The Naming of Kinzel Read online

  His walk became a fast walk, then a trot. He ran the last distance, tugging the obedient water behind him. O! he should have brought more. The need was so great, he should have brought much more. He needed much more than this. It was needed, it was needed now!

  Kinzel felt a sudden rush of air, and a separation, as if he'd drawn away from the water, back into himself. He turned to see a wall of water rushing at him, taller than he by twice his height, wider, perhaps, than the empty streambed toward which it surged. There was a slight moment of fear, and no time to run.

  The water gathered him up, swept him along for crazy wet spinning yards, and threw him carelessly aside as it gained speed and ran into that well-worn way and down the valley, filling the streambed, soaking into the ground and earth, wetting the fields, racing along toward a distant ocean with its own cool breeze....

  ***

  They found him just before nightfall.

  Siljan it was who nagged and berated them until they went looking. They looked reluctantly, every one, having heard Edlin's hysterical tale of a demon Kinzel bent on drowning the village.

  Grumbling and carrying garlics and lucky pieces they went when they'd have rather stayed home enjoying their mysterious good fortune.

  Siljan it was who had him carried back to the village and laid upon her own bed, covered with her own esoterically decorated blankets from the coast of another continent. "Hurry before the stars come out, now!"

  The villagers returned, grumbling, to their homes, garlics and lucky pieces in hand, to cold dinners, sure that Kinzel would be safely dead by morning.

  They slept fitfully, from Edlin to Elder Donvar, from fisherman to cowherd, Pastt Farer worst of all, for they'd grown unused to the sound of water in the stream and the noise the nightbirds made. More, they were unused to the lightless thunders and strange, begging incantations a madwoman might use to undrown a foolish boy.

  There was more fear than relief, then, when the begging turned to laughter and the thunder brought lightning, rain, and breath renewed.

  KINZEL THE INNOCENT

  One: Eviction

  The Master's summons sought the apprentice in all the usual places, descended to the kitchen as a last resort, found him leaning back in a chair by the fire, dozing. The summons elongated itself, became a pillar of dense gray smoke positioned a bare inch from the apprentice's unconcious ear, and delivered.

  "Kinzel! Damn your worthless hide! To the workroom! Now, as you value your present unlovely shape! Kinzel!"

  Apprentice and chair crashed backwards as the summons dissipated, its purpose fulfilled; then Kinzel was running up the spiral staircase as fast as short, pudgy legs would carry him.

  Now there was the chair to be mended on top of all the rest of it - and what in the name of the Clock was bothering him, anyway? The apprentice rounded the third landing, puffing; wished that the ability to will oneself from this place to that did not elude him still; and continued upward.

  At the twenty-second landing he paused to rest and run through the list of possible irritants to his Master's never-certain temper. The workroom was spotless, he'd cleaned it only the night before; the books were stacked ready, the proper passages marked with bits of red ribbon; the kiln was scrubbed; the window-

  Kinzel sagged against the cold stone of the stairwell, suddenly ill. The window. Invisibility was, alas, beyond his power to command.

  Some rudimentary extra sense caused him to glance up just as another of his Master's summons came 'round the curl of the staircase.

  "I'm coming! I'm coming!" he shouted at it, and had a moment's fleeting pleasure as it faded.

  His Master was waiting for him, a tall thin shadow in the doorway at the top of the stair. Kinzel swallowed and paused, seeking in vain for the words that would make him invisible.

  "Come in, Kinzel," murmured the wizard gently, backing slowly into his workroom and beckoning with one long-fingered hand. "You needn't fear me, you know; I've been your master for lo, these fourteen years. Surely you must have gotten it through your pinhead that I am the gentlest of beings, given only to righteous anger and merciful punishment."

  Kinzel managed a nod as he followed that demanding finger into the workroom, moved his tongue and croaked, "Yes, master. It is known wherever the Craft is practiced that you are the kindest of magicians."

  "Then, Kinzel, you know you can tell me, frankly and without fear of unduly harsh reprisal, why you left the window open last night after I had retired."

  The apprentice opened and closed his mouth several times before a sound emerged: "Awwk."

  From his pose in front of the offending window, fists resting on each hip, hawk nose shadowing lean mouth, the wizard queried, still gently, "Your pardon, good Kinzel? I did not hear."

  Kinzel took a deep breath and pulled himself straight, shoulders square, head tilted back so he faced his Master's slender elegance like a boastful pigeon confronting a cat.

  "Master, I came here after you had gone last evening, as I have every night since I was first 'prenticed, and put the room straight, scoured the kiln, and cleaned the vessels and retorts. Then, Master, I chanced to look out the window and saw that the Moon had just come to full and the night was aglow with the Power. And as I stood looking out at the night, there was born in me an overwhelming need to see my mother once more, to speak with my father and walk the farmlands where I spent my youth.

  "Just yesterday I had read the words and symbols that take one instantly from here to there, with the proper application of the Power and in harmony with the Clock. So, Master, I opened the window wide to let the Moonpower into the room and I raised up a frame of bronze and ash and silver as it was in the book, stepped inside and closed the entranceway behind me with a rod of glass, and spoke the words as they were written. I waited to be transported to my parents' home."

  He faltered, moving his gaze to the pattern of tiles on the workroom floor. Madog the Magnificent regarded his apprentice, interest shining in his eyes.

  "So. And did the formula work? Did you see your family last night, Kinzel?"

  "Alas, sir," said the lad, forcing his gaze to his Master's face, "the spell did fail me. I felt the barest trickle of warmth within me, then I was alone with the Funnel. I tried again - and failed - then pulled down the framework and retired myself. I gave no further thought to the window."

  He swallowed, keeping his eyes on Madog's own. "I should have remembered to lock the window against the night before I left the room. To have failed in this is unforgivable carelessness, deserving the harshest of punishments. Do what you will, Master."

  But the magician was shaking his head, and the look on his face was sorrow. He paced the distance to his study-table, idly flipped the leaves of a gold-and-emerald bound tome that lay open in the general clutter, then said, "Kinzel."

  "Master?" What novelty was this? No sudden coals in his britches? No illusory imps to pinch him? Not so much as one of his Master's fearful curses?

  "Kinzel," murmured the wizard, still turning the pages of his book, gentle and random, "how long have you been 'prenticed to me?"

  "Fourteen years come springtime, Master. You said so yourself just now."

  "Fourteen years." Madog looked at his apprentice, hands flat on the pages of his book. "Kinzel, I am no longer young. I have long since reached the heights of my powers and measured the limits of my domain. Soon, in sorcerous terms, I shall die. I must have an apprentice.

  "Someone sharp-minded and able, someone absolutely inquisitive. Someone who would attempt the spell you attempted last night in perhaps the fifth year - and make it work in perhaps the eighth year. I must have such an apprentice to learn what I know so that my life and my studies will not have been in vain."

  He glanced down at his hands, slowly shifted them, closed the book. He stood staring down at the intricate cover.

  "In all those fourteen years, Kinzel, the bits of Craft you have been able to grasp are the firemagic, teleportation of objects under five pounds
if they are within your sight, and skill at healing. You still have - and have augmented - the low grade plant-and-animal magic that was yours when I took you on. Even that - even that is not enough."

  "Master, I-"

  The magician stopped him with a shake of the head. "No, I have failed you as a master, Kinzel. I have had you in my service for the years of your young manhood, and in exchange for them have given you little. Certainly not a means to earn your livelihood unless you become herbmaster for some backwoods village.

  "Had my studies not been so arcane I would have seen it sooner. Anyone marginally adept would have earned at least a Rod by now, if not a full Staff. Your skills will not suffice to feed you honestly in the worlds that march to the Clock's ticking.

  "So, my Kinzel, I offer you this: I shall acknowledge my failure to the Council; admit that I cannot teach you the wizardly craft, and deny you further apprenticeship on those grounds.

  "I shall not send you from me. You know this house, my schedule, my moods; you work passingly well with your hands. You may stay here as my personal servant, never to wonder when your next meal shall come. And I shall advertise and have a proper apprentice, so that when my time comes I may go in peace."

  What? But this was the cruelest punishment yet. Not to learn the magic, ever? And not be able to hold the hope of learning?

  "No!"

  Madog's eyebrows pulled straight into a terrible frown. "What! Do you refuse my kindness so? I am not obliged to do aught for you-"

  He stopped in astonishment. Kinzel was before him, head craned far back, hands clutching the wizard's star-sprinkled robe. "Master! You cannot deny me hope. Master, you are kind, you are just. To shut the door forever in the face of your servant is unworthy of you...."

  "Man, you forget yourself." Madog pulled away from the clutching hands and drew himself tall.

  Kinzel flung out his hands in supplication. "Master, let me attempt the staff!"

  "You're mad!"

  Then, as he read real horror in the round face tipped up toward his, "Kinzel, it is a mighty task. Even wizards in the first glorious rush of their powers, sure of the skills they command, have failed and been destroyed. What chance have you when they who were your betters failed?"

  "Master, I have been your 'prentice for fourteen years. It is my right. If I die in the attempt I shall have been more full of the Power than ever I have been before." He lowered his arms. "Master, fourteen years is a long time. My life is mine to spend as I will, now that I am not even apprenticed."

  Madog paused for a moment, thinking. Here was a motive he could understand. To be relegated to the ranks of ordinary mortals, having tasted, having been so close... Pride demanded the attempt; a lesser course would kill it. And what magician could point to that death and name it less real than the death of the body?

  He nodded. "Attempt it, then. I shall keep watch for you."

  Kinzel bowed his head. "May the Moonpower keep you, sir, and may you always move with the ticking of the Clock." He walked with soft, suddenly sure steps to the Place by the northern wall where stood, ever ready, the Master's own Funnel, a triangular framework of Ebon and Gold, Bronze and Glass.

  He stood before it a moment, eyes closed. He could feel Power there, as once as a young boy he had felt the Power and Might of a unicorn glade. He was strange legend in his village now: Kinzel who stole a stream from the unicorn itself when the crops, the people, and the wildlife all suffered towards death in the Great Drought. As he'd sought that stream, that life-giving water, now he need seek Power itself.

  Squaring his shoulders, he entered the Funnel, all his pudginess gone to dignity. As he stepped into the very center of the framework he heard the soft click that was Madog laying his own staff down as guard across the entrance.

  Sealed in now and scarce breathing, Kinzel shut his outer eyes and reached deep within himself, as he had been taught, until he felt a slow glow of heat in the region of his physical heart. He took a deep breath and tried to open his mind to the Forces.

  "I am Kinzel. I petition the Power, if it is willing to hear my voice. Weigh my need..." The initial glow was fading; he ignored panic and began again. "I am Kinzel. I have heard the Beat of the Clock at the Heart of What Is, and have schooled my own heart to beat with that rhythm. I have need - of a staff of white Power-" There was a flash of greater heat, gone before he fully realized that it had been, and the glow of the remaining warmth that was Kinzel seemed somehow less robust....

  With an effort akin to wrenching open a hard-jammed door, Kinzel bared his mind to the Forces, and the wind that blew through him then chilled his spirit like unto ... unto ...

  "No! I am Kinzel! And it is I, Kinzel, who say to you that I require a staff of pure white power to companion me and aid me for the Good. I am Kinzel. I revere the Clock and am one with the worlds that it governs. And you shall deliver me a Tool that may be used for the Right alone."

  There was a warmth about him: he did not open his eyes to see the flames filling the Funnel. He did not see Madog's face, aghast at the amount of Power drawn to his poor 'prentice.

  "I am Kinzel!" he said again, seeing in mind's eyes the cold, cold black voids, seeing in mind's eyes the brilliant white-heat. There were things there: glittering choices full of jewels; promises there if only he could touch...

  "I am Kinzel. I require a Staff of True, of Actual Power..."

  The glow that had almost died built to a flame in which the chill of other Forces was driven aside. Clearly before him, hanging in the orange air, a staff of dark brown wood twined with living green. He reached between glinting rods and bright, promising metallic things and plucked it from the air, noting how rightly it fit his hand, and slammed his mind like a sturdy door against the killing, alluring cold of the Forces.

  Clutching his staff high in one hand, Kinzel knew his Master's workroom again; then the orange went out of the air, to be replaced by starless black, and he fell.

  ***

  Stars. A lightening of the blackness. Sound. Kinzel struggled with his eyelids, and triumphed. He regarded the gleaming tiles on which he rested his nose. Was he truly alive, he wondered, alive after touching so much - more of the Power than ever before he'd seen, than he knew existed...

  Around him Kinzel truly felt the Force ebb and flow. And for the first time he understood the meaning of the phrase "to live in Power."

  As tangibly as the rush of water which had swept him along that day in his boyhood when he had called the stream to follow him, there was now the Power: Forces to be deflected, dammed, penned, utilized, and loosed; a constant threat and a constant answer to the thirst of those who needed Good.

  "I say, Kinzel! Damn it, boy - that is - damn it, man! Answer me, I pray you. What have you wrought that the beams sway, what is it that repels my staff ever so slightly..." Madog peered in through the entrance of the Funnel, concern creasing his brow. "Kinzel, is that blood?"

  Kinzel nodded, slowly moving his unwilling arms and legs, his staff still firmly clenched in his hand. He could feel raw knuckles; his lip was swollen and damp with the blood brought on by the inevitability of gravity.

  Gaining his feet awkwardly, refusing to let go the hard-won staff or subject it to the menial task of aiding his stance, he touched the tips of his fingers to the lightly bloodied lip, murmuring as he did, "This should not be so..."

  And it was not! The hurt was gone, and the blood.

  "That's the way!" Madog sounded as jubilant as a schoolboy. "Kinzel, I thought you dead by pride - a not unhappy fate, perhaps, and certainly not uncommon - and look at you! A staff in your hand and instant healing-"

  Madog stooped and snatched up his staff, which lay a bit farther from the entranceway, as if it had been slowly moving away under its own accord. He swept a deep bow then, which Kinzel took as an invitation to exit the Funnel.

  Kinzel did so, moving still a bit stiffly, and made his own bow, sorry as such a gesture must necessarily be in one so short and pudgy. "Mas - Madog, wizard
and friend. I thank you for your aid. And your concern. I will thank you, too, for choosing a time that would let me succeed. Yet I have a debt to you, that the wisdom that so benefited me should not be lost to the world. I acknowledge that debt, and it shall be paid."

  "What's that?" Madog seemed genuinely puzzled. "What debt? Speak straightly, I bid you."

  "Just before I tried for the staff, Madog, you spoke of your need to find a 'prentice, an actual 'prentice to learn your magics and to build on them when he took staff. I fear you still need such a 'prentice, for my staff seems not close kin to yours, after all, and I doubt we could abide - two wizards - in the center house for long. I call it my debt and I will make it good."

  Kinzel reached out in sudden concern to Madog, who was visibly swaying where he stood.

  "May I help you, Mas - Sir? You sway."

  "It is my staff, good Kinzel. It moves away from you. Or from your staff. And there seems to be a bit of a - a breeze - in this spot."

  Kinzel thought of the window that had begun his quest for his staff this day. He thought to check it, to make sure it was closed, yet he was concerned for Madog and...

  And a shadow Kinzel whisked away from him, suddenly. Across the room to the window went the shadow and the offending port swung to and then locked.

  "So I thought as well," said the former master, "but the breeze, you see, it appears to persist and to come directly from your staff, Brother-in-Wizardry."

  Kinzel stood still for a moment, his heavy form as stolid as a statue. Without a doubt there was a movement of air in the room, and the place felt vaguely cleaner, smelled more like home than ever it had before.

  "Kinzel, I do believe my incense has lost its power."

  Kinzel saw the white plume of smoke rising from the incense burner, yet he could not detect its taint upon the air. It had never been his favorite odor - a cloying compound of waxes and jungle flowers mixed with a base of charcoal - and he found its absence a relief.

  "Your staff, new Brother!"