<u>Chapter 2</u><u></u>


    ~~


    The only extant copy of the Academia of Ugrait implies that Magyk (Magic), in its earliest form, was synonymous with music. This is adduced by other texts from some of the oldest books of Magyk, where it was written that magicians often sang spells in an interrupted, contiguous manner. I find this an interesting contrast to the magicians of today who use monosyllabic incantations or even wordless magic, with the exception of more powerful spells or the use of amplifiers that require longer incantation.


    I wonder when archaic and modern magic diverged.


    ~~


    Archil grasped at the bars of the fence and peered through it. He was several metres high now and the stout finials of the fence were almost within reach. Archil pulled himself closer to the fence, his fingers slippery with sweat and grime. His muscles groaned.


    It was a sunny afternoon and Archil felt the full, unbridled heat of the sun bear down on him. It was time for etiquette in dinner classes. But rather than sitting frozen at some dining table, mechanically going through the actions of eating daintily for the umpteenth time—he shuddered—he had more...interesting plans.


    He gulped in air greedily, sweat running in rivulets down his face. His shirt plastered to his back like a gummy film. Archil grinned.


    For weeks now, he had been trying his hand at getting into the garden. The backyard was the source of his childhood dreams and he wanted nothing more than to delve into it to indulge in the vast landscape of legends.


    Did Serpentra dwell in the backyard? The books of magic described them as ferocious man-eating serpents with the speed of a viper and the cunning of a fox, with the ability to ensnare their prey by controlling their mind. What about the petals of the Wiey flower, which when chewed, would add a hundred years to one’s lifespan? He knew adventurers were occasionally dispatched to the villages and small towns near the backyard with sightings of fantastical monsters of varying descriptions.


    All but one thing separated him from these—a stupid fence. It was a sturdy matt black and ran a circuit around the estate and bordered the backyard, wrought of some unknown material. The fence was tall, looming to cover even the loft of the mansion where it drew a line between the garden and the backyard. Archil had no care for it, except that the only entrance into the backyard was from the garden, where a single keyhole was grooved into a gate.


    Of course, the fences were installed there for a reason. Forget Sepentras, Archil was fully aware of wild boars and mountain beasts that were powerful enough to tear a scrawny, young boy apart.


    No problem. All adventures had their dangers, after all.


    Thus Archil waited until he deemed himself strong enough before he entered the backyard...though he quickly discovered that he could not. Anything he hurled at the fence, the fence seemed to shrug off with vexatious ease. To date, he had tried every method short of completely blowing up the fence itself.


    Initially, he had briefly floated the idea of bribing his way through, but he did not know who held the keys to the gate and feared his parents would grow suspicious from his poking around.


    So he planted bamboo shoots near the fence in hopes of allowing him to climb over the fence easier, for ordinary ladders were too short. Alas—Rubed the gardener, meticulous to a fault, had it removed almost immediately when the bamboo shoots grew noticeable.


    It was then Archil decided a change in approach was needed. He attempted picking the lock but quickly discovered the mechanism so complicated even the city’s locksmith could not make sense of it. As a final resort, he secretly procured a vial of strong acid from the local alchemist and painted it over a small area of the fence near the ground, the dimensions carefully determined so there would be a small aperture his tiny frame could squeeze in and out of to freely access the backyard. Subtlety be damned, he just wanted in at this point.


    Much to his disbelief, the acid simply slid off the fence like water on wax. The bars of the fence were coated in an unusual veneer which made it impossible for the acid to stick, or even corrode the material of the bar.


    It was then Archil regarded the fence as a serious obstacle. A good challenge was never something to be shied from.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Archil dipped his hand into a pouch of white chalk and repositioned his grip on the bars of the fence. For a week now he had laboriously scaled the fence several times, determined to best it at its own game. The higher he reached, the more slippery the thrice-cursed fence seemed to get. It was as if the bars had been steeped in lubricant and left to somehow subsume the greasiness.


    But now, he was almost at the top. Almost over the fence. Almost to the backyard.


    Archil stretched his hand towards the finial of the fence, whooping in exuberant triumph as he closed his fingers around it. It had been a hell of a fence, but finally—


    He felt his hand grow cold, even as the sweltering heat of the sun blistered down on his back. A chilling numbness suffused his arm, with the terrifying loss of sensation that followed.


    It was cold. Cold as the advent of the winter solstice, cold as the frosty waters of the Truede bay.


    Archil’s whoop broke into a soft cry. He prised his fingers from the finial, tipping from the fence’s edge, his back arched, his fingers taut—


    He fell.


    There was a nauseating sense of upheaval as the world spun around him...but just as suddenly, the velvety feel of cotton fabric as he hit the cushions.


    Enfolded by the soft embrace of thick cushions and duvets, Archil lay stunned and reeling, but very much alive.


    Praise the Twelve Gods that he laid out the cushions in case he fell, Archil thought.


    This was Archil’s first encounter with magic, and it left him in both awe and terror.


    **


    Archil had always regarded magic as a bauble—cheap, gaudy and trivial. It did not seem something you used in battle or practical use so much as a neat parlour trick. It was something you used to impress the girls, an article of convenience or perhaps idle amusement.


    Today, Archil’s entire notion of magic was spun on its head.


    Real magic. It marked his first consideration that there was more to magic than underwhelming phoney displays. He still remembered his first experience with magic (well, if you could call it that) on his ninth birthday when his parents invited the best magician the surrounding fiefs could scrounge up.


    Archil remembered his fervid eagerness at the arrival of the magician who strode in, garbed in a tweed plaid shirt, shabby pants and a tall hat. A dark, roughspun cloak trailed behind him as he burst into the hall.


    By nine, Archil had already trawled the estate’s library for what little books they had on magic and devoured them. He was engrossed with the legends of old, with errant wizards who could call forth storms with the drop of a finger, sages who could move mountains if they willed it so.


    They thrilled him. They mystified him. They enchanted him.


    And so he believed them, believed in magic, for he was a child, and there was nothing more charming to a child than magic—something so elaborate yet subtle, powerful yet esoteric. And thus it was inevitable that his experience with the magician left him considerably gutted.


    The magician doffed his tall hat. “Tizax the magician, at your service.”


    Several balls of flames weakly conjured themselves behind him, bobbing in the air. With a great flourish, he sent them spiralling into the air and swirling around the hall for a few seconds before they spluttered apart.


    “Magic,” the magician rumbled, “is a phenomenon. It is not known where it came from, or how it came to be. But it exists, as old as the gods, as old as time. It simply is. Unbidden...unknown.<wbr>"


    The candles flickered. The lights from the sconces dimmed. A strange breeze circled the room, sending the curtains and tapestry rippling. Was that the magician’s doing?


    “There was once a plant which grew at the peak of Mount Macashire, sowed by Eius, God of The Land.”


    Mist began to rise from the marble floor of the hall, amorphous, but slowly twisting into perceptible shapes. Tendrils of mist curled into a steep, rocky bluff with the small contours of a plant shoot emerging from its peak.


    “But the weather of the mountain was inhospitable. The winds were too vigorous, the light scarce and the nutrients few. The plant grew weak under the ravages of the elements until Eius took pity on her.”


    The shoots of the plant shuddered as imaginary gales of mist seemed to buffet it unrelentingly, threatening to uproot it.


    “For seven days and seven nights, Eius sheltered the rose with his hand.”


    The strong gales that buffeted the plant seemed to peter out as a giant hand formed over it. The mist curled again, and the shoots morphed into a flower.


    “The plant recovered, and quickly grew strong. Grateful, she blossomed into the most beautiful flower there was: her petals were as carmine as the reddest rubies, her leaves as verdant as brilliant emeralds. When the sun rose upon the mountain and bathed her in light, her petals would glow with an otherworldly translucence; when the sun fell and the moon peaked, the petals of the flower would hue into a gorgeous, pale sapphire.”


    “So beautiful was she that even the gods admired her beauty. Word of her spread far and wide throughout the lands, and many came to see her for themselves. Quickly they saw that her repute was of no exaggeration, for even poets could not capture her beauty in a thousand words, nor artists frame her beauty on a canvas.”


    "One day, a magician came questing for the flower, having heard tales about its beauty. Upon seeing the flower with his own eyes, he fell in love.”


    “‘Flower, Flower,’ said the Magician, ''might I be so impertinent as to know your name?’


    ‘You would be rightly disappointed,’ said she, ‘to know that I have none. For names are bestowed onto those who are loved, and I am loveless.’


    ‘But Flower,’ exclaimed the Magician, ''you are so loved! Poets and artists adore you. Bards make music of you. Kings and Gods desire you. Even nature bows to your beauty.’


    ’This beauty is a curse,’ the Flower returned. ''It has clouded their eyes the same way gold blinds men. None look at me for what I truly am. People see me not as something to be loved, but only as something beautiful to be owned.


    ''And what of you? Are you here to gawk at my beauty? Or indeed, compose witless doggerel and poor song?''