Lyndon Hardy - Secret of the Sixth Magic

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THE HIGH IMPEDANCE OF MAGIC

"The task is simple," master magician Rosimar said.

"Just remove the weights from the scale in the order

indicated when I signal"

As Rosimar hurried to the doorway, Jemidon studied

the scale. An array of springs and switches clustered around

the balancing arm. from which ropes, pipes, and pulleys led

to other apparatus of magic.

Jemidon saw Rosimar wave an arm to begin and took a

step, extending his arm to remove the top weight from one

pan of the scale. But as he did, he tripped and stumbled.

His hand crashed into the weights, sending them al! to the

floor. His feet tangled in the ropes and levers. With snaps

and twangs, they jerked free of the moorings. He heard a

sharp crack as the ballista released its charge. In a moment,

the place was a chaos of wreckage and wild confusion.

Once again. Jemidon had failed abjectly at the simplest

practice of magic. The great experiment was ruined. And

now there would be no way to save Augusta and himself

from the slave collars of Trocolar!

Secret Of The Sixth Magic

Lyndon Hardy

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.,

New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,

Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-91032

ISBN 0-345-30309-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: September 1984

Cover art by Rowena Morrill

Map by Shelly Shapiro

To my mother, Zelia

CONTENTS

PART ONE: Robe of the Master

ONE; A Matter of Style 3

TWO: Test for the Tyro 22

THREE: Stormflight 44

FOUR: Sorcerer's Gamble 56

FIVE: The Purging Flame 75

PART TWO: The Postulate of Invariance

SIX: The Whispers of Memory 97

SEVEN: The Vault in the Grotto 114

EIGHT: The Essence of Value 136

NINE: The Shadow in the Keep 151

TEN: Fleeting Treasure 173

ELEVEN: The Final Tally 190

PART THREE: The Axiom of Least Contradiction

TWELVE: Spring Harvest 209

THIRTEEN: Fugitive's Choice 225

FOURTEEN: The Pendulum Swings 246

FIFTEEN: Door into Elsewhere 266

PART FOUR: The Verity of Exclusion

SIXTEEN: Skysoar 291

SEVENTEEN: Foul Air 311

EIGHTEEN: The Lord of Two Domains 331

NINETEEN: Duel of the Metamagicians 350

THAUMATURGY

The Principle of Sympathy------like produces like

The Principle of Contagion------once together, always together

ALCHEMY

The Doctrine of Signatures------the attributes without mirror the powers within

MAGIC

The Maxim of Persistence ------perfection is eternal

SORCERY

The Rule of Three——thrice spoken, once fulfilled

WIZARDRY

The Law of Ubiquity -------flame permeates all

The Law of Dichotomy ------dominance or submission

Secret of the Sixth Magic

PART ONE

Robe of the Master

CHAPTER ONE

A Matter of Style

JEMIDON'S pulse quickened as he stepped from the creaking gangplank onto the firmness

of the pier. Finally, he had arrived at Morgana, the isle of sorcery. He must have scanned

a hundred scrolls to make ready, but he felt as uncomfortable as if he were totally

unprepared. And this time, unprepared he dared not be.

As the other passengers disembarked from the skiff and jostled past, Jemidon

drew his scholar's cape tight against the onshore breeze. His hair was raven-black,

combed back straight above a square and unlined face. With deep-set green eyes, he

scrutinized whatever he saw, seeming to bore beneath the surface to discover the secret of

what lay within. He had the broad shoulders of a smith, but pale skin and smooth palms

marked him as one who did not toil in the sun. Although the purse at his belt bulged with

a respectable thickness, his brown jerkin and leggings were threadbare and plain. Around

his neck on a leather thong hung a smooth disk of gold, the features of the old king long

since worn away.

At the end of the planking, Jemidon saw a brightly painted gatehouse, guarded by

two men-at-arms who collected a copper from each one who passed. On either side, all

around the small harbor, rough-beamed buildings crowded the shoreline and extended

precariously over the water on makeshift piers. Warehouses and property barns, canvas

mills and costume shops, tackle forges and mirror silveries, and all the services for both

the sea and the inland mingled in disarray.

In the bay, three ships lay at anchor; from each, a procession of small boats

shuttled men and cargo to the

shore. The land rose sharply behind the harbor, first to a wide ledge and then into

a jumble of heavily vegetated hills and valleys that Jemidon knew hid the lairs of the

sorcerers. He dug into his purse for a coin. With a mixture of reluctance and anticipation,

he joined the end of the line paying the landing fee.

"Which path to the hut of Farnel the master?" he asked the guards as he dropped

his coppper into the pot. "I see there are many trails up into the interior, and he is the one

whom I must find."

The guard on the left shook out of his bored lethargy. "All visitors are confined to

the shorelands," he said, "lord and bondsman alike. Stay among the houses of the harbor

or on the path that runs from the bazaar to the keep- The hills are for the masters and

tyros only." He paused and stared at Jemidon. "For your own protection, they are

forbidden."

Jemidon frowned back and clutched at the coin around his neck, running his

thumb and fingers over the smooth surfaces. Too much was at stake to be impeded by

petty restrictions. Too many years already had been wasted.

"Then how does one meet a master?" he asked carefully, trying to remove all

emotion from his voice. Somehow it was important that no one else knew the

significance of what he sought. If, by some unthinkable chance, he failed once again,

failed for the final time, he wanted no mocking smiles and whispered sniggers when he

returned to the harbor to sail away. "How do I engage Farnel in conversation? Talk to

him long enough so that I might present a proposition that is to our mutual benefit?"

The second guard looked up from his tally sheet and laughed. "To come eye to

eye with a sorcerer other than in the presentation hall is not something that most would

wish."

Jemidon tightened the grip on his coin.'"Nevertheless, I must," he said.

"Then wait near the entrance to the hall.'1 The guard shrugged. "Wait in the hope

that Farnel decides to come out of the hills this year and give a performance. He is less

likely than most, but it would be your only chance

with safety. Along the shore, all of the masters have sworn to cast their illusions

from the stage and nowhere else."

"But it is for the very fact that he has stopped entering the competitions that I

have chosen Farnel," Jemidon said. "If he presents alone, then he might have no need for

what I can offer as a tyro."

Another skiff banged into the pier, and the guards' faces warped in annoyance.

One returned his attention to completing the tally sheet and the other motioned Jemidon

on through the gate before the onset of the next arrivals.

Jemidon started to ask more, but then thought better of it. He turned to follow the

rest of his landing party through the gatehouse and onto the beach. In a slow-moving

queue, he crossed the narrow stretch of sand and climbed the wooden steps placed in the

hillside. Several tedious minutes later, he reached the broad ledge, some ten times the

height of a man above the level of the sea.

The native rock of the ledge was covered with a bed of crushed white stone that

led away in two directions. To the south, the path angled around the bend of the island to

where Jemidon knew the keep and presentation hall for the lords stood. To the north, the

trail ended abruptly against a cliff of granite that thrust into the still waters of the bay.

On the beach at its foot stood the bondsman bazaar. Two wavy rows of tents

stretched across the sand. Some were grandiose and gaudy with panels of bright colors

supported by three or four poles, but others were no more than awnings covering rough

podiums, counters, and simple frames. The path between the tents was deserted and the

cries of the hawkers silent. Nightfall was still six hours away. In the distance, beyond the

bazaar, the hazy outline of mainland Arcadia could just barely be seen.

After looking about for a moment to get their bearings, most of the landing party

headed south, carrying goods and trinkets. The rest soon disappeared around the curve to

the north, chattering excitedly about last year's glamours and what had caught the fancy

of the high prince. Jemidon paused for a moment, deciding which way to go.

then finally started in the direction of the presentation hall, but more slowly than

those who preceded him.

The advice of the guard was not at all what he had wanted to hear. Waiting for

Farnel could take the rest of the season, if the man came down from the hills at all.

Convincing the sorcerer to accept him as tyro immediately had been what Jemidon had

hoped to accomplish.

As tyro to a sorcerer, he would study cantrips and enchantments rather than

incantations, formulas, ritual, or flame. And then, when the instruction was complete, he

would become at last a master, to fulfill what had to be his destiny, to make amends to his

dead sister, and finally to cleanse away his guilt—to end at last the quest that had started

almost as far back as he could remember.

Jemidon's thoughts tumbled as the rock crunched beneath his tread with a

hypnotic cadence. He had been precocious as a child, solver of riddles, puzzle maker, and

lightning-fast at sums. He would have a choice of crafts, his father had boasted, possibly

even give the archmage a challenge or two. He was the gleam of hope for the family, the

way out from the oppressive toil of the wheat-lands to lives of their own.

But when the time for testing had come, he had failed at thaumaturgy, the most

straightforward and least complex of the arts. And the less remembered about his trials

the better.

Then, four years later, when a traveling apothecary came through the village, he

had a chance to see if alchemy was his match. For thirty-two months he toiled, scrubbing

glassware, digging roots, and grinding powders, just for the chance to try a simple

formula from a common grimoire.

There was always an element of chance with alchemy, as everyone knew. No

activation could be expected to succeed at each and every attempt. But after a dozen

failures with a formula that usually worked nine times out often, he was booted out in a

shower of hard words about wasted materials and improper preparation.

For two years more he wandered the inland seas, finally taking up a neophyte

position at a small magic guild.

The precision and symbolism of magic ritua! appealed to the bent of his mind.

But after he tripped over a tripod and hit a gong one time too many, the masters shunned

his aid in the costly and time-consuming rituals that provided the guild its wealth.

Without the practice, he languished while others moved with certainty into the deeper

mysteries of (he art.

He ventured to the south, hunting for a wizard and the secrets that held sprites and

devils in thrall. But after a year of defocusing his eyes on a flame, trying to penetrate a

barrier that was tissue-thin, he gave up in disgust.

For each of the arts he had tried, he had been sure that he had the aptitude. He had

been quick to learn and he found the theory easy, easier than to many others who had

started much earlier than he. Each time, hope had blossomed anew that he had at last

attained his craft. But somehow the practice escaped him; when it came time to perform

the spells, to implement what he had learned, he had been strangely clumsy and unsure.

With a string of mumbled incantations, formulas that went awry, imprecise rituals, and

missed connections through the flame, he found he could not exercise any of the four

crafts. For none was he suited.

And now he sought to try sorcery, the craft that required the greatest

understanding of one's inherent capabilities and limitations. Sorcery was the only art that

was left—his last chance to become a master.

If one wanted to study sorcery, then Morgana was obviously where he should

come. Nowhere else was the craft of illusion practiced so freely. Nowhere else could

Jemidon receive so much instruction in so little time. And by looking through the popular

broadsides as well as the arcane scrolls, he had deduced which master more than any

other would need what he had to offer—if only he could get to Farnel before it was too

late to prepare for this year's competition.

Jemidon stopped his slow pacing. The pathway was totally quiet. Those up ahead

were not to be seen. Evidently ail of the skiffload behind him had gone to the bazaar. No

one else was on the trail, and the flanks of

the hills cut the gatehouse from his line of sight. He looked at the beckoning dirt

path directly to the left of where he had stopped, a path that wandered away from the bed

of crushed stone up into the notch between two cliffs.

"Without risk, there is little reward," he muttered aloud as he made up his mind.

"Master Farnel will have a visitor, even if he chooses to spend the entire season away

from the hall," Without looking back, he clambered up the path.

The stubby shadows of midday grew into the slender spires of evening while

Jemidon followed the random patchwork of paths through the hills. He encountered no

one, and the signposts were few and well weathered. It took him many hours to find the

one that pointed in the direction of Farnel's hut.

The sun slid toward the jagged horizon as Jemidon climbed the last few lengths to

his goal. As he did, he gradually became aware of angry voices from some point farther

up the trail- His view in front was blocked by a boulder tumbled onto the path and resting

in a litter of smaller stones and snapped branches. The scruffy underbrush on the hill face

to the left bore a slashing vertical scar that marked the huge rock's passage. The rise on

the right was not nearly as steep, but the vegetation was sparser, with stunted trunks and

tiny leaves growing from fissures in a monolithic slab of rock.

Cautiously. Jemidon approached the barrier and squeezed between the dislodged

boulder and the adjacent hillside. As he peeked up the trail, he saw a group of youths

surrounding two older and taller men who alternately waved their arms and pounded their

fists to emphasize the words they were hurling at each other.

The encircling band all wore simple robes of brown, the mark of the tyro, and the

two they surrounded were dressed in master's black. On one of the masters, the logo of

the sorcerer's eye was old and faded. The other's emblem sparkled with embroidered

gold. Behind them all stood a small structure of rough-hewn planks. Thin sheets of mica

filled lopsided window frames, and a curl of smoke snaked from the top of a mud-brick

chimney on the side.

Farnel's hut, Jemidon thought excitedly, and the master is probably one of the two

who are arguing in front. He had done far better than waiting at the hall. Slowly he crept

closer to determine the best moment to speak out. As he did, the others paid him no heed;

they were totally engrossed in the loud conversation.

The more plainly dressed master growled with a husky voice. His face was rough

and deeply wrinkled, like crumpled paper. A fringe of while circled his bald crown. Age

should have bent his back and stooped his shoulders, but he stood straight as a lance,

refusing to yield as a matter of principle.

"Simple thrills and no more," he snorted. ''Pockmarked monsters, bared bosoms,

spurting gore. Your productions are all alike, Gerilac. A moment of sudden shock and

then they are done. Hardly anything of substance to add to the legacy of the craft."

"Like your renditions, I suppose," Gerilac answered. "With colors so mute that

even the tyros fall asleep." He stroked his precisely trimmed goatee and smoothed his

shoulder-length hair into place. On the mainland he could have walked in the company of

the lords and none would have noticed. "By the laws, Farnel, it is well lhat the rest pay

your antiquated theories only polite notice. If all were to follow your lead, the rich purses

from Ihe mainland would have stopped coming long ago. No one chooses to pay a

sorcerer who is a bore."

"But it is not art," Farnel shot back. "We do only cartoons of what was performed

a decade ago. In another, stick figures jerking around the hall will capture the accolade."

"And how valuable is this art of yours?" Gerilac fingered Farnel's robe. "Sewing

your own mends. Rationing your meals between the private charms in the off season and

the charities of your peers. Compare that with the elegance of my chambers and the

number of tyros at my beck and call. I have won the supreme accolade for the last three

years running, while you enter no productions at all. Is it because you choose not to

compete, or perhaps because you cannot, even if you tried?"

"I was first among the masters of Morgana long before you earned your robe,"

Farnel growled. "If you doubt it, look me in the eye. I will stand with you in the chanting

well in any season."

"Strike out again and Canthor and his men-at-arms will see that you spend more

than a single night in the keep." Gerilac hastily flung his arm across his face. "You know

the agreement among the masters. And lack of control is bad for the reputation of the

island and the traffic from the mainland that rides with it."

"Drop your arm, Gerilac. Another few nights on a cold slab just might be worth

it."

"Farnel, Master Farnel!" Jemidon called out suddenly. "You are the one 1 seek."

The sorcerers stopped abruptly. All eyes turned to see who was responsible for the

interruption. One of the tyros, older than the rest, tugged another on the sleeve.

"Get Canthor," he said.

The second nodded and bolted from the circle. In an instant, he disappeared

around the next bend in the trail. Jemidon watched him go, pushing away the upwelling

of last-minute doubt. He set his jaw and stepped forward boldly. Speaking to Farnel

without a large audience would have been better, but he must seize the opportunity when

it presented itself.

For a moment the others watched him advance. Then the ring of brown robes

dissolved and regrouped in a line between him and the sorcerers.

"I am End, lead tyro of master GeriJac." The one in the center pointed a thumb to

his chest. "And my master does not take kindly to interruption." He paused for a moment

and then leered a crooked smile. "For my own part, however, I welcome the opportunity,

before tne bailiff comes to snatch you away."

"My dealings are with master FarneJ," Jemidon said. "A tyro will not do,"

"You should have heeded the warnings and stayed within the confines of the

harbor," End said. "Here in the hills, we practice glamours of our own choosing." His

smile broadened. "Even if you have a taste for art, you

might find the experience somewhat, shall we say, disconcerting."

Laughter raced across the line, and menacing smiles settled on the tyros' faces.

Jemidon squared his shoulders and straightened to full height. He was five years older

than any of the youths, but several stood a full head higher.

"My intent is not to provoke," he said slowly. "And I did not come to be the

subject of your experimentation."

"Then your prowess is remarkable indeed," another of the tyros said. "Tell us how

you plan not to look one of us in the eye or keep your ears always protected against a

whisper."

"Enough. Leave him be," Farnel cut in. "You do your master no credit and waste

what is most precious besides. Your talent should be channeled toward pleasing the

moneyed lord, not baiting a bondsman who wanders away from the bazaar."

"I am no bondsman," Jemidon said. "1 am free to study what I choose. And my

knowledge of the lore of Arcadia, the sagas of Procolon across the sea, and the chants of

the savage northmen can be of great value to you. Let me speak more of my merit and

you will be convinced/1

"I am indeed the master you seek," Farnel said. "But I see not merit but folly in

one who wanders here alone. It is true that all the masters of Morgana strive to dispel the

reputation of fear that sorcery enjoys elsewhere. Indeed, the livelihood of our small island

depends upon it. The lords of the mainland would not come and pay good gold for our

entertainments if there was a hint of greater risk involved. But our craft must be

experimentally manipulated as weil. Only near the harbor have we forsworn all glamours;

only in the presentation hall do we enchant with consent. Here in our private retreats, one

can rely only on the good judgment of whomever he encounters. The tyros cannot be kept

under constant watch to ensure that they stay within the bounds of prudence.

"And your luck today was not the best." Farnel turned and cast a frown back at his

peer. "You may be noted for your prizes, Gerilac, but your students in particular set no

standards by their conduct."

"An easy thought for one who has no tyros of his own." Gerilac flicked some dust

from his rich velvet. "Although with no accolades in a decade, not even a minor mark of

merit, one can understand why there would be none."

Farrtel ignored Gerilac's reply and turned back to Jemi-don. "Come, I will escort

you to the harbor. It would not do you well to be found by one of Canthor's patrols."

"I have a proposition for you," Jemidon insisted.

"Not now." Fame! waved down the path. "Let us get to the harbor without delay.

Gerilac has babbled at me all afternoon, and I do not care to hear more of his plans to

bedazzle the high prince."

"Discussion of the relative value of your skills and mine does bring discomfort,"

Gerilac said. "Go ahead, take advantage of your excuse while you have it. Further

conversation will not change your worth in the eyes of the other masters."

Farnel's face clouded. He whipped back to stare at Gerilac without saying a word.

Gerilac flung his arm across his face; then, after a moment, he slowly lowered it to return

the stare. Warily, the two sorcerers closed upon each other, the first words of

enchantment rumbling from their lips.

As the masters engaged, Jemidon saw Erid and the other tyros exchanging hurried

glances. With a sudden movement, Erid spun his way, but Jemidon guessed the intent.

Quickly he stepped aside to avoid the push that would send him sprawling.

Erid staggered to a stop and waved the others to his side. "This one talks of

dealing only with a master, but now we will see how well he likes the skill of a tyro."

Jemidon looked at Farnel and Gerilac circling one another, arms across theireyes

and loudly shouting to drown out each other's charm. He would have to cope with the

tyros himself. He took a half step backward; then, without warning, he reversed direction

and drove his head into End's midsection. They crashed to the ground and began to roll

down the trail in a tumble. He heard Erid gasp for breath as he locked arms around the

tyro's back and began to squeeze. The sky and the ground rotated by in alter-

nating streaks, but Jemidon kept his hold. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the sharp

jabs from the small rocks that lay in their path.

One stone scraped against Jemidon's cheek; another scratched a ragged line along

his bare arm. Then, with a jarring thud, his head cracked against the large boulder that

blocked the path. Jemidon's eyes blurred. Involuntarily he loosened his grip.

Erid tore himself free. He grabbed for the branches of a scraggly bush and pulled

himself to his feet. Jemidon groggily flung his arms out, trying to reestablish his hold, but

Erid avoided the snares and pushed Jemidon to the ground. "And now the enchantment,"

he slowly panted. "Perhaps one that will engender a little more respect."

The other tyros ran down the slope and seized Jemidon by the arms as he

struggled to stand. He shook his head, but they grabbed his ears and forced him to look in

End's direction.

"As to the fee—" Erid pointed at Jemidon's chest. "The bauble of gold will do."

Jemidon struggled to free himself, but the tyros held him fast. His senses reeled.

Erid's image danced in duplicate. "Seize the coin at your peril," he managed to gasp. "For

fifteen years have I carried it, and even though I would have to track you to the northern

wastes, I will have it back."

Erid looked into Jemidon's eyes and hesitated- The fire that smoldered there was

not to be dismissed lightly. "Perhaps not worth the trouble of taking," he mumbled. "But

if truly it carries with it the memories of when you were a boy, it will make the

enchantment all the easier. Yes, that is it. Think of the coin, hapless one, while you look

into my face."

Jemidon immediately slammed shut his eyes, but the tyros held him steady and

forced his lids back open. Unable to avoid Erid's stare, he heard the beginnings of the

sonorous chant that dulled his consciousness.

Jemidon tried to defocus Erid's face into the blur of sky behind, but his thoughts

became sluggish and lumbered away on their own. Erid's eyes loomed larger and

larger until they blotted out everything behind, finally engulfing Jemidon's will

and swallowing it whole. He fell the events of the morning wash into indistinct

nothingness and then the day and the week before. With accelerating quickness, all his

travels folded and were tucked into small compartments of his mind that he could no

longer reach. He was a youth of twenty, fifteen, and finally ten.

Jemidon felt the constraints which held him fall away and he took a step forward.

The hillside shimmered and was gone...

He found himself in a dimly lighted hovel, still hot from the blazing sun and

choking in slowly settling dust. He heard the weak cough from the cot and saw the

strained look on his mother's face as she gently placed her palm on his sister's forehead.

Hesitantly he offered the coin in his hand back to his father. "But this brandel will

pay for the alchemist's potion," Jemidon heard himself say. "It will make her well. I can

take the examination next month or even next year, if need be."

"The next month or the next year we will still be here, Jemidon." His father

waved an arm around the small room. "And no more sure of a coin of gold then than

now. Take the payment for the testing. Even master Milton says you have a head for it;

he remembers no one else in the village with your quickness." The old man's eyes

widened and he looked off in the distance. "An apprentice thaumaturge. It is the first step

to becoming a master. And then, after Milton passes on, you will be the one who nurtures

the crops for lord Kenton and ensures his harvest. You will sit in honor at his table,

"And when you wear that robe, this will be but a memory for us all. There will be

pursefufs of coins—why, even tokens from the islands! Go, Jemidon; your sister wishes

it as fervently as I."

Jemidon looked to the cot and grimaced. His sister did not care about

apprenticeships and fees of the master. She was too young to know. All she wanted was

to get well, to play tag again, or to ride on his back and laugh. He was taking away the

one sure chance she had for a

cure, leaving her and gambling that the fever might break on its own accord.

But more important, when he finally succeeded, could he ever truly pay her back?

Even as a master, could he compensate enough for the weeks of chills yet to come— or

worse, the atrophied limbs that might result when it was all over? Was a robe of black

worth so much that the choice was as easy as his father made it?

"Go, Jemidon. Milton gathers the applicants in the square before the sun passes its

zenith. Being late is not an auspicious beginning."

Jemidon felt the upwelling doubt; but looking in his father's eyes, he could not

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摘要：

THEHIGHIMPEDANCEOFMAGIC"Thetaskissimple,"mastermagicianRosimarsaid."JustremovetheweightsfromthescaleintheorderindicatedwhenIsignal"AsRosimarhurriedtothedoorway,Jemidonstudiedthescale.Anarrayofspringsandswitchesclusteredaroundthebalancingarm.fromwhichropes,pipes,andpulleysledtootherapparatusofmagic.J...

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Lyndon Hardy - Secret of the Sixth Magic

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