The Hound of Rowan (16 page)

The old woman smiled kindly at the students and gave a polite bow as the children murmured hello.

“Instructor Kraken teaches only the Fifth and Sixth Years,” continued Miss Boon. “She will be joining us from time to time, however, and will receive your utmost respect and attention when she is here.”

“You're in good hands, children,” uttered Instructor Kraken, nodding at the younger woman. “Miss Boon is one of the very best we've had in all my time.”

She said farewell and moved slowly to the door, closing it quietly behind her. Miss Boon cleared her throat and began pacing around the room.

“When each of you completed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials, you demonstrated a capacity for Mystics. Mystics can take many forms, but at its heart, it is the ability to channel and manipulate energy.

“Understand that Mystics is a highly individual discipline. No two among us are the same when it comes to our raw talents and our ability to access them. There are some Mystics who are able to draw upon tremendous stores of energy but inevitably waste much as they strive to harness and shape it. Conversely, there are some with considerably less ‘horsepower' but who are able to utilize every last little bit. You will find that some branches of Mystics come naturally, while others are inaccessible to you. As your instructor, my goal is to help you understand your natural abilities and maximize your individual talents. Are there any questions?”

Lucia raised her hand.

“How do we know how much ‘horsepower' we have?” she asked.

Miss Boon pinched her chin and nodded at the question.

“The Potentials test is one measure, but my research suggests it's an imperfect one. Some who score well on that test turn out to be hopeless Mystics.”

Lucia looked hurt.

Connor raised his hand.

“Do we use wands or staves and stuff?” he asked.

Miss Boon smiled and shook her head.

“No, such tools are not necessary and can actually be dangerous,” she explained. “What's more, they can only be made with Old Magic, and the greater ones are very, very rare. The temptations they offer are not healthy—most have been accounted for and destroyed.”

With a sudden flick of her wrist, Miss Boon ignited a lone torch on a far wall. Smoke from the torch streamed rapidly across the room and swirled about her hands as she spoke.

“No, Connor, the Mystic's tools are their hands and the power of language. These are all that you will need to summon and shape the energies around you. This year, you will be learning the basic commands so that they become second nature.”

“Would you look at that?” breathed Connor, staring at a dark, churning copy of himself that the instructor had fashioned.

Max was speechless as the smoky figure waved good-bye to the class and walked into the nearest fireplace, disappearing up the chimney. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, Miss Boon extinguished the lit torch.

“To get you started on that path,” she said, eyeing them as they sat riveted, “I'd like you to form two single-file lines.”

Max quickly took a place in line.

“All right,” Miss Boon said with a clap, stepping around to the front. “Each of you has extinguished a fire before—it's one of the reasons you are here. Today, you're going to do just the opposite: you're going to kindle a fire in one of these hearths. This will demonstrate that as a living conduit you can both absorb and channel energy. While we do this, I will be the only person talking. If anybody speaks, laughs, or causes any kind of distraction, he or she will be asked to leave. Understood?”

They nodded. The room became silent.

“Okay,” Miss Boon continued, “I'd like the first person in each line to step forward and face the fireplace in front of them.”

Two girls stepped forward.

“Spread your feet slightly apart and breathe deeply. Try to relax. I want you to take a moment and listen to the beating of your heart, feel its energy. Now I want you to feel the energy in this room, the atoms and molecules buzzing in the air. Close your eyes and picture the logs in the hearth beginning to smoke; imagine the smoke coming faster and faster until suddenly the wood ignites. Now, keep your right hand at your side and spread your fingers with the palm facing forward. Good. When I give the word, I want you to raise your arm and make a tight fist. Do you understand?”

The girls nodded, their eyes tightly closed.

“Now,” said Miss Boon, in an even tone of voice.

Both girls raised their hands and closed their fingers. Almost at once, both fireplaces began to smoke.

“Keep concentrating,” intoned Miss Boon. “Drop your arms and repeat the motion.”

The second time, one hearth showed a low flicker of bright purple flames, triggering a few exclamations from the class that Miss Boon silenced with a glance. A few wispy trickles of smoke appeared in the other hearth, but no flame.

“That's enough, you two,” she said. “Well done. Please step to the back of the line.”

With a quick wave of her hand, both hearths looked dark and cold. Her next command was brisk.

“Next pair.”

Despite three long attempts, Rolf and Sarah failed to ignite anything. Rolf looked furious, but as other pairs went, Max saw that the task was not so easy. Only two students had been able to conjure small, sputtering flames by the time it was David and Lucia's turn.

David patiently closed his eyes as Miss Boon guided them through the process. She signaled for them to begin.

There was a flash of light, followed by an explosion.

Max found himself thrown backward, lying on the ground, shielding his eyes from the torrents of green and gold fire that roared from David's fireplace. Burning logs and embers smoldered on the floor, blasted clear from the hearth. The nearest edge of the Persian rug began to smoke.

David was the only student standing; the rest shrieked and scurried away as more sheets of green flame spilled out of the fireplace and swept above the mantel to singe the paneled wall above. Miss Boon's voice rose above the fire's roar.

“Stay down.”

Miss Boon strode forward and muttered a sharp word of command coupled with a decisive sweep of her arm.

The fire did not subside.

Narrowing her eyes, the instructor repeated her command.

Max exhaled as the fire began to dim. It gathered reluctantly into small pools of green flames before winking out entirely. The stern expression on Miss Boon's face softened.

“Is anyone hurt?”

Max and the others murmured “No” as they pushed up from the floor. The floor and walls surrounding David's fireplace were badly charred and smoking.

“If no one is hurt, please re-form your lines.”

David coughed and opened his eyes, looking curiously behind him where the students were slowly reassembling. Ignoring Max's stare, David merely walked to the end of the line. Miss Boon stepped back to her position, as though nothing unusual had happened. In a terse voice, she muttered, “Next, McDaniels and Boudreaux.”

Max found it difficult to concentrate as Miss Boon led them through the steps. Although he tried to focus on his hearth, his mind kept returning to David's disturbing display. After several minutes, exhausted from the effort, he opened his eyes. His hearth was smoking mightily, but no flame flickered within it. It was no different for the girl next to him or anyone else that followed.

When the last pair had finished, Miss Boon bade them take their seats. Lucia spoke first.

“Miss Boon?” she asked, uncharacteristically tentative. “What happened? What happened on David's turn?”

“He kindled a flame as instructed,” was the flat reply.

“Yes, but, um, why did it
explode
?”

“Apparently he has lots of ‘horsepower,' Miss Cavallo.”

         

After class, Max waited in the stairwell while David remained behind with Miss Boon. The windows in the hallway hummed as Old Tom chimed four o'clock and Max saw Ms. Richter climbing the stairs. She turned to him as she approached the Mystics classroom.

“Why aren't you in Etiquette, Mr. McDaniels?” asked the Director.

“Oh. I'm waiting for David Menlo. He should be out any second.”

“He will not be,” Ms. Richter replied, opening the door. “Go on to class, Max. Tell Sir Wesley that David will be arriving late. Oh, and be sure to get more ice for that eye.”

Max stammered a good-bye; he had almost forgotten that his eye was swollen and bruised. He clambered up the stairs to the room for Etiquette. As soon as he entered, he heard a voice exclaim, “No, no, not at all. Did everybody see that?”

Max stopped and saw a tall, tanned man with a shock of white hair and a cleft chin in a cream-colored suit. The man was flanked by Max's classmates, and his bright blue eyes were studying him intently.

“Is this David or Max?” asked Sir Alistair Wesley, suddenly plucking a silk pocket square from his breast pocket and polishing his glasses.

“Uh, Max, sir,” he said. “Uh, David will be late—Ms. Richter told me to tell you.”

“Uh, I see,” said Sir Wesley, conspicuously emphasizing the “uh” and refolding the pocket square. “As you are late and as your entrance is an example of everything
not to do,
we shall use you as an example. Please step back into the hallway.”

Max hesitated before retreating several steps.

“Please reenter the room.”

Max took several halting steps. Connor looked ready to burst.

“There!” exclaimed Sir Wesley. “Slumped shoulders, shifty gaze, shuffling feet. Hardly a projection of confidence, good breeding, or manners.”

The rest of the class giggled; Max was incredulous.

“We'll try it again,” said Sir Wesley. “This time, Mr. McDaniels, I would like you to stand straight, lift up your chin, and stride confidently into the room. As you enter, I'd like you to give Sarah here a warm smile and walk over to make her acquaintance.”

“But I
already
know Sarah,” Max muttered, his face burning.

“Yes, I know you do. I want you to pretend that you do not. Sarah, I want you to pretend that you do not notice the rather prominent black eye exhibited by Mr. McDaniels.”

Max bit his tongue and backtracked into the hall. When called, he stood up straight and walked back into the room. He saw Sarah and tried to concentrate on her, but it was difficult with Sir Wesley's running commentary.

“Good! No! No! Shoulders back—there, that's it. Chin up! Don't look so serious; you're making a lovely young lady's acquaintance, not battling gas!”

The class burst into laughter and Max abandoned his effort.

“All right, Mr. McDaniels, we'll consider you a work in progress,” Sir Wesley said wearily, turning from Max to address the others. “Now, I know that today young people fancy themselves perpetually moody and angst-ridden, but let's
pretend
we're not, shall we? Any more volunteers for
Scenario One: Winning Entry into an Occupied Room
?”

Connor's hand shot in the air.

“All right, Mr. Lynch. Have a go.”

Connor disappeared out into the hall. When called, he sauntered in, pausing to lean against the doorway and raise an eyebrow as he surveyed the group with a rakish smirk. Pretending to catch an initial glimpse of Sarah, he strode toward her with slow majesty. Sarah burst into giggles; Omar buried his face in his hands. Stopping several feet away, Connor gave a low bow and raised his head to flash two rows of gleaming teeth.

“Connor Lynch at your service.”

“Bravo!” roared Sir Wesley, clapping with sincere enthusiasm.

Everyone else groaned in disgust.

         

Max could not wait to escape from Etiquette; it had leapfrogged Mathematics as his least favorite class. He was first out the door and jogging down the stairs toward the athletic fields for Games as Old Tom chimed. M. Renard was waiting, impatient as ever as he directed them to separate facilities where they could change. When they emerged from the lockers, their instructor was bouncing a soccer ball on his foot. He motioned them over.

“First day of classes. The piggies are tired, I know. We end the day as we begin: a little hop, skip, and jump, eh? All of you know football? ‘Soccer'?” He scanned the faces as the children nodded; Max noticed David was still absent.

“Good game for the legs. Builds speed, stamina, and body control. Apprentices play lots of football at Rowan, but here you will find the conditions slightly different. Here at Rowan, we play Euclidean soccer.”

“What's different?” asked Rolf.

“You will see as you play,” M. Renard said, allowing a little smile. “You and Sarah will pick teams. Quick, quick.”

Max was chosen first by Sarah despite warning her that he had never played organized soccer. As the game started, Sarah whizzed past Jesse with the ball, passing it deftly to another girl, who ran alongside her. Rolf crashed in and stole the ball, eluding Max and kicking a long pass downfield to Connor, who fired a hard shot toward the goal. Playing goalkeeper, Cynthia tipped the ball straight up into the air and caught it short of the net.