Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

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Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles Page 9

by R. L. King


  “Mr. Stone…”

  “Yes! Yes, just—give me a moment, please.”

  Desmond didn’t look angry or perturbed. “You are overthinking the process, Mr. Stone. This is not a ward. In order for a shield to be effective, it must be near-instant in its execution. Consider the way you knocked the beanbag away when it hit you. This time, I want you to do that again, but before it hits you. Use your hand only—no magic.”

  Alastair blinked. That was odd, but if it meant he wasn’t getting pegged in the head, he was willing to give it a shot. He faced Desmond and waited.

  Desmond didn’t move. The beanbag rocketed out of the basket and flew toward him, so fast he barely had time to react.

  Fortunately, although he was rubbish at sport in general, one thing he did have going for him was fast reactions. Without thinking, he knocked the missile from the air before it hit him in the face.

  “Good. Now picture the pattern clearly in your mind. Keep it there. The next time the beanbag comes toward you, project your will to deflect it. It’s not enough simply to desire to deflect it. There is a difference between desire and will. Desire is merely emotion. Will is power. The sooner you internalize that difference, the more progress we will make. You must—”

  Without changing expression or position, Desmond sent another beanbag speeding toward Alastair. Startled, he fumbled with the pattern and it slipped from his mind. The beanbag slammed into his chest hard enough to knock him backward.

  Panting through clenched teeth, he glared at Desmond. Right now, if will really was power, he felt as if he could will the entire basket of beanbags to hit the man in the face. But even as his anger rose, he knew it wasn’t at Desmond. It was at himself.

  Just like the ward, but faster. He gathered the pattern again, tapping into the same reserves he’d used when casting the ward. “Throw something else,” he rasped.

  “Excuse me?” Desmond asked.

  “Throw something else,” he repeated. He realized there was a snarl in his voice, but he didn’t care. “Something real.”

  Desmond didn’t argue. He didn’t question or protest. A small wooden footstool streaked toward Alastair, its three legs pointed at his chest.

  Alastair didn’t let himself think this time. He already had the pattern in his mind. He’d already pulled the power. All that was left was the will.

  Go!

  It wasn’t a very good shield. It was small, misshapen, and flared with a bright glow only a few inches in front of him.

  But none of that mattered. It was a shield.

  And it worked.

  The footstool slammed into it, hard enough that Alastair was sure it would have hurt a lot more than a beanbag if he’d let it hit him. The shield blazed even brighter, then winked out.

  The footstool hit the floor in front of him with a crash.

  He joined it an instant later as his head exploded with an agony he’d never felt before. It felt as if Desmond had buried a cleaver in his skull. For a moment, all he could process was pain as black spots and bright, pointed red spikes danced in his vision. He writhed on the cold floor clutching his head, heedless of anything else around him. Desmond could have beaten him to death with the footstool, and he’d have been powerless to stop it.

  “Mr. Stone?” Desmond’s voice cut into the pain.

  Alastair didn’t answer. He felt wetness on his upper lip and licked it, revealing the sharp, coppery tang of blood.

  “Mr. Stone.” The voice was sharper this time.

  Alastair unclenched, slowly stretching his legs out and pulling his hands away from his head. He rolled over on his back and looked up.

  Desmond stood over him, hands at his sides. Next to him lay the shattered footstool; one of its legs was broken off.

  The throbbing faded, at least a bit. With tentative care, he sat up and put a cold hand to his forehead.

  Desmond offered him a crisp white handkerchief. “Stay seated until you feel ready to get up. There is no hurry.”

  Alastair took the handkerchief and swiped it across his lower face. It came away bloody. Eyes widening, he stared up at Desmond. Had he broken something in his brain? Given himself a stroke? Had that desperate little stunt ended his magical career before it even began?

  “It’s just a nosebleed,” Desmond said. “It won’t last long. How do you feel?”

  Alastair pinched the handkerchief over his nose and tilted his head back. “Like someone tried to cut the top of my skull off.”

  “Quite understandable. What you’re experiencing is the aftereffect of attempting to channel more magical power than your body can handle, coupled with the psychic feedback from the disruption of your shield.”

  “I—” He glanced at the broken footstool again, as the memory flooded back: he’d done it. He’d managed some kind of shield, and deflected the thing before it hit him. “The shield—”

  “Yes, Mr. Stone. The shield.” He waved his hand and, a glass of water floated over from some unseen corner of the room. “Drink this.”

  Alastair did as he was told, draining the glass while holding the handkerchief in place. After a moment longer he removed it, relieved to see the bleeding seemed to have stopped. He handed the glass to Desmond and slowly pulled himself to his feet, noting the bright red spatters decorating the front of his white shirt. His heart still pounded fast, and a drop of sweat ran down his forehead. He swiped it away with the non-bloody portion of the handkerchief.

  “Why did you tell me to throw that footstool at you, Mr. Stone?” Desmond asked.

  Alastair swallowed. It was hard to think through the pounding in his head. Was this another test? “I’m—sorry, sir. I thought I might get it better if there was an actual threat.”

  “Your shield was far too small. It barely stopped the footstool—it would have buckled instantly if faced with a threat that might have seriously injured you. As it is, you’ll need to make it significantly more substantial, to prevent the exact sort of painful feedback you experienced today.”

  “Sir—” Alastair protested. What did this man want? Was nothing good enough for him?

  “However,” Desmond continued, “you showed an excellent grasp of the principles involved, and you executed my instructions beyond the level I could reasonably expect of an apprentice on his first day of training. I expect that, as you continue to refine the technique, you will produce something far more impressive in the weeks to come. Well done, Mr. Stone.”

  “Er—thank you, sir.” Alastair’s mind reeled. Had Desmond just given him praise? He didn’t think the man ever did that. Don’t let it go to your head. “Shall we…try it again?” He wasn’t sure he could, not with his head pounding as hard as it was, but he was damned if he’d show weakness now.

  “Not today. That was more than sufficient for the practical portion of our training for this morning. You understand the principle of the shield now, correct?”

  As if he could ever forget it! “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We shall spend another hour going over some theory you will need for your later lessons. Your assignments for today are to continue organizing your library and tidying the workroom, completing the reading I give you following this lesson, and doing whatever portion of your mundane studies you consider sufficient. This evening, we will spend more time on the shield.”

  “Yes, sir.” Though he was disappointed they wouldn’t be getting right back on the horse with practical magical training, Alastair had to admit he was relieved as well. His head still hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down in a dark room until it stopped throbbing. But Desmond had said headaches would be part of his life during his apprenticeship, so he might as well get used to it.

  Besides, he’d created a shield. On his first day. That had to be worth something.

  Desmond pulled a
chair over with a wave of his hand. “Sit down then, and let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Over the next two days, Alastair began settling in to life at Caventhorne. To his surprise and delight, he discovered that once he’d gotten his mind around the necessary principles for the shield and conjured a few under Desmond’s direction, he quickly gained skill with it. He still wasn’t anywhere near ready to have Desmond start shooting guns or throwing armoires at him, but by the end of the second day he’d gotten to where he could cast the spell fast enough to deflect the beanbags consistently. Desmond began flinging a few at him randomly during his lessons, and aside from a couple that smacked him in the head, he managed to deal with the others. Maybe not with the level of elegance and skill of an experienced mage, but for two days in, he felt he wasn’t doing half bad.

  Perhaps he’d be able to handle this apprenticeship thing after all. The magic part was far more interesting than tidying the workroom or doing his mundane studies, without a doubt, but at least so far he was keeping up with Desmond’s expectations of him. He’d even managed to finish cataloguing and shelving all the books in the library by Desmond’s deadline, and passed his first test by retrieving requested books within the time his master allotted.

  Things seemed to be going well, but he was certainly busier than he’d ever been at Barrow—and the constant unspoken fear of getting chucked out if he put a toe out of line didn’t make the process any less stressful. With everything he had to manage, he felt like he was spinning a half-dozen explosive plates on sticks, and if he let even one drop he’d blow himself up. But his pride at how quickly he’d picked up the shield spell carried him through the rest.

  On the third morning, that pride took its first blow.

  When he arrived at the workroom, Desmond was nowhere to be seen. That was odd—usually his master was waiting when he arrived a little before the scheduled time, but this time the room was empty and dark.

  He switched on the lights and immediately noticed the information on the board was different from what they’d been studying the previous day. Curious, he approached it and began scanning the figures and sigils, trying to make sense of them. All he could determine was that it looked like another spell formula, and possibly had something to do with light.

  “Can you make anything of it, Mr. Stone?” Desmond’s voice came from perhaps three feet behind him.

  Alastair whirled, instinctively pulling up his newly-learned shield.

  No one was there.

  He dropped the shield. “Mr. Desmond?”

  A beanbag streaked from the basket and slammed into his arm. He whirled again, this time shifting to magical sight.

  Desmond’s now familiar gold-and-blue aura sprang into sight, but it appeared only as a man-shaped outline. The other side of the room showed clearly through the part where Desmond’s body should have been.

  A second later, his master shimmered into view, clad as usual in a formal suit. “Good morning, Mr. Stone. Perhaps my demonstration might have given you a suggestion as to today’s area of practical study?”

  For a second he was stumped, but then a slow smile spread across his face. “You’re going to teach me invisibility.”

  “Yes. A useful skill, though many find it difficult to maintain for more than a few moments. Once you master it, I will teach you another version—less effective, but easier to sustain.” His expression grew stern. “Before we begin, however, know this: I will not tolerate any misuse of either of these spells in my home. You will under no circumstances use them to deceive, conceal yourself from, or spy on any of the staff, nor will you use them in any way that does not befit a gentleman. If I receive word that you’ve done so, your probation will be terminated immediately. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” Alastair was too intrigued by learning a new spell to be offended by Desmond’s words—to be fair, teaching a teenage boy an invisibility spell at all represented a great deal of trust on his master’s part.

  “Good. Let’s get started, then. Sit down.”

  Desmond spent the next hour explaining what he’d written on the board. Alastair paid close attention, and grasped the concepts quickly. This didn’t look difficult at all. It was simply a matter of bending light to alter the perceptions of anyone who might be watching him. He was sure he’d catch on even faster than he had with the shield, since some of the concepts overlapped.

  “All right, now try it,” Desmond said at last. “Visualize the pattern I’ve shown you here, add power, and see how you do.”

  Alastair nearly leaped out of his chair in his eagerness. He studied the pattern on the board a moment longer, picturing it in his mind as he had for the shield, then gathered power, closed his eyes, and concentrated.

  Was it working yet? He didn’t feel any different, and there were no mirrors in the workroom.

  “Whenever you are ready, Mr. Stone.”

  He opened his eyes. “Er—it didn’t work, sir?”

  Desmond’s arms were crossed over his chest. He shook his head once.

  All right, maybe this would be a little harder than he’d thought. This time he kept his eyes open as he repeated the steps, holding his arm out in front of himself. If he were invisible, would he be able to see his own body? He wasn’t sure.

  He held the pattern in his mind, heart pounding, and once again added the power.

  He thought he saw his arm shimmer a little, but aside from that it remained frustratingly visible.

  “Be patient, Mr. Stone. This is a difficult spell, and I don’t expect you to get it right away. Take your time.”

  But I expect to get it right away, Alastair thought. He redoubled his efforts, pausing for another glance at the board. Nothing there was beyond his comprehension, so why couldn’t he do it?

  Half an hour later, he was barely closer to achieving his goal than he’d been when he’d started. He swiped his hair off his forehead in annoyance, trying to ignore the growing dull headache that had been blooming for the last fifteen minutes. Desmond continued watching him, his expression calm and unreadable, occasionally offering a suggestion or a bit of encouragement.

  Finally, though, he held up his hand. “All right, Mr. Stone. That’s enough of that for today. Continue practicing on your own time, and we’ll try it again tomorrow. Don’t be discouraged—every mage is different in his affinity for different types of spells. For now, we’ll continue with theory.” He flipped the board over and began to write.

  Alastair forced himself to concentrate on Desmond’s lesson and took good notes, but despite his master’s words, he was discouraged. The shield, once he’d gotten the hang of it, had come so easily for him. So had magical sight. He’d managed to produce both a minor ward and a detection ritual on his own, with nothing but books for guidance. Why couldn’t he manage a simple invisibility spell?

  When Desmond dismissed him at the end of his lesson, he trudged out of the workroom and took the lift upstairs feeling like he’d failed not just Desmond, but himself. All he wanted to do was retreat to his room and spend the rest of the afternoon in front of his mirror, working on the spell until he could manage it with the same ease as he did the others.

  Reluctant wisdom prevailed, however: he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this headache. Not to mention, he’d once again skipped breakfast, so he was starving. Lunch first, then if he felt better he might give the spell a few tries after.

  He passed Selby in the great room on his way to the kitchen. The young man looked him up and down with his cool, appraising gaze. “Rough morning…sir?”

  Alastair almost snapped a sarcastic reply, but realized that was probably what Selby was trying to goad him into. Instead, he made a noncommittal grunt and swept by without further response. Perhaps later he could ask Kerrick about Selby, if he could figure out a way to do it witho
ut arousing suspicion.

  To his surprise, he’d barely entered the kitchen when Esteban approached him. “Lunch is almost ready, sir,” the chef said. “But I wanted to speak with you in private for a moment, if I may.”

  “Is something wrong?” Alastair tried to remember if he might have done anything to offend the chef, but so far everything he’d had to eat at the house had been delicious.

  To his surprise, when Esteban spoke again, his voice shook a little. “I wanted to thank you, Mr. Stone.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you did the other day. Mr. Desmond spoke with me and told me that you had spotted something odd in my aura. He examined it himself and came to the same conclusion. He suggested I visit my physician.”

  Alastair stared at him. Those spots he’d noticed hadn’t just been shadows?

  “I did as he suggested,” Esteban continued, “and my doctor discovered a small irregularity that could easily have become a large irregularity if not caught early. I have you to thank for that.”

  “I—er—I’m glad to help,” he said. He’d never thought of auras as being diagnostic tools before. “You’re all right now, then?”

  “I will be, yes,” he said. “I’ll be out for a couple of days to have a minor procedure, but Gretchen and the others can easily handle my duties in the meantime.” He smiled. “I don’t want to keep you—I know Mr. Desmond keeps you quite busy. But thank you.”

  Alastair returned to the dining room feeling a good deal better than he had when he’d arrived. Perhaps he couldn’t manage the invisibility spell after one day’s study, and that still dug at him—but given the choice, Esteban’s words had done more to raise his mood than even praise from Desmond would have.

  CHAPTER TEN

 

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