Self-Taught Magic
When Tindomul awoke, a breeze from the ocean was stirring the sails of a battered model ship on the windowsill, something Father had made to illustrate the design of one of his ships. Tindomul and Atanamir had played with it for an entire summer when they were small. The breeze stirred the bed curtains, the dark red silk moving with the air. Griffin lay on the foot of the bed, twitching in doggie dreams.
He woke up feeling faintly anxious, and then the memory hit him like a hammer blow. He was going to break the Ban. He felt cold all over, and his skin was clammy. Weapons would be useless against the Valar. He would trespass on their land unarmed, and hope to come and go unnoticed. He would need magic on this mission.
Since he was young, Tindomul had been fascinated by magic, but he knew only a few simple spells, little more than parlor tricks. But he felt sure magic could help him find his way across trackless seas, let him see in the dark, and make him invisible.
His best trick was a spell to light a candle. For a long time, he'd been considering how to modify it for military use: to set the sails of enemy ships ablaze, ignite a wooden structure like a fortification of sharpened tree trunks, or throw up a wall of flame before advancing enemy foot soldiers.
He sketched the workings of the spell on a scrap of paper. As far as he could tell, it was a matter of scale. He knelt before the hearth and arranged pieces of kindling with shaved curls of wood for tinder.
Satisfied, he sat back on his heels and spoke the words of the new spell. A fireball blew out of the hearth and enveloped him. It was so hot it felt cold. Tindomul threw himself backwards and rolled on the carpet. Dark blotches danced in the center of his vision. When his vision returned, he swatted out still-burning spots on his clothes. There was soot on the front of his tunic and his sleeves were charred around the cuffs.
Something smelled like burning feathers, so pungent it brought tears to his eyes. He touched his forehead. His hair was stiff and wiry, and his face felt sunburned.
He came down to dinner that night, not looking anyone in the eye.
"What's that smell? And what happened to your eyebrows?" said Atanamir.
"I don't want to talk about it," said Tindomul. "And anyway, eyebrows are overrated."
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The next morning, Tindomul climbed the narrow stairs to the Observatory, lair of the court astrologer. This might be a fool's errand. Court astrologers were described as practitioners of magic, but Tindomul wasn't sure. Astrologers read the stars and made prophesies, but they didn't cause anything to happen. Tindomul didn't care about prophecies, he didn't even believe in them. Nonetheless, if the astrologer did happen to know any spells, Tindomul was interested in hearing about them.
Tindomul reached the highest landing, then knocked and went in. The astrologer was seated at a table, taking apart a brass instrument that looked like an astrolabe, except that it had more parts.
Tindomul waited until the astrologer looked up before asking his question. "Like any mariner, I navigate by the stars. But on a cloudy night, I lose all sense of direction. Do you have a spell that can help?"
"Not a spell, more of an awareness. Close your eyes, and feel the energy from the Load Star," said the astrologer.
Tindomul squeezed his eyes shut and listened with his whole body. Nothing.
"Turn to port. Notice what changes," said the astrologer.
Tindomul turned slightly, keeping his eyes tightly closed. Within himself, he felt something stay the same while he rotated away from it. Something constant, pointing true north. "I felt something. What was it?" he asked.
"The Lode Star creates an energy that surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the world together," said the astrologer.
"Does it have a Dark Side?" Tindomul asked.
"Don't be stupid. It's just a magnetic field."
###
Back in his rooms, Tindomul stood with his eyes closed and waited until he sensed the energy radiating from the Load Star. He turned, and found he could perceive a slight shift, enough to tell him which way was north.
He went below-stairs to a place in back of the kitchens where the passages were narrow and irregular. He drew a detailed map and memorized it, then closed his eyes and waited until he felt the energy from the Load Star coursing through him. He turned slightly and felt it shift. He took ten steps forward, turned, took five more steps, turned, and walked forward again.
Whack! Stars filled his vision and he sat down hard. He put a hand to his face and drew it away, expecting to see blood. He'd run into the stone corner of a doorway. He knew where he was, but was a step further along than he'd thought.
An hour later, the bruise around his eye was the size of a fist, and purple-black. He considered having a tray sent to his room, but it would only bring the whole family up to check on him.
When Tindomul entered the dining room, Atanamir's jaw dropped. "What happened to you? Did you run into the Faithful and have a chat about our little differences?"
"No, I ran into a door. Its door buddies egged it on and held its coat while it took a swing at me," said Tindomul.
###
Tindomul went back to the astrologer the next day. Mercifully, the old man didn't say anything about the bruise under his eye, the purple giving way to yellow-green. Tindomul was done with that project and ready to start on a new one.
"I want to approach an unfamiliar coast in a heavy fog. Can you have a spell to let me do that?"
No mariner with his wits intact would approach an unfamiliar coastline blind. No one can navigate to shore using the sound of surf breaking on rocks. But Tindomul was trying to land on Valinor. He'd be safe only if he made landfall under cover of mist and darkness.
"I have a spell to see through walls. Let's start with that," said the astrologer.
"Will it help me see through fog?" asked Tindomul.
"Hard to say. Try it and see," said the astrologer.
###
Back in his room, Tindomul practiced the spell to see through walls. He focused, and the wall between the main room and his bed chamber turned translucent, like still water. The effect lasted for just a moment, and then it was gone. He closed his eyes, and found he could see more clearly using his mind alone.
All he had to do now was adapt the spell to see through darkness and fog. As far as he could tell, that meant lengthening the range.
He left his rooms and headed for the library, in another building in the Palace compound. Among all the volumes and scrolls stored there, there had to be something about modifying spells.
In the Great Hall, he crossed paths with his favorite auntie. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she smiled a greeting which dimpled her plump cheeks.
Beneath the heavy brocade of her robes, her linen shift appeared translucent, and in need of the laundry. Beneath it, her breasts hung to her waist, the skin the grey-white of a fish's underbelly. He looked down. Her stomach hung in folds, distended from childbearing and age. Behind the flesh, grey entrails lay coiled like a python. He turned and fled.
"Tindomul? Tindomul, what's wrong?" his aunt called to his retreating back. Tindomul ignored her. He wanted to plunge his head into a horse trough, scrape his eyes, drink away the memory.
Outside, he took a few moments to let his heart slow down. When he looked at the grass, he could see the dirt and rocks beneath it. A few minutes later, he could only see the grass, although it looked a little wavery. Good, the spell was wearing off.
Beside the crushed shell path between buildings, the first of the small yellow wildflowers, his sister's favorites, had begun to bloom. She'd miss seeing them this year. She'd died in childbirth six weeks ago. The thought stung him like the slash of a blade. His sister wasn't here to enjoy this day, but he could still bring her flowers. He bent down and picked a handful to take to her. It took a while to gather a decent-sized bunch as the air was still chilly in late March and not many of the yellow blossoms had opened.
He hiked up a little trail above the city into the foothills of the mountain. It led to a cluster of stone grave markers and tombs where his family buried their dead. Over the ocean, the sun had burned off the morning sea mists. From this height, the whole of the harbor stretched out before him. He was always surprised by how large it was, and how large the size of Númenor's fleet.
He walked between the tombs. The limestone wall of the nearest sarcophagus wavered and faded. Behind the wall lay what remained of his second cousin, entombed here when he died of a fever last fall. The rich fabric of his grave garments retained their color. Fluid had soaked into them, making the lower portion black and stiff. A puddle of black fluid surrounded the corpse, which seemed to be covered with whitish mold. He turned and fled, leaving the flowers scattered on the path.