keep the wind out.’
Kulgan looked impressed. ‘It’s a novel idea, Pug. It might work. I’ll speak to the smith in the morning and get his opinion on the matter. I wonder that no one thought of it before.’
Feeling pleased with himself for having thought of the chimney, Pug resumed his studies. He reread a passage that had caught his eye before, puzzling over an ambiguity. Finally he looked up at the magician and said, ‘Kulgan.’
‘Yes, Pug?’ he answered, looking up from his book.
‘Here it is again. Magician Lewton uses the same cantrip here as Marsus did, to baffle the effects of the spell upon the caster, directing it to an external target.’ Placing the large tome down so as not to lose his place, he picked up another. ‘But here Dorcas writes that the use of this cantrip blunts the spell, increasing the chance that it will not work. How can there be so much disagreement over the nature of this single construction?’
Kulgan narrowed his gaze a moment as he regarded his student. Then he sat back, taking a long pull on his pipe, sending forth a cloud of blue smoke. ‘It shows what I’ve said before, lad. Despite any vanity we magicians might feel about our craft, there’s really very little order or science involved. Magic is a collection of folk arts and skills passed along from master to apprentice since the beginning of time. Trial and error, trial and error is the way. There has never been an attempt to create a system for magic, with laws and rules and axioms that are well understood and widely accepted.’ He looked thoughtfully at Pug. ‘Each of us is like a carpenter, making a table, but each of us choosing different woods, different types of saws, some using pegs and dowel, others using nails, another dovetailing joints, some staining, others not . . . in the end there’s a table, but the means for making it are not the same in each case.
‘What we have here is most likely an insight about the limits of each of these venerable sages you study, rather than any sort of prescription for magic. For Lewton and Marsus, the cantrip aided the construction of the spell; for Dorcas, it hindered.’
‘I understand your example, Kulgan, but I’ll never understand how these magicians all could do the same thing, but in so many different ways. I understand that each of them wanted to achieve his end and found a different means, but there is something missing in the manner they did it.’
Kulgan looked intrigued. ‘What is missing, Pug?’
The boy looked thoughtful. ‘I . . . I don’t know. It’s as if I expect to find something that will tell me, “This is the way it must be done, the only way,” or something like that. Does that make any sense?’
Kulgan nodded. ‘I think I know you well enough to understand. You have a very well-ordered mind, Pug. You understand logic far better than most, even those much older than yourself. You see things as a system, rather than as a haphazard collection of events. Perhaps that is part of your trouble.’
Pug’s expression showed his interest in what the magician was saying. Kulgan continued. ‘Much of what I am trying to teach is based on a system of logic, cause and effect, but much is not. It is like trying to teach someone to play the lute. You can show them the fingering of the strings, but that knowledge alone will not make a great troubadour. It is the art, not the scholarship, that troubles you.’
‘I think I understand, Kulgan.’ He sounded dispirited.
Kulgan stood up. ‘Don’t dwell on it; you are still young, and I have hope for you yet.’ His tone was light, and Pug felt the humor in it.
‘Then I am not a complete loss?’ he said with a smile.
‘Indeed not.’ Kulgan looked thoughtfully at his pupil. ‘In fact, I have the feeling that someday you may use that logical mind of yours for the betterment of magic.’
Pug was a little startled. He did not think of himself as one to accomplish great things.
Shouts came through the window, and Pug hurried to look out. A troop of guards was running toward the front gate. Pug turned to Kulgan. ‘The elves must be coming! The guard is out.’
Kulgan said, ‘Very well. We are done with study for this day. There will be no holding you until you get a look at the elves. Run along.’
Pug raced out the door and down the stairs. He took them two at a time, jumping to the bottom of the tower landing over the last four and hitting the floor at a full run. He dashed through the kitchen and out the door. As he rounded the keep to the front courtyard, he found Tomas standing atop a hay wagon. Pug climbed up next to him, to be better able to see the arrival over the heads of the curious keep folk gathered around.
Tomas said, ‘I thought you weren’t coming, thought you’d be locked away with your books all day.’
Pug said, ‘I wouldn’t miss this. Elves!’
Tomas playfully dug his elbow into Pug’s side. ‘Haven’t you had your fill of excitement for this week?’
Pug threw him a black look. ‘If you’re so indifferent, why are you standing in the rain on this wagon?’
Tomas didn’t answer. Instead he pointed. ‘Look!’
Pug turned to see the guard company snap to attention as riders in green cloaks entered through the gate. They rode to the main doors of the keep, where the Duke waited. Pug and Tomas watched in awe, for they rode the most perfect white horses the boys had ever seen, using no saddle or bridle. The horses seemed untouched by wetness, and their coats glowed faintly; whether by some magic, or a trick of the grey afternoon light, Pug couldn’t tell. The leader rode on an especially grand animal, full seventeen hands in height, with a long flowing mane and a tail like a plume. The riders reared the mounts in salute, and an audible intake of breath could be heard from those in the crowd.
‘Elf steeds,’ said Tomas, in hushed tones. The horses were the legendary mounts of the elves. Martin Longbow had once told the boys they lived in hidden, deep glades near Elvandar. It was said they possessed intelligence and a magic nature, and no human could sit their backs. It was also said that only one with royal elvish blood could command them to carry riders.
Grooms rushed forward to take the horses, but a musical voice said, ‘There is no need.’ It came from the first rider, the one mounted on the greatest steed. She jumped nimbly down, without aid, landing lightly on her feet, and threw back her hood, revealing a mane of thick reddish hair. Even in the gloom of the afternoon rain it appeared to be shot through with golden highlights. She was tall, nearly a match for Borric. She mounted the steps as the Duke came forward to meet her.
Borric held out his hands and took hers in greeting. ‘Welcome, my lady; you do me and my house a great honor.’
The Elf Queen said, ‘You are most gracious, Lord Borric.’ Her voice was rich and surprisingly clear, able to carry over the crowd so that all in the courtyard could hear. Pug felt Tomas’s hand clutching his shoulder. He turned to see a rapt expression on Tomas’s face. ‘She’s beautiful,’ said the taller boy.
Pug returned his attention to the welcome. He was forced to agree that the Queen of the elves was indeed beautiful, if not in entirely human terms. Her eyes were large and a pale blue, nearly luminous in the gloom. Her face was finely chiseled, with high cheekbones and a strong but not masculine jaw. Her smile was full, and her teeth shone white between almost-red lips. She wore a simple circlet of gold around her brow, which held back her hair, revealing the lobeless, upswept ears that were the hallmark of her race.
The
