“When he sighted land his unease grew. For in place of the low green hills of the Eastern land he saw cliffs of dazzling white. As he drew closer he realized that the familiar hills had turned white, so white the reflections almost blinded him.
“He sought the familiar harbors but he could not find them. All was buried under drifts of white, as if huge dunes of sand had devoured the land.
“And instead of the sweet scent of growing things, the land breeze brought him the odor of rotting fish. All along the shoreline were windrows of dead sea creatures. Here and there a starving seabird tore eagerly at the decaying flesh.
“Finally, Einrich put ashore in a cove. When he stepped from his boat he stepped onto a beach of salt.
“Einrich had bound his demon to its task, but he had not limited it. The whole of the Southern Sea had been turned to fresh water. The fish within could not live in the fresh water, so they died.
“Worse, Einrich had not instructed the demon where to put the salt it winnowed. The creature simply dumped it on the nearest shoreline. In the space of a few days the greatest and most beautiful cities of the World disappeared under waves and rifts of salt. Their people perished or were doomed to roam the world as homeless wanderers—living testaments to the power of magic ill-used.
“And to this day the demon sits in the Freshened Sea, sifting salt from the water and dumping it on the land. The eastern shores are a desert of salt and the water is still fresh.”
“What happened to Einrich?” Wiz asked, awed.
Moira smiled grimly. “A suitable punishment was arranged. If you travel to that cursed shore, and if you look long enough, you will find Einrich, ever hungry, ever thirsting and hard at work with a shovel, trying to shovel enough salt into the sea to render it salty again.”
“Whew,” Wiz breathed.
“The point, Sparrow, is that magic is not to be trifled with. Even successful magic can bring ruin in its wake and unsuccessful magic far outnumbers the successful.”
“Could I have done something like that, by accident?”
“Unlikely,” Moira sniffed. “You do not have a talent for magic and you have no training. You could easily kill yourself or burn down a forest, but you have not the ability to work great magic.
“The most dangerous magicians are the half-trained ones. Either the ones who are still being schooled or who think they are greater than they are. The evil they do often lives after them. They and the League, of course.”
“What is the League, anyway? A bunch of black magicians?”
Moira frowned. “They are a dark league. Some of them are black, it is true. But so is Bal-Simba and many others of the North.”
“No, I mean magicians who practice black magic. You know, evil spells and things like that.”
“Evil magic depends partly on intent and partly on ignoring the consequences,” Moira said. “Spells may help or harm but they are not of themselves good or evil.”
“Not even a death spell?”
“Not if used to defend oneself, no. Such spells are dangerous and are best avoided, but they are not evil.”
“All right, what separates you from this League?”
Moira was silent for a moment. “Responsibility,” she said thoughtfully. “Magic is not evil in itself, but tends to affect many things at once. Often the unintended or unwanted effects of a spell are harmful. Like Einrich’s means of getting water for his orchards.”
“We called those side effects,” Wiz said. “They’re a pain in the neck in programming too.”
“Be that as it may, the question a responsible magician must face is whether the goal is worth the consequences. All the consequences. Those who follow the Council of the North try to use magic in harmony with the World. Those of the League are not so bound.”
Moira shifted and the fire caught and heightened the burnished copper highlights in her hair.
“Power is an easy prize for a magician, Sparrow—if you can stay alive and if you are not too nice about the consequences. The ones who join the League see power as an end to itself. They magic against the World and scheme and intrigue among themselves to get it.”