The Raging Fires Read Online Free Page B

next.”
    “How long?” she repeated.
    He observed her glumly. Then, under his breath, he answered. “Between five and ten years.”
    Like Elen and Rhia, I started—nearly dropping the psaltery.
    “Even Tuatha, with all his gifts, needed four full years to complete his own apprenticeship. To do it all in less than one year is, well, remarkable. Or you could say . . . unheard of.” He sighed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this, really, but I wanted to find the proper time and setting. The opportune time, As rare as good rhyme.”
    Elen shook her head. “You have another reason.”
    Sadly, he nodded. “You know me too well.”
    He looked at me imploringly, as he ran his hand over a root of the Cobblers’ Rowan. “You see, Merlin, I haven’t wanted to tell you because I haven’t been sure whether your speed, your swiftness in mastering whatever lessons I gave you, was due to your own gifts—or to my deficiencies as your tutor. Did I forget any steps? Misread any instructions? It’s been nagging at me now for some time. I’ve checked all the ancient texts—oh yes, many times—just to make sure that you’ve done everything right. And I truly believe that you have, or I would not have let you go this far.”
    He straightened. “Even so, you ought to be warned. Because if the psaltery doesn’t work, it may be my fault instead of yours. That’s right. And, as you know, Merlin, a youth gets just one chance at making a magical instrument. Only one. If it should fail to summon high magic, you will never have another.”
    I swallowed. “If my training really moved that fast, it’s possible that the reason is something else altogether. Something unrelated to how good you might be as a mentor—or I might be as a student.”
    His eyebrows lifted.
    “Maybe I had some help. From someplace neither of us suspected. Just where, I’m not sure.” Pensively, I ran my thumb over the handle of my staff. Suddenly it struck me. “My staff, for example. Yes, yes, that’s it! Tuatha’s magic, you know.” I rolled the tapered shaft under my belt. “It’s been with me from the start, and it’s here with me now. Surely, in playing my instrument, it will help again.”
    “No, my boy.” Cairpré held my gaze. “That staff may have helped you in the past, it’s true—but it’s no use to you now. The texts are as clear as autumn air on this. Only the psaltery itself, and whatever skills you may have brought to its making, will determine whether you pass this test.”
    My hand, holding the tiny frame, began to perspire. “What will the psaltery do if I fail?”
    “Nothing. It will make no music. And bring no magic.”
    “And if I succeed?”
    “Your instrument,” he said while stroking his chin, “should start to play on its own. Music both strange and powerful. At least that’s what has happened in the past. So just as you have felt magic flowing between you and your staff, you should feel it with the psaltery. But this should be a different level of magic, like nothing you have ever known before.”
    I worked my tongue to moisten it. “The trouble is . . . the psaltery hasn’t been touched by Tuatha. Only by me.
    Gently, the poet squeezed my shoulder. “When a musician—no wizard, just a wandering bard—plays the harp skillfully, is the music in the strings, or in the hands that pluck them?”
    Confused, I shook my head. “What does that matter? We are talking about magic here.”
    “I don’t pretend to know the answer, my boy. But I could show you tome after tome of treatises, some by mages of enormous wisdom, pondering that very question.”
    “Then someday, if I’m ever a mage myself, I’ll give you my answer. Right now, all I want to do is pluck my own strings.”
    My mother looked from me to Cairpré and back to me again. “Are you sure it’s the time? Are you really ready? My song can certainly wait.”
    “Yes,” agreed Rhia, twisting one of the vines that circled her waist. “I’m not