The Longest Lament

Chapter XI

Aleure stared at the old man, unblinking, her eyes locked othe rheumy eyes gazing back at her. They sat on the floor across from each other, both with legs crossed. She dared not let her concentration slip. She tried to watch only the red-rimmed blue orbs, set deep behind heavy brows, and did her best to ignore the graying beard and the unappealing skin which dangled too loose in some places and pulled too tight in others. The man's expression was blank, neither mirth nor anger marred his unpleasant features. He only stared, unmoving, like some dead thing. Frustrated, she closed one eye, opened the other as far as she could, and stuck out her tongue. Still no reaction. She slapped the ground in frustration. 

"This would be easier if you weren't so ugly!" she said, her frustration clearly obvious on her young face. "Stop being ugly, Morimar. Its cheating,"

Morimar's dour face suddenly broke into a wide grin. "You are not the first woman to make such complaints. Ugly I may be, child, but it must not matter if I have a face to curdle milk and a mouth glistening with razor sharp teeth, still you must focus."

"I'm sick of focusing!" She glared at the wizened little old man and gave him a look few people, adult or otherwise, could stand against. His grin did not waiver a hair. She threw up her hands and turned her back on him. She hated that stupid grin.

Her parents had hired him only weeks before to teach her magic. Magic! The very word had sent a thrill through her. She had barely been able to contain her excitement at the prospect of learning the beautiful glowing runes and elegant gestures of rune lore.

Even the testing had been exciting. A handsome young man had come up the meandering pathway to the mansion in which they lived, wearing the red robes of a novice runecaster. Her parents had greeted him respectfully, as was proper, and he had asked her, with profound gravity, if she wouldn't mind holding out one of her fingers. She had told him she didn't mind one bit, and held out her index finger, bubbling with curiosity.

She had watched, only a little afraid, as the man's much larger finger reached out to touch her own. Before the two could even meet, a soft ray of light had formed, connecting them. Just like that, the test finished. The man had informed her parents that she was Gifted, and could begin training when she turned fifteen, in two years.

Of course, her parents had been so excited to have a wizard in the family that they had insisted she start learning right away. Since no guild wizard would dream of taking on a student so young, or, for that matter, take the time to teach only a single student at all, her parents had been forced to seek out a less official instructor.

A week later they had found Morimar. Aleure had found herself wishing desperately for the handsome young wizard who had administered the test. Instead, she had Morimar. Old, bald, boring, ugly Morimar and his endless, pointless exercises. Worst of all, he wasn't even a real runecaster, just some washed up old hedge wizard.

The exercises were maddening. A child of privilege, Aleure was not accustomed to being told what to do, and to be forced to follow the whims of this ridiculous old man frayed the remnants of what little temper she had to begin with. It had been weeks now, and she had not thrown a single fireball, or made one thing appear out of mid air. Just endless, stupid exercises. Balance on your tiptoes, stand on your head. Think of this but don't think of that, each as pointless as the last.

And always he had her memorizing the sinuous runes which were the basis of magic. That at least seemed the kind of thing a future wizard might actually find useful; it was boring just the same. She was starting to see runes in her sleep. And now the staring contests.

Sensing her frustration, he had promised her the day off. All she had to do was win a single staring contest. It seemed a simple thing, really. Simply stare at each other, and the first person to blink was the loser. But she had been at it for hours now, and she had convinced herself the man was cheating. She had tried screaming at him, making faces, clapping her hands. It hadn't seemed to matter what she did; always, she blinked first. In her rage she had even thrown one of the wrapped sweets from her pocket right at his face. The wiry old man had simply snatched it from the air, unwrapped it, popped it into his mouth and chewed, all without breaking the stare, let alone blinking.