The Boy Who Went Magic

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The carriage driver struck a match with a sharp snap and the lantern sprang to life. A dark, foggy stretch of the city lay ahead. “You’ll excuse the delay, sir,” said the driver, to a man sitting beside him in a hooded cloak. “These narrow ways can be dangerous at this hour.”

  The man in the cloak nodded. His hood obscured his face, but the restless movement of his head showed his unease. His hand gripped a sword at his belt.

  Both men seemed to expect trouble. The horses stamped their feet and snorted. The reins jangled as the driver urged them onward.

  The small boy watched the men closely from the seat behind, clutching his ragged coat against the cold. He felt confused and shaken. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, only that he had been afraid, and that the man in the cloak had saved him. Everything else was a blur.

  The driver gestured to the boy. “I wouldn’t want him to be scared of the darkness,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his own fears. The lantern bobbed over their heads as the carriage approached a set of tall iron gates. “Is this the place, sir?” said the driver. “The school?”

  The man in the cloak gave a muffled reply.

  The driver slowed the horses. “I suppose he’s a runaway?” he said. He gestured toward the boy. “He doesn’t look like your typical troublemaker though, does he?”

  “What business is that of yours?” said the man.

  The driver looked nervous. “Forgive me, sir. I just meant, I thought that you looked like a lawman. I’m right, aren’t I? Did he run away from the place?”

  The man in the cloak didn’t reply. He passed the driver some money, and then lifted the small child down from the seat. They walked together to the school gates.

  The carriage drove away.

  “It’s all right,” said the man in the cloak. “They’ll look after you here.”

  The child didn’t reply.

  The man in the cloak looked around suddenly at the tramp of approaching footsteps. They sounded like heavy boots. The man took the child’s arm and led him into the shadows beside the gate. A group of soldiers appeared from around the corner. They were wearing tall hats and long-tailed coats, and they had their swords drawn. They were searching for someone.

  “Stay together,” said the leader of the group, waving his sword. “Search every possible corner.”

  The boy felt a chill of fear.

  “Stay low,” whispered the cloaked man. “And stay in the shadows.”

  The child did as he was told, but his hands were shaking.

  The men cast their lanterns over the dark street and the puddles shone like glass. The child and the man in the cloak crouched farther into the shadows. There was only a thin alcove to hide them from sight. It was too late to run. The men were coming closer.

  “Who are we even chasing?” whispered one of the soldiers.

  “Quiet there,” snapped the leader. “Stay alert.”

  “But, sir,” chimed in another man as he peered into the alleyways. “How are we supposed to find someone, in a city full of people, if we don’t know what they look like?”

  The leader seemed as if he was about to give a stern reply when the outline of a man appeared through the fog. All the soldiers turned in alarm.

  The child stared at the new apparition, unsure of what to expect. He felt instinctively afraid—more afraid than he was of the soldiers. He struggled not to make a sound.

  “Who goes there?” demanded the leader.

  The outline loomed closer. It was clear that whoever was approaching wasn’t daunted by the challenge. “Do you not know your own prince?” said a harsh voice.

  The lead soldier shrank back in obvious alarm. “P-prince Voss, Your Highness,” he stammered. “Please forgive me. We did not know that you had joined the search …”

  Voss was already striding past the man. The prince was tall and strong, and wore a long dark coat with a large pistol on his belt. In his gloved hand he held a glittering sword. He glared around the street. “Have you seen anyone suspicious?” he said, in a deep, rasping tone.

  “No, sir. No sign of disturbance.”

  The prince stood frozen for a moment. The soldiers seemed too frightened to speak. “No sign,” muttered the prince. He picked up a loose cobble from the street, and clenched it in his grasp. There was a loud crack and the cobble fell as dust from his fingers.

  The men looked at one another in horror.

  “Traitors,” hissed Voss.

  The nearest solider flinched. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

  “We are hunting traitors,” said Voss. He pointed to the man who had been asking questions about the search. “There is a child belonging to a house of traitors, guilty of keeping secrets from the crown—guilty of involvement in the ancient crime of magic.” He patted the dust from his hand, and glared at the men around him. “I need it found,” he hissed.

  The child felt another shudder of fear.

  The prince walked toward their hiding place, and the man in the cloak put his hand on his sword. But the prince moved on without pause. His footsteps faded.

  The small boy’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He could see the soldiers’ faces. They were visibly shaken, but that didn’t stop them whispering to one another.

  “The prince is as mad as they say,” said one of the men.

  “All the royals are,” muttered another.

  “How did he crush a stone like that?”

  “I heard he has a false hand.”

  “Really?”

  “I heard he chopped off the real one himself.”

  Their leader seemed too shocked to reproach them. He placed his hand against a wall for support, and let out a deep breath. “Thank goodness he’s gone,” he said.

  A soldier cleared his throat. “Did he mean what he said, sir?”

  “About what?” said the leader.

  “I mean, that the traitors used, well … magic.”

  The soldiers looked uneasily at one another. The word magic seemed to make them even more nervous. The leader hesitated for a moment before he replied. “You should know better than to pay attention to things like that,” he said. “Every soldier in Penvellyn knows that magic is just a fairy tale. Swords and pistols are the only real power. Now, let’s finish this sweep.”

  With his speech finished he drew himself up importantly, and led the men around the next corner of the street. Their voices faded into the night.

  The cloaked man shook his head. “Fairy tales,” he muttered.

  He helped the child up, and stood facing the school gateway. There was a heavy lock around the bars. The man took a strange-looking key from his pocket and turned the mechanism.

  The gate opened with a dull clank, and they walked into the deserted courtyard of the school. The building was typical of the Penvellyn style. There were heavy stone pillars supporting the protruding upper floors. The windows rose into pointed arches. The child didn’t like the place. He shuddered as the man led him up the stone steps and hammered on the wooden door.

  After a moment, they heard foo
tsteps.

  “What is it?” said a muffled voice.

  “Legal business,” said the cloaked man.

  “The law?” said the man on the other side of the door. He opened the lock hurriedly to reveal a worried-looking face, with a thin gray beard. “You’ll forgive me for asking, sir—but what business does the law have with us, at this time of night? We haven’t reported any crime.”

  The cloaked man stepped inside, and the child followed. A dim light shone from a candleholder on a desk across the room. The tall ceiling disappeared in darkness.

  “I need you to look after this child.”

  The bearded man frowned. “This child?” he said. “He looks too young to begin proper schooling. Surely he would be better placed with a nanny?”

  The small boy looked around nervously. There was a stuffed owl on a plinth in a recess beside the door and a large painting of a stern old man wearing a crown.

  “Are you his father?” asked the bearded man.

  The man in the cloak shook his head. “He doesn’t have any parents,” he said. “He was living as an urchin, out in the scrap heaps in the southern district. He has nothing.”

  The bearded man made a disgusted face. “I’m afraid we don’t involve ourselves in matters of charity,” he said. “Oneiros School is a respectable institution, after all.”

  The man in the cloak pulled out a purse from his belt and passed it over. “That will be enough to see him through the first years, I believe. I’ll bring the rest soon.”

  “The rest?”

  “For his complete schooling,” said the man in the cloak. “I want him to be looked after. And I don’t want you to make any reference to his former life, you understand?”

  The bearded man was distracted for a moment by the contents of the purse. He took out a gold coin with a look of wonder. “This is … very generous,” he said.

  “You understand my terms?”

  “Oh yes, yes,” said the bearded man. “He’ll be well looked after. The best education. We don’t just teach mathematics and spelling here. Every subject a child needs in the modern world—navigation, sword fighting, amphor engineering, even the occasional horse-riding class. We can send you reports on his progress at whatever interval works best for you.”

  “No,” said the man in the cloak. “I won’t be in communication with him again, I’m afraid, unless I find that there is some problem with the way he is being schooled.” He spoke the words softly, but there was a coldness to his voice that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

  “Of course,” said the bearded man. He hurriedly took a large book from the desk, and began to talk about a receipt of payment, and special instructions for the child’s induction.

  The small boy began to cry. He could see now that the man in the cloak was leaving him in this strange place, with this strange man.

  “It’s all right,” said the man in the cloak. “You’ll be safe here.”

  The bearded man looked up from his writing. He sneered at the child and shook his head. “We will soon teach him to toughen up, sir,” he said. “What name should I enter for him?”

  The man in the cloak muttered something the child didn’t catch. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy with the school man. He whispered: “Do you remember your name?”

  The boy shook his head and sniffed.

  “Well, we’ll have to enter a name for him,” said the school man. “Perhaps a plain and simple choice. It makes the child humble.”

  “What would you recommend?” said the cloaked man curtly.

  “All things considered, I would recommend Bert. And we have a lack of family names beginning with ‘R.’ ” He snorted. “I suppose we could make him Bert Rumsey.”

  “Fine,” said the man in the cloak. He stood up straight, and looked toward the door. “I’m afraid I have to leave on other business. Take good care of him.”

  “Don’t,” said the small child. He caught hold of the man’s cloak.

  The man looked down.

  “It’s scary here,” said the boy.

  The man in the cloak froze. His hood still obscured his face. He knelt and hugged the boy. “It won’t always be scary,” he said. “I promise.” He stood up quickly and strode toward the door, pulling his cloak tighter. The door opened and closed, and he was gone.

  Bert stood watching the crowds gather inside the entrance of Penvellyn National Museum. A procession of horse-drawn carriages dropped off important-looking people in tall hats as a sightseeing airship passed overhead. The voice of the tour guide carried down to the street: “Below you’ll see a group of children waiting for the first public opening. How lucky they must feel. King Eldred himself sanctioned the exhibit only yesterday, along with the handsome Prince Voss …” The wind rose, and the rest of the commentary was lost to the noise of the street.

  Bert shook his head. He wasn’t feeling especially lucky.

  Ten years had passed since his arrival at the school. He was thirteen, tall and stern, and carried himself almost like an adult. But he still found the memory of that night creeping into his thoughts from time to time, making him feel like a small child again.

  His schoolmates were whispering to one another about the new exhibition. All they knew for certain was that it was about the old land of Ferenor—and that they were missing classes for it. A day off school was exciting enough in itself, even without the added mystery.

  “Hey, Bert,” said a boy named Freston.

  “What?” said Bert, immediately on his guard.

  “Maybe there’ll be something magical.” Freston wiggled his fingers in the air as he spoke, and pulled a face. A few of the other children snickered.

  Bert chose not to reply.

  “Didn’t you say you were going to be an adventurer?” said Freston.

  “Maybe, when I was six,” said Bert. He moved away from Freston and his group of cronies and tried to make himself inconspicuous.

  A girl called Garnet looked his way and smiled. She was one of the most popular people in his class, which meant she was basically his opposite. She never spoke to him.

  He was taken aback for a moment.

  “How’s it going?” she said.

  Bert blinked. “I—I’m fine, how are you?”

  Garnet frowned and looked past him.

  Bert realized that she wasn’t talking to him at all, but a girl who was standing over his shoulder. He winced and looked at his feet. It was sort of funny, in a way. But in another way, it made him want to crawl into a hole in the ground and never speak again. He should have known better, he supposed. The important children weren’t accustomed to mixing with orphans.

  “Right, children,” said Mr. Fitzroy, their teacher. He was an impatient man, with a small mustache and an uneasy way of glancing at people. “Some of you may be wondering why we have come to this place. Well, let me tell you—we have not canceled today’s scheduled sword-fighting exams and traveled across town by omnibus without good reason. What you are about to see today, as some of the first visitors to this exhibition, will form a fundamental part of your education. It will help dismiss any fairy-tale notions you might have about magic for good.”

  Bert winced. Fairy-tale notions? He thought again of that night, and the voice of the man in the cloak. Sometimes he wondered if it was just a bad dream. He sensed the other children watching him. Garnet whispered something to her friends, and the snickering began all over again.

  “Let us find our tour guide,” said Mr. Fitzroy. He put his cane under his arm, and led them into a spacious room where a large window made reflections on the marble floor. There was a statue nearby that showed King Eldred handing over a sword to the first prime minister. The plaque underneath read: KING ELDRED HANDS THE POWER OF GOVERNANCE TO THE PEOPLE. The date on the plaque was thirty years ago. Bert studied the king’s face. The smile didn’t seem very sincere.

  They passed under a sign that proclaimed: THE MYTH OF MAGIC: HOW MODERN STUDY HAS EXPOSED THE FRAUD OF FERENOR. B
ert felt hollow inside. He couldn’t admit it openly, but he still possessed a quiet appreciation for the tales of Ferenor—the battles, mages, knights, and ghosts. It had given him comfort whenever he looked out on the bustle of Penvellyn City, with its smokestacks and carriage-filled streets, or whenever he felt the dreariness of school life getting him down.

  It felt good to imagine something magical.

  The children had already begun to laugh at the exhibits. Freston was making face and pointing at a picture on the wall. The picture showed a man conjuring fire out of the ground and fighting a group of soldiers with his bare hands. The scene looked ridiculous, but that was clearly the idea. “Look at him,” said Freston, crossing his eyes. “He’s gone magic.”

  The children giggled until Mr. Fitzroy silenced them. Bert was the only one who wasn’t amused. “Going magic” was common slang among the schoolchildren for anyone who didn’t fit in with the crowd. It was an insult that Bert was more than familiar with.

  “Is this who you wanted to be when you were little, Bert?” whispered Freston, while Mr. Fitzroy was busy consulting a map on the opposite wall. “Something wizardy?”

  “Very funny,” said Bert. He looked at the notice beside the picture.

  THE DELUSION OF MAGIC RELIED ON A PREPOSTEROUS BELIEF IN WARRIORS CALLED MAGES. THESE MAGES WERE SUPPOSED TO LIVE IN THE LAND OF FERENOR, WHICH FELL INTO RUIN OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. IT WAS SAID THAT THEY COULD MOVE FASTER THAN ANY NORMAL PERSON, MAKE MACHINES THAT WORKED FOREVER, PERFORM HUGE FEATS OF STRENGTH, AND DRAW ENERGY OUT OF NOWHERE … DOES THAT SOUND REAL TO YOU?

  Bert sighed. “Not when you put it like that,” he muttered.

  “Where is that guide?” said Mr. Fitzroy. “Excuse me!”

  A tall, broad-shouldered man who’d been crossing the room checked his step and turned to face them. He was wearing a black hat and an academic cape. “Yes?” he said.

  “Err … we were waiting … ,” said Mr. Fitzroy nervously. He seemed unwilling to address the man directly, and Bert could see why. There was something fierce in the tall man’s gaze.

  “Waiting for what?” said the tall man.

  “For the tour,” said Mr. Fitzroy.

  “Oh,” said the tall man. He looked down at his attire, as if only just noticing it for the first time. “Then I suppose you’re waiting for me.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the tour will be quite brief, children, but feel free to ask questions as we go. You may call me Professor.” Without any further introduction, he turned his back and strode into the next exhibition room.