Ars Magica Read Online Free Page A

someone said in excellent Latin, but with an odd accent, “that is rather an acquired taste.”
    The man had come while Gerbert was preoccupied, soft on slippered feet. He was a little surprising, even when one knew that he was younger than the bishop. One always expected a mage to be immensely old. This one was barely into middle years; his beard was black without trace of grey, his face unlined. The woman could have been his sister: they had the same eyes, and the same dusky skin. What her features were, Gerbert had not had time or wits to see. This man looked not at all like a Nubian. His lips were full in the rich beard, but his nose was thin, arched, the nostrils fine and flaring.
    He bowed with exquisite courtesy and sat on the carpet, his grace like the woman’s, but fiercer, a man’s grace. His long hand indicated the cup which Gerbert had forsaken. “The sweetness is not native to the fruit; alone, it often seems excessively bitter. It grows as lemons do, but its color is paler; it grows large, clustered like grapes on its tree. I find it fascinating.”
    â€œDo you like the taste?” Gerbert could not help it; he had to ask. It was that madness of his, to know. Even here, before a heathen sorcerer.
    The sorcerer smiled. “It grows on one. Would you prefer orange or citron? We have both.”
    â€œThank you,” said Gerbert, “no. Sir.” Belatedly he rose and bowed. “Brother Gerbert of Aurillac,” he named himself, “in Bishop Hatto’s service.”
    â€œIbrahim ibn Suleiman,” responded the sorcerer, “in the service of God.”
    Gerbert was taken aback. Somehow he scrambled himself together. “I bear gifts, sir, from my master. He says that you must accept them, in token of his gratitude that never fades.”
    â€œI need no token but his friendship.”
    â€œBut, sir,” said Gerbert, “it makes him happy.”
    Perhaps he had surprised this master of mages. The dark eyes had widened a fraction; the lips seemed almost ready to smile. “Does it indeed? Surely then he will please me by accepting a gift in return.”
    â€œHe said you’d say that, sir. He said to ask for the Pythagoras you’ve been translating for him,” Gerbert paused. “From the Greek, sir?”
    â€œFrom the Greek,” said Ibrahim.
    â€œYou read Greek? Is it difficult? It’s like Latin, I’ve heard, but the letters are different.”
    â€œArabic is harder,” said Ibrahim. “And yes, it is remarkably like Latin.”
    Gerbert drew a breath of wonder. “Greek! Then you know Aristotle, you must. And Plato. And Hippocrates: do you know Hippocrates?”
    â€œCertainly. He is one of the masters of my art.”
    â€œMagic?”
    As soon as he had blurted it out, Gerbert bit his tongue. But the mage was calm, unruffled. “Magic, indeed, a very little. And medicine. My first training was in healing.”
    Gerbert’s cheeks burned. “Then you — you aren’t — ”
    â€œI am a student of the high magic, of the Art as we call it. God has ordained that my incapacity should be least evident in the healing of the body and the spirit.”
    â€œAs you did with my lord bishop,” said Gerbert.
    â€œJust so.” The deep eyes were level. “Are you afraid of me?”
    â€œYes.” Gerbert was. He was also calm: calm as a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow. The servants were no help. They had set down their burden when he was not looking, and gone away, abandoning him. He was all alone. “They say your arts are of the realms below.”
    â€œYet you came to me?”
    â€œI obeyed my lord’s command.”
    The mage leaned back on his elbow, all at ease. “Perfect obedience! Would it comfort you to know a truth? I am no servant of Iblis, whom your people call Satan. My art is the white art; my allegiance is to the light.”
    â€œThat