Free Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny

experience should only be an intensification with some minor balancing. With you, though—a Madwand may take any path. It could prove painful, distressing, even maddening or fatal. I do not say this to discourage or frighten, merely to prepare you. Try not to allow anything that occurs to cause you undue distress.”
    Here Larick bit his lip and looked away.
    “Where—where are you from?” he asked.
    “A very distant land. I’m sure you would never have heard of it.”
    “What did you do there?”
    “Many things. I suppose I was best at being a musician.”
    “What about magic?”
    “It was not known in that place.”
    Larick shook his head.
    “How could that be?”
    “It is just the way that things were.”
    “Then yourself? How did you come to this land? And how did you become a Madwand?”
    For a moment, Pol found himself wanting to tell Larick his story. But prudence put a limit to his desire.
    “It is a very long tale,” he said, looking back over his shoulder, “and the other three are almost here.”
    Larick glanced in that direction.
    “I suppose that you had some interesting experiences once you discovered your abilities?” he said hurriedly.
    “Yes, many,” Pol replied. “They might fill a book.”
    “Do any stand out in your memory as particularly significant?”
    “No.”
    “I get the impression that you do not like to talk about these things. All right. There is no requirement that you do so. But if you would tell me, I would like to know one thing.”
    “What is that?”
    “A white magician may on occasion use what is known as black magic, and vice-versa. We know that it is all much the same and that it is intent that makes the difference—and that it is from intent alone that the magician’s path might be described. Have you yet chosen one path or the other?”
    “I have used what I had to use as I had to use it,” Pol said. “I like to think that my intentions were relatively pure, but then most people so justify themselves in their own eyes. I mean well, most of the time.”
    Larick smiled and shook his head.
    “I wish that I had more time to talk with you, for I feel something very peculiar behind your words. Have you ever used magic with great force against another human being?”
    “Yes.”
    “What became of that person?”
    “He is dead.”
    “Was he also a sorcerer?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “ ‘Not exactly’? How can that be? A person either is or is not.”
    “This was a very special case.”
    Larick sighed and then smiled again.
    “Then you are a black magician.”
    “You said it. I didn’t.”
    The three final candidates now approached the group and were introduced. Larick looked them all over and then addressed them:
    “We are late getting started. We will head along this way immediately and then proceed until we have departed the city. The trail will commence shortly thereafter and we will begin our climb. I do not know yet how many—if any—rest stops we may make along the way. It depends on our progress and the time.” He gestured toward a heap of folded white garments. “Each of you pick up a robe on the way by. We’ll don them right before we enter.”
    He turned and passed under the arch, moving away.
    Mouseglove approached Pol.
    “I’ll be at the exit point in the morning,” he said. “Good luck.”
    “Thanks.”
    Pol hurried after the others, moving toward the head of the group. When he glanced back, Mouseglove was gone. He continued his pace until he caught up with Larick, felling into step beside him.
    “I am curious,” he said, “why you are trying so hard to make me out a black magician.”
    “It is nothing to me,” the other replied. “Those of all persuasions meet and mix freely in this place.”
    “But I am not. At least, I don’t think I am.”
    “It is of no importance.”
    Pol shrugged.
    “Have it your way, then.”
    He slowed his pace and fell back among the group of apprentices. Nupf came up next to him.
    “Bit of a