Despite the expressed wishes of the teaching wizards, few graduates ever did return for further education, and Thomas doubted that he ever would himself. Not because he didn't want to. Lexandria Valley was as close to paradise for a man like him as existed anywhere in the world. No evil was allowed there, the climate was kept warm and comfortable and the place was full of knowledge, just waiting for him to soak it up. He could quite happily have spent the rest of his life there, if it had been allowed, but newly graduated wizards were required to gain some years of real world experience and once he was settled back in Ilandia, his homeland, he knew he would dig out a comfy little niche for himself and put down roots.

     That was the way he was. He hated change. He liked things, however they were, to go on being that way, the way he was used to. He knew that he would spend the rest of his life dreaming of returning to Lexandria, but that he never would. He enjoyed the library while he could, therefore, and lost himself in his books until the time came to return to his study cubicle. Then he took the books back to their shelves and stood there for a few moments, silently saying goodbye to them, before turning his back on them and walking out.

     The invisible servant spell had already changed, he wasn’t surprised to find, but having read it once he had no trouble reading it again, even though all the other spells in the book were still purest gibberish to him. This was the critical part. The Magister, the elusive and enigmatic God of Magic who never responded to prayer and who updated the spells written in spellbooks continually and reliably, sometimes declined to grant a particular spell to a particular wizard. There didn't seem to be any rule governing what kind of spell he would grant to a particular person, except that those who chose to specialise in a particular school tended to increased their chances of being granted spells of that school, although at the expense of having less luck with spells from other schools. When trying to gain a new spell, therefore, all wizards knew that if the Magister hadn't granted it to them in an hour or so, then the chances were that he never would, and the only thing to do was try again with a different spell. If they succeeded the first time, however, then they would very probably have no trouble with it in the future.

     After three quarters of an hour, Thomas knew that he had it. He could close his eyes and see the words clearly in his mind as if he were still looking at the pages of the spellbook. His body had absorbed as much of the magic force as it could at his young age. He could feel it within him, waiting to be released, shaped and directed by his speaking of the words and the use of the necessary materials, in this case a single piece of wood carefully carved to form two interlocking rings, a task that would have to be repeated every time he used the spell as the rings were consumed by the flowing magics. He wasn't going to cast it this time, though. He had to impress the magics into his own spellbook so that he could read it from there any time he wanted. He carefully fished the black pearl out of his bottle of ink, wiped it clean on a rag and put it away safely for the next time he needed to mix up some magic ink, which probably wouldn't be for a few months, if not years. Like the block of crystal from which he had made his prism, every apprentice had been given his own black pearl, grown in the famous Rumnarian oyster beds, to keep. It was worth a lot of money, but no wizard would dream of selling it, unless he intended to give up wizardry for good.

     Next, he carefully cut the cockatrice feather with his two inch penknife, to make a quill, a task that also had to be done in just the right way if it was going to work. It wasn't just the laying down of ink on paper that mattered here, it was the materials that were used to do the job. Paper, ink and quill all had to be of the very highest quality. The very slightest imperfection could spoil the flow of magic and spoil the written spell, and if this happened it could only be corrected by carefully cutting out those pages and trying again. That wouldn't fail him, he could try as many times as he wanted, but it wouldn't look good on his record either. He cut with the very greatest care and precision, therefore, muttering under his breath as he did so, and then studied the result critically, turning it this way and that to see it from every angle. It looked perfect, but you could never know for sure until you actually tried it. His heart pounding with trepidation, therefore, he opened his spellbook at the first blank page, dipped the quill in the ink and began to write.

     No matter how perfect the materials, though, it was the writing itself that really mattered. In order for it to record the spell faithfully and accurately, the writing had to be perfect. The slightest slip, smudge or blob of ink would ruin it, and he would have to start all over again with a new quill and a new bottle of ink. Also, the lettering itself had to be perfect. Thomas and all the other apprentices had practised the art of calligraphy endlessly for years, filling reams of paper with their jottings and notes, until they had reached a state of perfection that would make a monastery monk weep with envy. Each letter was a work of art in itself, requiring a full five minutes of brain numbing concentration to draw, with serifs, curlicues, and little wriggly bits so that it bore almost no relation to the letter as it would be written by a non-wizard. As he wrote, he felt the magics leaving his body bit by bit as their essence was transferred onto the page and preserved there in ink. As each letter was completed, it seemed to twist and change on the paper so that it took on a new form, still readable to him, but gibberish to anyone else, even another wizard, who read it, unless an Intellectus spell were cast on it first.

     Finally, as evening drew near, he finished. The new spell covered four pages of his spellbook, one page more than in Aurellos's spellbook, due to the fact that his writing was larger. He broke the quill, which was now contaminated with magic and therefore useless, and looked at his work with satisfaction. It looked good, but he wouldn't know for certain whether he'd gotten it right until it changed. If he’d succeeded in copying it correctly, the Magister would recognise it and, the next time the spell shifted, it would change it, to make sure it still worked. If it remained unchanged for too long, though, that might mean that he'd made a mistake somewhere and that the Magister had failed to recognise it. If it hadn't changed in a week, that was usually long enough to be sure, although some functioning spells had occasionally been known to remain unchanged for over a month. One thing a wizard was absolutely forbidden from doing, though, was to try casting the spell on his own. If he’d gotten it wrong, it could misfire disastrously, maybe killing him and anyone else in the vicinity. If the spell remained unchanged for more than a week he might be allowed to cast it under the supervision of a senior wizard, after he'd carefully examined it searching for any obvious mistakes. It was rare, but apprentices had occasionally graduated after successfully casting a new but unchanged spell.

     So intensely had he been concentrating on writing the spell that he hadn't realised that the whole day had gone by. He'd missed the midday meal and was just in time to get a mouthful of supper before the canteen closed for the night. As he was eating he realised that he was totally exhausted and could barely keep his eyes open to finish the meal. There were other apprentice wizards wandering around in a similarly dazed state, however, which somehow made him feel rather proud, as if being so exhausted by a full day of intense hard work was a badge of honour. He made his way back to his room almost in a daze of fatigue. He got undressed, climbed into bed and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

     When he awoke, he got out of bed without even looking to see what time it was. He pulled back the curtains, the night air cold on his bare skin, to allow the ruddy light of the red sun to shine in, then reached for his spellbook. It was almost certainly too soon for the new spell to have changed, but he knew he'd be checking it over and over again all that day, probably every few minutes. He simply wouldn’t be able to help himself. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else, he’d be no good for anything else until he knew one way or the other. Maybe he'd actually be looking at the spell when it changed, he thought hopefully. That didn't happen often, and when it did it was usually taken as a sign that the day was going to be a good one. Thomas would just count himself lucky if the spell changed at all. He opened the book, forcing himself to turn the pages slowly so as not to bend or crease them. He reached the new spell...

     He stared, wondering if he was dreaming. The spell had changed. Already, less than twelve hours after he'd written it! He kept on staring at it, thinking he must be imagining it, but no matter how much he looked the spell still differed from the words he had in his head. There was no mistake! The spell really had changed! The Magister had accepted it!

     His delighted exclamation of joy woke up his roommates. “For the sake of the Gods!” said Gannium, the Sidonian looking at the clock on the table. “Dawn's still two hours away!”

     “My spell!” gasped Tom, holding up his spellbook to show them. “It's…”

     “It's alive, right?” said a tired voice from the bunk above his. “The Magister accepted it?”

     “Of course he did,” said Conrast, turning over to look at him. He reached for his own spellbook, opening it at his own new spell. The look of disappointment on his face when he closed it again told the others that it hadn't changed yet. “Why are we surprised? Every other spell you copied worked just fine. Mine too, and Randall also. Of the four of us, only one spell ever died. Right, Gann?” The man in the bunk below his grumbled and pulled the covers up over his head. “So, can the rest of us please get some sleep?”

     Tom mumbled his apologies and closed his book again, then closed the curtains to allow the darkness to return. He could still feel himself grinning as he returned to his cot, though. An idiot grin that he knew he'd still be wearing when dawn came and they went for their breakfast.

     “Hey, Tom,” came Conrast’s voice in the darkness. “Congratulations.”

     “Thanks,” Thomas replied. “I'm sorry. I was just so, you know. So excited!”

     “I expect you were. Not go back to sleep.”

     Tom turned over, and he was still grinning as he settled his head onto his pillow.