“Sorcerers are mages who hold the heart-stone enchantments of one or more elemental spirits. You can think of a heart-stone enchantment as a leash or binding. It gives them absolute control over an elemental. Elementals range in power from very weak to extremely powerful, but controlling any of them grants a vast amount of power to the mage, crude though it may be.
“A few centuries ago, there were no sorcerers. The first was a wizard of great skill, who designed the heart-stone enchantment and trapped the first elemental. Most of the sorcerers of today are no better than leeches, resting on the achievements of their ancestors. The heart-stone enchantments are passed down through the generations, and those that receive them gain vast power through no effort of their own. Many of them can barely manage a spell, if they have any training at all.” The old man stopped for a second, then asked, “Any questions?”
“What are you?” asked Will directly.
His grandfather sighed. “I’m an herbalist, and an old man who knows a little too much for his own good.”
It was clear he wasn’t going to say more about himself, so Will changed tactics. “Why do you hate sorcerers?”
“None of your damned business,” snapped the old man. “All you need to know is they’re lazy, useless individuals. Also, what they do is morally repugnant.”
“Why?”
“It’s slavery,” said his grandfather. “Rather than develop their skills and use their own innate gifts, they trap and enslave the most basic spirits of nature. The most benign of warlocks makes a victim of himself, at the very least, but a sorcerer violates the purest and simplest spirits in the world. Compounding their wickedness, the power they gain is generally used to exert control over others.”
Will thought about it for a minute, then tried to summarize his thoughts. “So, you’re saying that all mages are evil, except for wizards, and they’re the weakest of the bunch.”
“If wits were food, you’d starve to death,” answered his grandfather, “but at least you’re trying to think.” He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “No. It’s entirely possible for a warlock to be good, though he or she would still be a fool. A good warlock trades only what they already possess—elixir of turynal, blood, or even their own soul—but most of them wind up stealing to gain more than they deserve. They’ll take children, or other helpless sorts, and use them for their own ends. A good sorcerer, by contrast, would no longer be a sorcerer, because he’d free the elementals that serve him.
“As for wizards, I guess that’s true, these days at least. Most of them spend their time bowing and scraping for the sorcerers, hoping to be given scraps. Not one of the current lot has the courage to rely on their own strength or learn the secrets of true mastery.”
Will stared at his feet, feeling sad and deflated. He had never expected magic to be so depressing.
“So now you understand why I won’t teach any more than you absolutely need to know,” said the hermit. “You can’t be a sorcerer because unless you’re born into one of the noble families, they’d never give you an elemental, and I certainly wouldn’t train you to become a wizard capable of enslaving one on your own. Far better for you to be an herbalist. At least then you can help people.”
Something about that statement caught Will’s attention, for it implied the old man had far more knowledge than he should. “You know how to create the heart-stone enchantment?” he asked suddenly.
“Hah!” barked his grandfather. “Only the most skilled of today’s sorcerers can manage that. If I did have that knowledge, I’d certainly never allow it to be used again. No sense in repeating the mistakes of the past.”
“Oh,” said Will, dejected. But he noticed that the old man didn’t actually answer the question. He could have denied it, but he didn’t.
“We’ve spent enough time on bullshit,” said his grandfather abruptly. “Time for you to learn. Stare at the candle flame.”
Will did so, but nothing happened. “Now what?” he asked.
“That’s it,” said his mentor. “Just keep a close eye on it from now on. Pay close attention to any changes.”
Frowning, Will asked, “For how long?”
His grandfather scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “That depends on you, but most likely for a couple of years or so. Actually, I take that back. As dumb as you are, it will probably be even longer.”
Jumping to his feet, Will exclaimed, “What? That’s crazy!” The flame flared up briefly, then swirled violently in response to his anger.
“See that!” said the old man, pointing at the candle. “That’s the sort of thing you need to observe.”
“But why?” said Will, exasperated.
“So you can control it,” said his guardian smugly. “For you to keep from doing magic, you first have to learn the difference between your insides and your outsides, and how one affects the other. Now, go get the broom and sweep the room out before you go to bed.”
“I don’t have a bed,” Will announced, bitterly.
“And you never will, with that attitude.”
A low growl rose from Will’s throat, but he did as he was told. Snatching up the broom from one corner, he began vigorously sweeping.
“Watch the flame, idiot!” shouted his grandfather. “Were you paying attention to anything I told you?”
“How can I do that and sweep at the same time?” said Will in frustration.
“Hold it in one hand. It won’t burn anything. It isn’t a real flame. If that’s too awkward, just put it somewhere in your line of sight. You really are daft. Why do I have to explain every little thing?”
Swallowing an angry retort, Will moved the candle and resumed his work, beating angrily at the floor with the broom. The flame danced in time with his movements, flaring now and then as he silently cursed his tormentor.
“That’s better, moron,” encouraged his grandfather. “Make sure you finish before you go to sleep. I’m off to bed. I want eggs and toast for breakfast. If you’re smart, they’ll be ready when I get up.”
Will’s temper finally snapped. “We don’t have any bread! How do you expect me to make toast?”
The old man ignored his insolence. “Oh, right. One second.” Leaving the room, he stepped through the door into his bedroom. When he returned a moment later, he held a large, relatively fresh loaf in one hand. “Use this.”
Dumbfounded, Will asked, “Where did that come from?” The bread was obviously less than two days old and he knew for a fact the hermit hadn’t gone to town in that time.
“None of your damn business,” said his grandfather. Then the old man gave him a smile and added sweetly, “Good night.” Disappearing into his bedroom, he shut the door and Will was left alone.
Chapter 9
Will woke the next morning, cold, sore, and irritated. The candle sat a few feet away on the floor, still burning and with no sign of having gotten any shorter. Remembering the old man’s words, he got up and started breakfast.
There weren’t any eggs in the house, so he went outside and walked to the back. A small trail led through the brambles and into a wide-open space where his grandfather grew a variety of beans, squash, turnips, and other vegetables. The chicken coop was at the far end, farthest from the house, though still within the defensive, thorny barrier. Idly, he wondered how deer managed to get in, since there was a small gate to prevent them from entering through what he assumed was the only opening.