The master and the Acolyte
Briac waited at his desk, the surface cleared save for a few carefully arranged scrolls. The fire crackled, casting a warm, shifting light across the room.
A light tap sounded at the door.
“Come in, Lleuyn.”
The young man entered, his movements more assured than they had been a year before. “Grand Old Enchanter. Thank you for your time.”
“Not at all,” Briac said, gesturing to the familiar leather chair. “Sit. The kitchen seems to be feeding you well. There’s less of the boy about you now.”
A faint smile touched Lleuyn’s lips. “So I’ve been told. I feel… more settled.”
“Good. You requested this chat. What is on your mind?”
“I have been studying. Your… lesson, from last year. I have been considering it.”
Briac’s eyes crinkled. “Was it a lecture? And was it truly so long ago?”
Lleuyn’s smile was a fleeting thing, but genuine. “They tell me I question everything. So, I have come for confirmation.”
“As you wish. But as I alluded, you may not find all my answers to your liking.” Briac placed two crystal glasses on the desk, careful to keep them clear of the scrolls. “Wine? Or water?”
“I have developed a taste for port, if I may?”
Briac produced a dark bottle, uncorking it with a soft pop. He poured a measure of the deep ruby wine into each glass. “A small fortune, this one. Best to savour it.”
Lleuyn took a sip. “It is superior to the vintage in town.”
They sat for a moment in comfortable silence, the fire filling the space between them.
“My understanding,” Lleuyn began, “is that spells are immediate and short-lived. But I am unsure how enchantments differ.”
“A fair question.” Briac steepled his fingers. “Spells are learned forms—recipes for a single action. We don’t know why the forms work, only that the Anima Mata recognizes them. The outcome is predictable, the cost, usually known. Enchantments… are a different art.”
Lleuyn nodded, his gaze fixed on the Enchanter.
“How are new spells created, then? How can some wizards devise new workings and have them succeed?”
“You cut to the heart of the matter,” Briac said, leaning back. “I have been asked this many times, and the answer never feels adequate.” He took a slow breath, watching the young man’s patient, unwavering attention. “Spells have been refined over centuries. The ask is clear, the outcome known. But some individuals… their minds are like quicksilver. They can formulate the request, envision the outcome, and accept the cost in a single, brilliant instant. Their intent is so strong and so clear that the Anima Mata answers.”
“I have tried,” Lleuyn admitted. “It is hard. Most attempts fail.”
“Practice and patience. You’ll note there are few new spells, and their creators are often old. That should tell you something.” He chuckled softly. “Some have the calling for it. Others do not.”
Lleuyn gave a rare, full smile. “I fear I do not have that calling.”
“That remains to be seen. Your curiosity may be calling enough.” Briac took a sip of port. “But you asked of enchantments.”
“Yes. How can the Everflow be sustained after the spell is cast? How does the magic persist?”
“This is the next level of mastery. For an enchantment, you need a more refined ask, a more absolute intent. And, if possible, a sponsor.”
“A sponsor?”
“A spirit, or a soul, that accepts your request and maintains the working on your behalf. Alternatively, the Anima Mata itself may sustain it directly.”
“But how would I know which it is?”
“As with spells, many enchantments are ancient, and we use them without knowing their precise mechanism. We can analyse them, but their deepest secrets often remain their own.” Briac spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. “And sometimes, a truly gifted individual can will an enchantment into permanence through intent alone. The ‘how’ is a mystery even to them.”
“I recall you said skills vary.”
“The range of talent is as vast as the Anima Mata itself.”
Lleuyn’s expression grew serious. “I am still concerned with balance and cost. You showed me the water, how you managed the heat. But for greater workings… the cost must be greater, and less predictable.”
“It is.” Briac’s tone was grave. “Moving or transforming matter requires force, and that force must be accounted for. The consequences may be local, or they may be distant. They may be physical, or they may be… metaphysical.”
“So, I might cast a spell and cause a negative effect without ever being aware of it.”
Briac sighed, a sound of weary wisdom. “Yes. And no. The cost might be external, or it might be drawn from you. Fatigue, a headache, a forgotten memory. The Anima Mata may claim its balance immediately, or it may wait. There is no ledger we can read.”
Lleuyn’s cheeks flushed with frustration. “This is an impossible situation. How can we act?”
“It is the only situation we have.” Briac’s gaze was steady, uncompromising. “You will learn to know the weight of your own actions. That is a feeling we cannot teach. It is born of experience, and of listening to the echoes of your own magic.”
“Trial and error, then?” Lleuyn’s voice was tight.
The corners of Briac’s mouth turned down in a solemn shrug. “In a sense, yes.”
“So, I cannot be taught. No one can.”
“Sharp, as always.” A glint of approval showed in Briac’s eyes. “We can advise. We can share the known paths. We cannot walk yours for you. You must find it yourself.”
A wry understanding dawned on Lleuyn’s face. “Is that why all Grand Enchanters are old?”
Briac’s smile returned, warm and deep. “It takes time, young man. For some, a lifetime.”
Lleuyn drained his glass and stood. “You have given me much to think on, Grand Old Enchanter.”
“Then think. And when you have more questions, bring them. But do not be surprised if the path only reveals itself as you walk it.”