It was astonishingly easy.

"Please," the man said, "don't." There was no pleading in it, nor command. Hywel turned, saw the dark eyes ringed white and red, the face white as bare bone. And he stopped pushing. Perhaps if sparrows had voices...

"I am very tired," the man said. "Please come tomorrow, and I will talk with you."

"Will you tell me about magic?" Hywel's foot was still on the wheel, but it had suddenly become very heavy and hard to move.

The man's voice was weak, but his eyes were black and burning. "Come back tomorrow and I will tell you all I know about magic."

Hywel picked up the plate and napkin, the ale pot. He stood, moved away backwards.

"My name," said the wizard, "is Kallian Ptolemy. With the letter pi, if you can write."

Hywel said nothing. Everyone knew that wizards gained power by knowing names. He took the lantern from its peg, shuttered it.

Kallian Ptolemy said "Good night, Hywel Peredur."

Hywel did not know whether to shudder or cry for joy.

 

 

Hywel did not sleep much. All he knew, Ptolemy had said. Maybe Ptolemy was not a very strong wizard. A few soldiers had caught and chained him, after all.

Owain Glyn Dwr had been a mighty wizard, Hywel knew. Everyone in Wales did. Glyn Dwr and a few English lords had almost taken the crown from King Henry IV. And he really had taken Wales away from Henry V, though that Henry was a Monmouthshire man; Glyn Dwr sat for years as King in Harlech, with his own lords and armies.

The English had finally scattered Owain's soldiers, but they never took Owain, and no one ever saw Owain die. It was said he never died; that he slept like Arthur; that he would come back when the time was right.

Hywel could remember Owain's son, Meredydd, visiting The White Hart; a tall man with big shoulders, much more like a warrior than a great sorcerer. But he u/as a wizard. He made a glass marble out of the empty air and gave it to Hywel, holding Hywel's hand, treating him just as if Hywel were a great chief of Wales.

And Dafydd had been angry, very silently angry, after Meredydd ap Owain had gone.

Hywel dressed before dawn. The air was calm and cold, the moon down and the sky like black glass; Hywel made his way mostly by touch and memory. He looked to the fire in the serving hall, poking ashes and evening out the peat covering. The red glow beneath seemed full of mysteries and power. All he knew of magic. Hywel wondered if he would be able to turn lead to gold. If he could fly.

Just at daybreak he looked in on Ptolemy. The wizard was awake, looking disturbed.

"You've come early to lessons," he said tightly.

"No—I—uh—"

"I am about to soil myself. If you could be of some help, perhaps..."

Hywel fetched a pail, then made some slack in Ptolemy's ankle chains, allowing the wizard, with Hywel's help, to slide up the post enough to squat.

"What's the noise?" Tom, the soldier who had spoken to Hywel, stuck his head inside. He saw Ptolemy, his hose down and his gown lifted, straining with gravity and iron; and Hywel behind, with his hands in Ptolemy's armpits.

"Why, you filthy pair of—"

Then the truth dawned, and the soldier burst out with snorting laughter. Hywel got the bucket into place and the wizard used it, noisily. The soldier sniffed the air as if smelling sweet flowers, turned, and went out still choking with laughter.

Hywel helped Ptolemy with his clothes, neither of them speaking. Settled again, the sorcerer said "I'm sorry."

Hywel shook his head, picked up the pail.

Ptolemy said "These are the only clothes I have. I—"

"You tell me, next time," Hywel said, and went out to the dung-heap.

The sun was brilliant on the hills, the sky a perfect blue. It was going to be the longest day of Hywel's life.

 

 

"An' then I thought, I knew 'e was a Greek, but—"

The soldiers howled with laughter, pounding their mugs on the table, splashing beer.