Chapter 37

“Okay,” Ms. Shadow said. “Ready?”

Alastair sat across from her in the Scrying classroom late one January night. She’d locked the door in case any students came calling after hours. He’d invited Eloise and Sebastian to join as they tried to Scry into Craghammer, and both of them leaned against the table, watching.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Eloise asked, holding a flagon of hot tea against her chest for warmth. It was cold up here in the tower, and they hadn’t been able to cast any Warming spells, as it would interfere with Alastair’s advanced counter-wards—the ones that would hopefully keep the dwarves from being able to see them.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “On paper it does, but—”

“A lot of things work on paper,” Sebastian said, “just not in real life. Especially where magic is concerned.”

Alastair fought the urge to roll his eyes.

I know. I’m not one of your students, Sebastian.

In the spirit of unity, reconciliation, and getting the spell underway before they all froze to death, Alastair kept his mouth shut.

“Let’s do it.” He took a deep breath. “Eloise, can you—”

She snapped three times and the electric lights went dark. The only light in the room now came from a set of four red candles—one at each corner of the table—and they cast an eerie flickering glow on their faces. Ms. Shadow set a large shard of mirror down in front of her, then sat with her hands in her lap, looking pale.

“I’ll cast the counter-wards first,” Alastair said. “Then I’ll try to ward-break theirs. Ms. Shadow, when I think it’s safe for you to try Scrying in, I’ll let you know.”

She nodded, and he pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and started writing on the floor around them. In their raw form, the counter-wards were simple—standard spell built for humans. However, this would require tweaking them ninety degrees to work for dwarven magic. The seal words would need to be spoken in Dwarven rather than English—a language Alastair wasn’t proficient in. He’d practiced all afternoon, referencing Dwarven for Dummies more than a few times.

Once he’d made the chalk circle, he wove in all four threads of Elemental Magic, focusing on Water and Air—the elements dwarves were weakest in—to hold the braid together. He had to admit, the idea came from George and Caliban. In the end, their sneaking out of the castle might have wound up being the key to finding Montgomery.

The chalk outline glowed green with power as the wards settled into place, and Sebastian nodded approvingly.

Glad he likes it.

Alastair wondered if Sebastian realized where the plan had been birthed. He’d been so angry with the boys, Alastair wasn’t sure Sebastian even heard a word they’d said that night.

Once satisfied the spell would hold, he started weaving his next piece of magic. Again, he focused on Water and Air, though each element had its place. Once the spell was constructed, he focused north and threw it toward Craghammer, hoping he’d cast it hard enough not only to reach their kingdom, but to break through their shields.

In his mind, he soared through the skies, the air growing colder and more bitter every second. Finally, he saw dark shapes and knew instinctually the spell had traveled where he’d intended. A concussive blast hit him in the chest when his magical energy connected with the dwarven wards. He fought back an audible gasp, and pressed further in his mind.

After a minute or two, he could feel the spell settling in, eating away at the dwarven wards like acid. He guided it gently, moving it toward weak patches in the dwarves’ work, until, finally, he could sense a jagged space opening up as the wards unraveled. He wasn’t going to be able to break them down, not completely, but hopefully the hole was large enough for Ms. Shadow to penetrate.

“Go!” he hissed. “Quick! Before they notice!”

She leaped into gear, tracing invisible patterns on her mirror fragment. He wanted to watch—this was a type of Scrying he’d never seen before—but his full attention was required to keep the wards from restoring themselves and snapping shut. The dwarven magic roiled with anger, foul-tempered, and aggressive; practically with a mind of its own. It hammered away, fighting back at his ward-breaking spell.

“Anything?” he asked tersely, exhausted. “Do you see him?”

“Y—yes,” she gasped. “I do. He’s—oh, interesting—”

“What?”

“Oh, just a magic thing. Not important. Sorry. Focus.”

Alastair gritted his teeth and maintained his spellwork. The wards were gathering strength to push him away, and he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. He could already feel his strength waning.

“Ms. Shadow!” he barked.

“He’s alive. I can see him. He doesn’t look great, but he’s not dying or anything. They have him in—what looks like a throne room—he’s dressed in finery. Oh, he’s being forced to cast—oh, that’s not good. There’s a dwarf with an axe behind him.”

With a gush of powerful crashing wind, the wards closed and Alastair’s spell dissolved in a rush of power, blowing out the candles in the room as it fell apart. He sank into a chair, breathing hard.

“What was he being forced to cast?” he asked through labored breaths.

Ms. Shadow bit her lip. “Battle Magic. Madoc’s brother’s using him as a tool in this war they’re fighting. He can cast things dwarves can’t.”

That wasn’t good. That meant the dwarves were unlikely to give him up without a fight.

“Well,” Alastair said, “let’s focus on the positive. He’s alive and seems well. Looks like he’s being fed? ‘Dressed in finery’ sounds like a good sign.”

“How are we going to get him back?” Sebastian snapped, slamming his fists on the table and standing. “What—go to Craghammer and break him out? Send a squad?”

“Maybe,” Alastair said, leaning forward.

“We’re teachers, not soldiers,” Eloise said. “We’ll be killed.”

“Let’s—” Alastair’s head was swimming from the aftereffects of his spell. “Let’s just take a break for a second.”

“What do you propose we do?” Sebastian said, sounding almost hysterical. “As headmaster?”

“Sebastian!” Eloise shouted. “Sit down. Now that we’re done, I’ll cast a Warming spell.”

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She muttered a quick charm under her breath, and Sebastian sat, drumming his fingers on the table.

Alastair racked his brain. He genuinely had no idea what to do next. How could he have expected that his tenure as headmaster would include the need for a magical rescue operation?

“Um,” he said. “We’ll have a meeting with the faculty as soon as possible. Get their thoughts. Take a poll of the room. If we all discuss together, we can figure out what to do next.”

“We should get the government involved?” Eloise said so uncertainly, it came out like a question. “If this is—you know—a hostage situation—”

“Only mages can get him out of there,” Alastair said. “So, yeah, we can talk to them. We probably should. But they may tell us there’s nothing they can do about it.”

“And they’d be right,” Sebastian said bitterly.

Ms. Shadow stood and threw open the curtains. Her face was pale and wan in the moonlight. “I’m certain of one thing. It’s past two, and there’s nothing we can do about it right now.”

“She’s right,” Eloise agreed. “We should go to bed. Reconvene in the morning when we’re rested.”

“But—” Sebastian scratched his beard—which was now long and scraggly, “—Montgomery’s trapped in Craghammer. Every hour we don’t get him out is another hour he’s stuck there doing who-knows-what!”

“We can’t authorize any action without a faculty vote anyway,” Alastair said, feeling older and more tired than he’d ever been. “So we’ll have to leave it here. I can’t speak for the others, but I need to sleep before I collapse.”

Sebastian was clearly not pleased, but the others concurred and they all parted ways, drained mentally and physically. Alastair was glad he hadn’t been the one to actually see Montgomery at Craghammer, that Ms. Shadow had been the one to hold that weight. Maybe he’d feel differently if he had.

* * *

In a stroke of bad luck and inconvenient timing, the winter Dueling League match was scheduled for the beginning of February. Canceling it sounded risky—too likely to anger the wrong sorts of parents—so it once again fell to Sebastian to organize the rounds and figure out who’d be matched up. Meanwhile, the Houses trained as best they could.

Almost all of Primordium now attended Alastair’s Tuesday night dueling lessons. They were improving rapidly—even the third-years—and he had high hopes that they might be able to hold their own against an attacking Dark Mage or at least hold one off long enough to escape. The arcane rules of traditional magical dueling continued to elude him, though.

That’s all right. That’s what Sebastian’s for.

The man himself looked increasingly harried as the day grew closer.

“I’m not doing this again next year,” he muttered to Alastair over coffee in the dining hall one morning as he scribbled on the match sheets. “Give this job to someone else.”

Alastair sat back in his chair and took a leisurely sip. “Luckily, it won’t be my problem.”

“You sure about that?” Sebastian asked, looking upward with concern on his features.

No.

Alastair didn’t respond, just drank his coffee, and Sebastian went back to work.

“You think we can put George and Caliban against each other now?” he asked after a few more minutes poring over his brackets.

“I wouldn’t,” Alastair said. “Might be a liability.”