The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  “Why?” asked Will.

  “He believed experiences that create intense awareness tune the self to a higher consciousness, like a signal amplifier for the soul. And that one of the most effective ways to induce this state is the perception, as opposed to the reality, of danger. Your recent experiences might have given you a sense of this.”

  Maybe that’s my problem. Danger put the zap on my brain.

  Will’s eyes felt like they were revolving in their sockets. His palms swam in a clammy sweat. He didn’t understand it. Heights had never bothered him before, but this uncanny place made him want to drop to his hands and knees and crawl back out the way they’d come. He raised his head to avoid looking down. The corridor dead-ended ahead in a room filled with blinding light.

  “That’s why Tom Greenwood founded the Center a hundred years ago: to introduce the future leaders of our country to each other, but more importantly to themselves. Or to quote him: ‘to their future selves.’ Think about that.”

  Will nodded as if he understood—he didn’t, really—and moved robotically forward, feeling more brittle with every step. He realized the room at the end of the corridor was a circular observatory. Built around a large, elaborate brass telescope.

  “The world’s always changing, Will. But now it’s accelerating at a rate almost beyond our ability to comprehend. Each generation faces bigger challenges and more responsibilities. If the human race expects to survive, we can’t just evolve with it. We have to evolve fast enough to stay ahead of that curve.”

  They stopped at the end of the corridor. The observatory chamber opened ahead like a globe attached to the end of a stick. The walls, the ceiling, and the entire floor below the telescope were all fashioned from clear glass bricks.

  Rourke walked onto the nearly invisible floor: “Are you with me so far, Will?”

  Adrenaline pulsed in Will’s gut. Keeping his eyes on Rourke, he stepped inside. He felt like he was tumbling through open air. He reached the antique telescope and tried to anchor himself by focusing on its intricate workmanship. Anything to stop his head from snapping off at the stem.

  “When you look around, wherever you might be on the planet, fifty percent of the people you see are below average. The rest are, for the most part, only slightly above average. I’m not suggesting there’s anything wrong with being average, because there isn’t. But as a mathematician, I can assure you these numbers don’t lie. Exceptional people are, by definition, exceptionally rare. We also know, from studying human history, that every innovation or adaptation that’s allowed us to leap forward as a species has been made by less than one-thousandth of one percent of the people alive in that moment.”

  Will felt close to freaking out entirely, in a way that would make the worst impression on the one man whose goodwill right now he could least afford to lose. He leaned in and looked through the brass eyepiece. Expecting a dim view of the daylight sky, he couldn’t identify what appeared: Blurry globes and fuzzed-out splotches of color floated through his field of vision, like a slide of microbial life in a drop of water viewed through a microscope.

  Then he realized: The telescope was trained on the commons in the middle of campus half a mile away. He was watching the magnified faces of students as if they were a few feet in front of him, moving in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope.

  “And in this moment, because the stakes for survival keep edging higher, the need is greater than ever to identify and educate and prepare this tiny percentage within each generation who are capable of meeting our future challenges.”

  He can’t be talking about me. This is some ridonkulus cosmic joke. I’m not up for saving the planet. I couldn’t even save my parents.

  “So as you look around today … and try to imagine, Will, that you’re in our auditorium with the rest of the student body—”

  “Okay.”

  “All of these young men and women, like you, possess the talent and potential to become exceptional. Uncommon people who will one day do uncommon things. And if we do our jobs correctly, by the time you leave here for the wider world, you will be ready to realize that potential.”

  For the briefest moment, Will caught a glimpse of his own face moving through the crowd. He adjusted the eyepiece, trying frantically to find “himself” again. Instead, a startling image seared his mind: Every face in the crowd was his. Will closed both eyes and held on.

  “In the meantime, make new friends. Connect. Learn from each other, and for each other. Because one day, much sooner than you realize, this will become your world. Your generation’s time to put your hand on the wheel and navigate the way. But not yet. Until then, enjoy this part of your journey. Make friends with your hopes and dreams as well as with each other.”

  The headmaster took out an old wooden pipe, filled it from a worn leather pouch, and lit it with a safety match that he struck on the telescope.

  “Godspeed, go in peace and so on, and here concludes my opening address,” said Rourke as he puffed the bowl to life. “That wasn’t too terribly painful, was it?”

  “No, sir.”

  The sulfurous snap of the match and the savory, sweet smoke from Rourke’s tobacco filled the air. Will couldn’t catch his breath.

  “I’m the third headmaster in our history. I’ve given that speech fifteen times. The same speech Tom Greenwood gave to the first assembly of his inaugural class almost a hundred years ago, and to the other forty-three classes he welcomed. As did his son Franklin, who succeeded him as headmaster for thirty-eight years.”

  “Really,” said Will.

  “I like to picture Dr. Greenwood in those early days. Standing out here alone on a warm summer night. Gazing at the stars, lost in dreams about this bold experiment he’d brought into the world. Right here, in the middle of the heartland, on the edge of the great North American plains. When our country itself was on the cusp of first realizing its own potential. What a perfect place to dream.”

  What a perfect place to die, thought Will.

  With that, he pitched forward, unconscious, and face-planted on the transparent floor.

  BROOKE SPRINGER

  Will heard soft classical music, then voices murmuring nearby. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a bed in a dimly lit room. Shades of white and gray appeared as the room gradually came into focus.

  “He’s awake,” he heard someone say.

  Dan McBride sat by his bedside, regarding him with gentle concern. Lillian Robbins joined him a moment later. A young female nurse in a crisp white uniform appeared on the other side of the bed.

  “Where am I?” asked Will.

  “The infirmary,” said McBride. “You gave us quite a fright, young man.”

  “How are you feeling?” asked Robbins.

  His head ached sharply when he tried to move. He raised a hand to the left side of his head where it hurt the most and felt a thick bandage. His left index finger wore a clip connected to a pulse monitor that the nurse was now checking.

  “Okay, I think,” said Will. “What happened?”

  “An adverse reaction to the Infinity Room,” said McBride. “You passed out and banged your head when you fell. Took six stitches to zip you up.”

  Will noticed a small bandage inside his right elbow.

  “What’s this?”

  “A blood sample,” said Robbins. “Precautionary tests.”

  “If it’s any comfort,” said McBride, “you’re not the first new student to find that place a bit overstimulating. I haven’t set foot in there for years.”

  “Dr. Rourke sends his apologies,” said Robbins.

  Will closed his eyes against the pain. “How long was I out?” he asked.

  “About twenty minutes,” said Robbins. “Dr. Rourke drove you himself.”

  “How long do I have to stay?”

  “Until they check under the hood,” said McBride. “And no more rugby for you today, young man.”

  The curtain ahead was yanked aside, and a teasing femal
e voice said, “You’re definitely up for a Drama Club Award, though.”

  A girl about Will’s age, wearing a school uniform skirt and blouse, held the curtain at the foot of his bed. She was slender, athletic, with shoulder-length, fair curly hair the color of wheat and cornflower-blue eyes. And she wore a wry, crooked smile slightly at odds with the rest of her delicate, freckled features.

  “For Most Dramatic Entrance Ever,” she said. “Bleeding all over the headmaster is a real attention-getter.”

  She’s definitely got mine, thought Will.

  “Will, this is Brooke Springer,” said Robbins. “Brooke will be your student liaison for the first few days.”

  “She’ll show you around and help you settle in,” said McBride.

  “They give me all the hopeless cases,” said Brooke with the sweetest smile.

  “I feel better already,” said Will. “Is this going to leave a scar?”

  “Your injury, or spending time with me?” asked Brooke.

  “Guess I can always come back for more stitches,” he said.

  Brooke giggled. Good sign, thought Will.

  They let him out of bed after the nurse rechecked his vitals. She told him to come in for a follow-up in two days, avoid strenuous exercise, and get plenty of rest. He didn’t appear to have a concussion, but he was to call if any symptoms appeared. The nurse insisted he use a wheelchair, which Brooke insisted on pushing to the infirmary’s back door.

  #86: NEVER BE NERVOUS WHEN TALKING TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. JUST PRETEND SHE’S A PERSON, TOO.

  “So this is your idea of a good time,” said Will. “Pushing guys around.”

  “Hush,” whispered Brooke. “They’ll think you’re still woozy.”

  “Let’s meet in my office tomorrow morning at nine, Will,” said Robbins as they stepped outside. “We’ll go over your schedule and curriculum. Mr. McBride’s volunteered to be your faculty counselor for now.”

  “If that’s all right with you, Will,” said McBride.

  Will said that was more than all right. He stood up, shook hands with both adults, and they walked the wheelchair back inside. Brooke pointed to an electric golf cart parked nearby, bearing the Center’s crest and colors.

  “Your chariot awaits, sir,” she said.

  Will’s duffel sat in a basket in the back. He eased himself into the passenger seat while Brooke slipped behind the wheel. Will’s forehead pulsed with pain, his side ached, his left ankle throbbed, and even though the sun had warmed the air into the low thirties, he was still absolutely freezing. But after all he’d been through, these discomforts rooted him firmly into his body and felt oddly reassuring.

  “This is all you brought,” she said. “You travel light.”

  “Habit, I guess.”

  “So tell me: What’s your first impression?”

  “At six I could do a pretty awesome Scooby-Doo.”

  She frowned at him. “How many head injuries have you had?”

  “None that I remember. Is that a bad sign?”

  “I meant your first impression of the school, you goof,” said Brooke.

  She twisted her hair into a ponytail, secured it with a clip, slipped the cart into gear, and steered them onto a crosswalk. She wore gray suede high-top cross-trainers with a school logo.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “We’ve lived all over.”

  “Military family?”

  “No. Where are you from?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Newbie.” She waved at some buildings they passed, like a model on a game show pointing out prizes. “Those are the kitchens. That’s security, transportation. This, as you may have gathered, is the more quotidian side of the campus.”

  Like I don’t know what quotidian means. A spike of irritation prompted Will to say, “Would you like to hear what I know about you?”

  She glanced sideways at him and instead of “Oh, please”—which Will knew she was thinking—said, “What could you possibly know about me?”

  “You’re fifteen,” said Will. “An only child. Wealthy family. You play the violin. You grew up in suburban Virginia, but you’ve lived in at least two Spanish-speaking countries because your father works for the State Department—”

  Brooke slammed on the brakes and looked at him in alarm. “How could you know that? Did you read my dossier?”

  Will shook his head and smiled. Brooke’s eyebrows knotted, her eyes flashing. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, expecting an explanation, letting him know she didn’t like waiting.

  “I study regional accents,” said Will. “You have calluses on the fingers of your left hand consistent with playing a stringed instrument. I speak Spanish, and you sound like you learned it as a second language. I put that together with proximity to DC and came up with ‘State Department.’ ”

  All of which would be much easier for her to accept than My parents trained me to obsessively observe and assess every stranger I meet for reasons they never bothered to explain. And it’s a hard talent to turn off, especially when the “stranger” is a beautiful girl.

  “How did you know I’m an only child?” she asked.

  “Takes one to know one. Am I right?”

  “Yes. And Dad was the ambassador to Argentina. But I don’t play the violin. I play the cello.”

  Brooke drove on, pretending he hadn’t freaked her out. But she didn’t seem to be looking at him from quite as steep an angle down her narrow, patrician nose.

  “There’s the Administration Building—pay attention, Captain Concussion, you’re meeting Dr. Robbins there in the morning.”

  “Got it.”

  “And this is the main campus coming into view on our left—”

  Brooke kept up her museum guide patter, naming every building—including three different libraries—as they tooled around the commons. Will paid zero attention. The girl behind the wheel was much more fascinating, someone from a world of money, privilege, and power, a million miles from his own. He’d never met anyone like her. She was gorgeous, and her confidence was stunning, but not in the manipulative way of a girl who relied solely on her looks. Her poise and intelligence impressed him even more. He decided that since she didn’t know the first thing about him—and how his pedigree paled in comparison to hers—it might be best to keep it that way.

  As they made their way around, other students waved, regarding an obvious newcomer with friendly smiles. Brooke waved back, as serene and elegant as the Queen of the Rose Parade, even at the carts driven by smiling security guards, who all looked like Eloni: heavyset, with round faces and curly black hair.

  “Is every security guard here Samoan?” asked Will.

  “You noticed already,” she said, then glanced at him again. “Not that I should be surprised.”

  “What’s the reason?”

  “Aside from the fact that they’re huge and agile and strong enough to tear a bus apart with their bare hands?”

  “Why? Is this a high school or an NFL team?”

  “It’s a private school for kids from high-profile families with legitimate security issues. Plus they’re friendly, trustworthy, and incorruptible.”

  “What’s the deal? Are they all from the same family?”

  “They’re from the same aiga, or clan,” said Brooke. “My favorite theory, although it’s probably an urban legend, is that they’re reformed gangsters from South Side Chicago. Eloni is their matai, or chief. My father says that because of their great warrior culture, we should be glad Samoa is on our side. And if that ever changes, be grateful that Samoa’s just a tiny speck in the South Pacific.”

  They followed a path away from the commons through a birch forest on a narrow plateau. Along a winding lane stood four identical redbrick buildings, each four stories tall with gabled roofs and lots of ornamental detail. They looked more postmodern in style than anything else Will had seen at the Center, pleasing to the eye and welcoming to the spirit.

  “These are the residence halls,
” said Brooke. “Bring your bag.”

  Brooke parked in front of the last building in the row. He followed her to the front doors. A sign on the wall read GREENWOOD HALL.

  “Looks different from the rest of the school,” said Will.

  “Big-bucks architect,” said Brooke. “Winner of many awards.”

  He followed her down a wide empty hallway with stone floors and light pine woodwork to a door with a sign: GREENWOOD HALL PROVOST MARSHAL. She pushed the door open and pointed to a table in the square, wood-paneled room.

  “Put your bag down there,” she said. “And stand back.”

  LYLE OGILVY

  Puzzled, Will did as he was told. Brooke knocked on an inner door, then stepped back beside him. Moments later a tall, slope-shouldered young man entered, wearing a blue blazer with the Center’s crest on the pocket and a Windsor-knotted tie striped with school colors. He closed the door quietly and precisely behind him. He wore heavy black wingtips on big flat feet that splayed to the side as he walked. A helmet of oily black hair circled the crown of his unusually long head, and looked as if he ironed it every morning. His face was framed by an oversized brow and prominent jaw, creating an impression that the fleshy features jammed in between were fighting for space. Gray-green circles under his eyes added the only color to his deathly pale complexion. He sniffled constantly, fighting either allergies or a sinus infection. He looked at least eighteen.

  “Will West, Lyle Ogilvy,” said Brooke. “Greenwood Hall’s provost marshal.”

  Ogilvy looked Will over with darting black eyes that radiated furtive intelligence. He took two measured steps forward, offering a moist handshake and an obsequious smile. Something about Lyle, his stooped posture and covert vigilance, reminded Will of an undertaker or a large bird of prey. Brooke edged back as Lyle advanced; she seemed more than a little afraid of him.

  “So pleased to have you with us,” said Lyle.

  A surprisingly high-pitched voice for a person of his height and mass. Lyle affected a posh accent, halfway to British, the way actors in old movies talked when they wore tuxedos. His tone stayed polite on the surface, but a half-concealed sneer suggested he saw Will as his inferior.