Magician by Raymond Feist Page B

that
prevented him from passing a certain point in the spell. Each time he
tried he could feel himself approach that point, and like a rider of
a balky horse, he couldn’t seem to force himself over the
hurdle.
    Kulgan dismissed his worries, saying
that it would all sort itself out in time. The stout magician was
always sympathetic with the boy, never reprimanding him for not doing
better, for he knew the boy was trying.
    Pug was brought out of his reverie by
someone’s opening the door. Looking up, he saw Father Tully
entering, a large book under his arm. The cleric’s white robes
rustled as he closed the door. Pug sat up.
    “Pug, it’s time for your
writing lesson—” He stopped himself when he saw the
downcast expression of the boy. “What’s the matter, lad?”
    Pug had come to like the old priest of
Astalon. He was a strict master, but a fair one. He would praise the
boy for his success as often as scold him for his failures. He had a
quick mind and a sense of humor and was open to questions, no matter
how stupid Pug thought they might sound.
    Coming to his feet, Pug sighed. “I
don’t know, Father. It’s just that things don’t
seem to be going right. Everything I try I manage to make a mess of.”
    “Pug, it can’t be all
black,” the priest said, placing a hand on Pug’s
shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you,
and we can practice writing some other time.” He moved to a
stool by the window and adjusted his robes around him as he sat. As
he placed the large book at his feet, he studied the boy.
    Pug had grown over the last year, but
was still small. His shoulders were beginning to broaden a bit, and
his face was showing signs of the man he would someday be. He was a
dejected figure in his homespun tunic and trousers, his mood as grey
as the material he wore. His room, which was usually neat and
orderly, was a mess of scrolls and books, reflecting the disorder in
his mind.
    Pug sat quietly for a moment, but when
the priest said nothing, started, to speak. “Do you remember my
telling you that Kulgan was trying to teach me the three basic
cantrips to calm the mind, so that the working of spells could be
practiced without stress? Well, the truth is that I mastered those
exercises months ago. I can bring my mind to a state of calm in
moments now, with little effort. But that is as far as it goes. After
that, everything seems to fall apart.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The next thing to learn is to
discipline the mind to do things that are not natural for it, such as
think on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, or not to
think of something, which is quite hard once you’ve been told
what it is. I can do those things most of the time, but now and again
I feel like there are some forces inside my head, crashing about,
demanding that I do things in a different way. It’s like there
was something else happening in my head than what Kulgan told me to
expect.
    “Each time I try one of the
simple spells Kulgan has taught me, like making an object move, or
lifting myself off the ground, these things in my head come flooding
in on my concentration, and I lose my control. I can’t even
master the simplest spell.” Pug felt himself tremble, for this
was the first chance he had had to speak about this to anyone besides
Kulgan “Kulgan simply says to keep at it and not worry.”
Nearing tears, he continued. “I have talent. Kulgan said he
knew it from the first time we met, when I used the crystal. You’ve
told me that I have talent. But I just can’t make the spells
work the way they’re supposed to I get so confused by it all.”
    “Pug,” said the priest,
“magic has many properties, and we understand little of how it
works, even those of us who practice it. In the temples we are taught
that magic is a gift from the gods, and we accept that on faith. We
do not understand how this can be so, but we do not question. Each
order has its own province of magic, with no two