Firecracker: A Young Adult Fantasy (Arcturus Academy Book 1)

by A. L. Knorr

  Curiosity lurched forward like a belligerent drunk and I had to pinch my lips together to keep from begging for a look inside. If the antiques on his bookshelves weren’t precious enough to win a place in that secret chamber, what could possibly be inside?

  Headmaster Chaplin took a seat in the big wingback adjacent to his desk. “I wanted to ask you something peculiar, given the results of the placement class.”

  “Shoot.” I perched on the edge of his sofa.

  He templed his fingers. “Wanda told me that some of the first-years think that April Brown shouldn’t be paired with the other first-degree mages. In fact, some of them think she shouldn’t be a student here at all.”

  I waited for the question.

  “Well?” The headmaster peered at me. “Do you agree?”

  “Do I agree she shouldn’t be paired with other first-degree mages?” I frowned. “I don’t know. Your staff would know better than me.”

  “But you agree that April belongs at Arcturus?”

  “She is a fire mage, but I had a chance to get to know her a bit last night. She doesn’t want to be here. She says her parents made her come. Did you know that?” I folded my hands in my lap.

  The headmaster nodded. “I have met her parents.”

  “It doesn’t seem right. I mean, she’s eighteen. She should be able to make her own decisions.”

  “That’s beside the point, Saxony.” He let out a breath. “I’m trying to assess how you feel about having a weaker mage as a classmate.”

  “I’m not in any classes with April.”

  “Imagine that you were.”

  I cocked my head. This was a strange conversation. “Imagine how I would feel about having to be in a class with April?”

  “Humor me.”

  I frowned and questioned my honest feelings. Would I be upset if a weaker student slowed down my own learning? Finally, I nodded. “I’d worry that she would slow down the class, yes.”

  The headmaster leaned back in his seat. “I know we discussed this briefly when we met the first time, but I want to revisit it because it’s important.”

  “Okay,” I replied, wondering what he was referring to.

  “After your Burning, you said you noticed feeling harder emotionally, less forgiving. Have there been any further changes in your temperament? Even subtle ones?”

  I blinked at him, surprised. I hadn’t thought further about my ‘new normal’ since the summer. I’d never mentioned the shift in my personality to my family because I hadn’t wanted to upset my mom. She’d already freaked about the fact that I’d inherited a fire. My younger brother Jack had felt the change in me though, because he was an empath, but he agreed not to tell our mom.

  I shifted in my seat. Was I being ‘therapized’? “Why?"

  “Because I have a concern.” He raised a finger and his eyebrows simultaneously.

  His expression changed, like he was prepping me for something bad. My tummy did a roll and I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “If I may,” he continued, seeing my struggle. “On the positive side, you’re more in control of yourself. On the negative side, you feel less empathy than you did before. Am I correct?”

  I didn’t like the way he’d framed it. Being without empathy wasn’t good. I jumped to defend myself: “I wouldn’t have put it that way, exactly. But it’s as I told you before. I do feel a little harder, less forgiving than I did before I became a mage. What of it?”

  The headmaster took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “After a Burning, mages go one of two ways. Their character either does not change at all and they continue on same as before. Or they grow increasingly hard over time, sinking into a... dispassionate detachment.”

  I gaped as his meaning came through, no matter how diplomatically he worded it. “Are you telling me I’m at risk of becoming a sociopath?”

  He gave a delicate cough as he put his spectacles back on. “Well, I… essentially, yes.”

  I put a hand over my eyes as the room tilted. Fear drifted into my gut like smoke from a snuffed candle.

  The headmaster’s words came faster now. “The trick to preventing it is to nurture compassion in those Burned who have sensed this initial shift in their nature. The sooner we catch it, the more easily we are able steer you down the desirable path.”

  I took my hand away from my eyes, blinking blearily. “How do you even know this is something that happens when there are so few Burned in the world?”

  “I’ve been studying our species for quite some time. We have recorded several examples of Burned mages who... shift.”

  “Who turn evil, you mean?”

  I expected him to admonish my harshness but he didn’t correct me, which set my heart to pounding. Truthfully, I had initially been bothered by the subtle shift in my temperament. I had always been both hot-headed and soft-hearted, with my emotions always just under the surface. That was before. Now? I’d found it impossible to forgive Federica, the girl who had failed to come to my rescue and who’d played a part in my incarceration at the hands of Dante. I knew he’d forced her to do what she’d done, but that hadn’t excused it. My heart had hardened against her, and still felt hard today. When her pleas for forgiveness echoed in my memory, I still felt nothing, only cold disappointment.

  I cleared my throat. “What do you suggest?”

  The headmaster looked pleased that we’d moved past the indelicate part. “I’d like you to take April under your wing. You have the skills needed to coach her. Put yourself in her shoes. Learn her weaknesses. Help her pass so that she can take whatever step she deems most appropriate after her year here is done.”

  So, he’d come full circle. That’s why he’d been asking me what I thought about April. I quailed at the idea. I didn’t have time or interest in being a tutor. “Does she even want a coach?”

  “Why don’t you ask her? If it’s as important to her to pass as she says it is, why would she refuse?”

  Coaching April meant I’d have less time for my own studies and practice, but I also realized that this line of thinking was exactly what Basil was hoping to steer me away from. I didn’t have any desire to help anyone and this was precisely why I had to say yes.

  I nodded, feeling my heart sink at the task the headmaster had set before me. School hadn’t really even started yet and already it was looking very different to what I’d imagined.

  “Excellent.” The headmaster slapped his hands on the armrests of the wingback and stood up. He patted at his jacket, feeling for something. Slipping his fingers into the outside pocket of his blazer, he produced a plastic card the size of a credit card and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” Inspecting the card, I noticed a small grayed over rectangle I knew would come off when I scratched it with a fingernail.

  “It’s a keycode to the fire-gym.”

  “While any student can use the gym to practice during school hours, it is locked otherwise. The code will expire at the end of the semester and it’s only necessary during off-hours. Secretary Goshawk will email you a link where you can block off the time you need. During those times, only your code and the master code will work to open the door. We can’t have you testing the limits of your skills in front of other students. Can we?”

  I shook my head, still numb with surprise. “Thank you,” I managed. I noticed he’d only given me a code after I’d agreed to tutor April and I wondered if he would have entrusted me with private access to the gym if I hadn’t. I opened my mouth to ask him, but he moved behind his desk and began to rummage through a stack of mail.

  “That is all, Ms. Cagney. You’re dismissed.” Headmaster Chaplin became formal to end our meeting.

  I got up, slipped the card into my pocket and left the office in a bit of a daze.

  Fourteen

  Combat 101

  My skin prickled up into gooseflesh as I entered the Combat Training Hall—CTH for short—for my first combat class. It was to be fou
r hours long—a double period. Talk about baptism by the proverbial fire.

  Wearing shorts and a tank top, I’d shoved my hair into a topknot and carried only a bottle of water. Nerves fluttered in my stomach. Learning combat was exciting, but it meant confrontation—something I wasn’t all that comfortable with.

  The cavernous room boasted high vaulted ceilings, gothic windows, and three large dojos. In a far corner was a space with a lower ceiling, a dark floor, and a bunch of metallic installations that was known as the forge.

  Without any other students in the hall, I felt small and exposed. I approached the first dojo where Alfred waited, processing what I was seeing.

  Bodies hung from the ceiling behind him. It took me a second to realize they were training dummies and not all of them were suspended from the ceiling. Some squatted on top of thick, barrel-shaped bases while others had tripod legs, two to the fore, one bracing the back. All had featureless faces yet, somehow, I felt their non-existent eyes on me.

  Alfred waited in front of this ghoulish entourage, flanked on either side by tables that held a variety of weapons. If he had me use any of them I’d be lucky to not hurt myself much less damage a target.

  Unassuming and unremarkable, Alfred had a density that spoke of considerable strength of character and self-possession. He was in control of himself, and thus it seemed everything. Dark blue eyes twinkled above rosy cheeks, and my tension melted away as I remembered how much I liked him, and that we shared a mage-bond.

  “Welcome to your introduction to combat class.” He smiled “Have you had any combat training or engaged in combat before?”

  “No,” I confessed, not bothering to mention the short, violent exchanges I’d had with Dante in Venice, or the tangle I had with the thief, which Alfred was already aware of. Better to set his expectations to zero.

  “That’s good.” He winked. “Means you won’t have any bad habits we’ll have to break. Do you know the three principle functions of martial arts?”

  Again, I replied in the negative.

  “Tell me, what do you think is the reason a person should learn a martial art?”

  I took a second to consider. “To protect yourself. Arm yourself with the knowledge and skill to keep yourself and others safe.”

  “Not bad.” The curls of his mustache twitched upward. “You nearly captured two of the three principle functions in one go. The word martial comes from the Latin name for the god of war, Mars. Thus, martial is to do with war on any scale and is centered around one thing. Any guesses?”

  My head swam with half remembered history lessons about the myriad wars waged across time, but I floundered for an answer as I set my water bottle down on the nearest table. Alfred laid his hand on the hilt of a broad-bladed knife and looked at me, but no revelation occurred.

  “Sorry.” My shoulders curled into a shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Alfred replied as his fingers tightened around the knife hilt. “That’s why you’re here.”

  In one fluid movement, he hurled the knife at a nearby dummy. The blade sank into a broad chest made of rubberized plastic, driving steel right through to where a heart would be. It happened so quickly I could only gape at the quivering dummy.

  “Violence,” he said simply, his expression unchanging. “War always, eventually comes down to violence.”

  He picked up the next weapon with reverent care, like a medieval warrior raising the sword of a glorious ancestor, but it was only a faded, black umbrella.

  “The other is art.” One broad hand slid to the curved, wooden handle while the other held a hand’s-breadth above the pointed tip. “Art is bandied about by folk smarter than me, but I’ve found there is one definition that is true no matter the form.”

  Slowly at first, his movements languid and graceful, he began to swing the umbrella through a looping pattern. His feet moved in a balanced but determined dance as he advanced on a ceiling-suspended dummy. Even my untrained eye could pick out how the movements might function as blocks, strikes and parries. He sprang forward and dealt a blistering series of blows with the umbrella handle and tip to the dummy, sending it spiraling backward as the rope jerked and snapped.

  “Art is ability, inspiration and discipline coming together.” His breathing was completely even as he stilled the dancing dummy with one hand. “Thus, a martial art is ability, inspiration, and discipline coming together to create violence.”

  Alfred returned to the table and lowered the umbrella to its place before turning back to me. “Not quite poetry, but it will do.”

  I nodded, a little dazed. How often do you see someone display deadly proficiency with an umbrella?

  “The next issue is more important.” With hands on my shoulders, he guided me to stand in front of a dummy. “It all comes down to one vital question.”

  His encouraging gaze probed mine for an answer.

  “Why?” I said on impulse.

  The smile on his face bordered on beatific. “Excellent! Why. What is the expression of violence meant to achieve? The answer leads us to the three principal functions of martial arts.”

  Alfred spared a moment to scrutinize the dummy before sliding back to kick the rear leg back, stabilizing it on a wider base.

  “The three functions are to kill, to control, and to escape. You may need to learn the first some day, and we’ll certainly cover some of the third, but control is the name of the game for your education here at Arcturus.”

  “Control,” I parroted.

  He nodded and gestured at the dummy. “Without thinking too much or using your fire, as we won’t be adding that this semester, show me how you’d establish control over this quiet fellow here.”

  I studied the fake man uncertainly. The dummies had begun to seem innocuous, a sort of window dressing, but now that I had to do something with one I realized how big they were. The thing was proportioned like a tall, strongly built warrior, and though I knew it couldn’t fight back I suddenly doubted if I had the strength to do much of anything to it without my fire, aside from slap it around a little.

  “Don’t think.” Alfred’s hand snapped into a fist as though grabbing something invisible from the air. “Take control.”

  Sitting into the only fighting stance I knew—the one Basil had taught me during my first visit here—I landed two punches to the dummy’s abdomen before grabbing around the waist and trying to throw it down. The rebellious dummy slid across the floor but remained standing as its tubular legs flexed and rebounded.

  I stepped back, feeling embarrassed and a little winded.

  “Take control, Saxony,” Alfred pressed. “Stop him or he’ll stop you.”

  I pounced again, tackling it to show I wasn’t a quitter if nothing else. The dummy swayed, one leg coming off the ground, but it rebounded again and my attack floundered.

  I glanced at Alfred, panting and uncertain, hoping for further instruction. With brow furrowed and eyes intent, he only watched with an expression of support: you can do it.

  Instinct, hard and snarling, sprang up inside me as I took myself back to the time Dante had slammed me into the ground with a punch, how it felt to open my eyes and see the red stripes on his sneakers up close. I began to move.

  Kicking down on one of the legs, my driving heel folded it where a man’s knee would be. The dummy slumped forward on its crippled limb, bowed but still standing. Moving on nothing but a furious determination to level this defiant piece of equipment, I brought my other leg up fast and hard. Knee and shin connected with the slouched abdomen, striking hard enough to fill the hall with sound. My leg stung from the impact, but the pain washed away in a surge of triumph as the dummy toppled to the floor. I almost stopped to bask in the glory of my victory, then I remembered the whole point: control the dummy.

  Vaulting over the legs of the bloody thing, I landed on top of it. My right foot lashed out, slapping the head hard enough to shift the dummy to one side. My foot slammed down across the neck of the dummy.
I was in control.

  Chest heaving, I looked over just as Alfred lifted his hands to give polite applause. Heat from both embarrassment and pleasure flushed my cheeks.

  “Very good.” Alfred glanced at the felled dummy. “A very good start.”

  “But he can’t fight back.” I stepped off the dummy’s neck.

  Alfred hauled the dummy upright with one hand, patting it’s head affectionately. “Yes, but for our purposes you did well. You’ve displayed how you naturally and functionally exert your strength, and more importantly, how you handle adversity. Now, we can begin.”

  What followed was what I would later describe as drinking from a firehose while trying to run a marathon, only I was running on my fists or elbows or knees or shins.

  Alfred gave me a primer on martial arts from boxing to Silat and Hung Gar—a form of Kung Fu--many of which I’d never heard of, some I couldn’t even pronounce. Several were abandoned almost as quickly as he introduced them. Professor Knight’s calculating gaze consumed my every movement and reaction as I bobbed for the proverbial apple—the art I had the most affinity with.

  By the time we’d finished my thighs were burning and I had a heartbeat in each foot. I’d kicked, kneed, and stomped from so many different positions and angles I thought my legs had become actual jelly. All the while I had to keep my fire on its leash, so while my mind wrestled to grasp new techniques, my will strained to keep my fire-power from engaging.

  Alfred showed me how to use Escrima fighting sticks and a few different kinds of knives, a short staff, and even the hallowed umbrella. I discovered that there was an entire martial art from England called Bartitsu that uses canes, walking sticks, and ‘brollies’--as Alfred called them--as potent weapons. I struck, slashed, and stabbed the surprisingly resilient dummies over and over again. As I tired, I felt certain that I would soon brain or gouge myself.

  By the end of our first lesson, Alfred had decided that—as was typical for many women—the majority of my strength lay in my legs. For this he recommended Savate, Taekwondo, and some styles of Karate. All of them involved some savage kicking, which even in spite of fatigue I was able to land with power repeatedly.