Kobubu
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Thank you. I've changed the annotation. The book is written and contains 16 chapters, so I suggest you familiarize yourself with what is available)
By the way, strict adherence to country names is unlikely to make the book better, but it might lead to copyright issues)
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Chapter 3. School of Magic
No matter how much we badmouthed the valiant mages in our market! For a true merchant in Stormhold, mentioning a mage with an unkind word was as natural as drinking cold water in the morning or breathing air. Clown, cheat, charlatan, upstart, swamp creature, stinking rat, scum, cat-scratcher, brainless golem, and even dog shit—the classic callsigns for mages in Stormhold no longer evoked any emotion in us and were as inconspicuous as prepositions in our language. Examples of harsher insults included the following expressions: stupid, vile snake. Or, for example: ridiculous, crooked-toothed second-rate magician, gallows-bird, charlatan, and pauper—such variants were somewhat beyond comprehension and appeared only as a result of some subjective reasons.
Goblins also disliked mages and gladly joined us whenever we discussed one of the "magicians." Dirty Kubbel, paladin, as well as slacker, failure, and glutton were considered truly goblin insults. It was especially surprising to hear the term "slacker" from those goblins who went out in the morning, spent the whole day wagging their tongues, headed home in the evening, and repeated this day after day without weekends or holidays. "Oldrogge!"—a crazy one-eyed elf once said about mages; he had long since settled in Stormhold, showed his private parts to noble ladies for money, and lived off them. After that, the elf burst out laughing and couldn't stop for a long time. Many viewed this ambiguously, but for some two years afterward, elves were called "oldrogges." And one visiting monk from the Stronghold, who was studying our mores and customs, even entered this word into the dictionary of Stormhold dialectisms opposite the word elf. In general, any insult uttered by anyone in the market that wasn't addressed to anyone specifically was primarily directed toward mages.
We deliberately spread all sorts of rumors about mages, which we then came to believe wholeheartedly ourselves. The rumors blamed them for every misfortune that had befallen Stormhold in recent years. For example, in a year when there was an enormous amount of rats, it was decided that mages fed on cat soup and flew through Stormhold at night, stealing cat carcasses. Mages were often seen grazing outside the city and gathering various plants. We came up with the idea that they spent their whole days searching for intoxicating mushrooms growing from under the snow near Stormhold; we raised a hue and cry and declared at the mayor's office that we would not sell potion ingredients to mages cheaply, as we feared the mages would prepare intoxicating potions from them and slip them to our children. In short, we took revenge on the mages for being better and wealthier than us in various ways.
I don't know why they were so disliked. Perhaps because it was believed that if we knew magic, we could have everything. And these "gluttons" not only possess nothing themselves but also share nothing with others in Stormhold. After all, envy is a very bad feeling. I was to enter the school of magic for the first time—a place where market boys simply dream of penetrating since childhood—so that day I put on my best suit, as if I were about to sell an entire cart of apples.
I stopped by Solnir; he wasn't surprised in the least by my appearance. He was in the same rags he always wore and said dryly: "Ah, you've come!"—put on his coat, and we set off for the school.
The school of magic—a round tower with white walls—was located on an elevation, and almost all of Stormhold was visible from it. The roof of the school was very unusual: several colorful domes were believed to help concentrate magical energy. The school could be clearly divided into four floors, which meant four levels of spells of various elements. The library, which housed many books, was attached to the academy, but the only entrance to it was through the school; since only mages and their guests were allowed through the school gates, it was impossible for commoners to read anything.
A few words should be said about the school gates, where the acquaintance with it ended for most residents of Stormhold. Huge, double-leafed wooden gates, capable—it seemed—of withstanding an entire siege involving a battering ram, catapults, and even magical bombs, were divided into 12 small squares. In each was depicted an episode from the life of Stormhold: the founding of the fortress by the first mages, the arrival of giants and nagas, the solemn promise of goblins not to eat until they were given a vote in the Stormhold forum, and the subsequent tragic death of most of them—each resident of the city considered these and other events as their great history. A few empty squares remained on the gates, but so far there hadn't been enough significant events to fill all the vacant space on the gates.
At the school of magic gates stood a wizard of very tall stature, in a long blue coat trimmed with white fur and a hat, with a large white beard, a red nose, and a huge white staff almost larger than the mage himself. This was Balthazar, who stood before the school gates every day. Common people considered him one of the actual members of the academy, something like a sentry or gatekeeper intended to prevent non-mages from entering. Balthazar had left the academy long ago for some personal reasons and stopped practicing magic. Now he stood every day before the school gates and watched everyone who entered and exited. Balthazar addressed Solnir:
- Greetings, my dear friend. It is not often that we encounter such a venerable Wizard as you. What need has brought you to us?
- Greetings to you too, Balthazar. You are right, I very rarely visit the academy now, but today I have come to introduce my new apprentice for the first time.
- Yes, I remember this young man; they say not long ago he already attempted to penetrate here, pounding his fists on our wretched door and spending half the night telling it unkind words about ships in a frozen port. – Balthazar said and laughed loudly.
- Well, you complain as if you aren't known here!– Solnir recalled and began to laugh along with Balthazar. I felt somewhat unpleasant that a bad reputation already preceded me among mages.
- Apparently, on that day he desperately wanted to earn the lifelong contempt of our guild. – Balthazar added.
- Which means absolutely nothing would have changed. – I snapped back.
- And your apprentice is a spirited lad. – He continued speaking.
- Yes, he's not one of the timid sort, which is why he has come here for a second time.
- It's interesting how you exercise your right to bring a guest here once a year. Previously, if mages brought non-mages here, they were young common girls who were ready to give themselves just for the thought that she might be considered a sorceress.
- Those times have passed; our youth much prefer magical treatises over good company. I wouldn't be surprised if half of them are still virgins. – Solnir lamented.
- Indeed, and can you imagine how much they spend on books, scrolls, and everything else. By the way, did you notice my new coat that I bought? Is it not grand?
- It is magnificent, Balthazar—what an amazing cut and what a harmonious combination of tones! Will you allow me and my apprentice to enter the school?
- Very well, proceed. – He answered shortly, satisfied with Solnir's response.
In reality, the previous dialogue between Solnir and Balthazar had no significance. Balthazar was generally a decent fellow, but his connection to the school of magic was even more indirect than Solnir's. The lover of fine coats never served as a gatekeeper in the academy; he simply stood there all day with nothing better to do. Moreover, the academy never actually had such a position as a gatekeeper, and the doors opened themselves if a password known to all mages was spoken nearby. Everyone was aware of this, but they still treated Balthazar with respect and asked his permission to pass.
Entering the school, we entered a huge two-level hall—a place for informal communication between adepts and professors, with enormous marble columns, pilasters, portraits of great mages of Stormhold on the walls, and stairs with balustrades forming the two levels of the hall; to the right of the central gates was a passage to the library, and on the other side were numerous entrances to various corridors and a mirror before them. It had appeared here relatively recently: one of the students created this mirror and submitted it as coursework for the subject "Possibilities of Craft Use of Magic"; most mages liked it so much that they decided to install it at the entrance. People would approach the mirror and ask what it saw, and it would tell the person looking into it what it thought in very amusing and detached phrases. Previously, the words of the mirror often reflected the truth, but lately, for some reason, it had been malfunctioning. A few months ago, it suddenly informed some mages that a stupid person is shameful even to feed to one's own dog. And then, when the High Mage passed by, it somehow said that even dead bones melt in the fires of hell.
As soon as Solnir and I entered the hall, the mages who were standing in small groups and chatting fell silent for a second, as if signaling to each other: "There is a commoner here,"—and then began talking among themselves again. Most of them never even looked our way, deliberately paying no attention to me and specifically not showing that I had any significance to them.
The hall froze a second time when Solnir led me to the mirror and asked what it saw. It replied with the following phrase:
- Today I am in a good mood. On the skyline of Stormhold, closed by black clouds, new stars have finally begun to appear.
- And why don't you approach the mirror? – I said to Solnir.
The mage approached the mirror, adjusted his beard, and smiled slightly while looking into it.
- It is painful to search all your life and not find, but far more terrifying to achieve what you seek. – The mirror said and asked to be left in peace.
First, Solnir led me to the library. Above the entrance was written: "Whosoever studying the sciences enters here, do not slam the door nor stomp rudely with your feet—this is unpleasant to the muses. If you find someone already sleeping here, bow respectfully, silently, and do not engage in chatter: here the wisest speak with those who study."
It was evident that the mages highly valued their library. It consisted of two levels; below was a large reading room, shelves with books, and step-ladders for easier climbing onto the shelves; the second level, enclosed by a balustrade, was intended not so much for books as for all sorts of flasks, test tubes, dried and undried ingredients for various potions, and other trifles accompanying magical practice. Several archivists worked in the library, not counting the chief one, along with a group of adepts who deftly climbed the towering shelves to retrieve the necessary book. Once a year, every student of the school underwent mandatory library practice. They say this was very useful, and many former adepts, with few exceptions, read the bulk of the books during their library practices. Nowadays, however, the situation has changed, and reading is a way of life for many students. Aside from those adepts undergoing library practice, there were very few students in the hall. Solnir explained this by saying that it was the first days of the school year and not all subjects had even started yet, and that closer to exams, one wouldn't be able to breathe in the library. I asked Solnir about the purpose of reading magical books.
- You see, son. To perfect oneself in the art of magic, it is necessary to read treatises on sorcery written by other mages.
- But it seems to me that much can be grasped personally through practice.
- You are right, but when you reach your limit, you should read what the great mages of antiquity wrote. You will gain knowledge and without noticing, you will become wiser, more informed, and your magical abilities will grow. Just don't play too much with the book: it is a good servant, but a bad master. Illiterate people are twice as happy, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow. And do not abuse books; they only develop greed, malice, and a suffocating desire to know, understand, and read absolutely everything. More and more.
Access to almost all books was very free, so I decided to walk past the shelves and even touch some copies. I think Solnir was even surprised that I didn't steal anything from there. Although now it seems to me that I should have. Passing by the shelves, I bumped into a red-bearded professor. Dressed in a leather robe, he was reading a book, carefully levitating between the shelves and not looking around. This was Diamantis, perhaps the most charismatic teacher in the academy, one of the best experts on air magic in Stormhold. Bumping into me, he shook his head and, without taking his eyes off the book, squeezed out:
- Young man, you likely have no respect for this place if you wear such dirty shoes.
They say Diamantis always uttered this phrase instead of a greeting. Strange mores among the previous generation of mages. They are more upset by the not-so-beautiful appearance of young people than anything else.
A cursory glance was enough to understand that the shelves were full of most precious books. Finally, I understood why our mayor calls the city not only beautiful but also expensive. Above the first and second levels of the library towered a vaulted ceiling painted by the best artists of our city. The paintings generally repeated the stories described on the school gates, with the only difference being that the mages on the vault were depicted more like titans, with muscular bodies and incredibly beautiful faces. Especially talented artists depicted mages sitting on an icy throne with very thick hair and long beards, with staves larger than many of the depicted enemies.
Another important room in the library was the scriptorium, where those students renowned for their fine handwriting performed the honorable duty of copying magical books. Copyists were selected from the most meticulous students and soon became true calligraphers. Among them was also one with a well-trained voice. He read aloud the book being copied, strictly observing all pauses. Five people slowly wrote down what he dictated. Upon finishing a chapter, correctors began their work, and after them, the book was given to illuminators who illustrated it and gave it to masters for binding. Only the most valuable books were copied in such a complex manner: the most precious magical, philosophical, and spiritual treatises. Volumes related to sorcery were written with magical inks; others—with ordinary ones.
From the library, we returned to the first hall, from where we entered one of the numerous corridors. The long narrow corridors of the school intertwined with each other, going up and down, connecting and disconnecting via passages and stairs. Their stone walls were decorated with portraits of mages, incomprehensible paintings with strange plots, and numerous lamps. Sometimes it seemed that all these corridors changed their direction, running over, through, and under one another.
Movement through the corridors was very fast, and no one was recommended to walk slowly; standing in a corridor was actually quite traumatic: any professor of the academy could knock you down without a second thought and then lament that the youth do not remember or wish to honor the traditions of this glorious institution by deliberately obstructing teachers. Even moving through practically deserted corridors, I felt a certain trepidation toward these stone walls, as I did not yet consider myself part of the school. Solnir noticed this and reassured me.
- It is good that you are nervous. This means your destiny is linked to this place.
Through an enfilade of corridors, halls, and stairs, we reached the residential wing. More accurately, these were auditoriums converted into living quarters. Mattresses placed in a row on the floor where mages slept, a couple of nightstands, and that was all. Not all mages lived in such rooms, as many came from very wealthy families, but some still spent the night right here.
- Those who hang around here are either those fed by the school or the especially diligent.
- Why do they do it?
- I don't know. They say that now many renounce everything, sell family homes, give money to the school, and try to live by the ideals of magic and self-improvement. Devil knows what is on their minds! Soon, because of these scoundrels, the mayor will announce that since mages are ascetics and feed on manna from heaven, all our lifelong salaries will be cut. And then the noble word "mage" will become a synonym for pauper. May the Holy Grail not let such nonsense happen!
As a result of long wandering through corridors, we found ourselves at a door with the inscription "Hall for the Study of the Theory of Magic Nature." The door was half-open, and the pleasant voice of a lecturer could be heard from within:
- A mage is a kind of medium who has merely learned to embody the manifestations of a higher will, an ability developed through numerous practices. And if you suddenly stop noticing this order and begin to cast spells as you wish, without thinking about anything, you can overdo it in this matter and simply burn up.
- Do you want to listen to this lecture? – Solnir asked.
I only nodded my head.
- Let's go. – He said.
- But how is that possible?
- No one in the academy will condemn the noble desire of students to engage in magic; besides, this lecturer is an old friend of mine.
We entered the auditorium together with Solnir. His appearance caused such delight among some adepts that they squealed joyfully. It turned out that for current students of the academy, Solnir was a semi-legendary figure. The professor was giving a lecture, but as soon as he saw Solnir and me, he smiled and fell silent.
- Allow me and my apprentice to listen to your wise words, Sturix.
- What news! In his old age, Solnir has acquired an apprentice. Lately, events have been occurring that can be interpreted as nothing other than a bad omen. – Then the lecturer addressed the class:
- Well then, shall we allow the great Solnir and his apprentice to listen to the lecture with us?
The class squealed joyfully, which made me unspeakably happy. Solnir and I sat on chairs, and Sturix continued the lesson.
- A mage strives to accumulate magical energy—mana—and not waste it in vain. Therefore, it is so important to control one's emotions, not spend strength on trifles, be able to close one's eyes to everything, and not succumb to passions.
After five minutes, Solnir left, stating that he had more important business. And I stayed to listen to the lecture until the end. From that lecture, I learned that magic is as natural for a human as sleep. In a dream, there are no restrictions by which we bind ourselves, and the ability to see life as a dream is one of the keys to sorcery. Sturix's words struck me with their simplicity. Thanks to them, magic seemed more accessible to me than ever. I only wanted to start casting spells. And preferably, as soon as possible.
I left the auditorium with a feeling of incredible relief, with the sensation that I was now one of them. I had just passed through a door that had always been locked for me with a heavy barn lock. Now my life is full of uncertainty and mysticism. After the lecture, I struggled to find the exit from the endless corridors of the school of magic. Old Balthazar was still standing by the large gates.
- Well then, kid, your first day won't be your last?
- I hope not, Balthazar.
- Have you already decided which school of magic you will study?
- What does that mean?
- It means you must choose one of four elements in which you will perfect yourself. You can, of course, choose several, but such a choice often leads to nothing good; a mage who knows several schools of magic but none of them well is a pitiful sight.
- Yes, perhaps it's worth concentrating on one school. Maybe you could offer some wise advice, Balthazar?
- And do you know what wisdom is, son?
- I've never thought about it, to be honest.
- Then allow me to tell you what wisdom is. The concept of wisdom is characteristic not only of those who live in Stormhold but also other cities from the marshy lowlands to the Necropolis. And almost nowhere is wisdom defined as the number of books read. Long ago, the kingdom of the Wastelands was ruled by one legendary king—Krzys. During his reign, there were almost no dissatisfied people, and those who were disappeared without a trace or died of an unknown disease. One warrior-mage wanted to subdue the king, who didn't value the lives of his brothers in the slightest. And, coming to him, he prophesied that the king would be cursed by the gods of the Wastelands if he did not stop mercilessly killing his brothers. The king listened carefully to the mage and asked how the fate of the mage himself would unfold. The mage almost instantly declared that he would become a great mage and rule the Wasteland, and his reign would enter history as one of the most virtuous and blessed. Without hesitation, the king pulled out his battle axe and cut off the mage's head. All the courtiers swore their loyalty to the king once more, and he himself entered history as Krzys the Wise.
- Indeed. A truly wise king. If you'll allow me, Balthazar, I'll be going.
- Of course, go; home is good.
- And you, Balthazar, will you stay here until late?
- No, of course not. It's about time to sit at home. Am I a fool—to hang around here until late?
- A very wise decision, Balthazar.
- I like that you've understood what wisdom is, kid.
On the way home, one not-so-pleasant event happened to me. Near my house, Roxanne's father was waiting for me with clearly ill intentions. I decided not to wait for his first phrase and immediately tried to improve my unenviable position with a moderately polite preemptive phrase.
- My dear sir, – I stammered, forgetting his name, – Perhaps you consider me an ignoble person, but that is not so.
- Listen here, Elsinor. They say you've aimed your filthy spear toward my precious daughter. I've known you a long time; you're a fine lad, but you haven't proven that you are worthy of my daughter. She is a queen, and you are merely a petty merchant. So no offense. Understand?
- Respected sir, do not worry, I will pay my debt to you in the near future. Be confident in me, for it is in my own interests.
- You owe me nothing. Understand? All that is required of you is to accept that Roxanne is not for you. She isn't for people like you at all. She needs a high-ranking person.
- And who is that? – I asked with curiosity.
- That is one who has everything and will have everything.
I came home very angry. Who am I from the point of view of Roxanne's father? A piece of shit compared to a high-ranking person? No more. But if I am a piece of shit, and I am no worse or better than Roxanne's father—having traded in the market all my life, never having held huge sums of money, never having been endowed with power—then it turns out that he himself is shit too. I would like to know why people so little respect, value, and love themselves? I would like to think that money is not the main thing in this life. That the fairy tales told to me in childhood about selfless, brave people who were rich not in money but in spirit come true. Today, my last hope died; the last illusion about life melted away. Meeting such insignificant people, who feel trepidation before "high-ranking people," was like a slap in my face, like a long needle penetrating straight into the heart, like a fat blow from behind. How can one even live with such logic, with a desire to sell oneself and one's daughter as dearly as possible just to become slightly wealthier than others? I loved money very much and, like any merchant, tried to squeeze the last gold coin out of the buyer, leave him in his underwear—but with my goods, and preferably without underwear and without goods. But at the same time, I always remembered that health and happiness cannot be bought with money. That money is necessary, but only so it's easier to respect oneself. I decided that, first, I would pay him back as soon as possible, and second, I would prove to him that he was wrong to treat me this way. Happiness is not for high-ranking people. Happiness is for everyone.
I wonder what those who wake up in the middle of the night and then cannot fall asleep think about? When you have so much useless free time, the need to think about something is simply mandatory. That night I stared at my room door. It was slightly ajar, and a dim light came from it. I remembered the half-open door to the hall for the study of the nature of magic and thought that, at the very least, two doors are not closed to me. And outside the window in the cold city, there was a blizzard, and it was very dark.
By the way, strict adherence to country names is unlikely to make the book better, but it might lead to copyright issues)
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Chapter 3. School of Magic
No matter how much we badmouthed the valiant mages in our market! For a true merchant in Stormhold, mentioning a mage with an unkind word was as natural as drinking cold water in the morning or breathing air. Clown, cheat, charlatan, upstart, swamp creature, stinking rat, scum, cat-scratcher, brainless golem, and even dog shit—the classic callsigns for mages in Stormhold no longer evoked any emotion in us and were as inconspicuous as prepositions in our language. Examples of harsher insults included the following expressions: stupid, vile snake. Or, for example: ridiculous, crooked-toothed second-rate magician, gallows-bird, charlatan, and pauper—such variants were somewhat beyond comprehension and appeared only as a result of some subjective reasons.
Goblins also disliked mages and gladly joined us whenever we discussed one of the "magicians." Dirty Kubbel, paladin, as well as slacker, failure, and glutton were considered truly goblin insults. It was especially surprising to hear the term "slacker" from those goblins who went out in the morning, spent the whole day wagging their tongues, headed home in the evening, and repeated this day after day without weekends or holidays. "Oldrogge!"—a crazy one-eyed elf once said about mages; he had long since settled in Stormhold, showed his private parts to noble ladies for money, and lived off them. After that, the elf burst out laughing and couldn't stop for a long time. Many viewed this ambiguously, but for some two years afterward, elves were called "oldrogges." And one visiting monk from the Stronghold, who was studying our mores and customs, even entered this word into the dictionary of Stormhold dialectisms opposite the word elf. In general, any insult uttered by anyone in the market that wasn't addressed to anyone specifically was primarily directed toward mages.
We deliberately spread all sorts of rumors about mages, which we then came to believe wholeheartedly ourselves. The rumors blamed them for every misfortune that had befallen Stormhold in recent years. For example, in a year when there was an enormous amount of rats, it was decided that mages fed on cat soup and flew through Stormhold at night, stealing cat carcasses. Mages were often seen grazing outside the city and gathering various plants. We came up with the idea that they spent their whole days searching for intoxicating mushrooms growing from under the snow near Stormhold; we raised a hue and cry and declared at the mayor's office that we would not sell potion ingredients to mages cheaply, as we feared the mages would prepare intoxicating potions from them and slip them to our children. In short, we took revenge on the mages for being better and wealthier than us in various ways.
I don't know why they were so disliked. Perhaps because it was believed that if we knew magic, we could have everything. And these "gluttons" not only possess nothing themselves but also share nothing with others in Stormhold. After all, envy is a very bad feeling. I was to enter the school of magic for the first time—a place where market boys simply dream of penetrating since childhood—so that day I put on my best suit, as if I were about to sell an entire cart of apples.
I stopped by Solnir; he wasn't surprised in the least by my appearance. He was in the same rags he always wore and said dryly: "Ah, you've come!"—put on his coat, and we set off for the school.
The school of magic—a round tower with white walls—was located on an elevation, and almost all of Stormhold was visible from it. The roof of the school was very unusual: several colorful domes were believed to help concentrate magical energy. The school could be clearly divided into four floors, which meant four levels of spells of various elements. The library, which housed many books, was attached to the academy, but the only entrance to it was through the school; since only mages and their guests were allowed through the school gates, it was impossible for commoners to read anything.
A few words should be said about the school gates, where the acquaintance with it ended for most residents of Stormhold. Huge, double-leafed wooden gates, capable—it seemed—of withstanding an entire siege involving a battering ram, catapults, and even magical bombs, were divided into 12 small squares. In each was depicted an episode from the life of Stormhold: the founding of the fortress by the first mages, the arrival of giants and nagas, the solemn promise of goblins not to eat until they were given a vote in the Stormhold forum, and the subsequent tragic death of most of them—each resident of the city considered these and other events as their great history. A few empty squares remained on the gates, but so far there hadn't been enough significant events to fill all the vacant space on the gates.
At the school of magic gates stood a wizard of very tall stature, in a long blue coat trimmed with white fur and a hat, with a large white beard, a red nose, and a huge white staff almost larger than the mage himself. This was Balthazar, who stood before the school gates every day. Common people considered him one of the actual members of the academy, something like a sentry or gatekeeper intended to prevent non-mages from entering. Balthazar had left the academy long ago for some personal reasons and stopped practicing magic. Now he stood every day before the school gates and watched everyone who entered and exited. Balthazar addressed Solnir:
- Greetings, my dear friend. It is not often that we encounter such a venerable Wizard as you. What need has brought you to us?
- Greetings to you too, Balthazar. You are right, I very rarely visit the academy now, but today I have come to introduce my new apprentice for the first time.
- Yes, I remember this young man; they say not long ago he already attempted to penetrate here, pounding his fists on our wretched door and spending half the night telling it unkind words about ships in a frozen port. – Balthazar said and laughed loudly.
- Well, you complain as if you aren't known here!– Solnir recalled and began to laugh along with Balthazar. I felt somewhat unpleasant that a bad reputation already preceded me among mages.
- Apparently, on that day he desperately wanted to earn the lifelong contempt of our guild. – Balthazar added.
- Which means absolutely nothing would have changed. – I snapped back.
- And your apprentice is a spirited lad. – He continued speaking.
- Yes, he's not one of the timid sort, which is why he has come here for a second time.
- It's interesting how you exercise your right to bring a guest here once a year. Previously, if mages brought non-mages here, they were young common girls who were ready to give themselves just for the thought that she might be considered a sorceress.
- Those times have passed; our youth much prefer magical treatises over good company. I wouldn't be surprised if half of them are still virgins. – Solnir lamented.
- Indeed, and can you imagine how much they spend on books, scrolls, and everything else. By the way, did you notice my new coat that I bought? Is it not grand?
- It is magnificent, Balthazar—what an amazing cut and what a harmonious combination of tones! Will you allow me and my apprentice to enter the school?
- Very well, proceed. – He answered shortly, satisfied with Solnir's response.
In reality, the previous dialogue between Solnir and Balthazar had no significance. Balthazar was generally a decent fellow, but his connection to the school of magic was even more indirect than Solnir's. The lover of fine coats never served as a gatekeeper in the academy; he simply stood there all day with nothing better to do. Moreover, the academy never actually had such a position as a gatekeeper, and the doors opened themselves if a password known to all mages was spoken nearby. Everyone was aware of this, but they still treated Balthazar with respect and asked his permission to pass.
Entering the school, we entered a huge two-level hall—a place for informal communication between adepts and professors, with enormous marble columns, pilasters, portraits of great mages of Stormhold on the walls, and stairs with balustrades forming the two levels of the hall; to the right of the central gates was a passage to the library, and on the other side were numerous entrances to various corridors and a mirror before them. It had appeared here relatively recently: one of the students created this mirror and submitted it as coursework for the subject "Possibilities of Craft Use of Magic"; most mages liked it so much that they decided to install it at the entrance. People would approach the mirror and ask what it saw, and it would tell the person looking into it what it thought in very amusing and detached phrases. Previously, the words of the mirror often reflected the truth, but lately, for some reason, it had been malfunctioning. A few months ago, it suddenly informed some mages that a stupid person is shameful even to feed to one's own dog. And then, when the High Mage passed by, it somehow said that even dead bones melt in the fires of hell.
As soon as Solnir and I entered the hall, the mages who were standing in small groups and chatting fell silent for a second, as if signaling to each other: "There is a commoner here,"—and then began talking among themselves again. Most of them never even looked our way, deliberately paying no attention to me and specifically not showing that I had any significance to them.
The hall froze a second time when Solnir led me to the mirror and asked what it saw. It replied with the following phrase:
- Today I am in a good mood. On the skyline of Stormhold, closed by black clouds, new stars have finally begun to appear.
- And why don't you approach the mirror? – I said to Solnir.
The mage approached the mirror, adjusted his beard, and smiled slightly while looking into it.
- It is painful to search all your life and not find, but far more terrifying to achieve what you seek. – The mirror said and asked to be left in peace.
First, Solnir led me to the library. Above the entrance was written: "Whosoever studying the sciences enters here, do not slam the door nor stomp rudely with your feet—this is unpleasant to the muses. If you find someone already sleeping here, bow respectfully, silently, and do not engage in chatter: here the wisest speak with those who study."
It was evident that the mages highly valued their library. It consisted of two levels; below was a large reading room, shelves with books, and step-ladders for easier climbing onto the shelves; the second level, enclosed by a balustrade, was intended not so much for books as for all sorts of flasks, test tubes, dried and undried ingredients for various potions, and other trifles accompanying magical practice. Several archivists worked in the library, not counting the chief one, along with a group of adepts who deftly climbed the towering shelves to retrieve the necessary book. Once a year, every student of the school underwent mandatory library practice. They say this was very useful, and many former adepts, with few exceptions, read the bulk of the books during their library practices. Nowadays, however, the situation has changed, and reading is a way of life for many students. Aside from those adepts undergoing library practice, there were very few students in the hall. Solnir explained this by saying that it was the first days of the school year and not all subjects had even started yet, and that closer to exams, one wouldn't be able to breathe in the library. I asked Solnir about the purpose of reading magical books.
- You see, son. To perfect oneself in the art of magic, it is necessary to read treatises on sorcery written by other mages.
- But it seems to me that much can be grasped personally through practice.
- You are right, but when you reach your limit, you should read what the great mages of antiquity wrote. You will gain knowledge and without noticing, you will become wiser, more informed, and your magical abilities will grow. Just don't play too much with the book: it is a good servant, but a bad master. Illiterate people are twice as happy, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow. And do not abuse books; they only develop greed, malice, and a suffocating desire to know, understand, and read absolutely everything. More and more.
Access to almost all books was very free, so I decided to walk past the shelves and even touch some copies. I think Solnir was even surprised that I didn't steal anything from there. Although now it seems to me that I should have. Passing by the shelves, I bumped into a red-bearded professor. Dressed in a leather robe, he was reading a book, carefully levitating between the shelves and not looking around. This was Diamantis, perhaps the most charismatic teacher in the academy, one of the best experts on air magic in Stormhold. Bumping into me, he shook his head and, without taking his eyes off the book, squeezed out:
- Young man, you likely have no respect for this place if you wear such dirty shoes.
They say Diamantis always uttered this phrase instead of a greeting. Strange mores among the previous generation of mages. They are more upset by the not-so-beautiful appearance of young people than anything else.
A cursory glance was enough to understand that the shelves were full of most precious books. Finally, I understood why our mayor calls the city not only beautiful but also expensive. Above the first and second levels of the library towered a vaulted ceiling painted by the best artists of our city. The paintings generally repeated the stories described on the school gates, with the only difference being that the mages on the vault were depicted more like titans, with muscular bodies and incredibly beautiful faces. Especially talented artists depicted mages sitting on an icy throne with very thick hair and long beards, with staves larger than many of the depicted enemies.
Another important room in the library was the scriptorium, where those students renowned for their fine handwriting performed the honorable duty of copying magical books. Copyists were selected from the most meticulous students and soon became true calligraphers. Among them was also one with a well-trained voice. He read aloud the book being copied, strictly observing all pauses. Five people slowly wrote down what he dictated. Upon finishing a chapter, correctors began their work, and after them, the book was given to illuminators who illustrated it and gave it to masters for binding. Only the most valuable books were copied in such a complex manner: the most precious magical, philosophical, and spiritual treatises. Volumes related to sorcery were written with magical inks; others—with ordinary ones.
From the library, we returned to the first hall, from where we entered one of the numerous corridors. The long narrow corridors of the school intertwined with each other, going up and down, connecting and disconnecting via passages and stairs. Their stone walls were decorated with portraits of mages, incomprehensible paintings with strange plots, and numerous lamps. Sometimes it seemed that all these corridors changed their direction, running over, through, and under one another.
Movement through the corridors was very fast, and no one was recommended to walk slowly; standing in a corridor was actually quite traumatic: any professor of the academy could knock you down without a second thought and then lament that the youth do not remember or wish to honor the traditions of this glorious institution by deliberately obstructing teachers. Even moving through practically deserted corridors, I felt a certain trepidation toward these stone walls, as I did not yet consider myself part of the school. Solnir noticed this and reassured me.
- It is good that you are nervous. This means your destiny is linked to this place.
Through an enfilade of corridors, halls, and stairs, we reached the residential wing. More accurately, these were auditoriums converted into living quarters. Mattresses placed in a row on the floor where mages slept, a couple of nightstands, and that was all. Not all mages lived in such rooms, as many came from very wealthy families, but some still spent the night right here.
- Those who hang around here are either those fed by the school or the especially diligent.
- Why do they do it?
- I don't know. They say that now many renounce everything, sell family homes, give money to the school, and try to live by the ideals of magic and self-improvement. Devil knows what is on their minds! Soon, because of these scoundrels, the mayor will announce that since mages are ascetics and feed on manna from heaven, all our lifelong salaries will be cut. And then the noble word "mage" will become a synonym for pauper. May the Holy Grail not let such nonsense happen!
As a result of long wandering through corridors, we found ourselves at a door with the inscription "Hall for the Study of the Theory of Magic Nature." The door was half-open, and the pleasant voice of a lecturer could be heard from within:
- A mage is a kind of medium who has merely learned to embody the manifestations of a higher will, an ability developed through numerous practices. And if you suddenly stop noticing this order and begin to cast spells as you wish, without thinking about anything, you can overdo it in this matter and simply burn up.
- Do you want to listen to this lecture? – Solnir asked.
I only nodded my head.
- Let's go. – He said.
- But how is that possible?
- No one in the academy will condemn the noble desire of students to engage in magic; besides, this lecturer is an old friend of mine.
We entered the auditorium together with Solnir. His appearance caused such delight among some adepts that they squealed joyfully. It turned out that for current students of the academy, Solnir was a semi-legendary figure. The professor was giving a lecture, but as soon as he saw Solnir and me, he smiled and fell silent.
- Allow me and my apprentice to listen to your wise words, Sturix.
- What news! In his old age, Solnir has acquired an apprentice. Lately, events have been occurring that can be interpreted as nothing other than a bad omen. – Then the lecturer addressed the class:
- Well then, shall we allow the great Solnir and his apprentice to listen to the lecture with us?
The class squealed joyfully, which made me unspeakably happy. Solnir and I sat on chairs, and Sturix continued the lesson.
- A mage strives to accumulate magical energy—mana—and not waste it in vain. Therefore, it is so important to control one's emotions, not spend strength on trifles, be able to close one's eyes to everything, and not succumb to passions.
After five minutes, Solnir left, stating that he had more important business. And I stayed to listen to the lecture until the end. From that lecture, I learned that magic is as natural for a human as sleep. In a dream, there are no restrictions by which we bind ourselves, and the ability to see life as a dream is one of the keys to sorcery. Sturix's words struck me with their simplicity. Thanks to them, magic seemed more accessible to me than ever. I only wanted to start casting spells. And preferably, as soon as possible.
I left the auditorium with a feeling of incredible relief, with the sensation that I was now one of them. I had just passed through a door that had always been locked for me with a heavy barn lock. Now my life is full of uncertainty and mysticism. After the lecture, I struggled to find the exit from the endless corridors of the school of magic. Old Balthazar was still standing by the large gates.
- Well then, kid, your first day won't be your last?
- I hope not, Balthazar.
- Have you already decided which school of magic you will study?
- What does that mean?
- It means you must choose one of four elements in which you will perfect yourself. You can, of course, choose several, but such a choice often leads to nothing good; a mage who knows several schools of magic but none of them well is a pitiful sight.
- Yes, perhaps it's worth concentrating on one school. Maybe you could offer some wise advice, Balthazar?
- And do you know what wisdom is, son?
- I've never thought about it, to be honest.
- Then allow me to tell you what wisdom is. The concept of wisdom is characteristic not only of those who live in Stormhold but also other cities from the marshy lowlands to the Necropolis. And almost nowhere is wisdom defined as the number of books read. Long ago, the kingdom of the Wastelands was ruled by one legendary king—Krzys. During his reign, there were almost no dissatisfied people, and those who were disappeared without a trace or died of an unknown disease. One warrior-mage wanted to subdue the king, who didn't value the lives of his brothers in the slightest. And, coming to him, he prophesied that the king would be cursed by the gods of the Wastelands if he did not stop mercilessly killing his brothers. The king listened carefully to the mage and asked how the fate of the mage himself would unfold. The mage almost instantly declared that he would become a great mage and rule the Wasteland, and his reign would enter history as one of the most virtuous and blessed. Without hesitation, the king pulled out his battle axe and cut off the mage's head. All the courtiers swore their loyalty to the king once more, and he himself entered history as Krzys the Wise.
- Indeed. A truly wise king. If you'll allow me, Balthazar, I'll be going.
- Of course, go; home is good.
- And you, Balthazar, will you stay here until late?
- No, of course not. It's about time to sit at home. Am I a fool—to hang around here until late?
- A very wise decision, Balthazar.
- I like that you've understood what wisdom is, kid.
On the way home, one not-so-pleasant event happened to me. Near my house, Roxanne's father was waiting for me with clearly ill intentions. I decided not to wait for his first phrase and immediately tried to improve my unenviable position with a moderately polite preemptive phrase.
- My dear sir, – I stammered, forgetting his name, – Perhaps you consider me an ignoble person, but that is not so.
- Listen here, Elsinor. They say you've aimed your filthy spear toward my precious daughter. I've known you a long time; you're a fine lad, but you haven't proven that you are worthy of my daughter. She is a queen, and you are merely a petty merchant. So no offense. Understand?
- Respected sir, do not worry, I will pay my debt to you in the near future. Be confident in me, for it is in my own interests.
- You owe me nothing. Understand? All that is required of you is to accept that Roxanne is not for you. She isn't for people like you at all. She needs a high-ranking person.
- And who is that? – I asked with curiosity.
- That is one who has everything and will have everything.
I came home very angry. Who am I from the point of view of Roxanne's father? A piece of shit compared to a high-ranking person? No more. But if I am a piece of shit, and I am no worse or better than Roxanne's father—having traded in the market all my life, never having held huge sums of money, never having been endowed with power—then it turns out that he himself is shit too. I would like to know why people so little respect, value, and love themselves? I would like to think that money is not the main thing in this life. That the fairy tales told to me in childhood about selfless, brave people who were rich not in money but in spirit come true. Today, my last hope died; the last illusion about life melted away. Meeting such insignificant people, who feel trepidation before "high-ranking people," was like a slap in my face, like a long needle penetrating straight into the heart, like a fat blow from behind. How can one even live with such logic, with a desire to sell oneself and one's daughter as dearly as possible just to become slightly wealthier than others? I loved money very much and, like any merchant, tried to squeeze the last gold coin out of the buyer, leave him in his underwear—but with my goods, and preferably without underwear and without goods. But at the same time, I always remembered that health and happiness cannot be bought with money. That money is necessary, but only so it's easier to respect oneself. I decided that, first, I would pay him back as soon as possible, and second, I would prove to him that he was wrong to treat me this way. Happiness is not for high-ranking people. Happiness is for everyone.
I wonder what those who wake up in the middle of the night and then cannot fall asleep think about? When you have so much useless free time, the need to think about something is simply mandatory. That night I stared at my room door. It was slightly ajar, and a dim light came from it. I remembered the half-open door to the hall for the study of the nature of magic and thought that, at the very least, two doors are not closed to me. And outside the window in the cold city, there was a blizzard, and it was very dark.
