Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  Kerrick gently cleared his throat, and Alastair realized he’d been staring at Esteban for far too long to even be explained by ‘apprentice assignment.’

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m happy to meet you, and thank you for the meal tonight. It was excellent.”

  Gretchen smiled at him. “Come by any time,” she said. “I had teenage boys of my own—I know how much they eat.”

  When they were back out of the kitchen, Alastair said, “Sorry about that. I guess I need more practice shifting between the senses.” He pulled out a notebook and jotted down the chefs’ names and the details of their auras.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Kerrick said. “We’re all used to…oddities around here. Let’s go meet the maids. They should be in their quarters this time of the evening.”

  The maids’ quarters, and presumably those of the other staff members, were on the first floor in the opposite wing of the house from Alastair’s room. Kerrick knocked on one of the doors, and after a moment it opened to reveal a woman in her late twenties. Her smile at Kerrick was a little broader than one might expect from mere work associates. “Hello, Kerrick,” she said. Then her gaze fell on Alastair. “Ah, this must be the new one.” She chuckled. “He’s just a baby.”

  Another woman appeared behind her: older, chubby, with an open, friendly face. She held a coffee cup. Alastair could hear the sound of a television playing softly in the background.

  “These are Natasha and Marie,” Kerrick told Alastair, pointing first at the younger woman and then at the older one.

  Alastair nodded and quickly introduced himself. Having them staring at him like that was making him uncomfortable, so he quickly shifted over and checked out their auras. Natasha’s was an attractive blue-purple, and Marie’s was a solid green.

  They wished the two maids a good evening and left. Once again, Alastair took the opportunity to pull out his notebook and make notations. “How big is the staff here, anyway?”

  “Not as large as you might expect—at least not the permanent staff.” Kerrick led him back out through the great room. “Samuels is in charge—he’s got an assistant, and we have the chefs, a head housekeeper, the maids, groundskeepers, a driver…if we need additional staff, we hire them on temporarily.”

  “But the permanent ones—they know about magic?”

  “Most of them do, yes. As you probably know, there are numerous families in Britain with some tradition of magic. Mr. Desmond tries to choose the staff from among the nonmagical members of those families whenever possible.”

  Alastair frowned. “And…they’re all right with that? They don’t resent it?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” He chuckled. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I suspect you’ve had a rather sheltered upbringing. I understand you’ve spent most of your life away at school, surrounded by the sons of well-to-do families. But magic doesn’t respect class. There are a number of old families with members who, while they’re familiar with the magical tradition, are otherwise quite pleased to accept Mr. Desmond’s generous offers.”

  Alastair knew that was true—and he also knew Kerrick was right. He had spent most of his life sheltered away from the realities of life. That was something he’d need to remedy, he decided. “I suppose I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “That’s why you’re here, sir,” Kerrick said. “Let’s continue—I’m afraid I’ve still got some other duties I must attend to tonight, so we’ll have to move along a bit.”

  For the next hour, Alastair got both a tour of the vast house and an introduction to the remainder of the staff. He hadn’t been exaggerating his guess about how big the place was: most of the hour was spent tramping from one hallway to the next as Kerrick showed him the various locations in its three-story space. “Of course, there are areas Mr. Desmond will have to show you,” he said when they’d returned at last to the great room. “You may have seen some of them already. But these are the…mundane bits.” He smiled. “I hope you have a good memory—we’re fresh out of maps. But if you get lost, just find a main hallway and eventually you’ll get back to somewhere you recognize.”

  Alastair wasn’t sure if he was joking—it was certainly possible he wasn’t. “I’ll try not to wander off into any secret portals or anything.”

  “Good call. We misplace more apprentices that way…”

  Alastair glanced down at his notes, which were much more substantial now. In addition to the chefs and the maids, he’d met and catalogued the auras of three groundskeepers, the head housekeeper, Samuels the estate steward, and the driver. “There’s still one more, right?” he asked Kerrick. “You said Samuels had an assistant.”

  “Ah. Yes, sir. That’s Selby. I almost forgot about him.” He thought a moment. “I believe you’ll find him in the dining room, polishing some of the silver. I hope you’ll forgive me, sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with him on your own. As I said, I’ve some duties I must attend to before Mr. Desmond arrives for his evening meal.”

  “Not a problem. Thank you, Kerrick. I appreciate that you’ve taken your time to shepherd me around.”

  “Happy to do it, sir. Have a good evening.”

  Alastair paused in the doorway to the dining room. As Kerrick had indicated, a suit-clad young man sat at the far end of the dining table, a wooden box open in front of him, a rag in his hand. He appeared to be in his early to middle twenties, dark-haired and slim. From the look of things, he’d either just started the polishing job or was almost finished with it.

  Alastair took the opportunity to examine Selby’s aura as he worked; it was a deep, reddish purple. “Excuse me…” he said softly when he finished, not wanting to startle the man.

  Selby didn’t look startled. In fact, he looked as if he’d known Alastair had been there all along. His gaze came up slowly, examining Alastair with an upward glance and narrowed eyes. “Got what you need?” he asked. His voice held a faint hint of a drawl; Alastair couldn’t tell if it was contempt.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You were staring at me long enough. Either you were looking at my aura or else you’re too shy to ask me out.” His smile and his eyes were coldly courteous.

  “Sorry,” Alastair said. “You’re not my type. And yes, I was looking at your aura.” What was wrong with this guy? He was supposed to be working for Desmond, but that hardly seemed the sort of attitude the mage would condone in his staff members.

  “Are you finished, then? I still have the rest of the silver to do before I return to my room.”

  “Er—yes. Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Not a problem. You’re not planning to run back to your master and tattle on me for being less than respectful to his new child prodigy, are you?”

  Alastair narrowed his eyes. “Why would I do that? And what’s your problem, anyway? I haven’t done anything to you.”

  Selby shrugged. “No, I suppose you haven’t. Now run along. I’m sure you’ve got something you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “I do, yes.” Alastair paused to make a note in his notebook, then left the way he’d come. How odd that the young man would dislike him already, when they’d barely met. “Child prodigy,” he’d called him. Did he resent the fact that Desmond had taken on someone so young? Alastair remembered what Kerrick had said about Desmond’s habit of hiring staff members from families familiar with magic—perhaps Selby was one of those.

  Ah, well. He could deal with it. Not everybody was going to like him, and if Selby didn’t, then that was the way it was. He certainly wasn’t planning to do anything to suck up to the unpleasant young man.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, Alastair showed up at Desmond’s workroom with half an hour to spare before his lesson was due to start. He stood studying the pile of books: he’d worked hard for nearly four hours last night, so
it was smaller now, and better organized. Out of the thousand-odd books, about a quarter of them were back on their various shelves, and another quarter were stacked in neat columns on the floor next to the remainder. He still had a lot to do, but at least he felt like he was making progress.

  He continued thinking about the books as he grabbed a duster from the closet and ran it over the shelves and the spines of the books he’d already put on them. Even after his efforts last night, he could see he’d missed a few spots. This place was going to give him a constant battle against dust—he’d have to set aside a bit of time at the end of each session to keep it under control.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stone.”

  Alastair jumped. He hadn’t heard the door open, nor any footsteps, but there was Desmond, all the way across the room from the entrance, watching him with that severe, imperious scrutiny that seemed to be his default facial expression.

  “Good morning, sir.” He hurried to put away the duster, then took his place in front of Desmond.

  “I trust your first day went well.” His gaze flicked sideways to the pile of books. “Making progress, I see.”

  “Yes, sir. I should have it finished in the next couple of days. Is that acceptable?”

  “Have it done by tomorrow. And remember, I will be testing you on your ability to locate particular volumes.”

  By tomorrow. That would be tough—he’d have to stay up even later tonight to get that done, along with his mundane studies and whatever Desmond assigned him today. “Yes, sir,” was all he said.

  “Were you able to complete your other assignment?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alastair didn’t need to pull out his notebook; he’d spent a few moments this morning going over the notes to ensure he could remember everyone’s details.

  “Your report, then, if you please.”

  “Kerrick’s aura is blue, sir. The maids, Natasha and Marie, are a sort of bluish purple and solid green. Selby’s is reddish purple. Esteban’s is yellow-green with sort of dark spots. Gretchen’s is yellowish orange. Samuels’s is…”

  Desmond held up a hand. “Describe Esteban’s again.”

  “Er—” A creeping sensation crawled down his back. The chef’s had been one of the first auras he’d examined during his tour—had he made a mistake? Maybe the spots were just shadows from the kitchen. “Yellow-green, sir.”

  “What did you mean about ‘dark spots’?”

  “Probably just an error, sir. Shadows or something.”

  “Describe them.”

  Alastair studied him for a moment. His face, as usual, was expressionless, but something in his eyes was odd. “There were—two or three of them, near his abdomen. They moved around. Sort of…shifted. Do they mean something, sir?”

  “Did you notice anything about the relative brightness of his aura compared to the others’?”

  He thought about it, trying to remember exactly what it had looked like. “It might have been a bit dimmer, sir. Or else Gretchen’s was brighter.”

  Desmond nodded once. “I see. Please continue.”

  A little flustered, Alastair nonetheless took a moment to order his thoughts, then rattled off the remainder of his report on the staff and their auras.

  “Well done. Do you have anything else to report?”

  Alastair thought about Selby and his oddly hostile behavior, but that was between the two of them. “No, sir.”

  Desmond’s icy eyes bored into him for several seconds, but he didn’t ask further questions. “All right, then. Today we will begin with a technique that every mage should master—a shield.”

  “A shield, sir?” Alastair had visions of himself and Desmond standing on opposite sides of the workroom, flinging fireballs at each other and blocking them with glowing magical barriers.

  “Much of what we will be working on as time goes on—particularly if you pass your probation—has the potential to be highly dangerous. You must be able to protect yourself. We will proceed no further with the practical aspects of your studies until you can prove sufficiently to me that you can do so. So it is in your best interests to pay attention and to master the rudiments of this technique quickly.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

  Desmond waved a hand and a chair slid across the floor. It came to rest facing him, about six feet away. “Sit down.”

  When Alastair had done so, he gestured again and a rolling blackboard came to a stop next to him. “All of the magic I will teach you,” he said, “is centered on the will. On the mastery of the forces around you. As mages, we have the ability to affect these forces—to bend them to our will. But nature, Mr. Stone, is not eager to conform to our wishes. It will fight back, and if you haven’t sufficient strength of will to oppose it, you will never be more than a mediocre practitioner at best.” He began to pace. “Normally, my apprentices do not even begin to perform any sort of practical magic until they have been studying theory for months. I insist on a firm theoretical grounding, and I likewise insist that their understanding of the building blocks of magical formulae be airtight before I permit them to continue.”

  Alastair didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure why Desmond was telling him this.

  “Since you are on probation, I must handle you differently. I can’t waste time teaching you nothing but theory, only to have you fail the first time I try you with something practical. It would waste both our time. So instead, I will teach you a small number of practical techniques to help me determine if you have the talent and the will to proceed. Do you know what usually happens to mages who have strong talent but weak will, Mr. Stone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Most of them fail to progress beyond the basic levels of magic. Of those who do, many of them become black mages. You do know the difference between a black and a white mage, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. White mages power their own magic, and black ones take power from others.”

  “Precisely. None of this ‘good’ and ‘evil’ rubbish. That’s simplistic thinking. Black mages, when you get down to it, don’t have the willpower to trust their own resources. Do you know what happens to mages who have strong will but weak talent?”

  Alastair considered. “I suppose they might find the training process frustrating.”

  “They often do,” Desmond agreed. “Occasionally they can become accomplished mages to the limit of their talent, but I won’t train them. Many teachers will, but I find they require far more instruction and handholding than their prospects warrant.”

  He faced Alastair again. “So, your nonstandard curriculum for this month is designed so I can determine whether your will and your talent are at the levels I require.”

  He began drawing a series of diagrams and formulae on the blackboard. “The shield, Mr. Stone, is a tangible manifestation of your will. With it, you can block everything from a spell to a physical attack. If your will is strong enough, a good shield can save you from significant damage. For now, we will work with relatively harmless items, but as time goes on I will expect you to be able to handle more formidable threats.”

  Alastair nodded. He’d heard that good shields could stop bullets, or even protect you from being hit by a car. Was Desmond planning to shoot him? If so, he hoped it wouldn’t be for a while.

  “You mentioned that you were successful in producing a minor ward,” Desmond said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The principle of the shield is similar.” He turned back to the diagram and began explaining the sigils and notes he’d written. After a time, he turned back. “The secret to a good shield is to hold this pattern in your mind and then project it outward, along with your desire to repel whatever is attempting to reach you. You do this by gathering energy from your own internal reserves. Do you understand the pattern?”

  Alastair studied it for
a moment. Desmond was right: it was similar to the ward he’d created. But the ward had taken him three days. He wouldn’t have that kind of time if someone was taking shots at him. “I…think so, sir.”

  Desmond waved his hand, and a wicker basket flew from a shadowy corner of the room and landed on a nearby table. “Then we shall find out. Gather your concentration, and project your will outward.”

  Alastair did as he was told, trying to hold the complicated pattern in his mind. He had no idea if anything was actually happening. He’d never done any sort of instant technique like this, and he couldn’t be sure—

  Something hit him hard in the chest and bounced off.

  He took a step back, startled, then looked down. Whatever it was, it hadn’t hurt him as much as surprised him. He bent and picked it up. A beanbag. He glanced up at Desmond—

  Another beanbag hit him, this time in the shoulder.

  “I don’t see your shield, Mr. Stone,” Desmond said. “Try again. I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself.”

  Alastair closed his eyes, heart pounding. Just visualize the pattern, gather energy, and project your will. Desmond made it sound so easy! He snatched a glance at the board again, trying to force himself to calm down, to visualize the pattern, to remember how he’d done the ward and figure out how it differed from this faster, more transient application. If he could only—

  A beanbag smacked him in the forehead, hard.

  Growling, he knocked it away with his hand.

  Damn it, I’m failing already!

  Is it fair for him to expect me to do this so quickly, though?

  Fair has nothing to do with it, you idiot. He doesn’t give a damn about fair. You either do it or you’re going home.