The End of Magic - Chapter 12
Oct. 6th, 2020 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desastristaThe End of Magic is an original multichaptered fantasy work that I am currently publishing on both AO3 and Dreamwidth. You can find the master post of all chapters here or just click the "end of magic" tag. (AO3 link here)
The ambassador was to meet with them early in the morning. Ozal left for the Palace well before first light, but still he somehow found that Gokberk and Tolga bajedi had both still somehow arrived before him. The two men sat on simple cushions in a small room near the front entrance of the barracks, sipping tea and deep in discussion with their Mucevheden standing attentively behind them.
“Ah, Ozal bajedi, there you are,” Tolga called out. The conversation between the two stopped as soon as Ozal entered the room. He tried not to let that fact weigh too heavily on him as he returned the Imperial Magician’s greeting. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Kadim shift his weight uneasily between his feet. Still, his Mucevhed procured a cushion -- plain and practical, if not a little lumpy -- and Ozal took his seat with some care.
He took a long look around the room. Tolga bajedi really intended the Vaspahanian ambassador to call on them here and not within the Palace walls. Apparently it did not matter that every inch of the Palace had been carefully crafted to impress utterly upon every onlooker the strength and power of the Nasinbat Empire. Not did it matter that the barracks had only ever been an afterthought, meant to house and quarter soldiers and give them space to train but nothing more. The barracks were where Tolga bajedi intended to conduct his diplomatic affairs. That was the Imperial Magician’s decree.
And now it fell on Ozal to make pleasantries. Failing to find anything polite to say about the surroundings or even the situation, he turned to Tolga bajedi and asked, with deliberate blandness, “Is there anything you would like to discuss before the Ambassador arrives?”
“Oh, it will be obvious when you’re needed,” Tolga answered dismissively, and Ozal bit down on his tongue to avoid asking the Imperial Magician if he thought him a dog or a Mucevhed to be called in such a way.
An uneasy quiet fell over the room. Ozal kept his silence; these days it felt like the only thing the Stand would allow him to keep. He thanked the Mother for showing mercy when a young cadet entered and announced the arrival of the Vaspahnian ambassador and his entourage.
So much of the world had changed since Ozal had last lain sights on Ardeshir, but somehow the man looked exactly as he remembered. An older man with more white in his beard than black, he wore a robe delicately embroidered with a hundred flowers and was flanked on either side by soldiers who wore their daggers openly at their hips.
The Ambassador greeted Tolga and Gokberk with perfect decorum in Kardehirden, but his expression changed when he saw Ozal. “You really are back!” he said, switching briefly back to Vaspahanian. “I had heard you were still not recovered. I am glad to see you walking. What a tragedy that Eryadin bajedi could not be by your side. I have sent my own and my empire’s condolences to his widow -- and to your dear sister, as well.”
The words were spoken with the kind of carefully crafted sincerity that Ozal had long ago learned not to trust. Still he nodded back in deference, giving his thanks without enthusiasm. Remembering the militant white of Alev janum’s veil, he wondered what other varieties of Kadehirden responses the ambassador had already received.
He was surprised, though, when Gokberk stiffened at the exchange. “Of course,” Ardeshir said at once, switching back to his lightly accented Kadehirden, “You must forgive an old man his habits.”
Ozal blinked. It had been a special point of pride for Eryadin bajedi that negotiations could take place in either Kadehirden or Vaspaharian. “The truth in both languages,” he had been fond of saying. Left unsaid, that there would be secrets in neither.
The new ambassador did not seem to share this philosophy. He appeared not to even know how to speak Vaspaharian. Ozal could not help but wonder what secrets flowered under that ignorance.
“I summoned you today to discuss the matter of the new Vaspahanian ships spotted by some of our sailors.” Tolga spoke with an air of imperial benevolence. Ozal watched how the ambassador’s mouth twitched. Ardeshir was older than Tolga bajedi, but not by much -- yet he smiled like a father indulging a child.
“You summoned me, yes,” he agreed. It was mockery, pure and simple. Ozal could hear its bite in every word. And still Tolga bajedi did nothing. Ozal felt his heart sinking. “I had heard reports. My sailors said one of your ships tried to follow -- one of your magicians must have given his little slave quite the fright, trying to keep up.”
“I remember this,” Ozal said at once. The Vaspahanians had done something to their ship -- changed the sail or the rigging perhaps, no one could ever get close enough to learn how it was done -- that made them sail much faster, almost beyond the capacity of the Kadehirden navy. Before, Eryadin bajedi had been trying to convince the Vaspahanian ambassador to keep them out of Kadehirden waters, but the negotiations had been so painfully slow.
It apparently had taken no time at all for everything to unravel.
Ardeshir glanced at Ozal with something close to sympathy. “The situation has changed,” was all the other man said.
“In the past, not enough was done to stop these Vaspahanian ships.” Gokberk said every word like a curse. His eyes were on Ozal, and they held no pity at all. “I assure you, those days are at an end.”
“Is that so?” Ardeshir asked, one eyebrow raised and a dangerous undertone to his voice. “And how do you intend to stop us, bajedi?”
“Perhaps you have gotten better at harnessing the wind, but we still control it.”
“I have seen your wind-binding. It is really something special.” Tolga and Gokberk nodded, but even the praise sounded dangerous when spoken by the Vaspahanian. “But the truth is,” Ardeshir continued, with a self-satisfied note, “we have all seen it before and it has hardly been enough to stop us. And if you would like to bring your fleet closer and really try your luck, I beg you to ask yourself: which weapon do you think takes longer to produce -- your magicians or our cannonballs?”
A long, terrible silence greeted the Vaspahanian ambassador. Ardeshir was a good man, and only let himself revel in their speechlessness for half a second before he made to stand. “I remain, as ever,” he bowed, “your humble servant.” Ozal wondered that Tolga bajedi did not strike him.
Minutes after Ardeshir left, Tolga muttered to himself, “The Shadow take the man.”
The days had started to become a blur by the time it seemed they had finally reached the end of Ozal’s patience. The magician had left early in the morning for the Palace on an unknown errand and only arrived back just as Ahmad was about to take his leave for the library.
“Have you been able to find anything?” Ozal asked as he took his customary seat in the main sitting room and Kadim stood at attention behind him. Hesitating for a moment, he continued, “With all its resources, it seems the Library should have had something.”
The skin around the older magician’s eyes and mouth seemed thinner than it had before. His face was starting to acquire the lines only a much older man should wear. Whatever had happened at the Palace, it had evidently exhausted their host.
Mahir wondered what his own face looked like. It was a particular kind of exhaustion, wading through a hopeless muddle of spells and magical theory and everything else the Stand had collected even as he had long ago resigned himself to failure. But he hoped he at least did not wear his despondency so clearly on his features. It would be unfitting for a Mucevhed.
Still, Ahmad knew how he felt, of course, in that quiet way that Ahmad always seemed to know so much about Mahir. And no matter how much he denied it to Mahir, Ahmad had also lately been wearing his own particular weariness.
“We found one spell,” his master answered slowly. “But it does not work.”
It does not work was one way to describe the situation. The spell and its description had left Ahmad puzzled and Mahir worse than despondent.
“What do you mean, it does not work?” Ozal frowned. “If a scholar of the Stand took the time to record it, surely it must do something. Is it not a suitable spell for your purposes?”
Something flickered in Ahmad’s expression. “Maybe you explain,” he said, with more interest than Mahir had heard from him in what felt like a long time.
Ozal did not appear to wholly share in that enthusiasm. “You need my help with something?”
“I am surprised you are not more excited to delve into magical theory with Ahmad bajedi,” a voice chimed in from underneath the doorway. Nadide had evidently heard her brother’s arrival and come to greet him.
“If it is magical theory, perhaps --,” Ozal started. He still looked unconvinced. Mahir wondered why the other magician would be so hesitant. Perhaps Mahir was just hearing his own hesitation in Ozal’s voice.
Either way, Ahmad did not wait for the man to finish. “I do not understand the spell,” he said, sitting down across from Ozal. He leaned forward in the cushion, having evidently made up his mind that the magician in front of him could solve the problem that had plagued him since they had first returned from the library.
“If this is a problem of translation, I must tell you that unfortunately there will be few, if any, books written in Wakamiri that might help you --”
Ahmad waved aside the commentary. “It is not that. First, the spell says --” Ahmad scrunched his face, as if straining to remember. “Focus on a place. Pull the magic towards you, and draw on the memory of that place. That is it, Mahir, yes?”
He ignored their host to turn towards his Mucevhed. Mahir tried to keep the heat from rising to his face. He nodded quickly, hoping to deflect the attention from himself as much as possible.
“His memory is better than mine,” Ahmad said to Ozal, as if that could possibly explain the insult of what he had done.
“Yes, I see,” Ozal replied in a thin voice. He had probably long ago resigned himself to the certain oddities of his strange guest from the outer provinces. “And then?”
“Draw the magic forth and use it to make a circle. Within, you will see the events before your eyes.”
Recitation over, Ahmad looked at Ozal expectantly. The magician seemed to contemplate for a minute, his brows knit together. Mahir felt his heart sink. Who could help them now? But then the man added, “I am not sure I understand. The spell seems simple enough. What is your difficulty?”
“Ah!” Ahmad cried out in excitement. “Well. I show you.”
Mahir felt the distinct pull that meant Ahmad was drawing on his magic. He waited with baited breath. They had tried several times before, but something always seemed to go wrong. Even now, he watched a flicker of light come to life in Ahmad’s hand. But then his master made a circling motion and the spark vanished.
“I see,” Ozal said dryly, his chin resting on his hand. For a minute, he seemed lost in contemplation. No one else in the room dared disturb him. At last, he concluded, “Nadide, you should leave.”
Nadide drew herself up to her full height, as if preparing for a confrontation. “I am curious to see how the spell is done,” she said with a deliberate mildness that stood in stark contrast to the tension that Mahir could see in her frame.
Ozal might have seen it too, if he had bothered to spare his sister a second glance. Instead, his attention was back on Ahmad. “This is not meant to be an amusement. And while the odds of a spell going wrong are negligible, when a student is attempting to learn a new skill, there is always a risk --”
“I trust you and Ahmad bajedi.” Nadide gave a smile that bared her teeth. Ozal let out a sigh of badly concealed exasperation, but seemed to decide the matter was not worth the trouble. When he said nothing more, Mahir watched Nadide relax in her barely observed victory.
“There is a certain category of spells that require the magician to continuously draw on his Mucevhed’s magic and contain it to one spot. Weather-binding, for example. This spell is another. Up to now, it is likely that the magic that you have done only requires you to pull once from your Mucevhed. For that kind of spell, you draw all the magic required at once and you use it for the task at hand -- be it moving an item in the air or whatever trick you want to achieve. But with this class of spellwork, you will need to mete out the magic slowly, to avoid overwhelming your Mucevhed. Then you will gather the magic in one spot -- a circle, perhaps, like this spell calls for -- and use it for what you will.”
Ahmad still looked uncertain. Ozal concluded, with the slightest touch of petulance, “You would have been taught this in the first year at the Stand, had they accepted you. It is not particularly advanced.”
“Did you get all that?” Ahmad turned around to ask Mahir in Wakamiri. “If I fail, I’d rather ask you to explain what I did wrong. You’re much more concise.”
Mahir’s tongue lay twisted in his throat. The look that Ozal gave Ahmad was so barbed that Mahir wondered that his master did not feel its point. He had to do something to make amends. “My master wishes to ask you --” he started, turning towards Ozal in a half-bow, trying desperately to come up with a lie that was polite enough to justify saying anything at all.
By the Mother’s mercy, the older magician barely noticed him. Instead, he stared at Ahmad. Light was pooling in Ahmad's right palm. Unlike previous attempts, when he moved his hand, the light followed, leaving a trail of white floating gently behind.
“Look, Mahir!” Ahmad said. Mahir lifted the corner of his lips, tried to force his muscles to remember what it was to smile. He felt something odd. This was not the usual pull he knew from when Ahmad called on his magic. His side hurt. It was not like anything he had experienced, at least nothing recent, and the longer the spell lasted the worse it seemed to get.
“That’s exactly it,” Ozal encouraged. “Now, all you have to do is draw a circle --”
A bead of sweat clung to the edge of Mahir’s skullcap. Ahmad seemed to notice that something was amiss, but when he turned to see what was the matter, Mahir responded only with a smile and an encouraging nod. The initial shock had faded. Ahmad should not worry. After all, Mahir reasoned to himself, this pain was nothing. When Mahir had still been in the nursery, his teachers had told him repeatedly it would sting, those first few times when he master drew on his magic. But he should not worry -- it would ease as his master improved. The pain did not feel like it was easing now, maybe, but this was just part of Ahmad’s magical education. In learning to draw on Mahir’s magic continuously, it seemed he was taking more than he knew. But it was not Mahir’s place to complain. What had they always said in the nursery? That he should be brave, and above all else, that he was not to complain. It would just be making a nuisance of himself.
And when they were finally, finally making progress on this spell, the last thing that Mahir wanted was to make a nuisance of himself.
Ahmad had done as Ozal instructed, and his reward was a white circle that hung lazily in the air. Ahmad and Ozal both stared greedily into it. Mahir could only catch a faint glimpse, but he was pretty sure he just saw rock. He hoped his master and the other magician had a more interesting view.
“Of course,” Ozal breathed, with a wonder that Mahir did not feel. “Before the settlers came, this area would have been just another part of the mountains. This is it. This is exactly what the spell described.”
The two men stared for a minute more before Nadide spoke up. “Can you see anything more recent?” Urgency lent a sharpness to her voice. “What about a glimpse into another place?”
“The spell said to draw on the memories of the place, so it will be limited to the area nearest where the caster stands,” Ozal replied without looking up from the circle of light.
“But if that is the case, how are we supposed to use this against Savaner kishah? Are we supposed to cast this spell where he cursed you? We have no idea where that would be -- it is likely his own home."
“Do you think you can control exactly the time you are viewing?” Ozal asked. Nadide might as well have protested to an empty room. Maybe Kadim had listened. Even the other Mucevhed did not seem to be paying his mistress much attention and was instead as engrossed as his master in the spellwork, although he had the good sense to keep a studiously neutral appearance.
The droplet of sweat that had gotten caught in Mahir’s cap grew fat enough that it fell and ran down the side of his cheek. One of its brothers took up its old position right away. The pain was a hard bite against his ribs, but Mahir kept his expression under control. He had to appear placid, even pleasant. No one was looking at him.
Within the circle, the scene shifted. Rock was replaced with the distinct glow of sunlight. Mahir thought he heard footsteps and a man mutter to himself.
Ozal let out a startled cry. “Is that --” he said.
Nadide stepped quickly to her brother’s side and peered inside the spell. “It does look like him.” She turned to Ahmad. “One of our most respected ancestors, Bahar bajedi. We still have his portrait -- he was one of the first students admitted to the Stand, just over a hundred years ago.”
Ahmad rubbed his beard with his hand. “Almost,” he said. He seemed distracted somehow, and Mahir thought he saw sweat on the back of Ahmad’s neck. This spell must be taking a lot of his concentration as well.
The circle changed again and this time Nadide hid a gasp behind her hands. Ozal looked thunderstruck.
“Father,” Nadide said, and she leaned forward enough that it seemed like her hair might disturb the spell itself. "He seems so young --"
“The Sage honors us,” Ozal said quietly.
“Almost there,” Ahmad said. Mahir felt one more pull at his side. He fought the urge to vomit.
The room was suddenly very quiet.
Or rather, almost quiet. Mahir could make out one faint noise. It was hard to place, but it sounded like a woman sobbing.
Nadide took one step back from the circle and then another. And then, without a word, she turned and left the room.
“Enough of this,” Ozal said. There was a hollowness to his voice. Whatever the older magician had seen, it had stolen something out of himself.
The white light of the spell crackled and then faded completely. The terrible pressure on Mahir’s side stopped and he took a deep, steadying breath. Ahmad sat down so abruptly it was almost like he had collapsed. Ozal avoided looking at him.
“We will find -- something else,” their host muttered, more to himself than anyone in the room. He turned to go, and Kadim followed quietly on his heels.
When only the two of them were left, Mahir stepped forward quietly and sat down beside his master.
“You saw that?” Ahmad asked in Wakamiri. Mahir nodded. As Nadide had stepped away, he had caught a glimpse into what memory of this house the spell had revealed. There had been a woman’s familiar form, hunched over, long hair draped over the side of her face. The family said Ozal had been cursed for three months. How much time during those days had Nadide spent alone in grief? It felt wrong to witness somehow, a private moment Nadide would never have admitted to any of them.
“What a disaster,” Ahmad muttered to himself.
“You have learned a new spell.”
“And look where it led me.” Ahmad shook his head, and then turned his attention back to Mahir. There was something searching about his gaze, something that told Mahir he was not going to be able to hide, not this time. “You look terrible,” Ahmad said, sounding almost surprised.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mahir answered at once. Too late, he realized he should have laughed or played it off as a joke. There was no fooling Ahmad now.
“The spell hurt you.” A terrible guilt spread slowly over Ahmad’s face, and Mahir fought a wince. “I did not -- I am sorry, I did not realize. You never said anything. I should never have continued -- Nadide even said, it’s not like we can use the spell. I will certainly not be using it again. Not after all this.”
Mahir shifted uncomfortably. “It was to be expected. You’re a magician, you’re supposed to do magic.”
“I’m not going to do magic that hurts you,” Ahmad said swiftly. There it was again. Ahmad had made up his mind, and nothing Mahir could say or do would change it. Still, Mahir had his doubts. He had been beside Savaner’s side during the kishah’s own magical education; he had seen the wide variety of spells and enchantments that the Stand taught, the world of magic that Ahmad had only the barest glimpse into. Could Ahmad really guarantee that he would not use -- would not be forced to use -- any spell that would harm Mahir?
But still his master spoke with such conviction. “Yes,” Mahir responded. “Of course.”
Ahmad reached out a hand to draw Mahir in closer, and Mahir closed his eyes in the comfort of a familiar embrace. “You do a good job hiding it,” his master said, with a hint of amusement. “But I can see you’re not convinced. I am serious, though." His voice sobered. Mahir almost wished it hadn't. "I will find another spell.”
Mahir thought of the fruitless trips to the library, and wished very badly that he could believe his master.
The ambassador was to meet with them early in the morning. Ozal left for the Palace well before first light, but still he somehow found that Gokberk and Tolga bajedi had both still somehow arrived before him. The two men sat on simple cushions in a small room near the front entrance of the barracks, sipping tea and deep in discussion with their Mucevheden standing attentively behind them.
“Ah, Ozal bajedi, there you are,” Tolga called out. The conversation between the two stopped as soon as Ozal entered the room. He tried not to let that fact weigh too heavily on him as he returned the Imperial Magician’s greeting. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Kadim shift his weight uneasily between his feet. Still, his Mucevhed procured a cushion -- plain and practical, if not a little lumpy -- and Ozal took his seat with some care.
He took a long look around the room. Tolga bajedi really intended the Vaspahanian ambassador to call on them here and not within the Palace walls. Apparently it did not matter that every inch of the Palace had been carefully crafted to impress utterly upon every onlooker the strength and power of the Nasinbat Empire. Not did it matter that the barracks had only ever been an afterthought, meant to house and quarter soldiers and give them space to train but nothing more. The barracks were where Tolga bajedi intended to conduct his diplomatic affairs. That was the Imperial Magician’s decree.
And now it fell on Ozal to make pleasantries. Failing to find anything polite to say about the surroundings or even the situation, he turned to Tolga bajedi and asked, with deliberate blandness, “Is there anything you would like to discuss before the Ambassador arrives?”
“Oh, it will be obvious when you’re needed,” Tolga answered dismissively, and Ozal bit down on his tongue to avoid asking the Imperial Magician if he thought him a dog or a Mucevhed to be called in such a way.
An uneasy quiet fell over the room. Ozal kept his silence; these days it felt like the only thing the Stand would allow him to keep. He thanked the Mother for showing mercy when a young cadet entered and announced the arrival of the Vaspahnian ambassador and his entourage.
So much of the world had changed since Ozal had last lain sights on Ardeshir, but somehow the man looked exactly as he remembered. An older man with more white in his beard than black, he wore a robe delicately embroidered with a hundred flowers and was flanked on either side by soldiers who wore their daggers openly at their hips.
The Ambassador greeted Tolga and Gokberk with perfect decorum in Kardehirden, but his expression changed when he saw Ozal. “You really are back!” he said, switching briefly back to Vaspahanian. “I had heard you were still not recovered. I am glad to see you walking. What a tragedy that Eryadin bajedi could not be by your side. I have sent my own and my empire’s condolences to his widow -- and to your dear sister, as well.”
The words were spoken with the kind of carefully crafted sincerity that Ozal had long ago learned not to trust. Still he nodded back in deference, giving his thanks without enthusiasm. Remembering the militant white of Alev janum’s veil, he wondered what other varieties of Kadehirden responses the ambassador had already received.
He was surprised, though, when Gokberk stiffened at the exchange. “Of course,” Ardeshir said at once, switching back to his lightly accented Kadehirden, “You must forgive an old man his habits.”
Ozal blinked. It had been a special point of pride for Eryadin bajedi that negotiations could take place in either Kadehirden or Vaspaharian. “The truth in both languages,” he had been fond of saying. Left unsaid, that there would be secrets in neither.
The new ambassador did not seem to share this philosophy. He appeared not to even know how to speak Vaspaharian. Ozal could not help but wonder what secrets flowered under that ignorance.
“I summoned you today to discuss the matter of the new Vaspahanian ships spotted by some of our sailors.” Tolga spoke with an air of imperial benevolence. Ozal watched how the ambassador’s mouth twitched. Ardeshir was older than Tolga bajedi, but not by much -- yet he smiled like a father indulging a child.
“You summoned me, yes,” he agreed. It was mockery, pure and simple. Ozal could hear its bite in every word. And still Tolga bajedi did nothing. Ozal felt his heart sinking. “I had heard reports. My sailors said one of your ships tried to follow -- one of your magicians must have given his little slave quite the fright, trying to keep up.”
“I remember this,” Ozal said at once. The Vaspahanians had done something to their ship -- changed the sail or the rigging perhaps, no one could ever get close enough to learn how it was done -- that made them sail much faster, almost beyond the capacity of the Kadehirden navy. Before, Eryadin bajedi had been trying to convince the Vaspahanian ambassador to keep them out of Kadehirden waters, but the negotiations had been so painfully slow.
It apparently had taken no time at all for everything to unravel.
Ardeshir glanced at Ozal with something close to sympathy. “The situation has changed,” was all the other man said.
“In the past, not enough was done to stop these Vaspahanian ships.” Gokberk said every word like a curse. His eyes were on Ozal, and they held no pity at all. “I assure you, those days are at an end.”
“Is that so?” Ardeshir asked, one eyebrow raised and a dangerous undertone to his voice. “And how do you intend to stop us, bajedi?”
“Perhaps you have gotten better at harnessing the wind, but we still control it.”
“I have seen your wind-binding. It is really something special.” Tolga and Gokberk nodded, but even the praise sounded dangerous when spoken by the Vaspahanian. “But the truth is,” Ardeshir continued, with a self-satisfied note, “we have all seen it before and it has hardly been enough to stop us. And if you would like to bring your fleet closer and really try your luck, I beg you to ask yourself: which weapon do you think takes longer to produce -- your magicians or our cannonballs?”
A long, terrible silence greeted the Vaspahanian ambassador. Ardeshir was a good man, and only let himself revel in their speechlessness for half a second before he made to stand. “I remain, as ever,” he bowed, “your humble servant.” Ozal wondered that Tolga bajedi did not strike him.
Minutes after Ardeshir left, Tolga muttered to himself, “The Shadow take the man.”
The days had started to become a blur by the time it seemed they had finally reached the end of Ozal’s patience. The magician had left early in the morning for the Palace on an unknown errand and only arrived back just as Ahmad was about to take his leave for the library.
“Have you been able to find anything?” Ozal asked as he took his customary seat in the main sitting room and Kadim stood at attention behind him. Hesitating for a moment, he continued, “With all its resources, it seems the Library should have had something.”
The skin around the older magician’s eyes and mouth seemed thinner than it had before. His face was starting to acquire the lines only a much older man should wear. Whatever had happened at the Palace, it had evidently exhausted their host.
Mahir wondered what his own face looked like. It was a particular kind of exhaustion, wading through a hopeless muddle of spells and magical theory and everything else the Stand had collected even as he had long ago resigned himself to failure. But he hoped he at least did not wear his despondency so clearly on his features. It would be unfitting for a Mucevhed.
Still, Ahmad knew how he felt, of course, in that quiet way that Ahmad always seemed to know so much about Mahir. And no matter how much he denied it to Mahir, Ahmad had also lately been wearing his own particular weariness.
“We found one spell,” his master answered slowly. “But it does not work.”
It does not work was one way to describe the situation. The spell and its description had left Ahmad puzzled and Mahir worse than despondent.
“What do you mean, it does not work?” Ozal frowned. “If a scholar of the Stand took the time to record it, surely it must do something. Is it not a suitable spell for your purposes?”
Something flickered in Ahmad’s expression. “Maybe you explain,” he said, with more interest than Mahir had heard from him in what felt like a long time.
Ozal did not appear to wholly share in that enthusiasm. “You need my help with something?”
“I am surprised you are not more excited to delve into magical theory with Ahmad bajedi,” a voice chimed in from underneath the doorway. Nadide had evidently heard her brother’s arrival and come to greet him.
“If it is magical theory, perhaps --,” Ozal started. He still looked unconvinced. Mahir wondered why the other magician would be so hesitant. Perhaps Mahir was just hearing his own hesitation in Ozal’s voice.
Either way, Ahmad did not wait for the man to finish. “I do not understand the spell,” he said, sitting down across from Ozal. He leaned forward in the cushion, having evidently made up his mind that the magician in front of him could solve the problem that had plagued him since they had first returned from the library.
“If this is a problem of translation, I must tell you that unfortunately there will be few, if any, books written in Wakamiri that might help you --”
Ahmad waved aside the commentary. “It is not that. First, the spell says --” Ahmad scrunched his face, as if straining to remember. “Focus on a place. Pull the magic towards you, and draw on the memory of that place. That is it, Mahir, yes?”
He ignored their host to turn towards his Mucevhed. Mahir tried to keep the heat from rising to his face. He nodded quickly, hoping to deflect the attention from himself as much as possible.
“His memory is better than mine,” Ahmad said to Ozal, as if that could possibly explain the insult of what he had done.
“Yes, I see,” Ozal replied in a thin voice. He had probably long ago resigned himself to the certain oddities of his strange guest from the outer provinces. “And then?”
“Draw the magic forth and use it to make a circle. Within, you will see the events before your eyes.”
Recitation over, Ahmad looked at Ozal expectantly. The magician seemed to contemplate for a minute, his brows knit together. Mahir felt his heart sink. Who could help them now? But then the man added, “I am not sure I understand. The spell seems simple enough. What is your difficulty?”
“Ah!” Ahmad cried out in excitement. “Well. I show you.”
Mahir felt the distinct pull that meant Ahmad was drawing on his magic. He waited with baited breath. They had tried several times before, but something always seemed to go wrong. Even now, he watched a flicker of light come to life in Ahmad’s hand. But then his master made a circling motion and the spark vanished.
“I see,” Ozal said dryly, his chin resting on his hand. For a minute, he seemed lost in contemplation. No one else in the room dared disturb him. At last, he concluded, “Nadide, you should leave.”
Nadide drew herself up to her full height, as if preparing for a confrontation. “I am curious to see how the spell is done,” she said with a deliberate mildness that stood in stark contrast to the tension that Mahir could see in her frame.
Ozal might have seen it too, if he had bothered to spare his sister a second glance. Instead, his attention was back on Ahmad. “This is not meant to be an amusement. And while the odds of a spell going wrong are negligible, when a student is attempting to learn a new skill, there is always a risk --”
“I trust you and Ahmad bajedi.” Nadide gave a smile that bared her teeth. Ozal let out a sigh of badly concealed exasperation, but seemed to decide the matter was not worth the trouble. When he said nothing more, Mahir watched Nadide relax in her barely observed victory.
“There is a certain category of spells that require the magician to continuously draw on his Mucevhed’s magic and contain it to one spot. Weather-binding, for example. This spell is another. Up to now, it is likely that the magic that you have done only requires you to pull once from your Mucevhed. For that kind of spell, you draw all the magic required at once and you use it for the task at hand -- be it moving an item in the air or whatever trick you want to achieve. But with this class of spellwork, you will need to mete out the magic slowly, to avoid overwhelming your Mucevhed. Then you will gather the magic in one spot -- a circle, perhaps, like this spell calls for -- and use it for what you will.”
Ahmad still looked uncertain. Ozal concluded, with the slightest touch of petulance, “You would have been taught this in the first year at the Stand, had they accepted you. It is not particularly advanced.”
“Did you get all that?” Ahmad turned around to ask Mahir in Wakamiri. “If I fail, I’d rather ask you to explain what I did wrong. You’re much more concise.”
Mahir’s tongue lay twisted in his throat. The look that Ozal gave Ahmad was so barbed that Mahir wondered that his master did not feel its point. He had to do something to make amends. “My master wishes to ask you --” he started, turning towards Ozal in a half-bow, trying desperately to come up with a lie that was polite enough to justify saying anything at all.
By the Mother’s mercy, the older magician barely noticed him. Instead, he stared at Ahmad. Light was pooling in Ahmad's right palm. Unlike previous attempts, when he moved his hand, the light followed, leaving a trail of white floating gently behind.
“Look, Mahir!” Ahmad said. Mahir lifted the corner of his lips, tried to force his muscles to remember what it was to smile. He felt something odd. This was not the usual pull he knew from when Ahmad called on his magic. His side hurt. It was not like anything he had experienced, at least nothing recent, and the longer the spell lasted the worse it seemed to get.
“That’s exactly it,” Ozal encouraged. “Now, all you have to do is draw a circle --”
A bead of sweat clung to the edge of Mahir’s skullcap. Ahmad seemed to notice that something was amiss, but when he turned to see what was the matter, Mahir responded only with a smile and an encouraging nod. The initial shock had faded. Ahmad should not worry. After all, Mahir reasoned to himself, this pain was nothing. When Mahir had still been in the nursery, his teachers had told him repeatedly it would sting, those first few times when he master drew on his magic. But he should not worry -- it would ease as his master improved. The pain did not feel like it was easing now, maybe, but this was just part of Ahmad’s magical education. In learning to draw on Mahir’s magic continuously, it seemed he was taking more than he knew. But it was not Mahir’s place to complain. What had they always said in the nursery? That he should be brave, and above all else, that he was not to complain. It would just be making a nuisance of himself.
And when they were finally, finally making progress on this spell, the last thing that Mahir wanted was to make a nuisance of himself.
Ahmad had done as Ozal instructed, and his reward was a white circle that hung lazily in the air. Ahmad and Ozal both stared greedily into it. Mahir could only catch a faint glimpse, but he was pretty sure he just saw rock. He hoped his master and the other magician had a more interesting view.
“Of course,” Ozal breathed, with a wonder that Mahir did not feel. “Before the settlers came, this area would have been just another part of the mountains. This is it. This is exactly what the spell described.”
The two men stared for a minute more before Nadide spoke up. “Can you see anything more recent?” Urgency lent a sharpness to her voice. “What about a glimpse into another place?”
“The spell said to draw on the memories of the place, so it will be limited to the area nearest where the caster stands,” Ozal replied without looking up from the circle of light.
“But if that is the case, how are we supposed to use this against Savaner kishah? Are we supposed to cast this spell where he cursed you? We have no idea where that would be -- it is likely his own home."
“Do you think you can control exactly the time you are viewing?” Ozal asked. Nadide might as well have protested to an empty room. Maybe Kadim had listened. Even the other Mucevhed did not seem to be paying his mistress much attention and was instead as engrossed as his master in the spellwork, although he had the good sense to keep a studiously neutral appearance.
The droplet of sweat that had gotten caught in Mahir’s cap grew fat enough that it fell and ran down the side of his cheek. One of its brothers took up its old position right away. The pain was a hard bite against his ribs, but Mahir kept his expression under control. He had to appear placid, even pleasant. No one was looking at him.
Within the circle, the scene shifted. Rock was replaced with the distinct glow of sunlight. Mahir thought he heard footsteps and a man mutter to himself.
Ozal let out a startled cry. “Is that --” he said.
Nadide stepped quickly to her brother’s side and peered inside the spell. “It does look like him.” She turned to Ahmad. “One of our most respected ancestors, Bahar bajedi. We still have his portrait -- he was one of the first students admitted to the Stand, just over a hundred years ago.”
Ahmad rubbed his beard with his hand. “Almost,” he said. He seemed distracted somehow, and Mahir thought he saw sweat on the back of Ahmad’s neck. This spell must be taking a lot of his concentration as well.
The circle changed again and this time Nadide hid a gasp behind her hands. Ozal looked thunderstruck.
“Father,” Nadide said, and she leaned forward enough that it seemed like her hair might disturb the spell itself. "He seems so young --"
“The Sage honors us,” Ozal said quietly.
“Almost there,” Ahmad said. Mahir felt one more pull at his side. He fought the urge to vomit.
The room was suddenly very quiet.
Or rather, almost quiet. Mahir could make out one faint noise. It was hard to place, but it sounded like a woman sobbing.
Nadide took one step back from the circle and then another. And then, without a word, she turned and left the room.
“Enough of this,” Ozal said. There was a hollowness to his voice. Whatever the older magician had seen, it had stolen something out of himself.
The white light of the spell crackled and then faded completely. The terrible pressure on Mahir’s side stopped and he took a deep, steadying breath. Ahmad sat down so abruptly it was almost like he had collapsed. Ozal avoided looking at him.
“We will find -- something else,” their host muttered, more to himself than anyone in the room. He turned to go, and Kadim followed quietly on his heels.
When only the two of them were left, Mahir stepped forward quietly and sat down beside his master.
“You saw that?” Ahmad asked in Wakamiri. Mahir nodded. As Nadide had stepped away, he had caught a glimpse into what memory of this house the spell had revealed. There had been a woman’s familiar form, hunched over, long hair draped over the side of her face. The family said Ozal had been cursed for three months. How much time during those days had Nadide spent alone in grief? It felt wrong to witness somehow, a private moment Nadide would never have admitted to any of them.
“What a disaster,” Ahmad muttered to himself.
“You have learned a new spell.”
“And look where it led me.” Ahmad shook his head, and then turned his attention back to Mahir. There was something searching about his gaze, something that told Mahir he was not going to be able to hide, not this time. “You look terrible,” Ahmad said, sounding almost surprised.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mahir answered at once. Too late, he realized he should have laughed or played it off as a joke. There was no fooling Ahmad now.
“The spell hurt you.” A terrible guilt spread slowly over Ahmad’s face, and Mahir fought a wince. “I did not -- I am sorry, I did not realize. You never said anything. I should never have continued -- Nadide even said, it’s not like we can use the spell. I will certainly not be using it again. Not after all this.”
Mahir shifted uncomfortably. “It was to be expected. You’re a magician, you’re supposed to do magic.”
“I’m not going to do magic that hurts you,” Ahmad said swiftly. There it was again. Ahmad had made up his mind, and nothing Mahir could say or do would change it. Still, Mahir had his doubts. He had been beside Savaner’s side during the kishah’s own magical education; he had seen the wide variety of spells and enchantments that the Stand taught, the world of magic that Ahmad had only the barest glimpse into. Could Ahmad really guarantee that he would not use -- would not be forced to use -- any spell that would harm Mahir?
But still his master spoke with such conviction. “Yes,” Mahir responded. “Of course.”
Ahmad reached out a hand to draw Mahir in closer, and Mahir closed his eyes in the comfort of a familiar embrace. “You do a good job hiding it,” his master said, with a hint of amusement. “But I can see you’re not convinced. I am serious, though." His voice sobered. Mahir almost wished it hadn't. "I will find another spell.”
Mahir thought of the fruitless trips to the library, and wished very badly that he could believe his master.
