A Game of Universe (14 page)

“Everyone here seems to have crystals for sale,” he said and smiled. “All right, young man, let us see your wares.” He knelt to my level and took the cigar box I held out to him. His eyes widened when he saw the near-perfect specimen.

“This one,” he whispered, “is exquisite. Did you find any of the broken points when you unearthed it?”

I pointed to the three finger-sized shards lying loose in the box.

“So …” He took one and placed it back into its proper spot on the cluster, murmured a word, then released the needle. It remained attached. He had put together what I had broken! Two more words of magic, and the stone was perfect again.

“I did not waste my time coming here after all,” he said. “Where is your father, young man, so I may pay him for this.”

“You’d know if I lied to you, wouldn’t you?” I asked naively. “You’re a wizard, right?”

“We call ourselves muses,” he replied, still kneeling at my level and still wearing his Christmas smile. “But if you like, wizard will do.”

“I have to get away from my father, today. I’d rather go out into the wastes and die than go back. You can have it, for free. All I ask is that you take me with you.”

His smile evaporated. “You are serious.” He considered a moment, glanced at the perfect crystal, then back to me. “I suppose your father would ask a much higher price, wouldn’t he? One I would not wish to pay.”

He gently touched the side of my head. A tingle like static electricity spread across my scalp and down my spine. “Normally, I would not consider such a thing, but you have the natural aptitude, my boy, and something tells me you truly would rather die than stay here.” He looked about quickly and replaced the perfect crystal in the box. “Come then, I have need of a new apprentice. Would you like that?”

I smiled for the first time in years and took his hand.

10

H
is name was Abaris, and he took me away from Hades, to the world of Sansport where he owned a secluded island. Tropical forests, beaches of black sand, and great expansive reefs were all his.

“You have a wonderful castle,” I said.

The tea service sensed his interest and floated closer to his open hand. He let it pour, then offered me a plate of lemon wedges and sugar cubes. “I find it adequate,” he replied.

What was adequate for Abaris was an oriental castle of granite, carved rosewood timbers, and every roof a rainbow of slate. It was a fairy pagoda. Surrounding the seven sides of the castle was a wall of coral blocks, and on the seven corners rose seven towers into the sky. Beneath them shimmered a courtyard paved with seven-sided tiles of pure silver, smoky quartz, and malachite, cobbled into a mosaic image of a great coiled dragon, encircling and protecting his home from sinister forces.

We sat on the second level of the palace, in a chamber that was empty save two cane chairs, the cart with the tea service on it, and a polished white pine floor beneath our bare feet. Two of the walls were rows of open windows that let the breeze from the jungles breathe in and out, and made the translucent gauze curtains ripple like water. It was clean unprocessed air. I wasn’t used to the smell, fresh, and without the odor of a week’s worth of perspiration mixed in. It made me light-headed.

Abaris sat with his back to the only windowless wall, a sheet of rice paper painted with a flock of cranes, snowcapped mountains, and tiny farmers planting fields in the valley below. Embossed in the corner were two symbols that glowed a faint coppery color (which I later learned were the runes of
Security
and
Mastery).
He sipped quietly from his cup, then said, “We must decide what to do with you, Germain. How you wish to be paid for your crystal.” The twenty-pointed stone lay on a cushion next to the teapot. It looked smaller somehow in these exotic surroundings, ordinary. Abaris waited a moment, perhaps expecting me to suggest something, then he continued, “I require the stone to enhance my summoning and control of the spirits of the earth. We work together on distant worlds, moving mountains, digging valleys, and shifting tectonic plates, so others can live there.”

I knew Philosopher Stones changed lead into gold, but to move mountains? It was a magic I never suspected. No wonder the miners of Hades were paid fortunes for them.

Squeezing a bit of lemon into his tea, he gave me a careful look, and said, “Here is what I propose: in exchange for the crystal, I will train you as my apprentice. To be truthful, I need a young man to aid me in my research projects. In return for your help, I shall educate you in the principles of magic. If the arrangement works, you may become proficient in a score of years, and in time, who can tell, perhaps a full muse as I am.”

“And if I refuse?” I had no intention of doing so, but wanted to see how he’d react.

“Then I shall pay you a fair price for the crystal and send you to the world of your choice. You should have sufficient funds to lead a comfortable life, or if you regret leaving your home, I can send you back.”

I frowned at that last option.

“I see within you the requisite traits a career in magic demands,” he said. “And you would be foolish to waste them.”

“Traits?”

“Magic is not an easy thing. It requires a discipline few men have, a discipline that is born from either inspiration or desperation.” He glanced away; his eyes unfocused, perhaps recalling his own inspiration or desperation.

“Why?” I asked and finished the rest of the tea that tasted of mint and honey and jasmine. ‘“What is so hard about it?”

His gaze refocused. “Good, curiosity is also needed. I shall tell you of magic then.” He paused to pour me another cup of the delightful tea. “There are two ways to change the universe. You, Germain, have experience with the first way, namely, pure physical force. Move a rock or eat a peach and the universe is forever altered. The magnitude of change is minuscule, yes, but it is changed nonetheless.

“The other way is to use one’s mind alone, and to alter the fabric of reality by pure thought. This is difficult. To strengthen one’s mind to move a single stone is harder than moving a million by hand. Those who do this are called psychologists, and they are born with their abilities. They can not only move stones, but read thoughts, and intuit the future.

“How muses influence the universe, however, lies in between these two methods. A muse trains his mind yes, but where the psychologist looks into himself, we look to the outer world, to nature. We tap the forces of the cosmos with our rituals.”

He sipped his tea, then added, “Muses do not have to be born with any particular abilities, merely the desire to learn.

“Regrettably, most do not believe in magic. The loss is theirs.” He sighed. “They think what we do akin to psychology. They fear the unknown, which is where our powers are truly derived. We delve into the mysterious unfathomable universe.”

He drained his cup and set it aside.

“And the psychological community mistrusts us. They claim we tap our subconscious minds, and that we are a danger to their well-ordered understanding of nature. They, too, do not believe there is a thing called magic. But there is.”

“Can you make people vanish? Make coins dance in your hand?”

“I suppose, yes,” he said. “But those are the lowest of magics. I shall teach you to call the winds, to peer into the past and see the empires lost centuries ago, to transform your shape to that of a bird of blue flames, and to walk among the stars themselves without your body.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, eager to hear more.

Abaris’s smile deflated and he whispered, “However, all these magics are won at a great cost, and this is what I wish to tell you of before you commit yourself. I would not fool you into believing this business is all glory.”

From the teapot, he removed a gold tassel and a braided cord of green silk. This loop he held limp, between his index finger and thumb, so the tassel hung exactly in the middle. “This,” he said, “shall represent an untrained mind. To master a piece of magic, one must study the underlying concepts.” While he explained, he took the spoon from his saucer and inserted it into the loop, rotated it once, and twisted the cord. “You must study the physical theories of each enchantment”—another twist—“the scientific principles”—another twist—“the philosophies”— twist—“the histories”—twist—“until you know as much as you possibly can about the magic”—three more twists. The loop of green silk was coiled tight now, taut, and only the spoon kept it from unraveling.

“See how the string is ready to unwind? With each turn of the spoon I have imprinted more of the magic upon my mind. When cast, I release that stored energy. It might take years to reach this point when one knows enough, and there is a risk.”

“A risk? Can you be injured?”

“No, never injured, but worse, disappointed. If you are impatient, and if your mind is poorly trained, or has not embraced all aspects of the enchantment, you will lose it upon its first casting.” He withdrew the spoon and the string unraveled in a blur. “Then it is gone, and you must begin again.”

“Years of study for one piece of magic? You can do it once, then it’s gone?”

“Sometimes. But if your mind has been correctly trained and the knowledge securely anchored with mnemonic constructs, then it will stay, etched into your memory.”

“How long does it take?” I asked. “You said years? And how often do you lose one?”

“Perhaps three or four years of study for a simple ritual,” he replied, “but this is highly variable depending upon the complexity of the magic, and the intellect of the student. I once took half a century to learn
The Silver Fairy’s Incantation for Nonlinear Gravity.”
He sighed and shook his head. “And I lost it upon its first release. It was an extremely frustrating experience.”

“Half a century?” I murmured. Abaris looked seventy, maybe seventy-five if his life was a soft one. I rarely saw old men on Hades. The mining either killed them or it made them rich and they left. “How old are you?”

He set the tassel atop the teapot. “Next month I shall be five hundred and thirty years old. I have had two long-life treatments, and I expect I shall need another in a decade or so.”

“Life extension costs a fortune …”

“The magic business may be tedious,” he told me, “but it is lucrative.”

Riches, magic, and adventure. How could I refuse? Studying didn’t scare me—at least, that’s what I thought at the time. But a tinge of guilt nagged me, about Mike. Maybe that jar of peaches just knocked him out. Maybe he was stuck there on Hades with Dad. He’d have to work the fields for the rest of his life. No. I’d not feel guilty. Mike had been ready to leave me there.

“OK,” I said and offered my hand. Abaris took it and shook with a strength I found surprising for one over five hundred years old. “It’s a deal.”

“Good. Your time shall be divided in the following manner,” he said. “One third day you shall have for rest, sleep, and meals. One third shall be dedicated to your personal studies, and the remainder of the time you shall aid me in my research. Additionally, five days in thirty shall be yours to do with as you see fit, and I shall give you a stipend to spend in the nearby city. A young man cannot live solely on books.”

“Five days off? In a row if I want?”

Abaris nodded.

I’d never had so much free time. And money to call my own? A place to spend it? Luxuries I never had before. It made my head spin more than the fresh air.

“Come, before we lose the moment,” he said, “let us choose your first magic.” He led me downstairs, and across the courtyard, ablaze with the blue sun reflecting off silver tiles and green dragon scales under our feet. To one of the seven towers we went, then up four stories we spiraled, Abaris towing me along, into a small chamber lined from floor to ceiling with books and scrolls. Spines of polished leather stamped with gold letters were neatly alphabetized on the shelves. It had a scent I was unfamiliar with, aging paper and burnt candles.

“These are the simple enchantments I know,” he explained.

“You know all these?”

He laughed. “You misunderstand. There is not one for each book. One piece of magic fills volumes of text, and those are merely the notes. It will take more than reading these to master a piece of mnemonic lore. Go ahead.” He gently pushed me forward. “Pick one, my new apprentice.”

I approached timidly, and tilted my head sideways to get a better look at the titles:
LaBella’s Hypothetical Zephyr, Clark’s Postulate of Enchanted Air, Lithe’s Pleasant Supposition,
and on and on they continued, marching along the walls, a litany of magic, a list of enchantments. My finger ran along the spines of the texts, over leather scales, and soft buckskin, over characters and symbols yet unknown to me. Across one wall, my finger wandered, then down two shelves, and halfway along that, then stopped.

“This one,” I declared, not really knowing what my finger rested upon.

Abaris removed the manuscript and read, “
Marbane’s Ocular Enhancer.
An excellent first choice. When you master it, you shall be able to see in absolute darkness as if it were daylight, and in daylight, your eyes will be keener than a falcon’s. You shall be able to read a book from half a kilometer, and see the motes of dust floating before you. It will also protect your eyes from blindness.”

I grinned. “May I see it?”

“Take them all,” he said and pointed to six other volumes on the shelf.

Abaris froze and I sensed the presence of a ghost in the room.

It was not exactly what you expected, was it?
Necatane asked.

“Get lost,” I muttered. “I am enjoying this.”

Tell me of your studies,
he inquired, and ignored my protest.
You muses are notoriously boring. Tell me what you went through, so I don’t have to personally witness the tiresome process.

“Studying was drudgery,” I admitted. “It was worse than any labor on Hades, but I loved it. It became an addiction for me.”

First there was Abaris’s research to occupy my time. Often, I never understood why he made me search the medical databases for the genetic code of the mystical cockatrice, or why I had to download an article on energy fluctuations in deuterium nebulas, or why I had to reproduce, by hand, an illuminated text in a language I didn’t know. But I dutifully performed these tasks for my Master.

That’s when I found
Le Conte de Graal, Le Morte D’Arthur, Tristan und Isolde,
and all the legends of ancient Earth—the knights, their battles, their loves, and their betrayals. I relished them. For three months, I read nothing but stories of jousts and castles, dragons and damsels in distress. I pretended I was squire to the Black, Red, and Green Knights.

But what of your ocular enhancer?

I read the seven volumes of notes, each one as thick as my hand turned sideways. You could stack them on top of each other and sit upon them. They made a decent stool. But that first reading proved to be an exercise in misunderstanding. Abaris explained that I should understand light, as the enchantment dealt with vision and darkness.

So I studied light.

Elementary quantum mechanics, that was a disaster, so I took a mental step back and pursued mathematics, the language of physics. After six months of nothing but math I returned to the quantum principles. I learned light was both wave and particle, that it could be scattered and absorbed, emitted and reinforced. A wondrous versatile thing light is. Then on to darkness; I studied the physiological effects of the absence of light. I learned of worlds that were forever eclipsed, and of the life that evolved there in the frozen shadows.

This took me a year. I reread the seven volumes, this time understanding well into the second book. I approached Abaris, ready to try the ocular enhancer, but he directed me to study the biology of sight next. Rods and cones, color theories, electronic transmission through the nervous system, even the other senses that one used when sight was lost, I learned. That was another year of work. I could comprehend up to the fifth volume of his notes.

When I again approached Abaris, he shook his head and directed me to master the philosophy of perception. That was the most difficult to understand. It proposed that one defined his own universe by what he saw and what he thought. All else (according to the modem philosophers) was nonexistent.