"Magic," Korm repeated, his voice flat and despairing. "Magic. Does it really exist or not. I guess...," he stammered. "I guess it's really just a variation on Porlu's Naturalistic Theory. But when does anybody see Magic these days? What's the reason for that?"
"Ah."
They trundled on a few yards, their heads bowed, Belmok in thought, Korm in dejection. They stopped briefly at a burbling fountain, set in a cool recess, and the old Morg took a long quaff at the clear jet of water, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. They walked on.
"The thing about Magic," Belmok began, "The thing about Magic is, we Morgs don't have any."
"But I thought..."
"Yes, yes, we can use magical objects. That's sure enough. There are plenty of tales about that. But wielding the power itself? It's just not in our blood. That talent resides in Mankind, in Humans and their cousins the Woses."
"But I've seen plenty of humans. Morg City is literally crawling with them," Korm protested. "And in twenty years I've never seen any use a scrap of Magic."
"And a good thing, too. It's a damn rare power, and only a few can use it with any skill. There is only one premier practitioner that I know of at the moment. And let me tell you, boy, nothing sees Magic but misery. Evil magic to cause misery, and good magic to fight it. I hope I never see it again."
"Then you..."
"Here we are," the old Morg said. "Back at chambers."
They went in the door, and the room seemed even darker and dustier than before. Belmok pointed for Korm to have a seat again, then busied himself drawing a couple of cups of wine from a cask half-hidden behind his desk. He took one over, handed it to the younger Morg, then sat back in his own cushioned chair, eyeing the dejected youth.
"Well?" he asked. "Any other ideas?"
Korm drew in a huge breath, took a gulp the wine, then sighed, shaking his head.
"No."
"Well, that's too bad. I suppose you know it's against the rules for me to suggest a subject?"
"Yes." The younger Morg ticked his black nails across the medals of achievement on his chest, making them dance. A half hour ago they had seemed like trophies. Now they felt like toys. He took another, bigger swallow of wine.
"Hey, careful, son, that's the real Loreleid you're swigging. It's a lot stronger than it seems." Belmok took a long, smooth sip, then set his cup down. He leaned forward over his desk, and looked at the crestfallen scholar over folded fingers.
"Tell me now," he said. "You were near the top of your class, weren't you?"
"The very top," Korm pointed at his neglected documents on the Grand Master's desk, and sucked down another draft. The tears were starting to brim in his soft brown eyes.
Belmok picked the dribbling remains of his sandwich up and wiped the pages off, squinting at the smeared letters praising the young Morg's accomplishments.
"I suppose," he mused slowly, "that you've spent all your money on clothes and supplies and travelling a hundred and twenty miles to get here?"
"Every last coin," Korm agreed wretchedly, his voice starting to squeak.
"Including twenty-five gold on that ridiculous hat?"
Belmok had seen a lot of students crumble, but not like this. The young Morg's limbs went rigid, but every muscle shuddered as if his entire body were clenching. Hot tears came squeezing out of his eyes, and it sounded to the amazed Master that the lad was somehow screaming back down into his lungs behind his tightly clamped lips.
He watched, fascinated, as the smothered wails shook the scholar's slender frame, peaked, and finally died away. Korm's appalled eyes flew wide open, his breath whistling through his flaring nostrils.
"I take it," the Grand Master said calmly, taking another sip, "That you've never had wine before. Certainly none like Lorelied."
(To Be Continued...)
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