“Don’t make me laugh.” Leila threw open her textbook with unnecessary force and nearly tore a page in half. “If they’ve got enough money for a helicopter and an airplane and a bloody underground palace, they could’ve built a second bunkroom.”
Tristan opened his own textbook to the table of contents. “I thought you didn’t like any of the girls here very much.”
Leila frowned. “They’re better than Rusty and Zeke.”
It was with great reluctance that Tristan and Rusty left the ballroom, which was now half-decorated for Halloween, in search of a teacher to work off their punishment with. Leila and Rusty must have been angrier at each other than Tristan realized, because Rusty joined Eli and Trey for breakfast to avoid sitting with Leila. Leila spent the meal persuading Tristan to work off his punishment with Delair, who would surely know a lot about the tunnels.
“What’s the point of a holiday if we have to spend it working?” Rusty said. He’d wanted to spend the day carving pumpkins with the other students. “Couldn’t Merridy have waited till next week to punish us?”
“We’ll probably be done by lunchtime,” Tristan said. “Then you can try apologizing to Leila, and everyone will be happy.”
“No way,” Rusty said at once. They had reached the lowest hall of the school, where Delair’s mine sat dark and forbidding across from his classroom. “It’s her fault she won’t be nice to people.”
Tristan sighed and decided not to argue.
Delair’s classroom was locked when Tristan tried the handle, so he and Rusty turned towards the rough mine tunnel. There was a lantern propped beside the entrance; when Tristan blew gently on the top, it flared to life, casting an inadequate glow into the gloom of the tunnel.
“Are you sure about this?” Rusty asked, peering down the tunnel. From here they could smell the heavy, dank air that drifted up from the mine.
Tristan snorted. “There aren’t any trolls down there.”
“Says who?” Rusty said. Then he grinned. “It’ll be an adventure.”
Holding the lantern high, Tristan led the way into the dark passage. The floor was uneven and littered with loose stones; Tristan stumbled almost at once, after which he took more care with where he placed each foot.
The tunnel quickly began sloping downwards, at the same time growing colder and mustier. Soon the passage took on the mildewed, closed-in feel of a real cave, nothing like the warm elegance of the Lair. Before long the light from the main hallway vanished, leaving everything gray and hazy. From the dim cast of the lantern, Tristan could see the occasional passage leading off the main tunnel; he was beginning to wonder whether they’d taken a wrong turn when he heard a distant thud.
He stopped at once, alert and listening, and Rusty collided with him from behind.
“Oof,” Rusty said. “Don’t do that!”
Tristan shook his head. “Listen. I think it’s Delair.”
They both stood still for a moment, until a resounding clang echoed nearby. Tristan flinched.
As they rounded the next corner, treading carefully now, Delair came into view. He was no more than a hunched shape at the end of the tunnel, illuminated in the soft glow of two lanterns. The bald teacher was standing beside an empty cart, and as Tristan and Rusty watched, he hefted a pickaxe over his shoulder and swung it at the tunnel wall with a clanging crash.
“Professor?” Rusty called out, jostling Tristan out of the way.
Delair jumped and dropped his pick; when he turned and saw Tristan and Rusty, though, his face spread in a broad grin.
“You’re here to do punishment, eh?” He bent down and retrieved his pick. “Bad idea for you kids to come wandering down here alone. Still, I could certainly use the help.”
Shuffling away from the far wall, he pushed his cart forward. As Delair moved aside, Tristan caught sight of an odd, splintered luminescence coming from the rock itself.
“It’s glowing,” Tristan said, elbowing Rusty out of the way so he could get a closer look.
The hazy silver glow was nearly as bright as the two lanterns on the wall, casting its cold sheen across Delair’s bald pate.
“’Course it is,” Delair said, thrusting a pick at Tristan.
Tristan barely caught it—the heavy wood handle slammed into his knee and he winced.
“It’s a vein of the purest metal.”
Rusty shook his head in disappointment. “I can’t see anything glowing,” he said. “It’s the aura, isn’t it?”
Delair handed Rusty a second pickaxe. “Indeed. Turn out that lamp, Fairholm. It’ll look brighter in the dark.”
As Tristan blew out his own lamp, Delair extinguished the two lights on the wall with a quick wave of his hand. In the absence of other light, the exposed vein shone brighter than ever, infusing everything with a ghostly brilliance. It was like an icy moonbeam sculpted from rock—Tristan shivered and clenched his fingers around the smooth handle of his pickaxe.
“Now can you see it?” Delair asked eagerly.
Tristan watched Rusty, whose face had taken on the deathly pallor of a drowned person in the odd light. After squinting at the wall for a long time, Rusty said, “I think there’s something...how bright is it supposed to be?” His gaze was fixed on the wrong section of the wall, so Tristan doubted very much that he could see anything.
“Just as with magic vapors, auras appear brighter to certain people,” Delair said, nodding happily at Tristan. “No one knows why that is, but everyone can become better with practice.”
“Wait a minute,” Tristan said, suddenly feeling very stupid. “This is the stuff that’s all over the walls of the Lair, isn’t it? Those pictures are made out of this stuff.”
Delair raised an eyebrow at Tristan. “Of course, of course. How on earth did you notice the patterns?”
Tristan shrugged, feeling extremely relieved. It wasn’t just Amber who was sharing in his delusions; the glowing shapes were something real, something that all of the teachers knew about as well.
“How bright is it for you, Tristan?” Rusty asked worriedly, clearly not following the conversation.
Tristan returned his gaze to the wall. “It’s nearly as good as the lights a moment ago,” he said, trying not to brag.
“Impressive,” Delair said, relighting the lamps with a flick of his fingers. “You’re better than I am, it seems—without the torches, I can barely make out your shapes in the darkness. It took me many years before I could see the patterns on the walls.”
Rusty stared at Tristan, mouth open slightly.
To distract Rusty, Tristan said quickly, “Was that magic, what you just did? Lighting the lamps without blowing on them, I mean.”
“Of course,” Delair said. “Now, if you’ll get to work widening this tunnel, I can teach you a few things that I should’ve gone over in class.”
Even now he rarely came to class more than twice a week.
“Don’t worry about falling rocks—I’ve got a safety barrier in place. That’s another thing you can do with magic, by the way.”
Tristan hefted the pick onto his shoulder and frowned at the wall. Not at all sure what he was supposed to do, he took a step backwards and swung the curved end wildly at the stone. A few small rocks broke free and crumbled to the ground.
“Wait, what?” Rusty said. His pick dangled uselessly at his side. “Did you just say you used magic without those marbles?”
Delair grunted. “Don’t aim straight at the wall, Fairholm,” he said. “You have to single out a weakness first.” He pointed to a craggy knob of rock before turning to Rusty. “Yes, Lennox, I can use magic without it first being concentrated. So could you, theoretically.” Delair shouldered his pick and resumed hacking away at the end of the tunnel.
“Huh?” Rusty said, squinting at the wall.
“Drakewell doesn’t want me to tell you this,” Delair shouted over the sound of his own hammering, “at least not yet. So don’t go talking about it with the other kids.” He tossed a chunk of stone over his shoulder
and resumed his attack on the wall. “The teachers decided you’d be less tempted to make trouble if you thought magic could only be done with the marbles.”
“What’s the point of the marbles, then?” Tristan asked quickly. This was what he really wanted to know, the answer to why they were here.
Delair paused, resting his pick against one knee. “The real answer to that question is something even I won’t tell you just yet. However, there is a second reason for the marbles.”
He set aside his pick and turned back to the wall. Now it looked as though he was shaping something with his hands, though he touched nothing but air.
“As you know, the magic vapor is created by destruction—when you collect the vapor, you are gathering the essence of destruction. Even when you don’t use the congealed form of magic, you need to destroy something to make the power work. When you work magic without the marbles, you destroy your own strength.”
Tristan stared at Delair, thinking hard. To his left, Rusty was tapping the handle of his pick on the wall with a vacant sort of rhythm.
“I’m sure you boys can see why this would be dangerous,” Delair continued. “When you draw from your own strength, you quickly become exhausted—if the spell is allowed to go too far, you could damage yourself beyond repair. It takes many years to build up the sort of endurance necessary to perform even the most basic tasks without depleting your strength.”
“But you can do it now?” Rusty said. The pickaxe slid out of his lax grip and clattered to the ground.
Amber could do magic without the marbles, Tristan remembered suddenly.
Delair stepped away from the end of the tunnel and wiped his hands on his pants. Then he reached forward and splayed his hands just inches from the wall. With a click, a piece of glowing ore shifted and dislodged itself from the wall. The ore tumbled away from the dull rocks, perfectly intact, and Delair caught it. Then he threw it into the empty cart.
“What is that glowing stuff?” Tristan asked. It had to be powerful, with such a bright aura. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Ah, I’m so glad you asked,” Delair said, blowing rock dust off his moustache so the ends fluttered. “This happens to be an element that exists almost exclusively in the earth’s core. I’m planning to call it Delairium.”
Tristan laughed.
“In fact,” Delair said, “this is one reason the school was built here in the first place—it’s the only location in the world with such an impressive concentration of Delairium. As to what it’s used for...” He lifted his pick again and chipped off a loose sheet of rock. “Delairium releases a great deal of magic when it’s melted. Among other things.”
By the end of the morning, Tristan’s arms ached and a heavy layer of grime clung to his sweat-slicked skin.
“Thanks, professor,” he said as he and Rusty finally set down their picks. “We’ll probably come back next week.”
Delair chuckled. “You’re planning to earn more punishment?”
“Not planning,” Rusty said. “It just kinda happens.”
Tristan picked up the lantern he’d taken from the entrance to the mine. Waving to Delair, he and Rusty turned and trudged back up the way they’d come.
“Well, that wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Tristan said. He had enjoyed the physical labor more than he’d expected.
“Are you kidding?” Rusty said. “Delair’s awesome! I didn’t know magic was so cool.”
Tristan laughed. The lights from Delair’s lanterns had faded in the distance, leaving them stranded in the pale glow of their own lamp as it bobbed along the wall. “I thought you were sad we couldn’t carve pumpkins.”
Rusty shrugged. “There’s still the feast tonight, isn’t there?”
As they neared the main hall, Tristan felt the warm air swirling down to mingle with the musty chill of the mine. “After we shower, we’ve got to find Leila,” he said.
Rusty sighed. “I don’t think she wants me around.”
Tristan punched Rusty’s shoulder. “You can’t just give up! Come on, just apologize.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything wrong!” Rusty kicked at a loose rock on the tunnel floor. “It’s Leila’s fault she won’t be friendly to anyone.”
With a sigh, Tristan dropped his lantern at the tunnel entrance.
Halfway to the kitchen, Tristan and Rusty ran into Alldusk. The professor looked distraught, his black hair sticking out from his head in odd tufts. Alldusk nearly collided with Rusty—he stopped abruptly, reeling, and grabbed the wall to steady himself.
“Boys! Thank goodness,” he panted.
“What’s going—what’s wrong?” Tristan asked quickly.
Alldusk shook his head, clutching at his side. “There’s been another attack.”
“Where?” Tristan dreaded the answer.
“In my classroom.”
Chapter 10: Hoarded Magic
Rusty swore loudly.
Tristan closed his mouth, stunned. It had been mere coincidence that they’d trespassed in the classroom that same night, but why should Alldusk—or Merridy, who had caught them inside the room itself—believe that?
When Alldusk cleared his throat, Tristan flinched.
“Now, I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” Alldusk said darkly, “but from what Merridy tells me, you boys and Leila look as though you were involved.” He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, smoothing down the stray clumps.
Tristan shook his head fervently. “No. We didn’t do anything. I’m really sorry we went in your classroom last night, but it was unlocked.” He hugged his arms across his chest. “I swear we didn’t—”
“What?” Alldusk cut sharply across him. “What do you mean, it was unlocked? I know I bolted that door last night.”
Tristan glanced at Rusty, hoping for support. “That’s why we went in,” he said in a rush. “We didn’t mean to trespass—we just didn’t want to be overheard, so we ducked through an open door. We didn’t realize we were in your classroom until a minute later.”
Alldusk muttered something under his breath, frowning. “And where were you this morning?”
“In Delair’s mine.” Tristan took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “We’ve been helping him for hours—ask him if you’d like, but we haven’t been anywhere else all day.”
Alldusk sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to believe you this time, Tristan.” He glanced down the hallway. “I may be one of the few teachers who decide to trust you in this. The three of us—and Darla Merridy, of course—are the only ones who know about the attack at this point, which means we still have to inform the headmaster. When Drakewell hears, be careful what you tell him. I don’t think you need to be reminded that the headmaster can be very dangerous when he’s angry.”
A nervous weight had settled in Tristan’s stomach, and he swallowed.
With a pained smile, Alldusk clapped Rusty on the shoulder. “Go enjoy the feast, both of you. With any luck, Darla and I will be able to sort this out without dragging you boys in.”
He turned and swept down the hallway.
Once Alldusk vanished around the corner, Tristan kicked the wall with all his strength.
“Damn it,” he spat. He swung his foot at the wall again. “Why are we such freaking idiots?”
“But we didn’t do anything,” Rusty said, chewing on his lip. “Drakewell can’t get mad at us when we didn’t do anything.”
“Sure he can,” Tristan said angrily. “No one trusts a couple bloody criminals.” The whole stupid situation was his own fault.
He slammed his fist on the railing. Everything he tried to fix got completely screwed up.
For once, Rusty didn’t have anything encouraging to say. “Should we go to the feast?” he asked weakly.
Tristan nodded, suddenly feeling drained. “We should get upstairs before Drakewell catches us lurking around.”
When they reached the tall doors to the ballroom, Tristan stop
ped with one hand on the knob and took a deep breath, raking his hair back into place over his scars. Then he led the way in.
The ballroom was lively and infused with color—orange streamers dangled from the walls, tattered cobwebs clung to the tables and chandeliers, and eerie shadows flitted across the marble surfaces. Tristan stared blankly at the riot of color, unable to shake the coldness that had tightened around his lungs.
“Rusty!” Hayley called from one of the tables. “Come help us.” A smile spread across her round face as she waved Rusty over. She and Cailyn were bent over a pair of enormous pumpkins, their hands orange and dripping with stringy goo.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Tristan muttered. “I don’t want to help with this mess. Let’s just go to the kitchen.”
Rusty’s grin faded slightly. “Aw, you sure you don’t want to decorate?”
Tristan nodded.
“You go ahead, then,” Rusty said. “Leila doesn’t want to see me anyway.”
Lonely and miserable, Tristan turned away from the festivities and slouched out of the ballroom.
Even before he reached the kitchen, Tristan could smell the rich aromas wafting down the corridor. As he breathed in the smell of spiced pies and sizzling turkey, he almost expected to find his mom standing over the stove, humming along to the radio. Instead it was Leila who stirred a simmering pot of broth, face lost in the steam, while Quinsley chopped potatoes behind her.
“What’s with the Thanksgiving food?” Tristan asked. He crossed the kitchen to join Leila by the stove. “Shouldn’t we have little skeleton cupcakes or—”
Dropping her spoon, Leila elbowed him in the stomach. “Out of my way,” she said playfully. “Gerry says we won’t be celebrating Thanksgiving, so we have to enjoy this while we have the chance.”
Tristan turned and frowned at Quinsley. “No Thanksgiving?”
Quinsley popped a chunk of raw potato into his mouth. “It’s not a Canadian holiday, is it?” he said thickly.
“Oh!” Tristan said. “So that’s where we are.”
Quinsley chuckled. “Drakewell probably didn’t want the teachers to mention that. No idea why, but there you go.”
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 45
