Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  Over the next few days, Alastair barely had time to sit down for five minutes between magical instruction and practice with Desmond, outside study, and keeping up with his mundane lessons.

  To his growing frustration, he continued struggling with the invisibility spell. It took him two days to get to the point where he could even manage it at all, and even then he could only maintain it for about five seconds before it fizzled and died.

  Desmond still didn’t seem disturbed by this fact. “It appears we’ve identified one of your weak areas,” was all he’d said. “As I told you before, every mage has them. I’ll teach you the less powerful version, but we don’t have time during your probationary period to focus on any given spell too much. Later on, if you pass, we’ll have time to devote more effort to it.”

  Alastair’s frustration didn’t last too long, though. Over the next week and a half, he was learning too many other techniques—and succeeding at them—to spend much time dwelling on the one he couldn’t manage. By the end of his second week, his growing repertoire included not only magical sight and a defensive shield, but a telekinetic spell that allowed him to pick up small items and move them around the room, an analysis spell he could use to examine magical items and artifacts to determine their purpose, and a more robust version of the same detection spell he’d taught himself back at Barrow (this one worked on people as well—Desmond had tested his mastery of it by instructing him to locate Kerrick, who’d hidden on the second floor of the carriage house).

  Desmond also taught him how to adjust his shield to stop magical energy in addition to physical objects; Alastair had spent most of a three-hour session conjuring shields while Desmond threw various low-powered lightning, fire, concussion, and ice attacks at him.

  “I suppose you aren’t going to teach me any of those during my probation period,” he’d asked, feeling confident enough that day to risk what he hoped Desmond would identify as a joke.

  “You suppose correctly, Mr. Stone,” was all he’d said, his deadpan expression never slipping.

  Alastair didn’t mind. He was getting this. He was learning magic. Despite the fact that he’d known since he was a small child that it would happen someday, and despite seeing his father use magic around the house as naturally as mundanes used tools, it had always seemed to be a “sometime in the future” thing—something he’d be able to do eventually, but not for a long time. Sort of like University.

  But that wasn’t true anymore. He was doing it now. Each morning when he woke up, he still had to reassure himself it wasn’t just a dream.

  Sure, he wasn’t great at any of the spells yet. He couldn’t lift anything heavier than a large book, and he still wasn’t confident his shield spell could stop anything truly life-threatening—though if a marauding beanbag-slinger came after him, he was good to go. Even though he’d shown a much stronger affinity for the lesser version of the invisibility spell (Desmond called it a “disregarding spell,” because it didn’t so much make the caster invisible as prevent anyone from noticing him), he didn’t think he had a future as a magical spy. But none of that mattered. With the single exception of the invisibility spell, he’d taken everything Desmond had thrown at him and managed to make something of it. That was surely worth a bit of pride.

  He refused to admit it out loud, but he began to think he might just pull this off. He might just pass his probationary period, impress the lofty William Desmond enough to take him on as the youngest magical apprentice ever, and end up as a fully qualified mage by the time his peers had barely entered University.

  Heady stuff.

  But dangerous, too. Don’t get overconfident, he told himself for what had to be the hundredth time as he headed down for one of his morning lessons. Taking anything for granted could be disastrous. It could be that, as well as he thought he was doing, he hadn’t achieved the levels Desmond would require to continue training him. He had no way to know, since his master never revealed anything about his overall progress. So far he hadn’t been brave enough to ask, not wanting to sound like an overeager child.

  At the end of the lesson that day, Desmond closed up his books and erased the formulas he’d written on the blackboard. “I shall be away for the remainder of the day, Mr. Stone, so our afternoon lesson will be cancelled. For today, your assignment will be a bit different.”

  “Yes, sir?” Alastair leaned forward eagerly. Would Desmond give him a new technique to study on his own?

  “You’ve been working hard over these two weeks. Your progress so far has been quite satisfactory, but Kerrick informs me that you’ve been devoting all of your time to your studies, often to the detriment of your sleep and meals.”

  Alastair frowned, tilting his head. Desmond had yet to show any interest in anything but his magical training. True to what he’d said on their first day, he hadn’t made any attempt to enforce a schedule on Alastair beyond the times designated for their morning and afternoon lessons together. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “No doubt you are. You are young and resilient, and your dedication to your studies is admirable. But if you are to succeed in your magical career—regardless of who teaches you—you must learn balance. Otherwise, you risk burning yourself out, which will ultimately delay or even jeopardize your progress. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alastair still wasn’t sure where Desmond was going with this. Sure, he was tired most of the time, and often forgot about meals while buried in the depths of some fascinating bit of magical data, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. Who had time to sleep when there was magic to be mastered?

  “Good. Your assignment, then, is to take the rest of the day off. No magical study, no practice, no mundane lessons. The village of Wexley is about three miles north of here. I understand you enjoy running, or I believe Kerrick can find a bicycle you can borrow if you prefer. Go into town. Spend some time outdoors, and among other people.”

  Alastair’s frown deepened. “That’s…it, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stone,” he said firmly. He waved his hand and the books returned to their places on the shelves. “You might not believe it now, in your eagerness to learn as much as you can as quickly as you can—but there are times when merely allowing your mind to drift without any demands on it can result in improved performance. So that is your assignment. You’re not to think about magic or studies for the remainder of the day. We will resume tomorrow at the regular time. Off you go, now.”

  Alastair glanced at him sideways, but didn’t protest. In truth, Desmond’s words rankled—‘off you go’ was what you said to a child you wanted to get rid of, not an apprentice (even a probationary one) you’d promised to treat as an adult. He wondered if his aura showed his frustration as he left the room, but couldn’t do anything about it. Desmond hadn’t taught him that yet. It didn’t matter anyway, since he wasn’t making any effort to hide it.

  Wexley was, as Desmond had said, about three miles up a narrow, meandering road bounded on both sides by low stone walls separating it from lands dominated by pleasant forests and rolling meadows. Alastair paused his easy jogging pace to catch his breath as he reached the outskirts, taking in the little village.

  It was indeed little; he could see most of the main street from where he stood: shops, pubs, and quaint restaurants dominated the center of town, while more utilitarian businesses and residential areas ranged out on less-traveled lanes. It reminded him a lot of the village near his own home in Surrey, except even smaller and more boring.

  What did Desmond expect him to do here, anyway? He glanced at his watch; it was a little after one o’clock. Perhaps if he just found a place to have lunch and then walked around a bit looking in shop windows, he could head back to Caventhorne and use the afternoon to catch up on some lost sleep. Desmond certainly couldn’t fault him for that. His mind spun with the concepts his master had taught him today, and already he i
tched to get back to his lessons so he could put them to practical use. He still needed more practice on the invisibility spell, and he wasn’t happy with either his endurance or his mental strength when using the telekinesis. For that matter, even his physics and history reading held more appeal to him than a dull afternoon window-shopping in some backwater little town.

  But…Desmond had spoken, and at least for the remainder of the month, his word was law. Alastair zipped up his light jacket and set off at a fast walk toward the center of town.

  Proximity didn’t improve it. He supposed, objectively, that it was a nice enough little place, its quaint buildings earning their quaintness through legitimate age rather than the trend for putting up new structures designed to look like old ones. It was Saturday, so a number of people, both tourists and locals, strolled up and down the main street taking in the day and browsing the shops. The people he passed nodded politely, though he noticed a few who looked like locals gave him discreet, odd looks. Made sense, he supposed—in a village this small the locals probably all at least recognized each other, and an unfamiliar teenage boy not dressed like a tourist would stand out.

  He spotted a fish and chips shop with a small outdoor seating area—as good a place as any to grab a quick lunch. Barely paying attention to the savory aromas and vinegary tang inside, he placed his order and carried it outside, finding an out-of-the-way table where he could watch people walking by while trying to obey Desmond’s order not to occupy his mind with matters of magic or study.

  It wasn’t working. Halfway through his lunch he was already formulating ideas for how he might be able to improve his shield and wondering if he could get away with a little telekinesis practice before Desmond returned home.

  “Thought you might want this,” said a voice next to him, startling him from his thoughts.

  “Er—sorry?” He glanced up; a girl about his age stood next to the table, holding up a bottle of malt vinegar. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt covered by a white apron.

  She pointed at the bottle on his table. “Yours was empty.” She swapped the two, but didn’t leave right away.

  He studied her a moment. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a dusting of freckles across a slightly turned-up nose, and wide green eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Haven’t seen you ’round here.” She pulled a rag from her apron pocket and wiped down the other side of his table. “Visiting?”

  “Sort of.”

  “How can you be ‘sort of’ visiting?” Her smile was open and amused. “You either are or you aren’t. You sure don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “I’m here on a sort of…study thing.”

  She tilted her head and put the rag back, all pretense of working gone now. “Study thing?”

  He nodded in the general direction of where he’d come from. “Do you know Caventhorne Hall?”

  Her nose crinkled. “That odd old place up Greybriar? You’re up there?”

  “Is that what people here think—that it’s odd?”

  “It is odd. It’s like the house that time forgot or something. Couple of my friends from school know people who’ve been hired on for events and such up there—they say it’s huge and posh and formal, like something out of a history book or a museum. That true?”

  Alastair shrugged. He should be annoyed by her probing questions, but instead he found them charming. Besides, curiosity wasn’t a bad thing, and nothing she’d said had been wrong. “It’s fairly posh,” he admitted.

  She took in his light jacket, tracksuit bottoms, and trainers. “Are you some sort of athlete or something? Is that what you’re studying?”

  “Hardly.” He chuckled. “I’m Alastair Stone, by the way.”

  “That’s a posh name to go with a posh house, for sure. I’m Madeleine Hill. My dad owns the chip shop. That’s why I’m slaving away here on a Saturday instead of off getting in trouble with my mates.” She rolled her eyes and grinned. “So, what do you study up at that spooky old place? I’d be afraid to spend the night there. Some people say it’s haunted.”

  “It’s not haunted.” Not as far as he knew, anyway. But then again, with Desmond he really didn’t know much of anything for sure. His master could be hiding a whole fleet of ghosts up there. “I’m…on a short leave from my regular school down south. For some specialized study.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those.”

  “One of—those?”

  “You know—brainiacs. Though you don’t look like a nerd.” She gave him another once-over, not hiding her appreciation of what she saw.

  “What does a nerd look like, then?” he asked. Impulsively, he gestured toward the seat across from him. “Do you have time to sit down for a bit?”

  She was about to answer when a booming male voice came from the doorway. “Get back in here, girl! There’s tables to be cleaned!”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Can’t. I get off at four, though, if you want to pop by later.” The grinned at him over her shoulder and waved as she hurried off.

  Alastair watched her go, then gathered up his lunch trash and tossed it in a nearby bin.

  He almost didn’t go back. He thought long and hard about it as he wandered the streets of the village with aimless steps, looking in shop windows without seeing or caring about what they contained.

  It would be best, he knew, to just turn around and head back to Caventhorne right after lunch. He’d done what Desmond asked of him—he’d gotten out in the sun, gotten some exercise, and interacted with people who knew nothing about magic. He’d let his mind wander, at least as much as it was possible, and tried his best not to think about spells, techniques, rituals, or even his mundane homework.

  That was enough, right? If he hurried, he could get back to the house and catch a couple hours’ afternoon nap before dinner, and go to bed early afterward. He’d been barely averaging four hours of sleep per night since he’d arrived at Caventhorne, so it would probably do him good. Far better than sticking around for nearly three hours waiting for Madeleine Hill to get off work, that was certain.

  Probably safer, too. The one thing he could definitely not afford to do, other than break some rule of Desmond’s and get himself turfed out, was to develop any local entanglements. Desmond hadn’t sugar-coated it: if he got accepted for his apprenticeship, he would have no time for a social life. No dates, no “hanging out” with friends, no late-night study sessions with schoolmates. Essentially, he’d be a monk. Even military recruits would have more free time than he would. Desmond had been very clear about that.

  And so what? He’d long ago accepted that he wasn’t a normal boy. His devotion to magic, the thing that had spurred him to take the potentially disastrous chance of trying to learn it on his own back at Barrow because he couldn’t stand not knowing any longer, had ensured that.

  But if foregoing the pleasures of the typical teenager was the price he had to pay to excel at it, he’d long ago agreed to pay it. It wasn’t any different than if he were a musical prodigy, or one of those athletes who got up at four in the morning to get their daily practice in before a full day of school. Sacrifices had to be made, and when it was all over, they’d be more than worth it.

  He pictured Madeleine Hill’s easy smile, her green eyes, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed.

  Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just chat with her for a bit. That was all it would—or could—be. Odds were good he probably wouldn’t get Desmond’s leave to come back to Wexley for quite some time, so it wasn’t as if they’d be sneaking off to see each other or anything. He sighed, disgusted and amused with himself for the way his thoughts were running away with him. She doesn’t even fancy you, you prat. She probably smiles like that at all the customers. It’s her job.

  But still…she hadn’t needed to tell him what time she was off. She probably didn’t do
that with all the customers.

  It wasn’t easy to kill time in the boring little village for three hours, but he managed. By the time four o’clock rolled around, he’d taken in a film at the tiny local cinema, made two circuits up and down both sides of the small downtown street, looked in all the shop windows, and entered a few of the shops to check out what was inside until the proprietors started giving him suspicious looks.

  After that, he ranged off the main street and ambled up and down the side lanes, letting his mind wander and his thoughts go where they wanted. Unfortunately, that meant he did a lot more thinking about magic than he should have according to Desmond’s strictures, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Madeleine Hill smiled when she looked up and spotted him entering the chip shop. “You did come back,” she said. “I didn’t think you would.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t stay too long.”

  “No, I’m sure you’ve got to get back up to the haunted house. The ghosts will miss you.” She slipped off her apron and tossed it behind the counter.

  “They do get lonely sometimes,” he agreed. “But they’ll have to cope without me for a while. Does them good every now and then.”

  She laughed. She had a nice laugh, bubbly and cheerful. “Well, I suppose it’s good they let you out now and then. I was gonna go meet some mates at the park in a bit. You want to come along? I could introduce you around, and the next time the ghosts let you out to play, you’ll know some people in town. You play football?”

  “Er—not really,” he said. “I’m basically rubbish at it, actually.”

  “That’s okay. I forgot you were a brainiac—the outfit sort of doesn’t go with that, you know?” She slipped on a light jacket and called into the back part of the shop, “Dad! I’m going out!”