The Guardian Lineage (9 page)

 

 

Mike threw open the door to his room, breathing heavily. He keeled over and put his hands on knees.

Then he noticed the smell of Julius Brutus's Sure-for-Men deodorant, as if he had just sprayed himself. Which caused him to look up.

“You're
here
?”

Julius Brutus was standing over his bed, towel around his skinny waist, hair sopping wet. He slipped on his white v-neck t-shirt – which was two sizes too big – and turned around. “Uh, yeah. Where've you been?”

“Out looking for you. Where were you, man, I'm going to
kill
you!”

Julius Brutus smiled sheepishly. “I was in the bathroom in the basement when the sirens rang out. Got locked in a stall.”

“You know the whole school is looking for you, right?”

“Really? Why would they be looking for me?”

“Because you didn't… aaaarrrrgghhh!” Mike rubbed his temples. “Let me get this straight. You were locked in a bathroom for
four hours?
”

Julius Brutus shrugged. “The lock got caught.” He headed towards the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “What's going on, anyway?”

Mike threw up his arms and plopped down on the bed. He thought about walking back and telling the Headmage, but he decided against it. With his luck, they'd think he'd staged the whole thing. Somebody would be coming around the dorms soon enough; he'd tell the staff then.

Then he realized Julius Brutus didn't know about Mrs. Jorisch.

“Have a seat, JB,” Mike told him. “This isn't an easy thing to say.”

***

Mrs. Jorisch's death was the topic at Windham for the next several days. A somber mood enveloped the school, as if rainclouds had moved in and nobody could get rid of them. The Dining Hall was draped in black, and there was a continuous spotlight on the far corner of the mansion lawn, where the Telekinesis teacher had been buried in a midnight staff-and-Gargoyle-only ceremony. Some of the girls made pink wristbands, but Mike wasn't ready to wear one of those. Instead, somebody was passing out pink stickers, so Mike took one and put it on the binding of his
Telekinesis: A Wondrous Magic
book, thinking it to be a proper tribute. Professor Punn took over Telekinesis 101, but it just wasn't the same.

As for the attack, everyone and their girlfriend seemed to have theories as to what had happened, especially Zachariah and Annabella. They seemed hell-bent on telling everyone how Michael Prior, descendant of Rafael, had somehow allowed the Black Brethren onto campus in order to destroy them all. According to Aaron, not too many people took Zachariah seriously, but Mike started to notice a few students treating him differently. A look in the other direction. A sharp word or two. Or just a general indifference. More than once, Mike had asked to see someone's notes for a class, only to be turned down with an uncomfortable, “Uh, I don't like to share my work,” or something like that. Mike knew he was getting the cold shoulder, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He was fed up with people thinking he was a spy – just because his great-grandfather was one didn't mean he had to follow suit – but he couldn't think of a way to convince people otherwise.

And so when Mike arrived at his dorm room the next night to find a tiny yellow envelope taped to the door, with his name scribbled in rough handwriting on the outside, at first he thought someone was playing a prank on him.

Mike ripped it off the door, wondering who in the world could've sent him this. If it wasn't a joke… maybe it was from a girl? His mind turned to Laura. He wondered where she was, what she was doing…

His heart fluttered as he tore open the telegram. It read:

 

Mr. Prior —

I would like to speak with you. Meet me at eleven PM, by the main gate to the campus. Come alone.

Headmage James Garzan

 

Mike flipped the card over, disappointed. Why did the Headmage want to meet him outside the campus? And why should he come alone? Mike smirked.

He might've been a little gullible, yes, but he wasn't at all stupid.

***

The Headmage's office was closed, but Mike found Professor Punn outside of the Dining Room, and she directed him to the Sparring room. When Mike walked in, he saw the Headmage immediately. He was dressed in a navy blue karategi with a black belt, with a white headband with Japanese markings around his forehead. His eyes were closed, and he was sitting crosslegged on the floor, absorbed in meditation.

Okay, not what I was expecting… but he's still the Headmage… isn't he? That's not some imposter who's lured me down here to kill me, right?
Mike squinted at the man sitting on the floor. If it wasn't the Headmage, it was an incredible replica, down to the stubbly goatee and the receding white hairline.
He's not going to pop up and attack you – is he? Of course he's not. So calm down.

Even though this whole thing still felt off…

“Sir?” Mike felt his nerves transmitting on high frequency. “I got this telegram, and—”

“Sit down, Michael,” the Headmage said, apparently not too absorbed as to ignore his surroundings.

Mike sat on the cold floor. “Listen, uh, sir… I found this note taped to my door, and—”

“Close your eyes, and we will begin.”

Mike opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. His eyelids flittered, loathing to leave the comfort of sight behind.
This is a guy who saved your life. This guy is not going to hurt you. Repeat, he is not going to hurt you…
Mike forced them shut.

“Do you feel anything?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you
sense
anything? Any power, perhaps?”

Mike took a deep breath. He was about to say no again, but then he stopped. He did feel something – a surge of power in the room, humming at an almost inaudible level, only noticeable at the tiniest of decibels.

“It sounds like a bee, buzzing at my ear.”

“At a very low level, perhaps. That is your power, waiting to be called upon.”

Mike resisted the urge to open his eyes. “What about your power?”

“I have controlled it, so it is not noticeable. You may open your eyes now.”

Visual relief flooded Mike's senses, as if he were a swimmer who'd just come up for air. When the room came back into focus, Garzan was already standing. “You have been out of control in your classes. I will help you master the power within you.”

“Like when I attacked Zachariah?” Mike said, thinking about the strange power surge he felt during his sparring match. It had felt so…
awesome
… if not slightly frightening…

“Yes. But before we work on that…” Garzan's voice trailed off. The Headmage crouched into a praying-mantis stance. “Hit me.”

Mike scrambled to his feet. “Um, what?”

“You've been studying karate since you were a little boy, am I correct?”

“Er… yes, but—”

“And you were a green belt at last notice, were you not?”

“Yeah, um, how did you—”

“Then hit me. If you can.”

“Honestly, what does this have to do with—”

Mike didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Garzan advanced at him and almost poked his eye out with a pointed fist. Mike instinctively reached out and grabbed Garzan's arm, pressing it against his side and twirling back with an elbow. Garzan avoided it and slipped his hand out of Mike's grasp. He kicked Mike in the back of the knee, causing Mike to buckle. Mike caught his fall with two hands and shoved himself backwards, sending his feet into Garzan's chest and knocking the Headmage off his feet.

What is going on!

Mike barely had time to think as Garzan launched his foot in the air, aimed at Mike's chest. Mike caught his teacher's outstretched leg and flung it to the side, again sending Garzan to the stone floor. Quick as a snake, Garzan's foot kicked Mike's ankle out from under him, and Mike joined Garzan on the marble. Garzan pounced but Mike rolled out of the way, jumping to his feet and retreating a few steps.

A light bulb shattered overhead and electricity flowed through Garzan's arm. He fired at Mike, who got a shield up in time. Mike thrust an arm forward to blow Garzan away with telekinesis, but the Headmage blocked it in turn. Immediately Garzan threw out an arm of his own, so fast that Mike didn't have a chance to react.

It felt like he had been punched in the gut by Floyd Mayweather. Mike flew backwards and skidded across the floor, gasping for air.

Garzan relaxed his body, clasped his hands together Japanese-style, and bowed.

Mike struggled to his feet and returned the gesture meekly. His ribs ached. “Again… what does that… have to do with… control?” He gasped for air between words.

“Nothing,” Garzan said, smoothing out his uniform. “How did it feel to get hit?”

Mike wiped sweat off his forehead with his t-shirt. What did Garzan expect him to say?
Yeah, you know what, it was great, hit me again!

“I know what you're thinking, Michael. But consider this. Perhaps if you experienced what Annabella and all the other students felt, you would take your studies more seriously?”

Mike stood with hands on hips. So Garzan had wanted to hit him. It reminded Mike of what Stockton had said back in his office.
I want my students to get hurt.
Mike was starting to wonder if that was company policy over here.

“You have tremendous power, Michael. But there is no need for you to use your full strength in a sparring class.”

“But Stockton said—”

Garzan cut him off with a wave. “I know what Stockton said, but let me explain. First off, a warrior who does not exercise caution in attacking leaves himself more vulnerable to counterattack. Any effort expended results in a smaller reservoir of power in reserve. Therefore, your defenses will be weaker. You need to learn to balance this.

“Second, telekinetic magic is not entirely based on the offensive. You may want to grasp a handle from across the hall instead of blowing the door off its hinges. Or you may want to light a fire on a candle instead of melting the wax with a blowtorch. And so forth.”

Mike rubbed his stomach. He had never thought about using his powers for things other than fighting. True, his teachers had never mentioned it, but Mike felt a little silly for not even imagining that sort of thing. He relaxed just a little.

“So the note you taped on the door…”

Garzan frowned. “What note?”

And… that's what I thought
. Mike handed the note over to the Headmage.

Garzan said nothing as he turned the telegram in his hand.

“Not from you, I'm guessing?” Mike asked.

“Not from me,” the Headmage muttered. “Although I did want to speak with you, about these lessons...” Garzan slipped the paper inside his karategi and smiled in the most fake way possible.

“Well, a fortuitous turn of events, in any case. Shall we begin?”

Mike really wanted to know what the Headmage was thinking, but he sensed Garzan wasn't about to share.

“Okay,” Mike said. “I'll play.”

“Excellent. We will stick with Telekinesis for now, and move on to your other weapons as the weeks progress.” Garzan snapped a finger, and a plain wooden box appeared in the middle of the room. “Lift it.”

Mike jumped back just a bit, then shook his head. Even after all these magic classes, he still wasn't used to a human being creating something out of nothing. Which was probably okay, all things considered. He steadied himself, focused on the wood, then thrust an arm towards the container.

The box splintered into a thousand pieces.

Mike shielded his face as woodchips flew in all directions.

“No.” Garzan shook his head as wood dust settled on the floor. “Why did it break?”

It took all of Mike's willpower not to answer,
I don't know, you're the Headmage!
Instead, he lifted his hands in surprise and guessed, “I attacked it?”

“Precisely.” Garzan conjured another wooden box. “You must grasp the item in your mind, instead of using the telekinetic attack you have learned up until now. Think about the item in your head. Instead of throwing an arm out to strike, extend the arm to grab.”

Mike rolled the information around in his brain and focused on the wood. He concentrated on the box. He imagined lifting it without any physical effort, raising it into the air like he was Yoda or something… then he nudged his right arm outwards.

The box lifted into the air ever so slightly. Mike felt a strong resistance on his bicep, as if he was lifting the box physically.

“Keep going,” Garzan encouraged.

Mike slowly sat the box back on the floor, then released it from his grip. He felt a relief, as if he had put down something with his bare hands.

“That's wild,” Mike said. “Why aren't we learning how to do
that
?”

Garzan made a wry face. “I would much prefer to have my students throwing fire than clicking the air conditioning remote from across the room, wouldn't you say?”

Mike spent the rest of his time learning how to limit his power output. Garzan explained how to lower his natural energy, to harness himself, by controlling the amount of external effort he put forth. A smaller thrust of the arm, for example, would result in a weaker attack. Throughout the lesson, Mike lit torches from across the wall, froze bottles of water, and extracted electricity from the hallway by guiding it into the Sparring room, then extinguished it upon its arrival.

Garzan never let on more than the lesson itself. He was methodical, focused on his teaching, letting nothing slip by without correction, but not once did he say anything about how Mike was progressing. It was a lack of warmth, no doubt, a lack of personality that Mike wished would've been there, but the lessons continued at a steady pace. It wasn't an overwhelming deficiency in the Headmage, just something that Mike would've loved to be able to connect to.

As the session neared its second hour, Mike decided to bring up a topic he had been bothered by ever since he arrived at Windham. He was in the middle of a lesson involving a tub of water and the freezing and unfreezing of different liquids. As he began cooling the water in the plastic bowl, he said, “So we Guardians have magic within us?”

“Yes, but concentrate on your lesson.”

Mike adjusted the temperature of the water with a slight raise of the arm. “Just hear me out for a second. That means not everybody can do magic?”

“Correct. Only the Guardian lineage can perform such feats.”

“How did we get it? I mean, one day there was some guy born with magical power?”

Garzan chuckled. “Of course not. We got it from the Gargoyles.”

Mike lost control for a minute, letting the temperature rise a little bit. “We did? I didn't read that in any of the textbooks.”

The Headmage rubbed his forehead. “I thought Magus Stockton would've covered that at the beginning.” He paused for a moment. “No matter. When the Gargoyles realized their magical talents were useless during the day, they gave them to those who could use them all the time, provided those people swore to protect them.”

“The Guardian clans,” Mike said, his arm starting to shake a little as he transferred more power into the water.

“Yes. Most of the Gargoyles transferred their power completely. One clan kept some for themselves, but that is not for now.”

“So who are the Black Brethren? Corrupted Guardians?”

Garzan did not respond immediately. Mike lowered the temperature below freezing, and he felt a small pop in his elbow – not the injury type, but as if a meter had gone off to tell him he had gotten back under the freezing mark.

“The Brethren are a society that has artificially implanted magic inside of them. They are lost souls, people with nothing left, who turn to abuse magic and its power. All of their spells affect others in perverted ways.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Mind control, physical infestations, things that are unpleasant to discuss and less pleasant to experience.”

After a few minutes the entire tub was a frozen block. Mike lowered his arm and observed his handiwork, knowing he would have to do it ten more times before Garzan would be satisfied. “Is that why the Calebra – is that what it's called – looked so weird? Like it had been torn apart and re-sewn.”

Garzan nodded. “It is a terrible thing, to insert power into something that cannot hold it. The Calebra that attacked you was merely a victim. Its death ended its suffering.”

“Do they always hate us?” Mike asked. “Like, there's always been constant war going on?”

“There are peaks and lulls in the fighting, no doubt,” the Headmage allowed. “Usually when some powerful magician rounds up whatever Brethren he can and builds an army.”

“And that's what's going on now? Somebody's leading them?”

The Headmage didn't answer.

“And what about the Slayers? Where does their magic come from?”

Garzan's expression was stoic. Then he blinked, as if driving away a bad dream. He stepped away for a moment, hands on hips.

“Sir?”

The Headmage put a finger to his lips. He reached inside his karategi, and Mike saw him touch his Amp. Then he turned to Mike.

“I must apologize, but we are needed elsewhere. Go shower, change, and meet me in my office in fifteen minutes.”

And just like that, the lesson was over.