‘Ward stones?’
He thought of the strange, invisible barrier that enclosed the Hall, hiding it from the outside world. Could twelve Stewards riding in formation create a shield by carrying stones from the Hall?
‘The strength of the ward stones fades the further they get from the wall, but they have some power all the way to the banks of the Lea.’ The Remnants and the swarm of dogs driven back across the river … ‘All the Stewards’ magic comes from such artefacts. We use what remains, though artefacts of the old world are few, and we cannot remake or repair what breaks or is lost. There is no one left who remembers those skills.’ The Elder Steward smiled sadly, her eyes on the dead branches of the Tree. Then she looked back at Will. ‘But your power is different … It is part of you, in your blood.’
My blood. Those words still filled him with a sickening unease. It made him even more determined to do this, and even more frustrated that he couldn’t.
But there was one other time that he had seen magic. And it had not been an artefact; it had been raw power, summoned with the glitter of dangerous blue eyes.
‘James can do magic,’ he said, and that stopped her.
‘You’re right. But he is a Reborn. His knowledge is innate. Or perhaps Simon sat with him like this, with old books and rumours, not realising he was training a creature far more powerful than he was himself, taking a deadly chance with what he might unleash.’ She looked at Will, a long, steady look. ‘No Steward would train a Reborn.’
‘Why?’ said Will.
‘Out of fear that they would use their power for evil and not for good,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘And that they would become something that could not be either stopped or controlled.’
The idea of Simon training James made something twist in his stomach. Beginning his own training felt like following James, but starting years late. He wanted to catch up to him, even as the idea of James as a Reborn brought its own disturbing fascination.
‘The books in our libraries have crumbled, and been rewritten, and crumbled again. Nothing remains in the old language, which you might have been able to read. We have only snippets, in Arabic, in Ancient Greek, in Old French.’ The Elder Steward gestured for him to walk with her to the other side of the room, where she carried her candle to a stone table with two chairs. ‘Together, we will walk these ancient paths that have not been trodden in centuries. And today we begin here. In the place where magic once flowed, let magic come again.’
Will looked up at the dead Tree. It was so large that its branches stretched over them, like black cracks in the sky. It seemed like a testament to everything that he couldn’t do: a piece of the dead world that he couldn’t bring back to life. He had touched it and felt no spark in it, or in himself.
‘Ignore the Tree.’ The Elder Steward brought the candle forward and put it on the small table. ‘We begin where light already exists. With a flame.’ She sat at one end of the table and nodded for him to sit at the other.
Slowly, he sat. The candle lay between them, but he was still too aware of the spreading branches of the dead Tree overhead.
‘The power to stop the Dark King lies within you, Will,’ she said. ‘But you are right about James. If you want to fight the Dark King, you will have to first fight him.’
She was so certain, when he felt nothing but churning doubt. James hadn’t seemed to need anything more than concentration to make the air crackle. But if Will had magic, it lay beyond his reach.
What if I can’t? he thought. He remembered James with his hand outflung, the crate hanging in the air above him. What if I don’t have that power?
He drew in a breath. ‘How?’
‘With light,’ she said. ‘Look at the candle, and try to move the candle flame.’
He sat in front of the candle. It was smooth and cream-coloured, made of beeswax, not tallow. The flame was an upright lozenge, bright and steady. Will looked at it and thought, Move. Nothing happened, no matter how much he wanted it to. Once or twice, he felt a wild stab of hope. Did I do it? But the candle’s few shifts and flickers were due to air currents, not because of him.
‘As you did with the Tree Stone,’ said the Elder Steward, ‘reach beneath the surface. Look for a place deep inside.’
Deep inside. He kept his eyes on the candle flame, willing it to move. It was a foolish feeling, like trying to look more intensely out of his eyes, or tense up the back of his head.
He had failed to light the Tree. But this was just a single spark. A flame. He closed his eyes. He tried to picture the flame in his mind, to make it not just an image but a true embodiment of the flame. Distantly, he was aware that he was shaking. If he could just—