Book One: Rostov Rising
"In Which I Learn the Rostov Heritage and become Baron Rostov."
Chapter One: Finger Flames
I remember the day my father first told me about the "Rostov heritage", as he called it.
Our family was the ruling family of our valley, the Kalzov valley, which was in the Balkan peninsula. We were rich, so I was raised mostly by my nanny and my head tutor. My parents were loving, but their days were filled with many duties so they didn't have much time to raise me. I saw them, but they were not the ones who told me about arithmetic, or cleaning my room, or being careful of the bees that floated around the flowers in our garden. These were things I learned from nannies, tutors and other helpers around the Rostov estate.
So it was strange when my father sent word to interrupt my afternoon studies and have me come to his den -- his private library. "I will need him only for ten minutes." he told Mr. Lupin, my tutor. Mr. Lupin bowed and left. When we were alone, he got out his pipe and did something very strange: he made a strange motion and a small flame appeared on the tip of his finger! He used the flame to light his pipe, then he put it out. He watched for my reaction.
I could play in my father's den when my studies for the day were finished, and I'd seen him do this once or twice when he forgot I was there. So I was not surprised.
I, in turn, held up my hand to my father and snapped my fingers... rats! just a snap sound the first time! I tried again, and on the third try I got a little flash of flame and a pop sound instead of a snap. Then I shook my hand hard because the flame had burned it! My father smiled and laughed.
Then he got serious and said, "Your tutor, Mr. Lupin, has told you that all men are created equal under the eyes of God, is that not so?"
I nodded yes.
"He is mostly right, but not completely so. The Rostovs, you and me, have some gifts that other men do not. Has he seen you do your little trick?"
"I don't do it much, because it hurts." I said.
"Are you aware that most people can't do it?"
"I know it's special." I said, "But it's just a trick... and it hurts. No, I haven't done it for him. I tried it after I saw you doing it."
"Well, it's probably best that you not try it for him, or talk about it with him. He probably wouldn't let you see what he felt, but he would find it very upsetting. He feels that our special abilities are part of superstition, and you know how he feels about superstition."
I liked Mr. Lupin, and I knew he strongly disliked superstitious ways, so I when my father put it that way, I promised myself not to tell him.
"Starting Monday, I will tutor you for an hour each day. We will talk about our special heritage, and I will show you how to do your trick without getting burned. That's all for now. You can return to your studies with Mr. Lupin."
And that was how my initiation into the magic arts began.
I studied with both my father and Mr. Lupin for many years thereafter. It was fascinating, and frustrating, because their styles were so different. Most of the time they taught me about entirely different things, but about once a month they would talk about the same topics. Then I would have to remember carefully who had said what before I answered questions.
I respected both men, but I was a boy then, so I also grew impatient.
One day I said, to Mr. Lupin, "What good is learning all this theoretical stuff? When will I use all this math you are teaching me?"
The next day he took me to the edge of a forest that was part of our Rostov lands. I knew this forest because I liked to hunt in it. With him he brought lots of papers and a portable table.
He set up the table, then said to me, "Suppose a lumber merchant -- a man who sells cut wood -- comes to your father and says, 'I want to lease this land and harvest the trees.' and your father turns to you and says, 'What is the timber on this land worth? For what amount should we lease this land?' What do you say?"
I said, "Well... a lot, because I would lose a nice hunting ground."
Mr. Lupin smiled, "OK, so how much is a lot? This, my boy, is where the theory I've been teaching you becomes useful." Mr. Lupin when on to explain how geometry and reference research would help me determine how many trees were in the forest and how many board feet of sawed wood they represented. We then looked through the papers he brought along to research what was being paid for sawed wood in the nearest big cities around our valley. After an hour, I came up with a number for the value of the lease. When I did, Mr. Lupin smiled.
"You have learned well, but you have let the timber man cheat you out of half your deserved price.... Now, tell me why." he said this kind of thing a lot, so I automatically looked over my calculations again. I couldn't find any mistake, so he pointed to the date on the report about how much wood was growing in this forest.
"Ahh..." I said, "The report is twenty years old. The trees have grown since then."
Mr. Lupin nodded. "And this is why you study theory: So you can let other people work for you, but you can understand what they are doing, and spot their mistakes."
It was an answer I was satisfied with.
I asked the same question of my father, and, ironically, he took me to the same spot as Mr. Lupin, only we came just as dawn was lighting the landscape.
He pointed to a young fawn that was doing it's last grazing for the night on the meadow next to the woods.
"Suppose that fawn was an enemy. How would you kill it?" he asked me.
"I would use a fireball spell. It's powerful and it's hard to miss with a fireball." I didn't know how to throw a fireball spell yet, but I really wanted to, and I was hoping that my dad would get the hint.
My father laughed a bit. "Yes, I like fireballs, too. But... what time of year is it?"
"September." I replied quickly, and, when it was obvious my father was waiting for more, I thought some. After half a minute, it came to me, "Ah... the fireball would certainly burn that tree the fawn was under, and perhaps start a forest fire. ...OK, then a lightning bolt. It's specific to a single target, and doesn't leave a mark."
"A much better choice. But look around, look carefully. What do you see?"
It was then that I saw that Hurley Clements was sneaking in the bushes, headed for the fawn. Hurley was a handsome young man, a hunter, and popular as a minstrel in the tavern of a nearby village. He was a nice person, but he'd been caught poaching before -- hunting where he wasn't supposed to hunt. "I see Hurley Clements. We should arrest him."
"We could. And would it suit us for him to see a fireball, or a lightning bolt spell being cast?"
"No, it wouldn't. He would spread nasty stories."
"Exactly, but there are ways to fix Hurley's problem... magic ways. Watch this..."
In addition to the fawn and Hurley, there was also a bear we could see. In fact, the bear was a problem for Hurley because it was between him and the fawn. The bear was working over a bee's nest, so it was busy and mildly irritated, and it wouldn't simply move away if Hurley shouted at it.
My father pulled out his wand and waved it slightly towards the fawn. The fawn looked up, and charged the bear. It actually butted the bear and then rose up and hit it with it's front legs. The bear looked up from the hive, and gave the fawn a swat which tossed it two meters away, then went back to scooping honey out of the hive. Hurley was watching this, and even at this distance it was clear that he was amazed at what he was seeing. My father waved his wand gently again, and the fawn seemed to regain its senses, and it ran off rather than continuing its attack. He then waved his wand at Hurley. Hurley looked as if he had seen something important, then he began to half-sneak, half-walk away. He was clearly done here and going somewhere else.
"Mind suggestions. They are hard to beat for solving complex problems quietly." my father said, "I suggested to that fawn that it was a bee, and it needed to protect its hive. Then I suggested to Hurley that he had seen jimson weed in the meadow. If the fawn had been eating jimson weed, that would explain its crazy actions -- jimson weed's nickname among the farmers is crazyweed. And, equally useful to solving this problem, if the fawn had been eating jimson weed, its meat was tainted -- poisoned with crazyweed poison. Hurley doesn't want to bring home poisoned meat, so he will hunt elsewhere, and it will be a long time before he comes back.
My jaw dropped. Wow! what a solution! I understood much better what both my father and Mr. Lupin were trying to teach me, and my respect for both of them grew steadily.