The next morning before breakfast, Ishmael was summoned to see Head Master. With dread in the pit of his belly, he walked across the Great Courtyard to Head Master’s rooms and tapped at a plain wooden door.
“Come in,” Head Master said.
The room was simply furnished but for a curious thing on a side table: a miniature circular track mounted on a base, with pulleys, ramps, and a pendulum swinging from a column. Ishmael’s gaze followed the track around as it rose and dipped. At one point, the track stopped. Several thin slabs of stone stood upright, followed by a reservoir of gravel hanging over a small cup. A short distance from that, the track continued again, leading to a wheel mounted on a column. A small, polished ball waited in a dimple at the top of the track. Each part of the machine was colored in the most brilliant, beautiful colors, one flowing into the next in such a skillful way that Ishmael couldn’t tell where one color stopped and another began.
“I see you are interested in my machine.” Head Master smiled.
“What does it do?”
Head Master rose from his seat and nudged the ball out of its resting place. It swooped and dipped along the track, gaining momentum as it sped on its way. It hit the stone slabs and knocked them over, which triggered a mechanism that drained the gravel from its reservoir. The gravel filled the cup, the weight of which tipped the ball back onto the track. The ball rose up the wheel and landed exactly where it started.
“Fascinating, eh?”
Ishmael marveled at it. “Yes.”
“Although the ball ends up back where it began, the circumstances around it have changed.” He pointed to the slabs of stone knocked over, and the gravel in the cup. “It makes one think, doesn’t it? But I didn’t ask you to come here to talk about my little machine. Please sit.”
Ishmael took a seat opposite Head Master.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because I ruined the posticum?”
Head Master chuckled. “No, my dear boy. You have not ruined the posticum by any means. You are here because I want you to consider a question.” He leaned forward, putting the tips of his fingers together. “It’s an important question, one which we sometimes neglect in our daily duties.”
Ishmael waited, hands folded.
“What is it that you want?”
Ishmael hadn’t expected that. After a minute, he said, “I want to do the right things. I want to change all the wrong things I’ve done.”
“All? Even the ones that have led to good?”
Ishmael couldn’t see any good that had come of his actions. He came to bring Luc home with him, but that hadn’t happened. He tried to help Luc with his posticum, but it shut without him. He worked so Luc would win the Jubilee posticum, but instead, he himself ended up winning. As for the posticum itself, well, nothing had gone as he would have liked. “Has anything led to good?”
“Oh, yes. You have done much, much good. But I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’m going to let you discover that for yourself.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to. I’ve failed at everything I’ve tried to do since I’ve come here.”
Head Master considered this; then he turned to the machine on his table. “I made this machine while I was an apprentice here. Do you know how many times I had to rework it?”
Ishmael couldn’t imagine Head Master as an apprentice.
“Two-hundred sixty-three times.” Head Master smiled at the memory. “Each time I failed, I learned another bit of information that helped me on my next try. What some call a mistake or a failure is merely a stepping stone to what comes next.”
“But—”
Head Master held up his index finger. “You cannot change the past. You can only move forward. So move forward with the knowledge you have gained. See what comes next.”
His words disappointed Ishmael. “I don’t think I can. I’m stuck—there are so many trees, and now the mixed color is soaking into the trees. I’m afraid that’s all there will be.”
Head Master nodded slowly. “And you wanted all of the colors in the posticum.” Head Master smiled. “The mixture is only one manifestation of the colors. Where else are all the colors found?”
Ishmael paused. “In light.” The first law of color: All color is contained in pure light. If a beam of light is cast through a prism, the colors, which had been hidden, reveal themselves. “But how does that change anything?” Ishmael asked.
“You’ll figure that out,” he said. “Do your work without worry.”
Ishmael paused at the door. “Head Master, how do you know about color?”
His eyes twinkled. “I studied color once upon a time, too.”
“But you said you made that machine. I thought you were in Manufactory.”
“Apprentices who have multiple abilities are rare, but there are a few of us, and those few usually end up doing uncommon things.” Head Master winked at Ishmael, then dismissed him.
“Luc, son of James and Talia, you stand before the tribunal to be judged.” Head Master sat at the front of Wright Hall on the raised platform, a small table in front of him. The seven Hall masters flanked Head Master, with four seated on his right side and three on his left. Luc stood below, alone, in the center of the floor. Ishmael was surprised to find Phoebe in the front section when he arrived. He sat with her, both of their faces somber. Michael was also there.
“What are you doing here?” Ishmael whispered to Phoebe.
“Witness.”
Before Ishmael could say more, Head Master read from a parchment in his hand. “Your charges are as follows: You have sabotaged the work of the Hall of Hue in this Jubilee posticum. You have broken the oath and duty of a color keeper. You are accused of influencing novices in the Hall of Hue to do likewise.”
Head Master continued, “You are accused of deceit, for having led Phoebe, a novice in the Hall of Sound, down a path that would prove disastrous for the Hall of Hue.”
Ishmael faced Phoebe, his eyes widened in silent surprise.
She nodded.
“In addition to the charges relating directly to the Hall of Hue, you stand accused of having vandalized the Cairns.”
Head Master looked over the parchment to Luc, perhaps hoping to see some remorse for his actions. There was none. “What say you to these charges?”
Luc smiled. “What would you like me to say?”
“What is your plea? Are you guilty or not?”
“Yes, I’ve done all these things. But I feel no guilt for what I’ve done.”
Head Master’s eyebrows puckered. “Is your breach of faith so deep that you have no shame for your actions?”
Luc stood straight and tall. “Why should I feel shame? You told me I needed to put my mark on this posticum.”
“You were meant to put your mark on this posticum within the boundaries that have been set by the Hall of Hue. You stepped outside of those boundaries. You daily spoke the oath and duty of a color keeper, in which you promised to honor each individual color and its place in the spectrum. You committed to uphold the laws of the Commons and seek harmony in the use of your skills. Your actions have not been in accordance with your commitment. There are consequences to such acts.” Head Master’s voice lowered even more, pleading with Luc. “I give you one more chance. Do you have any remorse for your actions?”
Luc hesitated, but only for a split second. “No.”
“Then you are no longer welcome here. I hereby banish you from the Commons and its immediate environs. I strip you of your title of color keeper, and forbid the usage of a prism. You are to leave immediately, returning from whence you came.” Head Master rapped a gavel on the table in front of him. “Color Master, please escort him out.”
Before Color Master could descend, Luc was gone.
THE STONES
The stones knew things when no one else did. They sensed the cycle of creativity and work and rest. They felt the apprentices from the Halls pass through their portals. They noted the shape and the size of the apprentices, the way they walked, the things they carried, the things they said, the things they left unsaid. They could tell a lot about an apprentice by the way he or she stepped through the posticum. Some never lost their sense of wonder. Others, like this one, walked through with a sense of entitlement.
They recognized him immediately. He was meant to go home with his brother. Why was he still here?
Luc put his hand on the stone wall, patting it like an old friend. The stones read the lines and whorls written upon his hand and recoiled. His history was mixed, but the lines were dark now, so very dark. As they read, they saw that he had never intended to go home. What’s worse, he had betrayed his brother. The stones shivered.
They would have closed up the posticum right then without a second thought in order to protect the betrayed one, if it hadn’t been for the threshold stone, that pesky outsider. This apprentice—the one who shouldn’t be there—walked through, and the stones could do nothing to stop him.