Michael Scott - The Magician

“You hadn’t mastered fire the last time we met,” Nicholas said slowly. “If I recall, you had some little ability with it, but nothing like the power you demonstrated yesterday. Who trained you?”

“I spent some time in India, in the lost city of Ophir,” the count responded, glancing quickly at the Alchemyst. “They still remember you there. Did you know they erected a statue to you and Perenelle in the main square?”

“I didn’t. I promised Perenelle I’d take her back there someday,” Nicholas said wistfully. “But what has that got to do with your mastery of fire?”

“I met someone there…someone who trained me,” Saint-Germain said enigmatically. “Showed me how to use all the secret knowledge I’d gleaned from Prometheus…”

“Stolen,” Scathach corrected.

“Well, he stole it first,” Saint-Germain snapped.

Flamel’s hand hit the table with enough force to rattle the bottle of water. Only Scathach didn’t jump. “Enough!” he barked, and for an instant, the planes and angles of his face altered, cheekbones suddenly prominent, hinting at the skull beneath the flesh. His almost colorless eyes visibly darkened, turning gray, then brown and finally black. Resting his elbows on the table, he rubbed his face with the palms of both hands and took a deep shuddering breath. There was the faintest hint of mint in the air, but it was a sour bitter odor. “I’m sorry. That was inexcusable. I should not have raised my voice,” he said quietly into the shocked silence that followed. When he took his hands away from his face, his lips moved into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on the twins’ stunned faces. “You must forgive me. I’m tired now, so tired; I could sleep for a week. Continue, Francis, please. Who trained you?”

The Comte de Saint-Germain took a breath. “He told me…he said that I was never to speak his name aloud,” he finished in a rush.

Flamel placed his elbows on the table, wrapped the fingers of both hands together and rested his chin on his knotted fists. He stared at the musician, his face impassive. “Who was it?” he demanded firmly.

“I gave him my word,” Saint-Germain said miserably. “It was one of the conditions he imposed when he trained me. He said there was a power in words and that certain names set up vibrations both in this world and the Shadowrealms and attracted unwelcome attention.”

Scathach stepped forward and rested her hand lightly on the Alchemyst’s shoulder. “Nicholas, you know that is true. There are certain words that should never be spoken, names that should never be used. Old things. Undead things.”

Nicholas nodded. “If you gave this person your word, then you should not go back on it, of course. But tell me”-he paused, not looking at the count-“this mysterious person, how many hands did he have?”

Saint-Germain sat back suddenly, and the shocked expression on his face revealed the truth. “How did you know?” he whispered.

The Alchemyst’s mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. “In Spain, six hundred years ago, I met a one-handed man who taught me some of the secrets of the Codex. He too refused to speak his name aloud.” Flamel suddenly looked at Sophie, eyes wide and staring. “You have within you the Witch’s memories. If a name comes to you now-it would be better for all of us if you did not say it aloud.”

Sophie closed her mouth so quickly she bit the inside of her lip. She knew the name of the person Flamel and Saint-Germain were talking about. She also knew just who-and what-he was. And she had been just about to speak the name aloud.

Flamel turned back to Saint-Germain. “You know that Sophie’s powers have been Awakened. The Witch taught her the basics of the Magic of Air, and I am determined that both she and Josh be trained in all the elemental magics as quickly as possible. I know where there are masters of Earth and Water magic. Only yesterday, I was thinking we might have to go in search of one of the Elders associated with fire, Maui or Vulcan or even your old nemesis, Prometheus himself. Now I’m hoping that might not be necessary.” He paused for a breath. “Do you think you could you teach Sophie the Magic of Fire?”

Saint-Germain blinked in surprise. He folded his arms across his chest and looked from the girl to the Alchemyst and started to shake his head. “I’m not sure I could. I’m not even sure I should…”

Joan reached over and rested her right hand on the back of her husband’s arm. He turned to look at her and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her lips didn’t move, and yet everyone clearly heard her say, “Francis, you must do it.”

The count didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it…but is it wise?” he asked, serious.

“It is necessary,” she said simply.

“It’ll be a lot for her to take in…” He bowed to Sophie. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to talk about you as if you weren’t here.” He looked back at Nicholas and added doubtfully, “Sophie is still dealing with the Witch’s memories.”

“Not anymore. I attended to that.” Joan’s grip tightened on her husband’s arm. She turned her head to look at everyone sitting around the table, finally stopping at Sophie. “While Sophie slept, I spoke to her, helped her sort the memories, categorize them, separate her own thoughts from the Witch’s. I do not think they will trouble her so much now.”

Sophie was shocked. “You got into my head while I was asleep?”

Joan of Arc shook her head slightly. “I didn’t get into your mind…I simply talked to you, instructed you what to do and how to do it.”

“I saw you talking…,” Josh began, and then frowned. “But Sophie was sound asleep. She couldn’t hear you.”

“She heard me,” Joan said. She looked directly at Sophie and placed her left hand flat on the table. A crackling silver haze appeared on her fingertips, tiny speckles of light dancing from her flesh to bounce, like mercury droplets, across the table toward the girl’s hands, which were resting on the polished wood. As they approached, Sophie’s fingernails began to glow a muted silver, and then suddenly, the points of light wrapped around her fingers.

“You may be twin to Josh, but we are sisters, you and I. We are Silver. I know what it is like to hear voices inside my head; I know what it is like to see the impossible, to know the unknowable.” Joan looked first at Josh and then at the Alchemyst. “While Sophie slept, I spoke directly to her unconscious mind. I taught her how to control the Witch’s memories, how to ignore the voices, to shut out the images. I taught her how to protect herself.”

Sophie raised her head slowly, eyes wide with surprise. “That’s what’s different!” she said, both shocked and amazed. “I can’t hear the voices anymore.” She looked at her twin. “They started when the Witch poured her knowledge into me. There were thousands of them, shouting and whispering in languages I almost understood. It’s quiet now.”

“They’re still there,” Joan explained. “They will always be there. But now you will be able to call upon them when you need to, to use their knowledge. I also started the process of teaching you how to control your aura.”

“But how could you while she was asleep?” Josh pressed. He even found the thought of it incredibly disturbing.

“Only the conscious mind sleeps-the unconscious is always aware.”

“What do you mean, control my aura?” Sophie asked, confused. “I thought it was just this silver-colored electrical field around my body.”

Joan shrugged, an elegant movement of her shoulders. “Your aura is as powerful as your imagination. You can shape it, meld it, fashion it to your will.” She held out her left hand. “That’s how I can do this.” A metal glove from a suit of armor clicked into existence around her flesh. Each rivet was perfectly formed, and the back of the fingers was even dappled with rust. “Try it,” she suggested.