The Naming of Kinzel Page 4

  The vines on Kinzel's staff were green and full of power, twining around wood and hand without gaining bulk or weight. The leaves swayed softly, as if in a gentle breeze.

  "The staff," said Kinzel quietly, as he nearly saw the Power flowing and working. "The staff cleans the air, Madog. Of its own Nature!"

  Madog nodded. "It could be so, with such a staff."

  Kinzel glanced at Madog's staff and then turned his full attention to it. For the first time in years he studied the contrivance. Not since his early days had he considered the staff as its own object. Though he knew its shape and size, the color of its gems and the meaning of its mystic symbols, the whole of it had escaped him. Now he could feel the Power that was its own as well the Power that was Madog's; could sense the intricacy and detail, the forethought and foredesire that had gone into its existence.

  His own staff clung to him: the wood, strong as a ten-man tall oak, was supple as a sapling. There were no mystic symbols, no jewels, no subtle interplay of wood, metal, gem, and dream.

  Madog's staff was an artisan's tool, itself artifice of the highest order. His own was simple, innocent of contrivance.

  Kinzel's concentration gave way to the room again. Here was Madog, deep in study; here was Madog considering, appraising the staff of his protégée.

  Madog stood taller, suddenly. This was no magical, wizardly thing, but an honest and personal one.

  "Sir, my friend and student Kinzel, the work of the day is done. It would give me pleasure to offer you a place for the evening - certainly there is room here - but I suspect that our night would be uneasy.

  "The Keep has its defenses. I suspect that while you slept the Keep and my staff would work at testing your staff and you; I would need to calm and soothe them for they would be like guard dogs muttering the night long while a stranger lay in the next room. Your staff is uncataloged and unrepresented at Council except by your 'prentice name.

  "Your magic is yours, as you have said; mine is my own. We both can feel the difference: they twitch at each other like brothers seeking advantage even as we speak. I offer you access to my books or objects should you need them until you have a Keep of your own - but for this evening it is best if you were to take your leave before dusk."

  Madog bowed the bow of respect, in full, and with clear conscience, accepting the same in return.

  Then he moved to the small private stairway that led to his ultimate sanctuary and without looking back withdrew from the slowly sweetening air of his workroom.

  Two: Kinzel Wanderer

  Spring had not quite gone from the world; summer did not yet reign over late afternoon with the soggy heat and sudden thunderstorms that were its pleasure here in the upcountry north and east of Madog's keep. Kinzel breathed in the lighter, cooler air with relief. His body still retained the rhythms and expectations of his homeland, where in summer a second shirt against the chill might make the morning seem fairer and late spring could still suddenly frost-tip a low meadow crop.

  The evening came on, and then full night silver-tinged with the rising of the moon at his back, Kinzel walked on, his small bundle of possessions almost unnoticed. In making his leave-taking he'd had not much to pack, for in truth he owned scarcely more than had been in his wallet when he'd come into Madog's service. His chief wealth was composed of the half-dozen coins that had been his name-right, and an extra firestone, untouched and wrapped tightly in oiled cloth. Madog had filled his needs, as was required by a Master's honor: food, roof, clothing, and work to fill the day's long hours.

  Other than the several small chains and amulets on his person - parting gifts from Madog - Kinzel the wizard was outwardly remarkably similar to Kinzel the apprentice. His vestlet and boots were worn but serviceable leather; the leggings and blouse half-hidden by scarred leather were a uniform, clean gray-brown. He had a small knife hung at his belt on his left side, that being his true hand despite the efforts of his family - and the wiseman - to train the right in its stead. The sheath gave away the truth of the knife: it was more suited to hacking away at a ham on table than a footpad or roving wolf.

  The road continued through the night. Kinzel let his feet pick their own path as he absorbed the patterns and odors of the land. Years had it been since he'd been outside the protections of Bronzemere or its Master come nightfall. He rejoiced in little things: the pale glow of ladywort, opening bell-shaped blossoms in the glowing Moonlight; the sheen of silent water on the face of a rock wall bordering the path; the minty smell of conchtree leaves as he scuffed up fallen hundreds passing by. His feet found him the path through a wall of trees, thereby soon to a shadow-checked moonlit glade. He halted there, until the woods-cat had pounced upon its dinner, unseen in his own shadow. When the cat was sure of its kill, Kinzel passed on, feet upon the path buried in carpet-grass, into the trees once again.

  The sun found him upon a road, walking as if he would never tire. His feet had chosen a direction that would take him, soon or late, to the rocky seacoast and the hard-scrabble farmers and fishers he knew as kin.

  Reaching into his small provisions at mid-morning, the wizard supped on cheese and a taste of wine as he sat content on smooth grass beside a fresh-running stream. Then, more of late-spring laziness than real weariness, Kinzel napped.

  ***

  The sounds that woke him were those of running feet and the yelling of a young boy. "But you can't do that! Them's my cats, and they kills the rats that steal the corn. You-"

  The voice was cut off by a whistle that sent shivers through Kinzel and brought him to his feet, staff in hand.

  "I don't care if you can whistle things up! Them cats is mine. You give them back!"

  A strange duo came into view. In the lead was a tall, gaunt youth, dressed finely in the clothes of a merchantman, walking stick in one hand and the other holding closed the neck of a wrigglesome cloth sack slung across his shoulder. Close behind him was a darkhaired boy of perhaps twelve years, beset by numerous insects.

  The boy snatched up a stone and flung it. The throw was high and missed the dandy's head, but it did take his fine silk cap down into the road-dust.

  The two were now within a hundred yards of Kinzel, who found himself in the middle of the road, the power rising in him without bidding. Power approached: Kinzel felt it.

  The richly dressed young man whirled, snarling, toward the boy, pointing his walking stick like a rapier. The boy grimaced and fell crying to the dusty road. "That's that! My Master dispatched me to find him cats, and cats I have found. They are in my bag and are my cats, now. I will dispose of them as I will. Your cramp will be gone in a minute and you may run along home. If you come after me again, I shall send bees and vipers after you."

  The boy struggled to gain his feet as the lightly-bearded dandy strode on, disdaining the dusty cap, rapidly approaching the silent Kinzel.

  "Noon," said the youth to Kinzel, as if he delivered a favor to an inferior before passing on to momentous undertakings.

  "That bag," said Kinzel directly, "may I ask the contents?"

  The youth stopped in amazement, staring at the impudent Kinzel.

  "This bag contains certain property of my Master, to be delivered to him by me, 'prentice. More than this is outside your interest." He tried to stride past his chubby interrogator. Kinzel blocked the way, nodding at the still wiggling sack.

  "I have heard that someone has been stealing cats. I'm a friend to the beasts and would like to know if you do indeed carry cats."

  The bag chose this moment to let out a plaintive meow.

  The bagman gritted his teeth against the noise, shifted his grip on the cloth and waved his stick at Kinzel. "Out of my way! This bag holds several cats, in truth, which belong to my master, who has need of their life-force in his studies. He requires delivery before sundown this day. Now, get out of the way!"

  "No, don't let 'im, sir! He's stolen-"

  "Enough!" cried the youth, spinning and pointing his stick at the boy, who dropped his stones
and grabbed his right arm, crying out in pain.

  Kinzel moved between child and thief. "I ask you now to return the boy his cats. Do not harm him again: his is honest care."

  "I should trounce you with my stick. Your short legs would never catch me if I ran ... but I would not, for I have great magics to do my bidding."

  "Then conjure your Master his cats from woodsmoke and let natural creatures alone in their homes," said Kinzel evenly, knowing that true endowment of life lay beyond any magician's power.

  "I will not! My Master requires quality! Now goodbye, peasant!" The youth turned away, began to stride - Kinzel reached out, grabbing one corner of the heavy cloth bag. He tugged heartily, nearly pulling the thief off his feet. The bag slipped in the youth's hands and he lost his tight grip on its throat. A cat thrust its head through the opening, intent on escape. It was half free when the youth recovered and pushed it roughly back, muttering a sleep-spell on the beast.

  Kinzel felt the Power in him responding; barely heard the youth mutter a lock-spell on the bag's neck.

  "Lest you die for your boorishness," said the dandy, "I shall give you an opportunity to apologize. If you do not, you and the boy shall be set upon by stings and snakes." And he began to weave his walking stick in a pattern over his head. An ominous buzzing filled the air, and a stream of bees clustered round the tip of the stick, multiplying rapidly.

  The youth laughed, pointed his bee-clustered stick at Kinzel.

  Kinzel raised his staff then: the leaves were full and green against the day.

  "To him!" said the youth, suddenly aiming the stick at the boy, who whimpered with the movement.

  A swarm of bees leapt in the boy's direction.

  Kinzel felt his blood running fast, saw the danger to the boy. "As I am Kinzel let them be butterflies!" he demanded of the staff.

  The dark buzzing stream came on, seemed to explode at the end closest to the boy. The bees blossomed into color, became yellow and blue and green fluttering things, a cloud of them rushing out at butterfly pace to the spring day.

  The youth screamed now, turned his stick on Kinzel as if to attack physically. Now vipers formed, launched themselves through the air at Kinzel.

  Instinctively the chubby mage held the staff in front of him. It thrummed in his hands and he felt the Power rush through him. "Dragonflies!" he demanded of the staff.

  The snakes struck the greenery and became flittering bright winged things. "Fire!" screeched the youth, but it was too late.

  "By the Clock and Branch I urge the Power to leave your arrogance and bless one deserving!" Kinzel's voice was firm and clear.

  The yellow flames leaping from the stick toward the mage struck a glowing green mist which shaped itself to a leaf; the fire dimmed and was gone and a mystic vine arced from Kinzel's greenstaff to the cursed walking stick. The stick crumbled in the youth's hands. As suddenly he was shorter by several inches, and showed a paunch, before he collapsed on the grass at the edge of the road.

  The leather pouch hanging about the youth's throat began to smoke and smolder. He snatched it hastily and flung it from him, toward the boy who stood as one spellbound.

  "What have you done, cruel magician?" cried the youth. "My Master's talisman is set to scorch those without Power who attempt to-" The youth shook suddenly, quaking with fear and anger at once.

  The thrumming in Kinzel's staff subsided. The green mist and strange leaf were gone as if never been. The full green vines encircled hand and wood once more, and the staff was warm in Kinzel's hand.

  Cats began to meow and bawl and fight their way out of the cloth sack, spitting at the fallen foe as they emerged, ready for battle.

  "Sir, sir. Oh, he got me sir! Help!"

  Kinzel spun to look at the protector of the cats. Hair on end, clothes ballooning away from the body - the boy was charged with the Power! Kinzel's staff buzzed momentarily in his hands like a contented tabby.

  Kinzel felt his grin grow in spite of the boy's predicament.

  "The Power. Boy, you have the Power now, and this other must not!"

  "But I didn't want his Power! I just wanted my cats back!"

  "Calmly," suggested Kinzel. "Power came to you because of your cats; you should thank them. I think your hair will - yes, see, your hair is itself again, and your clothes. I myself managed to overcharge when I was 'prenticed, a time or two."

  "Stupid thing to do-" muttered the fallen youth, drawing Kinzel's glance.

  "I think," said the mage to the boy, "you best run home before he tries to force your cats again."

  The boy nodded, staring wide-eyed at the plain and pudgy man who had bested the magical youth without touching him. "Yessir. Thanks. Thanks! Ssssss! Kitty, kitty, sssss, home, home we go."

  The cats moved warily around the vanquished enemy, then bounded toward the boy, who led them away, moving at a trot in the direction from which he had come.

  "I'll have your name!" came the voice from the side of the road. "I'll have your name, that my Master will know where to send his vengeance. And you'll that to rue from me, also, when my Power is returned to me, you farmer!"

  The youth, dusty and paunchy and much-bedraggled, was standing again, fairly shivering in his rage.

  Kinzel found himself shaking somewhat. He was long out of practice at fighting and hadn't been good at it anyway; he'd always been picked on as slow. Now, suddenly, he had an enemy and a victim at once.

  "Kinzel," he said firmly. "Kinzel you may name me to him, whoe'er he might be, though I doubt I know him for I deal not with cat-killers and child-tormentors."

  "Palinin is me, and your bane for certain!" the youth threatened, straining for a firemagic to dramatize his words. But the spell produced not even smoke. Cursing, then, Palinin stormed off down the road in the direction he had been traveling, leaving his hat still in the dust.

  Kinzel shook his head in wonder at the whole affair, staring alternately at two retreating clouds of dust. He moved back to his rest spot, gathered together his meager belongings, and was moving again, now following the road north and west, the way the boy and his cats had run.

  ***

  As dusk began to threaten the sun from behind low-hung clouds Kinzel came into a farmed region and found himself admiring a well-kept grainfield, beyond which the homestead was just visible. The night's walk and the day's strange encounter had cost Kinzel his buoyant tirelessness and the need for rest was upon him.

  The clouds held some promise of rain, to be sure. He reached without thought, involuntarily invading the cloud's demesne, finding that his head held a strange whirling impression of water and wind but not a trace of lightning.

  Then he was back on the dusty road by the field, staring at a distant grayness, feeling all the more kin with the world.

  Kinzel shrugged in amiable self-mockery as he turned off the road toward the homestead. Fourteen years beneath a roof had spoiled him for sleeping out in damp weather.

  Kinzel knocked on the door of the house with his palm for a few moments, that being somewhat more polite in the so-named civilized world than a mere hailing from without.

  The slapping of his palm on wood gained no response, though the whisper of man-trace was all about. He rapped again, this time gently using his staff.

  The door, brown, sun-dried and worn, shivered: in the vibration Kinzel had a vision of two young trees at the height of springtime, growing side by side.

  "But a moment, but a moment," shouted a voice from within, and in a moment came the sound of the sliding back of protesting bolts.

  The door was a door again to Kinzel's sight; it opened roughly to a man of middle years, his brown hair gone mostly gray, who scowled in angry wariness. His left arm hung useless at his side, but the right alone looked sufficient for a task as frivolous as - perhaps - flinging Kinzel from the doorstone.

  "Well?"

  Kinzel tightened his grip on his staff and gazed upward at the lord of the house.

  "I travel far and seek a roof for t
he night-"

  "It's him, it's him!" came a voice at the man's back. From the inner gloom of the house bounded two cats.

  Ignoring the man they came to Kinzel. Close behind was the boy from the afternoon's adventure, his nose red and his hand brown with the remains of a nosebleed.

  "Damn your tale-telling ways!" roared the man, twisting toward the boy. "Get to your corner!"

  "But I tell you it's him, the wizard who-"

  "And I tell you - another word of nonsense from you and you'll need help chewing dinner for the rest of your life!"

  The boy dared a sudden rush forward, ducking under the good right arm, and dodged behind Kinzel, using him as a shield.

  Kinzel raised his staff as the man reached for the boy.

  "Hold!"

  The man stopped, wariness in his eyes.

  "The boy and I have met, though I gave no name to him, and he none to me. I found him throwing rocks at a wizard's 'prentice, to save these fine creatures from a potion-pot."

  Kinzel scritched one of the cats who were trying to rub through his leather leggings.

  "He showed much courage in defending his friends: I'd rather he not be struck for it."

  The lame-armed man shifted his stance, considered Kinzel's staff.

  "Little enough time he spends telling truth a body can understand or doing the work what really needs done. Most often he's off chasing cats or babbling on about engines and catapults and the like. He should be beat once a day for what he hasn't done - and once more for what he has, I say." The man paused in his torrent, scratched his head with his good hand. "But you claim some, hmmm, personal knowledge of this adventure of his?"

  "Housefather, I do. And since I too, am fond of cats, I persuaded the 'prentice to free them so the boy might bring them home."

  The man eyed Kinzel dubiously. "You persuaded a magic man?"

  "Father, I told you - he's a wizard - a mighty wizard! He struck the man with a huge staff, like the one he holds now, but twice as long and wrapped all about with green fire-"

  "Hush!" The man insisted and the boy's voice subsided. The man unconsciously rubbed his bad arm with his good, once again trying to take the measure of the chubby mage. "Know some magic do you?" he asked finally.