Still looking faintly surprised, Leila nodded. “Okay. Good idea, Trey. Everyone like the Subroom?”
Hayley, Cailyn, and Rusty nodded.
When Tristan returned from his shower, most of the others were sitting awake in bed. Rusty yawned fiercely, though he looked determined to stay awake.
“Tell us a story, Leila,” Hayley said from her mattress.
Tristan climbed into bed and pulled his blankets around his shoulders while Leila settled against the wall. “Want to hear about how this school was built?” She looked around as though seeking inspiration.
“Is it a real story?” Rusty asked, propping his head on his elbow.
Leila shook her head. “Though Gerry thinks there might be an actual record somewhere.”
“Just checking.” Rusty grinned.
Crossing her legs, Leila began. “Once, long ago, magicians were powerful kings of men. They could do absolutely everything with magic, and common men could not contend with their might.
“Then Christianity began to gain power. The Christians preached that magic was evil, and magicians and their allies would go straight to hell. Several magicians joined the church and swore off magic, hoping to escape eternal punishment, and with their help the magician kings were overthrown.
“The magicians who did not join the church became outcasts, performing cheap magic tricks for a living. As they used their powers less and less, their skills diminished, and many secrets were lost forever.
“Then, one day, a young man decided to create and rule a kingdom peopled entirely by magicians. He began rounding up the wandering magicians, who were glad to follow him. Once his followers numbered more than a hundred, he set off across the sea towards the barren mountains of Canada. There he found a repository of a rare element that fueled great amounts of power when melted down, and which he and his followers could use to replenish their dwindling supply of magic. The magicians enslaved the native peoples and began to mine the element.
“When most of the metal was gone, it left behind an enormous cavern. Here the young king began to construct the castle he’d envisioned, fashioning an underground stronghold that was every bit as elaborate as the magicians’ palaces of old. The slaves continued to mine the element below the palace, creating a complex network of tunnels where he stored the gold and the magic that he gathered over the years.
“The king reigned for seventy years, but when he died he had not appointed an heir. For years after that, the magicians fought amongst themselves, until most had died or fled. The only magicians who remained in the end were scholars who had avoided the fighting. They decided to search for the lost knowledge of magic. The teachers here today are descendants of those original scholars, still searching for the power of the magician kings.”
“So that’s why they’re so rich,” Rusty mumbled. He yawned and pulled his blankets over his head.
Leila shook her head, smiling.
Chapter 13: The Prasidimums
Thanksgiving came, without any celebration whatsoever, though Quinsley baked a couple of pumpkin pies for Leila to bring down to the Subroom. By now the Subroom was easily the coziest place in the Lair—Quinsley had come down to install the magical fireplace Leila had promised, and its fire burned almost constantly to ward off the chill of the tunnels. While the room was still in disarray, Tristan went in search of a pair of metal sheets, which he drilled holes through and bolted to the table to realign the broken halves.
Zeke, Damian, and Cassidy kept trying to find the Subroom, standing by the entrance to the tunnels for hours on end in hopes that someone would come by. After a few nasty scuffles, Evvie showed the Subroom occupants a few secret entrances to the tunnels, by which they could bypass Zeke’s gang entirely.
The final piece of the Subroom was set in place one Tuesday in early December, when Gracewright announced that the Prasidimums were about to bloom.
“It should happen any day now,” Gracewright said brightly, stroking a fist-sized bud that topped one of the rather ugly vine-like plants. The Prasidimums were each about three feet tall by now, growing in a coarse, prickly tangle of gray stalks. “Since this is a matter of school safety, all teachers and students will be required to come to the greenhouse as soon as the Prasidimums bloom. Their flowers only last an hour or two.”
“And why do we want to see a bunch of dumb flowers?” Damian said.
“Maybe they’re carnivorous.” Zeke pretended to take a bite out of the air.
Gracewright smiled at Zeke. “They’re not carnivorous,” she said. “As I told you before, the barrier plants only allow people they recognize to pass. And in order to be recognized, everyone will need to give a drop of fresh blood to each flower before they close.”
“Oh, no,” Evvie said quietly from behind Tristan.
“Aw,” Zeke said. “Is poor little Evvie scared of nasty blood?”
Evvie blushed. “No,” she said testily. She looked down at her folded hands as she said, “Professor, how—how fresh does the blood need to be?”
Frowning, Gracewright tipped her sunhat back from her face. “As long as you’re there for the blooming, you should be just fine.”
Tristan watched Evvie, puzzled—she twisted her hands in her lap until she noticed him and snapped, “What are you looking at?”
“What if no one gives the plants any blood?” Finley asked.
“Good question. The barrier will allow all living things through, which unfortunately includes rats and cockroaches and mosquitoes, but it will exclude everything else, like debris and rain and wind. You can still carry inanimate objects through, of course.”
Instead of following the other students down to chemistry after class, Evvie turned away from the group and headed deeper into the Lair. Tristan dawdled in the hall, wondering if it would be worth missing class to follow her. Then Rusty grabbed his shoulder and dragged him to the stairs.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rusty said, glancing down the hallway.
Tristan stumbled down two steps. “Nothing,” he said, tightening his fingers on the cold metal railing.
Evvie didn’t return until Merridy’s class an hour later. Merridy was in a tetchy mood; by the end of the hour, she’d doled out punishments to more than half of the class.
When Evvie disappeared again for the duration of dinner, Tristan’s suspicions grew. After eating, Tristan, Leila, and Rusty sat in sagging armchairs by the fire, struggling to balance a set of complicated chemical reactions that Alldusk had assigned.
Tristan kept glancing at the door, wondering where Evvie was; just as he let his textbook fall shut, the door to the Subroom creaked open.
It was Evvie—Tristan jumped to his feet and strode over to confront her.
“What’s going on?” he said.
Though Tristan had spoken quietly, Evvie backed away, eyebrows arching in alarm. “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.
Tristan shook his head. “There’s something going on,” he said. Noticing that Eli and Cailyn were watching him with curiosity, he bent his head and lowered his voice. “There’s a reason you’re worried about the Prasidimums, isn’t there? There’s someone you want to get through the barriers, or someone you want to keep out, and you don’t want the teachers to know.”
Evvie chewed on her lip, eyes narrowed. The room had gone very quiet, nothing but the spattering crackle of the fire punctuating the stillness.
At last, Evvie licked her lips and took a step back. “Come here,” she muttered. She wrenched open the door, and Tristan slipped into the black hallway behind her.
“Drakewell hates kids,” Evvie said. Her voice was thin and disembodied in the darkness. “There’s someone—someone hiding in the tunnels. If they don’t give blood to the Prasidimums, they’ll be trapped down here forever. But Drakewell can’t know.”
“Who’s down there?” Tristan said quickly. “Is it a kid? Where did they come from?” He began imagining abandoned babies and meaty-armed thugs and scheming sorcerers.
He sighed. “Okay, so why did you tell me? You want me to do something for you, right?” His voice was bitter.
For a moment Evvie was silent. Then she said, “I need a diversion. Something that will make all the teachers go down into the Lair.”
“Even Gracewright?”
Evvie made a small noise of assent.
“Why didn’t you ask Rusty instead? I thought you didn’t trust me.”
A few pebbles scrabbled across the floor as Evvie shuffled her feet. “I don’t know. But you didn’t tell anyone about the Subroom. I don’t think you’ll say anything about this.”
She was right, and that small measure of trust was wonderful. “Okay,” he said faintly. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” Evvie said warmly.
Tristan smiled into the darkness. He was being an idiot, but Evvie’s gratitude could make this all worthwhile.
When he returned to the warmth of the Subroom, Tristan ignored Leila’s suspicious frown and started gathering up his textbooks and papers. His stomach was already twisting at the thought of the diversion; it was hours before he managed to fall asleep.
Tristan was wary of speaking to Leila the next day, afraid she would talk him out of helping Evvie. On the way to breakfast, he caught up with Eli and asked quietly what materials would create a lot of smoke when they burned.
Eli sniggered. “Don’t they teach that at criminal school? ‘How to be a delinquent, in four easy steps.’ One: burn things. Two: attack people with knives. Three—”
“Seriously,” Tristan snapped. “Do you know?”
Shrugging, Eli said, “Rubber’s best. Leaves work too, though they don’t light well if they’re wet.” He grinned. “What’re you trying to burn down, huh?”
“Nothing,” Tristan said. “You’ll see, all right?” Giving Eli a brief smile of thanks, he turned and waited for Leila and Rusty to catch up.
Leila met him with a scowl. “I hate when you do that, Tristan,” she said, hitching her bag up on her shoulder.
Tristan shuffled up the stairs, kicking his toes against each step. “I’m sorry, okay? You’ll be glad I didn’t drag you into this.”
Leila’s scowl deepened.
When Leila dumped her bag next to their table and dropped into the chair, she turned to glare at Tristan. “If you’d rather share secrets with darling Evvie, you can sit with her,” she said under her breath.
Tristan rolled his eyes and sat down beside her. “Oh, come on, she’s not even my friend,” he whispered. “I’d do the same for anyone in the Subroom.”
At a sudden clatter, Tristan and Leila both jumped—Rusty had dropped the metal lid of the coffee pot.
He replaced it sheepishly and poured himself a cup. “What’s wrong with you guys?” he said. “Aren’t you excited to see the Pretty-mums?”
“No,” they said together.
Tristan left breakfast early, muttering an excuse about having forgotten his textbook in the greenhouse, and took the stairs two at a time up to the meadow.
Outside, the wind sank its icy teeth into his neck. Hugging his arms across his chest, Tristan hurried to the cover of the trees. Though it hadn’t snowed recently, the meadow was still encrusted with patches of frozen snow; Tristan had to look beneath the waving pine boughs to find dry leaves.
Dropping to his knees, Tristan wrenched open his book bag and began shoving leaves into its empty depths. More than once, he stabbed his wind-chapped hands with a pine needle; he winced and shook off the sting, fingers growing heavier as the wind ate into his flesh. Handful after handful he crammed in, shoving the leaves down, smashing them into a dense bulk.
When the bag was so full it strained at the seams, Tristan jerked the sides together and got stiffly to his feet, surveying his work. Something dark was closing down on him. It was so easy to plan this—too easy. He shuddered. It was a thin line—such an insignificant thing—that separated criminals from everyone else.
Tristan slung his weightless book bag over one shoulder and dashed back to the Lair, slamming the door against the cold.
Brikkens and Gracewright were still in the ballroom, along with Cassidy and her tall friend Stacy Walden, when Tristan came nervously down the stairs. He kept his eyes fixed on the double doors at the far end of the room, pretending that there was nothing odd about his bulging bag.
As soon as the ballroom doors swung closed behind him, he broke into a run, bounding down the stairs and sprinting along the hall until he reached the second floor. He had no time to return to the Subroom, so he hurtled into the boys’ bathroom and shoved his bag into the stall farthest from the door. Then he dashed back up to Brikkens’ class.
Tristan was gasping for air, his hands aching as the numbness wore off, when he collapsed into his seat between Leila and Rusty.
“Oh, Triss,” Leila said. She rubbed Tristan’s shoulder as though trying to warm him, her expression a mixture of sympathy and irritation; only then did Tristan realize he was still shivering.
Tristan was tense and jumpy all through his morning classes. Leila shared her textbooks with him, but he couldn’t concentrate on Grindlethorn’s lesson and kept answering questions incorrectly.
They had barely sat down to lunch when Gracewright came bounding down the stairs to the ballroom, fruit-topped hat askew and hands smeared with dirt. “They’re blooming!” she called, breathless from excitement.
Tristan clenched his hands under the table to keep them from shaking.
“Everyone come quick!” Gracewright paused at the foot of the stairs to catch her breath. “The Prasidimums are blooming!”
The teachers jumped to their feet, followed more hesitantly by the students. Above the scraping of chairs, Alldusk shouted, “Bring your coats, if you have them. The greenhouse isn’t large enough for all of us.”
“No, no time for that,” Gracewright said. She turned and bobbed her head towards the ballroom doors. “Good morning, headmaster.”
Tristan flinched. Then Leila was tugging on his wrist, dragging him to his feet and towards the stairs.
An icy draft met Tristan just past the invisible barrier on the stairs, and he shuddered, still chilled. The sun had come out, melting away the edges of the lingering ice patches, but tall mounds of snow still lurked in the shadows of the wooden structures.
Tristan was shivering worse than ever. Clenching his jaw, he stamped his feet to keep warm.
Gracewright and the other teachers were clustered around the greenhouse door on the far side of the clearing, and they widened their circle as the students joined them.
It took ages for Evvie to appear, long enough that Tristan began to worry she’d lied to him. Gracewright had already begun talking, describing what each person would need to do, when Evvie finally emerged from the forest. Finding Tristan’s eyes on her, she nodded to him, pale and stiff-faced.
“Students first,” Gracewright said when she’d finished her instructions. “Form a line, please—careful there, no pushing.”
Tristan jostled his way forward until he reached the front of the line, where he stopped just behind Cassidy. She tossed her hair and glared at him. His teeth were still chattering.
“Hurry along,” Gracewright greeted Tristan when he joined her in the greenhouse.
The windows were steamed over, rivulets of water running down the glass and pooling on the wooden sills. Tristan’s cheeks tingled in the humid warmth, and he rubbed his hands together to thaw them.
“Now, all I need is a drop of blood for each flower,” Gracewright said.
In his distraction, Tristan hadn’t noticed the Prasidimums—looking past Gracewright, he was startled to see that the greenhouse was crowded with garish color. The Prasidimums were brilliant purple blooms, each flower so large that it was barely supported by the brittle, twining stems. The petals were wrapped in a cluster like a sprawling head of cab
bage.
“Don’t worry,” Gracewright continued. “I dispose of the needles after each use, so there isn’t any risk of contamination or—”
“Professor?” Tristan said, remembering suddenly. “Do you have an extra plant that we could—er—borrow?”
Gracewright nodded absently. “By ‘we,’ you mean yourself and the other students who have moved to a new bedroom, of course?”
Wary, Tristan shrugged.
“You do realize that the barrier will be permanent,” Gracewright said. “That means none of the teachers will be able to enter the room once it’s planted. Unless it’s removed, which isn’t the least bit practical.”
Tristan wasn’t sure how the barrier worked to begin with—did the vines simply grow too thick for anyone to pass through, or was there a magical transformation involved? “How do you get rid of the barrier, then?” he asked, eyeing the coarse gray stalks.
Gracewright laughed and straightened her precarious hat. “Dynamite is the most effective method.” She pointed to the back of the greenhouse, at a row of Prasidimums that were crammed together on the workbench. “You kids can take the vine on the left. I’ll help plant it when the time comes.”
Taking Tristan’s wrist, Gracewright gently pricked the tip of his index finger with what looked like an ordinary sewing needle. He barely felt the pinch of the needle, though blood welled on his skin a moment later. Reaching for the nearest flower, he brushed a streak of blood onto its brilliant petals.
“Very good,” Gracewright said. A moment later, something that looked very much like a butterfly’s tongue unfurled from the center of the flower and touched the smudge of blood.
“Damn,” Tristan said. “Are those plants carnivorous?”
“Not exactly,” Gracewright said, chuckling. “Venus flytraps don’t have tongues, do they? Now, smear a little blood on the other flowers, so I can get the others through here in time.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Tristan said, his stomach churning a bit at the thought of what came next. He was reluctant to leave the steamy warmth of the greenhouse. As the chill air swept through him, the moisture that had clung to his hair and arms turned to ice. Without glancing at Leila, he hurried across the clearing towards the Lair.
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 49
