Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) (22 page)

She lit her emblem. Once it had culminated, a cylinder of thick white light appeared between the two circles. It extended in a straight line past her shape and struck some kind of invisible barrier at the edge of the ring, as if it had hit a solid wall. It hurt my eyes to look at the beam.

“Why is it stopping?” I said.

“The ring,” she said. “It contain spell effects. It’s to protect others from your spells.”

The beam of light lasted several seconds, as if it took that long for the glow of my emblem to shoot through her emblem. Then both emblems turned to ash.

“So you see,” she said, “that I can modify the effects of your spells by drawing other shapes nearby.”

“That could get nasty.”

“Yes, it could. That’s what duels are all about. That’s what you saw earlier on the beach. Two entertainers draw shapes to try and modify the net effect of the spells in order to defeat the other entertainer.”

“How do you know how a shape will affect another spell?”

She shrugged. “Experience and learning.”

“The combinations seem endless.”

“The more spells you have, the more complicated it gets. Two spells have one effect. Add a third, and everything changes—each spell changes in relation to the other. So not only do you have to know how each spell affects another spell on an individual basis, but how they affect other spells in relation to other spells. The complications are exponential.”

I wasn’t certain I knew what that meant, but it sounded huge.

She gestured at where her sunburst spell had burned. “Take this spell, for example. Alone, without any other spells nearby, it absorbs light. With another of the same spell next to it, it shoots the absorbed light out and away.”

The sound of a door opening in the distance made us turn to look at the training room entrance. A handful of people filed into the room and headed past the first ring, toward us. They wore the Renaissance outfits I’d seen at the pool.

Marti sighed, shook her head, and placed her fists on her hips.

“Oh, dandy. Just what I’ve been hoping for. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

“Who are they?”

“Fundamentalist rappers.”

Chapter 38: A band mate gives me a chance

When he held up the Cask at the concert, I knew that soon he’d show up at Intersoc. Naturally, I wanted him to be a fundamentalist. All the coolest rock stars are.

-Brock Webster

The three men and three women didn’t particularly look like rappers. More like actors in a Shakespearian play. In fact, I had to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing an illusion.

The men wore colorful doublets, vests, and puffy striped pants that buckled just below their knees. They had long white socks that looked like women’s nylons, and bulbous hats with large feathers in them. The women looked no less absurd in their extravagant dresses with beaded necklaces, laced bodices, and shawls.

They walked toward us with chins high.

Marti moved to the edge of the ring. I followed.

“Don’t say anything,” she said. “Let me do the talking.”

“I’m a little tired of you saying that.”

“It’s just the way it is.”

“They’re rappers?” I whispered, pointing at them with my chin. “They look like idiots.”

“No, they’re musicians like everyone else around here—but snotty ones. They’re fundamentalists. They believe that we should dress and act the way they did back in the 1500s, back when magic was discovered.”

“They look like a costume closet vomited on them.”

Though the fundamentalist rappers stood three feet lower, they seemed to look down their noses at me as they approached and greeted us with frowns. The clothes and makeup—even on the men—almost distracted me, so I nearly missed seeing the same round-faced, feather-hatted man as I’d seen back at the patio. Who the heck was he?

We faced each other in silence for several seconds, until a woman in the front spoke with a sneer.

“You see, my friends,” the woman said, “when those Bamboozlers let a rat in off the street, other rats come.”

Marti snorted. “Lovely to see you, too, Louise.”

I stared at the woman more closely. It was Louise Rhode, the venerable star who’d had number-one pop albums in four consecutive decades. She had blonde hair, a sharp nose, and unusually young-looking skin.

“We just came to warn you and invite you,” Louise said, looking at me. “And only you.”

I looked at Marti, unsure if I should speak. Her expression gave me no hint.

Louise continued. “You’re not welcome at the Intersociety of Magical, Honorable Offerings unless you’re a true veteran of the entertainment industry—which you aren’t. So don’t get any ideas. Don’t think that just because you’re here you’ve arrived. You haven’t. Like so many others, you’ll probably be gone and forgotten by the end of the year.”

I blinked back my shock, but couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I have that problem often, as Mom loves to point out. For good effect, I clapped quietly, as if applauding a fine play.

“Oh, very nice—excellent performance. Was that Shakespeare?” I looked at Marti and nodded. “I think that was Shakespeare. King Lear, maybe?”

Emotions passed through Marti’s face. Worry, fear, anger, then pleasure. She smirked. “No. Hamlet, I think.”

“Ah,” I said, still clapping. “Hamlet! How de
light
ful!”

The fundamentalists glared at me.

“How offensive he is,” said one of the men in tights. He glanced at the round-faced man I recognized. “I think you must have mistaken his character.”

I looked at the man again, and it hit me who he was. Brock Webster. The guitarist in my band. Shock rippled through me—first that he was in Intersoc, second that he was dressed so ridiculously, and third that I hadn’t recognized him before. Blame it on his outfit and the fact that Mom had never let me say more than two words to him.

“Brock!” I said.

His face brightened. “Good to have you at Intersoc, Richie! Outstanding concert tonight.”

I smiled and began to speak, but Louise raised a gloved hand for silence. A little vial of orange brink dangled from a delicate chain wrapped around her wrist. In fact, little vials of brink hung all up the length of her arm. Perhaps six of them.

Her eyes burned into me. It didn’t hurt, though—I was used to that look from Mom.

“Don’t trifle with us,” she said. “We are not the people you want as enemies.”

I didn’t want to offend Brock, but Louise certainly deserved to be put in her place. I frowned at Marti and leaned close to her, but spoke loud enough for the others to hear.

“Did she say we weren’t her enemies? Because she came in here threatening us and calling us rats. Not to mention I can’t take them seriously in their cute little costumes.”

“Me neither,” Marti said.

“It’s like they’re little kids, playing dress—”

“Enough!” Louise said, and actually stomped one foot in rage. She gestured at Brock. “At Brock’s insistence, we came to issue a warning and an invitation, but we will no longer issue the invitation.”

Brock’s countenance fell. He looked down at his feet and shook his head in disappointment.

“It’s clear,” Louise said, “that you don’t yet deserve to be part of the movement—regardless of whose son you are. Maybe with time you can be humbled. Your father certainly has his work cut out for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said. “About my dad?”

Louise sniffed at me, raised her chin a little higher, and turned to walk away, followed by the others. Their high-heeled footsteps—even from the men—echoed from the ceiling. Not far away, Louise called back to us.

“We’ll be watching you. Beware!”

I began to clap again. “Oh—how quaint! She said ‘beware!’ Oh, lovely! Bravo! Excellent performance!”

Marti giggled and joined my clapping. “Encore! Encore!”

Our applause chased them all the way out of the warehouse. Only Brock ever looked back. He gave me a disappointed little wave.

“What do they mean about my dad?” I asked. “You mentioned him earlier, too.”

“I can’t really say.”

I glared at her.

“It’s your dad’s place to tell you. Not mine.”

I mimicked her voice. “Not mine. Not mine. Why can’t people just tell me what I want to know?” Her face soured and she started to answer, but I waved my hand and rolled my eyes, feeling petty for getting angry. “Sorry. Forget it. Are we really in danger from those fundamentalist rappers?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve sabotaged many newcomers to Intersoc.”

“Have they killed or maimed anyone?”

“Not that we know of. Not for certain, anyway.”

“As long as the odds are in my favor, I can handle the risk of a little maiming.”

“They tried pretty hard to get me ejected from Intersoc, but Grant fought for me.”

“What did you mean when you said they were rappers?”

“It gets pretty complicated, but there are a lot of different disciplines of magic. They used to have archaic names—which the fundamentalists have re-adopted—but that were replaced with names of different musical genres in recent years.”

“I don’t get it. Disciplines of magic?”

“Yeah, it’s like particular skill sets, or proficiencies, or branches of magic. There’s illusion magic, magic that affects inanimate objects, magic that affects a person’s mental state, magic that affects their emotional state. Lots of others.”

“So types of spells can be grouped into these categories, and each category is labeled as a musical genre?”

“Exactly. Stuff like classical, country, rap, grunge, heavy metal. It’s quite an extensive list.”

“And what are rappers good at?” I gestured at where our visitors had stood. “I mean, besides being idiots.”

“Illusion spells. They can’t really do anything substantial.” She motioned at the door. “We should get going. We’ve met the obligation the Council gave us. Let’s go get that multiplier.”

I looked at my watch. It was 2:30 a.m. At least, back in L.A. Who knew what time it was wherever I was in the Caribbean.

We descended from the ring and started back toward the door, our shoes noticeably quieter than the fundamentalist rappers’ shoes.

“Tell me,” I said, “what genre of magic are you most proficient at?”

“I’m not certain, yet. It’s not like it’s obvious what your proficiency is without casting a lot of different types of spells in a lot of different scenarios.”

“And what do you mean ‘more proficient’ at?”

“Remember how I said that the shape of the spell and the color of brink determine the strength of a spell?”

“And something else,” I said. “The brink is stronger for the person who generated the emotion.”

“Well, sure. Priority. But that’s rare. Since Casks are so rare, you’ll almost never have priority with brink. You’ll almost always have to buy brink from someone else—which is very expensive. Never, ever, ever, try to steal someone else’s brink.”

“Why not?”

“There are very strong traditions against it. A person’s brink is sacred. Taking another person’s brink is as low a thing as you can do.”

I frowned. Perhaps that was why Nick seemed so bent on making sure he shared the brink with me once he blew up my emotions.

Marti said, “The fact that Nick took your emotion is a pretty serious breach of etiquette.”

“Technically, I gave it to him.”

“Well, that was stupid. Anyway, we’re getting distracted. Focus, here. All of that is only part of what makes a strong spell—that’s all you can control regarding the strength of the spell. Your proficiency is a natural, built-in amplifier for certain types of spells. Certain types of spells are just more powerful for certain people. It takes time and experience to figure it out.”

We reached the edge of the room and returned our vials of blue brink to the cabinets. She retrieved her purse and put it over her shoulder. As we exited the warehouse, I started to ask her again about what the fundamentalist rappers had meant about my dad, but the words failed on my lips as I learned something of what it meant to be the enemy of fundamentalist rappers.

A man with a rapier lunged at me.

Chapter 39: I get skewered

My short and glorious life flashed before my eyes.

-Marti Walker

I didn’t have time to dodge. The man had just been standing in the hallway, sword ready, waiting to ambush us as we came out of the training room. As we did, he attacked with a shout.

Marti cried a warning and tried to push me out of the way, but the point of his sword entered me below my sternum. I tensed my body and shouted out in pain.

No pain came.

In fact, as the man finished his thrust, he disappeared with a “pop!” One moment his sword protruded from my chest, and the next he was simply gone, and ashes drifted downward where he’d stood.

Down the hallway, the group of fundamentalist rappers laughed.

“You see,” Louise called, “you’re in over your head! Do us all a favor and get your daddy to come defend you!”

By heart pounded. What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to live, for pity’s sake. What was I doing here?

I turned to Marti. “Just for the record, I’m not feeling particularly welcome.”

She glared at the fundamentalist rappers. “They’re like this with everyone new.”

“Who do you mean by ‘they?’ Because so far pretty much everyone seems to hate me.”

Earlier that night, I’d thought Intersoc might turn into a welcoming place for me. But it already seemed unlikely. Intersoc seemed more exclusive and cliquey than seventh grade, which was the last real social experience Mom had allowed me.

And I was starting to see why. People were real jerks.

Marti led me through the hallways until we came to the Archive. I asked if I could cast the spell to unlock the door, and she let me give it a shot—but not without significant coaching. I drew the shape of a keyhole, then a straight line through the keyhole. Using the lighter Nick had given me, I lit the emblem.

It worked. After a red flash, the door lock clicked.