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Threshold of Trust
Anne Walsh
Blaine leaned his elbows on the windowsill and squinted against the afternoon sun, shading his eyes with one hand. Any other student at the School would have been looking wistfully east, toward cities and civilization, but Blaine gazed towards the Untamed Plains, where civilized stories had long said no man lived, only the great cats called lyrror. West of the Known Forest and the Half-High Hills, south of the Forbidden Mountains where dragonlike mazor roamed, the grasslands stretched for kims. They seemed featureless and forbidding to visitors, but to more accustomed eyes...
Tomorrow. Blaine leaned back to stretch his legs, which ached for a decent run. Tomorrow I’ve put in my time.
Tomorrow we go home.
Never mind the current Army-madness. Wars never last. The government of Dulia had received a rude shock soon after the accession to the throne of King Bretar, when a small insurrection had arisen out on the Untamed Plains. They called themselves the Guvabor, “Three Peoples” in the old language; they claimed that dragons and greatcats, or mazor and lyrror as they put it, were entitled to the same rights as humans; and they were willing to fight about it.
Ridiculous nonsense. Every child knows that dragons are monstrous, and greatcats only animals. Besides, what chance do they have against us, so few against so many?
Still, the Guvabor refused to die out quietly or be conquered in one decisive victory. While they were not winning the war, neither were they losing it, and their ideas were beginning to pervade Dulian society. Especially one seductive idea, constructed from legends and the eternal wish of the human heart to be more special than its neighbor.
Magic.
The Guvabor had magical powers called vica, or so the whispers went. They could hide under the earth and turn the air deadly. They could call down the rain or summon up fire. They could make all the advanced equipment on which the Dulian armies depended no more than expensive piles of scrap.
But the stories also say that a mage in a place full of our technology is helpless, that his magic won’t answer to him. That seemed unlikely to Lawrence, considering that the royal banquet hall in Eripa was currently a royal ruin, courtesy of ambassadors from the Guvabor who had felt themselves threatened and caused a small earthquake to cover their exit.
But enough of this. It might be convenient if technology handicapped magic, but the destruction of a wing of the palace, and the consequent need of the government for money, is much more germane. As is the boon that destruction, and the war in general, brought to Monmar.
A border struggle a few months ago had netted the Dulian army a young soldier, the first Guvabo ever captured and held. King Bretar hoped (the story went) that the youth of the boy could be used in Dulia’s favor, that he could be converted rather than treated as a prisoner of war. If the Guvabor understood that nothing worse than a new way of life awaited them, that their pretensions and lies would not stand up to the Dulian truth, then surely all this bloodshed could be ended peacefully.
As surely as the sun rising in the west. But allow the Crown its follies, especially when that brings good things to us.
The royal proclamation, sentimentally worded though it was, was a barely-veiled invitation for Monmar and its rivals to start a bidding war, each vying to be the place where this poor misguided child of the barbarians could see the light at last. With a few deft transactions under the table, Lawrence had made sure he knew the other bids exactly, then with a straight face offered precisely their sum for the chance to bring the wayward boy back onto the right path at Monmar.
A large expenditure, but I had the money to spare, and the political capital to be gained is staggering. And no one dared to be seen disbelieving the royal promise that the boy would be no threat to those he learned with, so the school lost no students. I should not doubt myself so much.
An olive-skinned, dark-haired boy had arrived at Monmar two days after Lawrence’s successful bid, under incongruously heavy guard. The name he gave, gravely and freely, was Blaine Malvern. He was soon Blaine to his peers, but his wary teachers called him Malvern and kept a careful watch on him.
Their watching was disappointed, as Malvern showed no signs of any magic, or of anything out of the ordinary. He might have been any ordinary Dulian boy from his behavior, except that he was more polite than most of the others his age (nineteen, by his own admission). He did his work scrupulously on time, ate with the others in the dining hall, slept in the dormitories, and apart from a tendency to wander in the garden and run in the rain, acted no differently than his peers.
Those few differences, though, along with the air of mystery that hung around a wild child, had brought Malvern hangers-on, if perhaps not friends at first. Some of the girls at Monmar were fascinated by the idea of a Guvabo in their midst, but he seemed not to notice those who made advances to him. Girls who approached him as friends he befriended, and those boys of his “court” who seemed interested in real friendship he also took into his circle. Finally the disappointed ones fell away, and Malvern had a small but devoted group of fellow students who went everywhere they could with him.
Misfits and malcontents, mostly. Those who will not accept that they cannot change the world, nor define their place in it to suit themselves.
Lawrence’s one real coup over the wild boy had been introducing him to tiny, brash Jennifer Contins, who ran like the wind and never acknowledged fear. A gift for science dominated her unquestioned intelligence, but few would call her pretty, especially if she’d given them a taste of her usual frankness. How they became friends, I have no idea...perhaps his culture, being primitive, values plain speech more than a well-turned phrase.
By a lucky chance, Lawrence had looked out his window one day and seen the two standing together in a steady downpour, watching a bright break in the clouds, her head resting near his elbow (she didn’t quite reach to his shoulder) and his arm around her shoulders. Until then, he’d had no idea their friendship had become anything more—Malvern treated everyone with grave courtesy, those he hated no less than those he liked.
Or those he loves. Magic or no magic, he’ll fall fast enough if he thinks she’s threatened.
And, of course, my secret weapon. Lawrence smiled to himself and reached for his phone. “Miss Danlin, would you please send in Mr. Banco?”
Greg Banco slipped into Lawrence’s office, opening the door only as far as he must to admit himself and his schoolbag. The boy was clever, handsome, well-bred—and his parents were hopelessly in debt to one of Lawrence’s corporate friends. Lawrence had traded a few favors to acquire that debt when he realized that the boy had become a part of Blaine Malvern’s inner circle. It had been a wise investment.
“Mr. Banco. Good to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy was staring at the carpet, as he did every time he came here. He must have the pattern memorized by now.
“Well, shall I start, or shall you?”
The boy glanced up at him, then returned his eyes to the carpet. “You ask, sir. I’ll answer.” Under his breath, he added, “As if I had any choice.”
Lawrence let this slide. It was important to make the boy feel as if he had some freedom, some chance of winning out, or he would become dispirited and lose his effectiveness. “Very well, Mr. Banco. I’ve been noticing unusual things around the school recently. For instance, lights burning late at night in the dormitories. Odd scraping noises in the attics. Certain herbs in the herb gardens coming up short. Do you have anything to tell me about that?”
Now the boy looked up. “About the herbs, yes, sir. We probably should have asked you first, but we’ve been using them to make tea for our late-night study sessions. That’s why the lights. And the noise—” He blushed. “Well, sir, we take classes with the girls, and some of them are really smart, so we asked them if they could come over and help us with our work, and they come through the attics. That’s all it is, sir, really.”
It had the sound of a prepared speech. Lawrence smiled indulgently. “A very nice explanation, Mr. Banco. Very complete, very innocent. I don’t believe a word of it. Are you going to give me the true story now? Or shall I…” He rustled some papers on his desk.
The boy slumped in his chair. “Yes, sir.” His voice was barely audible. “Blaine’s planning something for tomorrow.”
“Something. What might this something be? And why tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow he’ll have been here sixty-four days, sir.”
“Yes? And why does that matter?”
“Sir…” The boy looked up at him. “How much do you know about magic?”
I knew it! Lawrence exulted. “For the purposes of this conversation, Mr. Banco, let us pretend I know nothing. Enlighten me.”
“Well, sir, we use a lot of electronics here. Phones and computers and such. And magic doesn’t work around them, not unless a magic user—like Blaine—moves into an area with technology and stays there for a certain amount of time.”
“Sixty-four days.”
A brief nod. “His being here so long tells the magic that it’s needed, I guess, and it comes. So Blaine hasn’t done any magic until now, but tomorrow he will.”
“And just what kind of magic is he planning to create?”
“He called it a Threshold spell, sir. It’s supposed to…” The boy turned abruptly to look at the opposite wall, breathing unsteadily.
“Pull yourself together, Mr. Banco. It’s supposed to what?”
“It’s supposed to… take us all away… home.” The boy’s voice broke on the last word. Possibly he was contrasting his current “home,” where he was being forced to betray friends to save family, with the promised “home” among the Guvabor, who set themselves up as models of society.
I do hope so. He’ll never learn how life really works without little disappointments like this. “I see,” Lawrence said aloud. “So tell me, how will this Threshold spell work?”
Little by little, Lawrence extracted the whole story. There would be a final meeting late tonight to go over the plan. The spell itself would be set at ten o’clock the next morning, an hour after Malvern had arrived at the school sixty-four days before, to make sure the full time required had passed. Malvern had needed the herbs from the garden to create the spell.
The Threshold spell would be cast on the door to the washroom on the third floor of the dormitory building. As long as the spell held, that door would lead, not into the tiny room with the shower stall and sink, but out to the Untamed Plains, the home of the Guvabor, the Three Peoples, humans, greatcats, and dragons. And (a nice touch, Lawrence thought) Malvern had promised to reset the spell after all the students had passed through, to take Banco’s family away to safety as well.
There was only one problem with that promise, and Lawrence ruthlessly pointed it out. “If magic will not work in any area with significant technology, Mr. Banco, how exactly do you expect this Threshold spell to take effect in your home, in the middle of the city of Minal?”
The boy wilted, and Lawrence pursued his advantage. “Mr. Banco, the Guvabor are all liars. More likely than not, this Threshold spell of his was a trap, and you and your friends would have found yourselves at the mercy of dragons or greatcats when you emerged. I, on the other hand, have never told you anything but the truth. You have no reason not to trust me. If you will work with me tonight, we can stop Mr. Malvern, for the good of our country and our people, before he does any real harm. Are you with me?”
Banco looked up at him, eyes full of scorn. “Do I have a choice, sir?” he spat. “Yes, I’ll help you, but not for the good of the country, or because I trust you—I don’t. I’ll help you because I have to. But if I ever catch you without your little paper shelters to hide behind, may Theito have mercy on you then, sir, because I sure as schand won’t!”
“Temper, temper,” Lawrence said mildly, surprised by the unusual show. “Are you ready to receive your orders, Mr. Banco?”
The boy scowled. “Yes, sir.”
“Then here they are. You will attend your regular meeting with Mr. Malvern tonight. You will say nothing of this meeting. You will seat yourself next to Mr. Malvern and take whatever part in these things you usually take. Just before the meeting breaks up, you will find some pretext to take Mr. Malvern aside.”
“And do what, sir?”
Lawrence picked up the black case he’d leaned against his chair earlier and slid it across the desk, enjoying Banco’s look of shock. “Don’t panic, I don’t expect you to use this, but I believe it will make things easier. Once Mr. Malvern is safe, have him instruct the rest of the group to make no sudden moves, then call out, and I will proceed from there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
The boy accepted the case, slid it into his bag with a clinking sound, and slouched to the door. Before he touched the knob, he turned back. “What about my family, sir?”
“This pays off a part of their debt to me, Mr. Banco. Only a part.”
The boy made no comment, allowing the over-firm closing of the door behind him to speak for him.
Lawrence leaned back in his chair and contemplated the lovely task ahead of him. Tonight I capture a young magician before he can do any harm. When he stands condemned by his own words as a magic user, he will be subject to immediate punishment by the law, by any law-abiding citizen.
King Bretar, he had heard, was trying to change that law, the one which made it allowable for anyone to punish a proven witch or wizard without trial. But not even the King can change the law on a whim. By the time he changes it, if he ever does, it will be too late for Blaine Malvern.
He smiled, recalling the day he’d taken the students on a tour of the neighborhood, and the horrified look in the wild boy’s eyes at the site of a gruesome bit of local legend.
The footbridge is so convenient, after all.
“Oh, good Theito.” Jennifer Contins dropped from the largish hole in the ceiling and stalked over to him. “Give me that.” She took the flint-and-steel striker from his hand and squeezed it three times, briskly, over the mound of kindling, showering it with sparks. A few of them struck in, making the kindling glow red, and Jen blew on them gently until they blossomed into true flames. “Why can’t you ever do that, anyway?” she asked between breaths.
“Occupational hazard, I guess.” Blaine rubbed his hand where the sparks had struck. “I don’t like fire, and it certainly doesn’t like me.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes but made no reply, instead hanging the iron kettle full of water on the hob. The teapot on the table was ready, pre-warmed with the hot water from the bathroom tap, and the two teabags were already prepared—one held peppermint for the beginning of the meeting, when everyone would need to be alert but calm, and the other held chamomile for the end, to help everyone sleep on this most exciting of nights. More girls were descending one by one from the hole in the ceiling, created by removable floorboards in the attic and ceiling panels in the dormitories, and the other boys were on their way from studying and work duties.
By the time the water boiled, everyone had arrived except Greg Banco. He slipped in as Jennifer was pouring the tea and nodded to her, taking his usual place beside Blaine. Their eyes met for only a moment before Greg dropped his gaze.
Jennifer poured her own mug of tea last of all and went to rinse out the pot. Blaine took a careful sip of the hot liquid and relaxed at the familiar taste of the herb. He looked up at his friends, all nine of them present as Jennifer seated herself. “At this point, there doesn’t seem to be much left to say. You all know your places and your duties for tomorrow. And I trust you all. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Still, we should probably go over it one more time.”
They did so, everyone reciting his own part of the plan in turn. The six girls, including Jennifer, were all on laundry duty tomorrow, which happened to be Saturday. One by one, the girls would pick up piles of clean laundry for the closet on the third floor, go off in that direction, and never come back.
The boys, who were assigned out in the gardens, would have a break at ten, which Blaine planned to use to open the Threshold. They would break again around lunchtime, when they were supposed to change their clothes and bathe for etiquette class afterwards. The three boys, along with Blaine himself, would indeed bathe (in a different washroom) and change, but they would never arrive at lunch. Instead, they would meander up the stairs to the third floor and walk into the all-important washroom.
“If we’re lucky, Ferlin will show up just in time to see the back of the last person through. If not—if he shows up early and finds the Threshold before we’re all through—it’ll collapse if anyone tries to cross who I haven’t keyed it to, and I’ll know if it does, and throw another one up fast. You all know the back-up location, right?”
Nods and murmurs of assent assured him they did.
“If that happens, I won’t be much good once we’re through—making one Threshold is hard, but making two in one day, and one in a hurry, is killer. But you all know who to talk to once we’re on the other side. And I just want to say...” The kettle was boiling again. Jennifer reached behind him to take it off the fire. “You’ve all been really great. Thank you for trusting me, I’m proud to call you my friends, and I’ll be even prouder to call you my fellow Guvabor.”
The group raised a subdued cheer and pushed forward to the table for their second cups of tea. Blaine turned to the person he jokingly called his left-hand man, since he invariably took that place at meetings.
“Greg, are you all right?”
“I will get your family out. I promised you that, and I keep my promises.”
“I know you do. And I keep mine.”
“So you do, my friend,” Blaine said quietly. “So you do.”
Their eyes met again. Blaine broke the contact this time, whipping theatrically around, mug in hand. “Dear Lofe, woman, a man could perish of thirst for all you care about him!” he stage-roared at Jennifer.
“Do you really want to take that tone when I have a large pot full of very hot liquid here?” Jennifer asked in her sweetest and most charming tones, thrusting the teapot toward him and slightly down. “One lump or two?”
The girls hooted in appreciation, while Blaine recoiled in horror. “You bloody-minded wench—you can’t hurt me that way, lucky me, but keep going this way and I’ll take it back!”
“Take what back?” asked Kyra, Jen’s best friend.
“The other night this conniving wizard started asking if he could court me.” Jen stared challengingly at Blaine. “So you weren’t joking about that?”
“That’s ‘vicope,’ my lady, but about matters of the heart, I never joke.” Blaine sketched a bow in Jen’s direction. “If I can win you, will you be mine?”
Jen folded her arms and smiled enigmatically. “Two and five days for vica, two and nine days for love. Ask me again next year.”
Blaine frowned. “That’s not right. It’s two and six days for vica.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who grew up Guvabe around here?” Blaine snapped. “It’s two and six.”
Jennifer shook her head, laughing. “All right, all right, you win! Two and six. But that doesn’t change the answer!”
Blaine grinned back at her, relaxing. “Has someone been studying traditional replies to traditional questions?”
“Who, meeee?” Jen batted her eyelashes innocently.
“Traditional replies?” Kyra wanted to know.
Greg sighed. “It’s a little ritual to say ‘I like you and I think I might someday want to marry you but we need to get to know each other better.’ It involves math and vica and it’s mysterious, so they both like it.”
“Oh.”
And I’d ask you that same question if I dared, Kyra Garver. Greg sipped on his tea moodily. You’re fun, you’re funny, you’re smart, you dance beautifully—but you’d never even look at me. The Garvers are old money, and my parents are nobodies, and in debt. It would never work. Not even if tonight goes exactly the way I want it to.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyra smile.
The group bantered lightly, chattering about the possibilities of the next day, until Greg finally drained his cup of tea and placed his mug on the table among the others already there.
“If there are no questions, then,” Blaine began.
Greg raised his hand diffidently. “Quick one,” he said. “In private?”
“Sure.” Blaine stood up and led the way around the corner into the hallway leading to the boys’ dorms. “What is it, Greg?”
Greg reached into his pocket with his right hand. “I just wanted to make sure,” he said. “Didn’t want anyone else to interfere.” With a swift movement, he drew out the gun Ferlin had given him and leveled it at Blaine, steadying it with his left hand.
Blaine froze, his hands well clear of his body. “Unexpected,” he said quietly.
“You have no idea.” Greg heard his voice rasp and swallowed hard to clear it. “Tell them not to move. Tell all of them. Now.”
“Everyone, stay where you are,” Blaine called out. “Don’t try to get up, and don’t ask why!” His voice rose over the sudden babble of questions from the other room. “You’ll see in a moment!” His attention returned to Greg alone. “I assume they will. Or were your orders to finish it here?”
Greg shook his head fractionally. “Ferlin likes to do his own dirty work,” he said. “Let’s go. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“I won’t.” Blaine started for the other room, then looked back. “Don’t you, either.”
“I won’t.” Greg followed Blaine out, bracing himself for what was to come. It’ll be over soon, he chanted silently. Over soon. All of it, all the lies, all the deceit. It’ll all be over soon.
The litany helped a little against the muttered curses of the other boys, but very little against the tears of several of the girls, and not at all against Jennifer’s death glare. “I thought you were our friend,” she hissed. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I have to.” Greg swallowed again, trying not to catch Kyra’s eye, though she looked almost sympathetic. “They’re ready!” He was thankful beyond measure that his voice hadn’t cracked in the middle of his shout.
Lawrence Ferlin opened the door, beaming all around. “Well done, Mr. Banco. Well done indeed.” Faster than Greg’s eye could follow, the Director’s hands were up and poised, cradling a gun of his own.
Pointed directly at Jennifer.
“I think you can put that away now, Mr. Banco,” Ferlin continued. “Mr. Malvern won’t be making any unwise moves.”
Greg obeyed, watching Jennifer. She was dead white, but the tension around her lips was fury, not fear. “Cavabe aboze,” she snarled. “Mede tepuchi. You’ll never get away with this, Ferlin.”
“I think I will.” Ferlin’s smile hadn’t moved, except to become a trifle wider. “You’ve all been discovered consorting with the enemy, planning to defect, even. These are criminal activities, and I am perfectly within my rights to use the threat of force, or even actual force, to stop them from occurring.” He turned his head slightly to bring Blaine, upright and silent, within his field of vision. “Now, Mr. Malvern, you will walk down to the river with me. Miss Contins will walk ahead of us. Mr. Banco, I believe I have need of you again. Will you kindly make sure that the rest of these young people come with us?”
“Mister Malvern,” he said, now with his gun trained on that young man. “With my own ears, I heard you detailing a plan for using magic to kidnap these loyal Dulian citizens.” His nod indicated the other students, ranged along the other side of the bridge from Malvern, watching fearfully or angrily as their natures dictated. Banco stood at the end closest to the school, Contins by his side. “Magic, as you know, is entirely illegal, and the penalty is death, whether the magic has been performed or is simply intended. And isn’t it a shame? If you had waited just one more day, you could have saved yourself now.”
Malvern was as pale as his complexion would allow, and sweat had appeared on his forehead the moment Lawrence had waved him onto the bridge. “How did you know that?” he asked, gripping the waist-height bridge railing behind his back.
Lawrence let the smile he felt appear on his face. “The power of mathematics, Mr. Malvern. My friend Mr. Banco told me that you needed to live here for sixty-four days before your magic became active. But of course, he could have lied to me. So I waited and listened. And your lovely lady friend gave me the confirmation I needed.” He inclined his head to Contins.
“I did not!” Contins screamed. “Blaine, he’s lying, you know he’s lying—”
“Let him finish, Jen,” Malvern cut her off. His attention returned to Lawrence. “You were saying, sir?”
“I was.” Lawrence chuckled. “She claimed two and five days for vica, which I believe is your word for magic, but two and nine days for love, then told you to wait until next year. You corrected her to two and six for magic, but let the other stand. So I began to wonder. Two and nine make only eleven, and two times nine still yields only eighteen. What kind of combination of two and nine would equal a number of days nearly so large as a year? And then I had it—two to the ninth power. So, two to the ninth power days are needed for love, and two to the sixth power days for magic. And two to the sixth power is sixty-four.” Lawrence sighed, shaking his head. “What a pity you were caught on the sixty-third day.”
“Pity,” Malvern echoed unconsciously, glancing behind him. The frozen panic on his face was worth every worry Lawrence had harbored about a wild boy at his school.
These others will fall into line when they see the example I make of this one, and perhaps the Contins girl, and when I remind them again that without my intervention, they might well face criminal charges. Parents will know me as a steadfast guardian of Dulian youth, and Monmar and I will prosper.
As for Blaine Malvern... poor boy. He must have sneaked out by night, probably trying to get back to his own people. What a shame that he missed his footing on the riverbank and drowned.
“Your choice is simple, Mr. Malvern,” he said aloud. “You may stay in place and be shot like the criminal you are, or you may take your chances with the river. You have until I count to three. One.”
Malvern looked down the bridge at Contins and Banco, as though giving them a signal—though what could he be saying? The girl is helpless, and Banco is mine.
“Two.”
A sob of terror broke from Malvern’s lips as he turned.
“Three.” Lawrence’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he was too late. Malvern had swung himself over the bridge rail and dropped.
A splash rang out clearly, with no other sound to interfere.
I fired. I know I fired. Lawrence released the trigger, then squeezed it again.
There was no response.
“Funny thing about guns,” said Banco’s voice. “They don’t work so well if the powder gets wet.”
Amid the gasps and squeals of the other girls, half-admiring curses from the boys, and running footsteps moving rapidly away, Lawrence heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked.
“Drop it, Ferlin,” snapped the Contins girl. “Now.”
Lawrence slowly lowered his gun, then dropped it to the floor of the bridge. It clanged against the ironwork as it hit.
What is happening here?
“Vica’s happening here,” said Contins as he turned to face her. Banco was gone, and the girl looked smaller than ever with the gun in her hands, but her stance was neatly placed, and her fingers were inside the trigger guard. “Specifically, water vica.” Her cocky grin seemed too big for her face. “Or are you going to tell me you believed that load of nage about Blaine being afraid of water? With all the rain we’ve had around here since he came?”
“He hated that somebody died here,” the Garver girl put in cheerily. “But he wasn’t afraid of the bridge, or the river. He just wanted you to think he was.”
Lawrence didn’t have to look behind him to know the footsteps that sounded on the bridge. “Nice night,” said Malvern lazily. “Perfect for doing vica.”
The other students broke into applause.
“And just for future reference,” Malvern added, sliding past Lawrence on the bridge rail, “two and five days is correct.” His smile seared Lawrence’s eyes. “That’s thirty-two. In case you ever deal with my people again.”
“I will deal with your people again,” Lawrence said, the words coming from his chest painfully. “At least, with one of them.”
“I look forward to it.” Malvern inclined his head.
“Ooooooo,” crooned two or three of the other girls. “Blaine and Jen, sitting in a tree—”
“Stop it,” Kyra Garver called out before Blaine could. “Act like Guvabor.” She winked at Blaine. “Wait until we’re safe, then let them have it.”
“Thanks,” said Blaine dryly, turning to regard the arch that held up the decorative roof of the bridge. “This’ll do,” he said, then raised his voice. “Does anyone have anything they can’t leave behind up at the school? Our best bet is to get out of here fast.”
“Whatever you have, leave it,” urged Kyra, coming to stand beside Jen. “This is the best chance we’ll have.”
Other voices rose in support of this. Blaine nodded. “All right. They won’t be expecting us at home tonight, but I think we’ll manage anyway.” A speck of movement up near the school caught his eye and quickly resolved into Greg, running flat out towards the bridge. “Greg’ll be here in a second, and we can get going.”
“His family will suffer for this,” said Ferlin loudly from the other end of the bridge. “Bankruptcy, disgrace—they’ll lose their daughter’s custody if they can’t provide for her—”
“Save it,” Jen snapped.
Blaine reached a mental hand down to the water of the river. (It’s me again,) he said silently. (I need power. Quite a bit of power, actually. I have a lot of work to do.)
The water chuckled and opened itself to him. (Take as much as you think you can handle, little one,) it said indulgently. (Do not overtax yourself.)
(Don’t worry, I won’t.) Blaine let the river’s power fill him, glorying in the strength of the currents where he’d played for a few golden moments before reluctantly returning to his friends above. He was only vaguely aware of Greg’s return, disheveled and breathing hard, clutching in his hand the blue ceramic Threshold token whose other half rested in Greg’s home in Minal, the only thing that would make the Banco family’s escape possible.
“You couldn’t have brought it with you?” Jen demanded good-naturedly.
“Too dangerous,” Greg panted out. “Reacts too fast to vica—look, it’s starting already.” He set it quickly in the center of the arch and backed away. “Would have gone off when Blaine damped Ferlin’s powder. Ready when you are, Malvern!”
Blaine placed one foot on the bridge railing again, and a hand on one of the latticed posts. I have to time this just right. If I wear myself out, run out of visitra too soon, I’ll strand a lot of innocent people in enemy territory, including my new best friend and the girl I think I love...
“You can do it,” Jen said beside him. “I’ve seen you.”
Blaine kicked off from the bridge proper and began to climb along the arch, feeling the water’s power, his own, and that in the token begin to resonate together. Nobody does vica like me, he gloried. Nobody ever has, and nobody ever will...
Jen cried out, Ferlin shouted, and heavy footsteps shook the bridge. Greg dashed tears of pain out of his eyes just in time to glimpse Ferlin twisting at Jen’s wrist.
“I’ve got it!” he screamed to Blaine, who was staring down, anguished, from the top of the arch. “Keep going!”
It’s my fault, I knocked her out of line with Ferlin—if Blaine stops now, he won’t be able to start again—Ferlin wins, and we all die here...
He leaped on Ferlin and Jen, splitting them apart with his sheer body weight. Jen went sprawling behind him, and Ferlin reeled back against the bridge rail, catching himself with one hand at the last second.
His other hand held the gun, pointed directly at Greg.
Greg stopped dead, holding his hands out to show them empty. His heartbeat should have shaken the bridge under his feet, now reverberating to the hum of the Threshold. “What do you want?” he asked.
“You.” Ferlin’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, not moving from Greg’s face. “You, dead. You betrayed me. You betrayed us all. Siding with him—with them—monsters, animals, things that aren’t human—” His tone changed, became wheedling, cutting through the increasing sound of Blaine’s vica. “You have a sister. I’ve met her. A dear, sweet little girl. Do you really want her exposed to this kind of thing?” His chin jerked towards the Threshold, now casting Greg’s shadow in sharp relief before him. “To this unnaturalness?”
He can’t see me clearly—the light is too bright—I might have a chance—
(I’m going to scream,) whispered a girl’s voice somewhere close to him. (Take him down when I do.)
A shriek filled the night air. Ferlin, startled, let the gun’s muzzle waver for a second.
Greg was on top of him in that second. Shoulder-slam to knock the wind out of him, then grab the gun away—
That was what he’d intended. The shoulder-slam landed a little higher than he’d meant it to. Ferlin bent grotesquely over the bridge railing—the gun flew from his hands—with a wail of despair, he flung himself after it, grasping desperately—
Two sets of hands clutched at Greg’s shirt, yanking him backwards onto the bridge and safety as Ferlin toppled over the railing and disappeared.
“He got through to your house,” Kyra shouted over the noise of the Threshold. “Good thing your sister was watching for it. Your family’s all through, so is everyone else. We’re the last. Let’s go.”
Half leaning on Kyra, half supporting her, Greg stumbled through the Threshold, then turned back to watch Jen pull Blaine through the rough stone archway that was the Threshold on this side.
“Greg!” cried his sister Heidi, launching herself at him. “Greg, you’re all right!”
“I’m fine, Owl.” Greg caught her in his arms and smiled at her as the Threshold disappeared. “You were watching for the magic, weren’t you? Even though you knew it wasn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow?”
“Good thing I was.” Heidi looked as smug as only a thirteen-year-old could.
“Yes,” Greg agreed, hugging her close. “Good thing you were.”
Over her head, he could see his parents talking quietly together, his friends huddling together in little knots, staring around at the grasslands, the emptiness in every direction except for the stone arch they’d come through, the stars and half-moon overhead. They might have to spend the night out here, but the Guvabor would find them in the morning, and then they would be all right.
“Kyra,” he said, remembering.
“Yes?” She turned to him, her face silvered in the moonlight.
“Thanks for distracting Ferlin.”
“You’re welcome.”
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand, though.” Greg let Heidi go and watched her run over to Jen and Blaine, probably to ask them her endless questions about magic. “How did you get close enough to whisper in my ear like that without Ferlin seeing you?”
(I didn’t.)
Greg jumped, then turned to stare at Kyra. She was standing very still, her lips closed tightly, though an impish smile was beginning to play on them.
(Blaine isn’t the only one allowed to have vica, you know.)
“I... uh...” Greg tried to collect his thoughts. “How? I mean, how did you know you could? Before you met Blaine, I mean?”
(It’s always been strong in my family. We’ve been helping the Guvabor for ages, before most of Dulia knew they existed.) Kyra chuckled, a warm rippling feeling in Greg’s mind. (How do you think Blaine knew exactly what he could and couldn’t ask you to get around what Ferlin made you promise?)
“I...guess I didn’t think about it.” Greg looked sidewise at Kyra. “So can you read my mind? I mean, can you hear what I’m thinking?”
(Not easily. But a few things do pop out.)
“Schand,” Greg said ruefully. “Well, there goes that, I guess.”
(Not necessarily.) Kyra winked at him. (Remember, two and nine.)
Did she...is she...
“Yes, I am,” Kyra said aloud.
“Please stop doing that.” Greg rubbed his forehead. “It’s scary.”
“You’re broadcasting. It’s the equivalent of shouting.”
“Is there any way I can tone it down?”
“Yes, actually. And I might be willing to help you learn it.” Kyra pulled a long face. “It requires a lot of time, though. Time we’d have to spend alone, together.”
I wouldn’t mind that, Greg thought intentionally loudly.
Kyra winced. “Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Kyra sat down on the grass and patted the spot beside her, and Greg seated himself there. “Now, we call this the wall, because that’s just what it’s like—putting up a wall around your mind, to keep everything that belongs there in and everything that doesn’t out. Go on, try it...”
