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student could ultimately result in those same powers being employed for evil. Nevertheless, Symon felt confident. Deep inside he had a feeling that this particular student had been chosen for him.
    He was a sprightly one hundred and two years old when he had taken on his first apprentice, and then grieved for years over the young man’s untimely death in an accident which could have been avoided. Another one hundred and fifty years passed before he took another under his wing. This one had turned out to be a good, steady, no-nonsense magician who, after qualifying, had plied his craft in various places across the world before finally taking up residence in the Telorian Highlands. He had a thing about mountains. Symon had wandered up there every so often to bring him up to date on the latest developments, but his last visit some seventy years past had drawn a blank. The younger magician’s cosy bothy appeared to have been abandoned and no trace of him could be found.
    The most recent disruption to Symon’s plans had been the untimely death ten years ago of the old king in the most unfortunate circumstances, and most of his time since then had been taken up with advising and guiding the newly crowned monarch. Fortunately, the young man had a good head on his shoulders, being one of those extraordinary scions who inherit the best attributes of both parents. After a relatively short period of rebellious reluctance, tempered with understandable grief, Vailin II was now proving to be an extremely capable and popular king. Though still remaining close to the youthful monarch, and regarded as one of his most trusted advisors, Symon had often thought that perhaps he could devote more time to training a suitable young person in the magical arts and, to a lesser degree, in illustration and penmanship. To this end, and seemingly by way of recompense for his selfless service, the gods appeared to have smiled, perhaps rather lopsidedly, on him. He also found the more he thought about it, the more he came to relish the seemingly daunting prospect of applying himself to the task of turning a raw wilder into at least a halfway competent magician. Had he known what lay ahead he might possibly have had second thoughts.
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
    The day started badly. In response to a particularly vivid nightmare, Karryl’s wilder force had risen to the surface. Alerted by the extreme tingling of his skin, a sure sign that power was active, Symon dashed into the room in time to witness Karryl, his upright body quivering with tension, caught blindly in a surging maelstrom of unbridled power. Laden with the unmistakable tang of wild magic, the air crackled and hissed around magician and boy. His tone sharp with authority, the magician’s words rang around the room as he dived for the boy and wrestled him to the floor. Unable to compete with the strength of Symon’s specifically directed spell of dispersal, the wild magic was forced to expend itself by shattering an old and rather exquisite jug and bowl which sat on the broad window-ledge.
    His arms clasped firmly around Karryl’s shoulders, Symon gasped as he leaned back against the side of the bed. “I hope I won’t have to do this too often.” He gave an emphatic nod. “But at least now, I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
    Once his breathing and heart-rate had resumed something near normality, he struggled to his feet, pulled the dazed and fearful Karryl off the floor and let him sink onto the bed. The boy’s trembling hand reached out and grasped Symon’s wrist in a vice-like grip. The magician winced but said nothing. A good half hour passed. Gradually, the tension eased from Karryl’s body and his grip on Symon’s wrist relaxed. The magician stood and rolled out the tension lingering in his neck.
    With a rueful glance at the spilled water and the scattering of pottery shards littering one side of the room, he placed a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You sit there