Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  Once inside the old wood structure, he started running, bounding down the stairs three at a time. Cassidy had returned to her usual table and begun eating lunch—she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Tristan as he skidded past. He couldn’t make an excuse, though, since he had only minutes until the other students would return.

  Tristan flew down the stairs and dashed to the boys’ bathroom, where he grabbed his precious bag of leaves. He slung it over his arm and broke into a run once again, scattering debris on the marble floor with each lurching step.

  At the top floor, Tristan veered towards the kitchen. He should’ve gotten matches earlier—he was an idiot—

  He scrabbled through the drawers beside the stove, hands shaking. Forks, knives, papers—he shoved it all aside, the silverware rattling in protest, and clawed at the back of the drawer. Nothing. The second drawer was crammed with papers, choked so full Tristan could barely get it open. He yanked it out, sending scraps of paper skidding across the tiles.

  In the third drawer down, he finally found a box of matches. He shook it just to be sure it wasn’t empty. Leaving the kitchen in a shambles, he wrenched open the door to the ballroom.

  Cassidy flinched as the door clattered open. Pausing at the edge of the dining platform, Tristan said, “Cassidy? Don’t say anything to the teachers.” He clutched the bag of leaves to his chest, breathing hard. “Please.”

  Cassidy’s eyes were still wide, her nostrils flared. “Why would I tell on you?” she said sarcastically.

  Tristan didn’t trust her, but he was already out of time.

  Just past the invisible barrier on the stairs, he dropped his bag on the first dark step and began tearing handfuls of crumpled leaves from the densely packed mass inside. When it was empty, he pulled the box of matches from his coat pocket.

  His hands were surprisingly steady as he slipped a match from the box and scraped it down the coarse edge.

  As the match sparked into flame, Tristan froze, startled by its brightness. Already the flame was creeping close to his fingers—there was no more time for second-guessing.

  He dropped the match.

  The brittle leaves crackled into flame almost at once, curling in a small burst of heat and sending the fire dancing along the step. Now Tristan had to open the longhouse doors so the teachers would see the smoke.

  But he couldn’t wrench his eyes from the fire. The invisible barrier, usually indistinguishable in the darkness, cast an eerie shadow on the flames.

  Then someone opened the doors for him, letting in a shaft of weak light. With a great effort, Tristan raised his head. The fire was already shedding great billows of pale smoke.

  “Triss! What the hell are you doing?”

  It was Leila. “It’s a diversion,” Tristan said grimly. His eyes were beginning to sting—rubbing away tears with the back of his wrist, he coughed.

  “Don’t just stand there, damn it,” Leila said. She hurried down the stairs, arms raised against the smoke.

  When she made to grab Tristan’s arm, she skidded on a dry leaf and lost her footing. Hurtling forward, she crashed into Tristan and knocked him over. They both flew backwards—Tristan smashed his shin against the edge of a stair, and together they went careening down the steps.

  Leila was shrieking, Tristan yelling as they crashed down stair after stair, slamming painfully against the marble.

  At last they came to rest at the foot of the stairs.

  Tristan let out a stream of curses as he untangled himself from Leila. Everything hurt like mad; bruises throbbed all down his legs, and his lungs were knitted tight from the smoke. He coughed and slumped against the wall, waiting for the dizzying blackness to recede.

  “I’m sorry,” Leila said weakly. Pressing her hands against the wall, she clambered unsteadily to her feet.

  Tristan nodded and spat out a charred leaf. With all the noise they’d made, he hadn’t needed the fire to draw everyone’s attention. Miserably he accepted Leila’s outstretched hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

  It was eerie to stand there, surrounded by perfect silence, knowing that chaos and flames consumed the stairway just past the barrier. Leila put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, and he was grateful for the weight of her fingers.

  Ages passed before any sign of the fire reached the muffled safety of the Lair. The silence stretched thinner and thinner. Tristan longed to dart up the stairs and slip through the barrier, just to see what was happening. For all he knew, though, the small blaze could have flared up and devoured the stairs in a towering inferno.

  How much longer could they wait?

  Finally something appeared at the top of the steps. It was a shoe, dusty with ash; at the same time, the oily reek of smoke wafted down the stairs. The foot belonged to Drakewell. Startled, Tristan grabbed Leila’s arm and dragged her out of the stairwell.

  “You have soot on your face,” Leila whispered urgently. She scrubbed at his forehead with her thumb; when she nodded, satisfied, Tristan smoothed his hair back into place over his scars.

  Drakewell was followed down the stairs by the other teachers and students. Gracewright did not appear.

  Last of all, Evvie slunk down the stairs, wiping her muddy hands on her pants. Soot particles clung to her hair. When she found Tristan and mouthed thank you, he turned away, scowling.

  Drakewell’s eyes lit first on Cassidy, still sitting motionless at her table, before he found Tristan and Leila cowering by the wall.

  “Fairholm!” he yelled. “You are an abomination to this school. Your cruel, violent tricks will destroy this place, I swear—” He grabbed the black hourglass as though to wrench it from his neck.

  “Professor!” Delair said loudly. “Desist, please! You cannot accuse Fairholm without proof.”

  Nostrils flaring, Drakewell turned on Delair. “You have no authority over me, old man,” he said coldly. He rounded on Tristan again, voice rising. “What do you have to say for yourself, Fairholm?”

  Tristan gulped. He was no good at lying. “What happened?”

  “What happened?” Drakewell shouted. “Don’t give me that bilge.” He took a step forward, hands curling into fists. “You burned the entire building down, Fairholm. Don’t lie.”

  Tristan cursed inaudibly. He was a bloody idiot. He had never wanted this, never expected to cause real damage.

  Just as Tristan was about to make a halfhearted excuse, Leila spoke. “Professor?” She stepped forward, hands twisting together behind her back. “Please—I was the one who started the fire. But I didn’t mean it to destroy anything.”

  Drakewell’s eyes widened, the shadows beneath his brows growing darker. “Swanson!” he barked. “Is this true?”

  Panicked, Tristan said, “No, Professor, she’s lying, I—”

  Leila kicked him sharply in the ankle, and he broke off, wincing.

  “This behavior is intolerable,” Drakewell said harshly, his eyes darting between Tristan and Leila. “If you don’t give me the truth right now, you’re both going into the tunnels. People have died down there before—this wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Headmaster, be reasonable!” Quinsley barked.

  “You know we need Tristan,” Alldusk said. His usually mild voice had a sharp edge to it. “He and Amber are the only ones with a natural inclination for magic. You said yourself that Tristan may have to take your place someday, Headmaster.”

  As though emboldened by Alldusk’s words, Merridy raised her hand timidly and said, “We should take a vote.”

  Drakewell turned on her. “Put your hand down, Merridy,” he barked. “This is not a democracy.”

  “Who says it’s not?” Quinsley said angrily, advancing on Drakewell.

  With Drakewell’s attention averted, Tristan took a step back and pressed his spine against the wall. He took Leila’s hand and pulled her back as well, afraid she would try to interfere again.

  “We all started from the same place,” Quinsley continued, his voice rising. “We we
ren’t meant to divide power like this. I’m not just a bloody cook.” He smacked his fist against the wall.

  “Who appointed you as headmaster, anyway?” This was from one of the students—it sounded like Damian.

  “You remember why I took charge here,” Drakewell said. He was no longer shouting—his voice had gone low and cold. “You know damn well why I had to take the job.”

  “That doesn’t give you authority over every decision we make,” Alldusk said. Though his voice remained even, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We could send you away, if it came to that.”

  Drakewell gave a harsh laugh. “Who would take my job?”

  The teachers looked at each other.

  “I’m sure we could manage it,” Alldusk said grimly.

  “And where would you send me?” Drakewell said, his sunken eyes narrowing. “No one has ever left this place.”

  Tristan shivered violently. No one has ever left this place. He hadn’t realized that Leila’s hand was still in his, but she tightened her grip, reassuring him. No one has ever left...

  “Someone has left,” Quinsley whispered.

  Drakewell whirled, his face suddenly drained of color. Without another word, he stormed away, slamming the ballroom door with a crash behind him. From the hallway, Tristan heard something like a muffled explosion ringing against the marble.

  The teachers exchanged startled glances; Alldusk whispered something to Merridy, who straightened her glasses.

  “Fairholm,” Grindlethorn said after a moment, “the fire upstairs is not our biggest concern just now. If you confess responsibility, we’ll give you hours to work off rather than locking you up.”

  Tristan nodded quickly. “I set the fire,” he said. He wanted to tell the truth before Leila could intervene. “I didn’t mean it to spread, though—I had no idea it would burn down the building. I’m really sorry.”

  “Ridiculous,” Grindlethorn said coldly. “Fifty hours of punishment for inexcusable stupidity. You can start right away by helping us rebuild the entrance.”

  Alldusk stepped forward. “Classes this afternoon are cancelled,” he said, speaking to all of the students. “After lunch, please return to your rooms and stay put.”

  “Professor, don’t give Tristan so many hours,” Leila begged. “It was my fault too.”

  “Do you want punishment as well?” Grindlethorn snapped. “Shut up and get out of here.”

  Chapter 14: Pinecones and Punishment

  Tristan still had thirty hours of punishment when Friday evening came, so for the next week he was banned from meals and spent every minute of his free time outside, sawing boards and hauling wood to the clearing. With most of the teachers helping, the new school entrance sprang up in a matter of days, though Tristan wondered why no one tried to use magic to simplify the process. The pale, fresh boards of the new longhouse clashed with the weathered logs all around.

  Since Tristan could no longer join the others at dinner, Leila brought meals for him in the Subroom, which he ate hunched over his homework. Each night he returned to the Subroom after dark, arms cramped and numb from exhaustion, only to head straight for his waiting pile of textbooks, essays, and worksheets. Towards the end of the week, he was so exhausted that Leila and Rusty had to drag him off the end of his mattress to wake him, and he stumbled drunkenly to class without breakfast.

  On the second Sunday after the fire, Tristan still had nine hours left to work off and was ready to collapse.

  Leila shook him awake at noon; smoothing his hair off his ear, she whispered, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

  Groaning, Tristan rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “Tell Grindlethorn I’m sick,” he mumbled. “I’m too tired to work.” Every muscle in his body ached.

  “Quinsley says they’re letting you off,” Leila said. She tucked another strand of Tristan’s hair into place—he knew his scars were showing, but he was too sleepy to care. “He says it’s an early Christmas gift. Break starts on Wednesday, remember?”

  Tristan sat up, surprised, and squinted around the Subroom. “Where is everyone?” By this point, he had been anticipating another fifty hours added to his punishment once he’d finished this round of work.

  Leila sat back on her heels. “They’re up in the kitchen. Gracewright planted our Prasidimum an hour ago, and Quinsley made brunch for us to celebrate.”

  Shaking his head, Tristan climbed out of bed and let his rumpled blankets fall into a heap on the mattress. “I can’t believe I slept through that,” he said. Though he was still groggy, he smiled as he pulled on his sweatshirt and socks over his pajamas. It was wonderful to be free at last.

  Tristan had already forgotten about the Prasidimum by the time he was ready to leave the Subroom; when he passed through the seemingly empty doorway, he was surprised when the light vanished suddenly.

  “Did you turn off the lights?” he asked Leila.

  “No.”

  Tristan took a step backwards, and the lights reappeared. “It’s just like the barrier on the stairs,” he said in wonder. “That’s a Prasidimum too, it has to be.”

  “Yeah,” Leila said. “That’s what we all thought. Come on.”

  Rusty was waiting in the kitchen when Tristan and Leila arrived, along with Eli, Trey, Hayley, and Cailyn. All five of them were wearing their pajamas.

  “He’s alive!” Eli said, waving to Tristan from where he stood by the counter.

  Rusty grinned and pulled out the chair to his right. “Leila thought you’d never wake up,” he said. “Nice to see you again, buddy.”

  Smoothing his hair over his face, Tristan sank gratefully into the chair beside Rusty. Leila took the other one, and then Quinsley passed around plates. As they began helping themselves to the food, Evvie and Amber arrived. Tristan avoided Evvie’s curious eyes—she hadn’t said anything to him since the day he’d started the fire for her, and he was more than a little upset by her lack of gratitude.

  “Happy holidays,” Quinsley said, beaming at everyone. “Dig in.”

  There were towering plates of chocolate-chip pancakes, Nutella-filled crepes, and sweet cinnamon French toast. Tristan stacked a little of everything onto his plate and doused it with warm maple syrup before digging in. He ate ravenously, spearing whole pancakes and shoveling them into his mouth. He felt like he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  “We should decorate our room,” Hayley said. She set aside her fork and poured eggnog for herself. “We can get a tree from the forest, even if we don’t have ornaments.”

  “Let’s—” Rusty began, his mouth bulging with food. He swallowed, blinking, and tried again. “Let’s make popcorn balls and string cranberries, like when we were little.”

  “Ooh, and we can fold origami stars and birds,” Cailyn said, beaming.

  Tristan set down his fork and traced the rim of his mug. “I haven’t had a tree since I was seven,” he said. “That was before my mom left.” When his mom had dangled popcorn balls from the pine’s branches, Marcus had given it a name and treated it like a puppy.

  The others were looking at him curiously; Tristan cleared his throat and took a gulp of his hot chocolate.

  “A tree would be awesome,” Eli said, grinning. “Tristan, you can chop one down for us—you’ve got lots of experience hauling wood around.”

  Tristan grimaced, and the others laughed.

  Classes the next day were devoted to midterm exams. Tristan and the others had spent all of Sunday afternoon studying in the Subroom—Rusty called out questions, and whoever answered fastest won a chocolate truffle from the tin Quinsley had given them. Despite the last-minute studying, Tristan struggled with every exam the following day; if he passed any of them, it would be a miracle.

  Once their midterms were finished, there was nothing left to complete before the holiday break, so Tuesday’s classes were easy and festive.

  Most of the teachers went out of their way to make their last classes enjoyable. Just as with Halloween, Brikkens had taken
it upon himself to decorate the Lair for Christmas; when they came to class that morning, they saw that he’d hung red and green baubles from the branches of his lemon tree.

  Best of all, Brikkens gave an actual lesson in magic for the first time in months.

  Reaching down with great difficulty, he lifted two heaping baskets of pinecones and slid them to the middle of the table. Fat cheeks ruddy from exertion, he announced that they would be attempting to change the color of the pinecones.

  Though the others tried half-heartedly to change their pinecones, Tristan and Amber were the only ones who succeeded. Before long, everyone—Damian and Zeke included—was crowded around Tristan’s end of the table, shouting out colors to Amber.

  “Gold!” Eli said. “Make a gold one.”

  “Can you do patterns?” Zeke asked lazily.

  Amber looked flustered by the attention; she tugged at her wispy hair and stared at the marble in her hand as though she didn’t know what it was. She probably could do this spell without the marbles. After a long pause, she released the marble, and candy-cane stripes blossomed on the two pinecones closest to her hand.

  “Oh, bravo, my dear,” Brikkens said from behind the cluster of students. “That’s very good indeed, very nice.” He cleared his throat. “Be careful, there, Fairholm.”

  “What about little hearts?” Zeke suggested. He sniggered at Tristan, whose pinecone had begun to smoke.

  “That’s not very seasonal,” Leila said derisively, narrowing her eyes.

  Tristan looked between them, and Zeke shrugged. “Stars, then, if that’s what little miss grumpy-face wants.”

  With an unhappy glance at Tristan, Amber gave her next pinecone stars. Tristan swatted at his own pinecone, hastily smothering the tiny flame that had flared from its core. He seemed to have an affinity for fire as well as for magic, he thought sourly.

  At the end of the lesson, Tristan stuffed his four splotchy pinecones into his pockets and watched as Rusty and the others fought over the pile that Amber had enchanted.