by Tim Susman
“We’re glad too.”
The foxes, and all the others, looked down at the fireplace. Two of the lizards, sparking orange, stared up with eyes like embers. “Hate to see someone go cold.”
“Especially someone you like.”
“Looks like you, he does.”
“Glad we got the chance to see him.”
“Even if we didn’t meet properly.”
“Next time, aye.”
Curiosity stirred in Kip; was ‘going cold’ like death for the phosphorus elementals? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask the questions. His father and Master Vendis headed for the door, Master Splint turned toward the stairs, and Coppy’s paw gripped his elbow. So he followed the otter and his friends to the basement stairs, still numb.
“I told you, best thing is to take the fight to him,” Malcolm said. “Drop one of those lovely wooden benches on his head. Even after Splint heals him up, he’ll think twice before he comes for you again.”
Kip shook his head slowly. His heart agreed with Malcolm, but his father’s words bound his anger tightly, and fatigue dragged his feet and his spirit. He stumbled down the stairs, letting his friends’ concerns and advice wash over him, and kicked his way through the grime of the basement to his bedroll.
Lying back while Coppy, Emily, and Malcolm discussed the evening in tones they probably thought he couldn’t hear, he stared at the stone of the ceiling. The idea of becoming a sorcerer seemed laughable to him now. Did he think he would be able to succeed at no cost to anyone? Already the town had turned against his parents because of his dreams, and now his father had been injured, possibly almost killed. He had heard of people losing parts of their memory, but hearing his father say that he remembered nothing after turning away from Kip, not the walk to the gates nor the iron swinging shut on him…it chilled Kip even more than the stone that lay below his thin bed.
He turned his head slightly and his eyes caught a flash of red. The small book, the journal he’d found. His paw reached up and snagged the edge of it, bringing it tumbling free. He caught it deftly and opened it to a page. The narrow script blurred before him, but he blinked once and it became clear.
to lift the stones and keep them aloft.
December 8
I have come to understand that I must needs demonstrate my value beyond simply learning what we are taught. If I am to continue my education and become a Master, not simply a bricklayer, then I must not only excel in the classroom; I must reach farther. Master de Lassen has reminded me that I need not convince all the Masters, nor yet half of them, but merely one, and while it is true that Master Fitch detests me and would like nothing more than to see me cast out into the street, it would take but a single word from one of his colleagues to assure me of a place.
And so I search for the Master whose interests run parallel to the course that most intrigues me. It is difficult, for this course of study is not one that is encouraged much in the College, but there are six Masters who engage with it, and there I must focus my attentions.
Master de Lassen, a foreigner himself, sympathizes with me, though the French people are not as hated as mine. Should I follow his course of study, I might well take the place of his current apprentice, but alchemical magic, especially of the variety he practices, does not call to me. Master Cork is engaged in the study of demonic spirits that might be summoned to channel great power, but his work is quite popular and he is certain to choose one of the attractive, popular boys when the time comes, though my talent matches theirs.
And yet, I would say that the difficulty of spiritual magic is a point in my favor. Should I master it, there will be little anyone might say against me. Even were I to show simple affinity for it, that is rare enough to be worthwhile.
Kip turned the page, then set the book down as Coppy entered their little sanctum and lay down next to him. With a scrape, Emily’s door closed, and though he could hear her moving about if he concentrated, he could also ignore the sounds out of politeness. “How you feeling now?” the otter asked softly.
“Fine.” Kip waved a paw at the journal. “Reading a book I found. The journal of Peter something. He was an apprentice two hundred years ago.”
“Oh.” Coppy was silent a moment. “What do you suppose Master Vendis will do about Farley?”
“I don’t know.” Kip was torn between irritation that Coppy wasn’t more interested in the journal and relief that the otter hadn’t asked more. He was thinking about the advice Peter had gotten, which was similar to the advice Kip had worked out with his friends: they had only to impress one master. And Kip had an affinity, that was certain. So he had to start casting the fire spell, and impress someone with it. That would seem to be his only hope for remaining in the College.
And, a voice whispered in the back of his head, it would certainly sort out Farley, wouldn’t it? And it would protect his father, keep him and the other calyxes—and Calatians—safe from harm. An old memory of flames leaping up, dancing around him, came to mind, and Farley was yelling and running, and though Kip in the memory was terrified, Kip in the present closed his eyes, leaned against the otter in the next bedroll, and smiled.
11
Fire
The next day, before class, Master Patris made an announcement. Kip, refreshed after sleeping through the night, curled his tail excitedly and sat straight up to listen. Coppy, too, smiled, and even Emily seemed optimistic. Only Malcolm, sitting next to them, said, “He won’t do nothing. Wait and see.”
Patris began the speech with a vague reference to the attack on Kip’s father, referring to it as an “unfortunate incident,” and explained that the calyxes were valuable to the College and the sorcerers, and that no further attacks on them would be tolerated.
“Valuable,” Coppy muttered, “like paper or ink.”
“More like washerwomen,” Malcolm said.
“To that end,” Patris said, “while I hardly feel we need to reiterate the injunction against harming any others with our magic, because of the current situation and tensions in this class, I feel we must take additional measures. Therefore, all calyxes will be transported to and from the Tower by secure means for the remainder of this year. I hope all of you will think more clearly before you engage in activities that will create more work for the Masters of this College. We have too much work as it is for the small number of us remaining.”
He was looking at Kip as he said that, and Kip’s heart raced. For a moment, he had trouble parsing the words. Was Patris blaming him for the attack on his father? His paw shot into the air before he could stop it, and Patris saw it. He opened his mouth, but Kip began talking before the sorcerer could.
“What about the person who attacked the calyx, sir?” he said. “Is he going to be punished?”
Several of the students turned to look at him. Behind him, Coppy hissed, “Shh,” but Kip’s eyes remained fixed on Patris.
“The discipline of other students is not your concern, Penfold.”
“Because it sounds like you’re blaming me and my father for the attack on him.”
Patris’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “If you are concerned about student discipline, Penfold, keep talking and you will experience it firsthand.”
“Kip,” Coppy hissed, “shut up!”
Kip clamped his muzzle shut, but continued glaring at Master Patris. The sorcerer returned his glare with equal amounts of contempt, and Kip felt a surprising relief. Good, he thought, at least we are both clear on where we stand with each other. The next moment, he felt shocked; had he really confronted the Head of the College so boldly, after all his father had warned him about?
“Take your books out,” Patris said, “and practice raising your cubes again.”
Kip opened his book to the spell, but didn’t look at the page. He gathered magic and recited the spell, lifting the cube into the air. Lifting cubes, he thought, yes, I can do that. And you’ll be surprised when you see what else I can do. As his cube rose, his eyes slid over to the f
ireplace where the lizards sprawled happily.
That night, he took Altering the Fundamental out to the practice tent, though he did not think he needed the book. The fire spell, once he concentrated on it, ran through his head constantly now.
“Hurry up and try it.” Emily had come along with him, as had Coppy. Her voice shook with the cold. “I’m f-freezing.”
Out in the practice tents, they did not need a sorcerer to supervise, but of course none of the other students were out in the tent that night; the past two nights had brought frost and even their basement was warmer than the tents atop the hill, which did not completely keep out the night wind that often scoured the College.
Kip set the book down and prepared to cast the spell, but then looked around at the canvas of the tent. “What if it gets out of control? I don’t want to burn the tent down. Not with you inside.”
“I’ll wait outside, then.”
She made as if to leave, but Kip said, “No. Imagine what Patris would say if I burned the tent down. I’d better do it outside.”
“Wherever you like,” Emily said, “only quickly, please.”
They hurried outside, and here Kip had no more excuses. He gathered magic, raised his purple-glowing arms, and then recited the words. Five seconds passed. Then ten.
“How long do you think it should take?” Emily asked, politely.
“It didn’t work. I can still feel the magic.” It buzzed inside him, uncomfortably, demanding to be used. “At least we finally learned how to dispel it.”
Coppy rubbed his paws together. “Maybe you got the words wrong.”
“No.” But Kip looked at the book this time, which he could read in the light of the purple glow. He said the words again, trying to remember how he’d fit magic to the words of the physical magic spell. All he recalled was one day reciting the words and feeling the magic click into place. But that had been after trying every day for a month.
There was no click this time. The ground remained cold and dark. His throat tightened for a moment and the sense of unfairness that always lingered at the edges of his mind overwhelmed everything. That Farley had learned to slam iron gates in a week while Kip’s progress remained as slow as ever felt like nature obeying the laws of man. Maybe Calatians learned too slowly to become sorcerers, even the most gifted among them.
Or maybe Kip simply was not one of the most gifted. “Well,” Kip sighed, swallowing the bitterness at the back of his tongue, “at least I can practice dispelling magic.”
Patris had taught them relaxation, letting go of the magic and returning it to the earth, and while it still felt strange to Kip, at least that he could manage. “How,” Emily asked, “did you get rid of magic before you learned to cast your first spell?”
“I didn’t.” Kip lowered his arms and tried not to let his shoulders slump. “I studied the spell first and the first time I gathered magic, I cast it, only I wasn’t good at focusing, so a lot of it bled away, I think? I’m not sure how it works exactly. But that first physical magic spell was easy; it was gathering magic that was harder.”
“Don’t tell the class that.” Emily sounded very pleased with herself.
“Maybe Master Windsor can tell you what you’re doing wrong.” Coppy hurried to keep up with them.
They walked the next several steps in silence over the cold hard stone. “I’m certain he could,” Emily said finally. “If he wished.”
Kip glanced to one side and mimicked the sour master’s voice. “What you’re doing wrong is not casting the spell,” he intoned.
Coppy snorted, and Emily let out a surprised laugh. “You’d best not be doing that inside the Tower,” she said, holding the door for him.
“Or even outside. There might be demons or ravens about.”
Kip shook his head. “No demons. Ravens, probably.”
“How can you know there are no demons?” Coppy asked as he followed Kip inside.
“They—well, I think they make my nose tingle.”
The woman and otter both stared at him as the great doors swung shut. “You can smell demons?”
Kip shifted his feet. “Maybe. I’m not sure. But I noticed it when sorcerers were about, only not all the time. Every time demons are about, though…I think it comes from them.”
Emily gestured about them. “Are there demons in the Great Hall now?”
“I don’t know. Probably?” But he turned his head and then shook it. “No. I don’t think so.”
Certainly there were no other people in the Hall; judging from the sounds, or lack thereof, everyone had retired to their rooms for the night. Kip greeted the elementals in the fireplace and they replied with their usual enthusiasm in breath that smelled of ash with the acrid odor of phosphorus amid the smoky warmth of the fire. He closed his eyes but still saw the brightness, still felt the fire near him through more than the heat. It was the smells that meant the most to him, so he sorted through them: phosphorus, so strong that it overpowered whatever individuality the elementals had; wood, which the lizards ate or sprawled on; the ash the wood burned down to; and a smell behind all of those, a hazy tang that Kip thought might be the fire itself.
“Maybe this is what I was missing,” he murmured, though he didn’t really believe it.
“I’ll go get Master Windsor.” Coppy winked at Kip. “At the very least, it’ll put him out and that’s worth it.”
He turned to go. Following his steps, Kip’s attention landed on the empty, cold fireplace on the other side of the hall. “I’m going over there. If I try to cast a fire in here, I don’t know if I could tell whether it worked.”
Emily exhaled and pressed her hands to her face in the Great Hall. “I’ll wait here,” she said, sitting by the active fireplace. “Tell me when you’re about to cast the spell and I’ll turn around.”
The phosphorus elementals protested, but Kip turned from them and crossed the hall. There was no tingle of magic in his nose, and the hall was quiet once Coppy walked up the stairs. Kip sat before the disused fireplace, cross-legged on the stone, and swept his tail around his legs. He looked into the dark, cold space, at the ashes on the floor of it, and inhaled.
Here he could imagine fire, here he could see it licking at the wood logs whose imprints lay in the pattern of fallen ash. He could envision it dancing, glowing, burning, and more, he could see himself controlling it. He could smell it, the ash and the heated air, and out of all his senses, it was the smell that made it the most real. He closed his eyes and folded his ears down, shutting out sound and light and believing in the reality of the fire before him. I need this, he thought. This would be something he could proudly show off to a Master, this fire he had created out of his mind; this would be something that would distinguish him, something that would assure him of a Selection…
His paws stretched out before him, and his body tingled with the gathering of magic, though he didn’t recall having triggered it. Purple gathered around his fingers and ran down his arms in bright streaks that joined like streams into rivers and then dazzling suns. Behind him, Emily’s voice echoed, but the rush of power dancing through him drowned out her words; the scent and reality of the fire in front of him consumed his awareness. He spoke words as familiar as his own name, poured his power into the spell and molded it with his vision, and with all the strength of his will and the force of his need, he called the fire into being.
It blazed forth in the hearth, with an explosion of light and heat that would have startled him had he not been holding it in his mind a moment before. Though he was barely two feet from the licking flames, close enough that his whiskers curled back from it, he didn’t flinch. The fire was his, and he was a part of it.
Then a hand wrenched him back and he became aware of the world again. “For God’s sake, put it out!” Emily hissed at him. “Before Windsor comes down!”
Behind her burbled the appreciative words of the phosphorus elementals, and in his euphoric state, he gave them more weight than Emily’s. “It’s not h
urting anyone,” he said, reaching out as though to caress the flame with his fingers. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Wonderful,” Emily said. “Lovely. Then put it out and start it again in a moment. You’ll be punished otherwise.”
Punished? For bringing this flame into being? Kip struggled to understand, as her grim expression battered its way through his triumph. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, and reached out to loose the spell. But he hated to do it, to let go of this fire he’d created, as though it were a friend he’d only just met and now had to bid farewell to.
Footsteps sounded above. “Kip!” Emily hissed.
He sighed, the euphoria completely gone now. In fact, he was starting to wonder how he’d been so incautious as to cast the spell without waiting five minutes for Master Windsor…though the fire was lovely. At least he still had a chance to escape without punishment. With a twist of thought, he broke the spell.
And the fire blazed on.
“Kip!” Emily wasn’t bothering to keep her voice low now.
“I tried!” He reached out with arms bereft of any magical glow, cast about for a spell that no longer existed. “I broke the spell!”
“Well—” Emily stared at him, then turned to the fire. “Reverse it! Or something. I don’t know, you’re the one who knows it.”
Reverse it? He had no idea how to do that, but it was better than sitting around staring at a fire that was only growing, now threatening the edge of the carpet. He took a breath, and the tingle of magic now exploded into his nose. Despite that, his concentration was good enough to have his paws glowing purple again just as a familiar voice rang out in the hall.
“What is going on here?”
Master Windsor strode from the stair to the fireplace, Coppy hurrying behind him. Kip stepped back from the fire as the man drew alongside him, his sour face furious.
“There’s a magical fire in the second hearth,” a voice said behind Kip.
“Thank you, Burkle, for stating the obvious.” Windsor’s cold eyes never left Kip’s, and the even ice of his voice was more frightening than if he’d yelled. “Am I to presume from your proximity to the hearth and the glow of magic about you that this is your doing? Or did you stumble across it and were about to attempt to put it out?”
