Songs of the Dying Earth

Finally, Gasterlo spoke, though haltingly, unable to contain his amusement: “We’re all bastards, Dringo. You don’t imagine that magicians take wives, do you? They live in their manses surrounded by poinctures, sandestins and other entities. Their energies flow in directions that at times seem not even human. They are capricious at best and unreliable always. I suppose my father has sired many bastards; and why he chose me is as mysterious as the most complex spells are to my untutored mind.”

“Makes me wonder if I want that for myself,” joked Tryllo. “Dringo can assume my place.”

Cavour placed a hand on the table, palm down. “Oh, we will be different. Let us make a pact now, that one: We will remain friends and not become factious old men; and two: We will use our skills in a lighthearted manner.”

One by one the young men laid a hand on another. They all turned to Dringo.

With a smile, he added his hand to the stack.

Lord Lychenbarr frowned down at the assemblage from a raised platform. He paced the dais, his robes swishing the air in the muted chamber like the sound of rustling leaves. “I am tasked,” he finally began in a voice both powerful and resonant, “with transforming you nescient novices into wizards. It would be easier — much easier, in fact — to change a grub into an eagle.”

Dringo heard Tryllo whisper something to Popo and they both laughed.

Lord Lychenbarr’s lean face, elongated further by a thin, grey wisp of a beard, darkened with annoyance. He murmured a series of inaudible words.

As if all sound had been banished, the audarium fell silent. The shifting of feet, the rustle of paper, even the slight wheeze of Zimmie’s breathing ceased instantaneously. Dringo could not move. He tried to look to his side but his sight was as constrained as his body. A burning prickle began to build within his bowels and quickly bloomed in intensity.

Lord Lychenbarr glared at them. “To say I require absolute obedience and submission to my will in all things can be assumed.” He smiled, but it was more a look of malice. “Let me add, I also demand quietude and attentiveness. Are there any questions?”

They all remained motionless, of course.

“Good, then we will proceed.” he said.

“I just activated three somewhat minor spells in rapid succession.” He raised a finger. “The first was the Spell of Unbending Rigiditosity.” He added a second upraised finger. “The second was just a tincture of Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch — you would not want to experience it in its undiluted grandeur. And the third…”

By this time a fire burned vertically through Dringo’s entrails. So great was the pruritus that he would have torn into his body to reach the source.

Lord Lychenbarr paused as if he had forgotten his train of thought. “Ahh…yes, I neglected to verbalize the third.” He laughed, and then spoke a complex chain of strange syllables.

At once, the room was filled with groans of relief. Dringo looked about the room and could see that they all had suffered as greatly as he.

Lord Lychenbarr continued without notice. “The third was Triskole’s Fundamental Reversal that removed the two previous spells. The ability to hold even one such spell in one’s mind requires much study and meticulous execution. To utter one mistaken pervulsion will cause unanticipated results. With that in mind we will begin with Amberlin’s Warning of Infinite Consequences, a precept critical to the structure of all spells.”

Their first day was a day of humiliation and mortification. Even Gasterlo, who all agreed was at least initially more skilled, was inept. Surprisingly, Dringo found Lord Lychenbarr’s lecture on theory comprehensible, although his first attempt at effecting a primary spell spectacularly futile. Yet, he didn’t feel overwhelmed, and a real glimmer of confidence began to form. As they filed from the room with Lord Lychenbarr’s exceedingly crude derision keeping pace with them, Dringo’s high spirits, however, were shattered.

“Dringo, I’ll see you in my chamber before your dinner,” Lord Lychenbarr commanded.

Well, he knew it was coming. The morning they departed the inn for the collegeum, the seven of them had planned how they might pull off the ruse. To better look the part of a young aristocrat, his friends had each donated a few pieces of fine clothing. Tryllo offered to vouch for Dringo. “You will be a distant relative whose family is highly regarded by my father,” suggested Tryllo. “The worse that will happen is that Lord Lychenbarr will place his boot up my arse right after he does the same to Dringo.” The story would be that Dringo’s father, a mighty magician, was delayed in hearing word of the formation of the school and had sent Dringo on while he would make arrangements with the Guild.

Entering Lord Lychenbarr’s chamber, Dringo stiffened his shoulders and tried to appear assured. “Lord Lychenbarr, you wished to speak to me?”