by R. L. King
A shadowy form flowed down along the wall, resolving itself into a jagged red aura with frightening speed and leaping at Alastair’s slumped figure.
Now!
Alastair, moving with far more speed than he’d seemed capable of a moment earlier, flung himself forward into the opposite wall, gripping the shield in his sweat-slicked hand. Everything would come down to this moment. If he messed this up, he wouldn’t have another chance.
He blocked out everything: the pain, the exhaustion, the fear of failure, the worry about what would happen to Desmond, Kerrick, and the others if he failed. None of those mattered now. The only thing that mattered was what he’d do in the next two seconds.
The familiar barrier sprang into being, augmented by the power of the tiny shield item Alastair still carried. But this time, it didn’t flare around Alastair himself, or around Kerrick.
Instead, it rose up around the creature, pinning it against the wall—the outer wall of the house. The wall protected by Desmond’s powerful ward, that it couldn’t pass through.
“Go!” Alastair croaked, gripping the stair rail and struggling to keep the barrier going. Assuming the creature couldn’t break through the shield, he was sure he wouldn’t have more than a minute or two before his mental strength failed and it came down.
Kerrick was already running. “Hold on, sir!” he yelled, and then he was gone around the corner, dashing off in the direction of Desmond’s portal room as they’d discussed.
Alastair, alone now with the shadow-creature, gripped the rail tighter and focused on nothing but his concentration. Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes, but he didn’t break his trembling grip to wipe it away.
Hurry up, Kerrick, he begged, along with offering a desperate prayer to whatever gods looked after underage mages that Desmond was actually at the London house. If he’d decided to stay late at his function, or went out to a late dinner and drinks with friends, everything would be lost.
Each second ticked by like torture. Inside the barrier, the long-limbed creature raged and screamed, tearing at the inside of its prison with its claws, every swipe sending painful spikes of feedback into Alastair’s head. It wasn’t as bad as if he were powering the shield without the help of the object, but it still felt as if someone were poking knives in and out of his brain. In his hand, the little shield-thing grew warmer and began a faint thrumming. He gripped it more tightly, narrowed his eyes, and glared hard at the barrier as if doing that might somehow make it stronger.
Where was Kerrick? He’d told Alastair where the portal room was—it should have taken him less than a minute to get there at a run. All he had to do was try to cross the wards and get himself immobilized so Desmond would be alerted.
Maybe he already had. Maybe Desmond had gotten the message, but had to get to the portal in London—
Or get back to the London house, because he wasn’t there. Alastair refused to let himself think about that. If that were true, he was lost and there was nothing he could do about it.
Focus…
The little shield-thing was getting hotter, the thrumming becoming full-fledged shaking. It rattled like a door handle somebody was trying to force open, and his hand grew uncomfortably warm. Would it burn him if he kept holding it?
It doesn’t matter. Keep holding it. No matter what.
His whole body was shaking now, and he was sure the shield was beginning to waver. That wasn’t just his own faulty perceptions, was it? No, it was definitely losing coherence, like a TV picture shifting out of phase. Desperately, Alastair tried pumping more power into it, but he didn’t have any more to give. He winced and gritted his teeth, sobbing with pain as the little metal shield grew hotter still, burning his palm.
Desmond wasn’t coming to save him. His plan had failed. In a few more seconds, he’d be dead. When Desmond arrived, he’d find the bloody body of his former apprentice at the foot of the stairs, and maybe Kerrick’s as well.
I tried…
The creature, sensing its imminent release, tore at the shield with renewed fervor, its claws flashing and its strange shadowy edges slipping in and out of reality. The shield grew brighter as the creature’s efforts began to overload it.
With a tiny pop that might only have been in Alastair’s head, the little shield object broke apart in his hand, going white-hot for a second and then crashing to the ground in three pieces, lifeless and cracked.
Alastair screamed as the object’s augmentation abruptly faded, leaving nothing but his own will holding the shield up. “NO! You won’t—”
Perhaps two more seconds passed before his flagging willpower gave out and with it the last of the shield.
The creature, its fang-filled mouth stretched in a triumphant, impossibly wide grin, lunged at him as he slumped to the stairs, barely conscious, still gripping the railing like a lifeboat in a storm. His other hand scrabbled at his belt, trying to reach the dagger, but fell back as he didn’t even have the strength to lift it.
The creature loomed over him. He stiffened, waiting for the fangs to close around his throat—
Behind him, a bright light, so bright Alastair had to flinch away from it, appeared.
A voice—booming, stentorian, brimming with confident authority—thundered a series of commands in some arcane language.
Alastair sagged against the stairs and blinked as the creature shrieked and fell back, whirling to face the new threat. As it did, he got a look at it himself.
William Desmond, clad in his formal suit, his face full of wrath like some kind of vengeful god, had both hands raised and pointed at the creature. Arcane light flowered around them, crackling with enough energy to put Alastair’s hair on end. The small, dim and dusty room was suddenly alight with magical power.
Desmond roared another command, and released the energy. With a loud crack it surged at the creature.
The thing shrieked again and tried to shrink back toward Alastair, but barely moved before the energy tore into it, flowing around and through it, burning away its edges and its claws and its mouthful of fangs. It writhed, twisting, trying with desperate strength to pull free, but the energy tightened and gathered until at last it took the creature to pieces. Its death-scream pierced the air and burrowed into Alastair’s brain until he thought it would never stop.
And then, abruptly, it was over.
The creature was gone as if it had never been, leaving behind an electric stench of burned meat and ozone. The room was dark again, except for a glowing ball of light hovering around Desmond’s hand.
Desmond stood there a moment, taking in the scene, and his gaze fell on Alastair. He hurried over, gripping his shoulder. “Mr. Stone!”
Alastair had no more strength. He fell back against the stairs, unable to even pull himself to a seated position. As he felt his consciousness fade, he looked up at his former master. “Sorry…” he whispered, hand fluttering toward the ruined pieces on the floor. “I broke your…shield thing…”
And then the lights went out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Sir?”
The voice was gentle, poking at the edges of Alastair’s awareness like an insistent kitten. Something warm closed around his shoulder.
He didn’t want to wake up. Wherever he was, it was soft and comfortable and he didn’t hurt anymore. He drifted along on a pleasant wave of apathy, and knew if he let himself wake up, he’d have to care again.
“Sir?” The voice was more persistent this time, still gentle but a bit louder. The warm pressure on his shoulder increased, just a bit.
“Mm?” he mumbled without opening his eyes. He brought a hand up and rubbed at his forehead, then let it flop back down again.
“Sir, please. I hate to disturb you, but you need to eat something.”
Alastair cracked open his eyes just enough to
identify the blurry form of Kerrick leaning over the bed.
Kerrick was alive?
His eyes flew open the rest of the way and he tried to jerk up. “Kerrick!”
“Shh…shh, sir.” Kerrick pushed him back down into the soft pillows. “You’re not ready for that yet. You’ve been through quite a lot.”
The memories surged back. The creature, Kerrick, the shield—
He pushed himself up again, fighting a wave of light-headedness. “Where is everyone? The creature—”
“They’re fine. Everything’s fine now, sir. It’s gone.”
He remembered Desmond standing there with his hands raised, magical energy crackling around them, his voice booming words of power. “It worked…” he breathed. “Our plan…”
“Your plan, sir. And yes. It did. That…thing is gone.” Kerrick reached around to a cart behind him and placed a tray across Alastair’s lap. “You need to eat, sir. Get your strength back.”
It occurred to Alastair once again that nothing hurt. That was weird—things should hurt. The slashes on his back, his burned hand where he’d held the shield, his head—“How long has it been, since—?”
“You’ve been sleeping for nearly a full day, sir,” Kerrick said. “The doctor—the healer—has been by and seen to you. Your back and your hand are good as new, but she said you might feel some lingering weakness for a few days. That’s normal.”
Alastair looked around the room. It wasn’t the cell-like chamber he’d been occupying for the past three weeks, but a larger and more sumptuously appointed space. The heavy drapes were open to reveal the sun filtering in through a layer of overcast. “Where is this? Am I still at Caventhorne?”
“Yes, sir.” Kerrick pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “Please—you must eat. Esteban and Gretchen have prepared some of your favorites.”
Alastair wanted answers, not food. But as soon as the tantalizing aromas began to register on him, he realized he was starving. He pulled the cover off a bowl of soup and took a tentative taste, then picked up speed. In between spoonfuls, he cast a worried glance at Kerrick. “You said everyone was fine. They got out? Selby—?”
“Selby is being take care of, sir. He was severely injured and the healer won’t be able to set him completely right, but I assure you, he’s alive and will be well in due time.”
Alastair nodded, glad to hear it in spite of the fact that Selby had been responsible for this whole mess. “Everyone got out, then?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Desmond found me in the portal room, and I explained the situation to him as best I could. He’ll want to talk to you, of course.”
“Of course…” Alastair bowed his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Desmond. As soon as he was strong enough, all he wanted was to get out of here. “What about my father? Has he been told?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to discuss that with Mr. Desmond.” He stood. “You finish up there. We can talk again later. You’ll need a lot of rest to regain your strength.” His expression changed, and for a moment he seemed to be debating whether to say something. Finally, he put his hand back on Alastair’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, I want to thank you. I’m sure the rest of the staff will want to as well. If you hadn’t done what you did—”
“Not everyone,” Alastair mumbled, staring down into his soup as a sudden bitter memory struck. “Samuels is dead.”
“Yes, sir. He is. It’s a terrible thing, of course. But it could have been so much worse.” He gripped Alastair’s shoulder more tightly, then pulled back. “Rest, sir. I’ll come back for the dishes later.”
He hurried out of the room, leaving Alastair once again alone.
He leaned back against the pillows with a sigh, picking at the rest of the food on his tray. The hearty soup had taken the ravenous edge off his appetite, and despite his best efforts, the fog of fatigue was creeping in again. He tried to fight it for a while, but it did no good. He nodded off still clutching a half-eaten piece of toast.
The next time he awoke, it was dark. He lay in the same bed, though the tray (and the toast) were gone. A lamp on the nightstand provided a pool of cozy light.
“I was wondering when you might rejoin us, Mr. Stone.”
Alastair started at the familiar but unexpected voice. William Desmond himself sat next to the bed, an old book he’d obviously been reading in his hand. For the first time, he was out of his formal, old-fashioned suit; instead, he wore a simple white shirt and dark trousers.
Alastair frowned. What was Desmond doing here? How long had he been here, watching him as he slept? “Sir—?”
“How do you feel?”
He considered that. Most of the light-headedness was gone along with the pain, though he still felt hungry. “All right, I guess.”
Desmond nodded. He closed the book and put it down on the nightstand. “Kerrick tells me you’ve been quite busy around here while I was gone.”
Alastair stiffened. Was Desmond going to punish him? “Sir, I—” he began, and he was sure his indignation came through in his aura.
Desmond raised a hand to quell him. “Mr. Stone, please. I have not come to chastise you—though what you did was dangerous, rash, and I would not have faulted you in the slightest if you had chosen not to do it.”
“Sir—”
Again he raised his hand. “Dangerous, rash—and one of the most courageous and resourceful things I have ever seen any mage—including those far older and more skilled than you are—do. You saved not only yourself, but most of my staff—and possibly me, if I’d been caught unawares upon returning home—from severe injury or even death. How can I do anything but thank you for that, Mr. Stone?”
Alastair didn’t look at him. He spoke into his lap, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “I broke your rules. I can’t even count how many times I used unauthorized magic. I even broke your shield thing. And now, I’ll still be packed off home as soon as I’m well enough to go, won’t I?”
“You did break my rules.” He took a deep breath. “As for being packed off home…I have been doing some thinking, Mr. Stone, over the last day while you’ve been asleep.”
Alastair dragged his gaze up. “Have you?”
Desmond nodded. “As you might have discerned, perhaps I was a bit…overzealous in my insistence that my apprentices refrain from magical improvisation. Gareth Selby’s death was not easy on me, and I vowed from that day forward that I would not lose another apprentice due to my own negligence—if I should ever be persuaded to take one again, that is.”
“Kerrick told me you took Gareth’s death hard,” Alastair said. He didn’t think at this point Kerrick would mind him sharing that confidence. “But I’m not Gareth.”
“No, Mr. Stone,” Desmond said. “You are not Gareth. Nor, does it appear, are you Roderick.”
“What will happen to him?” Alastair adjusted his position so he could sit up and get a better view of Desmond. “After he’s well, I mean.”
“He has been relieved of his position, of course.”
That didn’t surprise him. “He didn’t mean it, you know. He thought his brother was alive. You never told him what happened—just that he died. That…thing showed him Gareth, so he thought you must have been wrong.”
Desmond inclined his head for several moments. “That was another error on my part. Yes, I do make them, Mr. Stone—and I do admit to them when I do.”
Alastair blinked. Was it possible that the lofty William Desmond was looking uncomfortable?
“Mr. Stone…what I mean to say is that I have made a mistake with you. I agreed to give you a trial despite your youth—because I thought I could more easily control you and keep you safe—but I also expected less of you because of your age. You performed far more impressively than I expected you to, and even your minor
transgressions were just that—minor. The sorts of things I had no right not to expect from someone so young.”
Alastair could hardly dare to hope. He let his breath out slowly. “Sir…are you saying that…you’re not kicking me out after all?”
“I am saying,” Desmond said, “that I made a mistake. And if you still wish to study with me, then…I am formally offering you a full apprenticeship. And a revised set of expectations regarding your behavior and performance.” His expression grew stern. “But be assured, Mr. Stone, that I shall not be lenient on you if you accept. You will work every bit as hard as I expected you to before—possibly harder, because I see your potential and will push it as far as it will go. But I will also look more understandingly on your…innovations. With the exception of summoning, of course.” He stood. “You needn’t give me your answer now. Rest, and think about it. I will be available when you wish to respond.” He turned and walked toward the door.
Alastair sat up a little more. “I don’t need to think about it, sir.”
Desmond stopped and turned back, his face its usual unreadable mask, and waited.
“I want to come back, sir. I want you to teach me. And I’ll work hard—you know that.” He smiled, just a bit. “But you should probably expect a few…innovations.”
Desmond didn’t smile. Alastair really was beginning to think he wasn’t capable of it. But his eyebrow went up, and the corners of his eyes crinkled, just a bit. “I shall look forward to seeing what you come up with, Mr. Stone.”
Alastair waited until he made it almost to the door. “Mr. Desmond?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone?”
“What made you change your mind? I…didn’t think you did that very often.”
“I do not. But aside from your recent actions—which would have been enough in and of themselves to convince me, I might add—Kerrick stopped by my study to have a few…rather pointed words with me yesterday.”
