scroll across the table. As he read the message, James thought the writing had a familiar quality to it . . . and then he knew why. Beneath the message in his distinct tightly scrolled writing, was the signature of Akil Karanis.
— 13 —
Mister Ammoncourt
August 1889, France
Six-year-old James turned the corner at full speed and barreled into his father’s legs, nearly knocking him over. Stuart and Margaret stood in the finely manicured gardens behind the large house. Stuart crouched to James’s level with a smile.
“What is it son? Shouldn’t you be with your instructor?” “I want to show you something,” he replied, excitedly. “James, you need to return to your lessons,” Margaret said.
James turned his gaze to his father, knowing he was the most lenient of the pair.
“Quickly,” Stuart said, looking reassuringly at Margaret. She let out a sigh but said nothing. The pair turned and watched as their son took several steps back.
James stopped at the end of the flagstone path and faced his parents with an excited smile. “Goratu,” James said, holding his arms out. The last several stones in the path lifted from their long-undisturbed positions and rose several inches into the air. Stuart laughed and clapped.
“Well done, boy,” Stuart said.
“I’m not done yet,” James replied.
“Well, then,” Stuart said, looking at his wife with a proud smile.
James moved his arms and the stones began to align themselves into a row. Once aligned, each stone rose slightly higher than the next until they formed a set of steps. James stepped up onto the first stone slowly. He moved to the second. As soon as his foot left the first, that stone moved up the line creating another step. James continued to climb. With every step, each successive stone moved to the front of the row. When he reached roughly fifteen vertical feet, James paused and looked down at his parents.
“Now watch this,” he said excitedly.
Without waiting for a response, James took off at full speed. The stones matched his rate of ascension as he ran up the floating staircase. In a matter of seconds, James had climbed higher than the roof of the house.
“My, God!” Stuart said, marveling at his son’s accomplishment.
James stopped and looked down upon at his parents. Even from more than sixty feet above them he could make out their proud smiles.
“James, come down now,” Margaret yelled.
Each stone except the one upon which James stood rotated then lowered creating a descending staircase. Slowly, James made his way back down to the garden.
“What do you think?” he asked, as the last stone settled into its place along the path.
“Very impressive,” Stuart said. “When did you learn that?”
“Just now.”
Stuart and Margaret exchanged glances.
“Run along,” Margaret said. “You don’t want to keep Mr. Ammoncourt waiting.”
James took off at the same breakneck speed at which he had arrived, making his way excitedly around the house. Stuart and Margaret looked at each other and laughed. Stuart took her hands and pulled her close. There was an energy between them neither had felt since shortly after James was born. Margaret ran her hand over the stubble on Stuart’s cheek. He leaned in and kissed her, pulling her close, his body touching hers.
“Ahem,” a voice said from behind them.
The pair turned, giggling like school children, to see a very old man. Hunched over an ornate wooden cane, he looked at them through spectacles thicker than windowpanes. What hair the old man had left turned white long ago. The sweat on his brow and his labored breathing indicated he hadn’t stumbled upon them during a leisurely stroll.
“Mr. Ammoncourt,” Margaret said, “what can we do for you?”
“Your son is quite gifted. I wonder why you won’t send him off to school.”
“We prefer to teach him ourselves,” Margaret immediately replied.
“A sorcerer of his potential should learn from the best.”
“As is our
— 13 —
Mister Ammoncourt
August 1889, France
Six-year-old James turned the corner at full speed and barreled into his father’s legs, nearly knocking him over. Stuart and Margaret stood in the finely manicured gardens behind the large house. Stuart crouched to James’s level with a smile.
“What is it son? Shouldn’t you be with your instructor?” “I want to show you something,” he replied, excitedly. “James, you need to return to your lessons,” Margaret said.
James turned his gaze to his father, knowing he was the most lenient of the pair.
“Quickly,” Stuart said, looking reassuringly at Margaret. She let out a sigh but said nothing. The pair turned and watched as their son took several steps back.
James stopped at the end of the flagstone path and faced his parents with an excited smile. “Goratu,” James said, holding his arms out. The last several stones in the path lifted from their long-undisturbed positions and rose several inches into the air. Stuart laughed and clapped.
“Well done, boy,” Stuart said.
“I’m not done yet,” James replied.
“Well, then,” Stuart said, looking at his wife with a proud smile.
James moved his arms and the stones began to align themselves into a row. Once aligned, each stone rose slightly higher than the next until they formed a set of steps. James stepped up onto the first stone slowly. He moved to the second. As soon as his foot left the first, that stone moved up the line creating another step. James continued to climb. With every step, each successive stone moved to the front of the row. When he reached roughly fifteen vertical feet, James paused and looked down at his parents.
“Now watch this,” he said excitedly.
Without waiting for a response, James took off at full speed. The stones matched his rate of ascension as he ran up the floating staircase. In a matter of seconds, James had climbed higher than the roof of the house.
“My, God!” Stuart said, marveling at his son’s accomplishment.
James stopped and looked down upon at his parents. Even from more than sixty feet above them he could make out their proud smiles.
“James, come down now,” Margaret yelled.
Each stone except the one upon which James stood rotated then lowered creating a descending staircase. Slowly, James made his way back down to the garden.
“What do you think?” he asked, as the last stone settled into its place along the path.
“Very impressive,” Stuart said. “When did you learn that?”
“Just now.”
Stuart and Margaret exchanged glances.
“Run along,” Margaret said. “You don’t want to keep Mr. Ammoncourt waiting.”
James took off at the same breakneck speed at which he had arrived, making his way excitedly around the house. Stuart and Margaret looked at each other and laughed. Stuart took her hands and pulled her close. There was an energy between them neither had felt since shortly after James was born. Margaret ran her hand over the stubble on Stuart’s cheek. He leaned in and kissed her, pulling her close, his body touching hers.
“Ahem,” a voice said from behind them.
The pair turned, giggling like school children, to see a very old man. Hunched over an ornate wooden cane, he looked at them through spectacles thicker than windowpanes. What hair the old man had left turned white long ago. The sweat on his brow and his labored breathing indicated he hadn’t stumbled upon them during a leisurely stroll.
“Mr. Ammoncourt,” Margaret said, “what can we do for you?”
“Your son is quite gifted. I wonder why you won’t send him off to school.”
“We prefer to teach him ourselves,” Margaret immediately replied.
“A sorcerer of his potential should learn from the best.”
“As is our
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