Bonemaker

Chapter Three, Part Two

*****

Otrang's first thought, when the boy burst into the classroom clad in a filthy undertunic and several liters of sweat, was that, oh gods, it had finally happened. He'd known there was always a chance of it--young men like Morda, bright and proud, had gone madder far sooner, and under less pressure. Everybody had a breaking point, after all. Otrang could hardly blame the lad if his had been the robes.

On the other hand--he wasn't wearing the new robes.

He took his usual chair in the lecture hall without gibbering or crowing about seeing the future, and he didn't look at all confused about where his globes went, or how they were positioned. If this was madness, Otrang thought, it was a rather benign form, and seemed to be helping his temperament, for the boy was smiling.

"Morda's not dressed for class," piped up Wentworth, taking up his customary position by the disciplinary slate. "Can I go ahead and make a mark, Master Otrang?"

"I don't think that's necessary, Wentworth," Otrang said, watching Morda set out his things.

Why was he smiling? The last thing he'd expected was to see the boy smiling this morning.

"You'd mark one of us," one of the girls in the back said. "What's he? Special?"

"Special mentally," one of the other children said. There were giggles.

Morda ignored them. When his globes were all arranged on the table, he raised his hand.

"Yes, Morda?" Otrang said, rushing over with almost undignified speed. "I wanted to say, boy. If there's anything you need to talk to me about--anything you'd feel better discussing in private--"

"I wanted to do a spell for you," Morda said. 'I learned some new ones last night."

"Did you?" Otrang found it very uncomfortable, looking into the boy's shining dark eyes. "That's wonderful, Morda. But I must remind you--as impressed as I am by independent study, your assignment was--"

"I can do that, too," Morda said smoothly, interrupting him. Otrang should have marked him up for interrupting, but he found himself once again unwilling. Something very strange was afoot here. Afterward, he would have to speak to Lawlee about it in private.

"See?" Morda said.

Otrang looked down at the globes and came very close to jumping out of his skin.

They were spinning. All of them. Perfectly aligned, perfectly positioned. The boy hadn't made a move or said a word.

"Stop that," Otrang said. "Boy, I am ordering you. Stop that right now."

The globes stopped, dropped back to the velvet. Once again, the boy hadn't said a word. He looked up at Otrang, the smile wiped from his face.

Otrang put a pudgy hand over his chest, as though touching it might still the frantic pounding of his heart.

"Gods," Otrang murmured, staring at the globes at though the answer would be contained there. "How did you do that? Or--and I say this quietly, for you should know I understand that you have your pride--did your sister help you? Did she remote-cast? If she did, just nod. The other children don't need to know."

"It was me," Morda said. One of the globes, the water globe, trembled faintly. Otrang watched the water slosh around inside.

"I can do more," Morda said. "Much more. I just had to focus on the thing itself, and not the gestures or the incantations. Funny, how I never thought to try that before."

"Why would you have?" Otrang said, voice dry. "We don't teach that it can be done. I would have said--I would have said it can't be done. It's certainly very unsafe. The incantations--"

"Are a safeguard as well as an aid, I know, I know." Morda lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "But Master. I can perform Krainer. All five principles. Flawlessly."

"Flawlessly," Master Otrang said, "save for the fact that you aren't doing it in any way known to magekind." He looked down at the water globe--was the water inside boiling? Little bubbles were rising to the top. But heating matter was difficult, the sort of job that required a lot of theory work, a lot of displaced energy. Certainly he wasn't just doing it by thinking about it.

Or, he realized, looking at the boy's crestfallen face. Or--by not thinking about it.

Which was terrifying, frankly.

This was best nipped in the bud.

"You have a gift, Morda," Otrang said heavily. "This I won't deny--a strange and wonderful gift. And it pleases me, that you've at last discovered it."

"But I need to toe the line," Morda spat. "Right? I need to just keep failing and failing, like I've been doing. Will that make you more comfortable, Master? Having me on your string of nonsense syllables like a pet?"

"It's not about making me comfortable," Otrang said. "Where'd you hear a thing like that, boy? It's about safety." He debated the globe, which was now positively bubbling. "Look. Look down at your water globe. Are you doing that on purpose? Magic shouldn't be a part of us, Morda. It's something we do. Something we make. When you get all entangled in your own creations, you lose a part of yourself."

He observed the other children, out of the corner of his eye. They had clustered around, as close as they dared. They looked frightened. Of course they did. What in their lives had prepared them for this? What, for that matter, had prepared him?

Well. He had dealt with a student like this, some years ago. He drew a deep breath. Best to deal with it the same way he had dealt with it then.

"Morda," he said, as calmly as he could. "Get ahold of yourself. What you're doing is dangerous, to yourself as well as to me and the other children. I'm glad you've found your skill--and now, perhaps, because you know you can do these things, you can incorporate it into your chants and your motions. But I must insist that you chant and you gesture, just like everyone else. If you cannot--if you refuse--you will no longer have a place in the Changer Clan. Do you understand me?"

The boy's face was terrible to behold. Dark, twisted, its bronze youthfulness turned haggard. As Otrang watched, the boy's lip twisted.

He knew, suddenly, that this student of his would never forgive him.

Morda raised a hand. Otrang prayed, fervently, that the next word out of his mouth was going to be 'yes', followed by 'Master'.

It was not.

"Krainer Incantation," Morda whispered, his voice shrouded in hate. "Beginning with Kolpen. Androsinne."

He gripped Otrang's arm.

Otrang shouted, tried to pull away, but it was too late. It was far, far too late.

"Boy," he began.

There was a moment of pure pain. Otrang didn't know what pure pain was--he had never even broken a finger--but it was impossible to deny, and all consuming, and.

And then.

The last thing he saw was the boy's face. The thing in Morda's eyes was very close to terror--but, Otrang suspected, terror nowhere near as complete as that which now proceeded him into the darkness.

Otrang had no last thoughts. It was over far too quickly.