Mr. Watanabe raised a skeptical eyebrow and continued, glancing at Max’s knuckles and those of his classmates.
“Welcome to your first year of Strategy and Tactics.” He bowed to the class. “My name is Omi Watanabe, and I will be your instructor. So who can define strategy for me? Let’s discuss what it means to think ‘strategically.’”
Max tried to listen to Sarah’s response, but it was hard. His eye hurt and he was still angry from the fight. Several times, Mr. Watanabe singled him out to make sure he was paying attention. By the end of class, all he could remember was that the course would be divided into Strategy and Tactics. Max thought Strategy sounded boring—lots of principles and dry theories. Tactics assignments would be taken from the Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies, Volume One and sounded much more interesting.
As anxious as he was for the end of class, Max knew he wasn’t the only one to feel that way. Their section had Mystics next, and everyone seemed eager to see what it was all about. When the chimes finally sounded, the students hurried out in a chorus of excited chatter.
“I think Mystics will be my favorite,” commented Lucia. “I put out my fire in under a minute. The Recruiter said it was very good.”
Max nodded, impressed, while David gazed out a window on the stairwell, his backpack slung loosely over his shoulder. He began coughing as everyone clambered up to the second floor. Max put a hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” wheezed David, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Just taking it all in. Lots of stuff, you know.”
“No kidding,” muttered Max, floored by the accumulating homework. “I guess we’ll watch Lucia extinguish fires all period. She did it twice as fast as I did. How long did it take you?”
“I’m not sure,” said David. “I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember? How can you forget something like that?”
“My memory’s pretty bad sometimes. It’s got holes in it, I guess,” said David, walking on ahead. Max was following when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Jason Barrett bounding up the stairs.
“Hey, bud,” he called. “I heard about your—whoa! That’s a serious shiner!”
The Sixth Year boy stopped dead in his tracks to examine Max’s eye.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have turned my back on him,” said Max, feeling his ears burn. “I was stupid.”
Jason dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.
“Whatever,” he said. “That shiner’s a badge of honor! Heard you gave Mu?oz a whupping that he had coming! Everyone’s heard, I think!”
Max was mortified; the same thing had happened at his last school after several bullies began teasing him after his mother’s disappearance. Max had beaten them badly and had nearly been expelled. He studied the white scars that dotted his small, hard knuckles.
“Can you please not talk about it?” he asked quietly.
“What?” said Jason, his smile disappearing. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, but do you want me to say something to Mu?oz? It’s not fair for him to be picking on First Years. He’s had a whole year of training, and you guys just got here.”
“No—it’s okay,” said Max. “I can handle it.”
Jason took a step back and looked hard at Max.
“My kind of guy.” He grinned again, continuing up the stairs. “Keep ice on it!”
Max waved good-bye and poked his head into a classroom that made him forget all about his fight and Alex Mu?oz.
Hazel Boon stood in the middle of what appeared to be a large forest. She spoke to a silver-haired woman wearing a gray shawl while Max’s classmates wandered wide-eyed among the towering trees, exchanging whispers.
Looking closer, Max discovered that the room was not in fact a forest; its floor was of gray-green hardwood polished to a gleaming finish. With the exception of the doorway, each of the room’s eight walls was set with a carved stone fireplace. A number of large live trees were embedded in the floor at random intervals, their branches rising high toward a pitched ceiling supported by many beams. The walls were of the same gray-green wood as the floor and inlaid with a variety of silver markings and symbols.
Miss Boon caught Max lingering near the doorway and beckoned him farther in with an impatient gesture. Max joined his classmates as they took seats in wooden chairs on an enormous Persian rug at the room’s center.
“All right, students,” said Miss Boon, “before we begin, I want to introduce a very special guest. This is Annika Kraken, Chair of the Mystics Department.”
The old woman smiled kindly at the students and gave a polite bow as the children murmured hello.
“Instructor Kraken teaches only the Fifth and Sixth Years,” continued Miss Boon. “She will be joining us from time to time, however, and will receive your utmost respect and attention when she is here.”
“You’re in good hands, children,” uttered Instructor Kraken, nodding at the younger woman. “Miss Boon is one of the very best we’ve had in all my time.”
She said farewell and moved slowly to the door, closing it quietly behind her. Miss Boon cleared her throat and began pacing around the room.
“When each of you completed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials, you demonstrated a capacity for Mystics. Mystics can take many forms, but at its heart, it is the ability to channel and manipulate energy.
“Understand that Mystics is a highly individual discipline. No two among us are the same when it comes to our raw talents and our ability to access them. There are some Mystics who are able to draw upon tremendous stores of energy but inevitably waste much as they strive to harness and shape it. Conversely, there are some with considerably less ‘horsepower’ but who are able to utilize every last little bit. You will find that some branches of Mystics come naturally, while others are inaccessible to you. As your instructor, my goal is to help you understand your natural abilities and maximize your individual talents. Are there any questions?”
Lucia raised her hand.
“How do we know how much ‘horsepower’ we have?” she asked.
Miss Boon pinched her chin and nodded at the question.
“The Potentials test is one measure, but my research suggests it’s an imperfect one. Some who score well on that test turn out to be hopeless Mystics.”
Lucia looked hurt.
Connor raised his hand.
“Do we use wands or staves and stuff?” he asked.
Miss Boon smiled and shook her head.
“No, such tools are not necessary and can actually be dangerous,” she explained. “What’s more, they can only be made with Old Magic, and the greater ones are very, very rare. The temptations they offer are not healthy—most have been accounted for and destroyed.”
With a sudden flick of her wrist, Miss Boon ignited a lone torch on a far wall. Smoke from the torch streamed rapidly across the room and swirled about her hands as she spoke.
“No, Connor, the Mystic’s tools are their hands and the power of language. These are all that you will need to summon and shape the energies around you. This year, you will be learning the basic commands so that they become second nature.”
“Would you look at that?” breathed Connor, staring at a dark, churning copy of himself that the instructor had fashioned.
Max was speechless as the smoky figure waved good-bye to the class and walked into the nearest fireplace, disappearing up the chimney. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, Miss Boon extinguished the lit torch.
“To get you started on that path,” she said, eyeing them as they sat riveted, “I’d like you to form two single-file lines.”
Max quickly took a place in line.