Keeper of the Black Stones (6 page)

I turned and pretended to watch the television show while I waited for Senora Caswell to direct her attention back toward the TV, and away from me. When the coast was clear, I opened the journal to the end and found the last entries. I had to know what had happened. In Doc's imaginary story, I mean. I needed to know exactly how far the delusion had gone.

Nicholas Fleming arrived in this world only seventeen years ago, by this time period's reckoning. In that short amount of time, he has managed to obtain the trust and loyalty of the York family, which in turn gives him direct access to King Richard's land, gold, and army. Nicholas, or Lord Dresden, has the opportunity to rewrite at least this part of history as he sees fit, by leading Richard to victory over Henry Tudor. It would eliminate the Tudor dynasty and a large part of England's history, and change the modern world irrevocably.

I am convinced that he's trying to find the remaining Stones, just as I am. I do not know whether he shares the same knowledge or connection as I do, though I can say that the last time we spoke, he did not. I do not believe that he shares his knowledge of the Stones with the York family, though I cannot be sure.

We have discovered a third Stone. It was in Carmarthen, as I foresaw. Lord Dresden's men arrived at the village first and fought hard to protect it, but we broke through the defenses and secured the town. Unfortunately, Dresden ordered that the Stone be removed before I could lay hands on it. He seems to be collecting the stones, though I do not understand why. I do not know where he takes them, or what he does with them. Unfortunately, his men also destroyed the village. It was burnt to the ground, along with the men, women, and children living there. I have felt the loss of the stolen Stone in ways that are difficult to describe, and the destruction of the town compounds those feelings. I feel as though a piece of me has died. What does this mean?

I landed in Milford Haven, Wales one week ago, with the bulk of my forces and those of Henry Tudor. We have less than two weeks to double our forces and confront Dresden, who rides with King Richard's army, to take the crown. The Battle of Bosworth is about to take place, with a new set of rules. Dresden will try to alter the outcome, for reasons I still do not understand. I have put myself in a position to block him. To balance the scales, so to speak. I can only pray that I am enough. Henry must win this fight. History depends on it. If we fail, I have little doubt that history, as well as the future, will fail with us.

I sat back in my seat, and let the breath I'd been holding whistle through my front teeth. There was a small gap there, and the sound of air rushing through the opening usually helped me settle down and figure out how to
deal with a bad situation. I liked to think of it as one of my trademark moves–something I relied on to help me out of a tough spot.

This time, it didn't work. The thoughts that were rushing through my head flat out refused to settle, and they were carrying me with them in a virtual flood of panic. Was my grandfather truly losing it? If so, what did that mean for me, and for our life? And wouldn't I see more signs of it at home? Then again, maybe the signs were there and I was simply ignoring them. That didn't help much, because what kind of grandson did that make me? Ignoring my own grandfather, abandoning him when he obviously needed me to be stable. Was Doc going insane, or at the very least senile, without me realizing it? After reading the journal, I didn't think I needed any further proof, but what was I supposed to do about it, exactly?

The first bell rang and I looked up just in time to see Senora Caswell wiping a tear from her eye. That soap opera must have been terrific today. I should probably have some thoughts prepared about that, just in case. I tried to get my brain back in gear, but the class around me seemed suddenly … irrelevant.

“Okay class, make sure to read Lesson 6 by Wednesday. I'll see you all tomorrow,” Senora Caswell said in English. Most of the kids around me rubbed their eyes to wake themselves up and started to file from the room. Just another boring day, as far as they were concerned.

I closed the journal slowly and looked at the battered leather cover, then glanced at the dust that covered my hand. Something flitted across my brain, and I started putting pieces together. Slowly, at first, and then more quickly as the panic set in. How long had the journal been lying in Doc's bag? Long enough to collect dust, so several days. How much dust can you accumulate in a hotel room in downtown Ithaca? Had he been anywhere else? I'd heard Doc's pre-dawn arrival this morning, but had been too tired to get up and welcome him home. Now I wished I had. I glanced at the journal again, thought about the prospect of Doc traveling alone in this state of mind, and rose to stumble out of the room. The nightmare feeling that I was losing my grandfather stumbled after me.

3

I
gripped the journal tightly to my chest as I walked toward my locker, then forced myself to stuff it into the bag. It wasn't like I was holding onto Doc, for God's sake. Though it almost felt like it. My head was swimming with all that I had just read, and for a moment I thought about simply going home. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle the rest of the day.

As usual, though, the world–embodied by my next class–had other ideas. We had a “surprise” quiz every other Friday in Physics, and I couldn't afford to miss it. I got to my locker, stuffed my book bag in, and grabbed my physics book and notebook. I was one of only two freshmen in AP Physics, and was pretty good at it, for all the good it did me on the social ladder. That didn't mean I would get away with being late to class, no matter what the family emergency. I closed the door on the journal firmly, and walked toward Physics.

“Good morning, Jason!” The voice echoed across the hallway before I got to the door of my classroom. I stopped, shocked, and turned slowly.

“What–what are you…?” I stuttered.

Paul, who had run into me after my abrupt stop, had no such problem. “Good morning, Doc,” he grinned. He stepped past me, gave me a shove, and strolled over to shake my grandfather's hand. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“I'm here by invitation,” Doc answered. He looked over and grinned at me.

I groaned. My grandfather, who I had called “Doc” ever since I could remember, was hard to miss at 6 feet 4 inches, and stood out in the hall full of high school kids. His appearance was even more imposing next to the teacher he was walking with–Mr. McGregor, my vertically challenged Physics teacher. My grandfather was also more impressive than any man I'd ever met before. He had an air about him that I had failed to inherit–the bearing of an old Hollywood star. He was thin, but fit and healthy, and had more physical energy than anyone his age had a right to. His solid, square jaw sat under a slight Roman nose on a face topped off with a thick crop of grey–always slightly disheveled–hair. The most notable feature, to me, was that my grandfather had very few wrinkles. He looked like he was about fifty, instead of his real seventy-one years. And he definitely didn't look old enough to be crazy. Not even slightly senile.

I finished my mental catalog of his appearance and shook my head. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. And a fit exterior didn't mean an able mind. I hadn't imagined what I'd read in his journal.

“I've been begging your grandfather to speak in my class for years. He was kind enough to accept my standing invitation this morning,” Mr. McGregor said with a proud smile.

Paul, of course, was quick to jump to the point. “Sweet! Does this mean that we can forego the surprise pop quiz?” he asked.

Mr. McGregor smiled and nodded. “I suppose it does,” he replied.

I groaned quietly. Doc, speaking in my Physics class? I would rather have taken the quiz, myself. Though I shouldn't have been surprised. Doc and Mr. Macgregor had been friends for years, and the teacher was a regular dinner guest at our house, staying up late to talk physics theories and philosophy with Doc. But having Mr. McGregor over for dinner in the privacy of our home was a hell of a lot different than having Doc visit Mr. McGregor in my class.

I grimaced and turned toward the classroom. If Doc was going to be lecturing in my class, this was going to be a tough day. After what I'd read in his journal, I had no idea what he was going to say–or how crazy it would sound–but I didn't really have much choice in the matter. The sooner we
started, I figured, the sooner it would be over.

“Jason,” Doc called, stopping me in my tracks. I turned slowly to see him advancing toward me. “Dinner this evening?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I'll be home early.” I wondered what that was about; I was always home for dinner, and he was coming with me to my Physics class. Was it really necessary for him to ask me about dinner
now
, in the middle of the hallway? I glanced around quickly, wondering how many people were watching us.

My grandfather nodded and smiled, ignoring my furtive glances at our surroundings, then gave me the “aha” look he used when he was trying to be subtle. He grabbed the leather book bag that hung by his hip and held it up.

“I almost forgot. It appears we got our bags mixed up again, young man.” He chuckled and handed the bag to me. “We should really find a way to get more organized. Do you mind if we head back to your locker and retrieve mine?”

And there it was. That was why he'd come to school today. He knew I had the journal, and he wanted it back. Speaking to the class was just the excuse for coming after his bag. He might be venturing into some crazy theories, but he was certainly sane enough to know that he didn't want me–or anyone else–reading those entries. That left me wondering, though … did he realize that those entries were nuts? Or did he just know that other people would think they were? Where, exactly, was the line?

I shuffled my feet, thinking. “Um, can it wait until after school?” I asked, hoping to gain more time with the journal. I didn't want to read more, I didn't think, but I might change my mind later.

My question didn't sit well with Doc. His smile disappeared, and his face fell. He didn't look upset, precisely, but he did look worried.

He shook his head firmly. “I'm afraid not, but I promise I won't take long. Your locker's just down the hall anyway, isn't it?” His mega-watt smile returned at this seemingly simple solution to the problem.

“I, uh…” I stalled.

“I'm sorry, Jason, but I really must insist. I left something in the bag that's very important to me. I promised a friend I would retrieve it,” Doc explained.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, realizing that I'd lose if I tried to fight him on this. I turned around and led him back down the hallway, toward my locker. Suddenly I wondered whether or not I had already put the journal back in Doc's bag after Spanish class. Had I left it out? Bent any pages? Smudged the ink? Left any clues, in short, that I had read the thing? I thought I was safe, but I felt my palms beginning to sweat. What would Doc say if he found out that I'd read it? What would he do? Would it be better just to tell him that I had? Perhaps he could give me a simple explanation and put my fears to rest, once and for all. Then again, what if he couldn't? Or didn't?

By the time we got to my locker, my head was spinning. I reached in nervously, fishing around for the bag, and released a breath when I found it. I slid my hand into the bag to search for the journal and felt it there as well, present and accounted for.

“Here you go,” I said with a nervous smile. I pulled the leather book bag out and handed it to Doc, journal intact.

Doc smiled with what I could have sworn was relief. “Excellent. How does pizza sound for dinner tonight?” he asked.

Paul chose that moment to step between us. “Pepperoni?” he asked.