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Out of habit, Myranda braced herself as they left the dining hut, ready for a blast of cold, but none came. Anywhere else that Myranda had ever been would still have patches of snow at this time of year, but here it was heavenly. The air was cool, the breeze was mild.
There was something majestic about the waterfall to the west as it fell from ledge to ledge along a sheer cliff, finally reaching the ground to bathe a corner of the valley in its fine mist. The whole of the village was in a vast, half-moon-shaped valley. The curved side was composed of the cliffs of the mountain. On the other side, the ground dropped off sharply. Beyond that was ocean. The end result was a sparse village spread out over a piece of land the size of a large city, nestled in a notch cut into the endless forbidding seaward-face of the mountains. They were far too high to be seen by a passing ship, and Myranda had heard tales of the rough seas that plagued the east coast of the continent. It was no surprise that none had ever seen this place.
None, of course, but the people who now lived here. In a way, the people made the place all the more wonderful. In the north, there was naught but a mass of gray-cloaked forms. No faces, no conversation, just a cloak marching along, stopping here or there to spread the latest word of the war. Here, there was more than the scraps left by a war that had picked the populace clean. There were men, women, and children of all ages. More incredible, there were examples of virtually every race. Peoples she'd seen only a few examples of in her life were plentiful. Stocky dwarfs, graceful elves, and many she'd never seen before. Each spoke their own tongue, filling the air with a symphony of different languages. When approached, some were too busy, but most would offer a hello. Deacon would translate as pleasantries were exchanged, and they would be off.
Their wanderings took them to the Wizard's Side once more, and Deacon began to explain the different areas. There were the yellow-clad novices studying wind magic as a specialty. The people wearing aqua, most lingering near a small lake on the eastern edge of the village, were water wizards and their students. Those dressed in brown were focused on earth magic. Fire apprentices and instructors wore red. The white tunics belonged to healers, and those in black were the war wizards, black magic users.
When someone recognized Myranda as a newcomer, they would sometimes approach her and make a few remarks in their respective language, and Deacon would explain the circumstances of her arrival.
They were engaged in just such a conversation when they were rudely interrupted. Deacon had begun to brag about the spell he had cast on Myranda again, prompting more than a bit of concern from the white-robed elf he was talking to, when a pixie of some sort flitted up and positioned herself directly between them. She began to speak in an agitated manner. Her voice was musical, and the language was bizarre. It rose and fell in tone like the work of a talented flutist.
"All right, all right. Calm down. Yes, this is Myranda . . . Myranda, did you ask to be placed under Solomon's tutelage, or did he ask you?" Deacon asked.
"He asked me," she said.
"There, you see . . . Well, I don't know. Let me ask her . . . She cannot answer directly because she speaks Northern . . . Oh, it is not a vulgar language," he said.
"It is. Listen to me. I sound like an animal," the tiny creature said, shifting languages abruptly.
"You sound just fine. Myranda, this is Ayna. She recently earned the position of Highest Master of Wind Magic," he said.
As he spoke, Ayna was darting around Myranda, inspecting her from all angles. Myranda tried to turn to face her, but the fairy just flitted in another direction in a blur.
"You don't seem to be anything special," she said.
"I never claimed to be," Myranda replied.
"Still, Solomon has been at this for quite a while. He ought to know a prime pupil. It is just like him to snatch up the first good one in years. I want her first," Ayna declared.
"I'm afraid Solomon made it quite clear. He was to have her before all others," Deacon said.
"So I'll challenge him," she said. "Why should he get to influence the newcomers with his element and prejudice them against mine?"
"He holds seniority over you. He can take his pick of any student," Deacon said.
"Fine. I want her next. Immediately. I mean it, as soon as she passes his trial, that day I want her in my grove for her first lesson," Ayna said.
"I'll mark it down," Deacon said.
"See that you do. And you, Myranda. Don't let all of that fire nonsense cloud your mind. Air is the true essence of this world. Oh, and do ask Deacon here to teach you a decent language. It must be awful to be confined to this wretched little dialect," she said.
In a flash she was gone.
"What just happened?" Myranda asked.
"It would seem you are caught in a little power struggle. That makes two of the Highest Masters who have demanded you be passed right to them. This is a huge opportunity for you. If you pick things up quickly, you can trim years off of the path to mastery! Outstanding!" he said.
"Air magic, fire magic. I never said I wanted to learn anything like that. All I ever wanted was to heal people," Myranda said.
"Don't worry, you'll have your white magic training. It is actually the smallest of our areas of study. Not many white wizards found it necessary to experience trial by beast," he said. "But, in addition, we require that you reach at least a basic understanding of all four elemental magics. I believe I mentioned that."
"I am not sure I like her. Ayna, I mean," Myranda said.
"That's all right. By the time you're through with her you will be quite sure that you don't like her," he said.
"How comforting," she said flatly. "What are these buildings?"
Deacon looked about.
"Well, this hut is the home of Caloth. He is an apprentice to Twila right now. She is one of our few dedicated white wizards. That is the hut of Milla. She is fresh out of elemental training and working on her first steps into purely black magic," he said.
"Why do you allow black magic here?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't we? It is a vast and highly developed field," he said.
"But it is evil," she said.
"Oh, no. Magic is a tool. It is no more evil than a hammer or a saw. I see you are confused, and understandably. You see, there are as many different interpretations and classifications of magic as there are languages and peoples in this world. This can cause difficulty when there is a clash in the way magics are understood between Master and pupil. As a result, we have chosen one set of classes that we feel is most accurate and made it standard," he said.
"Go on," Myranda said.
"Well, black magic is first. Quoting our founder, 'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole intention of damaging or destroying a physical or spiritual form shall this day forward be known as black magic.' It is the mystic equivalent of a sword. It is only evil if it is used for evil, though I have been told the more common use of the phrase black magic in the outside world is as a blanket term for acts of evil through magic. Granted, it is the area that lends itself most readily to dark intentions," he said.
"Then white magic is the opposite? It heals," she said.
"'Any procedure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with the expressed and sole intention of healing or enhancing a physical or spiritual form shall this day forward be known as white magic,'" he quoted.
"Then why do you have people who specialize in fire and air?" she asked.
"Well, the pure magics are specifically non-elemental. Thus the four elements, in our system at least, are considered separately. Within each elemental class, spells are said to have white or black alignments if they are most commonly used to help or hurt, respectively. Either that or they are considered neutral, or gray," he said.
"Gray?" she asked.
Deacon tugged at his gray tunic.
"My specialty. In the words of our founder, 'Any proc
edure of non-elemental origin that directly manipulates mystic energies with no clear intention or ability to purely aid or injure shall this day forward be known as gray magic.' This is simultaneously the largest and most neglected of the classes of magic," he said.
"Why is that?" she asked.
"Well, gray magic is very much the basis, as well as the next logical extension of, all other magics. As a result, it is very intuitive, and all other wizards know at least a bit of it. A person who devotes his life to the study and development of gray magic is something akin to a chef who specializes in boiling water or a poet who specializes in punctuation. No one will deny the importance of the area, but few will call for work to be done to improve it," he said.
"Why did you become interested in it, then?" she wondered.
"It wasn't the subject that interested me, it was the practitioner. We had only one wizard who was at all versed in the complexities of gray. His name was Gilliam, and he seemed to have devoted his life to being as different from the rest of the world as possible. He was something of a scoundrel. You see, illusions are included in my area, and they were his forte. He could make it appear that he had done anything. Cure the sick, summon creatures, even raise the dead. None of it was real, but he made it seem so long enough to make off with the reward for solving the problem at hand.
"He entered the cave in hopes of conjuring up an illusion of the mythic beast so that he could chase it outside to kill in the view of all around, thus stealing the position of the world's finest warrior. He became lost on the return trip and ended in this place. Before long, he began to irritate the other people here. When I was growing up, I found him to be the most entertaining thing in my life. By the time I was old enough to know why he had no respect among us, I was already hopelessly addicted to his brand of magic," Deacon reminisced.
"Have you managed to add any respect to the field?" Myranda asked.
"I am only twenty-five. Gilliam died six years ago--and, unfortunately for me, he never recorded a single page of his methods. He resented the lack of respect that the others showed his work, so he kept his ways secret. Over the eight years that I studied under him, I managed to memorize the majority of what he had to teach, and I have been spending the years since his death scribing everything he taught. I have barely had time to develop a single spell of my own," he said.
"That spell you used on me, to help me after I got out of the water. What about that one?" she asked.
"That is one of mine . . . well, a variation on one of his. It is a specialized form of transformation," he said.
"Why does everyone seem concerned when they learn you tried it on me?" she said.
"Oh, don't listen to them. They want to chide me about the fact that I have been toying with the idea for so long. Also, transformation was the spell that killed Gilliam. Well, transubstantiation," he said.
"What!?" she gasped.
"Relax, I worked out the fatal flaws. At least, I think I did. You see, he used a full change in his version of transformation, and I use a shift. The difference is that when you cast a change, you must cast a counter spell to change back. When you cast a shift, the transformation ends when the spell ends," he said.
"What happened to him?" Myranda wondered, more than a bit disturbed at the potentially fatal spell she had been used to test.
"I'll show you," he said.
Myranda swallowed hard and followed as he led her to a small hut in the seaward portion of the village. Beside it was a statue, immaculately carved, of an elfin gentleman with his hands out. Hanging from one hand was a gold chain with a rather rough-cut crystal mounted in it.
"Behold, Gilliam," he said.
"A statue was made of him? Or . . ." she questioned, slowly realizing the truth. "Oh my goodness . . ."
"He wanted to show me how a man could change himself to stone and back again. He succeeded at half," he said. "Poor fellow started to change before he finished the spell. He foolishly cast it in the wrong order. As a result, he did not include the ability for his new form to store his consciousness, so when the change occurred, his soul just drifted away. I could change him back--I have discovered the method--but I would merely be bringing back his corpse. I thought this was a more fitting memorial," Deacon said.
"It's so sad," she said.
"Indeed. At any rate, his death left us without a gray Master, so the task fell to me," he said, "and it has consumed me ever since. I have seldom been asked to aid with the research of others, and I have never had a student. This is my life. Please, come inside."
He pushed open the door to the hut and the pair entered.
As soon as Deacon and Myranda crossed the threshold of the hut, a series of crystals mounted in lamps flared to life, filling the interior with light. Inside, there was a single room that resembled Wolloff's tower, in that it was utterly filled with books. Unlike the tower, though, there was order. All of the books were stored on shelves, the titles clearly inked, though in another language.
Vials and canisters were stored in a separate shelf with the utmost of care. In one corner, there was a bed that looked as though it hadn't been used in a week. At the center of the room was a desk with a crystal for light, an open book, and the only chair in the room. The immaculate room was in stark contrast to its resident. Deacon's dark brown hair was in a constant state of chaos. His clothes were in a terrible state of disrepair, and the side of his left hand was apparently permanently stained with ink.
He walked up to his desk, where a book with blank pages lay open.
"This is your hut?" she asked.
"Indeed it is," he answered as he led her inside. "Oh, no."
"What?" Myranda asked.
"I failed to refill the ink. I have to write at least a dozen pages over again," he said, selecting a canister from one of the shelves.
"What do you mean? How could you fail to notice that you had run out of ink until after you'd written pages?" she asked.
"Oh, I wasn't writing in this book, I was writing in this one," Deacon explained, pulling the ubiquitous tome from his bag and laying it on the table.
Myranda gave a long, confused stare.
"Watch," he said.
First, he refilled the ink. Next, He opened the book from his bag and pulled the stylus from behind his ear. After flipping through his book to see that there were far more than a dozen pages to be recorded, he found the first page and began to trace over the first word. As he did so, the quill on the desk rose up and dipped itself in the ink. It then floated to the blank page and began to duplicate the strokes made by the original. Deacon reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew the crystal. Clutching it briefly, he removed his hand from the stylus. Without skipping a beat, the stylus continued tracing over the words on its own. He stood back with a smile as the words from the page were transcribed automatically.
"Had I been bright enough to keep the ink bottle filled, this would have been finished just a few moments after I had stopping writing in my travel book," he grumbled.
"That is incredible!" she said.
"If that is incredible, then you are quite easily impressed. I was able to perform that particular feat when I was twelve years old," he said, putting the crystal away.
"Twelve!? When did you start learning magic?" she asked.
"Shortly after I was born. As a matter of fact, my first words were an incantation. I believe that it was . . . Oh, what did they tell me? Illuminate. I would babble the words over and over and the little crystal that they had given me would start to glow," he said.
"This is a wonderful place," Myranda said, walking about and looking over the books.
"Now that I can agree with," Deacon said, turning to make certain that the page automatically turned as it should.
"Did you write all of these?" Myranda asked.
"Well, I wouldn't say that I was the author, but I put ink to my former teacher's ideas," he said.
"And they are all on the same subject?" she wondered.
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"Well, different shades, but all gray," he answered.
"Then why are the titles in different languages?" she asked, as she leafed through a book to discover a language that she absolutely could not identify.
"Oh, that. Well, as you have no doubt noticed, very few people here speak the same language. One of the policies of our founder requires each resident of Entwell to learn to understand each and every other language. In this way, everyone may speak whatever language that he or she is most comfortable with without fear of being misunderstood. I, for one, was fascinated with the different tongues. Language became something of a hobby for me, and I am Entwell's unofficial expert on it. To stay sharp, I alternate which language I use with each book," he said.
"But I speak Northern and Tresson. I was unaware that there were different languages to be had," she said.
"Perhaps not now, but our village has existed for six hundred years. Until the war started, there were eleven languages in common use on this continent alone. The language known as Northern was originally called Varden. It was spoken in Kenvard and Ulvard, though the Ulvardians spoke a different dialect. Vulcrest spoke a language called Crich. The eight kingdoms that make up the Tressor region spoke nine different languages prior to joining together.
"Then there are the small continents to the east and their languages. And, of course, the dead languages. There are a handful of non-spoken languages, as well. Finally, there are the beast languages. All told, there are no less than thirty, and I know them all," he said.
"You should be proud," she said.
"I am," he said.
Myranda was mystified by the number of books as she looked around. Wolloff had had his share, to be sure, but these were all hand-written by Deacon himself. The amount of work it must have taken was mind boggling.
"I have only been to two libraries. One was in a monastery to the west of my former hometown. The other was just recently in the tower of a wizard called Wolloff. This puts Wolloff's collection to shame, and rivals the monastery," she said.
"It is not a contest. This is merely how I have chosen to fill my days," he said. "Now as for--"
There was a knock at the still-open doorway that interrupted him. It was one of the many men that Myranda had seen milling about in the village as they were walking earlier. He delivered some sort of handwritten message to Deacon, who thanked him in what must have been his native language. After reading the note, he folded it and placed it in his pocket.
"Well, the time has come. The Elder wants to see the newcomers now. Let us not keep her waiting," he said.