“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Good. I’m completely swamped today but we could start tomorrow, if you’d like.” He glanced at the minefield. “We can do it in here, say around four-thirty?”
“Oh.” I bit my lip. “Okay, that works.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No, it’s just … is there anything I can do to start working on it in the meantime? I need to get past this thing quick. It’s interfering with my dream-seeing.”
“Yes, I see.” Deverell picked up a pen from his desk and began to roll it in between his fingers. “Well, the best thing is to go through some of the meditation techniques we’ve been studying. That will help prepare you for the nousdesmos.”
“The what?”
“Nousdesmos,” he said, more slowly this time. “It’s a mind link. I will join my mind with yours and then help guide you to a resolution of the problem. A bit like our minefield exercise, actually, only completely within your head.”
“Huh. So it’s like a Vulcan mind meld.”
Deverell chortled. “That’s a fairly apt description, I suppose. But it won’t be invasive like it’s portrayed in that show. Before we begin, I will teach you how to prevent me from seeing anything you don’t want me to see.”
This was good news—there were plenty of memories I didn’t want him to see, particularly the most recent ones with Eli—but it did little to alleviate my main worry. “What if the thing I don’t want you to see is the subject of the block itself?”
He tapped the pen against his chin, considering the question. “The block is concerned with the stone pedestal I already saw, yes?”
“Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth, an irrational anger threatening to rise up inside me. “But it’s something on the pedestal I don’t want you to see. There’s something written on it.”
“Hmmm. So the reason you don’t want me to see has nothing to do with it being embarrassing or personal.”
“Not at all.”
“Then what is the reason?”
“That’s just it.” I waved both hands through the air. “I don’t have one, other than a gut feeling that nobody else but me is supposed to.”
Mr. Deverell’s eyebrows rose so high on his forehead, they disappeared beneath his blond bangs. “How strong a gut feeling?”
I grimaced. “Strong enough that when Eli saw part of it during a dream-session I broke the first rule of dream-walking and slapped him.” I paused then added, “We’re not supposed to touch the subject.”
Deverell didn’t respond, looking lost in thought.
I swallowed. “Is the block more serious than you thought?”
His gaze focused on me again. “No, this just makes it more complicated.” He stood up. “Now, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to tell me about the dream. Don’t go into details. Just give me the gist of it.”
“Okay,” I said, mustering my willpower. Then I plunged on, describing the tower and the ever-present wind and finally the plinth itself. “There are eight letters on it, all hidden. At least at the start, but I’ve uncovered the first four. B E—”
Deverell waved at me to stop, the pen in danger of flying free of his grip. “Don’t tell me.”
I frowned, even as relief flooded me. “Why not?”
“Because it’s a name. It must be.”
“Whose name?”
“Who or what,” Deverell said. He fell silent for a couple of seconds then nodded, as if in agreement to some private debate in his head. “Yes, you must not let me, or anyone else, know the letters.”
I folded my arms across my chest, trying to still the jitters tap-dancing through my body. “But it feels like once I learn the letters the block will go away. The word seems to be the whole point.”
Deverell nodded, his lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m certain you’re right. Learning the word is the key to undoing the block. And I will still be able to help you, but I’ll have to be careful not to see the letters myself. I’ve read about similar cases. We shouldn’t ignore your instinct on this or we might make things worse.”
Trying not to freak out by the foreboding in his tone, I said, “Why is the name so important?”
“Because names have power, Dusty. Especially hidden names. It’s an ancient truth that naming something gives you power over it. On the most basic level it’s a symbolic sign of ownership, such as when parents name their children or even when you name your pet. The act of naming is what makes the thing yours.”
I scratched my forehead. “But once you name your kid you tell people about it.”
“True, hence the symbolism.” Deverell punctuated his words with the pen. “Not so when we’re talking about magical things.”
I wrinkled my nose. “There’s a surprise.”
“Did you know witchkind name their magical instruments?”
“They do?”
“Oh, yes. Within days of taking ownership of a wand or a staff, they give it a name but share it with no one. To learn the name of a wizard’s wand is to gain mastery over it. Any magickind can use the power in a magical instrument without knowing the name, but using the power is not the same as mastering it.”
Names have power, I thought. I wondered if Eli had named his wand—surely Lance had told him about the practice, even if the witchkind senators were being jerks about him doing magic.
“So you can see why they are kept hidden, yes?” said Deverell.
I shrugged. “Sure, it’s like putting a password on your e-mail account.”
He scoffed. “That’s putting it extremely mildly, but the idea is correct, to prevent someone from taking what’s yours. But the power in names is so much greater than magical instruments. Take the story of Rumpelstiltskin, for example. Do you know it?”
“More or less. That’s the one where the girl has to learn Rumpelstiltskin’s name or lose her baby. And he’s like a goblin or elf or something.”
“Actually, he was an imp.” Deverell gestured with the pen again and the cap popped off, hitting the floor with a small clink.
I reached out my hand and summoned the cap into my palm. “Let me guess,” I said, handing it back to him. “You’re getting ready to tell me that the story is true, right?”
Deverell’s smile was more of a grimace as he recapped the pen and set it on the desk. “Oh yes, I’m afraid it is.” He glanced up at the clock above the door. I followed his gaze and saw we had only a few minutes left before the bell rang.
“But let me summarize,” he continued, walking back around the desk. “Basically, the story you know is mostly true, only the girl was a witch and not an ordinary miller’s daughter. She really could spin straw into gold, although it was just an illusion spell. She made an unwise bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, and when he came to collect she refused to pay. But there’s no breaking a deal with an imp. At least not while it lives.”
I cringed. That was the problem with the true version of fairy tales—they managed to be even more gruesome than the original Brothers Grimm, and that was saying something. “Let me guess. They’re not so easy to kill either.”
“Not at all.” Deverell slid open a drawer and pulled out a pile of ornate blindfolds made of black velvet studded around the edges with silver beads and set them on the desk. “The witch managed by learning the imp’s true name. Every living being, ordinary and magickind alike, has a true name, you see. It’s one we’re born with and not given. Most of us never learn our true name. The knowledge remains buried deep inside our unconscious until we die. To know your true name in life is incredibly dangerous.”
“I would think it would be helpful.”
Deverell shook his head. “The spirit of a living thing is similar to magic. And as magic can be harnessed through words and incantations, so can your spirit be harnessed by your true name.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, dreading the direction this story was headed.
Deverell continued, “Now, imps like Rumpelstitlskin are an excep
tion when it comes to true names. They’re born knowing theirs—the knowledge the only way for them to tap their magic. So once the witch learned it, she gained the same mastery over Rumpelstiltskin’s magic, which she then turned against him. Since she didn’t have enough of her own power to do it, she forced him to perform the asunder curse on himself.”
I gaped. The asunder curse did exactly what it implied—ripped things in half. It wasn’t a banned black magic spell, but it was so dangerous only law enforcement officials and the like were permitted to learn it. “But how is that possible? Curses can’t be self-administered.”
Mr. Deverell wagged a finger at me. “Oh, but it wasn’t. Once the witch knew the true name, the imp’s spirit and his magic became hers to command and control however she wanted. Rumpelstiltskin died a slave.”
“And in pieces,” I muttered, shuddering.
With an effort, I forced my mind away from the story and back to the problem at hand. “I still don’t see what all of this has to do with the name on the plinth, though.”
Deverell flashed a confident smile. “I’m certain that once you learn the name, whatever entity it belongs to will present itself.”
“Entity?” The word had an ominous ring to it. “You mean it’s something alive?”
“Not necessarily. But it’s something that has magic, to be sure, and therefore some kind of spirit. It could be a magical creature or more likely a ghost or some other transcended spirit.”
My breath grew shallow. “I thought ghosts are just an imprint of a dead person, like an echo.”
“That’s the ordinary version of it.” He sighed. “Real ghosts are not so benign. They’re not an imprint of the living thing, but the thing itself, only broken, incomplete.”
“I think I like the ordinary version better.”
“So do I,” said Deverell. “But a ghost trying to show you its true name is a call for help. A spirit without a body is like a raw, exposed nerve. It’s pain beyond comprehension. Constant and maddening. The only rest for a ghost is to find a new vessel to house its spirit. The ghost wants you to know its name so that you can have the power to force it into a host.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “You mean like possession?”
“Yes, of a sort, but not in the Hollywood movie sense you’re thinking of. Inanimate objects serve far better.” He gestured toward the minefield. “Even these cones and boxes would suffice, although they lack a certain elegance for the task.”
He was right about that. I couldn’t think of anything less suited to housing a spirit. A tremble went down my spine at the ghoulish turn of this conversation. “But why did this happen to me?”
Deverell glanced at the clock again. We had less than a minute left. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he said, looking back at me. “A ghost has no control over whose psyche they latch on to. It’s a matter of proximity and perhaps the bad luck of whoever is near enough at the time the death occurred.”
“But I haven’t been around anyone dying. Not recently, anyway.” It was such an odd thing to say, but true, and I felt a moment of vertigo at how strange my life had become.
“No one in the last year?” Deverell asked, gently.
My mouth fell open. “This could’ve been going on for a year? Are you kidding me?”
“Well, a year might be extreme, but it does take time for the spirit to draw enough energy to manifest its need. If it is a ghost, I would guess the death happened weeks ago at a minimum, but more likely months.”
My stomach clenched as I realized I’d been near the death of four people in that time frame—Rosemary Vanholt, Arturo Ankil, my ancestor Nimue, and the person who had murdered all three of them—Ambrose Marrow. The Red Warlock.
I ran my hands up and down my arms, shivering. The idea that Marrow could be connected to me through my unconscious mind, a literal block in my brain, made me want to scream and run away.
I fought the impulse back with all the reason I could muster. It couldn’t be Marrow. For one thing, he wasn’t really dead, thanks to his bond with his immortal familiar. And for another, his spirit and remains had been swallowed by the black phoenix. The only thing the giant bird had left behind had been The Will sword, Excalibur of legend.
I swallowed then said, “Are you sure that once I learn the name I can get this thing to stop haunting me?”
“Quite sure,” Deverell said as the bell rang. “You will become its master in every way.”
I nodded, praying with every fiber of my being that he was right.
22
Latin Lessons
I didn’t give Eli the details about my meeting with Mr. Deverell, and he didn’t ask for any.
“So long as you’re working to fix it, then I’m good,” he said. Thank goodness for that. I had enough to worry about without adding Eli’s concern over me being haunted by some unknown ghost into the mix.
As if in contrast to my bleak mood, the weather outside had taken a pleasant turn toward nice. All during sixth-period alchemy, everybody else in the class and I kept taking long, longing looks out the window at the bright sunshine. We suffered through gym afterward and then Selene, Eli, and I made a mad dash for the commons.
So did the rest of Arkwell. The place was packed with students. One group was attempting to pass a Frisbee back and forth with only moderate success—magickind tended to struggle with hand-eye coordination—while another group was kicking a soccer ball with even worse results.
But most of the students were lounging in the sunshine, sleeves rolled back and faces turned toward the sun. The grass was too wet to sit on, so people were squatted on the cobblestone paths or on the low stone walls separating the pathways from the grassy areas. Eli, Selene, and I found a place to sit on the latter.
Nobody felt much like talking. Selene pulled out a book to read while Eli leafed through the pages of his case notebook. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, letting my thoughts wander as the sunshine lit up the thin skin of my eyelids.
But a few minutes later, the sound of an approaching noise pulled me out of my happy place. I slowly opened my eyes and peered around, blinking to clear the spots from my vision.
“What the hell is that?” Eli said from my right.
A moment later I saw a group of people in brown cloaks walking down the main pathway toward the center of the commons. The hoods on the cloaks covered their faces, but as they drew nearer I realized they were chanting.
Selene tensed beside me, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“What is it?” I said, glancing at her a second before returning my attention to the newcomers. They were filling up the center of the commons now, more than twenty of them at least. The lounging students were giving way to them as if repelled by those strange words. But I didn’t think it was an incantation. The words lacked the characteristic under-hum of magic. Yet there was magic nearby. I could feel the faint prickle of it on my skin.
“Fiat justitia ruat caelum,” Selene murmured in time with the brown cloaked figures.
I turned my head, gaping at her. “How do you know that?”
“It’s Latin.”
Latin, I thought. Selene would know. She’d been studying the language for the last two years.
“What does it mean?” Eli said, standing up. Nearly everyone else was doing the same, all eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.
The cloaked figures had formed a circle in the middle of the commons, facing outward. In the center of the circle several of them carried a long glass case, like pallbearers. Inside the glass, lying on a blanket of flowers, was a person I had no trouble recognizing.
Britney Shell.
Except, it wasn’t. It was someone else pretending to be Britney. An odd blurring around the girl’s face gave it away, an indicator of an illusion spell. Putting an illusion spell on a living thing was upper-level magic. And these cloaked figures had done a subpar job of it.
As more and more people recognized the person in the glass case, I hea
rd Britney’s name whispered over and over again. It seemed most people didn’t realize it was someone else in disguise.
“Is she dead?” they whispered.
“When? How did it happen?”
And all the while the brown cloaked figures chanted, “Fiat justitia ruat caelum. Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”
It slowly dawned on me that this was a protest, the magickind version of a sit-in. But the phrase they were chanting didn’t seem like a peaceful one. And displaying Britney—who most certainly was not dead—inside a glass coffin was nothing short of antagonistic.
Eli grabbed my wrist. “Come on. This is going to get ugly.”
I nodded, and as he started pulling me away, I grabbed hold of Selene and tugged her along, too. By the time we reached the nearest walkway leading away from the commons, the crowd had started to shout at the assembled group, the tension close to an explosion.
Then it happened. Someone in the crowd let fly a spell. I turned to watch as a jet of red light soared toward the brown cloaked figures and smashed into the case. It shattered, spraying glass everywhere, and the girl inside it screamed as she fell. For a second the scene seemed to freeze in place.
In the next, chaos erupted. The cloaked figures retaliated with a barrage of spells and other magic. Shouts of outrage and screams of pain filled the air. Eli was dragging me now.
“Let’s go,” he shouted over his shoulder. “This isn’t our fight.”
He was right, and I knew it. Already I could see the flash of red as the Will Guard began to converge on the scene. They would subdue the crowd in moments, and I didn’t want to be in their line of fire.
Still, as we turned down a path, I took one final look back at the fight, my gaze drawn to two of the cloaked figures. Both of their hoods had fallen back in the struggle, revealing their faces. A shock of recognition went through me. With an effort, I ripped my gaze away and returned my attention to the path ahead.
The Nightmare Dilemma (Arkwell Academy) Page 19