past.
'I spent seven years here as a Student, nine as a Neophyte and thirty-five as an Adept before I was finally elevated to the First Rank of my calling; it was the proudest day of my life.
'If you work hard and persevere, you may one day feel the same joy and the warm embrace of an ancient and mighty brotherhood that I felt on that day, so long ago. I bid you welcome to this House, and I wish you success and happiness here.
'To the older hands here: welcome back. This new scholastic year will bring new challenges, new opportunities and new responsibilities. Work hard and make us proud, as you have done before.'
Urel's speech went on for nearly three hours, including references to each section of the crowd, which showed that the Senior Magemaster was someone who cared deeply for his charges, and who took deep interest in the day-to-day events in the Scholasticate; he was evidently also a man with a keen eye who missed little. Grimm might have appreciated the speech more had his legs not begun to develop a fierce ache, and had he understood more of what the mage was saying.
At the end of the speech, Senior Magemaster Urel received a raucous but good-natured accolade from the older Students and Neophytes, steering a close, careful course around the border of the onerous House rules on comportment. The mages and Adepts confined themselves to respectful applause, which was almost drowned in the noise.
As Urel finished his speech and departed, the loud hubbub started again. Doorkeeper, who had been standing by the hall door for the whole performance, clapped his leathery hands and rapped the base of his staff on the wooden floor of the hall. He pulled back his shoulders and, with some effort, managed to stand fully erect. This added six inches to his height, and Grimm realised that the ancient mage was even taller than he thought.
'Come on, boys, stand still. Get into line, do: you know the routine. Chop, chop,' he cried. Doorkeeper's booming voice carried through the hall with ease, but to little immediate effect. Some Students stopped talking, others carried on chatting to their friends, but, at last, all moved into slack, ragged lines and the volume of chatter decreased a little.
Having failed almost completely to cow the throng of boys before him, Doorkeeper slumped into his familiar, hunched pose, opening a door at his right side.
'Class Wyvern!' he cried. 'This is your classroom for the year. Wait here quietly until Magemaster Tarvel arrives.' About forty boys came to the fore, and, for the most part, they filed into the room in a more or less orderly fashion.
The hall was like the hub of a wheel, with twelve classrooms arrayed around it like spokes. The hubbub in the hall began to lessen as more boys were ushered into their appointed places of learning.
The new Students were left until last, and Doorkeeper motioned the thirty remaining boys towards a door on the far side of the hall. The boys trooped inside, nervous and mute, and Grimm was carried along by the stream of Students.
The room was painted in a mixture of dun and bile-green. The furniture consisted of long ink-stained benches, all battered and well-worn, set in five rows, behind which were arrayed hard, wooden trestles.
Grimm saw that many boys had brought silk or velvet cushions in apparent anticipation of the uncomfortable seating arrangements.
Instead of the more usual elementary school charts showing lists of words and numbers, three walls were covered by a mural consisting of strange symbols. There were no paintings or essays pinned to the walls.
Since most of the boys had taken positions next to their particular friends, Grimm sat at the back of the lower schoolroom, resisting the urge to chew his fingernails in his nervousness.
All of the other boys in the room had accents and clothes that spoke of wealthy upbringing, which made Grimm all too conscious of his simple woollen robes. Small groups of boys engaged in desultory conversation. Few spared the plainly-attired Grimm the least glance, except for Madar, sitting at the front, who gave Grimm a friendly smile and a wave, which Grimm returned.
The door opened, and the chattering diminished by a considerable amount, as a tall man strode in to stand before the class. He wore green silk robes with a voluminous hood, and he carried a gnarled, brass-shod staff as tall as he, with seven gold rings at its upper end.
The man had steel-blue eyes, and his thick white beard reached the middle of his chest. To Grimm, he looked the very archetype of wizardry, and the very force of his presence cowed most of the boys. This was a mighty magic user, and no error!
The man beat his heavy staff on the floor thrice to attract the boys' attention. The last few chatterers abruptly fell silent, and the majestic mage cleared his throat.
'I am Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer,' he intoned in a powerful, rumbling, bass voice that made Grimm want to clear his own throat. 'I am your Magemaster, and that means that I have the ultimate responsibility for your tuition in this House. If you have any insurmountable problems, bring them to me and I will attempt to resolve them as well as I can. Just make sure that you do not bring me every trifling little issue and triviality, or we may well fall out.' The blue eyes scanned the room, inviting challenge; none came.
'For whatever reasons, you have been sent here to follow the difficult path to mastery, and I am to try to lead you there. For now, I will be teaching you Perception, Interpretation, and Visualisation. They may not be particularly interesting subjects, but none of you will progress to a higher level until he has mastered each of them to my satisfaction and mine alone.
'Some of you are related to members of this House, or may have some small awakening of power, and you may believe that this gives you some kind of precedence or advantage over others. Correct this impression at once! Here, what you were is forgotten and of no consequence. You are all ignorant, a state that I intend to correct.'
Crohn paused for effect, letting the words sink into the young minds. He was a potent mage, but he had found that his true vocation came in the education of the young and impressionable.
'A mage is not some simpleton, bumbling in the dark, or a blind scatterer of raw power,' he boomed, 'but one who understands the meaning and practice of his craft, who can use this to control the powers within him, and who can direct those powers to a desired end. It matters little if you have enough power to shame the mightiest Weatherworker in the land if that power cannot be marshalled, controlled, directed and understood. I may have no more innate power than do many of you, but I am confident and controlled in the use of that power, and I am fully aware of my limitations. Even moderate power can be used to great effect when allied to mastery of the craft.'
Crohn smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his pristine robes. 'One thing I cannot do,' he said, 'is to increase your level of magical power or intelligence. All I or any Magemaster can do is to lead or draw out the power and intelligence already present within you. This is actually the root meaning of the word 'education'.'
Fishing a small piece of chalk from a pocket, Crohn wrote the words 'EDUCATION: drawing out' on the blackboard, underlining the phrase twice, his robes fluttering around him like birds' wings. Cowed by his commanding presence, the boys were transfixed by his earnest intensity; or so Crohn hoped.
'If you have no power, you will never be a mage, no matter how diligently you may study. If you have power and cannot, or will not, learn to direct it, you will never be a mage. If you fail to persevere, or do not heed what you are taught, you will never be a mage.'
Crohn loved the rapt attention of the boys. There might be no love or admiration in their eyes, but he knew that he was where he had always been destined to be.
He cleared his throat. 'Only if you have both power and control in full measure,' he said, 'and only if you exercise true diligence and industry in the understanding of your chosen craft, will you be acclaimed a master.
'I can put your minds at rest on one score: all of you have been accepted as Students only because you have been interviewed by a member of the Guild and are known to have some degree of magical power. Maybe two- thirds of this class will leave the Scholasticate with some small competence in the Art, but without being judged fit to wear the Guild Ring.
'Of the remaining ten boys, perhaps five will show the strength and determination to progress to eventual Acclamation. For every ten such dedicated Students, it is expected that seven will become either Readers or Scholars, the backbone of the Guild's magical capability.
'Out of sixty Students, it is expected that three-one-twentieth-will become what we call Specialists; true
