7 Unity of Minds

CHAPTER SIX

The Magister was relaxing with a volume of Schectel’s Histories when he felt unfocused ki moving toward him. Power swirled, condensed and coalesced into an unruly cloud subject to the raw flows of unbidden emotion and desire. It was an irritating breech of discipline. He gave an exasperated sigh. Closing the heavy leather-bound tome, he reached forth to dissipate the unchanneled force leeching from those young minds. There would be a stern reprimand for whomever was screening the School.

Irritated, discomfited, stern rebuke ready, he snatched open the door. The rebuke died on his lips. The Mage before him was haggard, his clothes were torn, wrinkled and hung loose on his wasted frame . . . and he smelled. Crammed behind him looked to be the whole of the School waiting with expectant, inquiring faces in the corridor. He recognized Mazel, this night’s warden among those inquiring faces. The boy was still young to the mantle of his duties of monitoring latent ki. The Magister reached out a sturdy arm as a brace to support Poe.

            “Be gone! See to your duties,” he commanded, directing the last specifically to a mortified Mazel. The Magister shut the door in their faces.

He could hear Mazel dispersing the crowd behind the closed door. He made a mental note to temper his reprimand when he talked to him the next day.

            The Magister sat Poe in the deep-seated leather chair by the fireplace. Poe’s gaze fixed on the fire. Reflected in Poe’s hair the Magister could see dappled flecks of gray that had not been there before.

            “What do you need?” the Magister asked.

            “Something to eat. It’s been a long journey and I’ve had . . . other concerns weighing upon my thoughts.”

            The Magister pulled a tasseled rope beside the mantle. He said nothing while they waited. Knowing the students, the person who arrived would be the one who had won whatever contest they set amongst themselves. Word traveled quicker than thought and many, not the least of them other Masters, would want to know what intelligence was being shared behind his closed door.

Moments later, a slim waif of a girl, with large brown eyes, arrived at the door.

            “Bring Master Poe something to eat: soup, cheese, and bread—nothing too heavy.”

“Yes, Magister,” she said disappointed. She tried to be surreptitious in stealing glances into the room. All the students knew and genuinely liked Poe, one of the more accessible of the Magi. The concern was admirable, but he had not the patience for it now.

            Discipline was slipping; another point to be taken up with the other Masters. Tempering his impatience, he gave her some small reassurance. “He is fine.”

            She jerked as if stung and moved quickly away.

            The Magister sat in the chair cattycorner to Poe. “What happened?”

            “I found a child,” Poe replied, his glance not straying from the flame.

            “So, the rumors were true.”

            Poe gave a crooked smile, a disconsolate chortle. “Rumors! They cannot even begin to describe what I discovered.”

            The Magister leaned forward in his seat, unwilling to mask his enthusiasm, nor the rush of questions. “What did you find? Why didn’t you bring him directly to me? We can’t let him be poked and prodded before we have taken his full measure. Some are still divided. Mostly the older Master’s, but it is still a stable minority. Was there Sorcery?”

            Poe was taken aback. He had rarely seen Master Giles so animated, so clearly overrun by emotion. “Bring him back. I barely escaped with my life.”

            The Magister leaned back in his chair. It was uncomfortable and not suited to repose. He thought better in the seat Poe occupied, but appreciated, grudgingly, that he shouldn’t expect the other man to give it over. It was a selfish thought, but creature comforts were beginning to way heavily on his old, weary bones.

            The Magister calmed his racing mind and ordered his thoughts. The façade he maintained of steady and unerring control had briefly slipped. It was the long years of mentoring which had grown into a deep friendship that allowed for his reserve to slip.

 “Was it Sorcery?” he asked, repeating the last question.

            “I don’t quite know; it did not have the feel of Sorcery. Facing that mind, that power, I felt weak, helpless.” He closed his eyes. “Sorcery? I do not know, but there lay a mind unfettered and unbound, dangerous, unpredictable.”

            “Tell me about the child.”

            And Poe told him.

            “I fled, tired and frightened. Sometimes I sensed the boy’s mind searching for me. Then I ran faster, wrapping myself in the most potent wards I could gather to remain hidden from that dark rage.”

            “But you say there was intelligence behind those dark eyes.”

            “Yes, there was intellect and pain and many other things as well,” Poe replied, repeating things he had said earlier. How could he make the Magister understand or glimpse the scope of what he had witnessed, a mind of pure perception, of untapped power bound to no rule or understanding other than sorrow. There was more wit than that of an animal, but there was also less understanding than that of a child half the boy’s age. It would be like teaching the ways of man to a beast and expecting it to comprehend. Or, at least, that is what Poe believed at the time.

            “What concerns me most is the extent of the power you sensed.”

            Poe licked chapped lips. “I would say several orders of magnitude greater than the ten strongest here at the School.”

            “But without skill and training?”

            “None that I could detect. But he had a peculiar ability, more a passive defense. He seems to be able to compel vision to conceal himself from sight is the best way I can describe it.”

            “It’s not illusion?”

            “No, it is something else.”

            “But not Sorcery.”

            “No Sorcery that I have ever witnessed? There was no transference of ki, no casting of spells.”

            “Then if it is not Sorcery, how do you suggest we proceed?”

Poe’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “Many contending against the boy might prevail . . . but, I believe, the Unity would offer us the best chance at success.”

“Directing and focusing such a convergence still poses some danger.”

Poe knew the risks. One consciousness spent beyond recovery, leaving only the husk of a body, and the other returned to the infancy of loose bowels and uncontrollable bladder.

“I understood you and Master Stephen were close.”

The Magister did not answer. He stood, walked over to the fire and shifted the logs with the charred, hooked end of the poker. Embers popped and leapt. Pulling two more logs from the bin, he threw them into the fire. The sudden heat caused his face to turn a ruddy hue. Hand to hip, he straightened from his bent position, face impassive. So much bending and stooping was not good for old, aching joints and a stiff back.

Poe moved to rise from his chair, to go to the aid of his old mentor. He was being remiss.

The Magister waved him off.

“We are more than just close. Instead of looking to those gifted in ephemera, we should have been looking at the bond between subditus and Guide.”

“It is all we have.” Poe leaned forward in his chair, toward the fire. “I escaped because of luck, and a few tricks. The boy’s mind blazed with power! He will be prepared, ready. I think we will not be lucky a second time. Our only chance of subduing him is the fact that he isn’t trained.”

Poe gave a wry smile. “Dispatches have been sent to the Academe?”

“The Council will soon know.”

“That is resolved. What other objections might you have?”

The Magister let his gaze drift and imperturbable jaw relax into a frown. Catching him thus, Poe suddenly realized, with sadness, that the Magister frowned much of late.

“Bringing other gazes down upon us.”

“Power like I witnessed must be curbed or bound, even destroyed if it cannot be compelled to restraint. It would be a loss if such potential could not be turned to a beneficial purpose.”

“You have swayed me, but it is to the convincing of others . . . .” The smile was gone and his gaze was urgent, pensive.

“Is there anything there worth saving? Can he even speak? He attempted no address, and from what you say, no one has ever heard him speak.”

“There were the two boys some years ago, before Malcolm arrived.  They became lost and this boy found them, played with them. They said there was something about him that made them feel safe. Took their fear away.  Though he did not speak to them, they had no doubt he understood them fully.”

“But these are the tokens of children.”

“Children often speak truer than we know.”

The Magister grunted, shifting his glance.

“To Seal the boy and bring him back for training. It will raise concerns amongst the Guide. One newly raised, assuming such a duty; some will consider it presumption, others . . . conspiracy.”

“But I will have your vouch.”

“My sway can only extend so far. It is spread far too thin. Some may demand that you cede the boy to another”

Poe leaned back into the comfort and ease of the chair and closed his eyes. “We can address that when we must.”

“There is also another concern.”

Poe lifted his gaze to the furrow-browed above him.

“What if the boy succumbed to whatever shadow you roused.”

“Then our course will be determined.”

“He must be put down.”

There was a knock at the door. Their food had arrived. Opening the door, the Magister beckoned the youth to enter. He brought in a salver of bread, cheeses and fruits, and smoked fish. He placed it on the table and left quickly. Poe dug in, hungrily.