The Wizard gave her a shrewd look, as if he somehow knew that Oona had not given herself sufficient time to find anything in the Pendulum House library on the tests. Such information would likely have been quite easy to find, had Samuligan been around to find the book she needed, but the moment they had returned to the house, the faerie servant had disappeared, and no matter how many times Oona had called for him, he had not shown up.
This was unlike Samuligan, who was usually no more than a few feet away after she called for him in the house. She needed only to shout his name and he would appear from out of a shadow, or from behind a drapery, or on the other side of the nearest door. No such luck today.
Without the faerie’s help, Oona found the organization of the library to be nonexistent. If only, like the public library, the books had been organized into subjects, and authors, and alphabetical titles.
Deacon cawed from his place on the fireplace mantel, sounding his disapproval of how she had handled her time. She threw a hard glance his way as Uncle Alexander moved around the slumbering dragon-bone desk and peered at the clock. The hour hand struck three o’clock, and he began to nod.
“As you know, Oona, when you become Wizard, it will be your job to protect Dark Street and the World of Man beyond.”
“World of Humans,” Oona interrupted.
The Wizard nodded, but absently, as if he had not truly heard her. “Should the Glass Gates fall, you alone must hold back the wrath of the faerie queen, her army of faerie warriors, and all the might of the Other-lands. The question that every apprentice eventually asks is: How can one person accomplish such a seemingly daunting task? And the answer stands all around you: Pendulum House. The Magicians of Old pooled all of their powers into the house long ago, and the Wizard’s job is to tap into that power and direct it to do his or her will. And that is what we will be training and testing you on today: your ability to link with the house.”
Oona’s heart began to beat a little faster. She had never tapped into the house’s powers before. She had always used her own Natural Magic. She was often aware of the immense power that was locked inside of the house as she walked down its unpredictable hallways, or as she lay in bed at night—sensing that the house easily dwarfed her own extraordinary natural powers—and it frightened her a bit to consider how she might control such a force.
The Wizard ran his fingers down his beard. “Your task shall be to feed off the house’s magic, and use that power to overcome and defeat your opponent.”
“My opponent?” Oona asked.
Again the Wizard continued on as if he had not heard her. “Since it is your first time linking with the house, we will set you a simple task . . . simple in the sense that you have only one clear objective . . . but remarkably difficult in all other aspects. Once you tap in, your job will be to reach the Pendulum House front gates by whatever means necessary.”
Oona furrowed her brow, thinking she had not heard correctly. “Did you say all I need to do is walk out to the front gates?”
The Wizard grinned. It was a knowing sort of smile, one that assured her there was something much more complex happening. Yet what could be so complex about walking from the Wizard’s study to the front gates? It was nearly a straight line out the study door, across the circular antechamber, past the broom closet in the entryway, and out through the front door. From there the course involved a bit of bobbing and weaving through the tangled vegetation of the front garden to an old iron gate that opened upon Dark Street, but Oona managed that time and again each day.
“I said nothing about walking,” the Wizard replied rather cryptically. “I merely stated that you would need to get there by whatever means necessary.”
Oona looked to Deacon on the mantel, but he only cocked his head to one side and said nothing. He did not need to say a word. She could hear his voice in her head loud and clear: You should have spent your time researching the test.
Oona reminded herself that this was not just a test, but a battle test—whatever that meant.
Her uncle read her expression and nodded, his wrinkled hand continuing to run down his beard, which fluttered in the rising warmth of the nearby fire. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak.
“My . . . opponent,” she said hesitantly. “My opponent will try to stop me from getting there.”
The Wizard clapped his hands together, causing the fire in the fireplace to briefly burn blue. “That is precisely right. Might I introduce you to him? Samuligan!” he called.
Samuligan leapt from the shadow of the grandfather clock, his hooked nose and long faerie face shadowed beneath his cowboy hat. He landed in front of the door with a resounding clang, the sound emanating from the black body armor he was wearing. Coupled with the cowboy hat, Oona thought the faerie servant looked quite comical, as if he were going to a costume party and could not decide what he wanted to be.
She nearly laughed until it occurred to her that Samuligan was not here to fetch her opponent, but that he was her opponent. The comical effect quickly disappeared when she noticed streaks of dried blood speckled across the dark dented metal, and more dried rivulets of blood that had never been properly cleaned from the various spikes and rivets at the shoulder and elbow joints.
The armor had a kind of negative glow about it, she noticed, a sinister presence that seemed to suck all the light off its surface rather than reflect it; and yet Oona could see the story that the blood told quite well. This armor was battle tested, and battle proven . . . and she—a four-foot-five-inch-tall, thirteen-year-old girl—most certainly was not. She had a strange feeling that the armor itself wanted to bite her and chew her up. It was faerie-made armor, she realized, and just to look at it made her insides feel as if they had all shriveled up.
She swallowed dryly, remembering how nearly five hundred years ago, Samuligan the Fay had been a powerful general in the Queen of Faerie’s royal army during the Great Faerie War. Looking at him now, in his daunting attire, she could see why even Oswald the Great had feared him; and why, when the faerie had been captured, the Magicians of Old had used their magic to trap Samuligan into a life of servitude to the members of Pendulum House.
“But surely Samuligan is not allowed to harm me,” Oona said, and she could hear the nervousness in her own voice.
Samuligan seemed to hear it, too. He grinned his horrible grin. His eyes sparkled with a kind of otherworldly delight beneath the brim of his hat, and though she loved the faerie servant very much, and trusted him with her very life, she shivered to have that look directed at her.
“He will not harm you,” the Wizard tried to assure her, but Samuligan’s crescent moon of a smile suggested otherwise. “He’s just excited because he only gets to do this every new generation. No, he will not hurt you—not on purpose, that is—but what he will do is attempt to stop you from achieving your goal, from reaching the front gate. And he is very good at it, I can assure you. He tested me, and Armand Flirtensnickle before me, and all the apprentices going back for hundreds of years. He has always done so, for who better than an actual battle-hardened faerie to prepare an apprentice for battle against faeries?”
Oona briefly wondered if Samuligan might take offense at the Wizard’s eagerness to defeat faeries in battle. But if Samuligan did take offense, he never showed it, and indeed, looking at him now, he seemed quite eager to start Oona’s training to do just that.
“But first,” said the Wizard, and he held up a finger to make his point. “First you must tap into the source of every presiding Wizard’s magic. You must link with the house. I think you will need this,”
He pulled from his pocket a slim black wand and handed it to Oona. It was not the Wizard’s own wand, for her uncle’s wand was brown and made of ornately carved oak. This wand was smooth, and glossy, and black as night. It was a wand that Oona had held before, months ago, when she had removed it from the black box at the top of the Magician’s Tower. It was Oswald the Great’s very own wand.
It felt cold
in her hand, like cool metal, though she knew it to be made of wood. Such great things this wand had done, remarkable feats that now resided in the history books. From her history lessons with Deacon she could name half a dozen off the top of her head, not the least of which included the permanent closing of the Glass Gates. It was said that this wand was the only key to opening those gates.
It made her nervous just to hold it. Ever since her discovery of the wand, it had resided within its protective box and been hidden safely away within the house, its location known only to the Wizard.
“You are no doubt wondering why I have given you Oswald’s wand,” the Wizard said.
Oona considered him for only the briefest of moments before answering: “A link with the house must require a conductor. A wand or staff. But I already have my magnifying glass, which has proven just as competent as any wand.”
In fact, the Wizard had offered to make a wand for her—a “proper wand” had been his precise words—but Oona had declined. She preferred the smooth wood handle and glossy golden ring of her magnifying glass, which held much more meaning for her than any silly bit of wood. It had been her father’s magnifying glass, and though he had not been a magician himself, Oona always felt a part of him was with her, guiding her, when she held it in her hand.
The thought reminded her of the very people who had been responsible for his death, and that they were out there now, back at their nefarious deeds.
“Actually, a link with the house does not require a conductor,” the Wizard said. “But once you have achieved the initial link, and you wish to use that power to achieve some task or another, a wand is then most advisable. The power you are connecting with is like that of nothing you have ever experienced before, Oona. I fear that your magnifying glass, as fine as it is for everyday spell work, may not be up to the task. I could not guarantee its safety, and I know how much you cherish it. You would not want it ruined.”
Oona nodded thoughtfully, her nerves doubling up inside of her.
“Oswald’s wand,” the Wizard continued, “is perfectly suited for this task. Now, are you ready to link with the house?”
Oona shook her head no, but what came out of her mouth was: “I suppose.”
Uncle Alexander smiled reassuringly. “Come now, don’t look so frightened. As I said, Samuligan will not hurt you.”
She let out a quick tsk sound, not because she disbelieved her uncle, but because it wasn’t Samuligan she was afraid of. Well, mostly it wasn’t Samuligan. Rather, it was the magic she was about to connect with that she feared. She had experienced great power before, her own, and had thought that magic barely controllable. Though she did feel somewhat comforted with the fact that both her uncle and Samuligan would be here if anything went too wrong . . . she hoped.
“Now, what I want you to do is stand here, beside the desk, and face Samuligan. Once you link with the house, he is going to do everything he can to keep you from leaving the room.”
Oona took her place beside the slowly breathing desk, glancing at Deacon as she did so. He was shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Samuligan stood directly in front of her, his menacing armor clinking as he, too, shifted from side to side.
“May the best man win,” the faerie said.
“But you are not a man, and neither am I,” she said.
“Lucky for us,” he said, his eyes flashing wide. “I’m pretty sure a man could not do this.”
The faerie tilted his head back and pulled a three-foot broad sword from his mouth.
Deacon tutted from the mantel. “A carnival man’s trick.”
Samuligan raised an eyebrow at the raven. “Ah, but could a carnival man do this, as well?”
And to everyone’s astonishment, he raised a gauntleted hand to his mouth and withdrew an entire wooden shield, the edges stretching his grin bizarrely as it slid from the cavern of his mouth and slipped quite neatly onto his forearm. Upon the surface of the shield was a painting of Samuligan’s own face, one eye closed in a perpetual wink.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Deacon said, though he could not mask his tone of amazement.
Oona turned abruptly to the fireplace mantel. “All right, Deacon, please stop encouraging him before he pulls a war stallion out of his mouth next, and I am forced to battle him on horseback.”
“Let’s get started,” said the Wizard. “Now for your first time I am going to act as an intermediary between you and the house to start your link. You will need to take my hand to do so. But once you have tapped in, you will be free to release my hand, and will remain linked until you reach the front gates.”
Oona nervously placed her hand in her uncle’s. The two of them stood side by side, facing Samuligan, and before she had even a moment to wonder what would happen next, she heard her uncle’s voice in her head as clearly as if he had spoken directly into her ear.
“Profundus magicus!”
***
The surge of magic was instantaneous, as if she had been struck by lightning. And yet the experience was not a violent one. It was simply that she suddenly had access to a far greater power than she had ever experienced before. The energy and knowledge seemed endless: a vast presence, which presently belonged to her . . . allowing her access to an enormous library of magic in its rawest form.
She could feel the personality of it, of the house. As if it were a person. No, not one person, but people. Multiple personalities ran through the magic, all of them offering up their particular strength and ability, and yet it was one magic. One source. The house. She need not have feared it, she realized now. It wanted her to use its deep powers and awaited her command. The choice was hers.
“Use only what is necessary,” Uncle Alexander said from beside her and released her hand.
Oona was not sure she knew what that meant. She was still connected to the house but was unsure of what to do. Curiously, she decided to test her new powers. Pointing her wand at the cup on her uncle’s desk, she uttered: “Alum.”
She had meant only to levitate the cup, as she had done with the book at the library, but the magic that streamed from the tip of the wand caused not only the cup but everything else in the room to float off the ground, including the desk, the chair, the Wizard, and herself.
Deacon squawked in surprise as he lifted off the mantel without so much as a flutter of his wings. Only Samuligan remained rooted to the floor.
The experience took Oona so off guard that she lost focus and an instant later everything dropped back to the floor with a bang.
“Oh, dear,” she said, only just managing to keep her footing. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to . . .”
The Wizard braced himself against a bookshelf. “It’s all right. It is vast magic you have access to, along with your own remarkable skills, not to mention that wand. That’s what this is all about. Learning to control that energy. Now, try to get through that door.”
Oona peered at Samuligan and for a moment she felt sorry for him. With the sheer amount of magic she had at her disposal, he did not stand a chance. The faerie grinned, as if reading her thoughts.
“Shall we dance?” he asked tauntingly.
Oona shrugged, aimed her wand and said: “Borium.”
The spell, which was meant to shove Samuligan out of the way, only bounced off his dark suit of armor, ricocheting across the room and causing the entire fireplace to shift sideways along the wall. Deacon leapt from the mantel and fluttered to a nearby bookshelf.
“Watch where you’re aiming,” he said.
Oona hardly heard him. She was staring at the faerie who was wholly unaffected by the spell. At first she could not understand what went wrong. The spell had been tremendously powerful. She could still feel its after-effects.
And then it came to her, she understood. The faerie armor. She remembered how, four months ago, Red Martin had managed to get his hands on a faerie-made piece of armor: a glove that repelled all magic. And now here was Samuligan with a full suit.
How am I supposed to get past him if the magic just bounces off?
Samuligan continued to smile mockingly at her. Perhaps a spell to move him physically was the wrong kind of magic. What she needed was something to get him to step out of the way on his own.
But she knew of no such enchantment, and her frustration quickly boiled over.
“Move!” she shouted in a childish voice, and to her surprise a second spell shot from her wand. Once again the spell bounced off the armor in a jet of white light, this time colliding with the black dragon-bone desk.
The desk shuttered against the impact. It first bulged and then twisted, a roar emanating from within. Oona jumped back, startled, as the desk began to unfold. In the space of two heartbeats, the slumbering desk pulled upright, stretched out a set of bonelike wings, and raised its long neck toward the ceiling. It roared again, this time revealing its skeletal head: a dragon skull the size of a grandfather clock.
“You’ve awakened the dragon!” Deacon shouted, as if Oona herself had not noticed.
“I didn’t mean to!” she shouted back.
“Try using Abris neetum!” the Wizard said quickly. “The spell that should return it to a desk.”
“Ah, yes,” Oona said nervously, but raising her wand, she spotted Samuligan flinch as the dragon turned in his direction.
“Or,” she said, as an outrageous idea popped into her head, “I can use it.”
“What?” asked both Deacon and the Wizard.
Oona had no time to explain. Taking in a huge breath to steady her nerves, she leapt onto the back of the dragon, grappled it by its spine, and pointed her wand past Samuligan.
“Through that door!” she commanded.
The dragon obeyed, sweeping Samuligan aside with one thick-boned claw and charging the door. Its skull collided with the wood, tearing the door off its hinges. Its shoulders and wings were too wide, but this did not so much as slow the beast as it tore through the wall on both sides of the doorway, leaving a gaping hole behind. Oona only just managed to cling to its clattering back, her feet pressing against the rib bones as the dragon rose to its full height within the antechamber.
The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) Page 5