Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “No, Mr. Stone. Magic is not against school rules. But sneaking out after curfew to perform unholy rites in restricted areas most certainly is.”

  Alastair didn’t bother to reiterate that it hadn’t been an unholy rite. Aside from being an ex-military man, Carrowby was clearly more religious than the average faculty member at Barrow. And to be fair, to the uninitiated, the diagrams in the book did look fairly unwholesome. “So…what now, sir?”

  Carrowby’s impressive eyebrows met as his brow furrowed. He seemed miffed that Alastair wasn’t more cowed by the process, but all he did was close the tome and the file. “Now,” he said, “you can go. We’ll take this up again tomorrow when your father arrives.” He stood. “And in case you were entertaining any ideas of finishing your…magical ritual, I’ve already had your handiwork discreetly removed from the attic.”

  “Yes, sir.” That much he’d expected. He, too, stood, and gestured toward the tome. “May I have my book back, sir?”

  Brief anger flashed across Carrowby’s face. “No, you may not. It will be given to your father tomorrow, and I am sure he will dispose of it properly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stone turned away so Carrowby couldn’t see the combination of apprehension and amusement on his face.

  He very much doubted his father would dispose of the book—given that it had been removed from his own magical library.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The meeting the next day occurred not in Carrowby’s office, but in a pleasant little sitting room off the main hall. Alastair made sure to arrive just on time: getting there late would have been unforgivably disrespectful, but showing up too early would make him look nervous. He was nervous, but they didn’t need to see that. He had no idea how his father would react to these events, but his mind could conjure up several unpleasant scenarios without much effort.

  He hesitated outside the door for just a moment, then knocked.

  “Come in,” Carrowby’s voice called.

  Alastair squared his shoulders, pushed open the door, and walked in with his head high. He’d taken a big chance, and he’d been caught. Whatever they chose to do to him, he’d deal with it.

  “Ah. Mr. Stone. Right on time. Please sit down.”

  There were three men in the room, two on one side of a low table, and the third alone on the other side. They were all looking at Alastair, their faces unreadable. Spread out on the table were the photographs Carrowby had shown him yesterday, along with the leatherbound tome, its straps fastened now.

  Next to Carrowby was Mr. Timms, the housemaster of Alastair’s dormitory. The only open spot was on the small sofa. Alastair took a seat next to his father.

  Tall and slim, with sharp, imperious features, dark hair, and an expression of controlled intensity, Orion Stone was a good indicator of what his son would look like in another twenty-five years. They differed only in the color of their eyes (the elder Stone’s were gray, while Alastair’s were bright blue) and in the fact that Alastair’s father had apparently discovered the secret to keeping the unruly front part of his hair under control, a skill his son had not yet mastered.

  Alastair glanced at him, trying to gauge his mood. Had Professor Carrowby told him about what had happened? It didn’t matter—the presence of the photos and the tome would tell him everything he needed to know.

  Carrowby cleared his throat. “All right, then. We’re all here.” He addressed Alastair’s father. “Mr. Stone, we’re terribly sorry to have to call you here, but as we’ve explained, young Alastair has committed some serious breaches of school rules.”

  Orion Stone nodded, still expressionless. He wasn’t looking at his son now. “I understand.”

  “Normally,” Carrowby continued, “this would be dealt with in the usual way: detention, perhaps a bit of service to the school, demerits—but this isn’t the standard sort of transgression. Mr. Stone, please tell your father what you were doing when you broke curfew.”

  Here it was. Alastair turned a little on the sofa to face his father, meeting his gaze solidly. “I was performing a magical tracking ritual, sir.”

  A flicker of something—Alastair couldn’t identify quite what—flashed across his father’s features. “I see,” was all he said.

  Alastair took a slow deep breath and held it for several seconds. Since he’d been a small child, his father had been rather more like a force of nature than a parent—something that blew in and out of his life at brief intervals between his extended periods of world travel. That was part of the reason why Alastair was at Barrow, and had been since he was seven years old. Though he was well aware that Orion Stone was one of the most powerful mages of his generation, his father wasn’t the sort of man one could sit down and have heart-to-heart talks with. Mostly, you stayed out of his way and didn’t interfere with whatever he was doing. Thus, Alastair had essentially no idea how his father would respond to this latest news.

  Carrowby picked up one of the photos and offered it to the elder Stone. “It’s all preposterous, of course, but look at this. He must have spent days—weeks—setting all of this up. And this book.” He undid the straps on the tome and opened it to the same page he’d shown Alastair. “He claims he found it in a shop. I can hardly bear to look at it. Clearly an unwholesome pursuit. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  Stone made a noncommittal noise. He examined the photo, first with polite interest, but then his gaze sharpened. “May I?”

  Carrowby surrendered the photo. “Of course.”

  So far, Mr. Timms hadn’t said a word, and Alastair thought he knew why: the housemaster had been caught in an uncomfortable situation, unable to either defend Alastair or support Carrowby without alienating one or the other of them. Timms had been responsible for riding herd on twenty boys, ranging in age from ten to sixteen, since long before Alastair had arrived at Barrow. He was a kind man, attentive to the boys’ needs and always willing to provide a sympathetic ear to romantic troubles, academic difficulties, and general emotional turmoil. Alastair had never approached him for such assistance, and had in fact felt that Timms considered him a bit of a ticking time bomb, but the man had never been anything but fair to him. He suspected Timms would miss him if he were expelled, and felt bad for putting him in such an position now.

  Stone looked up from examining the photo, fixing a level gaze on Carrowby. “What’s the next step, then? Is the boy to be expelled? I hardly think breaking curfew is grounds for expulsion.”

  “No, no.” Carrowby waved his hands as if trying to clear the air of Stone’s words. “Not for the curfew violation, nor for his obvious trespass into areas where he’s not permitted to be. But this…ritual—”

  Stone briefly closed his eyes. “Professor Carrowby, are you telling me—honestly—that you’re considering expelling my son because he was attempting to perform magic?”

  Carrowby’s expression grew harder, more indignant. He picked up the book and held it out to Stone. “Look at this, Mr. Stone. Look at the diagrams. The drawings. It’s sacrilege, I’m telling you. It’s unholy.”

  Stone didn’t take the book. “Professor,” he said in the same even, steady tone, “I’m aware that the boys here are required to attend chapel periodically. However, I don’t recall anything in the school rules that require actual belief. Merely attendance. Am I correct?”

  Carrowby gripped his chair arms. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You are correct, sir. It is not within our rights to compel any sort of belief in the Almighty. But—”

  “So even if my son had been doing what you claimed—however unwise he might have been to do it—his only true transgressions are curfew violation and presence in an unauthorized area?”

  Carrowby was almost sputtering now. “Yes—no! There’s also the matter of vandalism of the attic, and, assuming he lit any of those candles, starting fires inappropriately.”

 
“I see.” Stone stood. “Well, then, Professor, I shall leave it to you to make your decision. When shall I expect to be informed?”

  “Mr. Stone—” Timms began, rising a bit in his seat and glancing at Alastair.

  Carrowby waved him back down. “It’s too late to do anything over the weekend. We will discuss the matter next week and you will both hear the results of our decision by mid-week.”

  Stone nodded once. “Thank you.”

  “Shall we—dispose of this?” He held out the book as if handling a basket of sunbaked roadkill.

  Stone took it from him and tucked it under his arm. “Alastair?”

  Alastair, more confused than ever, got up and followed his father out of the room. He didn’t look back at Carrowby or Timms as he left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  His father waited until they were outside before speaking. When he finally did, his tone was even, unemotional, and unrevealing. “Pack a bag. You’ll be returning home for the weekend.”

  That was unexpected. His father was rarely home himself for more than a day at a time. “Sir?”

  “I’ll wait for you in the common room. Be quick—I have appointments tonight that I cannot miss.”

  Stone didn’t sound like he was in the mood for arguments or questions, so as soon as they arrived back at his dormitory, Alastair hurried upstairs and threw together a few things he’d need.

  Since he didn’t have a roommate, he thought he might make it out without having to answer any uncomfortable questions, but no such luck. As he emerged from his room carrying his overnight bag, Lucas MacNair and Ravi Patel were coming down the hallway, their sweaty T-shirts indicating they were returning from afternoon football practice.

  “All right, Stone?” Lucas asked, eyeing Alastair’s bag with curiosity.

  “Yeah. Fine.” Lucas and Ravi weren’t his best mates or anything, but they were all right. “Just going home for the weekend.”

  “I heard you got in trouble for something,” Ravi said. “Heard you might even get expelled.” His tone warred between morbid curiosity and actual concern.

  “What’d you do?” Lucas asked, definitely tilting more toward the morbid-curiosity end of the spectrum. “Get caught with a bird in your room?” He punched Alastair on the arm and waggled his eyebrows. “Or a bloke?”

  Alastair sighed. Discretion, unfortunately, was something boarding schools were terrible at. Day-to-day life at Barrow was generally so predictable and regimented that any deviations from the norm were fallen upon with a level of enthusiasm that would embarrass of a pack of starving dogs. No matter how hard you tried to keep something secret—and often because you tried to keep it secret—somebody would overhear something and the story would spread like wildfire. It would be all over school by Monday, if it wasn’t already.

  “Got caught out after curfew, someplace I wasn’t supposed to be, that’s all. It’s fine.” Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. Could they chuck him out for doing magic in the attic? Most likely his father would smooth things over, he’d get hit with some nasty detention time, and the whole thing would be forgotten by next week.

  He hoped.

  Ravi and Lucas looked disappointed that the truth wasn’t juicier. “That all?” Lucas asked as he opened the door to his room. “Good one, Stone. If you’re gonna get into enough trouble to get called in front of old Carrowby, at least you could do something worthwhile.”

  If you only knew. Alastair grunted noncommittally, shrugged, and waited for Lucas to disappear into his room and Ravi to pass by before setting off at a jog back downstairs. It wouldn’t do to keep his father waiting.

  Orion Stone summoned Alastair to his study the following Sunday morning. “You won’t be going back to Barrow,” he said without preamble. “I’ll be arranging to have the rest of your things sent home.”

  Alastair gaped at him, unable to hide his shock. This was sudden, and unexpected. He hadn’t seen his father since they’d arrived back at the house on Friday evening; the elder Stone had departed for his appointments, and left word with Aubrey that he would be away all day Saturday as well. Until the Sunday-morning call came, Alastair wondered why his father had bothered bringing him home at all. “They’ve rung you, then? I’ve been expelled?”

  “They haven’t called. I’ll be withdrawing you on Monday.”

  “I—” Alastair’s brain reeled as he struggled to come up with some appropriate way to respond. He swallowed. “But why? If they haven’t—”

  Stone pulled the tome he’d gotten from Carrowby from his desk drawer. “You stole this from my library.”

  “Borrowed. I intended to return it.”

  It was impossible to read his father’s expression. “How many of my other books have you…borrowed?”

  “Just that one.”

  “That was a tracking ritual you were attempting, correct?” He opened the book to the page containing the circle diagram.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you were successful at it?”

  Alastair nodded, wondering where this was going. Was he digging himself deeper into a hole? Even if he was, though, nothing his father could do to him could take away his pride in what he’d done.

  “Why did you choose that particular ritual?”

  Alastair shrugged. “It didn’t look too difficult, and I figured there wouldn’t be any chance of hurting anyone if I failed at it.”

  “How did you work out how to do it? Did anyone help you?”

  “No, sir. I’ve been reading through some of your other books when I was home for holidays. I took that one with me because I knew I wouldn’t have time to construct a circle during the time I was here.”

  “I see.” He closed the book. “You know, I’m sure, that you were to finish your secondary schooling before you began your apprenticeship.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yet you grew impatient and took it upon yourself to attempt magical techniques on your own.”

  Alastair ducked his gaze for a moment, then met his father’s eyes. “Not attempt. Succeed.”

  Something flashed across his father’s face and was gone. “Have you succeeded at any other techniques?”

  Alastair paused. At this point, he couldn’t make things any worse, he supposed. “I…can get magical sight to work, sometimes. Not consistently yet.”

  “Indeed.” This time, Alastair didn’t miss the surprise in his eyes. “Describe my aura, then.”

  Alastair concentrated, but didn’t hold much hope that he’d get anywhere. Sometimes was actually optimistic: ever since he’d been working at it, he’d only been successful in using the odd form of perception mages employed to see auras and other supernatural phenomena a handful of times, and it didn’t seem to get any easier with practice. In fact, it usually gave him a headache. The technique was similar to shifting one’s perceptions to view an optical illusion—you had to look past the mundane world to see what lurked tantalizingly beyond it. The books he’d consulted, though, had been worded confusingly enough that he didn’t quite grasp what he was supposed to do, and thus when he got it right, it was by sheer luck.

  Now, after nearly a full minute of trying, he let his breath out in a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not getting it right now.”

  His father didn’t seem disturbed by this. “Describe your own aura, then,” he said. “Surely you examined it during one of the times when you did get it right.”

  “It’s sort of…purple and gold,” he said. “The gold glows around the edges of the purple.”

  Stone raised an eyebrow. “And no one’s told you that?”

  “Who would tell me?” It was true: he didn’t even know any other mages, except his father’s old friend Walter Yarborough, a stout, stodgy man a little older than Orion, whom he’d met a couple of time
s during dinner parties. From what he understood, Yarborough was to be responsible for his apprenticeship when he turned eighteen, but he hadn’t seen the man for close to three years.

  Alastair waited a moment, and when his father didn’t reply, he ventured, “So…er…if you’re withdrawing me from Barrow, where will I be continuing my schooling?”

  Stone regarded him silently for several moments. “I’ve arranged for a private tutor for you,” he said. “The details will be confirmed shortly.”

  A tutor? What was going on? “All this because I was trying to do a bit of magic?” He tried to keep the indignation from his voice, but didn’t succeed very well. “You’re telling me that you didn’t ever—” He stopped when his father’s expression hardened. Had he gone too far?

  “You’ll have a tutor,” Stone said, “to work with you so you can finish your secondary education in conjunction with your apprenticeship.”

  Alastair froze.

  Surely he couldn’t have heard that correctly. “My—apprenticeship?”

  “That’s what you were working toward, isn’t it?” Stone asked. “To learn magic?”

  He was dreaming. He had to be. He was only fifteen. Nobody started their apprenticeship at fifteen. Most teachers wouldn’t even look at a potential student younger than eighteen. “Well—yes. Of course. But—” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “How did you convince Mr. Yarborough to—”

  “You won’t be apprenticing with Walter.”

  “I…won’t?” As far as he knew, that had been the plan ever since he was a small child. Whenever his father mentioned his eventual apprenticeship, it was always in connection with Yarborough.

  Stone leaned back in his chair. “No. I know that’s what I’ve always told you, but…recent events have changed my mind.”