Free Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford Page B

She was the only other person in the room, her focus solely on teaching Waylian the intricacies of the art. She might as well have been speaking in tongues for all he understood.
    Waylian
had
studied the books – one of them was open before him even now, the relevant page taunting him with almost indecipherable language. He had learned all he could by rote: the relevant sigils, gestures, equations, components, incantations, meditations and means of execution; but he simply couldn’t understand any of it.
    Of course he had retained some things. He knew that the conjuration of fire required coal dust, soot or some other carbon based ingredient, spread on the skin in the correct manner whilst evoking the requisite incantation. He knew that the weather could be harnessed and manipulated to the magicker’s will through the tapping of simple elemental conduits. He knew that non-sentient creatures could be influenced into carrying out the will of any man who knew the relevant language and the particular words to speak. But when asked to recall any of the details, when he had to remember the specific incantations or the components that went with a particular conjuration, his mind was a blank.
    Without this secret knowledge, without being able to put all these things together instinctively, it was impossible for a magister to tap into the storm, to break the Veil and become a true caster.
    Waylian’s only consolation was that, for now, he wouldn’t have to. He was only an apprentice, a journeyman, a neophyte, and consequently forbidden to perform magick until he was inducted as a member of the Caste. For now his studies were purely theoretical, and as long as they stayed like that, Waylian would be able to disguise the fact that he was struggling. More than struggling – he was failing, drowning in a sea of knowledge he could neither comprehend nor control.
    ‘Am I keeping you awake?’
    It was the Magistra.
    At her words, Waylian suddenly realised he had been staring at the hard wood of his desk, rather than hanging on her every word. She gazed at him, her white hair swept back, pulled tight and severe, her mature features, her piercing blue eyes, glaring with contempt.
    ‘No, Magistra,’ Waylian replied. He swallowed hard.
    Waylian was fearful of his teacher – more fearful of her than he had been of any other human being in his short life. She was his mentor, his tutor, but above all his mistress. Gelredida … the Red Witch as she was called by the other apprentices, though Waylian only ever called her Magistra. She stood tall and erect, though the lines of her face showed an age and experience far beyond mortal years. Waylian had often wondered if she used her magicks to keep herself youthful. Perhaps she was centuries old?
    Not that he would ever dare ask.
    She was well respected and feared within the Tower, treated with reverence even by the other magisters. Trust his damned luck to end up apprenticed to such a formidable tutor.
    It was not just her commanding air and reputation that fuelled Waylian’s fear. It was her aura of power, the self-assurance that emanated from her, as though she could snatch the life from anyone who crossed her – not that she had ever demonstrated such power. Indeed, since Waylian had arrived in Steelhaven he had not seen so much as a minor invocation being uttered. He had learned quickly that magick was a powerful tool, never to be used lightly. Its use came with a price that was paid by every magister, one way or another. This was demonstrated in some of the older magickers who wandered the halls of the Tower – some muttering to themselves in dementia-fuelled rants, others stooped, toothless and horribly scarred, their bodies withered or maimed; by what fell magicks Waylian dare not imagine.
    ‘I’d hate to think I was talking to myself.’ She gripped the piece of white chalk in her slender hand and motioned to the blackboard. ‘So, just for my edification, remind me what is the