Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  Alastair took that in silently. He had no idea what it meant. Had Yarborough refused to work with him because of his insubordination and willfulness? Perhaps his father had been forced to seek someone less desirable, who’d be willing to take on a rebellious, impatient boy. But if that were true, why let him start so young at all? Why not simply forbid him to try out any more unsanctioned magic and send him packing back to Barrow, or to some other school where they hadn’t heard of his transgressions?

  “I’ve managed to convince William Desmond to give you a trial,” Stone said.

  “I…don’t know who that is, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t. I’m quite surprised I was able to convince him at all. He hasn’t taken an apprentice in years, and certainly never one of your age.”

  Alastair dropped his gaze, struggling not to let his father see the dismay he was sure showed in his eyes. That was it, then. Instead of his father’s colleague as originally planned, he’d have to make due with some retired old man who didn’t even want him around. He supposed it was his own fault, though, so there was no complaining about it. He’d just have to study harder on his own if he wanted to get anywhere.

  He nodded as he tried to hide his growing mixed emotions: elation that he would be allowed to start his apprenticeship so early, and disappointment that he’d apparently given up his chance at a top-tier teacher.

  “Is something wrong?” his father asked. “You look troubled. I thought you would be pleased at this opportunity.”

  “I am,” he said quickly. “It’s just that—” he spread his hands. “No, it’s fine. I understand I’ve caused my own problems, and if that means I won’t have the best teacher—”

  Stone’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, not the best teacher? I don’t think you understand: William Desmond is one of the most powerful and influential mages in Britain. Quite likely among the top ten in the western world.”

  Alastair stared at him, not even trying to hide his shock.

  “I never thought you had a chance that he’d take you on,” Stone continued. “But after what happened on Friday, I arranged to meet with him in London yesterday. I told him about your initiative, and how you’d managed to work out a difficult magical technique on your own, with no assistance. He was impressed. He agreed to give you a trial.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s just a trial, though. If you want him to apprentice you, you’ll have to impress him a lot more, and that won’t be easy. I don’t know if what you’ve done already will be enough.”

  Alastair kept staring. He felt numb. His hands shook. A tingle crept around the back of his neck and down his spine. Any minute now, he would wake up back in his dormitory at Barrow, and none of this would be real. “I—”

  “Don’t get too full of yourself,” Stone said. His eyes were still cold. “Desmond’s an old-school traditionalist, and hard as nails. If you impress him enough to take you on, you’ll work harder than you ever have in your life—especially since I expect you to keep getting top marks in your mundane schooling as well. You won’t have time for any sort of social life. Desmond won’t coddle you. He’ll try his best to break you, in fact—and if he succeeds, don’t expect me to rescue you. Magic isn’t for children, Alastair. It’s difficult, dangerous, and most apprentices—even those of a more traditional age—don’t make it through their training.” He paused. “So I’ll give you one last chance: You can end this now. You can give me your word you won’t attempt any more magic until you’re eighteen and properly apprenticed with Walter. If you do that, you can go back to Barrow on Monday and we’ll say no more about this. But if you decide to pursue it, I’ll expect you to give it the proper respect. And I’ll expect you not to fail.” He stood. “Think about it today, and give me your answer by this evening.”

  Alastair stood as well, as he came around the desk. “I don’t have to do that, sir.”

  Stone stopped. “Oh?”

  He felt a little bit like someone else was using his voice; as if he were hovering somewhere above himself, watching the next few seconds play out on a screen. He didn’t know who William Desmond was, but if his father, an adherent of the old techniques in his own right, called him an old-school traditionalist and one of the best around, he must be formidable indeed. He had no doubt everything his father said was true: he’d work so hard that everything he’d done at Barrow would seem like play by comparison. He’d probably spend most of his time exhausted, and would never have a chance to do the sorts of things normal teenagers did. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he could be seriously injured, or even die. It wasn’t common these days, but apprentices sometimes did get hurt when they tried magic they weren’t ready for, or when rituals, as they sometimes did, simply went wrong for no discernable reason. Studying under this Desmond might even increase that possibility, since it sounded like the man was set to drive him even harder than a normal master would push an apprentice. The decision he made now would affect the rest of his life.

  He didn’t hesitate. It didn’t even occur to him to hesitate.

  “I want to do it,” he said. “Please thank Mr. Desmond for his offer, and tell him that I won’t fail him. Or you.”

  A brief expression Alastair couldn’t identify crossed Stone’s face and was gone. He nodded once. “All right, then. I’ll let him know. In the meantime, there’s the matter of your punishment.”

  Alastair supposed there was no getting around that—he had broken school rules, after all. He waited.

  “You won’t be leaving for London until next Sunday. Until then, you’ll spend at least five hours per day assisting Aubrey with whatever tasks he sets you around the grounds. I’ve instructed him not to go easy on you, so expect the tasks won’t be pleasant.”

  Alastair nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “In your remaining free hours, I’d advise you to spend as much time in study as you can manage. I’ll open part of my library to you, and you can use the circle if you wish. I don’t expect you’ll come up with much more in a week’s time, but anything you can work out will be to your advantage. I’d say it would help you to get on Desmond’s good side, but I’m not sure he has one.”

  That sounds promising… “Yes, sir,” he said again.

  Stone waved him out. “Off you go. Go find Aubrey and tell him you’re ready to work.”

  Still feeling numb, still half-convinced that none of this was real, Alastair nodded and turned to go.

  “Alastair?”

  He stopped and turned back. “Yes, sir?”

  His father’s stern visage held an odd expression, one Alastair couldn’t remember seeing in a long time. It was a moment before it dawned on him that what he was seeing was pride.

  “Well done,” his father said.

  Alastair smiled, just a little. “Thank you, sir.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A hard, gray rain was falling when Alastair emerged from the train station in London and looked around for a cab. The rain fell so heavily it was difficult to differentiate the packed line of vehicles creeping along, and pedestrians hurried this way and that, intent on their errands. The only time they noticed Alastair was when he was in their way and they pushed past him with a coldly polite “pardon me.”

  For just a moment, he allowed himself to resent the fact that his father not only hadn’t accompanied him on his journey to William Desmond’s London house, but had in fact refused to do so. “You wanted to begin your apprenticeship early,” he’d said when Alastair had asked. “That means I plan to treat you as a proper apprentice. I expect you to handle your affairs as an adult would.”

  The thought of being treated as an adult had been heady stuff for a while, until he’d reached London. He’d taken the train from his small village in Surrey to Victoria Station, where he transferred to another train to Kensington High Street. That was where he was now, struggling to keep his
umbrella upright in the driving rain with one hand while he bobbled a suitcase and soft leather briefcase in the other. The rest of his things—what few he’d been permitted to bring—had been sent ahead and would be waiting for him when he arrived.

  Despite his sturdy umbrella, he was already soaked due to the whipping, unpredictable winds. It was a lousy day to be out in the weather. He thought about Barrow, with its warm, panel-walled dormitory common room—Mr. Timms would no doubt have a roaring fire burning to await the return of the boys from their afternoon classes.

  This is what you wanted, he told himself, tightening his fist around the umbrella’s handle. A three-year head start on his magical training was worth enduring a lot more arduous hardships than a rain-soaking. He shifted his suitcase and briefcase and tried to pull his overcoat closed, but his hand was so cold he couldn’t manage the buttons.

  He spotted a cab and stepped out to wave it down. As he tossed his suitcase in the back, he wondered why Desmond hadn’t sent someone to pick him up—a servant, perhaps, since his father had told him his new master was quite wealthy. It was probably more of the “self-reliance” thing, he decided. If he couldn’t manage to find his way to his new home, he could hardly be expected to learn magic properly.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  Alastair dug the paper containing address out of his inner pocket and told him, then concentrated on getting his things in order while they drove.

  Several minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a large, ornate building on an old, tree-lined street. Alastair got out, retrieved his bags, and was about to dig out some of the cash his father had given him to pay for the ride when suddenly another man was there. “I’ll take care of that, sir,” he said.

  Alastair blinked. The man was tall, dark-haired, and about the same age as his father. He wore an elegant uniform of black and gold, complete with cap. He gave Alastair a smile. “You go on in, sir. You’re expected. Fourth floor. You can leave your bags—I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Er—thank you,” Alastair said. He nodded to the cabdriver and hurried up the walk and inside.

  Past the doors was a different world. As soon as they closed behind him, the sounds of the street outside melted away, replaced by soft classical music—Mozart, if Alastair remembered his music-appreciation classes. Everything about the space spoke of the kind of wealth that had no need to boast or advertise itself—the kind that had been in a family so long that its members simply took it for granted.

  He was certainly no stranger to wealth himself, though despite the vast house and grounds of his family’s own place in Surrey, and his attendance (former attendance, he reminded himself) at one of southern England’s elite public boarding schools, this was a level of opulence he was not used to. Frankly, that sort of thing didn’t impress him that much—he found an over-infatuation with one’s personal finances often went hand in hand with the sort of people he didn’t like being around. But this place was different. It wasn’t as if it were trying to impress anyone. This was the kind of wealth that just was, irrespective of anyone who might have opinions about it.

  He walked slowly through the large lobby, his feet making no sound on the plush carpeting, until he reached the marble staircase. As he mounted it and began trudging upward, he wondered if Desmond owned this entire building, and if he had other holdings elsewhere. Would he be doing his apprenticeship here, or was this simply the place where he would meet his new master?

  The fourth-floor landing was a large anteroom carpeted in thick, deep red. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, and on either side were two tables with elaborately carved legs. The left one sported a large vase, and the right held a sculpture of a man mounted on a horse. Above each hung framed oil paintings that Alastair would have bet the remainder of his cash would be at home in the British Museum.

  Directly in front of him, pair of double doors loomed, carved of dark wood and somehow ominous. He paused a moment, looking down at himself to see if he was presentable before knocking. He’d worn a suit at his father’s suggestion—Desmond was old-fashioned, and wouldn’t approve of jeans and a T-shirt with some band logo on it. Still, given how soaked he was at the moment, he thought Desmond might not consider it much of a difference.

  Enough stalling. Desmond had agreed to take him on—that meant the man had to have seen something in him that he thought was worthwhile. Now, all Alastair had to do was prove to him he hadn’t been wrong. He marched up to the door and knocked three times with what he hoped was sufficient confidence.

  A brief time passed. Alastair was wondering if he should knock again when the left-side door opened, revealing a tall man in an old-fashioned suit. “Good afternoon,” he said, his voice severe but politely pleasant. “You must be young Alastair Stone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alastair realized that he had no idea what Desmond looked like, but was reasonably sure someone who owned a place like this didn’t open his own doors.

  “My name is Kerrick, sir,” he said, and stood aside. “Please come in. Mr. Desmond is expecting you, of course.”

  Alastair followed him into an interior entry hall with a soaring ceiling and doors leading off from all three sides. The ones in the back, another wide set of double doors, stood open to reveal a hallway. Alastair hoped he wasn’t dripping too badly on the Oriental rug underfoot.

  “May I take your coat and umbrella, sir?” Kerrick asked.

  “Er—thank you.” He handed over the umbrella and shrugged out of his overcoat, handing them both over.

  Kerrick put the umbrella in a stand near the door, and draped the coat over his arm. He said nothing about the fact that it was soaked. “This way,” he said, and headed off down the hallway.

  Alastair got a brief impression of more no-doubt priceless paintings as he hurried after the man (was he a butler? They didn’t have a butler at his place—since his father was almost never home and Alastair spent most of his time away at school, they didn’t even have servants. He supposed Aubrey was technically a servant, but he was more like family).

  Kerrick led him into an enormous sitting room that could have stepped bodily out of one of those television period dramas. Everywhere he looked was fine old furniture, artwork, heavy drapes, and soaring windows looking out over the gray, stormy day. “Please, sit down,” Kerrick said. “Mr. Desmond will be along in just a moment. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No…thank you,” Alastair said. “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t sure that was true—he wasn’t sure he hadn’t made a big mistake by agreeing to this. Magic, he reminded himself. That’s all that matters. You can do whatever it takes. He didn’t want to get one of the antique couches or upholstered chairs wet, so he perched on the edge of a wooden chair and stared out the window.

  As he waited, he wondered what William Desmond would be like. Would he be similar to Walter Yarborough: old-fashioned, a bit stuffy, but cheerful? His father had said he didn’t think Desmond “had a good side,” so cheerful was probably optimistic. Perhaps he’d be more like his father, severe and focused and utterly dedicated to the Art. He could deal with that. He didn’t spend a lot of time with his father, though—he wondered what it would be like to be around that kind of intensity all the time.

  He also wondered how long Desmond would make him wait. Perhaps this was some kind of test, to make sure he wasn’t one of those fidgety boys who couldn’t sit still. Well, if it were, he could pass it. Meditation was something he’d taught himself long ago—one of the few bits of the apprenticeship process he could start working on long before he actually needed it.

  “Good day, Mr. Stone,” a firm voice said from behind him.

  He almost jumped, startled, but managed to confine it to a twitch. Instead, he stood quickly and turned around, pulling himself up straighter. “Mr. Desmond.”

  It wasn’t a qu
estion. There was no doubt in his mind that this man had to be William Desmond.

  He seemed to fill the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-colored hair swept back from a high forehead, he regarded Alastair with no expression. His glittering, pale-blue eyes took him in as if examining a prize racehorse. Even inside his home he wore a fine, old-fashioned suit that made him look like he’d just stepped out of a historical novel.

  He definitely went with the house, Alastair observed. He had no idea how old the man was. As a mage, he could be an old fifty, or he could be over a hundred. His father had told him that mages lived considerably longer than their mundane counterparts, and tended to age much more slowly.

  Desmond studied him for a while longer, now more like a bug under a microscope than a racehorse. “Your trip went well, I trust.”

  “Yes, sir.” He indicated his soggy suit. “Bit wet, but fine.”

  Desmond’s expression didn’t change. “If you’ll follow Kerrick, he’ll show you where you’ll be staying tonight.”

  “Tonight, sir?”

  “Yes. We won’t be remaining here. For now, your apprenticeship will take place at my country house—it is better suited for the sorts of things you’ll be studying, and more removed from…distractions. Broadsby has brought up your bag. The rest of your things will be sent on tomorrow. You can change into something dry, and then we’ll meet.”

  Kerrick showed up behind him as if on cue. Without waiting for a response, Desmond turned and headed off down another hallway.

  Alastair watched him go. His father was right: it didn’t appear the man had a good side. Or possibly that he was even human.

  “Ready to go?” Kerrick asked. At least he had a smile.

  “Er—yes. Thanks.” He wondered what his temporary accommodations would look like. His father hadn’t said anything about a country house—he thought he’d be studying here in London. It didn’t matter, though—he didn’t care if Desmond took him to Mars, as long as he could learn magic there.