Bran laughed. "Some things just have to come naturally, I suppose. Unfortunately for you, literacy isn't one of them."
But, lacking the materials to make an honest attempt at teaching the lad, and the one book he carried being wholly inadequate for the job, he let the argument lie.
On occasion, the lad would introduce the subject. But even knowing Garin's prodigious curiosity, Bran couldn't anticipate every question.
"How does it work, anyway? Magic, that is."
Bran tried to hide his dismay behind a sly smile. "You think I would explain a thing as mysterious, as powerful, as dangerous as sorcery to you?"
"You took me into the Ruins of Erlodan," the youth pointed out.
"Fair enough. What do you want to know? You've already seen it done."
"So you speak a strange word and... that's it?"
"A word of the Worldtongue, yes. But there are several other factors, what the elves call 'the Four Roots.' The First Root is you must possess an affinity for magic. That is, you must either be of the Eldritch Bloodline — in other words, an elf — or, if you're human, you must have sworn an oath to a patron god, like the Warlocks' Circle worship Jalduean."
"Who's your patron god?"
Bran grinned. "I don't think any would want me."
"Then…"
He quickly moved on. "The Second Root is speaking the word of the Worldtongue. Each word corresponds with a resulting effect. For example, 'kald,' which I used on that big bandit back there, means 'fire.'"
Garin stared at his hands. "But saying kald didn't summon fire now."
"No, because I didn't implement the final two Roots." He held up a third finger. "Sorcery also requires an energy transfer. For small cantrips like kald, your body is sufficient for the transfer. Kald, fire, draws a scant amount of your body's heat, then multiplies the effect tenfold. But even though each casting only takes a little energy, a sorcerer must be careful when using their body as a conduit. Expel or draw too much energy, and you'll find yourself a corpse.
"But, if there's a need to cast a cantrip many times in a row — say, you have a particularly wet pile of sticks—"
"Or a monster to kill," Garin added with a grin.
"—there's a way around this, a technique mages call 'balanced casting.' Instead of just casting kald and draining themselves of heat, the sorcerer would also cast lisk, 'ice,' which draws heat into the caster's body to create cold. The sorcerer then alternates between the two cantrips, and the amount of heat added and subtracted more or less evens out."
Garin's brow furrowed. "So if you use balanced casting, you could do magic for… forever?"
Bran shook his head. "The Fourth Root would eventually stop you — proper concentration and imagination."
"Imagination?"
"Imagination." Bran grinned. "Think about it. Your imagination can create wondrous and terrible things, dreams and nightmares. It has the power to chain a man to his past and yoke a woman to her future. Every time you picture something you cannot know with your senses, it is with imagination that you see, smell, hear, touch."
As if summoned, a familiar scent drifted by his nose, and Bran breathed it in hungrily. He knew it must be his imagination; the white mangrove flower bloomed far and away from the road they walked. But all the same, the honey-sweet scent filled him, bringing with it memories worn with being remembered so often. A touch of skin, impossibly soft. Chestnut eyes laced with tendrils of cerulean fire, deep as forest pools. The essence of the white mangrove flower she washed through her golden hair.
He cleared his throat, suddenly coming back to himself. The only thing he smelled was the stench of the road clinging to him. A trick of memory, he mused. Nothing more. Glancing at his would-be apprentice, he saw Garin was just as lost in thought. Who do you remember? A Hunt's Hollow sweetheart? Or the father you lost long ago?
Bran cleared his throat again and waited to speak until Garin glanced over at him. "But unlike becoming lost in your thoughts or an idle remembrance," he said with a sly smile, "imagination for magic requires knife-honed concentration. You must be able to imagine with all your senses the spell you wish to cast. When summoning fire, there is the smell of it, the heat washing over your skin, the mesmerizing sway, the gradients of color. If you imagine it vividly enough, speak its word in the Worldtongue, and draw upon a source, then fire will appear."
"If you're an elf," Garin said. "Or a warlock."
Bran inclined his head.
"But not all magic is just summoning fire and such — cantrips, like you said," Garin continued. "The magic you hear about in stories, the terrors and wonders… how does that work?"
"Similarly, but with much greater stakes. Spells of more than one word usually require an energy source beyond the caster's body, and mages often use catalysts like powders and oils, or prisms and other magnifying elements, to draw power from chemical reactions or sunlight. But even with such aids, with each added word, the consequences of failure magnify exponentially. A miscast spell of just two words could kill an inexperienced magician."
They walked in silence for a few moments, the youth considering his words.
"So that's how all magic is done? Like…" Garin hesitated, then spoke reluctantly, as if his curiosity compelled him. "Like the Extinguished in the stories. They're said to be all-powerful, to form illusions that people lose themselves in for the rest of their lives, and able to take on other people's faces." Garin grinned. "But that's all hogwash, isn't it?"
Bran echoed his smile, though only slightly. "Not completely. But they are far from all-powerful."
Garin's smile faded. "Again, you speak like they exist."
Bran stared off ahead for a long moment. Birds chirped from the trees around them.
"What have you heard of the Extinguished?" he asked finally.
"Only what everyone has heard. There are four of them, just like the Devil's Stars show. They serve the Night and Yuldor, as the Night's Chosen, in attempting to conquer the Westreach and all the other lands of Mother World." Garin shrugged. "That they're all-powerful, but held at bay by the lingering power of the Whispering Gods."
Bran shook his head. "They weave their illusions in more than just magic. Yes, there are four of them, and yes, they serve Yuldor. They have incredible powers, including near-immortality, the same as the Night has bestowed upon Yuldor. But they are not all-powerful. They can be killed, if only for a time. They can steal souls, and wear others' faces, and cast powerful illusions that can warp a person's reality.
"But they work in illusions for a reason — their magic must abide by the same rules as any others, with the same costs and consequences. Remember the story of Erlodan? A talented magician can match the Extinguished in power, and though those are few in the Westreach, there are more than four. And though Yuldor sends down the Nightkin, they've never yet overwhelmed the defenses of the Reach Realms. Thus, to accomplish their goals, Yuldor and his servants work in subterfuge, weaving a web of lies and deceit, and threatening more often with secrets and incentives than magic."