Stricklend had not known it at the time, but he had passed an important test in selecting a modest punishment for his tormentor at school. He had been content that the boy had suffered for his behavior, and that he would never bother him again. That was sufficient. This cold restraint had earned him praise from Mr. Ellis, who had assured him he would not only now be received into the Sentinels’ society, but that membership of the elite would surely soon follow. Even he, though, might not have foretold that Stricklend would, ultimately, become the most powerful Sentinel of all. Or perhaps he had an inkling.

He had said, “At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done my job, Stricklend. You will rise to greatness, and that will be a great day for the Sentinels, I am certain of it.”

Recalling the conversation now, Stricklend fancies he had seen sadness in the Latin master’s expression, despite his words. Had he known then? he wonders. Did he know what Stricklend would be asked to do to prove his unquestioning loyalty to the Sentinels on his induction? Did he guess on whom the Sentinels would require him to demonstrate his mastery of the Stopping Spell? He has played over in his mind, many times, the moment when he stood before his mentor, poised to take his life. Ellis had shown neither fear nor surprise, only a calm acceptance of his fate. Such was the man’s own loyalty. How could Stricklend, in the face of such dignity and courage, how could he, then, not have done what was asked of him? Obedience without question. And he never did question. Never sought an explanation as to why he was instructed to kill his tutor, his guardian, his only friend. It was the defining event of his life, he knew that then. The instant the Stopping Spell halted Ellis’s heart for good was the same instant Stricklend felt the pure power of such unswerving dedication. It was, and is, what drives him still.

Chapter 11

11.

Bram wakes up to find himself on the floor of his room, still dressed. He rubs his eyes, scratches at the stubble on his chin, and stretches his aching limbs. The cold has awakened him, and his fingers are numb and colorless, save for smudges of charcoal and oil paint. He rubs his palms together briskly, blowing into them in an effort to restore some life. Scrambling to his feet he is confronted with the chaotic results of two days and nights of painting. Sketches litter the studio floor. Brushes and palettes and tubes of paint lie abandoned. Rags wet with turpentine sit in gray heaps, testament to the number of times he snatched them up to obliterate his work. To begin again. And again. He gets to his feet and forces himself to consider the four canvases propped against the wall. He feels his heart gallop. A familiar excitement grips him.