Dusty tomes filled the ancient study, piled high on buckling tables.
Between the musty stacks, a wizened figure hunched over a scroll, tracing each rune with his finger. His new apprentice sat beside him, staring at the aging sunlight shining through the lone window, high above the stuffiness of the cloistered turret.
For days now, the boy had arrived at daybreak only to sit and watch the old man read. The first day the boy had asked questions and tried to organize the haphazard stacks, but both actions had only earned glares from the master.
So, now he sat and watched the sun inch across the rough-hewn stones.
The games must have started forever ago, he thought. I’m going to miss everything!
He blew a dark curl off his forehead, slumping lower. This apprenticeship was a mistake.
The old man paused his reading and turned squinting eyes to his apprentice, a piercing look on his weathered face.
The boy paled. He didn’t hear that, did he? He can’t read thoughts—the boy stopped thinking, just in case.
Still glaring, the master rose to his surprising height. Returning his crooked finger to a rune, he tapped the parchment with each staccato pronouncement.
“Speech.”
“Language.”
“Words.”
A light swirled within the tired grey of his irises. “These are the oldest and greatest magics.”
The apprentice sat up straight on his creaking stool. This was why he had traded spending the sweet summer months with his friends, and a certain shepherd’s daughter, for a dim and stuffy study.
Magic!
The man’s lip twitched almost into a smile at the boy’s sudden attentiveness. Then he continued, his voice strengthening with each burgeoning assertion. “Before there were wands, we commanded words; before there were potions we concocted poems; and before there was sorcery we constructed songs.
The old man stared hard at the boy, raising his bushy eyebrows at the blank parchment on the table. The boy gulped and began jotting down notes.
The master nodded once and continued. “When we first devised language, our tongues quit tasting the world and began forming it, shaping it. Why is the sky blue? Because we say it is so. Why is fire hot, or ice cold? What are the seasons, storms, or sunsets? Nothing to the beast without words, but meaning, joy, and beauty—life—to humankind.”
The apprentice recorded each statement the wiseman revealed. Then he paused, a thoughtful expression overtaking his face. “Then, when will you teach me magic? Spells or… whatever you call them?”
The old man harrumphed, exasperation deepening the wrinkles on his face. “Weren’t you listening? Words are magic!”
The boy nodded again, scratching those down, yet still daring to ask one final question:
“But if all words are magic… then why don’t my words do what yours do?”
A slow smile grew on the wizard’s face. “Ah… now you’re beginning to ask the right questions.” The old man took a candle from atop a precarious paper stack, whispering something.
And the candle burst alight.