The Curse of Arkady (18 page)

Sam dug his elbow into Jason's side. “Look who's watching.”

Jason twisted about and saw a spindly figure sitting in the dilapidated bleachers that ran alongside the fields. He seemed to be taking notes. Jason groaned. Statler Finch himself.

Sam flashed him a look. “Don't worry. Coach won't let him stay.”

“Hope not.” Jason had no time to say anything further as he was barked at, and he lunged into movement, down the powdered white lines and withered grass, weaving a running line between bright orange cones. When he got back, sure he'd beaten his best time, Coach merely looked at the stopwatch in his hands, frowned, and made a circular motion with his hand.

“Again.”

Jason inhaled. He dashed off without another sound, frowning, his arms and legs moving with controlled speed, cornering and slaloming through the cones as if he were a downhill skier. He finished, a little out of breath, and slowed going by the coach.

Coach frowned. He jerked a thumb. “Again.”

Jason had it in him, but there was the rest of practice and maybe a short game ahead of them yet. He took a deep breath and set off again. This time, to save his legs, he took it slower. Because he was tired and without a break, he'd begun to wobble a bit. All he needed was five or ten minutes, but Coach wasn't giving him that. So . . . rather than touch a dreaded cone, or worse, knock one over, he had to slow down. Be careful. Treat the cones as if they were opponents to be wary of, another team to outfox. It took him minutes longer, and when he trotted back to his coach, he did so with every intention of stopping this time and gathering a few minutes' break, at least.

Coach looked him over. “A bit slower that time.”

Jason nodded wordlessly. Deep breathing felt good.

“What did you learn?”

Jason, his hands on his knees to rest, looked up in surprise. “Learn?”

“Learn.” Coach jabbed a thumb out to the field. “Those cones are the enemy. What did you learn?”

Puzzled, he thought about it and then warily offered, “Not to give the enemy a break, even when I'm not feeling my strongest. I took it as fast as I could and still be careful.”

“Good. Take a breather, then go up and join the others.” Coach turned his back on him, clipboard in hand, eyes already downfield on another player.

Surprised, Jason fell back and got a small cup of water from the big water cooler at the field's edge, washed his mouth out, and then went over to join Sam and the others. He mulled over what he had said that had pleased the coach, even if only in some small way.

The coach didn't stay pleased. By the time Jason plopped down on a spare chair in his office and waited for the man to appear, he was drenched in sweat, scratched from two falls in the bushes and brambles that cornered the practice field, and wondering if he had enough strength to walk home. He had about two seconds of peace before his coach walked in, coffee cup in hand, and muttering.

“I'll make this short. Finch and I have had a talk. If you've got problems,” and he stared hard at Jason, with a piercing gaze, “I don't want to see them on the soccer field. Since this is school business, I'll allow you the one day. Once. But if you want regular counseling, then you either do it before school, in the early morning . . . or you quit the team. Got it? No slacking. None.”

“But, sir, this isn't my idea.”

“I don't know if it is or if it isn't. Vice Principal Murphy has been working to institute some new things here at school, most of which I support. As to this counseling . . .” Coach grunted before continuing, “All I know is that you asked to be part of a team, and that team deserves your commitment and focus. You show promise, Adrian, as an individual player, and as a team asset. I expect you to live up to it, but the team deserves to come first.”

“Yes, sir.” Jason stared down at the corner of the desk.

“Well? Doesn't it?”

“Yes, sir, it does. I want to play soccer more than anything!” Well, nearly. But he wasn't about to discuss Magicking with a soccer coach whose style consisted of that of a drill sergeant, even if the oath of Binding would let him. Which, thankfully, it wouldn't. Supposedly. He had no intention of putting the oath to work. The thought of sitting in front of the coach, his jaws fixed and voice frozen was, well, unthinkable!

“Then let me put it to you this way, Jason. In another year or so, you'll be in high school. An honors curriculum there means classes before and after the regular schedule. Zero hour and so forth. It's early, but students who want to get ahead work for it. If you want to stay on this soccer team, you're going to have to work for it, too. Not just on the field now, but off it. If Finch wants you to come in for counseling, tell him it's before school, not after. After school, you belong to me! Got that?”

There was no way not to get it. Jason nodded.

“All right, then. Shower and go.” The coach set his coffee cup on the desk and began flipping through his clipboard.

Jason stood, then hesitated a moment. He cleared his throat. “You'll . . . ah . . . mention this to Mr. Finch, too? Kinda back me up?”

Coach looked up, and drilled him with his dark, unblinking eyes. Then he nodded. “I'll suggest it to him as well. But it's your job to make the arrangements.”

“Yessir!” Jason bolted for the door before anything else befell him.

Absolutely cursed, no doubt about it. Not a one.

Words interrupted a tomblike silence. Brennard's hand gestured fitfully in impatience.

“I asked if all was in place.”

The disciple bowed before his master, and remained quiet for a moment, staring down. “The beginnings of the trap are in motion, Brennard. The bait has been offered. I think all shall take it. And we are poised, waiting.”

Brennard thoughtfully brushed his dark hair off his forehead. “We don't want any mistakes this time.”

“No, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm over the back of it, turned sideways for better support as if his tall, seemingly young body still needed the strength of the furniture. And, thought his disciple, perhaps it did. Brennard had nearly died, after all. “The problem is,” Brennard said slowly, as if thinking aloud, “there are too many for us as well as for them. The nets are flung too far to catch all these little fishes, and so we need to concentrate on the ones who shine brightest. We will start here, and make an end here if we can. You have the teeth? The other items I prescribed?”

“I do.” The disciple took out a small cloth sack and laid it on Brennard's knee.

“Excellent. Modern times are quite remarkable, actually, but also, it means that we all must take care, very very great care about what we are doing. Being revealed now would make our situation extremely precarious. Until that time when we have secured the Havens for ourselves, we are as vulnerable as Gregory's motley lot is, a fact I am not quite certain they have fully realized. If they have realized, they have not acted upon it. That becomes our advantage. I am not afraid to make use of anyone's weakness.”

“And what of the dreams?”

Brennard frowned. More than an expression, the atmosphere about him seemed to fray and discharge irritably, tiny sparks zapping through the air. “They are but dreams.”

“Not omens.”

“Memories, at best.”

“You are certain?”

Brennard stood then, looming over his disciple. He did not care to discuss the disturbing dreams he had, nor the ones he sent out. “As certain as I care to be, for the moment. Unless you would care to be divorced from your body and soul for a while, and explore that metaphysical plane?”

“N-no. No, sir. Thank you for the opportunity, but I am not prepared.” The disciple bowed, quite deeply, and did not look up for a very long moment, until he heard Brennard's breathing return to normal. His glance flicked up then, and he saw Brennard sit back down, gathering up the small cloth sack he'd delivered. Then and only then, did the disciple hazard to straighten up, although he took a wary step backward. Truth be told, there was nowhere on this world he would be out of Brennard's reach. Those were the ties between them, the pledges and vows chaining him, in return for his favored disciple status. Gladly, he'd given them then. Now, he was not so certain.

“Then,” remarked Brennard almost mildly, “do not question me.”

“Master.” He inclined his head. “I don't question you, but myself.” He sighed. “It is not a matter of dedication, but confidence, I suppose.”

“Working with me will dispel that. There are great things to come. Many, many great things. This is a world of vast possibilities now, with many struggling countries just waiting for strong and guiding hands. We will do well. Trust me.” Brennard smiled then, drawing his cloth sack closer and cradling it for a moment against his chest. “We will do very well indeed.”

 

Rich sat down in his backyard, almost hidden amid the long purple shadows, facing the back screen door on his porch, although he did not expect his parents to come through. They were spectacularly uninterested in him with the exception of his grades, and he made sure he always got decently high grades without having to study endlessly. Still, he didn't want anything that he, Stefan, and Tomaz Crowfeather were going to say or do to be noted. The very thought of it, or perhaps something else, sent a chill down his back. “Gad,” he muttered, and shivered. “I hate that.”

“What?” Stefan looked at him, dumbfounded.

“Chills down the back of my neck. Like somebody was walking on my grave.”

“Ugh.” Stef shuddered in disgust.

“It's just an expression,” the quiet adult sitting with them said, smiling reassuringly. Tomaz Crowfeather sat cross-legged on the ground as the last shreds of the day were obscured by a pink-and-gray sunset, and he held up something in his hands, so that it caught the very last beams of sun raying through the clouds. He lowered it, and gave the small muslin bag to Stefan.

“What is it?”

“As long as you wear that,” Tomaz said quietly, “you will not change skins.”

“You're kidding me?” Stefan held the bag in his big, square, chubby hands and then turned the fetish bag over and over in his palms.

Rich felt the coldness in the ground through his jeans and shifted uncomfortably. “You can keep him from doing that?”

Tomaz nodded solemnly. He dropped his hands to his knees, big heavy turquoise stone bracelets rattling, and rested, watching the two of them.

“No shit.” Stefan quickly tied the smallish bag to the chain he wore about his neck.

“If you could really do that,” remarked Rich slowly, “why didn't you do it a lot earlier and save me . . . us . . . a lot of trouble?”

“Yeah.” Stefan looked Tomaz over. “Not to mention even more trouble.”

Tomaz gave a slight smile. “It is not wise.”

Stef grunted and began to fidget. “I don't get it.”

“Okay . . . shifting into a bear in front of a football stadium full of people is wise?” Rich put in quickly.

“Nor that.” Tomaz considered Stefan calmly, then looked at Rich who'd asked the question. “But it is not good to suppress that which is meant to be. Talent needs to be trained, shaped, and nurtured, not bottled up and hidden. Tell me. Would you rather deal with a Stefan-bear you've known all along and trained with—or a full-grown, frightened, and confused beast who suddenly erupts into the world?”

Both boys rocked back slightly. Stef's thick face showed a fragment of surprise, while Rich paled at the implications.

Stefan let out a grudging exhale. “Since you put it that way.”

Tomaz nodded. “I do.”

“So . . . if that's my Talent . . . what happens now?”

“Until you understand the Curse, he'll stay suppressed, for a short while. And if we can't keep it under control, then . . .” Tomaz's voice trailed off.

“Then what?” Rich shifted.

Stefan rubbed his nose, grumbling.

“Well, in the old days, we'd move out where the Talent wouldn't be a problem. Now, we don't have as many options.”

“So I'm stuck until I just explode?”

“Hopefully not.” Tomaz got to his feet. “But, in the meantime, you won't be changing skins unless you want to.”

“That's good, I guess.”

Crowfeather nodded. He pulled the watch chain from the pocket of his denim vest, and an arrowhead-shaped crystal fell into his weathered hands. “Until we meet again,” he said quietly, moved one hand over his crystal, and disappeared.

Stefan's hand went to his neck. He gripped the bag of herbs and magicks tightly, as if clutching a lifeline.