Path of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  He continued pacing as he spoke, pausing on occasion to examine something on the chalkboard, or a book on one of the shelves. But even when his back was to Alastair and he spoke softly, Alastair had no trouble hearing him. “Selby is, as you might have suspected, a member of one of the magical families whose members I sometimes employ on my staff. I find it easier to maintain the household when my staff members are familiar with the Art—that way, there is no need to conceal its existence from them. As you well know, even among families with a strong magical tradition, the Talent is relatively rare. In many cases, that leaves a number of individuals who are familiar with the existence of magic without the ability to practice it themselves.”

  “I wondered about that,” Alastair admitted. “Doesn’t it cause resentment to be surrounded by something they might have had? Isn’t the constant reminder difficult to handle?” He knew it would be for him—if it had turned out for some reason that he didn’t have magical ability after all, the last thing he’d want to do was stay in a situation where he had to watch other people practicing it every day. It would be a lot like employing an alcoholic behind the bar at a pub, except at least the alcoholic could choose to take a drink if the temptation grew too strong.

  “Most of them don’t care, surprisingly,” Desmond said, his tone suggesting he sympathized with Alastair’s point of view. “You might understandably find it difficult to believe, but there are actually many people who have no interest or desire to possess magical talent. The fact is, I pay my staff handsomely—far more than they might expect to be paid in any other similar situation—and they are given opportunities for study, education, and enrichment outside their normal duties. If any of them are unsatisfied in their situation, they know they have only to inform me and I will provide them with whatever assistance they might require in obtaining another position. I have not had any issues with this practice for many years, and none of my staff have opted to leave my employ.”

  Alastair nodded. He wanted to ask another question, but hesitated.

  Desmond’s gaze grew stern. “Mr. Stone, I value curiosity more highly than almost any other trait in a student. I will never punish or chastise you for asking questions. I might refuse to answer, or inform you that the answer is not your concern, but if you have any hope of becoming my apprentice, you must get over this reluctance.”

  “All right, sir.” Alastair sat up a little straighter. “Do other members of the staff have magical abilities as well?” Had Kerrick been hiding his talent all this time? Could the maids check out his aura as easily as he could theirs? Was Gretchen the assistant chef casting magic circles in the back corner of the kitchen?

  “No.”

  “So Selby’s the only one.”

  “Yes.”

  He pondered that, thinking back over what Selby had said last night. Now came the time to test Desmond—could he really ask any question he liked? “He mentioned something about being a ‘failure.’ Was he to be apprenticed to you, then?”

  For the first time that day, Desmond didn’t look stern, imperious, or unreadable. He sighed, and for just a second dropped his gaze. “That was his hope.” To Alastair’s surprise, he sounded tired.

  “He didn’t succeed at the training?” That didn’t seem so unusual to Alastair—from everything he’d heard or understood, Desmond didn’t take many apprentices, and he considered only the strongest talents. Though it was possible to improve it with study and practice, a person’s natural level of magical talent was something he or she was born with, like the potential to be a top athlete or a musical prodigy. There was certainly no shame in discovering you didn’t possess that level of inherent ability.

  “He didn’t even begin,” Desmond said. “I evaluated him because I am familiar with his family, but unfortunately he possesses only a minimal level of natural talent. Nowhere near the minimum I require of my potential apprentices.”

  Alastair frowned. “But…you’re not the only teacher available. Surely he could have found another—”

  Desmond shook his head. “You don’t understand, Mr. Stone. When I say ‘minimal,’ I don’t mean simply below what I would consider a satisfactory level. I mean low enough that no reputable teacher would take him on. It would simply be a waste of time for both the teacher and Selby.”

  “So…” Alastair paused, thinking. How horrible it must be to have the Talent, but at such a low level that you couldn’t even convince anyone to take you on as an apprentice. In a way, that would be worse than not having it at all. He remembered more of Selby’s words. “Ah, I see now. He said you’ve agreed to teach him a few things when you have time, so he decided to stay on here.”

  “Yes. It is not an optimal solution, but given our unique location at the ley line confluence, it’s possible for him to progress further here than he might do somewhere else. I am sure your presence has caused him no small amount of discomfort, but that is the way of things. He must cope.” He glanced up. “He hasn’t treated you inappropriately, has he?”

  Alastair shook his head. Given new information, he could hardly blame Selby for being resentful of this under-aged interloper showing up and getting a shot at everything he so desperately wanted for himself. “He’s…fine, sir. No problems.”

  “Good.” He tilted his head. “You say you found him working on a circle in one of the outbuildings?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What sort of circle? Did you see?”

  “Yes, sir. He showed it to me. He didn’t tell me what it was, but I could see. He was trying to tap into the ley lines. He claimed it was an introductory technique you taught him.”

  “It was indeed, though I had no idea he was working on the practical aspects.” Desmond returned the book he was holding to the shelf. “Was he successful in doing so?”

  Alastair considered his answer. “The structure of the circle was a bit simplistic, sir, but I did spot it with magical sight from the road. He’d gotten it powered, at least.”

  “Excellent.” He turned briskly back toward Alastair with an air of dismissal. “Thank you, Mr. Stone. That will be all. Get something to eat if you wish, then work on your own circle here. I will see you this evening.”

  Alastair watched him go. He almost called after him, but didn’t. That was enough questions for today—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Selby’s story than either Selby or Desmond was telling him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next few days passed, taking Alastair over the two-week mark of his probationary period. He refused to let himself grow overconfident, but with each new technique Desmond taught that he grasped with minimal difficulty, he began allowing himself to believe—just a little—that he might actually be making a go of this.

  Nothing was easy—that wasn’t it. Between his twice-daily magic lessons, the copious amounts of reading Desmond assigned, his mundane studies, tidying the workroom (he hadn’t yet located the dust generator, but he was certain there had to be one in there somewhere), finding time to go for runs around the estate to keep himself in reasonable shape, and carving out enough sleep to keep from falling over in the middle of his sessions, he had to maintain a delicate juggling act and develop the skills of a master scheduler in order to fit everything in. He ended each late night by tumbling into bed for a few quick hours, usually with a headache. His mind still whirled with whatever he’d learned that day, trying to place the new puzzle pieces into the larger whole that was his growing magical knowledge.

  None of that mattered, though, because he was doing it. With the single exception of the invisibility spell, which he still couldn’t get the hang of maintaining for longer than thirty seconds or so, he grasped everything Desmond offered him. Some techniques were easier than others—he took to levitation, for example, like he was born to it—while others, like basic healing, were more difficult. But on the whole, whil
e he certainly wasn’t anywhere near the level of mastering any of the techniques in such a short time, he felt he’d caught on to them well enough to satisfy Desmond.

  Not that Desmond ever said anything about it, beyond a general “well done” when he did a good job at something, or tips and encouragement when he took a bit longer. It was maddening in a way, because despite his own confidence in his progression, he had no way to know if it was good enough to get him to the next stage.

  The thought plagued him on more than one occasion: what would he do if, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t manage to perform at the level Desmond expected of his apprentices? What would his father do with a son who knew too much magic to simply let it languish for the next three years, but not enough to be allowed to practice it safely without guidance? Alastair had already decided that if Desmond cut him loose, there was no way he was going to wait three more years before continuing his studies, no matter what his father said. He’d find a teacher willing to take him somewhere. Or, if he couldn’t do that, he’d figure out a way to continue his studies on his own. It wouldn’t be fair to open up a world like this to him and then slam the door shut because he failed to meet some impossible taskmaster’s unattainable standards.

  But that was getting ahead of himself. He hadn’t failed, and for all he knew, he was doing fine. Desmond hadn’t given him any indication of this—but he also hadn’t given him any that he wasn’t doing fine. Alastair remembered back to their first discussion: Desmond had said if he wasn’t performing up to snuff, he’d be cut loose immediately. No waiting until the end of the month to get the bad news.

  So if he was still here, things were still good, right?

  Selby, for his part, essentially ignored him. They hadn’t spoken for several days beyond the minimal interaction required when they encountered each other in the house, and it seemed to Alastair that the assistant steward was going out of his way to avoid him. That was fine with him, so he did the same. Desmond didn’t comment on it, and while Kerrick gave him occasional odd looks and appeared a couple times to be on the verge of asking him a question, he didn’t do so.

  Occasionally he thought about what an odd life he was leading. Most boys his age were in school, worrying about the sorts of things normal teenagers worried about. Sure, they might be concerned about getting kicked out of school if they failed an exam or got into trouble with girls or booze or drugs, but they didn’t have to consider what might happen if their magical ability didn’t live up to expectations, or if they failed to perform to the standards of a teacher who made the worst drill-sergeant instructor at Barrow look like a pussycat by comparison.

  Alastair smiled as he hovered three books over his head while lying in bed late one night , moving them in a slow circle a few feet above him. His skill with the levitation and telekinesis spells was growing with each passing day, and he always tried to get in a bit of practice every night to supplement what he was doing in the workroom.

  His thoughts turned to Madeleine, as they often did lately. He wondered when he might have a chance to see her again. Perhaps they could go for a walk together, and even possibly find a nice, out-of-the way place to—

  The books wobbled, crashed into each other, and hurtled toward his face.

  Without thinking, he formed the shield pattern in his mind, bringing it up to protect his head, then reached out to re-establish his grip on the books. They shuddered to a stop inches before they hit the shield, then rose back up to their former height.

  Alastair gaped, eyes wide, and almost lost control of both spells. Two spells at once—he’d never done that before! He knew it was possible, since the reference material Desmond had given him to read explained the process, but Desmond hadn’t actually taught him how to do it yet.

  He grinned. It wasn’t a new skill—he knew both spells, of course—but still, this could definitely prove useful.

  Tiring, though. He carefully lowered the three books to his nightstand, then dropped the shield. He’d have to show that one to Desmond.

  He got his chance the very next day.

  Desmond began the lesson, as he almost always did, by flipping over the blackboard to reveal a series of complicated diagrams. He started his lecture as soon as Alastair was seated, and Alastair had to scramble to get his notebook and pen out of his bag before he missed anything.

  He was just about caught up, glancing at the board to make sure he’d gotten a sigil right, when suddenly three missiles came hurtling at top speed from the far sight of the room, headed directly for his head.

  Alastair didn’t think, but only reacted. It all happened in the space of less than two seconds. With one flick of his mind his shimmering shield appeared, deflecting the three beanbags before they hit him. Grinning, he visualized the second pattern, just as he’d been doing in his bedroom the previous night, and superimposed it with the first. The beanbags stopped before they hit the floor and sped back at Desmond.

  Alastair knew he’d done something wrong the instant he saw the expression on his master’s face.

  At first, everything seemed fine: Desmond’s shield came up even faster than Alastair’s had, halting the three missiles and dropping them to the floor. Alastair’s triumphant grin faltered as Desmond’s shield came down, revealing his master fixing him with a cold stare that could have bored its way through solid diamond.

  “…Sir?” What could be wrong? He’d done the techniques perfectly, just as he’d visualized them, just as he’d done them during his practices in his room. It couldn’t be possible Desmond was so petty that getting smacked with a few beanbags would anger him…could it?

  Desmond’s expression did not warm, and his tone, if possible, was even colder. “Mr. Stone. What was that I just observed?”

  For a moment, Alastair had no idea how to answer. Hadn’t it been obvious? That wouldn’t be a good way to respond, though. When in doubt, stick with the facts. “Er…I summoned the shield to stop the attack, and then sent it back at you, sir. Did I do something incorrectly?”

  “No, Mr. Stone. But would you care to inform me—you may consult your notes if necessary—where during your lessons I taught you what you just did?”

  Alastair frowned, more perplexed than ever. “Sir, I don’t understand. I’ve been working on the shield since our first lesson, and the other is simply the telekinesis technique you’ve had me practicing.”

  Desmond could have been a statue. He stood, arms crossed, and continued to fix his penetrating gaze on Alastair. “When did I teach you how to use the two of them together?”

  “You…didn’t, sir. Not specifically. But in the supplemental reading you gave me, it mentioned visualizing multiple patterns to produce more than one spell effect at a time.”

  “And you worked out how to do that on your own?”

  “Well…sort of. It followed logically from what you taught me. I discovered it when I almost dropped something on my head while practicing the levitation spell in bed last night, and just…went with it,” he finished lamely.

  “You…‘went with it’.” Desmond’s patrician tones twisted the words into something shameful.

  “Er…yes sir.” Alastair’s heart pounded faster. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Desmond began to pace. “Mr. Stone. Do you remember what I told you on our first day together?”

  “There were quite a lot of things, sir. Could you be more specific?”

  “Let me refresh your memory. I am referring to the part where I informed you of the most reliable way to terminate your probationary period.”

  Alastair’s whole body grew suddenly cold as his mind returned to that day. It seemed so long ago now, but Desmond’s words were fresh. No…please… “I…You…told me I wasn’t to pursue any outside study beyond what you taught me.” He struggled for a defense. “But sir—you did teach me those techniques.
And the bit about visualizing multiple patterns was in one of the reference books you assigned. I didn’t think—”

  “No, Mr. Stone. You didn’t think.” Desmond’s words rose in volume, cutting Alastair off. For the first time, a hint of visible anger showed on his near-impassive face. “I understand your desire to impress me. I understand that you are under a great deal of pressure to perform to my standards. But one thing I expect and require of my students at all times is obedience to the rules I set. And yet you have chosen to disobey.”

  “Sir—” Alastair thought his racing heart would leap free of his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his mind refused to lock on to a thought. Would it all come to this? He’d been doing so well, grown so confident in spite of his fear of doing so—was this to be the end, all because he’d done more than Desmond expected of him?

  “Do you deny it, Mr. Stone? Had you perhaps forgotten my instruction?”

  Alastair swallowed hard. “I—hadn’t forgotten it, sir. It…honestly didn’t occur to me in this case, since the techniques were things you’d already taught me.”

  “But yet I specified that you were not only forbidden from exploring new techniques on your own, but also from supplementing anything I taught you. Did that fail to occur to you as well, Mr. Stone?”

  Desmond hadn’t raised his voice again. Aside from the initial flash of anger that showed on his face, he hadn’t changed expression. He continued to regard Alastair with the stern, unblinking gaze of a judge facing a suspect who had no defense.

  “I—” Alastair struggled to get his thoughts to respond, to find anything to say that would convince Desmond not to give up on him.