by Sean Easley
As he speaks, a sparkling wave of gold ripples across the space inside the arch, then fades as soon as he pulls his hand back.
“The magic we call the binding was the first of its kind to make itself known to us. Of course, it is in the binding’s nature to make connections. It taught us how to use its power to interact with other magics, but only those that felt an affinity toward humankind in the first place—those that saw hope in us and wanted to help us reach our potential.”
“What about the ones that didn’t like us?” Cass asks.
Djhut purses his lips. “Unfortunately, many of the wildest magics refused to be tamed. Some rejected us outright because we bound the others when the treaty was founded between magics and humans. Those magics who rebelled against the rules that the binding’s treaty imposed on them still war against us to this day.” He looks to me. “I believe you’ve met one such magic.”
I swallow down the shoe-size lump in my throat. “Mr. Stripe is . . . a magic?”
“A very specific kind of magic that we call a False.” He pauses, and furrows his brow. The class leans forward, waiting for him to continue, but he moves on. “Anyway, back to the reason why we’re here—the shaping.”
Djhut continues with his lesson, explaining how the bluestones of Stonehenge were transported from far away to form the first links between people and the binding.
I always thought Stripe was just an evil person who uses magic—not a magic itself. It makes sense, though. I remember the connection Stripe and I shared that day when he bound me to him. He and I were linked for only a few minutes, but in that short time I saw into his past—a dark, confusing place. I wasn’t merely seeing into the history of a person. I saw a magic that despises people, all people, and wants to make them serve it.
Dad said that Stripe always leaves something behind.
“What happens when magics are bound to us?” I ask.
Everyone turns to face me. It strikes me that I have no idea what Djhut was just talking about, or why everyone has moved closer to the bluestones, carrying jars of the same shaping dye that Sev and I retrieved from the underground lake.
I wish I could reel the question back in, but it’s been cast now, and I want to know. “What do they do to us, I mean?”
“The effects of binding differ from magic to magic,” Djhut says, taking a curious step toward me. “Each has developed its own nature. Those friendly to us allow the binder to use the magic’s specialties. Often we have as much say in the way that connection works as the magic does, like when we operate the icons.”
“Then how do we control them?” I ask. “The magics, I mean.”
Cass scoffs.
“Ah,” Djhut says. “Control? No. Influence? Maybe. This is where shaping comes in—two forces, each with their own mind, their own will, working together in tandem. Each influences the other. The magic shapes the wielder; the wielder shapes the magic. And, if a magic can penetrate deep into the heart of the wielder, it can shape every part.”
Orban folds his arms. “What if that person doesn’t want to be shaped?” When I think about it, he’s probably just as concerned as I’d be, if not more. Orban was a docent when we took the Museum, so he knows exactly what it’s like to be controlled.
Djhut narrows his eyes. “Shaping is always happening, whether we realize it or not. An object or person who resists shaping is still changed, though the outcome may not be what was intended.”
I swallow. “Is it permanent?”
“Few things are truly permanent. As long as the fundamental bonds that were created by the treaty remain, however, the power of these magics is limited. The bond of Nature prevents magics like Mr. Stripe from imposing their will on us. The bond of Life protects our lives. And no magic can break the agreements made under the bond of Law. This is the single most important relationship between humans and magics. It is the foundation. As long as the bond of Law remains, no magic in the world can force us to do anything against our nature, nor take our life, nor break any other agreements we’ve made with it.”
“Unless someone makes a new agreement,” Cass says.
Djhut presses his lips into a line. “Yes. A new contract has the power to alter the old ones. Even the fundamental ones, in some circumstances.”
None of this really answers my question, though. And I can’t clarify what I meant. What if Stripe really did leave something terrible behind, in me? To ask would let them all know, and they’d distrust me, too.
• • •
Artificer Djhut shows us how to use the dye to reshape and redirect the faded, loose bindings on the bluestones to connect the arches with places important to each person. Turns out, Cass is pretty good at this. She has the first success, managing to bind her arch to Disney World, one of the rare, special places we visited when we were younger.
But of course she’s had practice. I, on the other hand . . .
“You seem to be having trouble, Mr. Cam.”
Djhut steps up to face the bluestone with me. I’ve been trying for several minutes, but I can’t get the image of Mr. Stripe out of my head, and the last thing I want to do is bind the stone to somewhere near him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shivering from the icky chill in my gut. “I’m distracted, I guess.”
“Distracted shaping is often the easiest kind. The most natural, because it lets the magic and your emotions do the work.” He presses a hand against the bluestone. “You already have a relationship with the binding. Tap into that. Feel the tie between this stone and all the places it’s been. The dust and rock that it was carved from, scattered across the world. You need only to tell those scattered pieces where you want them to go, and let them do the work for you.”
I try to do as he says, and I can feel . . . something. A low buzz. Pictures of places form in my mind, but they’re all jumbled. Like a knot, twisting in on itself and pulled taut. Like the Nightvine. Part of me wonders if I’m just imagining it, but I can even see the hazy green sky, and hear the powder crunch of the dirt beneath my Chucks, and feel the soft, cool blossoms against my fingers.
Still, nothing happens.
“Interesting.” Djhut inspects the stone, fingering the gold chain at his neck. There’s a strangely-shaped charm hanging from it: a bent rod of blue stone flecked with black and gold, with a series of short spikes at one end.
Not spikes. . . . They’re teeth. The teeth of a key, made from some kind of blue rock. Artificer Djhut is a keybearer.
He sees me noticing, and pulls it away from his chest to give me a better view. The cloudy blue key looks at home in his hand.
“Sometimes magics break off a piece of themselves to give their power to a human,” he says. “We call these broken bits of power ‘artifacts.’ Keys are one of the more common forms, though all artifacts are rare. The artifact binding is a near-permanent change for the magic—they only do it if they are fully committed to making their power accessible to another.”
“Why keys?” I ask.
“I suspect because keys are such a strong symbol for us humans. We view things we can’t have as ‘locked away.’ In giving a piece of themselves to us, magics are ‘unlocking’ their power. The magic of an artifact can be used by anyone, so long as the key and the user have a connection.” He turns the key over in his hand. “I call this one the Sky Key.”
“Admiral Dare has one too,” I say, remembering the emerald key around her neck. “She said something about finding others and objects.”
“Ah, hers is the Key of Lost Things. No one knows where it came from—only that she had it with her when she returned from wherever she disappeared to all those years ago. A lost little girl full of secrets.” He cocks an eyebrow. “She was a bit of an imp back then.”
“You remember when she came back?” I don’t know why that surprises me—Artificer Djhut is older than most hills.
“ ‘Remember’ is . . . not quite the word. I can grasp pieces of it, but human minds aren’t meant to hold as many
years as mine has. Everything becomes foggy past thirty years ago. We old heads have to write a thing down or else we lose it. Many of us have lost whole lifetimes. Reading my old journals often feels like reading someone else’s diary.” He glances to the coin around my neck. “That’s one reason why it’s good to have a person around who can remind us of who we were.”
I wish Nico had a journal of what happened in the Hotel before he left, so that we wouldn’t have to wonder whether he’s forgotten. I could give his coin back to remind him of who he was, so that he’d stop making everybody’s life so difficult, but in order to do that I’d have to find him first.
All I can do is wait for him to come to me.
16
No More Games
Our group sits at the edge of the Arkade—a brightly colored lounge somewhere in India that’s connected to the hotel; it’s full of felt tables and live performances. It’s a popular hangout spot—there are even video games in the back room. Orban’s been getting a bunch of us to come down here more often, ever since the Old Man put him in charge of “making sure the rest of the stuffy trainees have a little fun.” (Orban’s words, not Agapios’s.)
“Pay attention,” Orban says, dealing cards onto the table. “If you want to learn how to play the game, you’ve got to listen.”
The little tower of cards I’m building collapses, despite the binding dust I used to hold it together. I’d hoped that this time Mom’s key would make my little card tower look like an actual castle, but once again, nothing is proving to be a quick fix.
Djhut’s explanation about keys and artifacts made me realize that I still don’t fully understand Mom’s key. Admiral Dare has the Key of Lost Things, and Djhut said his was the Sky Key, but what is mine called? The Key of Concealment? The Illusion Key?
I’ve been practicing what Dad showed me in Germany, but I’m discovering that there are some limitations. Hiding the sludge in the Shadedial Fountain was a touch, and the cracks in the upstairs hallways and the HOPPERS 4 LYFE graffiti in the Elevator Bank both vanished with ease, but making one thing look like something entirely different never seems to work out. It’s as if the world wants to stay as close to its original appearance as possible.
“I don’t get it,” I say, gathering up the cards. “I can’t get them to do what I want. There’s got to be a trick to this.”
“It’s the Nature bond,” Elizabeth says, sitting across from me, petting the felt. “You’re trying to make the cards look like a castle. But they are not a castle, or even stones. All things want to be what they already are.”
“It is like inertia,” Sev adds. “The further you try to stray from an object’s nature, the more difficult it is.”
So it worked before because I was making the fountain look like a cleaner fountain, or making a stick look like the tree it came from. “But isn’t changing one thing into another the whole point of shaping?”
Elizabeth laughs. “What you’re doing isn’t shaping. I don’t even know what it is.”
“Now is time for playing cards, not building hotels out of them,” Orban says, dealing another hand.
I stuff Mom’s key back into my pocket. It’s probably best if I don’t let everyone know all I’ve been doing with it. They might not understand why I’ve been using its power to keep things running smoothly before the gala. But in a few days the gala will be over. Everything’s almost done. Chef Silva approved the menu (though I’m pretty sure it’s not the one I gave him), the music selections have been made, bright green decorations and signs have been hung throughout the Hotel. Once the event is over, I can deal with all the problems I’ve been putting off, without the added stress of the Embassy guests and Mr. Nagalla.
“Now, see this?” Orban points to an ace of hearts. “Aces are the only cards that affect the entire table, unless you have a king of the same suit. King is the only card that can shape an ace.”
“Let’s just play already!” Elizabeth exclaims.
Sev agrees. “Cam can figure it out as we go.”
The lights dim and the music starts up. Dancers slip out onto the nearby stage, glittering with dangly sequins and jewels. Orban continues explaining the game as the Bollywood crew spin and dance in the spotlights. Their costumes are mobster themed tonight—an Eastern twist on striped suits and fedoras and glittery nightclub gowns.
I spy Rahki, Sana, and Cass at a table of their own closer to the stage. Rahki’s doing her usual crosswords, bobbing her head to the music in her headphones, while Sana doodles on Cass’s hand with a strange pen thing. I’ve seen those doodles before on Sana’s arms. Most of the time she draws things like math equations, but today she’s going full swirls and flowers.
“What is that stuff?” I ask.
“Mehndi,” Orban says, dealing the cards.
“It’s like temporary tattoos,” Elizabeth adds. “Some people put it on for weddings and special events. Sana’s been talking for weeks about wearing some nice mehndi to your birthday party.”
Cass’s and my birthday is tomorrow. Sharing our birthday was always something I enjoyed when we were little, but this year has not been as fun as previous ones. I still can’t bring myself to apologize to her, partly because I’m a little jealous. I know I need to get over how she’s become everyone’s go-to fixer, but whenever I think about apologizing, I get annoyed all over again. She’s got that way of talking to people that makes them warm up to her, and the bizarre part is that people like her even when she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She freely admits it, as though there’s nothing wrong with her not being able to solve their problems. And I shouldn’t be mad—I don’t even want to be mad—but that doesn’t change the fact that I am.
I watch as Sana squeezes the dye onto Cass’s fingers. “Is it okay for Cass to wear that?”
Elizabeth shrugs. “Sana offered, so I’m sure it’s fine.”
As the music crescendos, we all pause to watch the spectacle of lights and flowing fabric. The whole stage shimmers as a glittery, lemon-scented fog billows around the performers. It’s really impressive—maybe I can get an extra show added to the gala schedule.
“We do not get to celebrate birthdays often,” Sev says, rearranging the cards in his hand. “Two birthdays at once is a rare prize.”
Why? We’ve celebrated plenty of birthdays, including Sev’s own.
No, wait. We celebrated his binding day, the anniversary of the day when Sev joined the Hotel. There was cake and everything, but it wasn’t his birthday. Come to think of it, all of the celebrations we’ve had have been binding days.
The dancing onstage intensifies in a riot of color and crashing drums. They’ve brought out props now, including a wall-size frame with an old Gothic scene on the other side. Another frame up high shows the full moon, shining like a spotlight onto the stage.
“Sev,” I ask, “when is your actual birthday?”
“I do not know.”
I look to Orban, then to Elizabeth. All three of them shake their heads. “None of you know your birthdays?
“It’s not that unusual,” Orban says. “Around here you’re the odd duck.”
“Remember,” Elizabeth adds, “most of us who work here are orphans. We didn’t have anyone to tell us the date of our births, so we celebrate binding days instead.”
They’re so easygoing about it. I can’t imagine not knowing when I was born. “How do you know how old you are?”
Orban shrugs. “We don’t. We can only guess.”
“It is not a bad thing.” Sev chuckles. “We remember our binding days, which makes those extra special. It is not as if you remember the day you were born.”
I never thought about that before.
All at once, the lights go out. The music stops. Total blackout, save for the eerie light of the moon-frame shining through the stage fog.
The jangling of bells from the stage dies down almost instantly. Guests mutter questions in the dark like “What happened?” and “Is someone turning the lights back on
?” The hair prickles on the back of my neck. Is this another one of Nico’s pranks?
“Has this happened before?” I ask.
“Never,” Elizabeth replies.
Orban flicks on a flashlight. One of the dancers’ sparkly dresses catches the beam and casts reflections around the Arkade like a disco ball. “I’ll check the fuse box,” he says.
Before he can go, however, the house lights come back on. Or at least, they start to. They only brighten a bit—a dim, grayish light—but it’s enough for everyone to start making their way to the exits.
“Something’s wrong,” Rahki says as she, Sana, and Cass join us.
“I agree,” I tell her.
The speakers stutter to life, playing a drawn-out version of the previous tune. The sound drags, a warbling slur that sounds more like a moan than dance music.
“Uh,” Orban says, “is anyone else’s arm hair standing on end?”
Cass motions to the crowd. “Someone should talk to them. Tell them what’s going on. I can do it if you want.”
And let her fix one more thing? No, thank you. If she keeps on, the Hotel is going to decide that it should have chosen her instead of me.
I hop up onto the stage and stand in the beam of moonlight. “Nothing to worry about, everyone. We’re just experiencing some . . . technical difficulties.”
“Technical difficulties?” Cass scoffs.
“Please make your way to the exits,” I continue, ignoring her. “If you like, you can drop by the café for a cuppa, on the House. Again, this is nothing to worry about.”
“Is it something to worry about?” Orban asks when I hop back down.
I don’t know, but I don’t want to cause a panic. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“We’ll get the guests out of here,” Rahki says, and motions for Sana and Sev to follow her.
“It’s Nico, isn’t it?” Elizabeth asks.
