The Kindly One

XVI. The Apprentice

"Thou hast demonstrated an aptitude for manipulating life," Nicol said. "Thou canst heal adroitly now."

Nicol had certainly bolstered her knowledge, driving anatomy and physiology firmly into Iona's head. She could name every bone in the body, every muscle and organ. The precision made a vast difference in her casting. Suddenly, her healing that had been basically a brute force repair was targeted. She hadn't tried an illness, but she'd learned to patch up even severe wounds. She'd spent some time over with the spellguards, treating training injuries and old battle-wounds under her mentor's watchful eyes, as well as a few accidents.

"I try." Iona wasn't certain exactly where this was going, but she had a definite feeling that it was going to be something less than delightful.

"Now we will see if thou hast the aptitude for manipulating death." When Nicol saw Iona's look—something between fear and revulsion—the experienced mage laughed. "'Tis merely a little test, a little nudge at the boundaries of thine ken.'Tis no corruption of thine immortal soul or whatever stories thou hast heard. What art thou frighted of?"

"I..." Iona swallowed hard. "This is not good magic, Mágissa. It's dangerous."

"All magic is dangerous, sweet thing. Thou hast seen a mageling immolate himself with his own fireball, hast thou not?"

Iona shuddered at the memory of the screams. She'd been far enough along in her training to save him and even restore his face, but the rest of those scars would never heal and her actions couldn't scrub away her own memories of the sight and sounds and smell. Cooking meat in the kitchens had made her retch for days afterwards. "I...that is true. But this is different. These are...were people."

"Aye," Nicol said. "So explain to me why 'tis different from using harmful magic on the living. If anything, this seems better. 'Tis less horrific for the one under the effect, for one."

"But you're disturbing their rest," Iona said as they approached a big iron grate just beyond the foot of the stairs. She could hear sniffing and shuffling on the other side.

"Superstition," Nicol scoffed. "The soul has flown. 'Tis only fántasma left, that which animates."

Iona couldn't help the churning feeling in her stomach. "I can't do this," she said, tensing up.

Nicol sighed and stopped walking, turning to face her. She put her hands on the half-elf's shoulders. "What art thou truly frighted of, sweet thing?" she said in a low voice. "What others will think? Of what they would say if they didst ken? 'Tis misunderstood magic, no less worthy of investigation for its sordid reputation. If nothing else, study it so that thou mayest counter it. Perhaps a day will come where thou art again in a duel with me. Thou wilt thank me on that day."

"You wouldn't try to hurt me," Iona said with a shake of her head.

"Oh, sweet thing, if only the world were as simple as thou dost see it," Nicol said almost wistfully. She laughed then. "Another necromancer, then. I am not the only who chases this facet of the Art, and I assure thee that their manners and gentility are far lacking when compared to mine own scarce ones. 'Tis sometimes our task to clear such foes out. A dangerous one, one thou couldst make a great deal safer for thyself and others."

"I'm not going to do it," Iona said firmly. "But if you want to show me, I'll listen...if you tell me what this is actually about."

"Clever, sweet thing. Thou dost ken that I have an ulterior motive," Nicol said with an approving smile as she leaned against the dirty iron grate. She didn't seem to even notice the grime clinging to the sleeve of her dress. "What is the final law of magic?"