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  Marcus felt a lump rise in his throat. Parents. The man in the expensive black suit was telling him his parents had been looking for him all this time. They hadn’t abandoned him after all. “Where . . . are my parents?”

  The attorney opened his black portfolio and handed Marcus a 5x7 photograph. It showed a man and woman, in their early twenties Marcus guessed, holding a baby. Even though the baby couldn’t have been more than a few months old, Marcus recognized his own features on the infant’s face. His eyes lingered on the chubby little perfect arms and legs. Will my parents still love me when they learn I’m in a wheelchair? he wondered.

  “ . . . living in Boston for the last three years.”

  Marcus hadn’t been paying attention to the man’s words, but now he set the picture aside. “Boston?” he asked, leaning forward in his freshly-washed and repaired wheelchair. “Is that where I’m from? Boston?”

  “Actually, a small town a few miles south of there. For a long time after you were kidnapped, your parents were afraid to move from the house they were living in, just in case someone tried to contact them. It was only when everyone else had given up hope that they relented and moved into the city.”

  “Why aren’t they here?” Marcus asked.

  “They wanted to be, believe me,” Mr. Linstope said, closing his portfolio. “They would like nothing more than to take their son in their arms for the first time since he was a baby. Only, we have to be sure you are their son.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, a pained expression on his face. “There have been some . . . mistakes . . . in the past. Boys they thought were their son, only to have their hopes dashed.”

  Marcus felt his insides go cold. “You mean they might not be my parents?” He picked up the photograph again and studied the faces. The baby in the picture had to be him. It had to.

  Principal Teagarden glared at him from across his paper-strewn desk as though he suspected Marcus of trying to pull off some elaborate hoax.

  Mr. Linstrope tapped a manicured nail on the spine of his portfolio. “We can match fingerprints and such, of course. But that could take several days. And your mother and father are so eager to have you returned home—if you are the right boy.”

  “What about the picture?” Marcus asked, holding it up beside his face. “I look just like them. And you said yourself, the people who took me admitted doing this to my arm and leg.”

  “The similarities are uncanny,” agreed the attorney. “But there is one way we could find out for sure right now.”

  “What is it?” Marcus asked, leaning forward. “Whatever you need, just tell me. Anything.”

  Mr. Linstrope opened his portfolio again and flipped through the pages. He pulled a single sheet of paper from the stack. “The boy we are looking for has a unique mark of sorts.”

  Marcus felt the skin on his arms break out into tiny goose bumps. “What kind of mark?”

  “The police believe the band of thugs who abducted the child burned a rather unique mark upon the child.” Mr. Linstrope grimaced as if the thought pained him. “Who knows why people do such horrible things? But if you had such a brand on you, it would provide all the proof I need.”

  Mr. Linstrope held out the page, revealing an image Marcus had seen all his life—an image he could draw with his eyes closed. “Does this look familiar?” he asked, his eyes gleaming.

  Marcus sucked in his breath. Part of him wanted to admit he had the mark. After all the years of being alone, how would it feel to have a family to go home to? To have someone tuck you into bed at night and be there for you in the morning? To have someone tell you they loved you?

  But another part of him was thinking about his dream. Looking back on it, he tried to remember if it had been this man’s face after all. Sitting in the darkened room, he’d been sure. But now—under the bright lights of Principal Teagarden’s office—he wasn’t quite so confident.

  The features were similar to the face he’d imagined. But they were also different. And the scar was missing. He wasn’t even sure the figure in his dream had been human. Still, something about the attorney’s eyes made him very uncomfortable—they made him feel like he was being picked apart and put back together with some pieces missing.

  “Well?” Principal Teagarden spouted. “Do you have the mark or not? Speak up, boy.”

  Marcus barely heard him. He was studying Mr. Linstrope’s eyes, and something in them was setting off huge warning bells inside his head. The mark on his arm itched almost uncontrollably, and it was all he could do to keep from reaching up and putting his hand over it.

  Marcus shook his head. “I guess I’m not the right one.”

  Mr. Linstrope’s expression narrowed, and the corners of his lips rose ever so slightly, as if he knew Marcus was lying. “No? You’re sure there’s nothing on, say, one of your shoulders?”

  Looking into Mr. Linstrope’s eyes, Marcus suddenly found himself wanting to admit he had the mark. Tell him, whispered a voice inside his head. You can trust him. He’ll take you to your family. Marcus tried to shut the voice off, but it wouldn’t go away. He tried to pull his eyes from Mr. Linstrope’s dark gaze, but he couldn’t seem to turn.

  Show him. Show him. SHOW HIM! The voice drummed over and over in his mind. His hand was trying to reach up toward his shoulder, but he wouldn’t let it. It took every bit of his control to keep his fingers locked on the arm of his wheelchair. If only he could manage to look away, even for a second.

  “There!” Principal Teagarden shouted, and Marcus felt the grip on his mind release at once. Turning, Marcus realized that while his eyes had been locked on the attorney’s, the principal had come around from behind his desk. He was holding up Marcus’s right shirt sleeve.

  “The mark,” Principal Teagarden said. “It’s right here, just like the man said. It matches the drawing perfectly.”

  Marcus reached for his shirt to pull it back down, but it was too late. Mr. Linstrope was leering like a large, predatory beast.

  “It looks like we have our boy.”

  Chapter 10

  The All-Seeing Eye

  Kyja stood at the center of a whirling vortex of blue flame that danced and crackled about her entire body. Around her feet the white marble floor turned black and began to crack, while the air between herself and Master Therapass shimmered from the heat.

  “Do you feel anything?” the wizard asked, his ivory and silver wand held out before him.

  Kyja sighed and shook her head. Nothing at all. Not so much as a single bead of sweat.

  “Dragon droppings,” he said, lowering his wand. Immediately the flames disappeared. “I really thought we had something that time.” He waved his hand, and the floor returned to its former sparkling white beauty as the rug unrolled itself from the wall.

  Clinging to his perch on the bookshelf, Riph Raph’s big yellow eyes peeked out from behind his wings. “Is all that fire really necessary? It seems so . . . dangerous.”

  Lowering her head, Kyja dropped back into her chair. “Not to me. I could have ten tons of magic cow manure dropped on my head and I’d still walk away smelling like a rose. But I’m sure I’d be the one who’d have to scoop it up.”

  “Speaking of which, you need to get back home, or Mr. Goodnuff’s going to be very unhappy.” Master Therapass returned his wand to his robe pocket and sat across the table from Kyja.

  “Please,” she begged. “Just one more try. You said there was magic somewhere inside me. We just have to find it.”

  Master Therapass rubbed the top of his head. “Perhaps there is one more thing we could try today. But only for a minute. You have chores to do, and I have a meeting with High Lord Dinslith to attend to.”

  He glanced around the room as though searching for something. “Have I ever shown you my aptura discerna?”

  Kyja shook her head. “Your what?”

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, looking up toward the ceiling. “Come down here at once, you little imp.”

&n
bsp; To Kyja’s surprise, the small, stained-glass window near the top of the room slid down the wall, zoomed across the floor, and climbed up onto the table, where it lay flat, still reflecting sunlight up through its multicolored surface. Where it had been, the wall looked as solid as if no opening ever existed.

  “Aptura discerna,” the wizard said. “The all-seeing eye.” He tapped the center of the window with his wand, and the colors began to swirl and spin. Finally, the swirling subsided, and the window took on a pinkish hue—although light continued to glow up out of it.

  “Is it like a crystal ball?” Kyja asked, looking down into the window’s milky depths. She wondered if she was supposed to see something in it.

  “Not exactly.” Master Therapass placed his hands on either side of the window, his wrinkled face illuminated by its pink glow. “Most windows look out on the world. This window looks in. I sense that much of your unhappiness, little one, comes from your confusion about who you are and where you fit in. And I am to blame for most of that confusion. One day, I hope to be able to clear that up. In the meantime, if you could just gain a glimpse of what’s really inside

  you . . .”

  Kyja looked up into the wizard’s face uncertainly. She had no idea what he meant about taking the blame for her unhappiness. “If I can’t be affected by magic, how can this help me?”

  “Perhaps it won’t.” The old man blew into the window, and some of the haze seemed to clear away. “But unlike magic spells, potions, charms, and so forth, aptura discerna does not seek to change the person who looks into it. It merely explores the depths of whoever gazes into its surface and displays what it finds. Would you like to give it a try?”

  “Yes,” Kyja said at once, bending over the aptura discerna so her dark hair pooled to either side of the window. “How does it work?”

  Master Therapass leaned back in his chair. “First, you must give yourself over to the window.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kyja started.

  “Look into the window and remove the barriers between your inner self and your outer self. Break down the walls you have built up to protect you from hurt and disappointment. In order for aptura discerna to see clearly, you must abandon fear, anger, and resentment. You must set aside your jealousies and disappointments. And perhaps most difficult of all, you must discard all past hurts, whether real or perceived.”

  Kyja’s mind whirled at the wizard’s words. Her thoughts filled with the years of taunting and cruelty she’d been forced to endure—not only from the other children, but from adults as well. The nights she’d cried herself to sleep, knowing she was, and always would be, an outcast. Under her gaze, the mist in the window thickened and grew dark, going from pink to magenta, and finally turning a scarlet, blood red.

  Kyja felt her emotions grow darker with the colors in the window. How could she forget her hurts? How could she set aside the cruelties as if they were just an old pair of shoes? The wizard was asking too much of her.

  “I can’t,” she cried.

  “Try remembering the people who’ve been kind to you,” Master Therapass said, his words gentle and soothing.

  “People who’ve been kind,” Kyja repeated softly. She thought of the wizard himself. He’d found a home for her when she’d been discovered abandoned as a baby. He’d seen to it that she always had food and warm clothing. And even when she’d despaired of ever being normal, he’d provided a shoulder to cry on. Then there was Bella the cook, who always had a slice of buttered toast or a piece of cake for her when she came into the tower kitchen.

  Little by little, the aptura discerna began to clear. But then—like an uninvited guest—another memory rose in Kyja’s mind. She’d been no more than five or six at the time, playing with another girl about her age near the vendors’ carts while Mrs. Goodnuff shopped for vegetables. Kyja was offering her new friend one of her carved wooden dolls when the girl’s mother came running down the cobble-stone street, screaming at her daughter.

  “Tessa! Stay away from that girl. Don’t you know she’s diseased?”

  Skidding to a stop in front of a shocked Kyja, the woman had yanked at her daughter’s hand as if saving her from a rabid animal.

  “Don’t come anywhere near my daughter!” the woman shrieked, causing all the people nearby to turn and see what the commotion was about. “I’ve heard about you. It’s bad enough you have no magic. Don’t you dare infect my Tessa!”

  As one, the crowd edged away from Kyja, giving her hard glares, leaving her standing alone and terrified in the middle of the street, hot tears running down her cheeks.

  “Kindnesses,” Master Therapass urged, as the window began to darken again. Concentrating fiercely, Kyja managed to push the bad memory away.

  Instead, she thought of Farmer Hendrick Goodnuff and his wife, Altha, who were stern taskmasters, but who had provided her with a room and a way to earn a living. And their little boy Timton who called out, “Ky-Ky,” and wrapped his chubby arms around her waist whenever he saw her.

  She remembered Anthor, the weapons master, who always had a sweet word and a fresh pear for her. And how he fashioned a tiny, wooden sword for her to practice with when she came by his shop.

  Slowly the window began to clear again.

  Quickly she searched her mind for memories, cutting off the bad experiences before they could take hold. There was Lady Jintette, the tower prophetess, who always foretold the most unlikely but well- intentioned futures. And Jade, the seamstress, who showed her how to patch her robes so they looked almost new.

  “Now, remember the kindnesses you have done to others,” said the wizard, his voice soft and distant.

  Kindnesses she had done to others? Had she been kind to others, or had she been too caught up in her own misery to consider that others might have their own problems?

  For a moment the mist in the window started to thicken and turn red once more. Then she remembered Riph Raph. She’d found him injured by a catamount when she was seven or eight, and he only a few weeks old. She’d felt almost guided to the crevice in the rocks where the tiny skyte was hidden. She’d nursed him back to health, even though he pecked her and burned her fingers with his little fireballs at first.

  And Singale, the man who’d lost his right arm battling Rock Giants. She’d discovered him penniless outside the city gates one day. She’d given him some of her hard earned money and found him a job working in the kitchen.

  Then there was Char Everwood, the mother of two small children, whose husband Rhaidnan had gone off hunting and never returned. Kyja had knocked on their door and offered them leftovers from the Goodnuff’s garden. She’d tended the children until Char could get work spinning and sewing.

  Looking into the window, Kyja was startled to see that the images of the people weren’t just in her head. There were Char and her children fishing for golden-eyes in the Two Prong River, Char’s little girl giggling as she pulled in an especially big fish. And there was Singale, stealing a kiss from Bella when they thought no one was looking. Who knew that tough old Bella had a romantic streak?

  But what did any of this have to do with her? Kyja wondered. She thought the window was supposed to give her some insight into her soul—a glimpse of what kind of magic she might possess. But all she was seeing were people she’d known. She stared intently into the aptura discerna, hoping for some clue of spells or abilities.

  Suddenly the image in the window changed, from people she knew to a boy she’d never seen before—except his features were vaguely familiar, as if she’d glimpsed his face long ago, in a forgotten dream. He was sitting in a silvery cart of some kind with big, gray wheels, his eyes fixed on something out of sight. His clothing was odd, and what little of the room she could make out was strange and unfamiliar.

  As she watched, a skinny man with a length of cloth wrapped about his neck like a narrow scarf walked into view and pulled up the sleeve of the boy’s shirt. What Kyja saw there made her gasp in surprise. Standing out clearly on the b
oy’s arm was an image Kyja knew well. That exact same image was engraved on the amulet she wore about her neck—the amulet Master Therapass had given her for her eighth birthday.

  All at once, the boy seemed to wake from his trance. The view in the window shifted to show another man. Although he was dressed in the same type of clothing as the man with the scarf around his neck, Kyja knew at once he was not like the man or the boy. He was a monster in disguise.

  She knew something else as well. The man wanted the boy, and unless something happened soon, the boy didn’t have long to live.

  Without any warning the window went black, and Kyja looked up to find Master Therapass shaking her. His face had turned a deathly gray, and she realized with shock that his hands were trembling. He was saying something. But it took her a moment to comprehend his words.

  “Terrible danger,” he gasped, his eyes wide with fear. “They’ve found him. You could be next. You must go. Now!”

  Chapter 11

  Rhymes and Revelations

  Marcus had to escape. Is was either that or go with Mr. Linstrope—if that was really his name. And he didn’t like his chances with the so-called attorney once they left the school.

  “Hurry up, boy,” Principal Teagarden said, folding his bony arms across his chest.

  Marcus looked up from the well-used suitcase that he was packing with his few belongings and wished it was Mr. Allen standing behind him in the dormitory. Not that he thought the English teacher would have helped him escape the school, but at least Mr. Allen would have listened. Marcus could just imagine telling Principal Teagarden, “I saw a monster in my dream that had Mr. Linstrope’s eyes.” They’d cart him off to the home for hopelessly insane boys before the last word left his mouth. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Just a few more things.”

  “Well, snap to it,” the principal said, tapping his watch. “Mr. Linstrope is a busy man. He has a tight schedule to keep.”