The Black Stars (21 page)

Master Zin nodded. “You may.” He rose and headed for the door. Grubare followed, after giving Mason what probably passed for a sympathetic look, if you were Grubare.

“Now, tell me what this is about,” the king said. He looked paler than usual.

“Sir. The Fangborn are coming. They know our location and are coming to finish us off. I don't know when.”

The king didn't seem surprised at all. His face betrayed no emotion.

“You knew.…” Mason said.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you get that information from my mother?”

“I—” The king's gaze dropped to Mason's hands, and his eyes widened with an emotion Mason had never before seen on the king's face. It was fear.

Mason looked down; his hands were glowing black.

“Calm yourself,” the king said.

Mason made his hands into fists, then relaxed them. The black light faded.

“Your mother reports directly to me,” the king said. “We are as ready as we can be for a Fangborn assault. I contacted your sister, Susan, to share this knowledge, so that the humans might prepare as well. Imagine my surprise when she already knew.…”

“I may have mentioned it,” Mason said.

“Mmm. Susan knows how frail our peace is right now. We are trying to work together while keeping it intact. We
are
working together, Mason. Because of you and your friends.”

The rubber band around Mason's heart loosened, but just slightly. It was a weight removed, a problem for other people now. More qualified people. And yet, when the Fangborn came, Mason would still have to fight.

“When this is over, I want my mother to be released,” Mason said. “She can finish the cure back on Earth. Where she belongs.”

The king seemed hesitant, unsure of what to say.

“It's not up for discussion,” Mason said. He could barely believe the words coming out of his mouth. He used to fear the king, and now he was talking to him like this?
How much of this is the gloves? I just put them on.
He felt the gloves probing deeper into his mind, knocking on doors, poking around, making themselves quite at home. With a thought, Mason pushed them back.
I'm wearing you,
he thought to the gloves.
Not the other way around.

“Mason, it is true that we need your mother.
Desperately,
I might add. But she is not a captive. At least, not anymore.”

Then why didn't she come home?
Mason didn't know what else to say. He tried: “Before, I thought you were the most evil creature I'd ever met. How much of it was your armor?”

The king was stone-faced. “I can't be sure. I wish I could blame all of it on the suit, but that would be a lie. That doesn't mean I'm not afraid for you, Mason. Aramore's avatar may have judged you true, but he was an exceptional man. I want to believe you're just as exceptional, but only time will tell how strong you are on the inside.”

Once more, Mason was without words.

“The Fangborn aren't coming, Mason. They're already here. They've already begun their invasion, but in a slow way. A terrifying way. I'm tempted to send everyone in this school home … that's why I'm here. To decide.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Mason said.

The king almost smiled. “You were once wise enough to show me one truth. Now I hope you can help me discover another. What would you do, if you were king?”

Sending the students home was the best idea Mason could imagine, but it wasn't the answer he gave. “I would find who was responsible, and stop them.”

“So would I,” the king said.

 

Chapter Thirty-one

 

Four days passed without a Fangborn sighting, without an incident, without a transformation. Space was empty, too. The Fangborn did not come.

In those four days, half of the students left the school to return home until the Fangborn threat was ended. There was a rumor Master Zin was sending students home so they wouldn't be asked to fight once the war started.

In those four days, Mason felt the yearning of his gloves. The old gloves, the red ones, were safely locked in the storage compartment in the wall next to his bed. Those gloves never wanted anything. They obeyed. They were tools. These new gloves were alive, Mason was sure of it. Somehow, some way. He hadn't seen his hands once in those four days, and yet his skin didn't sweat in the gloves; they didn't feel unclean. Because the gloves were his skin now.

Each afternoon, Mason sat with Master Zin and recounted his interaction with the gloves for that day. Master Zin never let his face slip, never showed how troubled he really was, but Mason knew.

Mason and his team went to class. He endured the whispers and the sideways glances, the rumors and the alienation.
Tom and Merrin are here, and we are alive, so that's all that matters.
Mason didn't have an opportunity to practice with the gloves, but he wasn't worried: he knew that when he needed the gloves, they would respond.

He visited his mother's lab on the third day, but the lab was empty. Which felt strange, with the threat so imminent. The Fangborn behind the glass stayed hidden in the dark, but Mason knew they were there, watching him.

On the fourth day, Broxnar visited Mason's dorm. He knocked on the door and opened it a second later, the way adults did, whether human or Tremist.

“Hello everyone, how are we this evening?” Everyone was not so good, almost the entire team having been eliminated in the free-for-all (which had just been reinstated) right away, when a group of older Bloods made them their first targets. The team was feeling the consequences of being associated with Mason and Tom now. They were becoming outsiders, and Mason didn't know how to fix it. He had not been allowed to participate in the free-for-all, since his gloves were still an unknown factor. In a combat situation, Mason worried he might actually kill someone, not stun them.

Lore, however, was doing great. She'd won the game, having escaped from the team and hidden herself in the trees for most of the match, a fact the rest of the team wasn't going to let her forget.

“That good, huh?” Broxnar said.

“We're okay, Broxnar,” Po said, tossing a ball against the wall and catching it. “Is there something we can help you with?”

Broxnar nodded, his jowls jiggling up and down. “Actually, yes, Po, thank you. I was hoping I could have a word with Mason Stark.”

“Me?” Mason said, sitting up in bed. He pointed at his own chest, and when his finger touched his robe, a great warmth spread from his fingertip through his body.

Broxnar smiled. “I don't know any other Mason Starks.”

Mason got out of bed and followed Broxnar, who was already waddling down the hallway.

“Is something wrong?” Mason asked, once he'd caught up to him.

“No, no, nothing is the matter.” Broxnar smiled again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Unless you count the madness this school has descended into. I must confess, I am quite embarrassed. The first time a human visits our school it has to be during a crisis like this. You must think so poorly of us.”

So Broxnar didn't know April Stark had been here for years. Or more likely, he just picked his words carefully. Mason wondered if Broxnar was really embarrassed: horror at what was happening to the rhadjen seemed more appropriate.

“I don't think poorly of anyone. The school is trying to handle it, I guess.” Mason said.

“The students should be sent home,” Broxnar said. “All of them, including the older students.”

Mason had to agree with that. The hallways were almost deserted, which made everyone feel less safe. The one they walked down now was like an enormous, hollowed-out tree trunk, but halfway through it became what appeared to be ice that was not cold or wet.

“Here we are,” Broxnar said, stopping outside a door in the fake ice. He gestured for Mason to walk in first. A chill ran across his shoulders.

Mason entered an office that appeared like a meadow you might find on Earth. The floor was grass, the walls paneled in tree bark. Birds chirped all around them. The only furniture was a simple desk and two chairs across from it. Mason sat in the left chair, and Broxnar squeezed himself into the chair behind his desk.

They stared at each other for a moment. Mason did not like the light behind Broxnar's eyes.

He decided to be blunt. “How can I help you, sir?”

Broxnar shrugged. “I was hoping we could talk, you and me. One-on-one. You know my affinity for the story of the Uniter and the Divider. I believe it was your first lesson from me, was it not?”

Broxnar's eyes lingered on Mason's gloves.

“Yes,” Mason said. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“So what is it like, Mason Stark, to wear
history
? To wield
legend
?” For the first time since Mason had known him, Broxnar's face was harsh, tense with an emotion Mason couldn't quite place.

Mason looked over his shoulder at the door.

“Do not look at the door again,” Broxnar said. “Now answer me.”

Mason decided to be honest. “It's unlike anything I've experienced before. It's … power.”

Broxnar was nodding, his lips twisted in something that might've been another version of a smile. “Go on.”

“The gloves feel … alive.”

“I would like to try them on. Just once.” Broxnar leaned forward in his chair, which creaked. “You wouldn't deny me that simple pleasure, would you? Did you know I am a descendant of the Uniter? Not direct of course, but I have his blood. I know of the chamber you found those gloves in. I have been trying to access it my entire life, since I was a rhadjen myself. And then a human comes to the school and finds it within a few
weeks.
And now you have my birthright. You have what belongs to my family. So I'm sure you will understand my desire to just try them on, to just wear them for a moment. Surely you understand.”

Broxnar's lips glistened with spit, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. A manufactured breeze pushed through the office, rustling Mason's hair. Broxnar had no hair to rustle.

“I understand,” Mason said slowly. “But I can't take them off. They won't come off.”

“That's interesting. Has anyone tried to remove them by force?”

Mason had felt uneasy at first—Broxnar had been his favorite teacher—but now he was beginning to feel the stirrings of anger deep inside his gut. “I don't think you'll be able to do that, either,” he said.

“But there is fun in trying, isn't there? Know that if you strike me, every Rhadgast in the school will come to this location, and who will they believe? Me, a respected teacher, or you, a human wearing gloves that could be corrupting your mind with each passing second.”

Broxnar was right. Mason felt a cold, sinking sensation in his chest.

“I don't know what you want me to do,” Mason said. “They
won't
come off!” He stood up.

Broxnar rose with him. He reached for Mason's wrist; Mason let him. There was a small explosion of black energy between them when Broxnar's skin touched Aramore's glove. He yelped and pulled back his hand, but the yelp turned into a low growl, and Broxnar lunged across the desk, reaching with both hands for Mason's throat. It felt like an iron collar had been locked around Mason's neck. Instantly he felt pressure in his head, behind his eyes, in his ears. His breath was stuck in his lungs, unable to move in or out.

This is not the end,
Mason thought, as he grabbed Broxnar's wrist. The glove, seeming to sense its master was in danger, automatically sent out a pulse of energy. Broxnar flew backward, knocking over his chair. Some things slipped out of his robe and rolled in the grass. Mason stepped around the desk, taking deep breaths, the pain in his head fading but his heart still thrumming. He was not afraid of getting in trouble anymore: Broxnar was clearly insane.

The gloves were hungry. They were hot on his hands, bursting at the seams with energy that was begging to be used.
Finish him off,
the gloves seemed to say, but Mason knew that was only a voice in his own head.
Finish him before he hurts you.
Mason stepped closer.

Broxnar struggled to one knee, his eyes on the items that had slipped from his robe. Three vials filled with a milky blue liquid. Mason knew what they were instantly, even though he'd never seen them before in his life.

They were vials of Fangborn venom. Broxnar was incredibly huge, but he was quick. His hand darted out for the vials and was already pulling them back when Mason unleashed the first bolt, this one intentional. The grass was set aflame. Broxnar rolled away behind his desk as Mason fired a second blast, scorching another patch on the floor.
Again! Again!
the gloves cried, but Mason forced himself to maintain control. Broxnar stood up slowly on the other side of the desk …

… And let the three empty vials fall to the grass.

“It was you all along,” Mason said. “
Why?
Why hurt the students?”

“I wasn't hurting them,” Broxnar said. “I was remaking them the way they're supposed to be.” He held up his thick hands. “Look at these fragile tools of flesh and blood. We were
supposed
to be Fangborn. But the lesser race escaped and settled our planets and now … now we're
this.
Disgusting, weak creatures. When your mother slept at night, the Fangborn allowed me to spread their gift. And what a gift it is, Mason.”

“You didn't even know any of this until we brought the truth to everyone,” Mason spat back. His hands were almost rising on their own, itching to fire a volley of black lightning, but he kept them at his sides.

Broxnar sneered, his mouth already larger somehow, elongated. “You think you're the first one to discover the history of the People?” His words came out slurred, a bit garbled by his teeth, which were also much bigger than before.