Rise of Allies (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 4) (18 page)

“Oh, that is so cute!” Isabelle laughed merrily. “Archie’s sweet on Nixie?”

“Seemed like it,” Dani said.

“Oh, I can’t wait to torment him. It’s my duty as his sister to tease him, especially after he made fun of me yesterday about Maddox! Where did he say he was going? To the library?”

Dani nodded.

Izzy grabbed her hand. “Let’s go get him! Jake’s session should be letting out soon, then we can all go watch the Morris dancers together. Come on!”

Hand in hand, the girls ran off, giggling, to find the boy genius.

#  #  #

Archie peered over the edge of a thick tome of writings by Ptolemy, irked by the noise some inconsiderate soul was making.

Until a few minutes ago, he had had the whole place to himself, save for the ancient librarian who was snoozing at his desk. Then the front door had squeaked, and great, shuffling footfalls had thumped into the studious silence of the magnificent, medieval library, echoing every which way under the vaulted ceiling.

“Shh!” the old librarian had scolded, jolted from his nap.

“Urgh,” came the reply.

How very glib,
thought Archie, annoyed. But when he looked up with a frown to see who was making all the noise, his eyebrow quirked. It was quite the last person he ever would have expected to see here: Troll Boy.

Ogden Trumbull, Dr. Plantagenet’s seven-foot-tall, artificially made helper from the zoo.

Hmm! Never would’ve even guessed he could read.

But on second thought, maybe he couldn’t, Archie mused, watching the hybrid discreetly. Og just sort of wandered around, blankly staring at the books along the top shelves. Archie, who had yet to hit his growth spurt, had often wondered what was on those shelves.

He ducked behind his physics tome when Og looked his way, a pugnacious pucker on his snout.

Crikey, the beast boy really looked a fright, ugly enough to crack a mirror. Of course, that wasn’t Og’s fault, Archie quickly amended.

The half-troll glared at him for a second as he passed the table where Archie sat studying. As Og moved on, Archie sat up in his chair and followed the brute’s progress with intense curiosity.

Og did not seem too clear on what the whole idea of a library actually was. He ripped some of the books off the shelves, held them up to his nose, and sniffed them, licking a few as he wandered among the aisles, so massively muscled that he barely fit.

It suddenly dawned on Archie why Og was here. Like himself, the troll boy did not fit into any of the groups.

Then Archie felt rather sorry for him. It was hard to remember, looking at the formidable, monster-sized brute, that he was really just a kid. He watched the big, lonely oaf shuffle into the aisle of children’s books. Og had some difficulty pulling the book he wanted off the shelf with his big, clumsy ham-hands.

Fine motor skills: poor.

Observing him as a scientist, Archie wondered what sort of tests had been run on the creature. Had they measured his intelligence? His ability to communicate?

Somehow he doubted it. Indeed, he suspected that the wizard-scientist who had brewed up Og in the lab had only cared about testing his strength, considering he had created him to be nothing but a slave.

Ghastly.
Archie felt the chivalry in him stirring up for the sake of the poor, sad monster boy.

Og chose a book and shuffled out to the center rotunda of the library, where he plopped down on the floor like a giant toddler.

A moment later, Archie could hear him reading the simple words aloud to himself, lifting the book all the way up to his face to stare at the pictures and occasionally sniffing it.

Look at him,
Archie thought with compassion.
Poor thing.
Human enough to want to read a story to comfort him when he felt the sting of being an outcast, and yet still so much of a brute that his clumsy, three-fingered hands could barely separate the delicate pages to turn them. The dexterity needed for this simple maneuver soon had frustration building on Og’s misshapen boulder of a face.

Archie felt a tug of sympathy on his kindly heart. His parents were diplomats, the peacemakers of the Order, while his empath sister had certainly influenced him to have a great deal more compassion for others than many scientists possessed.

As for himself, other people might be afraid of Ogden Trumbull, but the Honorable Archimedes James Bradford was a young man of Reason. He was also dashed curious to get a closer look.

Setting his physics book aside, he rose from his chair and approached Og without fear, hands in pockets.

“I say!” he greeted him in a friendly tone.

Dr. Plantagenet’s tactful warning about keeping a distance flitted through his mind, but Archie shrugged it off in self-assurance. Yes, yes, rock trolls were nasty, violent, and brutish, but Og
was
half-human, as well. Besides, Archie trusted he could outsmart the big oaf if there was any trouble.

“What’s that you’re reading? Ah,
A Little Pretty Pocket-Book
by Mr. John Newbery. Jolly good! You know,” he said with the utmost tact, “I do find the pages sometimes stick together, such a bother. Perhaps I could lend a hand?” Cautiously, he bent down, reached out, and turned the page for the troll boy. “There you are. I’m Archie, by the way,” he said with a wide, reassuring smile, “how d’ye do?”

For a second, Og stared at the newly revealed picture of a bunny rabbit on the next page. Then the troll boy turned to him—not with gratitude, to Archie’s surprise, but with a glare.

Offended pride shone in Og’s deep-set, piggy eyes, followed by a low, belligerent
“Uuurgh.”

“Oh, dear,” Archie uttered mildly, drawing back.

Realizing his mistake, he shot to his feet and tried to back away. But alas, Archie’s reflexes were not as quick as his mind. And certainly not fast enough to escape a troll.

Or even a half-troll, as it turned out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lightriding 101

M
eanwhile, Jake and the five other kids who had been invited to attend the exclusive Lightriders session hung on their expert’s every word.

His name was Finnderool, and though the tall, princely wood elf didn’t smile much, as an experienced Lightrider, Jake found him terribly impressive.

“Now, then. The mysteries of the Worldwide Ley Line Grid are some of the most closely guarded secrets of the Order.”

Dressed in a gray velvet coat with intricate embroidery around the edges, Finnderool paced back and forth across the front of the room at a graceful glide, his long-fingered hands folded behind his back.

He had already warned them in stern tones that their presence here did not mean they were anywhere close to being officially chosen for the long and rigorous Lightrider training. They were all too young. But he admitted that the Elders had taken notice of them and each of them was under consideration.

Jake could hardly stand the excitement. Determined to make the cut someday, he absorbed Finnderool’s words like a sponge.

“Indeed,” the wood elf continued, “if you ever hear the ley lines discussed out there in the profane world, you are to scoff, as with most magical matters, and call it all bunk. Later in your lives, of course, if you are selected, you will have many advanced classes in esoteric subjects to build the foundation for your daily work as an agent in the field. Courses such as: Sacred Geometry, including both the Platonic and the Archimedean Solids, the Golden Mean and the Fibonacci sequence, with a whole term dedicated to the study of Mandalas.”

Staring, Jake wished he had some faint idea of what the chap was talking about. Sacred geometry? He’d never heard of it.

“In year two, you will learn the Seven Great Hermetic Principles in almost as much depth as the Magic-workers’ group must. Of course, you will also study all the usual subjects: mathematics, chemistry, including all the various types of aethers, and the principles of electromagnetism. A very important subject.

“How, now, why all these young faces full of dismay?” Finnderool remarked with a wry glance around at his captive audience. “You thought it was all swashbuckling adventures out there, didn’t you? Hardly. A Lightrider must have the mind of a scientist, the silver tongue of a diplomat, and the instincts of a warrior. But for now, my young, would-be heroes and heroines, today’s lesson is but a brief introduction to what the Grid is, as best we understand it so far, and a Lightrider’s role in interacting with it.

“After I’ve laid the groundwork, one of my colleagues will join us to discuss the everyday life of an agent in the field. If he ever gets here,” Finnderool added under his breath, glancing at the clock in disapproval. “So, let us begin.”

Jake leaned forward in his seat.

“As I trust you are well aware, boys and girls, the earth has two magnetic poles, the North Pole and the South. Electromagnetic energy continuously circulates between them, but it does not simply churn round and round from the top to the bottom of the planet and back again. No. Our dear Mother Earth is more complex than that.

“For reasons we still don’t understand, the circulating energy of our planet branches out into intricate geometric patterns and travels in straight lines over vast distances. As it spreads, it forms a grand, magnificent spiderweb of electromagnetic energy that covers the whole of the earth.

“Some view these lines as a kind of river system running through the planet, carrying subtle earth energies rather than water. Others say the ley lines are like the planet’s veins, flowing not with blood, but with Mother Earth’s own invisible life force. Our Chinese brethren refer to it as chi energy, the Indians as prana.

“Now, the ancient philosopher, Plato, was the first to theorize that as these energy lines spread out, they naturally form themselves into a gigantic geometric shape—a polygon, called an icosahedron.” He picked up a piece of chalk and started drawing one on the blackboard at the front of the lecture hall. “An icosahedron is made up of twenty identical triangles, with thirty edges and twelve vertices where the angles intersect.”

He completed his drawing, then pointed with the chalk. “And like the confluence of two mighty rivers, the energy flows that crash together in those spots can cause all sorts of wild cross-currents, like a whirlpool or a vortex. Which is why one of the first sayings we teach our Lightrider students is, ‘
Vortex at the vertex
.’ That way, they’ll always remember the dangers in such spots.

“You see, the concentration of energies at the vertices of the largest ley lines create mysterious places of intense power, complete with electromagnetic anomalies, such as ball lightning or compasses not working properly.

“Another example of this energy overflow would be manifestations of what
looks
like poltergeist activity, when no ghost is actually present. It’s all caused by energy. The electromagnetic fields in these areas are unstable, chaotic, even dangerous.

“One of the trickiest vertices we know of, for example, lies in the ocean off the island of Bermuda. History has lost count of all the ships that have sunk there since the days of Christopher Columbus. Storms pop up out of nowhere. Compasses start spinning. We’ve even lost a couple of Lightriders there over the years. Heaven only knows where they might have ended up…but I digress.”

Blimey,
thought Jake.

“I mentioned that the lines can span great distances.” He nodded, setting down his chalk to resume pacing. “This is true. And the longer they run, the more powerful they usually are. For example, the great Saint Michael Ley Line, which many of your parents stayed up all night at the Floralia to honor, runs across the width of southern England.

“The longest ley line ever recorded is called the Apollo line, stretching some 2,500 miles and ending at the ancient site of the Delphic oracle in Greece.

“That should not surprise you,” he added. “Even the least sensitive of human beings over the centuries have noticed the powerful effects around the vertices. Many cultures have built great structures on those spots to try to channel the energy there for their own uses, from prehistoric earthen mounds and megaliths to ancient pyramids and temples, Druidic henges, cathedrals, even capital cities.

“Suffice to say that if you find yourself in a place where you can feel a particular, indescribable energy in the air, you’re probably standing on a ley line. And if it’s really powerful, it could be an intersection of two of them.

“Now, if you would like to try to sense a ley line for yourself, boys and girls, here’s a tip. Because of their electromagnetic qualities, ley lines react on a daily rhythm to the energy of the sun. They are weakest at night, and the strongest time to feel them is just before sunrise. When the light starts flooding back in, it charges up the ley lines, and you can really feel the energy come roaring back. It can be pretty dramatic.”

Must try that,
thought Jake.

Finnderool took a sip of water and glanced again at the clock, looking slightly annoyed that there was still no sign of his colleague.

“Now, then,” the wood elf continued. “The Lightrider’s role. As you may or may not know, the ley lines have long been used as great energy highways for ethereal beings. In Ireland, for example, they are called the fairy paths. In the Orient, they are known as dragon lines. Other places call them spirit roads.

“Lightriders, then, are the chosen few who are authorized to travel nigh instantaneously through the Grid on the Order’s business. Basically it’s a form of teleportation.

“Within seconds, a Lightrider can travel from Stongehenge to the Great Pyramids of Giza, from Notre Dame Cathedral in France to the Taj Mahal in India, just to use a few, famous examples. Only a Lightrider has the ability and the authority to open up the portals or gateways into the Grid, and then, after being physically transmuted into the form of light, they can travel through it instantly, sending themselves like a message whisking through pneumatic tubes.”

For a long moment, the children were dead-silent, pondering this unimaginable mystery.

At length, a girl with braids raised her hand. “Does it hurt, sir, being changed into light?”

He smiled wryly. “No, I wouldn’t say it hurts. Tingles a bit, like when your foot falls asleep. Only, it’s your whole body. Very well, it stings. Certainly it’s disorienting, having all your molecules scrambled and put back together again in a few seconds’ time.”

“I should think so!” said another amazed boy.

“The new recruits usually get queasy on their first few jumps, but you get used to it. The ones who fare the worst are the VIPs a Lightrider is occasionally asked to escort through the Grid on some mission for the Order.”

“You mean, you don’t have to be a Lightrider to enter the Grid?” a bushy-haired boy in the next row asked.

Finnderool shook his golden head. “Lightriders can take along anyone they choose, though this is not done lightly. They often take Guardians with them, for example, when they need extra security on their assignments.
But,
here’s the key: nobody else can enter the Grid
without
a Lightrider. Those who’ve tried usually end up getting vaporized by the planet’s energy. This is one of Gaia’s own natural defense mechanisms. The Lightrider, being personally connected to the Grid, must be present—aha, speak of the devil! Here’s one now.” Finnderool turned toward the door as it opened and arched a brow, with a meaningful glance at the clock as if to say,
You’re late.

“Howdy, y’all.”

To the delight of all the kids, the expert chosen to speak to their group about the daily life of a Lightrider in the field was none other than the pincushion cowboy, sans arrows. He took off his ten-gallon hat as he stepped into the room and nodded warily to the group.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Finnderool, “allow me to present one of the Order’s finest, Mr. Josephus Munroe.”

“Call me Tex,” he said.

The wood elf ignored this improper request. “Mr. Munroe serves in President Grant’s division of the Order of the Yew Tree in America.”

Jake was startled to hear this. He had not even been aware they
had
magical creatures to contend with “across the Pond.”

Finnderool bowed, closing his portion of the presentation, then retreated to the side of the room.

Tex tossed his hat and bloodstained duster coat on a nearby chair, then sauntered to the front, sat on the desk, and asked, chewing a toothpick, “So what do you young’uns wanna know?”

The kids stared at him in surprise.

To be sure, Tex was no ordinary teacher. He propped his feet up on a wooden chair, putting his magnificent, though dusty, alligator boots on display. Jake wondered if he had caught the alligator himself. Probably so. He also wore a flannel shirt and an unusual type of trousers made of dark blue canvas, faded around the knees and reinforced here and there with metal rivets.

Some strange sort of American pants, Jake supposed as he studied him, happy to see that the rugged individual had survived his brush with death. No doubt thanks to the same magical doctors who had fixed
him
after his Assessment.

Since all the other kids seemed too shy or perhaps too confuzzled by the American to start, Jake raised his hand.

Tex nodded at him. “Son?”

“When you arrived yesterday, sir, how come all those Indians were chasing you?”

“Heh. Now thar’s a yarn worth a-tellin’…”

He proceeded to regale them with the tale of how he had been stalking something called a chupacabra through the deserts of the Southwest.

“But what’s a chupacabra, Mr. Munroe?” another boy asked immediately, barely pronouncing the word.

“Nasty little varmint,” Tex replied in his slow, deadpan drawl, still chewing on his toothpick, a glint of wild humor in his eyes so that nobody could tell if he was serious or joking. “Also known as a goatsucker. Preys on herds o’ whatever it can git. You’d think them Apaches woulda been grateful I was thar to catch the beast and remove it from their territory. Huh.”

“Sir, they could’ve killed you!” the girl with braids exclaimed.