The Sceptre of Samnos

The University Part 8

     Despite the expressed wishes of the teaching wizards, few graduates ever did return for further education, and Thomas doubted that he ever would himself. Not because he didn't want to. Lexandria Valley was as close to paradise for a man like him as existed anywhere in the world. No evil was allowed there, the climate was kept warm and comfortable and the place was full of knowledge, just waiting for him to soak it up. He could quite happily have spent the rest of his life there, if it had been allowed, but newly graduated wizards were required to gain some years of real world experience and once he was settled back in Ilandia, his homeland, he knew he would dig out a comfy little niche for himself and put down roots.

     That was the way he was. He hated change. He liked things, however they were, to go on being that way, the way he was used to. He knew that he would spend the rest of his life dreaming of returning to Lexandria, but that he never would. He enjoyed the library while he could, therefore, and lost himself in his books until the time came to return to his study cubicle. Then he took the books back to their shelves and stood there for a few moments, silently saying goodbye to them, before turning his back on them and walking out.

     The invisible servant spell had already changed, he wasn’t surprised to find, but having read it once he had no trouble reading it again, even though all the other spells in the book were still purest gibberish to him. This was the critical part. The Magister, the elusive and enigmatic God of Magic who never responded to prayer and who updated the spells written in spellbooks continually and reliably, sometimes declined to grant a particular spell to a particular wizard. There didn't seem to be any rule governing what kind of spell he would grant to a particular person, except that those who chose to specialise in a particular school tended to increased their chances of being granted spells of that school, although at the expense of having less luck with spells from other schools. When trying to gain a new spell, therefore, all wizards knew that if the Magister hadn't granted it to them in an hour or so, then the chances were that he never would, and the only thing to do was try again with a different spell. If they succeeded the first time, however, then they would very probably have no trouble with it in the future.

     After three quarters of an hour, Thomas knew that he had it. He could close his eyes and see the words clearly in his mind as if he were still looking at the pages of the spellbook. His body had absorbed as much of the magic force as it could at his young age. He could feel it within him, waiting to be released, shaped and directed by his speaking of the words and the use of the necessary materials, in this case a single piece of wood carefully carved to form two interlocking rings, a task that would have to be repeated every time he used the spell as the rings were consumed by the flowing magics. He wasn't going to cast it this time, though. He had to impress the magics into his own spellbook so that he could read it from there any time he wanted. He carefully fished the black pearl out of his bottle of ink, wiped it clean on a rag and put it away safely for the next time he needed to mix up some magic ink, which probably wouldn't be for a few months, if not years. Like the block of crystal from which he had made his prism, every apprentice had been given his own black pearl, grown in the famous Rumnarian oyster beds, to keep. It was worth a lot of money, but no wizard would dream of selling it, unless he intended to give up wizardry for good.

     Next, he carefully cut the cockatrice feather with his two inch penknife, to make a quill, a task that also had to be done in just the right way if it was going to work. It wasn't just the laying down of ink on paper that mattered here, it was the materials that were used to do the job. Paper, ink and quill all had to be of the very highest quality. The very slightest imperfection could spoil the flow of magic and spoil the written spell, and if this happened it could only be corrected by carefully cutting out those pages and trying again. That wouldn't fail him, he could try as many times as he wanted, but it wouldn't look good on his record either. He cut with the very greatest care and precision, therefore, muttering under his breath as he did so, and then studied the result critically, turning it this way and that to see it from every angle. It looked perfect, but you could never know for sure until you actually tried it. His heart pounding with trepidation, therefore, he opened his spellbook at the first blank page, dipped the quill in the ink and began to write.