Ordinary Magic (5 page)

Two hours later I was sitting outside school with the rest of my class. We were on an impromptu recess while Mom and Dad talked to Mrs. Andrews. I was sitting in the big olive tree on the crooked branch. The other kids were spread throughout the yard, kicking up clouds of dust, well away from the shade of my tree even though the day had turned hot. One kid (Jack, who’s a bit of a bully) shoved Billy Peterson toward me; Billy dug in his heels, frantically shaking his head.

I was close enough that I could see Mom and Dad and Mrs. Andrews in the empty schoolroom. “I am afraid some of the parents have expressed displeasure at the prospect of an ord being taught among the other children,” Mrs. Andrews was saying. Her voice carried, clear as crystal, through the open windows.

“She’s an ord,” Dad replied. “She’s not catching.”

“I am afraid they have threatened the immediate removal of their children from this fine institution if Abigail was to continue here.”

Mom laughed. It was a sharp, bitter sound. “You mean they’re threatening to make their kids stupid if my daughter keeps coming to school?”

Across the yard, Jack and a couple of his partners were saying something to Billy, something that included a lot of pointing at me and poking him. Finally Billy shouted, “I am not!” and marched over to me.

He stopped a safe distance from the tree. “I got a question.”

I nodded, grateful to have someone talking to me, even if it was Billy.

“I’m trying to figure out which school I wanna go to.” He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “You know I did totally good when I was Judged. I reached Level Five.”

“You can go to almost any school you want to,” I recited. Skill levels show how much power and ability you have. That’s the whole point of Judging kids, to determine how strong you are so you know whether you should go to a regular school, like Challis or Lochlora, or a hard school like Thorten or Ashtend,
or whether you need to go to the impossibly hard, scary ones like Wixis. Level Five was very good, just shy of impressive, and opened a lot of doors, but there were two or three schools (like the Summer Palace up in the North Inlet) that wouldn’t even look at you unless you were at least an Eight. But Eights are almost as rare as ords.

“Mom wants me to apply to Wixis and Ashtend, and Dad’s been talking up Byes, but that’s only because he went there. I’ve been thinking about Thorten. What do you think?”

“Thorten’s really good. You know, you should talk to my brothers. Both of them got into Thorten. Gil said they’re very strict, but Jeremy loves it. He’s going to try to get into the grad program early, because—”

“And I heard that they’re totally snooty about who they let in too,” Billy interrupted.

“They are.”

“Good,” Billy said. “My mom says I’m going to need the best education available.”

“Jeremy will probably be teaching your classes,” I boasted.

“No way,” Billy scoffed. “I don’t want to get infected. Besides, my mom says he’s going to get expelled because of you.”

“He is not,” I fired back, feeling hot and sick. “He’s the best student there. He going for two different degrees and … and he runs the school book club.” I couldn’t stop now. “And Gilbert, he’s a Level Six. Did you know that? Remind me, is Six above or below Five?”

Billy crossed his arms, his mouth twisted up angrily.

“Above,” I hurled at him. “Six is above Five.”

“Like Five is above zero,” Billy shot back. “Doesn’t matter how high your stupid brother is, he doesn’t do anything with it. No wonder you’re an ord. All that power and he just writes those stupid books.”

“They are not stupid, you’re stupid! Gil’s books are wonderful!”

Billy snorted. “I’m going to do something with my power. Necromancy, or demonology, or stuff like that. Important stuff.”

Okay, fine. If he wanted me to go there, I would go there. I said, “Alexa—”

“Shut up,” Billy snapped, and I grinned. Because nobody could argue with Alexa, who was—wait for it—a
Level Nine
. (Rumor has it there is a Level Ten, but it’s like the Queen of the Fairies. Everyone’s heard about one, but no one’s ever seen it.) From what I have heard, Alexa’s Judging caused more fuss than mine.

After her Judging, Mom and Dad were approached by members of the Royal Court, who arranged for Alexa to be taken to the royal family’s Summer Palace to be educated by special tutors. Standard procedure, Alexa tells us; she also likes to tell us how miserable it was—there were barely any other kids, trips home were rare and under strict guidelines, and every time the royal family visited, the students were shut up in a drafty wing so they wouldn’t associate. According to Alexa, the workload was murder, the teachers were brutal, and instead of encouraging their students to get along, they promoted a sense of competition that Alexa says was “really, really irresponsible with kids that powerful.” From what she’s told us, it’s clear it was a hard, lonely eight
years. I think that’s why she went into education—because she loathed hers so thoroughly and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen to other kids.

Mrs. Andrews burst through the door just then and called the class inside. Mom and Dad appeared next to me. Mom’s face was flushed, but Dad smiled. “So, we’re going to be teaching you at home for a little while.”

When we told Alexa about me getting kicked out of school, she wasn’t surprised. Still, it took half a day for her to stop muttering threats under her breath. Especially after I asked her if I really was contagious.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Think, Abby. If you were contagious, we’d all be ords.” She stopped and visibly calmed herself down. “That’s just people being scared. And ignorant.”

Alexa returned to Rothermere two days later, to get back to work and clear the way for my acceptance. Before she left, she sat me down at the kitchen table (ignoring Gil’s grumbles about how necessary privacy was for the creative process) and worked up a charm. It looked like a simple, flat, silver disk, but when the sunlight glinted off it you could see the spiderweb of magic woven inside.

When she finished, she threaded a chain through it and, with a flick of her fingers, popped it around my neck.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Protection. If anything ever happens, if you need me, you break this,” she said, tapping the charm at my throat, “and I’ll know to come get you.”

Then Alexa—who was to thank for draining the magic out of my room—took me around the house to unhex the shower so I could get clean and the doors so I could move around and a bookshelf in case I wanted to read and one cupboard so I could get something to eat if no one was around, and everything else that I needed to use every day but couldn’t if someone didn’t help me. I knew it was a pain for my family at first—to have to use little knobs to turn on the water in the bathroom instead of just poofing the perfect pressure and temperature, and having doors open to just one room instead of whatever room it was you wanted—but nobody said anything.

A week after she went back, Alexa called to say I was in. Turns out it was just that simple. There were a few forms and formalities to take care of, but Mom and Dad had them done inside an hour. Alexa also sent regular school supplies—a handbook, a list of school rules, tuition guidelines, that sort of thing.

After the flurry of the school-application stuff was done, I read books (I had lots of time for that), helped in the bakery, and got quizzed endlessly by Jeremy, who was now home for summer break. It pains me to say it, but he is actually great with the school stuff. He’s really patient when we’re going over schoolwork, and he doesn’t mind if you ask questions, and he’s so into the material that it’s hard not to get interested yourself.

Business at our bakery hiccuped a little right after my Judging, and then continued like before. But for Dad there were days, then weeks, when no one appeared at his shop. Sure, magic carpets are a luxury, but there wasn’t a family in Lennox that couldn’t afford one.

It was around Midsummer when the adventurers rolled in, a pair of heroes on the hunt for an ord. They made an offer for me. By that time my parents had had so many offers it almost seemed natural.

Adventurers, or treasure seekers, or traveling heroes, whatever you call them, are actually pretty common. There’s money to be made in the adventuring trade (rolling-on-a-pile-of-gold-laughing-hysterically kind of money), if you are brave enough or clever enough or just too stubborn to stop looking for whatever lost thing of untold worth someone wants. It takes money to start, but you can make it back and then some by selling things legally to museums and guilds, and even more by selling them illegally to private collectors. There are always people willing to pay for powerful objects. The kind of people who usually end up on the evening news after the Kingsmen raid their homes.

Adventuring is one thing ords are wanted and needed for, and that they are actually good at. Sure, if you are clever, or just really hard to kill, you can probably get past the maze of curses and traps, double enchantments and protection spells, to the Legendary Artifact of Whatsit that’s imprisoned in the Cave of Despair and Darkness by the Dread Sorcerer Whosit. But you can save yourself a lot of time and trouble by getting an ord who can just walk past all that.

This pair said they’d heard that an ord had turned up, and, coincidentally, they were looking to replace their last one. They had “a whelp” who made it through six years of enchantments and curses and dragon’s fire, only to up and fall off a cliff. Or jump, Barbarian Mike wasn’t too clear on that. In any case, they were eight months without an ord and two jobs behind, so they were willing to pay any price. Or so they said.

Only Barbarian Mike introduced himself. He looked, well, exactly like you’d expect a guy called “Barbarian Mike” to look. Giant sword, furry bikini shorts, and all. He was adventurer good-looking—you know, the muscular, rugged, “I get punched in the face a lot” type. His companion was lean and wiry and tense, like a bowstring pulled too tight. She was very pretty in a fierce way: deeply red hair swept back from her face; sharp, dark eyes; strong eyebrows arched at a dramatic slant. Her face was bordering on sunburned, making it look like she might burst into flame at any moment.

They knocked on our door late in the afternoon, when Mom was taking a shower and Dad was still in his shop. Barbarian Mike took a seat, but his companion just stood by the door, scowling and not saying much. (She did snap at me to get her a glass of water, and Olivia snapped back that if she wanted water, she could get it herself, and Barbarian Mike held up his hands and muttered something to his friend about “territory.”) Apparently, they were going on a mission to save the world from an evil king.

“King Steve?” Jeremy said, incredulous.

“No,” Mike said.

“King Ewald, then,” Olivia said. Her cheeks were red from a long, hot day at work, and she’d rolled up her sleeves and unbuttoned her neckline. Barbarian Mike kept staring at her, which made his friend glare at both of them.

“King Ewald’s not that bad,” Gil protested.

“It’s not King Ewald,” Barbarian Mike said.

“Okay, wait, how many kings are there?” Olivia asked. “There’s like—what?—nine provinces in Svarga? Right?”

“They’re not all kings,” Jeremy informed us. “Three are duly elected regents, and currently the province of Perunovic is—”

“Do regents count?” Gil asked.

“They do
not
count. They’re called regents, not kings,” Jeremy said, shoving his glasses farther up his nose with a severe index finger.

Barbarian Mike’s companion finally spoke. “He’s not king
yet.
”

My brothers and sister looked at each other.

“As a matter of fact, he’s eight years old,” Barbarian Mike said. “You see, there’s this prophecy—”

“I’m guessing you didn’t hear about King Steve’s edict,” Olivia said, flipping her hair back in a practiced maneuver. Barbarian Mike shook his head eagerly.

“He’s forbidden any and all prophecies in the Westren Kingdom. He said they’re malicious and duplicitous,” Jeremy added.

“That’s ridiculous,” the woman snapped.

“It’s the law,” Jeremy said.

She rolled her eyes at that.

“What my friend means,” Barbarian Mike jumped in, “is that we don’t have a choice. We can’t ignore this prophecy. If we want to stop this evil king—”

“The evil eight-year-old?” Olivia grinned, a quick flash that left Barbarian Mike stunned and blinking.

“Yes, the evil eight-year-old king,” his companion pressed on, her eyes burning into Olivia. “We need to get an ancient artifact of untold power from a dark fortress deep in forbidden territory. Our path is fraught with countless dangers, and there are evil forces that will do anything to keep us from our goal.”

Gil and Olivia studiously didn’t look at each other as they struggled to keep straight faces.

I wondered what kind of evil forces. In the movies the evil forces always wear long black robes and have dramatic music cues and shout things about destiny. Those kind were a lot more fun than the guys on reality cop shows; the evil forces on TV always seemed to be skinny guys who tied up their pants with rope.

“And you figure I can stroll right into there, get this artifact, and stroll out again alive,” I said. I had to admit, it was nice to hear people talking about what I
could
do for once.

And then things went downhill. Fast. When I opened my mouth Barbarian Mike and his friend exchanged a glance. For the first time since they arrived, the woman wasn’t scowling. She looked surprised. “You let it speak freely?”

The question wasn’t mean. It was genuine astonishment, and it was directed toward Gil and Olivia and Jeremy, who did
not take it well. Olivia surged to her feet; Gil managed to catch her arms and pull her back down on the couch while Jeremy, quite calmly and for once actually sounding like a grown-up, informed our guests that they should leave.

“You’re joking,” the woman said. She looked from Jeremy to Gil to Olivia and back again. “You’re
serious
? Really?”