Yonder’s book, On the Pre-paration of Magick, stated the following line of reasoning: spells were ideas, the human mind could hold multiple ideas at once, and so therefore, the mind could hold multiple spells at once. One need only to focus.
Holding on to that reasoning, Dwayne closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said,”Ri.“
As magic awakened to his call, Dwayne banished the image of his mentor lying poisoned on the floor of his own study and concentrated on his first idea: anger. “mwe.“
Now live, the spell thrashed and writhed, trying to twist free of Dwayne’s control, but he wrestled it still and taut. After wiping sweat from his brow, he focused on the next idea happiness and summoned up the day he’d picked up Na’cch off the ground, and it sang to him.
“a-“
But the man who’d given Dwayne that book was comatose in a spare adminstrative office, he might never wake up, and Dwayne would be left a lord, and-
The spell slipped out of Dwayne’s control, and the unrestrained magic blasted him out of his chair and onto the stone floor.
He lay there a moment, pain rippling up and down his side, eyes full of bright spots. Then he sat up, his nose wrinkling. The failed spell had left a smoky tang in the air, one that he’d now always associate with failure. After rescuing Yonder’s book from the edge of the lake, he righted his chair, sat back down at the table, and laid the book down next to a new burn scar in the wood, which marked his fifth attempt. Dwayne sat back, closed his eyes, and waited. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. A migraine, a stampede of pain, rampaged through his brain, making him gasp, but he held on with teeth clenched. Yonder had warned that failing at pre-prep magic too many times was dangerous for one’s physical and mental health. She recommended students stop after three failures in one day, and, now that his brain felt like it was being beaten to mush, Dwayne was forced to concur.
When the migraine had finally faded, he turned his attention to the other two books on the table, both of which had escaped his failure: the Ri tome Na’cch, and The Responsibilities of a Noble Mage by Eritrea Armsford. The former was unopenable and only occasionally deigned to teach Dwayne one spell at a time, and as usual, it was silent. Dwayne turned to the latter book, which he had opened when Lord Kalan had given it to him, but two pages in, and he knew it described a future he did not want. Instead of facing that future, he focused on the library, wishing he could explore beyond its first few rows of shelves, but every time he tried, something gently pushed him back towards the table, like a parent pushing a child back to safety. As for the books that Dwayne could reach, they all had unintelligible titles in what looked like Yaniti, an ancient form of the trade language sailors and traders used. He only knew a little, mostly picked up from Magdala’s reading time with Mei, and considering its current form and the people who spoke it, he had no plans to ever study it more thoroughly.
His stomach growled. He’d lost track of time down here without the sun’s passage to tell time, and it had been a long time since breakfast, a long time since… Sighing, Dwayne grabbed Na’cch, strapped it onto his back and used the lift to return to the study.
Galkin was waiting for him. “My lord, you are needed.”
Dwayne gave the steward a look. “What time is it?”
“Two hours past noon,” answered the steward, admonishment and disapproval clear in his tone. “You have responsibilities to this estate, my lord.”
Dwayne flinched. “No, I-” He caught himself. “What are you talking about?”
“Since Lord Gallus is on his way here, we must prepare to receive him, his retinue, and any guests that may be traveling with him.”
Dwayne stepped around the steward. “Can’t you arrange all of that? I’ll just do what you say.”
Galkin shook his head. “My lord, I am merely a steward, and my job is simply to take care of the estate, not run it.”
“Regardless, you know it far better than I do,” said Dwayne, “and I’m sure you already know how to set up parties designed to impress the brother-in-law of the currently comatose estate holder.” He shrugged. “It’ll be easy for you, right? Get to it.”
Galkin’s face went blank.
“I can stand around looking stern,” Dwayne offered, “if that would help.”
“It would not, my lord.”
Dwayne slumped. “Why not?”
“My lord.” Galkin’s hand came up to his forehead, then it dropped as he took a deep breath. “My lord, you are Lord Bartholomew Kalan’s heir.”
Dwayne stepped back. “No, I’m not. He was just being silly.”
Galkin’s jaw clenched. “The night he first arrived here at Walcrest, Lord Kalan gathered all of the staff together and informed us of that very fact. Afterwards, he handed me three letters to be sent by post to Lord Gallus, the Magisterium, and the Queen. On his orders, I sealed each letter with his ring, marking them as official correspondence, and each stated the following, ‘I name the boy Dwayne, currently my ward, as my apprentice and as my heir to both my estate and my position as Guardian of Walcrest.'”
Dwayne’s jaw dropped. “That’s… That’s…”
Galkin stepped closer, his eyes meeting Dwayne’s. “My lord, with all of that entrusted to you, are you still going to run away?”
Dwayne collapsed into a sofa, his mind reeling. Then he jumped to his feet and searched the sofa, certain he’d sat in Lord Kalan’s blood. Finding nothing, he relaxed and sat back down. Everything from the sofas to the carpets had been scrubbed clean or replaced.
Galkin noted Dwayne’s reaction. “After young Lady Gallus was finished with her investigation this morning, I had the staff do their job. Keeping this estate clean is our responsibility.”
Getting the hint, Dwayne turned to the steward, who was dressed in a dark green suit and pale green leggings with a collar pressed flat enough to cut. For his part, Dwayne was wearing a tunic that hadn’t been washed in days, breeches that showed more than a little wear and tear, and boots, though comfortable, that definitely clashed with the rich decor of the estate he was now heir to. He didn’t look like a lord. He didn’t feel like a lord. But if he didn’t become a lord, he’d have to run away and hide out in the wilderness, and leave behind his studies on magic, his teacher, and Magdala and Huan and Mei. That was too much to lose.
He stood up. “In the introduction of The Responsibilities of a Noble Mage, Armsford states, ‘A noble mage should be fastidious about her looks in order to look her best at all times.’ While I get the book from downstairs, draw me up a bath and get me some new clothes. I… I don’t want this place, I don’t want to be a noble, but I do want to be a mage, so I’ll make sure that when Lord Kalan wakes up and when Lord Gallus arrives, neither of them will be embarrassed by the state of this, uh, estate.”
A soft tone rang behind Dwayne, and he turned to the library’s door, listening for whispers. “What was that?” He turned to Galkin. “Did you hear that?”
Taking his eyes off Na’cch, the steward bowed. “Just a sign of good times I’m sure, my lord. It will be done.”
Admaeus Speaks 