by R. L. King
Kerrick led him down another hallway and stopped at the end, where he pushed open the last door on the right. “Here we are.” He stood aside to allow Alastair to enter first.
The room was unremarkable, furnished in the impersonal style of the sort of guest room one used for guests who weren’t altogether welcome. Alastair walked in, dropped his bag on the bed, and turned back to face Kerrick, unsure of what was expected of him.
“Lav’s just down the hall,” the man said, pointing. “As Mr. Desmond said, this is only for the night. If you want to clean up a bit, I’ll return to take you back to Mr. Desmond. Fifteen minutes?”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Mr. Kerrick.”
“Just Kerrick,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll be back, then.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Alastair alone.
It was only then that he realized his heart was pounding. What had he gotten himself into? He’s just another teacher, he told himself. He’d dealt with many hard-case instructors over his years at Barrow. Desmond couldn’t be any worse…right?
He picked up his suitcase, opened it on the bed, and quickly searched for something presentable to wear. He suspected showing up looking like a half-drowned cat had probably added another red mark in a ledger that no doubt already contained at least a couple, so he didn’t need to add yet another one by being late.
He pulled on a fresh button-down shirt and black dress trousers, wishing he’d had another jacket to put over them. But his suits were in his other bags, which were apparently in some sort of holding pattern between here and wherever they’d ultimately end up.
The whole process struck him as odd—why have him show up at the London house if he wasn’t going to be staying for more than a single night? Why not just have him arrive at this mysterious country house straight away? And why would his bags be sent here and then on to the other house tomorrow? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just send them directly there to start with?
It wasn’t until he’d ducked down the hall into the lavatory (it was as impersonally posh as the room had been) to attempt to put his hair into something approximating order that it came to him, sending a chill running down his back.
He was already being evaluated.
He was here because Desmond didn’t want to expend the time and effort to send him to the country house if he couldn’t even pass the first interview. Everything he did here would be inspected, scrutinized, and tallied, and if he put a single toe out of line or didn’t live up to Desmond’s expectations, he was suddenly certain he’d be in a cab and headed back to Surrey before it got dark tonight.
No pressure, then. None at all.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, made one final effort to put his hair in order (if he turfs me out because he doesn’t think my hair’s neat enough, maybe it’s best I learn that early, he decided), and headed back to his room. By the time he got back inside, a bit breathless, he had a minute to spare.
Kerrick arrived a few moments later, knocking softly on the door. “Ah,” he said in approval. “You’re looking much more comfortable. If you’ll come with me, Mr. Desmond will see you now.”
Alastair followed him down another painting-lined hallway to a closed door at the end.
He knocked on the door and called, “Mr. Desmond? Mr. Stone is here.”
The door opened on silent hinges. No one stood behind it. “Thank you, Kerrick,” came a voice from inside. “Come in, Mr. Stone.”
Alastair stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.
This room was clearly some sort of study. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, and each bookshelf was filled, floor to two-story ceiling, with volumes. A massive, carved wooden desk dominated the center of the room, in front of a large window currently covered by more heavy drapes. Desmond sat behind the desk. He indicated the chairs in front of it. “Sit down, please.”
Alastair did as he was told. He wanted to look everywhere in this fascinating room—there was a lot to see—but he didn’t. Instead, he sat up straight, kept his hands in his lap, and waited for Desmond to speak.
For a time, he didn’t. He merely sat there and fixed his gaze on Alastair as if he, too, were waiting.
Alastair wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to speak or prove he could stand up under a stare-down without looking away, so he chose the latter. He kept his expression neutral and respectful, but he neither fidgeted nor dropped his gaze.
After several more uncomfortable seconds passed, Desmond steepled his fingers. “I didn’t want to take you on,” he said. “When your father came to me with his request, I almost turned him down.”
Alastair remained silent; that didn’t seem like a statement that invited a reply.
“I understand you were nearly expelled from your school for constructing a ritual circle in your dormitory building.”
“Yes, sir. Well, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Yes, sir. I was nearly expelled for practicing unholy rites in the attic.”
Desmond nodded. “Do you believe magic to be unholy, Mr. Stone?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell me,” he said, rising from his chair and beginning to pace, prowling the large room like a predatory cat, “what was it that prompted you to do such a thing?”
“I…wanted to learn magic, sir.”
“But you knew that you would be learning magic—when you finished your secondary education.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father had plans for you to study with Walter Yarborough, and you were aware of these plans.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you took it upon yourself to change them. To go against your father’s wishes.”
“Not…exactly, sir.” When Desmond arched an eyebrow, he added, “My father never told me not to try to learn magic on my own.”
“He approved of your experimentations, then?”
Alastair paused. “No, sir,” he said at last. “It was more…that I never asked him.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, is that it?”
“I—suppose so, sir.”
Desmond magically summoned a book to his hand from one of the far shelves and paged through it. “Tell me about this ritual you performed in your attic.”
“It was a tracking ritual, sir. I used it to find an object I asked someone to hide.”
“This ritual?” He brought the book over and put it down on the desk, open to a page.
Alastair examined the book, and instantly recognized it as a copy of the same one he’d “borrowed” from his father’s library. “Yes, sir.”
“You had no help with this? You obtained the components, cast the circle, and performed the ritual entirely on your own?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you successful on your first attempt?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. Not even close. I was almost ready to give up on it the night I finally got it to work.”
“Were you able to perform any other magic?”
“I…can use magical sight,” he said. “Not consistently, though. I’m still working on that. And this week I produced a minor ward around a small area.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Did your father assist you with any of these endeavors?”
“No, sir, except for giving me access to his library and the permanent circle at our house last week.”
“I see.” Desmond walked over until he was standing next to Alastair. Or perhaps “looming” was a better description. He paused there a moment, his intense gaze fixed on him, and then turned the second guest chair so it faced Alastair’s and sat down in it. “Face me, please.”
Alastair, wondering what he was doing now, nonetheless got up and turned his chair toward Desmond. Was the man
going to ask him for some demonstration of magical skill?
Desmond regarded him in silence for a moment longer, then leaned forward. “Remain still, please. With your permission, I am going to touch your forehead.”
“Er—of course, sir.” Alastair did as he was told, sitting up straight and staring at a point past Desmond’s shoulder as the older man extended a hand and pressed two fingers against the center of Alastair’s forehead.
Alastair didn’t shiver as he caught on to what Desmond was doing, but it wasn’t easy. His father had done this to him once, a couple of years ago. When he’d finished, he explained the reason for it, though he’d never revealed anything about what he’d discovered.
A mage couldn’t normally identify another mage simply by examining his or her aura. While it was true that powerful mages often had auras that were interesting in some way—two or even three colors instead of one, extension farther out from the body than a mundane’s, or unusual hues were three of the more common variations—the mere existence of one or more of these nonstandard aura types didn’t confirm magical talent.
There were only three ways to identify a mage. The first and most immediately obvious was to catch them in the act of performing magic. The second was to examine their aura shortly after they had used magic, since the traces of power lingered around their body for some time—the stronger the magic, the longer its traces stuck around if the mage didn’t do something about them.
The third and most definitive, as Alastair’s father had explained to him, was to do an astral examination on the prospective mage. Not every mage could conduct such an examination; it required a certain degree of power and control to get it right. But for those who could, a few moments’ contact with the subject was enough both to confirm the necessary genetics for magical talent and to discern an approximate potential power level.
Desmond was taking a long time. His fingers, dry and a little cool, shifted minutely, giving Alastair a sudden absurd image of Mr. Spock doing a mind meld on Star Trek. My mind to your mind…my thoughts to your thoughts…
A moment later, the image fled in favor of more irrational notion: What if he doesn’t find anything? What if I’m not a mage after all?
Of course you’re a mage, you prat. You couldn’t have made that ritual work if you weren’t.
Desmond broke the contact and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
Alastair couldn’t help asking: “What did you find, sir?”
“What I needed to know.” Without offering any further explanation or report, he returned to his own chair behind his desk. “As I told you, I didn’t want to take you on. You’re far too young for apprenticeship—normally I won’t even consider anyone under seventeen. So I want you to understand: this is a probationary apprenticeship. Do you understand what I mean by that, Mr. Stone?”
Alastair had been ready for this, but he had to struggle not to shift in his chair. “A temporary period,” he said. “So you can determine if I’m worth your time.”
What if he failed? The thought of riding the train back home, of facing his father after washing out as an apprentice, filled him with apprehension. If he failed with Desmond, would he even be allowed to study with Yarborough when he was eighteen? Don’t do this, he told himself firmly. You aren’t going to fail. Don’t let him get into your head. That’s what he’s trying to do.
“Precisely. Because I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Stone: I don’t think you are. Don’t take that personally—I’m sure you’re a fine young man, and your magical potential meets acceptable parameters for my instruction. But magical apprenticeship is a serious thing. It’s difficult, it’s arduous, and it can be dangerous. Do you know what percentage of apprentices pass their training and are considered fully qualified?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t have exact numbers, but it’s quite low. I would estimate no more than fifteen to twenty percent, as a whole. And those are adults, Mr. Stone. They begin their training at eighteen. I have taken five apprentices so far, and of those five, only one has successfully completed the training to my satisfaction. Three dropped out and either finished their apprenticeships with other, less demanding masters, or gave up entirely. One died. Do you still want to study with me, Mr. Stone?”
One died? He wanted to ask about that, but it didn’t change his answer. “Yes, sir. More than ever.”
“What makes you think you’ll succeed when those others failed?”
“I don’t think I will, sir. I know I will. Being a mage is all I’ve ever wanted, since I knew what magic was. It’s what I’m meant to be. Failing isn’t an option.” Strong words, and he hoped he didn’t come off sounding cocky—he certainly didn’t feel cocky—but he suspected William Desmond was not a man who valued false modesty. “I appreciate this opportunity, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Desmond studied him, his expression still unreadable. “All right then, Mr. Stone. We shall see. That will be all for now. As I’m sure Kerrick has told you, your things will be sent on to my country house tomorrow, and he will see to your transportation. You leave promptly at eight a.m.—meet him downstairs with your bags, and do not be late. We will meet again tomorrow after you have arrived and settled in.”
He waved his hand at the bookshelf, and two other volumes flew off and landed on the desk in front of him. He picked them up and offered them to Alastair. “For tonight, take these. You won’t have time to read through them before tomorrow, but spend the rest of the day familiarizing yourself with them as much as you can. Bring them along with you—I reserve the right to ask you about your understanding of them tomorrow.”
He stood. “Good day, Mr. Stone.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Alastair picked up the books, nodded farewell, and followed Desmond out.
Apparently, he’d passed the first hurdle.
He maintained his confident demeanor until he got back to his room and closed the door, at which point he collapsed on the bed and let his breath out in a loud whoosh. What had he been thinking? What made him think he’d be able to train as a mage at least two years earlier than anybody he—and apparently even Desmond himself—had ever heard of? Okay, so he did very well in school with little effort. He had an innate understanding of some of the things he knew were important to magic, like maths, and he had a strong will. You had to have a strong will to live with his father, and he guessed Desmond would be even worse.
He had the genetics for it, too, if that even mattered: his father had once told him that he was the sixth in an unbroken male line of mages (since magic tended to almost always pass along gender lines, though nobody knew why), and that was unusual almost to the point of being unique. Magic often skipped one or even several generations, either because of the gender thing or because the Talent, more often than not, simply didn’t get inherited. Sometimes even when it didn’t skip a generation it fluctuated wildly in power, to the point where the child of a potent mage might exhibit only minimal talent, or vice versa. But in Alastair’s case, it had managed to stay strong enough to produce six powerful mages in a row.
Well, five, anyway. Whether he was the sixth remained to be seen. At least Desmond didn’t seem to think he was completely hopeless, although that didn’t make him feel much better in the short term. He’d have to stay confident, but he’d also have to put aside everything he’d learned about magic from his scattershot studies. This was the kind of opportunity he’d never have dreamed possible, and he wasn’t going to blow it by taking anything for granted.
He raised his head from the pillow and looked around the room. It looked so bare without any of his clothes or personal items.
Not that he’d been permitted to bring much: the instructions he’d received had specified only clothing (for everyday wear, business and formal occasions, and exercise), toiletries, and anything he’d require for study. No poster
s, frivolous or decorative items, music, or books not related to his mundane schoolwork or the study of magic. Alastair had been taken a bit aback by the harshness of the directive, but he’d followed it nonetheless. “Best get used to it,” his father had told him before leaving on yet another business trip. “Desmond’s got a reputation as quite the drill sergeant. You might be best off thinking of it as joining the military.” Alastair had wondered if there was such a thing—a sort of Queen’s Secret Magical Service—but he didn’t ask. He just hoped Desmond wouldn’t make him shave his head or anything.
Since he had nothing to unpack, he instead sat down at the desk with the two books Desmond had given him. Both were thick and looked quite old. The first seemed to be a sort of history book, with sections describing magic throughout the ages and around the world. The second was a primer on magical symbols, sigils, and languages. Both were densely packed with text. Desmond wanted him to learn this well enough for a quiz by tomorrow?
Well, best get started, then. He opened the history book and began skimming.
There was a soft knock on his door. “Sir?” It sounded like Kerrick.
Alastair jerked his head up. He had no idea how long he’d been reading, but his whole body felt stiff. He jumped up and opened the door.
It was indeed Kerrick. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but dinner’s served.”
“Oh!” He looked down at his watch: it was five after seven. He’d lost track of time, and had been studying for over two hours without a break. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Got a bit—caught up in what I was doing.”
Kerrick chuckled. “It’s fine, sir. It happens a lot around here. Mr. Desmond has already left for Caventhorne, so you’ll be dining alone.”
