“All right. Well, there’s only one way to find out.”
Aruendiel gave a cursory nod.
“What happens to the boys who go to school and then discover they can’t be magicians?” she asked.
“They find another occupation. Some memorize a few spells and set themselves up as wizards. There is always some demand for basic spell-working in the villages.”
“I hate to admit this,” Nora confessed, “but I have never quite understood the exact difference between wizards and magicians. Although I gather,” she said, seeing Aruendiel’s frown, “that it’s better to be a magician.”
“You are even more ignorant that I expected. Must I define the most elementary terms for you? Very well, let the first lesson commence. Wizardry is the branch of magic that depends upon commanding various magical creatures to do one’s bidding. The wizard does not work magic directly, but relies upon the power of spirits or demons—or more commonly, upon spells that bind spirits or demons to perform certain specific tasks. That invisibility spell that you read some time ago, that was a spell addressed to a particular demon, Contemptuous Needle Unsound.”
“That’s its name?”
“Demon names are difficult to pronounce, at least for humans. Most demons choose a name in Ors that are rough translations of their own names, or that they fancy will be intimidating. They do not always grasp the nuances of the language. At any rate, that invisibility spell is a rather poorly drafted command, addressed to Contemptuous Needle Unsound, to hide the speaker from those who might be following him.”
“Why is it poorly drafted?”
“Because it is vague. There are a number of omissions—most important, the invocation does not say how long the invisibility must last. There is no provision to stop the demon from making the wizard visible again whenever he likes, or never. A good spell of this sort will include a very specific list of directions to the magical servant, so that the wizard does not have to rely on a demon’s goodwill in interpreting any small ambiguity in the wording.
“You see, this sort of spell is really a compact between a demon and a wizard, one that is invoked each time the spell is recited. Which is why it would not work for you.”
“You said it was because I was a woman,” Nora said, unable to keep the resentment out of her voice.
“Yes, because a demon will not consider itself bound to honor the agreement if the spell is spoken by a woman.”
“Why not? Demons consider women inferior?”
“They consider all humans inferior,” he said coldly. “The restriction on women originates with the language of the spell’s underlying contract, which is almost always defined as a pact between Fiend and Man.
“Wizards, then,” he went on, “practice magic only through indirect agency. It is possible for a man with no magical ability at all to become a wizard, simply by acquiring a book of spells.”
“So wizardry is really rote learning,” Nora said. “Whereas magicians are more creative, more powerful —?”
“Wizards can be quite powerful,” Aruendiel corrected her. “Wizardry should not be underestimated—it was the magic that I learned when I was young, the only accepted form of magic at the time, and we used it to great effect. Wizardry is still a good entry point into the study of magic. But natural magic, real magic, is more powerful still, and you do not have to rely on a demon to wield it. I don’t see you writing any of this down,” he added. “You must have an excellent memory.”
“Oh,” Nora said, looking around quickly, “do you have a notebook that I could use, and something to write with?”
“A notebook? Paper is too dear for a pupil. There are some wax tablets on the table. You should take down each day’s lesson; when you have learned it, melt the tablet clean and use it again.”
“All right,” Nora said, when she had located a stylus and made a few notes, “so real magic—or natural magic, you called it—is what mended the bowl?”
“Correct.” Aruendiel had crossed the room to hunt along the shelves. He brought two volumes back to the table and leafed through them. “Here, this is one of the classic spells for repairing broken pottery, from Hom Marn the Silent. And this is another, very different approach to the same problem, from an anonymous Vinovian wizard. Once you have learned them both by heart, you will identify for me the essential elements of these spells and explain why each wizard organized his spell as he did.”
The Hom Marn spell took up most of two pages of an oversize book. The Vinovian spell was shorter, but written in a crabbed hand that Nora could barely decipher. “But this is wizardry, isn’t it?” she said, disappointed. “Why do I have to memorize these spells, especially since they probably won’t even work for me?”
“They will not,” agreed Aruendiel. “But you must still learn these spells, their parts, how they are structured, until they are second nature to you.”
“I already know how to mend broken pottery.”
“Could you mend a pot that has been ground into dust? Or rebuild a pot from a single fragment? Or mend a pot that you have never seen, whose pieces are scattered to the far corners of the earth?”
“No,” said Nora, trying to estimate how often a magician might have to take on the more complicated sort of pot-mending project. “But is it really neces—”
“You must learn how spells are constructed, and this is how to begin. Once you have a basic understanding of the forms, we will discuss how to cast these spells with true magic.” Turning back to the other table, Aruendiel sat down and picked up his brush again. “The sooner you begin, the more rapid your progress.”
Nora began to read through the Hom Marn spell, fighting down a feeling of faint unease. What had she gotten herself into? But then Aruendiel had warned her of the obstacles ahead. This is a test, she thought. He’s trying to scare me to see how serious I am. The reflection steeled her as she tried to understand the purpose behind each of the nine variant openings to Hom Marn’s spell.
PART THREE
The days settled into a new pattern. Nora awoke each morning in the chilly, predawn gloom and spent some time convincing herself to get out of bed. Then she dressed quickly, her arms pebbled with gooseflesh: linen shift, a layer of knitted woolens, one of her new winter dresses, long stockings, a pair of Mrs. Toristel’s old boots. And still the cold gnawed at her until she had been up on her feet for a time—feeding the animals, bringing in firewood, hauling water.
The entire morning was taken up with chores. In addition to the usual cleaning, Mrs. Toristel had enlisted her to organize the attic storerooms, a treasury of dented armor, rusty weapons, faded tapestries, and chests of mildewed clothes. The thought had crossed Nora’s mind that perhaps Mrs. Toristel had assigned her this task to try to minimize the time spent in the magician’s tower. The housekeeper seemed deaf or distracted whenever Nora mentioned her new studies, and after a while Nora stopped making any reference to them.
Around noon each day Nora climbed the stairs to Aruendiel’s study with the same tickle of apprehension that she’d felt before certain graduate seminars. Sometimes she would arrive to find that he was absent, or she would hear his footsteps in one of the upper rooms; sometimes he was so buried in his books that he paid no attention as she took her seat at the other table. Then the afternoon would pass quietly, with Nora working slowly through the spells that he had set for her to learn or reading over the notes she had made on a growing pile of wax tablets. Other days, glancing up as soon as she came in, he would challenge her to recite a spell and then to explain how it was put together and exactly when one might use it; why the wizard who wrote it had chosen this particular form; why he had included various commands and contingencies; what he had left out, and why; and —with a lift of the eyebrow—what he could have done better.
