid-morning he had decided enough was enough. With no difficulty at all he had made his way to the door of the tower. It seemed to be locked. He frowned, knowing he had left it open.

He called out. “Master Symon. Are you there?”

The only things he heard were leaves rustling in the breeze, and the clamour of jackdaws on the roof high above him. He called out again and knocked hard on the door, but his efforts still brought no response. Determined to find a way down into the city, he turned away from the door. An idea had come to him. This time he would try going the opposite way round. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction as he set off. He felt certain that this time he would be successful.

Time and again he tried, his frustration increasing by degrees as each carefully planned effort led him inevitably back to the well. He had even managed, after a struggle, to break through the hedge bordering the yard. He held some grave suspicions about that hedge, particularly when he rounded the end of it to find himself back on the path leading along the rear of the tower. There, a few yards ahead of him was…the well. Feeling helpless, hopeless and trapped, he had let down the wooden bucket. Drawing up some of the clear cold water, he let it trickle down his parched throat. A patch of warm sunlight bathing the moss at the base of a tall birch tree had invited him to rest for a while. Easing himself down he had wedged his heels against a protruding root, wriggled himself comfortable, and had soon drifted off to sleep.

Now he felt hungry, and he could tell by the sun that the day was wearing on. He hurried round to the door of the tower, only to find to his dismay that it was still locked. A dozen butterflies played tag in his stomach while he stood gazing up at the imposing bulk of the square tower. With its grey tiled pyramidal roof catching the late afternoon light, the ancient square tower stood silent and solitary. Bounded on two sides by a small woodland area, it seemed like a brooding sentinel surrounded by arboreal guardians. Each one a proud and mature specimen, they were still dwarfed by a great, heavy-limbed veteran oak standing just a few paces away. Karryl’s skin prickled as foliage rustled in the early autumn breeze, red and gold leaves spiralling down to the gravelled path. Catching sight of an ornate brass bell-pull concealed inside a niche in the wall, he grasped it firmly and pulled. He could hear its metallic jangle far above, but its merry note gradually faded to be followed by a lengthy silence.

He was about to grasp the bell-pull again when a cheery voice called from behind him. “Are you looking for me by any chance?”

Startled, Karryl spun round. He had heard no sound of anyone’s approach, no crunch of gravel underfoot, but there looking up at him, his head tilted to one side like a bird eyeing a worm, stood Symon. Having just returned from the palace where he had successfully persuaded a family of mice they would be much more comfortable and better fed in the cellars rather than in the royal apartments, Symon had arrived quietly back at his tower by a means that was far from conventional.

The magician chuckled. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m afraid it’s a bad habit I have, creeping up on people. It comes of being insatiably curious I suppose. I find out all sorts of things if people don’t know I’m there.”

He gave Karryl a mischievous grin, and the boy couldn’t help but smile. However, the smile soon faded to be replaced by a disgruntled frown as he glared accusingly at Symon. “I s’pose you know I’ve spent nearly all day wandering round this place?”

The little magician’s grey eyes twinkled as his grin widened. “Magic’s a marvellous thing when it’s used properly.” He raised an eyebrow. “I trust you enjoyed your afternoon nap.”

Karryl’s shoulders hunched, and he glared at Symon. “I s’pose that was down to you as well.”

Symon shook his head and reached up to retrieve something from Karryl’s hair. With a chuckle, he handed him a couple of small yellowing leaves. “Simple observation lad. The back of your jerkin is crumpled too.” He indicated a narrow lane leading away from the tower. “Perhaps we can walk for a while, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his long brown robe, Symon began to walk slowly along the gravelled path. Karryl watched him for a while, his teeth working pensively at his bottom lip. Finally, as if reaching a decision, he let out a great sigh and hurried after. Hands stuffed in pockets, he said nothing, his eyes darting from side to side, taking in every detail as he walked beside the little magician. It was only when Symon stopped and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk at the side of the path, that Karryl ventured another word.

Looking back along the path in the direction of the tower, now out of sight and concealed among the tallest trees, he shuffled from one shabbily booted foot to the other, before diffidently meeting Symon’s enquiring gaze. “You think you can make me into some kind of magician, don’t you?”

Symon’s lips curved in a half smile as he settled his tiny hands inside the sleeves of his robe. “Well, from where I’m sitting young man, it appears to me that you are already on your way. You are here. Not by choice, admittedly, but I believe everything happens for a reason. As for me wanting to make you a magician, and you actually becoming one; well, a world of difference lies between the two.”

A grimace twisted Karryl’s dark-eyed face. Plonking himself down on the log beside Symon, he hunched his shoulders. Elbows on his knees, he studied the leaf littered ground at his feet. “This… thing…this, what d’you call it…wild magic you say I’ve got.” His eyes looked haunted as he turned to Symon. “Could you teach me how to control it?”

Hands folded, Symon tapped his chin with his forefingers. “Now, that remains to be seen. If not, it can certainly be neutralised, but that is only an option when all else fails. It is a long and painful process and I would not want to put you through it.”

He studied the boy’s scratched and bruised face for a long moment. “Of course, there is another alternative.”

Karryl shot him a suspicious glance. “What’s that?”

“You can refuse totally. Then you will be taken back to gaol, and from there you will be banished and transported, most likely to Naboria, on the other side of the world. There, wilders are left more or less to their own devices. Those that fail to learn at least the rudiments of control usually end up accidentally killing themselves.”

In appalled silence, Karryl stared at the middle distance.

The little magician stood up and folded his arms. “And I hope that has simply made you more determined to accept such training as I can give you. “

His eyes met Karryl’s, and his question was answered.

Symon gave a little nod of satisfaction, his snow-white hair glistening in the autumn sunlight. “Well then, the best thing we can do is return to my tower and see how determined you really are. Do you want to do that?”

He glanced up briefly towards the sun glinting through the half clothed branches of the woodland. “It seems to me that it is just about time for tea. Come along young Karryl. I think we have much to talk about.”

They made a strange pair striding along the woodland path, the tall rangy dark-haired youth and the short portly little magician who barely came up to his shoulder, robes flapping around his ankles as he scurried along to keep pace with Karryl’s long-legged strides.

* * *

During supper that evening, Symon listened attentively as Karryl regaled him with tales of life among the ‘street-boys’. By the time the meal was over, he had experienced horror, amazement, sorrow and humour in rapid succession. Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, following the boy’s last outrageous tale, Symon stood up and cleared the dishes into the kitchen. He returned just in time to see Karryl heading for his room. Following, he stood just inside the open door as Karryl flopped down on the bed.

Symon made a general gesture which took in all the room. “This is your home now, and this room is yours to do in as you wish. I do however, expect you to keep it clean and tidy. An untidy magician is not usually a successful one. You will be able to come in here when you wish to study undisturbed, and believe me, there will be an awful lot of studying.”

Giving an assertive nod as if to confirm his last statement, he then looked hard at Karryl, a question in his grey eyes.

The boy nodded as he gazed at the empty bookshelf on the wall opposite his bed. “My auntie Vana had a few books. I used to read them to Marcus a lot, and I always got good marks at school. Then after she threw me out, me and the gang went to the poor school a couple of days a week, but they throw you out when you’re fourteen. I haven’t read much since.”

Symon patted his palms together, a gesture to which Karryl was soon to become accustomed. “Well, starting tomorrow, you can begin to make up for lost time.”

A frown of disapproval briefly creased his brow as Karryl began removing his scuffed and battered boots. “We must also see about getting you some decent footwear sometime soon.”

Karryl wriggled his toes and gave Symon a lopsided grin. “Thanks. That would be good. These are getting a bit on the tight side.”

The little magician ambled out of the room, and settled himself in his chair by the fire. He had an awful lot of thinking to do. Surrendering to the enjoyment of his pipe, he let his memories drift up with the aromatic blue smoke.

Taking an apprentice was not a matter that any magician could regard lightly. Symon had been considering taking on another for many years, but the opportunity had never really presented itself. Now it had been most unceremoniously thrust upon him, and he was rather disconcerted to discover that he didn’t really dislike the prospect of tutoring Karryl for at least the next five years. Magic, and the learning of it, entailed close and personal communion with some very awesome powers. The wrong choice of student could ultimately result in those same powers being employed for evil. Nevertheless, Symon felt confident. Deep inside he had a feeling that this particular student had been chosen for him.

He was a sprightly one hundred and two years old when he had taken on his first apprentice, and then grieved for years over the young man’s untimely death in an accident which could have been avoided. Another one hundred and fifty years passed before he took another under his wing. This one had turned out to be a good, steady, no-nonsense magician who, after qualifying, had plied his craft in various places across the world before finally taking up residence in the Telorian Highlands. He had a thing about mountains. Symon had wandered up there every so often to bring him up to date on the latest developments, but his last visit some seventy years past had drawn a blank. The younger magician’s cosy bothy appeared to have been abandoned and no trace of him could be found.

The most recent disruption to Symon’s plans had been the untimely death ten years ago of the old king in the most unfortunate circumstances, and most of his time since then had been taken up with advising and guiding the newly crowned monarch. Fortunately, the young man had a good head on his shoulders, being one of those extraordinary scions who inherit the best attributes of both parents. After a relatively short period of rebellious reluctance, tempered with understandable grief, Vailin II was now proving to be an extremely capable and popular king. Though still remaining close to the youthful monarch, and regarded as one of his most trusted advisors, Symon had often thought that perhaps he could devote more time to training a suitable young person in the magical arts and, to a lesser degree, in illustration and penmanship. To this end, and seemingly by way of recompense for his selfless service, the gods appeared to have smiled, perhaps rather lopsidedly, on him. He also found the more he thought about it, the more he came to relish the seemingly daunting prospect of applying himself to the task of turning a raw wilder into at least a halfway competent magician. Had he known what lay ahead he might possibly have had second thoughts.

The day started badly. In response to a particularly vivid nightmare, Karryl’s wilder force had risen to the surface. Alerted by the extreme tingling of his skin, a sure sign that power was active, Symon dashed into the room in time to witness Karryl, his upright body quivering with tension, caught blindly in a surging maelstrom of unbridled power. Laden with the unmistakable tang of wild magic, the air crackled and hissed around magician and boy. His tone sharp with authority, the magician’s words rang around the room as he dived for the boy and wrestled him to the floor. Unable to compete with the strength of Symon’s specifically directed spell of dispersal, the wild magic was forced to expend itself by shattering an old and rather exquisite jug and bowl which sat on the broad window-ledge.

His arms clasped firmly around Karryl’s shoulders, Symon gasped as he leaned back against the side of the bed. “I hope I won’t have to do this too often.” He gave an emphatic nod. “But at least now, I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

Once his breathing and heart-rate had resumed something near normality, he struggled to his feet, pulled the dazed and fearful Karryl off the floor and let him sink onto the bed. The boy’s trembling hand reached out and grasped Symon’s wrist in a vice-like grip. The magician winced but said nothing. A good half hour passed. Gradually, the tension eased from Karryl’s body and his grip on Symon’s wrist relaxed. The magician stood and rolled out the tension lingering in his neck.

With a rueful glance at the spilled water and the scattering of pottery shards littering one side of the room, he placed a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You sit there until you feel recovered. There’s little harm done. I’ll go and dress and then start breakfast. Come in when you’re ready.”

Some twenty minutes later, looking pale and tired, Karryl stumbled to the table and sat for a few moments with his head in his hands. Wordlessly, he pushed aside the plate of sausages and fried potatoes which Symon had placed in front of him, reaching instead for the large mug of tea beside it. His long fingers wrapped around it, he sipped slowly and steadily as he gazed blankly at the opposite wall. Symon chewed sausage and waited.

His voice trembling with remorse, Karryl eventually spoke. “I’m sorry about the ware.”

Symon wagged a dismissive hand. “What you might call an occupational hazard. I have another one.” He raised an assertive finger. “At least one good thing has come out of this.”

Surprised and relieved that Symon had not flown into a rage, Karryl sat a little straighter, but suspicion clouded his glance. “That’s hard to believe.”

Pulling his breakfast plate in front of him, he poked morosely at a sausage, then began to cut it into pieces. “What would this good thing be, then?”

Symon’s eyes sparkled. Using his fork for emphasis he leaned forward. “I’ve seen your uncontrolled wild magic in action. A sheer stroke of luck. I was thinking I would have to induce it by some means, but that is no longer necessary.”

Karryl looked long and hard at the little magician, thoughtfully chewed sausage and swallowed. “Does that mean you know how to cure it?”

Symon’s eyebrows rose to their limit. “Cure it? We don’t cure it! We use it and train it. You see, wild magic is much like a wild flower. It grows where it will, but if it is nurtured and cared for, in time it grows stronger and can flourish, becoming more attractive and desirable, no longer a ‘weed’ but something far more valuable. Once the wild magic feels the touch of control, over time it becomes increasingly more biddable. With that kind of power, who knows what you will eventually be capable of.”

“How long will it be before it’s ‘biddable?’”

Symon’s eyes narrowed as he looked pointedly at Karryl. “That, my lad, depends on the willingness and determination of the practitioner. In other words, it’s up to you.”

Karryl leaned back in his chair, determination blazing from his dark brown eyes as his mouth twisted in a humourless grin. “Well, Master Symon, I suppose the sooner we start, the sooner I can use this ‘wilder’ thing to my advantage.”

Symon’s mouth set in a tight line, and his grey eyes studied the boy for a few moments. “There’s no time like the present. In a few minutes we’ll take ourselves outside, and your training can begin. Hopefully, in the very near future we can then establish whether you have any actual aptitude.” He gave an ironic little chuckle. “I have a feeling that neither of us will be disappointed.”

* * *

The grey cat jumped down off the window seat and bounded across the room to sit in front of Symon, looking up at him with her large amethyst eyes. The little magician patted his knee and she jumped up into his lap to sit facing Karryl across the table.

Magician and cat together looked at him long and hard. “I will shortly be telling you exactly what you would be expected to do and learn if, for instance, you were to end up as my indentured apprentice. But first, I’d like you to take a little test.”

He handed Karryl a small white card. Hesitantly, because he hadn’t seen where it came from, Karryl took the card from Symon’s outstretched hand, looked at it for a moment, then turned it over and looked at the other side.

Symon tilted his head and raised a questioning eyebrow. “What do you see?”

Karryl frowned as he studied the card. “A strange letter or a symbol of some sort. It looks a bit like a…a…that’s it, a bird with a long neck. Oh! It can’t be a bird. It’s got four legs. But it looks as if it’s looking at its feet! Is that right?”

Symon’s expression was dark as he leaned over and took the card from Karryl’s hand. “So it should be looking at its feet. It is a Grelfon. Do you know what a Grelfon is?”

Karryl shrugged and shook his head.

After placing the cat gently on the floor, Symon stood, clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room. “Many generations ago, a great battle was fought over this great city of Vellethen. Among the weapons the aggressors employed were a horde of magically created, highly intelligent creatures called Grelfons. They were an evil hybrid, born of a warped and twisted imagination, being neither wholly beast, serpent nor fowl, and answering only to the powerful mages responsible for their creation. Legend has it that the creatures had the gift of speech and were heard to call out to each other as they winged above the battle. They were the cause of great destruction, and responsible for the deaths of many good and innocent people.

“However, to cut a very long story very short, the Grelfons and their masters were eventually defeated, although at inestimable cost. After the battle, the king decreed that the Grelfon, in an attitude of submission, should be depicted as part of the Royal crest, and that is how you see it on that card, its head bowed beneath the royal crown. You may also have noticed that that particular Royal crest has been superceded, so I have taken the liberty of using it myself on occasion.”

For the first time that morning Karryl’s face showed a vestige of interest. He gestured to the well filled book-shelves. “Would I be able to read about it? It sounds like a good story!”

Symon frowned. “All I have told you is merely part of what is now reduced to legend. Anything you read will probably only have a minimal basis in fact, although you may find this interesting. It is rumoured that a powerful mage of Vellethen, who took part in the battle, survived and wrote a great book describing the events and detailing the magic that was needed to accomplish the successful outcome.

“That book has never been found, and according to the legend it never will be until a very special kind of mage, known as a Mage-Prime, appears. It is said that he will have the ability to locate the book and will be able to undo the wardings which protect what is written within. More than that I cannot tell you, and I suggest that you do not bother yourself unduly about it. Many legends are based on fact, but unfortunately in this case, we do not have the facts”

Noting the look of disappointment on Karryl’s face, Symon returned to his chair. Clasping his hands beneath his chin, he studied the boy for a moment, while the grey cat jumped from his lap and ambled round to sit on a small, intricately patterned rug set in the centre of the space beneath the table. Tucking its tail round its rear paws the cat began to wash as if it no longer had any interest in the proceedings.

Leaning back, Symon folded his hands under his chin and gazed at Karryl from beneath his eyebrows. “Firstly, I must tell you that should you undertake an apprenticeship with me, it will not be an easy one. Despite the fact that you have power and possibly potential, until you have learned even the rudiments of control, you would be ill advised to attempt any kind of casting without supervision. Is that clear?”

Karryl paused for a minute or two before replying. He gave Symon an assertive nod. “I can live with that.”

Symon leaned back and folded his hands. There is, however, one very vital thing already in your favour.” Noting the interest registered on Karryl’s face, Symon continued. “It’s all down to that little white card I gave you to look at. You see, only someone who has true magical ability can see anything on that card. To anyone else it appears completely blank. So, now we know there is an innate ability there, along with an as yet undetermined reserve of power, we have an excellent basis to work on.”

Expelling a great breath, Karryl looked around the room while he marshalled his thoughts. His dark brows knitted in a frown, and Symon could see he was striving to frame a question.

He looked hard at Symon. “So-o-o, you can teach me how to get the two together. It would seem I’ve got more power than ability. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly! And having power in itself is not enough. On its own, power, for the most part, can be dangerous. To be effective it needs to be harnessed and given direction. Ability is knowing how to direct it to the best effect. It’s knowing how much to use and, more importantly, what form it should take.”

Karryl shook his head. “I know you said I’ve got ability, but I don’t think I could do any of that.”

“Not yet you can’t. That’s why you’re here.” There was a sparkle in the little magician’s grey eyes as he leaned forward. “And I’m willing to wager that your aptitude will surprise both of us.”

Karryl looked dubious. “You can’t know that. I’ll find I can’t do it, and probably just end up breaking loads more stuff.”

Symon gave him a knowing smile, and shook his head slightly. “You already have one of a good magician’s most essential tools.”

“I do?”

“Of course. How else would you have risen through the ranks of a seemingly fair-sized street gang unless you had a quick mind?”

Karryl shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe because I went to school and read books. Perhaps that had something to do with it.”

“Partly, maybe. But something else was needed, and from what I’ve seen so far, you obviously have it.”

Unaccustomed to praise and compliments, Karryl squirmed a little, looking everywhere except at Symon. His glance fell on the space under the table. He gazed for a moment at the intricate design on the little rug. Pulling himself upright, he began to look around more intently.

The little magician had been quietly watching him. “Is something wrong?”

Karryl bent down and peered under his chair, then looked hard at Symon. “Where’s the cat? She just seems to have vanished.”

Symon smiled and flipped a dismissive hand. “Oh! She disappears from time to time, but no doubt she will turn up again shortly. Being a cat, she has her own agenda, as I’m sure all cats do. Now, let’s go outside and see if we can discover what you’re made of.”