'The opportunity of this year's production has been lost.' Farnel shrugged grimly. 'It again will be Gerilac or some other bragging at the feasting when it is done. But that is not any different from what it has been so many years before. Somehow I shall find the will to endure it. I will go and raise my tankard with the rest and look them all in the eye, if they dare to return my stare.'
Farnel paused for a moment in thought. His eyes narrowed as he studied Jemidon before him. 'But as for you, trust the experience of the master. The end-of-season celebration should be avoided. Aye, not for you the celebration, and perhaps not even sorcery. I think, Jemidon, that one of the other arts might be better to your liking.'
'I know something of them all,' Jemidon said. 'But now sorcery is my only choice.'
Farnel's brows contracted, and Jemidon rushed on before the sorcerer could speak.
'Yes, I know of thaumaturgy with not one law but two: the Principle of Sympathy, or 'like produces like'; and the Principle of Contagion, 'once together, always together.' The craft is much used to fertilize the crops and increase the yields in the wheatlands where I was born.
'And I know some of alchemy with its Doctrine of Signatures: how 'the attributes without mirror the powers within' to guide the formula maker concocting his potions, salves, and the sweetbalms which close the deepest wounds.
'And I also know of magic and the Maxim of Persistence, which states that 'perfection is eternal.' Even you must have some notion of the craft. The indestructible tokens of Pluton come from the guild there that performs its rituals for the trading houses and monetary exchanges.
'And finally, I know of wizardry with two laws of its own: the Law of Ubiquity, which states that 'flame permeates all' and is the channel to the domains of the demons, entire worlds totally different from our own and filled with the likes of great djinns, flittering imps, rockbubblers, and ticklesprites; and the Law of Dichotomy,'dominance or submission,' which tells that one must totally control the devil he calls or submit to its will instead.
'Yes, I know all the laws which define and guide the arts-the principles from which all else follows.'
'Then select one and gain its mastery,' Farnel said. 'Sorcery is but one of many from which to choose.'
'I have chosen!' Jemidon exclaimed. 'I have chosen them all! There are none left to sample. Why do you think I come to you at such an age? Because I have struggled with each of the other arts for several years before. And for each, the result has been the same. Somehow, somehow when it has come to the first test, the first chance to prove my worth, I have failed. I have failed at them all-thaumaturgy, alchemy, magic, and the lore of the wizard. For them all have I labored to no avail. Sorcery is my last chance to become a master.'
'I should have known all of this before we made our agreement,' Farnel said.
'Evidently a few months were not enough,' Jemidon protested. 'I guess I did not concentrate on the fundamentals.' He licked his lips, straining for the right words. 'But now we have a whole year. And we will be on guard for petty tricks besides. Yes, the next year will be different, and I will be well on my way to becoming a master.'
'And does the robe mean so very much?' Farnel asked.
'So very much?' Jemidon choked. 'So very much?' The vision of his dying sister, the look he saw in the eyes of others when Milton passed by, the riches, the power, the prestige, all danced in his thoughts. 'There is no question of how much,' he said. 'It means everything. Everything! Besides the robe of the master, there is nothing else at all.'
For a moment, Farnel did not speak. Finally he turned back in the direction of his hut. 'You can stay until after the end-of-season festivities in a week,' he said. 'With you still about, Gerilac might wonder if there is some scheme of my own that is hatching. The uncertainty is the least I can repay.' He glanced a final time at Jemidon. 'And after that, we will see, we will see if there is any profit in instructing you further.'
CHAPTER THREE
Stormflight
JEMIDON pulled his arms tighter around his knees to shut out the onshore breeze. The wind whipping up and over the granite cliff seemed to whisper dark secrets as it sped by. The moon was full, shining in a gap in a cloud- filled sky. Its cold and sterile light cast pale shadows among the dark buildings of the harbor below. The lights were all out; the ships of the prince had left hours before.
Only in the presentation hall, Jemidon knew, was there any activity. The masters and tyros celebrated the end of the season with an all-night revelry that lasted until the award of the supreme accolade at Canthor's keep the next day. Even Farnel was attending the festivities. He would not sulk and planned to be as merry as the others to prove that he did not really care. But he had sent Jemidon away. After a few bottles of ale, the sorcerer could no longer count on eyes sharp enough to keep his tyro from trouble with Erid and the others. And after what had happened at the preliminary selection, it was doubtful that Jemidon could hold his own.
The week after the failure in the chanting well had been a total numbness. Farnel had said no more about the future. It was clear enough that Jemidon would have to prove he could at least cast simple charms if he were to stay. And since Farnel was no longer preparing a presentation, there had been ample opportunity to try. But each time Jemidon had found an excuse and shrunk away from the test. The possibility that the master was right and he had no skill was too frightening to face. And he had acted like a child as it was, pouring out his past in a babble and pleading for another chance. How could the master give him even the smallest portion of the respect he hoped to have when he finally won the right to wear a robe?
Jemidon looked down to the beach at the base of the cliff. He had had no interest in watching the flurry of tent striking during the afternoon as the hawkers hurried to depart for the next market. With the sailing of the nobility, Morgana was transformed in a single day to a moribund isolation that would not be shaken until the beginning of the season the next year.
Jemidon shrugged and hurled a small stone into the air, trying to follow its descent into the gently lapping water below, his eyes sweeping over the deserted bazaar. All but a few of the attractions were furled and stowed away on ships bound for other islands. As the rock fell, a spark of light grabbed his attention. He looked closer, to see Drandor's oddly shaped tent still standing in almost perfect isolation on the sandy beach.
As Jemidon watched, a sudden movement focused his attention more. He saw the trader pull a heavy roll of fabric from the opening and drag it with short jerks across the sand to a scaffolding newly erected nearby. Drandor grabbed one corner and stepped on a short stool, uncoiling what looked like some sort of rug or tapestry. Then he paused, uncertain, and looked back in the direction of the tent. One of the flaps was rolled up, and Jemidon thought he saw fleeting motions in the dimness within. The gusty breeze carried hints of garbled whispers, lilting phrases that he could not quite understand.
Drandor appeared to be listening as well. Several moments passed before he turned his attention back to his burden. Then, straining to full height, he looped one corner onto the edge of the framework and moved to the other end to do the same. After some struggle, a large panorama, five times the length of a man and easily as tall, was boldly displayed to the grounds of the bazaar.
Drandor brushed his hands and started for his tent, when a sudden gust of wind toppled the scaffolding onto its side. Faint curses drifted up to Jemidon on the cliff. A cloud dimmed the moon and a few warning drops started to fall.
Jemidon pulled his cape around him and started for cover. But then he stopped as he wondered why Drandor did not do the same. In the quickening wind, the trader struggled to right the tapestry and ignored the coming storm. With ropes anchored to some large boulders, he steadied the mural in the proper position and, with two quick incisions, created rifts to spill the wind.
A gentle sprinkle began to fall as Drandor pulled a large oil lamp, backed by a reflector, from the tent. For several minutes, he struggled to get it lighted. Finally a circle of light beamed to the tapestry flapping in the wind. The scene was an unfamiliar one, a rock-strewn foreground set against a reddish sky. Strange beasts grazed and hunted in splayed grasses and tangled briars.
Drandor lugged forward a large box and pried off the lid, just as the first sheet of heavy rain crashed from the
