“Our lawyer …” Antigone looked back over her shoulder. Horace was gone.
“If I may,” the thin man continued. “The Order would like to suggest the achievement of Explorer for inheritance, and the …”
The boy behind the table shook his head. Whispers raced through the crowd as they strained to see.
“The Order would like to suggest the achievement of Journeyman, and the successful …”
The boy shook his head.
“The community would like to suggest the achievement of Journeyman?” The thin man’s voice hooked up nervously.
The crowd waited. Rupert Greeves waited. Cyrus and Antigone, unsure of what they were waiting for, waited.
The boy at the table pursed his lips. For the first time, he looked at Cyrus, and then at Antigone. He nodded and dropped his eyes.
Chatter climbed the walls.
“Seal the records!” Rupert bellowed. “The estate of William Skelton, Keeper in the Order of Brendan, is declared dormant!”
Two men moved forward out of the crowd and closed the lid on Skelton’s coffin.
“A final thought!” the thin man shouted, and the noise in the enormous room died. The boy looked up from the hay-bale book, where he had been writing. “According to Mr. Lawney’s Acolyte filings, the oath — declared and assented to — was the Latin variation, last used by mandate on this continent in the year 1914. The Order would like to suggest that the Acolyte requirements correspond to the oath. Let the achievement of Journeyman be established according to the standards of that year.”
Gasps of surprise were swallowed by laughter.
“That’s ridiculous.” Rupert Greeves shook his head. “Even for you, Cecil.”
All eyes turned to the boy at the table. He shrugged, nodded, scribbled something in the enormous book, and rose. Turning his back, he walked toward a small door in the wall behind him.
Cyrus stood, surrounded by a wash of surprised voices while he watched the strange boy leave. He was hungry, he still had Horace’s blood all over him, his throat was still phlegm-full of last night’s smoke, and his feet ached. That much he knew. But he had no idea what had just happened.
“Cy,” Antigone said. “I don’t think that was good.”
Before Cyrus could answer, the thin man stepped in front of them, clutching a folder, smiling, and scratching his mustache with a long finger. “Children,” he said, nodding. “Lovely to meet you both. My name is Cecil T. Rhodes, and no, that wasn’t good. At least not for you.”
Cyrus glared at him. The man had a face like a mustached rabbit. “I don’t like you,” Cyrus said. “And I don’t think I ever will.”
“Ha,” said Cecil. “Amusing.”
The big, bearded man thumped on his lectern. “Rhodes, step back. Initiates!” His voice filled the crowded hall. “Approach the Book and place your hands upon the table.”
Looking over his shoulder at the crowd, Cyrus moved cautiously forward. Most of the faces were smiling. But they weren’t all happy, supportive smiles. Smirks. Giggles. Whispers. He knew the tone. He felt like he was being called forward in class after he’d fallen asleep and drooled on his desk.
Antigone’s hands were already palms-down on the table, and she was studying the huge book. Cyrus made fists and pressed his knuckles against the smooth, waxy wood.
Rupert Greeves moved away from his lectern and stood behind the table, looming tall across from them.
“Kneel.”
Antigone dropped quickly. Cyrus eased his knees down carefully onto the cool stone.
Greeves cleared his throat. “Do you renounce evil and all the powers of wickedness in this world and others?”
Cyrus glanced at his sister. “Yes?” they both said quietly.
Greeves leaned over the table. “I do renounce them,” he whispered.
“I do renounce them,” they said, almost in unison.
“Do you renounce all dark knowledge and sorceries which corrupt the body and destroy the soul?”
“I do renounce them,” Antigone said.
“Yes,” said Cyrus. “I mean, I do renounce them.”
“Do you renounce all vile incantations, demonic snares, and dark communications with the dead?”
“I do renounce them.” Cyrus twitched a smile at his sister. He’d nailed it that time. But what exactly were they worried he might do? Dark communications with the dead? How did you even try something like that? Suddenly, he could feel the weight of the key ring between and beneath his collarbones and his smile was gone. The room seemed colder. He tried to breathe slowly. With one quick pulse, nervousness had tightened his chest.
“Will you tread the world and tend the wilds? When the world whispers her secrets, will you keep them? Will you protect the weak and face your own end without fear?”
Cyrus swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
“I will,” said Antigone.
“Do you now honor and bind unto yourself the strength of heaven, the light of sun, the radiance of moon, the splendor of fire, the speed of lightning, the swiftness of wind, the firmness of earth, the will of stone?” Greeves leaned forward again. “I do honor and bind,” he whispered.
“I do honor and bind,” they said.
Rupert Greeves looked up at the crowd. “Do the assembled receive these among them, a brother and a sister to Brendan?”
A few laughed. Many muttered. But a cluster of loud voices announced their agreement.
“We do receive them.”
Rupert Greeves nodded at Cyrus and Antigone, and they both quickly stood. Leaning across the table, Greeves gripped their shoulders. He spoke, and as he did, his dark eyes met Cyrus’s. His accented voice softened. “May you be shielded from poison, from burning, from drowning, from wounding, from betrayal, from the rage of seas, the anger of mountains, and the plottings of men. May you be a strength to the Order, and the Order a strength to you.” He turned to Antigone. “Miss Antigone Smith, Acolyte in the Order of Brendan, congratulations. Would you please sign the book?”
Greeves picked up a battered quill, dipped it in ink, and handed it to Antigone. Then, heaving pounds of dusty pages to one side, he found the appropriate place and set his finger above it.
Cyrus watched his sister sign her name in blobby ink, and then Rupert Greeves took back the quill and blotted her signature. The big man’s pointed beard swung up, and his eyes were back on Cyrus. He redipped the quill. “Mr. Cyrus Smith, Acolyte in the Order of Brendan, congratulations. Would you please sign beneath your sister?”
While the crowd began to disperse behind him, Cyrus bent over the book, and the smell of dusty leather and ancient pages rose up to meet him. The paper was beyond yellow, aged to brown. He was signing in a long column of names, and all of their owners had better handwriting than he did. Biting his lip, he scratched his name as neatly as he could, but the lines thickened and bulged as he went. When he finished Lawrence, he began to breathe. And then he left out the “i” in Smith. Smth.
Greeves reached for the pen.
“Darn it,” Cyrus said. “Hold on a sec.” It was too tight to squeeze the letter in, but he added a large dot — more like a raindrop of ink. Straightening, he stared at what he’d done.
Smiling, Rupert took the pen and blotted the ink. “Come on, then. I’ll show you each to your Acolyte quarters.” Closing the book, he glanced up. The thin lawyer slid up beside Cyrus.
“The Polygon,” said Cecil Rhodes. He giggled and then grew suddenly serious. “Show them to the Polygon, Mr. Greeves. The standards of 1914 have been applied. Don’t go and disqualify them so soon.”
Laughing, he hurried away.