Matt dropped his eyes and shuddered. "Committed! The one thing I've been working to avoid most of my life!"
Then he froze, hearing the echo of his own words. Did I say that?
Why had he never known that before? More to the point, why could he suddenly admit it to himself?
Because now he was committed.
CHAPTER 5
Gibbering goblins crawled up Matt's spinal column and earnestly searched for a home in his brain. "Stegoman..."
"Aye?"
"I'm going to kill us all. I can't help it. There's no other way it can turn out. Any time I try to work magic, I'll drop us all down the chute, because I don't really know what I'm doing!"
"Take calm," the dragon told him. "Speak - art thou dead? And hast thou worked magic?"
"Yes. Thank you." Matt drew a deep, shuddering breath. "It's always helpful to be reminded of the realities." He swallowed hard and took a firm grip on his nerves. "Every time I've worked a spell, I've felt some kind of force gathering around me - magic force. It has to be a form of energy. So it should, presumably, function according to a definite set of principles, as gravity and electromagnetism do."
"Principles? What talk is this? Can there be rules to an art?"
Matt shrugged. "Personally, I think art can work by rules, but I know fields of energy definitely do. And if I can figure out those rules, I can manipulate those fields."
"What sayest thou?" the dragon rumbled. "Dust thou tell me thou canst frame rules for magic?"
"That's what I was getting at. Of course, I must admit that finding rules for this particular form of energy might be more the province of the poet and critic than of the scientist."
"I ken not what a scientist may be, yet this must needs be a poet's study in truth - for the greatest of wizards are poets."
"Which tells me where I rank. But it's pretty obvious - any magic here seems to be governed by verse - and any literary idiot can tell you the word is not the thing - it's just a symbol of the thing. A poet arranges sound-symbols in whatever way gets his meaning across most powerfully."
"Dost thou say the poet who's also a wizard doth the same to this magic force of thine?"
"Right." Matt nodded vigorously. "The words are just models; they give the poet-wizard something to focus his own energies on. The little bit of energy that the wizard puts in modulates the vastly bigger magic energy that's lying around all over the place, here."
"Modulates?"
"Changes. Reshapes. As he changes and shapes the sounds of the words to his meaning; he's also changing and forging the magic field into whatever shape he wants-and when he finishes the verse, to and behold! The magic energy field does whatever he wants done!"
"It sounds well," Stegoman admitted doubtfully. "But hast thou the courage to test it?"
"Yes! If I don't wait more than a minute or so. Let's see..." Matt came to a halt, hands jammed into his pockets, looking about him. "What's a good spell to do?"
"Thou hast promised the princess new raiment," Stegoman reminded.
"Oh, yeah! Let's see, what will she need? Nothing too fancy, of course - I have a notion we're going to be doing some hard traveling. What's the standard riding outfit around here?"
"For a lady? 'Tis shift, kirtle, bliaut, boots - and a cloak with a cowl, for rain."
"We'll hold off on the last part until it gets cloudy." Matt took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Let's see, 'True Thomas,' now-there's a fine old ballad with some clothes in it, and it's even got magical overtones."
Stegoman backed off a few paces.
Matt raised his hands and began outlining the shapes of the garments, why, he didn't know; but it felt right.
He was sweating during the last line; the field of force around him baked like a Juarez sun. But he finished the last line, snapping his hands apart as though tightening a knot. A patch of grass seemed to shimmer and sparkle as the air thickened above it, coalescing, gelling, acrid hardening ...
And an ankle-length slip lay on the grass, next to a tight-sleeved underdress, a green overdress, and a pair of calf-length boots.
Stegoman sucked in a long, deep breath. Matt ducked out of sheer reflex.
"Yes-s-s-s-s-s," the dragon hissed. "Thou hast the Gift."
"Gift?" Every molecule in Matt stilled. "What gift?"
"Hast thou not come to see it?" The dragon stared at him as though he were an alien: "Thou dost not think any mere man can work magic, dost thou?"
"Well..."
"Disabuse thyself of such innocent's thought. This magical Gift is given to few, very few. Grimoires and old tomes notwithstanding, even the most learned of scholars cannot work a spell if he hath not the Gift."
"Oh." Matt's lips framed the letter carefully. "You mean, not everyone can sense the magic field gathering around him when he recites poetry, so he can't interact with it?"
"If that is what a wizard doth, aye. I would not know; I have not that Gift."
"Yes. Of course." Matt cleared his throat. "And these, uh, people who do have the Gift - does it do them any good, without training?"
"It may," Stegoman said judiciously, "though an untrained man, only newly aware of his gift, is far more likely to destroy himself and everyone near him. Why, I cannot say - but I've heard of many such cases."
"How very interesting! Do you realize I've been a walking critical mass every time I've worked a spell? It's worth your life to be near me!"
"Nay," Stegoman said, with full certainty. "Thou art a learned man; thy spells are safe."
"Yeah, well.. ." Matt's eye fell on the riding habit. "I think the princess must be thoroughly clean by now." He had a brief flash of Alisande wading out of the stream and tried hard to suppress it; the euphoria wasn't worth the dizziness it caused him.
"Aye." Stegoman's head swooped down to the clothing. He mumbled something that Matt couldn't understand through the fabric and turned to scrabble back to the stream, leaving Matt sitting alone on the log, head in his hands, wishing very heartily that he was nowhere but in his own cluttered, messy apartment.
"Master Wizard."
"Unh?" Matt jerked his head up, dimly aware that he'd been lost in a fog of reminiscence.
Then he saw Alisande. If she'd been beautiful before, she was staggering now. The green gown set off the gold of her hair in a radiant halo, and her wide eyes were huge in the gaunt-cheeked face, almost enveloping ...
She smiled roguishly and laughed, pirouetting. "You have excellent taste, sir. If you should ever wish to forsake magic, I doubt not you'd do famously as a couturier ... Now!" She snapped to a halt, facing him, skirts swirling about her. "You have done so well by my clothing, I pray you - can you remedy near - starvation? I've had naught but a few mouthfuls a day for a fortnight!"
"Uh-sure," Matt mumbled, eyes glued to her. He squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake, and didn't open them again till he'd turned away from the princess. Her laugh trilled about him, warm and melodious.
Food! If she had been on a starvation diet, she shouldn't eat much at once, and even that ought to be easy to digest. Soup!
And soup there was, complete with a hot tureen.
Alisande started, then stared at the tureen. Slowly, her brow furrowed.