Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  Alastair was surprised when Samuels stopped in front of a lift with the same carved wooden doors as he’d seen around the rest of the place. “Where are we going?”

  “To Mr. Desmond’s workroom,” he said. He hit a button; when the door slid smoothly open, he stood aside and motioned Alastair in. “Just down the hall when the doors open, sir. You can’t miss it.”

  Alastair stepped slowly inside and the doors closed behind him. After a moment, the lift headed downward, opening a moment later on another hallway. Alastair took in the richly paneled walls; instead of being lined with fine paintings, they featured elaborately framed scrolls with magical sigils, ritual diagrams, and artwork depicting ancient people performing what was obviously magic. He slowed to take each of them in as he walked down the carpeted hallway toward the only door, but didn’t take long. He could look at them in more detail later, and it wouldn’t pay to keep Desmond waiting for their first session.

  He paused a moment a few feet from the door, suddenly convinced he’d buttoned his shirt wrong, forgotten to zip up his trousers, or put on two mismatched shoes. A quick check assured him he hadn’t done any of those things. Stop it, he told himself angrily. He’s just a man. Just like Dad. You’re never going to succeed at this if you let him get to you this early. He strode forward with fresh determination.

  The doors didn’t wait for him to knock, but swung open as he approached. He stepped inside and they closed behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stone,” Desmond called. “I’m pleased to see you are prompt.” He stood on the other side of the room, dressed in an immaculate dark blue suit in a classic style.

  Alastair crossed the room, looking it over as he went. It was huge, probably covering at least the entire area of the great room above, with elegant support columns spaced at regular intervals. The walls were covered with the same dark paneling as the hallway had been, and some of them were lined with more shelves full of books. Off to one side was a work area with a table and a series of cubbies containing objects Alastair couldn’t identify from this distance. Directly in front of him, between him and Desmond, the shining marble floor included an inlaid ritual circle nearly fifteen feet in diameter, its edges defined by a gold-colored metal. For all Alastair knew, it probably was gold.

  He stopped a few feet in front of Desmond and clasped his hands behind his back. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Did Samuels get you settled in to your room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I trust you find it acceptable.”

  Alastair didn’t miss the test in his tone. “Of course, sir.”

  The mage fixed him with a piercing stare. “Before we begin, Mr. Stone, I have a few things to tell you. I want you to listen carefully. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I already told you that I didn’t want to take you on, and that I still think you’re too young for this. But I’ve nonetheless agreed to give you a probationary period. That means that from now on, I will treat you as I would treat any of my apprentices, and I expect you will behave accordingly.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Alastair nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “My apprentices are adults, or very nearly so. You may only be fifteen years old, but I warn you: I have no tolerance whatsoever for immaturity. That includes many things that might be considered normal teenage behavior. I trust your father informed you that becoming an apprentice would mean giving up certain freedoms you might otherwise enjoy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re prepared to accept that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alastair didn’t add that most of the ‘freedoms’ Desmond no doubt referred to were things he wouldn’t have done even if he’d remained at Barrow.

  “Your magical training will occur in the morning from eight until eleven a.m., and then again in the afternoon from three until six p.m. During the time when you are not attending training, you’ll be free to pursue your own interests—but most of that time will likely be spent doing outside work for your magical and mundane studies. Weekends will be free, as will most weeknights, though there will be occasional additional sessions you will be expected to attend. As you progress in your apprenticeship, I will expect you to design your own independent study projects in your areas of particular interest, which you will pursue only after I’ve approved them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” His father had not been exaggerating: this sounded like it would be orders of magnitude more work than he’d had at Barrow—but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He’d found Barrow’s classes to be, for the most part, stiflingly dull.

  Desmond’s expression grew, if possible, even more grim. “You might have noticed my emphasis on the word only. Let me make it absolutely clear: you are not to pursue any magical activity outside the scope of what I’ve assigned you. That includes any additions or augmentations to the assignments I’ve given you. Do you understand?”

  Alastair nodded. “Yes, sir. No experimentation. No outside projects.” He wondered if Desmond had included that part because of his illicit activities at Barrow. That seemed odd, given that those activities were the very things that had brought him to Desmond’s attention in the first place, but if the man had issues with improvisation, that was fine with him. At least at first, he’d probably be spending so much time trying to master the techniques he was supposed to be learning that he wouldn’t have much time for independent experimentation.

  “Excellent. I want you to keep that in mind, because failing to heed my requirements in that regard—during the entire course of your apprenticeship, I might add—will be one of the swiftest and surest ways to end it. Do you understand?”

  Alastair swallowed. This was apparently a bigger deal with Desmond than he’d thought. “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll do as you say.”

  “See that you do, Mr. Stone. Of course, aside from the prohibition on unauthorized study, much of this will not be a factor until after you’ve passed your probationary period. That period will be one month. During that time, if at any point I don’t consider that you are making satisfactory progress, your talent fails to meet my expectations, or if your actions or behavior convince me that you don’t have the maturity to pursue serious magical study, I will terminate your apprenticeship immediately.”

  “I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

  “That remains to be seen, Mr. Stone. One more thing: As I said, you are taking on an adult’s responsibility, and I will treat you as such. Therefore, you will have no curfews, nor will you be required to go to bed at any specific time or to participate in meals if you don’t choose to. You are welcome to leave the house as you see fit, go where you like, and do what you like, within the limits of the law. But before you start to revel in your newfound freedoms, keep in mind that I reserve the right to end your apprenticeship early for any immature or irresponsible behavior. If you fail me, Mr. Stone, you won’t last the month. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, sir.” Alastair hoped Desmond didn’t notice the pounding of his heart. One chance—that was all he’d have. One chance to prove himself.

  No pressure.

  “Because of the accelerated nature of this probation period, your mundane studies will be put on hold for the month. I will expect you to keep up as best you can on your own. If you successfully pass your probation and I accept you as my apprentice, you will be provided with a tutor who will be responsible for your non-magical education. I trust you are both bright enough and responsible enough to keep up on your own until I make my decision.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” It would be dead boring, having to pay attention to things like history and maths when all he wanted to do was learn magic, but it wouldn’t be difficult. He’d read ahead in most of his textbooks already anyway.

  “All right, then. Did yo
u have a chance to peruse the books I gave you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How far were you able to progress?”

  Alastair wondered if he should have brought them with him. “I’ve finished an initial read through the one with the sigils and ritual diagrams, sir. I’m still working on the history book.”

  Desmond made no sign that he approved or disapproved of Alastair’s progress, nor did he ask any questions. “Finish reading those books, and then I will give you others. I expect my apprentices to have a strong grounding in theory—there’s no point in knowing how to do something if you don’t know why it works the way it does. If you are familiar with the underlying principles of magic, you will then be able to design your own techniques—either basing them on existing work or creating something entirely new. That will be one of your independent study projects, if you pass your probation. Now, then.” He stopped pacing and faced Alastair. “You’ve mentioned that you can use magical sight.”

  “Intermittently, sir.”

  “Describe my aura.”

  Alastair’s heart pounded harder. In the past, the only time he’d been able to get the sight to work was when he was alone, looking at his own aura. He’d managed that four times over the course of the last couple of months, but each time had been almost by accident, as he’d somehow slipped into the proper frame of mind without any idea of how he’d done it.

  He swallowed, took several centering breaths, and closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Desmond. The only reference material he’d been able to find in his father’s library about the process had mentioned that you had to shift your perceptions in much the same way a mundane would look at an optical illusion—the type, for example, where if you looked at it one way it was an old woman, but another way showed a young one. He studied Desmond, noting the fine cut of his suit, the way his hair was almost preternaturally in place, the spotless shine of his shoes. He avoided looking into the man’s icy blue eyes: he was nervous enough without watching Desmond stare at him.

  As time ticked on and nothing changed, his heart beat even faster. He felt a thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Would Desmond chuck him out already for his failure to master such a basic technique?

  “Well, Mr. Stone?”

  Alastair let his breath out in a rush when he realized he’d been holding it. “I’m…sorry, sir. I’ve only been able to get it to work a few times, and only on myself.”

  Desmond didn’t look surprised; Alastair couldn’t figure out whether that was because it confirmed his suspicions or because he didn’t expect him to be able to do it yet. “How are you attempting to initiate the sight?” Desmond asked.

  “My references said to…sort of treat it like an optical illusion,” he said.

  “That is a good start,” Desmond said. “But not sufficient. You must concentrate on the essence of your subject. Don’t look at the details—the moment you start looking at details, you’ll never get it. A being’s aura is associated with his inner essence, not his outward trappings. Do you understand?”

  “I…think so, sir. Let me try it again.”

  “Remember—don’t focus on the details. Clear your mind, and try to see your subject as more of a general concept than a collection of individual parts.”

  Alastair resisted the urge to tug at his collar. He took another breath, closed his eyes again to center himself, and then looked at Desmond once more. This time, he consciously avoided looking at things like his suit or his shoes. He shifted his gaze to focus a little past the man, so he could see his basic form but not any of the specifics about him. He let his mind drift over what he knew of Desmond’s essence—intelligent, disciplined, unyielding—and tried not to let stressful thoughts of what might happen to him if he failed sneak in.

  For several long moments, he was sure it wouldn’t work. He saw nothing but Desmond’s somewhat blurry form in front of him, standing still, facing him.

  But then—

  —was that just his eyes playing tricks on him, or was Desmond’s body suddenly wreathed in a brilliant gold nimbus of energy?

  Startled, he blinked, and the nimbus winked off. Or had he even seen it at all?

  “Mr. Stone? Did you see something?” Desmond’s voice was calm.

  “I—think so, sir. I’m not certain.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, then. What do you think you saw?”

  “Just for a moment, I thought I saw gold.”

  Desmond nodded. “Good. A good start. But you’re not finished yet. Try again. Try to keep your concentration focused more this time. By way of encouragement, I will tell you that this technique, once you get the trick of it, is not something you’ll have trouble with in the future. To use a crude popular analogy, it is similar to learning to ride a bicycle.”

  Alastair quickly squelched a traitorous mental image of William Desmond tooling down the streets of London on a ten-speed, and focused his thoughts once more. For a moment he wasn’t sure what Desmond had meant about his ‘not being finished,’ but then his mind went back to the times he’d seen his own aura. It hadn’t been a single color, but a mix of two: purple closest to his body, and a thinner stripe of gold farther out. Maybe Desmond had more than one color too.

  He went through his process again, looking past Desmond’s body and using his meditation technique to clear the stray thoughts from his mind.

  This time, the golden nimbus showed up faster. Bright and strong, it extended more than a foot from Desmond’s body. Alastair focused on the edges, taking a moment to re-establish his calm, and after a moment, a second band of electric blue shimmered into being. It was harder to see, both because of the gold part’s glare and because it didn’t stand out as well against the dark paneling and the floor, but it was definitely there, pulsing like a living thing all its own. It was beautiful. The interplay of the two colors dazzled him, and he didn’t want to look away—

  “Mr. Stone!” Desmond’s sharp voice broke into his concentration.

  He jumped, startled, and the pulsating aura winked off as if he’d hit a light switch. “Er—yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Desmond didn’t look angry. He watched Alastair silently, arms crossed over his chest. “I trust your efforts were a bit more fruitful this time?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir. Your aura is bright gold closest to your body, and a sort of electric blue farther out.”

  “Well done, Mr. Stone. Now—look again.”

  Alastair did as he was told, sure he’d have no trouble reproducing the steps this time. Desmond was right—once you got the hang of it, you just had to—

  Nothing happened. Desmond’s aura did not reappear.

  Alastair tried again. He did everything he’d done last time, but saw no sign of the gold or the blue. Frustrated, he clenched his fists and focused harder. A dull ache formed in the back of his head.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Stone?”

  “I—can’t get it back, sir.”

  The brilliant aura sprang into being. Alastair took a step back, surprised. “What—?”

  “An advanced technique,” Desmond said. “When you are fully trained, you will be able to hide your aura—or even disguise it. I wanted to show you it was possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alastair thought it was a bit unfair, when he was only just learning to see the things in the first place, to fool him like that, but he reminded himself never to form any expectations about Desmond. Just take things as they came—that was looking like the only way to survive with this man. He rubbed at his forehead.

  “Does your head hurt?”

  He nodded. “A little, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

  “No,” Desmond agreed. “You’d best get used to headaches, especially when you’re starting out. You’re working muscles you’ve never worked before, so a certain
strain is to be expected. I won’t push you too hard today. And in any case, there is more to apprenticeship than practicing magical techniques. Come with me.”

  Alastair followed him over to a corner containing a series of crammed bookshelves. “This will be your library, Mr. Stone. Each of the books here includes information about topics and techniques we will be studying during the early part of your apprenticeship.”

  Alastair stared at them, his gaze skipping over their spines. There must have been at least a thousand volumes here, ranging from ancient leather-bound tomes to a few modern hardcovers in dust jackets and even some brightly colored paperbacks. Did Desmond expect him to read them all?

  Before he could say anything, Desmond raised his hands and gestured. One by one, each floor-to-ceiling shelf’s collection of books flew out, shifted themselves around in midair, and landed in untidy piles. As Alastair continued to stare, shocked, he did the same thing with the other shelves until all the books were jumbled in a massive mound on the marble floor.

  Desmond offered him a challenging gaze, as if expecting him to say something.

  He didn’t. Instead, he merely continued looking at the pile of books. He had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming next.

  “As I said, Mr. Stone, this library will be at your disposal for the duration of your apprenticeship,” Desmond said, looking rather like a cat who’d just gotten hold of a particularly tasty canary. “No two mages agree on how one’s library should be organized. Therefore, your next assignment is to organize yours. Examine each book, sort them in a way that makes sense to you, and reshelve them. I will not offer an opinion as to your organizational methods, but I will expect you to be able to put your hands on any book in your library in a few seconds’ time. Understood?”