Danny Macks [Macks - The Delusionist’s Son

The problem, Mister Vatic, Dr. Wardic rumbled in a gravelly voice, is that despite your years of training, you arent really a mage.

Silva Vatic bit back a sharp retort and glanced to the other four University elders seated at the long table, to either side of Dr. Wardic. They were all still dressed in graduation robes. He in the plain grey ceremonial garment which signified a student was no longer an apprentice, but not yet a journeyman mage. The five of them in purple silk with wide doctorate bands of their specialty on the sleeves. Most pretended to appear relaxed, doffing the steeply sloped almost conical top hats they only wore for ceremonies, but they still looked like they would rather be elsewhere. Perhaps a congratulatory after-party with cordials of rum in expensive crystal glasses.

Silva kept his voice carefully even. Would the professor care to enlighten me?

If there was a problem, they could have at least said something at the Registrar's Office this morning, when he corrected his legal name on the admission records from four years earlier. Instead, the clerk looked over the birth certificate and other legal documents and processed the "clerical error." Then security stopped him at the entrance to the graduation ceremony. From the sidelines, they made him watch among the families as all the other apprentices receive their black robes. Between the ladies in their corseted dresses and bustles and the men in their suits and top hats, he stuck out like a grey gosling among peacocks.

Dr. Wardic glanced to the other professors at the table, but none appeared eager to jump in. He coughed into a muscled hand. His long red beard, with the cheeks and lips shaved bare, waved with his bushy red hair like a lion mane. The problem, you see, is you are still quite young and magecraft is more than casting rote magic

Yes, weaving the sigils. The type of training which required mages to wear robes instead of suits and ties like other professionals. Stop pretending this is over an academic failing. You know damn well I can weave the sigils. This is about your wounded pride.

Dr. Wardic paused. Beside him, Dr. Delan frowned infinitesimally and ran a hand across his grey beard. Something of Silva's thoughts must have leaked onto his face. Silva carefully reined in his features, then nodded.

Being a mage is self-control, and a certain affinity for the subtleties of magic, Dr. Wardic continued.

My age was not a problem when I passed my entrance exams four years ago. Which requirements for graduation have I failed to satisfy? Silva said, forcing the conversation off another magic is art speech. He'd years of practice.

As I said, subtlety. Dr. Wardic leaned back as if this were the final word on the matter and a few of the professors moved to rise.

But Silva refused to acknowledge the dismissal and held his ground. He let his hands ball into fists and widened his stance, staring the five men down.

Dr. Wardics stance shifted to mirror Silva's own, but Dr. Delan ran a hand across his thinning scalp and settled back down in his seat. The other professors reluctantly followed Delans lead. If you were to graduate, what would you do after leaving the University, Silva? I noticed no friends in the stands.

I would return to Winterhaven, Silva said. The entire village contributed to my education. I owe them.

From the end of the row, Dr. Eston had the poor grace to laugh out loud. The other professors turned to him. If that's what he means to do, this entire discussion is moot. I vote we let him go. In Winterhaven, the color of his robes will be meaningless.

Not to my father, it wont. Father needs to see me in black.

Dr. Delan caught Silva's eye while the other professors were looking at Dr. Eston. Silva saw sadness reflected. I agree with Dr. Eston and vote we graduate him.

Dr. Eston smoothed his expression, but Silva was certain the chubby professor had meant to kick Silva out the door in grey robes. Or muddy yellow.

Dr. Wardic turned to the remaining two department heads, but both shrugged noncommittally. Very well, if we graduate him, what will we list as his specialty? At his own insistence, his training has been rather eclectic. Who will put their name up for scrutiny next to his, on their departments graduation rolls?

Two days before, Dr. Wardic had said he would be proud to put his name next to Silva's own. Back when he thought the nineteen-year-old graduate's name had been Silva Janos instead of Silva Vatic. Now, the professor was trying to pretend that conversation never happened.

I will, Dr. Delan announced, ending the matter. Let his black sleeves wear the blue stripe of an illusionist.

Suddenly, Silva understood Dr. Delan's hesitation to malign the name Vatic over the years. Dr. Delan had known Silva's father, perhaps even been friends with him, before the disaster.

*****

Late the next morning, dirty-faced, eager children were Silva's only audience as he stepped into the sunshine with a pack on his back, dressed in the black robes of a journeyman mage for the first time. Most of the other graduates had either left with their families or were sleeping off an evening of revelry.

This would be his last visit to the Royal Wizard University for at least a year and, after five long years in the capital, the occasion deserved a little panache. A special grease made his curly hair and beard glisten, and he had even applied a little of the stuff to his thick eyebrows to blacken them. It made good boot polish too. He paused for effect and the children appeared suitably impressed.

Silva grinned at his audience, straightened his brand-new black robes with his right hand, and palmed a few copper coins out of a hidden pouch with his left. Illusion magic had severe limitations it couldn't get him home any faster, for example and Dr. Delan had stressed the importance of legerdemain to all the apprentices. Pulling coins from ears might not be real magic, but delighted children didn't care about such distinctions.

Leaving the children to their newly discovered wealth, he followed the winding cobblestone side street past an apprentice ley bender, working alongside a bricklayer. The bricklayer placed a brick, mortared a spot on a wall, held out a hand for another brick, and the white-robed apprentices job was to give him one from a stack thirty feet away. The apprentice levitated the bricks three at a time in a slow line, picking up a new one from the pile as the bricklayer grasped one at the other end. The bricklayers eyes knitted together in an annoyed scowl each time he waited, but the corners of his mouth were smirking. The apprentice was sweating so profusely his clothes were dripping and he swayed where he stood, arms outstretched as if his hands were directing the line of slowly flying bricks instead of his mind.

You know, if you tapped into a ley line that would be a lot easier, Silva advised. The students white sleeves were trimmed in ley bender red, after all.

Screw you, the apprentice yelled over his shoulder, dropping his bricks when he turned. His eyes flew wide when his gaze landed on Silva's black robes. Oh! Im sorry, Sir, I didn't

Silva held up a restraining hand, trying to look benevolent. Moving objects requires a lot of power. That power doesn't have to come from you.