What a complete and utter fool, the false Adjunct thought to himself. To Haloch’s limited mind, magic as text was quite harmless. True, the use of magic, especially very potent magic, could be dangerous; even perilous. But in Haloch’s mind, the old Scribe had nothing to fear. He was, in his own words and in his own mind a copyist. Nothing more. As such, the book presented him with no direct peril, as a sword presents no immediate danger to the smith who forges it. In the way of a simpleton, he had neither pretensions to, nor desire for, invoking anything. Instead, he slaved away his ascetic life at an occupation that provided a mean, almost a subsistence existence, for himself and what remained of his family.
The false Adjunct took a moment to stretch his cramping back and shoulders, before resuming. In a way, he almost envied the old Scribe his simplistic vision of himself and the world in which he lived. At least he possesses a degree of humility than do his peers, the false Adjunct thought to himself. The Scholastic community, that pack of withered, dithering dotards, had been outraged at Haloch’s perceived incursion into an area they thought rightfully, solely their own; but they remained silent about it for the most part, fearing retribution at the hands of the King. Many of them rationalized that since Haloch was only organising the text, and had no interest in putting it to use, that nothing bad could come of his scribblings. And as the young scribe set himself to the task, and as time passed, most of the dissenters gradually turned their attention to other things.