by Tim Susman
On the other hand, what if he succeeded? What if he were Selected by Master Odden despite Patris’s threats and rose to the rank of sorcerer? If his parents lived far away in Georgia and the Cartwrights decided to withdraw their daughter from the engagement then what was left for him? What purpose was his pursuit of sorcery if not the betterment of his friends and family?
There were those beyond himself, as his father had intimated. Maybe his work could not benefit his family directly; maybe he would lose his wife and his family line would end (his chest tightened at the thought of that), but maybe there was a Calatian cub in New Cambridge or in London even now who was moving objects with his mind, calling water, calling wind (how had that white-robed stranger done that?), who with the right training could be a master one day. If Kip failed as Peter had failed, it might be another two hundred years before circumstances allowed for another Calatian to be admitted to a college. The earth did not discriminate; it dispensed magic equally to Calatian, woman, and Irishman alike, so far as he could tell. So Kip had to believe that the laws of nature viewed his kind as equal to man, and that they were not so under the laws of mankind meant that there was a wrong for him to set right.
If forced to face himself honestly, the reason he wanted to continue at the College was his own curiosity, that hunger for power and personal justice, the ability to deflect a thrown knife with a plate and meet the full force of hatred from Farley and others with a might of his own. But it was not even the power to fight back. At the core of it, sorcery called to him. When he was pulling magic from the earth and using it, he felt alive in a way he rarely had before. And fire especially tugged at something deep inside him. When he pulled it out of the air…
He held his paw out and called fire onto it. The flame blossomed, one, two seconds, and then Kip snuffed it out and rubbed his paws together. Maybe the trick was to sear away any sensation in his pads so that the fire could burn there for ten seconds without affecting him.
There were so many things he didn’t know, so many things he ached to explore. If he had to do so without his parents, then…then so be it. He set his jaw and walked the last few steps to the gates. His nose detected no peppermint tingle, and he wondered briefly where the demon who guarded the gates had gone, but was too deep in his own thoughts to spend much time on that question.
It wasn’t until he caught Farley’s scent and automatically snapped to attention that he saw the stout boy standing in front of the practice tent, his attention focused on Kip, hands glowing lime green. Kip let the crate drop and gathered magic, but nothing came at him from Farley—or Carmichael, out of sight but still detectable to Kip’s nose even over Farley’s stink.
“Now we’ll have some fun.” Farley’s voice floated across the dead grass of the lawn. “Gonna show you what happens to pelts what try to take the place of honest God-fearing men.”
Kip followed Farley’s gaze up and saw the shape suspended in the air, struggling against bonds Kip’s eyes couldn’t make out. But he could see the stubby muzzle and the long, thick tail, and there was no doubt as to whom Farley had kidnapped.
He formed the spell and tried to wrest Coppy away, but whatever force was holding him up—Farley—was stronger. Kip barely got the otter to dip at all.
“Not so strong as y’think, are you?” Farley sneered. “Look.” And he jerked Coppy up and down in the air like a child’s toy. “I can do whatever I like. Just like old times, before he got here. An’ I’ll keep doin’ them until you’re both gone, one way or another.”
How had Farley gotten so strong? Maybe Kip had ignored how good his tormentor was at throwing knives and other projectiles in the tent because that seemed easy. Farley could have been practicing his control and his strength, just as Kip had been practicing fire, without any of the other students noticing. Well, Kip could throw things, too. He lifted a bottle of milk from the crate and sent it hurtling at Farley, preparing to catch Coppy when the boy let go to intercept the missile.
The milk stopped in mid-air, then turned and flew directly back at Kip. He gaped at it and barely got his defensive spell up in time, seizing the bottle in the air a foot away from him. The cap dislodged, the milk sprayed out over him, but he held his concentration. Carmichael, it must be; Farley couldn’t be controlling Coppy and also casting a defensive spell to intercept missiles. That Kip could wrest control of the milk bottle away didn’t necessarily mean that the caster wasn’t Farley; they were different spells and he doubted Farley had put as much effort into defensive magic. But he’d smelled Carmichael, and now, as he shook milk from his clothes, the taller boy stepped out from behind the tent. “Can’t do that neither,” he said.
“Two on one,” Kip said. “Quite the sports, you are.”
“Two on two, I see.” Farley sent Coppy flying another twenty feet up, let him drop, stopped him again. The otter’s muffled cries now came to Kip, and the fox lay his ears back. Coppy of course must have his mouth bound or be somehow incapable of casting his own spells.
“Let him go. Your fight’s with me.”
Farley laughed. “Want you both out of this human school. Get out, take yer brutish friend with you, don’t ever come back.”
“No.”
The bully shrugged. “Figured you’d take some convincing.” He smiled at Kip as Coppy flew as straight and true as the milk bottle into the side of the Tower.
The otter managed to kick out with a leg and mute the impact, but Kip still heard it and he winced. Where were the masters? Where were the ravens who were all over the dining tent? He hurried to the side of the Tower, looking up, but then Farley brought Coppy back over the tent and called out. “Want me to play some more? Only paid back three of the blows he landed on me so far.”
“Do it,” Carmichael urged. “He won’t bend after one. Maybe when some blood drops…”
“You two will be gone as well,” Kip said tightly. “When the masters hear of this…”
“Oh, Patris will likely be upset over the damage to the stones of our great Tower, but a word from me an’ he’ll likely let it slide. Seein’ how you’ll be gone and all.” Farley sneered.
“I’m not going anywhere except inside the Tower to find Master Argent.” Kip started walking. Milk had soaked through some of his clothes and the cool breeze became chilly.
“Go on ahead,” Farley called. “We’ll have fun with the river rat out here. Might drop ’im on the gates a few times, see how he likes that. Probably he’ll be alive enough for the healer to mend when you get back.”
Kip was reasonably sure that Farley wouldn’t kill Coppy, but neither did he want his friend to suffer. He cursed himself and the school for not teaching him more spells to communicate, so he could call Emily or Malcolm within the Tower, or Master Argent. He could levitate a stone and bang it against the main doors of the Tower, but if nobody were in the Great Hall, that would be little use. And then he saw something beside Farley that made him start. A small flame licked up the edge of the canvas of the tent, bright and unmistakable.
Of course. He’d been so stupid. He could set Farley’s clothes on fire, burn the bully until he dropped Coppy. He could probably do Carmichael at the same time if his control was good enough now. He gathered magic again, feeling the fire surge inside him demanding to be let out, demanding justice for Coppy’s injuries and Kip’s injuries and their humiliation and all the years behind the two of them.
The flame at the tent flickered, serving as a key, and Kip sought out its hunger, ignoring Farley’s continued taunts. The smell of fire and ash filled his nose and the spell took shape…
And then he stopped, held back the inferno inside him screaming to get out. The rational part of him, overwhelmed though it was, struggled out with a question: Where did that other fire come from? There was a third party inside the tent, waiting there only to…set it on fire? Some ally of his reminding him what his strongest spell was?
The side of the tent was blackening, the flames as tall as Farley himself, and yet th
e bully seemed completely unaware or unconcerned. He was so close, he had to be feeling the heat. But no reaction, nothing but continued invective hurled at Kip.
Burn him! screamed the fire inside him. But Kip was in control now, his will dominating the burning need to exact revenge on Farley. He thought he knew who was inside the tent and what this whole scenario was designed to do. If only he could find a master, someone to put a halt to this, even if they blamed him or Coppy for it, just to put an end to things. With the power he’d gathered, he reached out and pulled the life from the flame, and abruptly the tent was nothing but charred cloth. That Farley did notice, snapping his head around and jumping forward. Kip took another step toward the Tower, then hesitated. If he let Coppy out of his sight…
Kip’s tail brushed the wall of the Tower behind him and almost without thinking, he put his paw back. Help, he thought, if the voice is there or anyone is there, help me, give me the strength to pull Coppy away from Farley.
Cold stone met his fingers and nothing more. He pressed, pleading again, but no voice answered, no surge of power poured through him. “Well?” Farley demanded. “Shall I count to three?”
“Can you?” Kip retorted, his mind working furiously, and then he remembered the morning he’d heard the voice and felt the power, and the first time he’d talked to Master Jaeger’s raven. Desperate, he launched himself into the air again.
Below, Farley and Carmichael yelled up at him and made threatening motions. Smoke curled up from the tent where the fire had gone out, but it had been relit: flames licked up through the roof of the tent now. Kip ignored them, keeping his eyes on Coppy as Farley moved the otter farther away. That was all right; Kip wasn’t intending to fly over and untie his friend. He pushed himself to the top of the Tower; halfway up he felt some resistance, but he overcame it. In seconds he stood on one of the crenellations, looking around the bare stone and empty roof. “Hey!” he yelled. “You said you’d be here! Where are you?”
He whirled around, his magic still holding him up so he had no fear of falling. “I need you!” he yelled, turning to keep an eye on Coppy floating now a little below him.
For a moment, nothing happened. The confused cries of Farley and Carmichael were the only sounds that came to his ears; the next time he turned and saw Coppy, the otter’s eyes reflected the sky’s light back at him, watching him. “I’m trying to help you,” he said to his friend, even though he doubted Coppy could hear him.
If the raven didn’t reappear, if Kip were truly alone, then what? He could pretend to leave, agree to go, but Farley—and Adamson, whom Kip was now sure was inside the tent and behind this whole scenario, would have some kind of setup, perhaps calling Patris as a witness, perhaps something else Kip couldn’t bother to think of. If he even pretended to give in just to save Coppy, it would make everything more difficult. But what else could he do?
As he watched, Coppy came hurtling at the Tower again as Farley yelled up, “Come down here, pelt!”
Desperate, Kip dropped himself onto the roof and put all his power into stopping Coppy from hitting the wall. The otter slowed, and Kip felt the force of Farley’s power against his. But this time, for some reason, he was equal to it. He fought to pull Coppy to the roof, and slowly the otter rose. Kip saw clearly now the gag tied securely around his friend’s head, the ropes binding his paws behind his back, the pleading eyes. He reached out, fingers straining toward the gag, and Coppy stretched his neck toward Kip’s paw. But a moment later, another force joined Farley’s—Carmichael, no doubt—and pulled Coppy away again. Kip’s control lessened the farther Coppy got from him, and as he stared down he realized his precarious position on the roof. Once they no longer needed both spells to control Coppy, one of them could easily give Kip a push.
The fox stepped back onto the roof and wove a levitation spell around himself again. He turned and came face to face with a large raven.
For a second, they stared at each other in silence, Kip unsure if what he were seeing was real, and then the raven said, “What’s going on?”
The voice spurred him to action. “That! There!” he pointed at Coppy. “My friend is being tormented by two of our fellow students. Three of our fellow students.”
“You can’t get him away from them?” The raven hopped to the edge of the roof and looked down.
Kip followed. Farley and Carmichael had gone silent, while behind them, the tent roof crackled with flame. “I’ve tried,” the fox said. “I can’t force Coppy down against his spell.”
“Have you tried moving closer?” The raven angled its head up to stare at Kip. “From this distance your power is less.”
“I don’t want lessons!” Kip shouted. “I want you to save my friend!”
“Tch.” The raven clicked its beak and turned back down to the scene. “Master Windsor and Master Patris will be out in a moment. In the meantime, might I advise you to turn your attention to that fire?”
The fire on top of the tent had spread, and large patches of the roof had fallen in. “Can’t you do it?” Kip asked even as he reached out to the fire. He felt it burning, knew it, embraced it. To quench it he would have to drop his levitation spell, but behind the parapet of the roof he felt safe enough to do that.
“No,” the raven said. “Fire is not my specialty and I have no particular affinity to it.”
The fire flared and then went out as Kip pulled the power from it. “Really?” he asked, amazed even in the heat of the moment that there was something he could do that an accomplished master could not.
“Really.”
The creak of the doors at the hall alerted Kip. A moment later, two black-robed figures strode across the lawn. Coppy dropped out of the air, and Kip let out all his breath in one long exhale.
His knees did not seem to want to support him anymore, so sat down on the roof, leaning back against one of the crenellations. “Can you teach me to talk to other people at long distances?” he asked the raven, who hadn’t moved.
“Not yet. Maybe in two years or so. If you are Selected.”
“Can you not Select me? I mean, if Master Odden doesn’t.”
“Odden is under great pressure from Patris to Select no apprentice this year. As for me, I already have an apprentice and would not be permitted another.”
“Does Forrest even count, though?” Kip asked the question without thinking, and regret washed over him. “Sorry.”
“I understand your desperation. There are not many masters who will risk alienating the Headmaster. He has ways of making life difficult for people who do not follow his wishes.”
“Who would risk it?” Kip closed his eyes. Despite everything he’d done today, the idea that Farley would win felt unbearable.
The raven considered. “There are perhaps two or three. Master Windsor, certainly. Myself.”
Kip was about to ask about Master Odden, but at that moment a voice spoke into his head. You have more allies than you know.
The last time a voice had spoken into his head, it had been in one short burst that had gone almost before he was aware of it. This sentence, the complete thought of someone else entering his head, made his fur prickle and set him to shivering. He stared at the raven, whose head turned from side to side. Had the raven spoken silently to him so as not to be overheard by others? Or had it been some other being, perhaps the one who’d spoken through the Tower so long ago? Cautiously he said, “Thank you,” and pushed himself to his feet.
It was a simple matter to re-cast the levitation spell and lower himself gently to the ground. Patris and Windsor became recognizable the closer he got to them; when they spotted him, they argued for a moment and then Windsor came to meet Kip while Patris continued on toward Farley and Carmichael. Kip glanced down but for the most part kept his eyes on Coppy, now being lowered to the ground, and he directed his own downward flight to follow the otter’s.
When he landed, he dismissed the spell and ran forward, only to be stopped a moment later by Master Windsor’s grip
on his arm. “You fool,” he said. “Had you no heed for the history here before you set fire to the school?”
“I didn’t!” Kip tried to twist away, but the old sorcerer’s grip was too strong, and the way he was holding Kip’s arm threatened to break it if Kip pulled too hard. Windsor’s face had lost none of its stoicism except in the eyes, which burned intensely and made Kip stammer. “I—it just caught—I thought about it but I didn’t.”
Now he caught the tingle of peppermint as Coppy reached the ground some thirty feet in front of him. He strained again, and this time Windsor came with him to Coppy’s side. “You’d best have a witness, if so,” the sorcerer growled.
The ropes and gag were coming undone by an invisible hand. “Burkle,” Windsor said as he and Kip approached, “did you witness any of this?”
The little satyr-demon winked into visibility beside Coppy. “Nay,” he said as the otter threw the ropes away and stood shakily on his feet.
Kip ran to embrace him, and Coppy leaned into the fox’s arms before smiling. “I’m all right,” he said. “A bit shook up is all. Had worse falls.”
“Corimea!” Windsor called.
Burkle shook his head. “Not here,” he said.
“You sure?” Kip asked Coppy. “I saw you hit the wall…”
“I’m tough.” The otter punched his own arm and smiled. “Not all glass like you foxes. Bit bruised maybe, not even worth bothering Master Splint about.”
“Where is he, then?” Master Windsor demanded of the satyr.
Burkle shook his head again and then went invisible. Windsor folded his arms and turned his still-fierce eyes back on Kip. “The remaining witnesses are not likely to testify in your favor,” he said.
“There was someone else in the tent.” Kip snapped his jaw shut before he said the name. “Someone else started the fire.”
“Set fire to a tent they were inside?” Windsor raised his eyebrows.
“And then probably snuck out the back.”