“Now stop it,” his teacher directed.
Without closing his eyes this time, Jack drew back, allowing the top to settle gently onto the scarred wooden surface of the bench. It spun silently for a moment and then coasted to a stop. Hastings flung up his fistful of gold again. There was a soft brilliance about Jack this time, less distinctive than before. Jack consciously re-sheathed his weapons, and the image dissipated as before.
There followed several similar exercises, where Jack raised magical energy, then dispersed it. Finally, they spent some time working with the foil, beginning with classic fencing moves, then adding the element of magic. Jack learned to hold on to the power, then channel it into the blade and send flames spinning from its tip at will. This raised a question: he remembered the way he had felt in the graveyard, the marriage of flesh and metal, recalled his successful attack on the wizard, and wondered how much he had contributed to it.
“I have a sword. The Shadowslayer, it's called. What I'm wondering is, how much magic is in me, and how much is in the sword?”
At first it seemed there would be no answer to his question. Hastings frowned and passed the two foils to Jack without comment, indicating that he should return them to the bag. He also handed over the top and a soft suede pouch.
“The top's a wizard's toy,” Hastings said. “You can use it to practice control at home. There's more of the shimmer powder in the bag.” Jack put both items into his gym bag. “Self-awareness is the first step. Practice is the key. Soon you will manage your power intuitively, and that more than anything will keep you safe. Then we'll move on to other things.”
“Aunt Linda told me not to use my powers, that it would send up some kind of a signal.”
“She means you should not use them for entertainment. Of course you must practice, or you'll never get any better. Magic isn't a tool to be used recklessly or thoughtlessly. It must be harnessed to an intellect strong enough to control it. Talk to Snowbeard. If your house is not already warded, he can make an arrangement.” Hastings studied him, hands on hips. “Do you know who you're hiding from, Jack?”
Embarrassed, Jack shook his head.
Hastings frowned and rubbed his chin with his thumb. “We'll continue to meet to work on your skills, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I'll be working with some of the other soccer players as well, so it will be perceived as nothing unusual.” The wizard was issuing orders again, almost unconsciously.
Hastings turned to the door, but stopped, his tall frame filling the doorway. “The Shadowslayer is one of the Seven Great Blades, forged by the sorcerer Althis Mac at Raven's Ghyll more than five centuries ago. The other six have been lost. The pommel is a piece of the Ravenshead. There is tremendous power in it, and it was made for your hand. Others can wield it, but none so capably as the heir, properly trained.” He paused. "There is considerable power in you, too, Jack, despite your unusual history. With the weapon you have, and the proper training, you could be … impressive.
“Let's go.”
The lesson was over.
Chapter Eight
The Apprentice
Jack grimly advanced on Hastings, body angled to present a smaller target, elbow up and blade extended to prevent escape to the right, his small shield protecting his chest. The wizard kept him honest, made him work for every forward step. Steel came together, shrieking and sparking, and when Jack thought he had his teacher trapped in the corner, Hastings spun away from the wall, blade hissing toward Jack at waist level. Jack had to leap backward to avoid it, and Hastings was on the outside again, with the room at his back, and Jack against the wall.
“This … room's … too … small!” Jack gasped, forcing him away once again.
“You'd never get near me in a bigger room,” the wizard replied, teeth flashing in a smile, although they had been at it for more than an hour. “You can't always pick where you fight, or who you fight… or even … how you fight. But do the picking … whenever you can.” Still teaching, but his breathing was noticeable now, and perhaps he was slower in blocking blows, parrying the flames. So maybe he was winded, just a little. “We're going to have to end this … you know. Your mother … is expecting you.”
“Do you yield?” Jack's shoulder was numb from the hundred collisions it had already absorbed. He was feeling the weights on his wrists and ankles, designed to build muscle and ready him for a heavier blade. Even the foil was growing heavy, or maybe it was his arm, almost too heavy now to lift.
“Your mother … can wait a little longer.”
Slowly, Jack drove Hastings across the room until he was once again in a corner. Jack thrust forward with his sword hand, and Hastings moved to parry it. At that moment, Jack straightened his shield arm, which exposed his chest but freed his nondominant hand. Flames spiraled out from his fingertips, and Hastings's foil hit the floor. Hastings raised his hands in surrender. “I yield, Warrior,” he said, smiling.
Jack let his point drift to the floor. “Thank God,” he said. He snatched up a towel and swabbed off his face. His hair was plastered to his head and his shirt was soaked. The floor was slick with sweat. The room stank of it.
“Next time we'll work some more with the axe,” the wizard promised. “I think you're beginning to master two-handed play.”
“We were playing, were we?” Jack grinned. ”That's the first plaisance I've won." He felt the need to point it out, in case Hastings hadn't noticed.
“You've come a long way, Jack.” Hastings was always sparing with compliments, and followed with a demand. “How are you coming with your reading?”
“I've been trying.”
“I didn't ask you to try.”
Jack scowled. “It's like Shakespearean English without the poetry,” he complained. The work with the wizard was mostly physical, but Hastings had recently given him a slim volume called Rules of Engagement. It was the bible, where Weir tournament warfare was concerned, addressing elements of garb, weaponry, and battle etiquette. The weaponry was explicitly limited to medieval hand weapons, such as swords, slings, maces, and so on.
Hastings didn't respond, so Jack persisted. “I don't understand why they haven't updated them.”
“The rules are intended for tournaments,” Hastings said patiently, wiping off the foils, returning them to their case. “They are not meant to be modern. Weapons are not allowed to overshadow the skills of the warriors.”
“But aren't some weapons better than others? What about Shadowslayer? What's fair about that?”
Hastings shrugged. “That's a special piece. But still within the rules.”
“What about the rest of it? You can't deny that's out of date.” He pulled the book out of his gym bag and thumbed through it. “Listen to this: 'Enchanters were created for the entertainment of wizards.' And, here: 'A wizard guarantor may choose to keep and protect an enchanter in exchange for service rendered.'That can't be right. And the rules governing the relationships among the guilds are unfair. They all favor wizards.” He'd heard of things like that, obsolete city ordinances that were still on the books. Rules that prohibited interracial marriages or riding horses into church, for instance.
“You don't have to like the rules,” Hastings pointed out. “They were written by wizards, so of course they are biased. And I didn't ask you to read the whole thing. Only the tournament regulations.”
“Those are bad enough. What's all this about calling up dead warriors for practice bouts? Why is it necessary to have a rule that only live warriors can be used in battle?”
“We'll talk about that when the time comes.” By now everything was packed up. “We'd better get going.You're late already.”
Jack could tell Hastings was losing patience, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. “I don't understand why I have to learn about tournaments, anyway. Do you think a wizard is going to challenge me to some kind of duel? I'm more likely to be taken by surprise. Maybe you should be teaching me weaponless warfare, like tai chi.”
“Maybe I should. Perhaps I shall. But I didn't come here to debate with you. Let's go.” Hastings laid a hot hand on his shoulder, pushing him out the door.
It was always this way. The wizard never answered his questions. Hastings was relentless in coaching him about every aspect of his new trade: weapons, equipment, conditioning, and strength training, but shared nothing about his own background.
Jack had tried to ask questions early on about Hastings's family, about where he'd received his training. He'd been met with a stone wall. The focus was always on Jack. He sometimes had the feeling that Hastings was working him like a problem, gradually peeling layers away until he was entirely revealed. Or maybe whoever he used to be was being stripped away. He just wasn't sure who had taken his place.
He hadn't heard from Aunt Linda since their trip to Coal Grove. She'd abandoned him to Hastings. Was she still running from Wylie? What if he had caught her?
He wished she would call. He felt lonely and ill at ease. Even his relationship with Nick had changed. In the old days, the apartment over the garage had been a sanctuary. Now, some nights he went directly from lessons in warrioring to lessons in wizardry without a break. Like this evening.
Nick's voice broke into his thoughts. “Remember, of all the Weir, only wizards can use charms to harness and control magic. For the other guilds, magic is personal and hands-on. More of a physical power. Less versatile. Are you listening, Jack?”
“Less versatile,” he repeated dutifully, biting into another chocolate chip cookie. It seemed he was always starving lately.
“Wizards are sophisticated crafters of magic, which is why they have been able to dominate the other Weir for centuries.” Nick found a marked passage in Jack's Weirbook. “Now, let's go over what we covered last week. Transformare: the art of turning one thing into another.” They were working their way through the Weirbook, chapter by chapter. Spoken charms for moving objects about, confusing the enemy, barriers, and attack charms. Charms small enough to try out in the apartment over the garage.