The Black Witch
The Black Witch
Laurie Forest
A new Black Witch will rise…her powers vast beyond imagining.Elloren Gardner is the granddaughter of the last prophesied Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, who drove back the enemy forces and saved the Gardnerian people during the Realm War. But while she is the absolute spitting image of her famous grandmother, Elloren is utterly devoid of power in a society that prizes magical ability above all else.When she is granted the opportunity to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an apothecary, Elloren joins her brothers at the prestigious Verpax University to embrace a destiny of her own, free from the shadow of her grandmother's legacy. But she soon realizes that the university, which admits all manner of people—including the fire-wielding, winged Icarals, the sworn enemies of all Gardnerians—is a treacherous place for the granddaughter of the Black Witch.As evil looms on the horizon and the pressure to live up to her heritage builds, everything Elloren thought she knew will be challenged and torn away. Her best hope of survival may be among the most unlikely band of misfits…if only she can find the courage to trust those she's been taught to hate and fear.
A new Black Witch will rise...her powers vast beyond imagining.
Elloren Gardner is the granddaughter of the last prophesied Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, who drove back the enemy forces and saved the Gardnerian people during the Realm War. But while she is the absolute spitting image of her famous grandmother, Elloren is utterly devoid of power in a society that prizes magical ability above all else.
When she is granted the opportunity to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an apothecary, Elloren joins her brothers at the prestigious Verpax University to embrace a destiny of her own, free from the shadow of her grandmother’s legacy. But she soon realizes that the university, which admits all manner of people—including the fire-wielding, winged Icarals, the sworn enemies of all Gardnerians—is a treacherous place for the granddaughter of the Black Witch.
As evil looms on the horizon and the pressure to live up to her heritage builds, everything Elloren thought she knew will be challenged and torn away. Her best hope of survival may be among the most unlikely band of misfits...if only she can find the courage to trust those she’s been taught to hate and fear.
The Black Witch
Laurie Forest
To my mother, Mary Jane Sexton, artist, creative genius, intellectual (1944–2015)
LAURIE FOREST lives deep in the backwoods of Vermont, where she sits in front of a woodstove drinking strong tea and dreaming up tales-full of dryads, dragons and wands. The Black Witch is her first novel, and Wandfasted (The Black Witch prequel) is her first ebook novella. Enter her realm at www.laurieannforest.com (http://www.laurieannforest.com).
Contents
Cover (#u0b5e1f37-e393-581e-aab5-45e3d020c6cc)
Back Cover Text (#u3384fc8e-0eaf-5aaa-81f0-e18aab0c0118)
Title Page (#u26e2226b-38ef-5cf3-9598-2e533275a0b9)
Dedication (#u63803842-3a73-59f3-9ff8-9769ad1a2eb7)
Map (#u942d0818-41c3-529c-9fae-3d277ec148d3)
About the Author (#u58840e7e-e4e6-50e5-9e38-869fbe809a33)
PART ONE (#u2fc195d1-51e6-5057-a74c-9d7929b031eb)
PROLOGUE (#u4a9dc1f5-9fb1-59a5-8646-b245afcdf8cf)
CHAPTER ONE (#ucf39f81e-d264-57ae-a82d-b749cd27e3ff)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua02ae066-2aa8-52d2-982c-8109fc5e5cc3)
CHAPTER THREE (#u40b7b28a-50e4-57f0-b86f-fc8fcb638eaa)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u65bcd422-90b7-5060-8452-af87bc7ba272)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucca5a76f-525b-5098-9112-082b5638237a)
CHAPTER SIX (#u3695d0e5-588e-551b-b905-bb6902a2cfd2)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u93246d63-57f7-5e58-9bfc-5bc583e43047)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#uee984cbe-a43d-5b13-9ac2-8fedc351d49f)
CHAPTER NINE (#u09523636-adcf-59c8-b41b-91d60a58cc10)
CHAPTER TEN (#u56aff06d-cc0f-5b6f-ae15-ec4f92445a05)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#u34307f2e-a6a9-5a24-9a83-f7911cfe175d)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#uf05b0d86-3c8a-546e-983e-f3a71160f375)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#u1d03168b-e6c2-5ba7-86b8-9e2f4e597695)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#u0de215cf-2ca2-59c2-b2fe-beb24cac3758)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#u74162578-5170-50f6-bade-00c90ef88c7b)
PART TWO (#ud4da61c8-5cbf-516f-b164-b6352f093142)
PROLOGUE (#u08ce9b71-9838-599b-9418-4d38ccdd1551)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
(#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
PROLOGUE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The woods are beautiful.
They’re my friends, the trees, and I can feel them smiling down at me.
I skip along, kicking at dry pine needles, singing to myself, following close at the heels of my beloved uncle Edwin, who turns every so often, smiles and encourages me to follow.
I am three years old.
We have never walked so far into the woods, and the thrill of adventure lights up my insides. In fact, we hardly ever walk into the woods. And Uncle Edwin has brought only me. He’s left my brothers at home, far away.
I scramble to keep up with him, leaping over curved roots, dodging low-hanging branches.
We finally stop in a sunny clearing deep in the forest.
“Here, Elloren,” my uncle says. “I have something for you.” He bends down on one knee, pulls a stick from his cloak pocket and presses it into my tiny fist.
A present!
It’s a special stick—light and airy. I close my eyes, and an image of the tree the stick came from enters my mind—a big, branchy tree, soaked in sunlight and anchored in sand. I open my eyes and bounce the stick up and down in my hand. It’s as light as a feather.
My uncle fishes a candle out of his pants pocket, gets up and sets the candle on a nearby stump before returning to me. “Hold the stick like this, Elloren,” he says gently as he bends down and holds his hand around mine.
I look at him with slight worry.
Why is his hand trembling?
I grasp onto the stick harder, trying my best to do what he wants.
“That’s it, Elloren,” he says patiently. “Now I’m going to ask you to say some funny words. Can you do that?”
I nod emphatically. Of course I can. I’d do anything for my uncle Edwin.
He says the words. There are only a few of them, and I feel proud and happy again. Even though they’re in another language and sound strange to my ears, they’re easy to say. I will do a good job, and he will hug me and maybe even give me some of the molasses cookies I saw him tuck away into his vest before we left home.
I hold my arm out, straight and true, and aim my feather-stick at the candle, just like he told me. I can feel him right behind me, watching me closely, ready to see how well I listened.
I open my mouth and start to speak the nonsense words.
As the odd words roll off my tongue, something warm and rumbling pulls up into my legs, right up from the ground beneath my feet.
Something from the trees.
A powerful energy shoots through me and courses toward the stick. My hand jerks hard and there’s a blinding flash. An explosion. Fire shooting from the tip of the stick. The trees around us suddenly engulfed in flames. Fire everywhere. The sound of my own screaming. The trees screaming in my head. The terrifying roar of fire. The stick roughly pulled from my hands and quickly cast aside. My uncle grabbing me up, holding me tight to his chest and racing away from the fire as the forest falls apart around us.
* * *
Things change for me in the forest after that.
I can feel the trees pulling away, making me uneasy. And I begin to avoid the wild places.
Over time, the childhood memory becomes cloudy.
“It’s just a dream,” my uncle says, comforting me, when the burning scene returns in the dark of sleep. “About that time you wandered out into the forest. During that lightning storm. Think on pleasant things, and go back to sleep.”
And so I believe him, because he cares for me and has never given me a reason not to believe.
Even the forest seems to echo his words. Go back to sleep, the leaves rustle on the wind. And over time, the memory fades, like a stone falling to the bottom of a deep, dark well.
* * *
Into the realm of shadowy nightmares.
Fourteen years later...
CHAPTER ONE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Halfix
“Take that, you stupid Icaral!”
I glance down with amusement at my young neighbors, a basket of freshly picked vegetables and herbs balanced on my hip, a slight near-autumn chill fighting to make itself known through the warm sunlight.
Emmet and Brennan Gaffney are six-year-old twins with the black hair, forest green eyes and faintly shimmering skin so prized by my people, the Gardnerian Mages.
The two boys pause from their noisy game and look up at me hopefully. They sit in the cool, sunlit grass, their toys scattered about.
All the traditional characters are there among the brightly painted wooden figures. The black-haired Gardnerian soldiers, their dark tunics marked with brilliant silver spheres, stand valiantly with wands or swords raised. The boys have lined the soldiers up on a wide, flat stone in military formation.
There are also the usual archvillains—the evil Icaral demons with their glowing eyes, their faces contorted into wide, malicious grins, black wings stretched out to their full size in an effort to intimidate, fireballs in their fists. The boys have lined these up on a log and are attempting to launch rocks at them from the direction of the soldiers with a catapult they’ve fashioned from sticks and string.
There are assorted side characters, too: the beautiful Gardnerian maidens with their long black hair; wicked Lupine shapeshifters—half-human, half-wolf; green-scaled Snake Elves; and the mysterious Vu Trin sorceresses. They’re characters from the storybooks and songs of my childhood, as familiar to me as the old patchwork quilt that lies on my bed.
“Why are you here?” I ask the boys, glancing down into the valley toward the Gaffneys’ estate and sprawling plantation. Eliss Gaffney usually keeps the twins firmly near home.
“Momma won’t stop crying.” Emmet scowls and bangs the head of a wolf-creature into the ground.
“Don’t tell!” Brennan chastises, his voice shrill. “Poppa’ll whip you for it! He said not to tell!”
I’m not surprised by Brennan’s fear. It’s well-known that Mage Warren Gaffney’s a hard man, feared by his fastmate and children. And the startling disappearance of his nineteen-year-old daughter, Sage, has made him even harder.
I look to the Gaffneys’ estate again with well-worn concern.
Where are you, Sage? I wonder unhappily. She’s been missing without a trace for well over a year. What could have possibly happened to you?
I let out a troubled sigh and turn back to the boys. “It’s all right,” I say, trying to comfort them. “You can stay over here for a while. You can even stay for supper.”
The boys brighten and appear more than a little relieved.
“Come play with us, Elloren,” Brennan pleads as he playfully grabs at the edge of my tunic.
I chuckle and reach down to ruffle Brennan’s hair. “Maybe later. I have to help make supper, you know that.”
“We’re defeating the Icarals!” Emmet exclaims. He throws a rock at one of the Icarals to demonstrate. The rock collides with the small demon and sends it spinning into the grass. “Wanna see if we can knock their wings off?”
I pick up the small figure and run my thumb across its unpainted base. Breathing in deep, I close my eyes and the image of a large tree with a dense crown, swooping branches and delicate white flowers fills my mind.
Frosted Hawthorne. Such elegant wood for a child’s plaything.
I open my eyes, dissolving the image, focusing back in on the demon toy’s orange eyes. I fight the urge to envision the tree once more, but I know better than to entertain this odd quirk of mine.
Often, if I close my eyes while holding a piece of wood, I can get the full sense of its source tree. With startling detail. I can see the tree’s birthplace, smell the rich, loamy carpet beneath its roots, feel the sun dappling its outstretched leaves.
Of course, I’ve learned to keep these imaginings to myself.
A strange nature fixation like this smacks of Fae blood, and Uncle Edwin has warned me to never speak of it. We Gardnerians are a pure-blooded race, free from the stain of the heathen races that surround us. And my family line has the strongest, purest Mage blood of all.
But I often worry. If that’s true, then why do I see these things?
“You should be more careful with your toys,” I gently scold the boys as I shake off the lingering image of the tree and set the figure down.
The sound of the boys’ grand battles recedes into the distance as I near the small cottage I share with Uncle Edwin and my two brothers. I peer across the broad field toward our horse stables and give a start.
A large, elegant carriage is parked there. The crest of the Mage Council, Gardneria’s highest level of government, is artfully painted on its side—a golden M styled with graceful, looping calligraphy.
Four military guards, real-life versions of Emmet and Brennan’s toys, sit eating some food. They’re strapping soldiers, dressed in black tunics with silver spheres marking their chests, with wands and swords at their sides.
It has to be my aunt’s carriage—it can’t possibly be anyone else’s. My aunt is a member of our ruling High Mage Council, and she always travels with an armed entourage.
A rush of excitement flashes through me, and I quicken my pace, wondering what on all of Erthia could have possibly brought my powerful aunt to remote Halfix, of all places.
I haven’t seen her since I was five years old.
* * *
We lived near her back then, in Valgard, Gardneria’s bustling port city and capital. But we hardly ever saw her.
One day, clear out of the blue, my aunt appeared in the front room of my uncle’s violin shop.
“Have you had the children wandtested?” she inquired, her tone light, but her eyes sharp as ice.
I remember how I tried to hide behind Uncle Edwin, clinging to his tunic, mesmerized by the elegant creature before me.
“Of course, Vyvian,” my uncle haltingly answered his sister. “Several times over.”
I looked up at my uncle with confused surprise. I had no memory of being wandtested, even though I knew that all Gardnerian children were.
“And what did you find?” she asked probingly.
“Rafe and Elloren are powerless,” he told her as he shifted slightly, cutting off my view of Aunt Vyvian, casting me in shadows. “But Trystan. The boy has some magic in him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Vyvian, quite.”
And that was when she began to visit with us.
Soon after, my uncle unexpectedly soured on city life. Without warning, he whisked my brothers and me away to where we now live. In tiny Halfix. At the very northeastern edge of Gardneria.
Right in the middle of nowhere.
* * *
As I round the corner of our cottage, I hear the sound of my name through the kitchen window and skid to a stop.
“Elloren is not a child anymore, Edwin.” My aunt’s voice drifts out.
I set my basket of vegetables and herbs on the ground and crouch low.
“She is too young for wandfasting,” comes my uncle’s attempt at a firm reply, a tremor of nervousness in his voice.
Wandfasting? My heart speeds up. I know that most Gardnerian girls my age are already wandfasted—magically bound to young men for life. But we’re so isolated here, surrounded by the mountains. The only girl I know who’s been fasted is Sage, and she’s up and disappeared.
“Seventeen is the traditional age.” My aunt sounds slightly exasperated.
“I don’t care if it’s the traditional age,” my uncle persists, his tone gaining confidence. “It’s still too young. She can’t possibly know what she wants at this age. She’s seen nothing of the world...”
“Because you let her see nothing of it.”
My uncle makes a sound of protest but my aunt cuts him off. “No, Edwin. What happened to Sage Gaffney should be a wake-up call for all of us. Let me take Elloren under my wing. I’ll introduce her to all the best young men. And after she is safely fasted to one of them, I’ll apprentice her with the Mage Council. You must start to take her future seriously.”
“I do take her future seriously, Vyvian, but she is still much too young to have it decided for her.”
“Edwin.” There’s a note of challenge in my aunt’s smooth voice. “You will force me to take matters into my own hands.”
“You forget, Vyvian,” my uncle counters, “that I am the eldest male of the family, and as such, I have the final say on all matters concerning Elloren, and when I am gone, it will be Rafe, not you, who will have the final say.”
My eyebrows fly up at this. I can tell my uncle is treading on thin ice if he has decided to resort to this argument—an argument I know he doesn’t actually agree with. He’s always grousing about how unfair the Gardnerian power structure is toward women, and he’s right. Few Gardnerian women have wand magic, my powerful grandmother being a rare exception. Almost all of our powerful Mages are men, our magic passing more easily along male lines. This makes our men the rulers in the home and over the land.
But Uncle Edwin thinks our people take this all too far: no wands for women, save with Council approval; ultimate control of a family always given to the eldest male; and our highest position in government, the office of High Mage, can only be held by a man. And then there’s my uncle’s biggest issue by far—the wandfast-binding of our women at increasingly younger ages.
“You will not be able to shelter her forever,” my aunt insists. “What will happen when you are gone someday, and all the suitable men have already been wandfasted?”
“What will happen is that she will have the means to make her own way in the world.”
My aunt laughs at this. Even her laugh is graceful. It makes me think of a pretty waterfall. I wish I could laugh like that. “And how, exactly, would she ‘make her own way in the world’?”
“I’ve decided to send her to University.”
I involuntarily suck in as much air as I can and hold it there, not able to breathe, too shocked to move. The pause in their conversation tells me that my aunt is probably having the same reaction.
Verpax University. With my brothers. In another country altogether. A dream I never imagined could actually come true.
“Send her there for what?” my aunt asks, horrified.
“To learn the apothecary trade.”
A giddy, stunned joy wells up inside me. I’ve been begging Uncle Edwin for years to send me. Hungry for something more than our small library and homegrown herbs. Passionately envious of Trystan and Rafe, who get to study there.
Verpax University. In Verpacia’s bustling capital city. With its apothecary laboratories and greenhouses. The fabled Gardnerian Athenaeum overflowing with books. Apothecary materials streaming into Verpacia’s markets from East and West, the country a central trade route.
My mind spins with the exciting possibilities.
“Oh, come now, Vyvian,” my uncle reasons. “Don’t look so put out. The apothecary sciences are a respectable trade for women, and it suits Elloren’s quiet, bookish nature more than the Mage Council ever could. Elloren loves her gardens, making medicines and so forth. She’s quite good at it.”
An uncomfortable silence ensues.
“You have left me with no alternative but to take a firm stand on this,” my aunt says, her voice gone low and hard. “You realize that I cannot put one guilder toward Elloren’s University tithe while she is unfasted.”
“I expected as much,” my uncle states coolly. “Which is why I have arranged for Elloren to pay her tithe through kitchen labor.”
“This is unheard of!” my aunt exclaims. Her voice turns tight and angry. “You’ve raised these children like they’re Keltic peasants,” she snipes, “and frankly, Edwin, it’s disgraceful. You’ve forgotten who we are. I have never heard of a Gardnerian girl, especially one of Elloren’s standing, from such a distinguished family, laboring in a kitchen. That’s work for Urisk, for Kelts, not for a girl such as Elloren. Her peers at University will be shocked.”
I jump in fright as something large bumps into me. I turn as my older brother, Rafe, plops down by my side, grinning widely.
“Surprise you, sis?”
It’s beyond me how someone so tall and strapping can move as quietly as a cat. I imagine his extraordinary stealth comes from all the time he spends wandering the wilds and hunting. He’s clearly just back from a hunt, his bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, a dead goose hanging upside down over the other.
I shoot my brother a stern look and hold up a finger to shush him. Aunt Vyvian and Uncle Edwin have resumed their wandfasting argument.
Rafe raises his eyebrows in curiosity, still smiling, and tilts his head toward the window. “Ah,” he whispers, bumping his shoulder into mine in camaraderie. “They’re talking about your romantic future.”
“You missed the best part,” I whisper back. “Earlier they were talking about how you would be my lord and master when Uncle Edwin is gone.”
Rafe chuckles. “Yeah, and I’m going to start my iron-fisted rule by having you do all my chores for me. Especially dishwashing.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“And I’m going to have you wandfasted to Gareth.” He continues to bait me.
My eyes and mouth fly open. Gareth, our good friend since childhood, is like a brother to me. I have no romantic interest in him whatsoever.
“What?” Rafe laughs. “You could do a lot worse, you know.” Something just over my shoulder catches his eye, and his smile broadens. “Oh, look who’s here. Hello, Gareth, Trystan.”
Trystan and Gareth have rounded the cottage’s corner and are approaching us. I catch Gareth’s eye, and immediately he flushes scarlet and takes on a subdued, self-conscious expression.
I am mortified. He obviously heard Rafe’s teasing.
Gareth is a few years older than me at twenty, broad and sturdy with dark green eyes and black hair like the rest of us. But there’s one notable difference: Gareth’s black hair has a trace of silver highlights in it—very unusual in Gardnerians, and read by many as a sign of his less-than-pure blood. It’s been the source of relentless teasing all throughout his life. “Mongrel,” “Elfling” and “Fae blood” are just a few of the names the other children called him. The son of a ship captain, Gareth stoically endured the teasing and often found solace with his father at sea. Or here, with us.
An uncomfortable flush heats my face. I love Gareth like a brother. But I certainly don’t want to fast to him.
“What are you doing?” my younger brother, Trystan, asks, confused to see Rafe and me crouched down under the window.
“We’re eavesdropping,” Rafe whispers cheerfully.
“Why?”
“Ren here’s about to be fasted off,” Rafe answers.
“I am not,” I counter, grimacing at Rafe, then look back up at Trystan, giddy happiness welling up. I break out into a grin. “But I am going to University.”
Trystan cocks an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Rafe answers jovially.
Trystan eyes me with approval. I know my quiet, studious younger brother loves the University. Trystan’s the only one of us with magical power, but he’s also a talented bow maker and fletcher. At only sixteen years of age, he’s already been pre-accepted into the Gardnerian Weapons Guild and apprenticed with the military.
“That’s great, Ren,” Trystan says. “We can eat meals together.”
Rafe shushes Trystan with mock severity and motions toward the window.
Humoring us, Trystan bends his wiry frame and crouches down. Looking ill at ease, Gareth does the same.
“You’re wrong, Edwin. You can’t possibly send her to University without wandfasting her to someone first.” My aunt’s domineering tone is beginning to fray at the edges.
“Why?” my uncle challenges her. “Her brothers are unfasted. And Elloren’s not a fool.”
“Sage Gaffney wasn’t a fool, either,” my aunt cautions, her tone dark. “You know as well as I do that they let in all manner of unsuitable types: Kelts, Elfhollen...they even have two Icarals this year. Yes, Edwin, Icarals.”
My eyes fly up at this. Icaral demons! Attending University? How could that even be possible? Keltic peasants and Elfhollen are one thing, but Icarals! Alarmed, I look to Rafe, who simply shrugs.
“It’s not surprising, really,” my aunt comments, her voice disgusted. “The Verpacian Council is full of half-breeds. As is most of the University’s hierarchy. They mandate an absurd level of integration, and, quite frankly, it’s dangerous.” She gives a frustrated sigh. “Marcus Vogel will clean up the situation once he’s named High Mage.”
“If, Vyvian,” my uncle tersely counters. “Vogel may not win.”
“Oh, he’ll win,” my aunt crows. “His support is growing.”
“I really don’t see how any of this pertains to Elloren,” my uncle cuts in, uncharacteristically severe.
“It pertains to Elloren because the potential is there for her to be drawn into a wildly unsuitable romantic alliance, one that could destroy her future and reflect badly on the entire family. Now, if she was wandfasted, like almost all Gardnerian girls her age, she could safely attend University—”
“Vyvian,” my uncle persists, “I’ve made up my mind about this. I’m not going to change it.”
Silence.
“Very well.” My aunt sighs with deep disapproval. “I can see you are quite decided at present, but at least let her spend the next week or so with me. It makes perfect sense, as Valgard is on the way from here to the University.”
“All right,” he capitulates wearily.
“Well,” she says, her tone brightening, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, if my niece and nephews would kindly stop crouching under the window and come in and join us, it would be lovely to see everyone.”
Gareth, Trystan and I give a small start.
Rafe turns to me, raises his eyebrows and grins.
CHAPTER TWO (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Aunt Vyvian
The Gaffney twins buzz past as I make my way into the kitchen, which is now full of friendly, boisterous noise.
My aunt stands with her back to me as she kisses Rafe on both cheeks in greeting. My uncle shakes hands with Gareth, and the twins are practically hanging from Trystan while holding up their toys for his inspection.
My aunt releases Rafe, stops admiring how tall he’s become, and turns toward me in one fluid, graceful movement.
Her gaze lights on me and she freezes, her eyes gone wide as if she’s come face-to-face with a ghost.
The room grows silent as everyone else turns their attention toward us, curious as to what’s amiss. Only my uncle does not look confused—his expression grown oddly dark and worried.
“Elloren,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “you have grown into the absolute image of your grandmother.”
It’s a huge compliment, and I want to believe it. My grandmother was not only one of my people’s most powerful Mages, she was also considered to be very beautiful.
“Thank you,” I say shyly.
Her eyes wander down toward my plain, homespun clothing.
If ever there was anyone who looks out of place in our tiny kitchen, it’s my aunt. She stands there, studying me, amidst the battered wooden furniture, soup and stew pots simmering on our cookstove and bunches of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling.
She’s like a fine painting hanging in a farmer’s market stall.
I take in her stunning, black, formfitting tunic that hangs over a long, dark skirt, the silk embroidered with delicate, curling vines. My aunt is the absolute epitome of what a Gardnerian woman is supposed to look like—waist-length black hair, deep green eyes and swirling black wandfasting lines marking her hands.
I’m suddenly acutely aware of the sad state of my own appearance. At seventeen, I’m tall and slender with the same black hair and forest green eyes of my aunt, but any resemblance ends there. I’m dressed in a shapeless brown woolen tunic and skirt, no makeup (I don’t own any), my hair is tied into its usual messy bun and my face is all sharp, severe angles, not smooth, pretty lines like my aunt’s.
My aunt sweeps forward and embraces me, obviously not as dismayed by my appearance as I am. She kisses both my cheeks and steps back, her hands still grasping my upper arms. “I just cannot believe how much you look like her,” she says with awed admiration. Her eyes grow wistful. “I wish you could have gotten to know her, Elloren.”
“I do, too,” I tell her, warmed by my aunt’s approval.
Aunt Vyvian’s eyes glisten with emotion. “She was a great Mage. The finest ever. It’s a heritage to be proud of.”
My uncle begins scurrying around the kitchen, setting out teacups and plates, clunking them down on the table a little too loudly. He doesn’t look at me as he fusses, and I’m confused by his odd behavior. Gareth stands rooted by the woodstove, his muscular arms crossed, watching my aunt and me intently.
“You must be tired after your trip,” I say to my aunt, feeling nervous and thrilled to be in her lofty presence. “Why don’t you sit down and rest? I’ll get some biscuits to go with the tea.”
Aunt Vyvian joins Rafe and Trystan at the table while I fetch the food, and Uncle Edwin pours tea for everyone.
“Elloren.” My aunt pauses to sip at her tea. “I know you overheard my conversation with your uncle, and I’m glad you did. What do you think about being fasted before you go to University?”
“Now, Vyvian,” my uncle cuts in, almost dropping the teapot, “there’s no point in bringing this up. I told you my decision was final.”
“Yes, yes, Edwin, but there’s no harm in getting the girl’s opinion, is there? What do you say, Elloren? You know that most of the young girls your age are already wandfasted, or about to be.”
My cheeks grow warm. “I, um...we’ve never talked much about it.” I envy Trystan and Rafe as they sit playing with the twins and their toys. Why isn’t this conversation about Rafe? He’s nineteen!
“Well—” my aunt shoots a disapproving look at my uncle “—it’s high time you did discuss it. As you overheard, I’m taking you with me when I leave tomorrow. We’ll spend the next few weeks together, and I’ll tell you all about wandfasting and what I know about the University. We’ll also get you a new wardrobe while we’re in Valgard, and your brothers can meet up with us for a day or two. What do you say to that?”
Leaving tomorrow. For Valgard and the University! The thought of venturing out of isolated Halfix sends ripples of excitement through me. I glance at my uncle, who wears an uneasy look on his face, his lips tightly pursed.
“I’d like that very much, Aunt Vyvian,” I answer politely, trying to keep my overwhelming excitement at bay.
Gareth shoots me a look of warning, and I cock my head at him questioningly.
My aunt narrows her eyes at Gareth. “Gareth,” she says pleasantly, “I had the privilege of working with your father before he retired from his position as head of the Maritime Guild.”
“He didn’t retire,” Gareth corrects, stiff challenge in his tone. “He was forced to resign.”
The kitchen quiets, even the twins sensing the sudden tension in the air. My uncle catches Gareth’s eye and slightly motions his head from side to side, as if in caution.
“Well,” says my aunt, still smiling, “you certainly speak your mind very frankly. Perhaps talk of politics is best left to those of us who have finished our schooling.”
“I have to be going,” Gareth announces, his tone clipped. He turns to me. “Ren, I’ll come by to see you when you’re in Valgard. Maybe I can take you sailing.”
My aunt is studying me closely. I blush, realizing what conclusion she must be forming in her mind about the nature of my relationship with Gareth. I don’t want to respond too enthusiastically, to give the wrong impression. But I don’t want to hurt Gareth’s feelings, either.
“All right, I’ll see you there,” I tell Gareth, “but I might not have time for sailing.”
Gareth throws a parting, resentful look at my aunt. “That’s okay, Ren. Maybe I can bring you by to say hello to my family at least. I know my father would love to see you.”
I glance over at my aunt. She’s calmly sipping her tea, but the corner of her lip twitches at the mention of Gareth’s father.
“I’d like that,” I say cautiously. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Well, then,” Gareth says, his face tense, “I’ll be off.”
Rafe gets up to see him out, the legs of his chair squeaking against the wooden floor as he pushes it from the table.
Trystan gets up, too, followed by my uncle and the twins, and all the males make their way out of the kitchen. I sit down, feeling self-conscious.
My aunt and I are alone.
She’s tranquilly sipping her tea and studying me with sharp, intelligent eyes. “Gareth seems to take quite the interest in you, my dear,” she muses.
My face grows hot again. “Oh, no...it’s not like that,” I stammer. “He’s just a friend.”
My aunt leans forward and places a graceful hand on mine.
“You aren’t a child anymore, Elloren. More and more, your future will be decided by the company you keep.” She looks at me meaningfully, then sits back, her expression lightening. “I am so glad your uncle has finally come to his senses and is letting you spend some time with me. I have a number of young men I am very eager for you to meet.”
* * *
Later, after we have eaten supper, I make my way outside to bring the leftover scraps from dinner to the few pigs we keep. The days are getting shorter, the shadows longer, and a chill is steadily creeping in, the sun less and less able to fight it off.
Before, in the light of day, the idea of attending University seemed like an exciting adventure, but as the tide of night slowly sweeps in, I begin to feel apprehension coming in with it.
As eager as I am to see the wider world, there’s a part of me that likes my quiet life here with my uncle, tending the gardens and the animals, making simple medicines, crafting violins, reading, sewing.
So quiet. So safe.
I peer out into the distance, past the garden where the twins were playing, past the Gaffneys’ farmland and estate, past the sprawling wilderness, to the mountains beyond—mountains that loom in the distance and cast dark shadows over everything as the sun sets behind them.
And the forest—the wild forest.
I squint into the distance and make out the curious shapes of several large white birds flying in from the wilds. They’re different from any birds I’ve ever seen before, with huge, fanning wings, so light they seem iridescent.
As I watch them, I’m overcome by a strange sense of foreboding, as if the earth is shifting beneath my feet.
I forget, for a moment, about the basket of pig slop I’m balancing on my hip, and some large vegetable remnants fall to the ground with a dull thud. I glance down and stoop to gather them back into the basket.
When I straighten again and look for the strange white birds, they’re gone.
CHAPTER THREE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Goodbye
That night I’m in my quiet bedroom, softly illuminated by the gentle glow of the lantern on my desk. As I pack, my hand passes through a shadow, and I pause to look at it.
Like all Gardnerians, my skin shimmers faintly in the dark. It’s the mark of the First Children, set down on us by the Ancient One above, marking us as the rightful owners of Erthia.
At least, that’s what our holy book, The Book of the Ancients, tells us.
The traveling trunk Aunt Vyvian has brought for me lies open on the bed. It hits me that I’ve never been away from my uncle for more than a day, not since my brothers and I came to live with him when I was three, after my parents were killed in the Realm War.
It was a bloody conflict that raged for thirteen long years and ended with my grandmother’s death in battle. But it was a necessary war, my beleaguered country relentlessly attacked and ransacked at the beginning of it. By the time it ended, Gardneria was allied with the Alfsigr Elves, ten times its original size, and the new, major power in the region.
All thanks to my grandmother, The Black Witch.
My father, Vale, was a highly ranked Gardnerian soldier, and my mother, Tessla, was visiting him when Keltic forces struck. They died together, and my uncle took us in soon after.
My little white cat, Isabel, jumps into my trunk and tries to pull a string from my old patchwork quilt. It’s the quilt my mother made while pregnant with me, and it’s linked to the only vivid memory I have of her. When I wrap myself in it, I can hear, faintly, the sound of my mother’s voice singing me a lullaby, and almost feel her arms cradling me. No matter how bad a day I’ve had, just wrapping myself in this quilt can soothe me like nothing else.
It’s as if she sewed her love right into the soft fabric.
Next to my trunk stands my apothecary kit, vials neatly stacked inside, tools secured, the medicines meticulously prepared. I’ve inherited this affinity for medicinal plants and herbs from my mother. She was a gifted apothecary, well-known for several creative tonics and elixirs that she developed.
Beside my apothecary supplies lies my violin, case open, its amber, lacquered wood reflecting the lantern light. I run my fingers along the violin’s smooth surface.
I made this instrument, and there’s no way I can part with it. I’m not supposed to know how to make violins, since women aren’t allowed in the music crafter’s Guilds. My uncle hesitated to teach me, but as time went on, he became increasingly aware of my natural talent and relented.
I love everything about violin-making. My hands have always been drawn to wood, soothed by it, and I can tell just by touching it what type it is, whether or not the tree was healthy, what kind of sound it will support. I can lose myself for hours on end carving, sanding, coaxing the raw wood into the graceful shapes of violin parts.
Sometimes we play together, my uncle and I, especially during the winter evenings by the light of the hearth.
A polite knock on the door frame breaks my reverie, and I turn to see my uncle standing in the open doorway.
“Am I disturbing you?” My uncle’s face is gentle and softer than usual in the dim, warm light. His words, however, have a troubling edge of concern to them.
“No,” I reply tentatively. “I’m just finishing packing.”
“Can I come in?” he asks, hesitating. I nod and take a seat on my bed, which looks forlorn and foreign without its quilt. My uncle sits down next to me.
“I imagine you’re feeling quite confused,” he says. “Your aunt sent word a few months ago that she might be paying us a visit at some point, to discuss your future. So I started to make arrangements with the University. Just in case. I knew it was possible that she’d come for you someday, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be for a few more years at least.”
“Why?” I ask. I’m incredibly curious about why Aunt Vyvian has taken such a sudden interest in me—and why Uncle Edwin is so rattled by it.
My uncle wrings his clasped hands. “Because I do not believe what your aunt wants for your future is necessarily the best thing for you.” He pauses and sighs deeply. “You know I love you and your brothers as much as if you were my own children.”
I lean over onto his shoulder. His wool vest is scratchy. He puts his arm around me, and some of the stray hairs from his scraggly beard tickle my cheek.
“I’ve tried to shelter you, and protect you,” he continues, “and I hope that your parents, if they were here, would understand why I’ve made the decisions that I have.”
“I love you, too,” I say, my voice cracking, my eyes filling with tears.
I’ve wanted to venture out for so long, but it’s suddenly hitting me—I won’t see my uncle or my loving home for a long time. Maybe not until spring.
“Well, now, what’s this?” he asks, rubbing my shoulder to comfort me.
“It’s just all so fast.” I sniff back the tears. “I want to go, but... I’ll miss you. And Isabel, too.” Isabel, perhaps sensing my need for comfort, jumps onto my lap, purring and kneading me.
And I don’t want you to be lonely with me gone.
“Oh, there now,” my uncle says, as he hugs me tighter. “Don’t cry. I’ll take good care of Isabel, and you’ll see her soon enough. You’ll be back before you know it, with tales of all sorts of grand adventures.”
I wipe at my tears and pull away to look up at him. I don’t understand the urgency. He’s always been so reluctant to let me go anywhere, always wanting to keep me here at home. Why has he made such a quick decision to finally let me go?
Perhaps seeing the questions in my eyes, my uncle lets out a deep sigh. “Your aunt can’t force the issue of wandfasting as long as Rafe and I are here, but she can force the issue of schooling—unless I choose first. So I’m choosing. I’ve some contacts in the University’s apothecary school, so it was no trouble finding you a spot there.”
“Why don’t you want me to apprentice at the High Mage Council with Aunt Vyvian?”
“It doesn’t suit you,” he explains with a shake of his head. “I want you to pursue something...” He hesitates a moment. “Something more peaceful.”
He looks at me meaningfully, like he’s trying to convey a secret hope and perhaps an unspoken danger, then he reaches down to pet Isabel, who pushes her head against him, purring contentedly.
I stare at him, confused by his odd emphasis.
“If they ask you,” he says, focused in on the cat, “I’ve already wandtested you, and you have no magic.”
“I know, but... I don’t remember.”
“It’s not surprising,” he says, absently, as he continues to stroke the cat. “You were very young, and it wasn’t very memorable, as you have no magic.”
Only Trystan has magic, unlike most Gardnerians, who have no magic, or weak magic at best. Trystan has lots of magic. And he’s trained in weapon magic, which is particularly dangerous. But since my uncle won’t allow wands or grimoires in the house, Trystan’s never been able to show me what he can do.
Uncle Edwin’s eyes meet mine, his expression darkening. “I want you to promise me, Elloren,” he says, his tone uncharacteristically urgent. “Promise me that you won’t leave school to apprentice with the Mage Council, no matter how much your aunt pressures you.”
I don’t understand why he’s being so grave about this. I want to be an apothecary like my mother was, not apprenticed with our ruling council. I nod my head in agreement.
“And if something happens to me, you’ll wait to wandfast to someone. You’ll finish your education first.”
“But nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“No, no, it’s not,” he says, reassuringly. “But promise me anyway.”
A familiar worry mushrooms inside me. We all know that my uncle has been struggling with ill health for some time, prone to fatigue and problems with his joints and lungs. My brothers and I are loath to speak of this. He’s been a parent to us for so long—the only parent we can really remember. The thought of losing him is too awful to think of.
“Okay,” I say. “I promise. I’ll wait.”
Hearing these words, some of the tension leaves my uncle’s face. He pats my shoulder approvingly and gets up, joints cracking as he stands. He pauses and puts his hand affectionately on my head. “Go to University,” he says. “Learn the apothecary trade. Then come back to Halfix and practice your trade here.”
Some of the creeping worry withdraws its cold hands.
That sounds just fine. And perhaps I’ll meet a young man. I do want to be fasted, someday. Maybe, after I’m fasted, my fastmate and I could settle here in Halfix.
“All right,” I agree, bolstered.
This is all sudden and unexpected, but it’s exactly what I’ve wished for. Everything will work out for the best.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me. “You’ve a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night. Sleep well.”
I watch him leave, his shy, friendly smile the last thing I see before he gently shuts the door.
CHAPTER FOUR (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The White Wand
I’m awakened by a sharp rapping at my window. I jerk up from my bed, look toward the window and am startled by the sight of an enormous white bird sitting on a branch outside, staring intently at me.
One of the birds I saw flying in from the mountains.
Its wings are so white against the blue light of predawn, they seem otherworldly.
I creep out of bed to see how close I can get to the bird before spooking it, but don’t get far. As soon as I lose contact with the bed, the bird silently spreads its massive wings and flies out of sight. I rush to the window, fascinated.
There, I can still see it, staring fixedly at me, as if beckoning me to follow.
It’s across the field, near the long fence that separates our property from the Gaffneys’ estate.
I haphazardly dress and run outside, instantly consumed by the strange blue light that covers everything, transforming the familiar landscape into something ethereal.
The bird is still staring at me.
I walk toward it, the odd-colored scene making me feel like I’m in a dream.
I get quite close to the creature when it flies away again, past the garden, where the fence to my left disappears briefly into some dense bushes and trees.
I follow, feeling a thrill course through me, like I’m a child playing hide-and-seek. I round the corner to a small clearing, then jump with fright and almost bolt in the opposite direction when I see what’s there.
The white bird, along with two others, sits on a long tree branch. Directly below stands a spectral figure in a black cloak, its face hidden in the shadow of an overhanging hood.
“Elloren.” The voice is familiar, halting me before I start to run.
Realization of who this is crashes through me.
“Sage?” I’m amazed and confused at the same time, my heart racing from the jolt of fear.
She stands, just beyond the fence. Sage Gaffney, our neighbor’s eldest daughter.
Warily, I make my way toward her still figure, aware of the watchful birds above. As I get closer, I begin to make out her face in the blue light, her gaunt, terrified expression startling me. She was always a pleasant, healthy-looking girl, a University scholar and daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Gardneria. Her zealously religious family fasted her at thirteen to Tobias Vassilis, the son of a well-thought-of Gardnerian family. Sage had everything any Gardnerian girl could ever dream of.
But then she disappeared soon after starting University. Her family searched for her for over a year to no avail.
And yet here she is, as if risen from the dead.
“Wh-where have you been?” I stammer. “Your parents have been looking everywhere for you...”
“Keep your voice down, Elloren,” she commands, her eyes fearful and darting around restlessly. She seems poised and prepared for escape, a large travel sack hanging from her back. Something is moving beneath her cloak, something she’s carrying.
“What’s under your cloak?” I ask, bewildered.
“My son,” she says with a defiant lift of her chin.
“You and Tobias have a son?”
“No,” she corrects me, harshly, “he is not Tobias’s.” She says Tobias’s name with such pure loathing, I wince. And she keeps the child hidden.
“Do you need help, Sage?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to spook her any more than she already is.
“I need to give you something,” she whispers, then reaches with a shaking hand for something hidden under her cloak. She pulls out a long, white wand that rises up from an exquisitely carved handle, its tip so white it reminds me of the birds’ wings. But my eyes are quickly drawn away from the wand to her hand.
It’s covered with deep, bloody lash marks that continue up her wrist and disappear beneath the sleeve of her cloak.
I gasp in horror. “Holy Ancient One, what happened?”
Her eyes are briefly filled with despair before they harden again, a bitter smile forming on her mouth. “I did not honor my wandfasting,” she whispers acidly.
I’ve heard tales of the harsh consequences of fast-breaking, but to see it...
“Elloren,” she pleads, the look of terror returning. She pushes the wand out at me as if trying to will me to take it. “Please. There’s not a lot of time! I’m supposed to give it to you. It wants to go to you.”
“What do you mean, it wants to go to me?” I ask, confused. “Sage, where did you get this?”
“Just take it!” she insists. “It’s incredibly powerful. And you can’t let them get it!”
“Who’s them?”
“The Gardnerians!”
I force out a disbelieving breath. “Sage, we’re Gardnerians.”
“Please,” she begs. “Please take it.”
“Oh, Sage,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no reason for me to have a wand. I’ve no magic...”
“It doesn’t matter! They want you to have it!” She gestures with the wand toward the tree above.
“The birds?”
“They’re not just birds! They’re Watchers. They appear during times of great darkness.”
None of this makes any sense. “Sage, come inside with me.” I try to sound as soothing as I can. “We’ll talk to my uncle...”
“No!” she snarls, recoiling. “I told you, it only wants you!” Her expression turns desperate. “It’s the White Wand, Elloren.”
Pity flashes through me. “Oh, Sage, that’s a children’s story.”
It’s a religious myth, told to every Gardnerian child. Good versus Evil—the White Wand pitted against the Dark Wand. The White Wand, a pure force for good, coming to the aid of the oppressed and used in ancient, primordial battles against demonic forces. Against the power of the Dark Wand.
“It’s not just a story,” Sage counters, teeth gritted, her eyes gone wild. “You have to believe me. This is the White Wand.” She lifts the wand again and thrusts it toward me.
She’s mad, completely mad. But she’s so agitated, and I want to calm her fears. Relenting, I reach out and take the wand.
The pale wood of the handle is smooth and cool to the touch, strangely devoid of any sense of its source tree. I slide it under my cloak and into a pocket.
Sage looks instantly relieved, like a heavy burden has been lifted.
Movement in the distance catches my eye, just inside where the wilds begin. Two dark figures on horseback are there and gone again so quickly, I wonder if it’s a trick of the light. There are so many strange, dark shadows this time in the morning. I glance up and look for the white birds, and I have to blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing things.
They’re gone. With no sound made in leaving. I spin around on my heels, searching for them. They’re nowhere in sight.
“They’re gone, Elloren,” Sage says, her eyes once again apprehensively scanning around as if sensing some impending doom. She grasps my arm hard, her nails biting into my skin.
“Keep it secret, Elloren! Promise me!”
“Okay,” I agree, wanting to reassure her. “I promise.”
Sage lets out a deep sigh and releases me. “Thank you.” She looks in the direction of my cottage. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I beg of her. “Don’t go. Whatever’s going on... I want to help you.”
She regards me mournfully as if I’m dauntingly naive. “They want my baby, Elloren,” she says, her voice cracking, a tear spilling down her cheek.
Her baby? “Who wants your baby?”
Sage wipes her eyes with the back of her shaking, disfigured hand and casts a sidelong glance at my cottage. “They do!” She looks over her shoulder and gives her own home a pained look. “I wish... I wish I could explain to my family what’s really going on. To make them see. But they believe.” Her frown deepens, and she sets her gaze hard on me. “The Council’s coming for him, Elloren. They think he’s Evil. That’s why your aunt’s here.”
“No, Sage,” I insist. “She’s here to talk to me about wandfasting.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. They’re coming for my baby. And I have to leave before they get here.” She looks away for a moment as if desperately trying to compose herself. She hides her hand back under her cloak and cradles the small bundle inside. I wonder why she won’t let me see him.
I reach out to touch her arm. “You’re imagining all this, Sage. There’s no way anyone would want to hurt your baby.”
She glares at me with angry frustration, then shakes her head as if resigned to madness. “Goodbye, Elloren,” she says as if she pities me. “Good luck.”
“Wait...” I implore as she begins to walk along the fence line in the direction of the great wilderness. I follow her brisk pace, the fence separating us, leaning over it to reach her as she veers away, her back receding into the distance—a dark, ghostly figure making her way through the last of the morning mist.
The trees swallow her up into their darkness just as the sun rises, transforming the eerie blue dreamworld of early morning into the clear, sunlit world of day.
My fingers fumble under my cloak for the wand, half expecting it to be gone, expecting to find that I was sleepwalking and imagined all of this. But then I feel it—smooth and straight and very much real.
* * *
I rush back to the house, the sunlight steadily gaining strength.
Shaken, I’m desperate to find Uncle Edwin. Surely he’ll know what to do.
As I round the trees, I’m surprised to see Aunt Vyvian standing in the doorway watching me, her expression unreadable.
A small wave of apprehension washes over me at the sight of her, and I immediately slow my pace, struggling to turn my expression blank, as if returning from an uneventful morning stroll. But my mind is a tumult.
Those marks on Sage’s hands—they were so horrible. Maybe Sage is right. Maybe the Council is planning to take her baby away...
Aunt Vyvian tilts her head and eyes me thoughtfully as I approach. “Are you done packing?” she asks. “We’re ready to go.”
I stand awkwardly in front of her, not able to move forward as she’s blocking the doorway. “Yes, I’m done.” I’m acutely aware of the wand, my hand involuntarily drawn to it.
My aunt’s eyes flicker in the direction of the Gaffneys’ farm. “Did you visit with Sage Gaffney?” Her face is open, welcoming me to confide in her.
Shock flashes through me. How does she know that Sage is here?
I glance back toward the wilds, my heart thumping against my chest.
Sage was right. Aunt Vyvian isn’t just here for me. Clearly she’s here for Sage, too. But surely she would never harm a baby?
Aunt Vyvian sighs. “It’s all right, Elloren. I know she’s here, and I realize it must be terribly upsetting to see her. She’s...very troubled. We’re trying to help her, but...” She shakes her head sadly. “How is she?” Her tone is one of maternal concern. Some of my tension lightens.
“She’s terribly frightened.” The words rush out. “The baby. She thinks someone wants to harm him. That someone from the Council is coming to take him away from her.”
My aunt doesn’t seem surprised by this. She fixes me with the type of look adults use when they are about to reveal to a child some unfortunate, troubling fact of life. “The Council is coming to take custody of her baby.”
I blink in shocked surprise.
Aunt Vyvian lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “The child is deformed, Elloren. It needs a physician’s care, and much more.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I breathe, almost not wanting to know.
Aunt Vyvian searches my eyes, hesitant to tell me what I know will be something monstrous. “Elloren,” she explains gravely, “Sage has given birth to an Icaral.”
I recoil at the word. No! It can’t be. It’s too horrible to imagine. One of the Evil Winged Ones—like giving birth to a grotesque demon. No wonder Sage didn’t let me see her child.
The dull thud of horses’ hooves sounds in the distance, and I spot another Mage Council carriage rounding the hills and making its way down into the valley toward the Gaffneys’ estate. It’s followed by eight Gardnerian soldiers on horseback.
“Can the child be helped?” My voice comes out in a shocked whisper as I watch the carriage and the soldiers nearing the cottage.
“The Council will try, Elloren.” My aunt reassures me. “Its wings will be removed and a Mage Priest will do everything he can to try and save the child’s twisted soul.” She pauses and looks at me inquisitively. “What else did Sage say to you?”
It’s a simple enough question, but something pulls me up short, some amorphous fear. And Sage has enough problems already.
Clearly she’s stolen this wand. It can’t possibly be the wand of myth that she imagines it to be, but it’s obviously an expensive wand. Probably belonging to Tobias.
I’ll wait until all this dies down and find a way to return it to him. And I don’t mention that Sage has run off into the woods—I’m sure the Council will find her soon enough on their own anyway.
“She didn’t say much else,” I lie. “Only what I’ve told you.”
My aunt nods in approval and lets out a small sigh. “Well, then, enough of this. We’ve a big journey ahead of us.”
I attempt a small, resigned smile in return and bury Sage’s secret deep within, as well as my guilt in keeping it.
CHAPTER FIVE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Selkie
I stare out the window of my aunt’s grand carriage as the scenery gradually changes from wilderness interspersed with farmland to small towns with more horse traffic. We sit opposite each other on green silk-cushioned seats, windows to our sides. A red, tasseled cord hangs from the ceiling that can be pulled to get the driver’s attention.
I run my fingers nervously along the polished wood that lines my seat, its smooth touch soothing to me. An image of its source tree suffuses my mind, delicate, pointed leaves sparkling gold in the sunlight.
Star Maple.
I breathe in deep and let the tree anchor me.
All throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, my aunt quietly works on Mage Council paperwork on a small table that folds out from the wall.
Aunt Vyvian’s the only woman to ever sit on our ruling Mage Council. She’s one of twelve Mages there, not counting our High Mage. You have to be important to be on the Mage Council, and it’s usually made up of powerful priests or Guild leaders, like Warren Gaffney, who’s the head of the Agricultural Guild. But Aunt Vyvian has especially high status, being the daughter of the Black Witch.
Aunt Vyvian dips her pen in an inkwell with a sharp tap, her script graceful as a professional calligrapher’s.
Glancing up, she smiles at me, then finishes up the page she’s working on and places it into a large, important-looking, black leather folder, the Mage Council’s golden M affixed to its front. After clearing the table, she collapses it back against the wall, smooths her skirts and turns her attention to me.
“Well, Elloren,” she begins pleasantly, “it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, and an even longer time since we’ve had a chance to talk. I really do regret that your uncle left everything to the last minute like this. It must be very confusing for you, and I suspect you have some questions.”
I ponder this. Sage’s deformed hands are foremost on my mind.
“When I saw Sage this morning,” I begin, tentatively, “her hands were wounded...horribly wounded.”
My aunt looks a bit taken aback. She sighs deeply. “Elloren,” she says, her face solemn, “Sage left her fastmate and ran off with a Kelt.”
A rush of shock runs through me. The Kelts killed my parents. They oppressed my people for generations. How could kind, gentle Sage have run off with...a Kelt?
My aunt’s brow tightens in sympathy. “I know this must be hard for you, since you were friendly with the girl, but wandfasting is a sacred commitment, and breaking that commitment has serious consequences.” Her face softens when she sees my troubled expression. “Do not despair, Elloren,” she says to comfort me. “There is hope yet. Tobias is willing to take Sage back, and there may be hope for her child, as well. The Ancient One is full of compassion when we truly repent and beg for forgiveness.”
I remember Sage’s defiance and think it highly unlikely she will beg for anyone’s forgiveness, least of all Tobias’s. I’ve hidden Sage’s white wand inside the lining of my travel trunk, so at least being in possession of a stolen wand won’t be added to her horrific troubles.
“It doesn’t hurt to be fasted, does it?” I ask Aunt Vyvian worriedly.
My aunt laughs at this and leans forward to pat my hand with affection. “No, Elloren. It’s not painful at all! The priest simply has the couple hold hands before waving his wand over them and reciting a few words. It’s not something you feel, although it does leave an imprint on your hand, which you’ve seen before.” My aunt holds out her hand, which is marked with graceful black swirls that extend to her wrist.
Unlike my uncle, who never married, most Gardnerian adults have some variation of these marks on their hands and wrists, the design unique to each couple and influenced by their Mage affinity lines. Hers are quite beautiful; undimmed by time and the death of her fastmate in the Realm War.
“Do not let Sage’s unfortunate situation color your view of wandfasting,” my aunt cautions. “Wandfasting is a beautiful sacrament, meant to keep us pure and chaste. The lure of the Evil Ones is strong, Elloren. Wandfasting helps young people such as yourself to stay on the path of virtue. It’s one of the many things that sets us apart from the heretic races all around us.” She motions toward me with both hands, palms upturned. “That is why I would like to see you wandfasted to someone you find appealing, someone who would be right for you. I’m having a party at week’s end while you’re in Valgard. Let me know if there is any young man who particularly catches your fancy.” My aunt smiles at me conspiratorially.
A heady anticipation ripples through me.
What if I meet a young man I like at my aunt’s party? Might he ask me to dance? Or to walk with him in a beautiful garden? There’s a dearth of young, unfasted men in Halfix, and none that I fancy. Meeting a young man in Valgard is a thrilling thought, and I spend a fair bit of time dreamily considering it.
It takes several days to reach Valgard, and we stop often to change horses, stretch our legs and retire in the evening to sumptuous lodging. My aunt picks only the best guesthouses—delicious food brought to our rooms, fresh flowers gracing the tables and soft bedding stuffed with down.
Over meals and during the long carriage rides, Aunt Vyvian tells me about the people she’s invited to her party: the various young men, along with their accomplishments and family connections, as well as the young women I will be meeting and who they’re wandfasted to. She also speaks about her hopes for the rise of Marcus Vogel to High Mage, our highest level of government. Our current High Mage, Aldus Worthin, is elderly and getting ready to step down in the spring.
Marcus Vogel’s name catches my attention. I remember a conversation my brother Rafe recently had with Uncle Edwin about him. Uncle Edwin was surprisingly strident in his dismissal of Vogel, calling him a “rabid zealot.”
“Half the Council is still behind Phinneas Callnan for our next High Mage,” Aunt Vyvian tells me, her tone clipped. “But the man has no spine. He’s forgotten his own faith and how we were almost destroyed as a people.” She shakes her head in strident disapproval. “If it was up to him, I suspect we’d all be slaves again, or half-breeds.” She pats my hand as if I need consoling on this point. “No matter, Elloren. The referendum’s not until spring, and Vogel’s support grows every day.”
Though her harsh words make me uneasy, I find myself falling under Aunt Vyvian’s congenial spell, and she brightens in response to my rapt attention. She’s a wonderful traveling companion, charming and vivacious. And she paints such vivid pictures of each person she describes that I imagine I’ll be able to recognize them on sight.
She seems particularly fond of a young man named Lukas Grey—a powerful, Level Five Mage and rising star in the Gardnerian military.
“He’s the son of the High Commander of the entire Mage Guard,” she tells me as we roll along, a spectacular view of the Voltic Sea to my right, the late-afternoon sun sparkling on its waves. “And he’s a top graduate of the University.”
“What did he study?” I ask, curious.
“Military history and languages,” she crows.
I can tell from the way her eyes light up when she speaks of him that he’s her first choice of fasted partner for me. I humor her, doubting that this much-sought-after young man will spare even a glance toward a shy girl from Halfix. But it’s enjoyable to listen to her enthusiastic descriptions, nonetheless.
“Only three years out of University and already a first lieutenant,” she gushes brightly. “There’s talk that within a year’s time, Lukas Grey could be the youngest commander in the history of the Guard.”
My aunt prattles on for a long time about Lukas and several other young men. As she speaks, I glance out the window and watch the scenery go by. Gradually, the buildings of the towns we pass through are becoming taller, grander and closer together, and lanterns are lit to welcome the twilight. Our progress is now slowed by heavier carriage and horse traffic. We crest a hill, pass through a wooded area, and then, suddenly, it’s before us—a sloping valley leading straight to Valgard, Gardneria’s capital city.
Like an elegant cloak clasp, gleaming Valgard rings the Malthorin Bay. A glorious sunset lights the ocean beyond and bathes everything in the rich colors of a well-stoked fire. Tiny ships speckle the water. Valgard’s docks resemble the curved half of a long fishbone.
I can scarcely breathe as I take it all in, the city glittering in the fading light, points of illumination sprouting throughout, like fireflies waking. Our carriage weaves down into the valley, and before long, we’re in the heart of the capital.
I slide the carriage window open and stare.
Buildings made of luxurious, dark Ironwood rise up around me, the progressively wider upper stories supported by richly carved ebony columns. Curling emerald trellises thick with lush, flowering vines flow out over the rooftops and down the buildings’ sides.
I close my eyes and breathe in the rich Ironwood. It’s traditional for our homes to be made of this wood and styled in designs that look like forests and trees—a symbol of the Ancient One’s creation of my people from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree, giving us dominion over all the trees and all the wilds.
We pass an open-air restaurant, dining tables spilling out onto a promenade surrounded by decorative fruit trees, all of it lit by diamond-paned lanterns. The smell of rich food wafts into the carriage—roasted lamb, sautéed fish, platters of herbed potatoes.
A small orchestra plays beneath a plum tree.
I turn to my aunt, thrilled by the beautiful music. I’ve never heard an orchestra before. “Is that the Valgard symphony?”
Aunt Vyvian laughs. “Heavens, no, Elloren. They’re employees of the restaurant.” She eyes me with amused speculation. “Would you like to hear the symphony while you’re here?”
“Oh, yes,” I breathe.
There’s an endless variety of shops, cafés and markets. And I’ve never seen so many Gardnerians together before, their uniformly dark garb lending an air of elegance and gravity to their appearance, the women’s black silken tunics set off by glittering gems. I know it says right in our holy book that we’re supposed to wear the colors of night to remember our long history of oppression, but it’s hard to keep such somber thoughts in mind as I look around. It’s all so wonderfully grand. I’m seized by a heady excitement, coupled with a desire to be part of it all. I glance down at my simple, dark brown woolen clothing and wonder what it would be like to wear something fine.
The carriage lurches, and we turn sharply to the right and make our way down a narrow, darker road, the buildings not as lovely as the ones on the main thoroughfare, the storefront windows mysteriously harder to see through, the lighting a moody red.
“I had my driver take a shortcut,” my aunt says by way of explanation as she flips through more Council papers, the golden lumenstone in the carriage lantern growing in brightness in response to the dark.
I marvel at the lumenstone’s rich, otherworldly light. Elfin lumenstone is incredibly expensive, the golden stone the rarest. I’ve only seen swampy green lumenstone in the Gaffneys’ outdoor lamps back home.
Aunt Vyvian lets out a sigh and pulls down one of the blinds. “This isn’t the best part of town, Elloren, but it will shave quite a bit of time off our journey. I suggest you close the window. It’s not an attractive area. Frankly, it should all be razed and rebuilt.”
I lean forward to close my open window and draw the blind as the carriage slows to a halt. It’s been a constant stop and go ever since we reached the city because of the heavy street traffic.
A split second before I’m about to pull the cord, something hits the window with a loud smack—a white bird’s wing, there and gone so fast, I swear I imagined it. I press my face to the window and try to locate the bird.
They’re not just birds, they’re Watchers! Sage’s words echo in my mind.
And that’s when I see her—a young woman only a few feet away from me.
She is, by far, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, even dressed as she is in a simple white tunic. Her long, silver hair sparkles like sun glinting off a waterfall and spills out over translucent skin so pale, it’s almost blue. She has a lithe, graceful figure, her legs folded together to one side, her weight supported by slender, alabaster arms.
But it’s her eyes that are the most riveting. They’re huge and gray as a stormy sea. And they’re filled with wild terror.
She’s in a cage. An actual, locked cage, only big enough for her to sit in, not stand, and it’s placed on a table. Two men stand staring at her while engaged in some private conversation. On the other side of the cage, two boys are poking at her side with a long, sharp stick, trying for a reaction.
She doesn’t seem to even register that they’re there. She’s looking straight at me, her eyes absolutely locked on to mine. Her look is one of such primal fear, I pull back from the sheer force of it, my heart beginning to pound against my chest.
The woman lunges forward, grabs fiercely at the bars in front of her and opens her mouth. My head jerks back in surprise as slender rows of silvery slits on both sides of the base of her neck fly open, her skin puffing out around them.
Holy Ancient One—she has gills!
The woman lets loose a high-pitched, earsplitting croak, the likes of which I have never heard before. I have no idea what she’s trying to scream, what’s happened to her voice, but still, her meaning is clear. She’s crying out for my help.
The men jump at the sound, put their hands over their ears and shoot her a look of annoyance. The boys laugh, perhaps thinking they provoked her cry. The boys push the stick into her once more, harder this time. Again, she doesn’t flinch. She just keeps her eyes locked on mine.
My eyes dart to the sign on the storefront above her. Pearls of the Ocean, it reads. Suddenly the carriage lurches forward, and she’s gone.
“Aunt Vyvian,” I cry, my voice strained and high-pitched, “there was a woman! With...gills! In a cage!” I point to the window on the side where she had been, my heart racing.
My aunt glances quickly in the direction of the window, her expression one of mild disgust. “Yes, Elloren,” she says, sighing. “It was hard to miss the screeching.”
“But, but...what...” I can barely get the words out.
“Selkies, Elloren, it’s a Selkie.” She cuts me off, clearly not wanting to discuss it further.
I’m stunned by her nonchalance. “She was in a cage!” I point again at the window, still not believing what I just saw.
“Not everything is how it appears on the surface, Elloren,” she says stiffly. “You’ll have to learn that if you’re going to be part of the wider world.” She peers over at me and studies my troubled face, perhaps seeing that a longer explanation is unavoidable. “They may look like humans, Elloren, but they aren’t.”
The very human-looking, terrified eyes of the young woman are burned into my mind. “What are they?” I ask, still shaken.
“They’re seals. Very fierce seals, at that.” My aunt pauses to lean back against the elaborately embroidered cushions. “Long ago, the Selkies were enchanted by a sea witch. Every full moon they come to shore somewhere on the coast, step out of their seal skin and emerge in human form. For many years they caused a great deal of havoc—attacking sailors, dismantling ships. It was terrible.”
“But she looked so frail.”
“Ah, it’s like I just said. Appearances can be deceiving. Selkies, in possession of their skins, are stronger than the strongest Mage, and like most seals, they are very dangerous predators.”
“And without their skins?”
“Very good, Elloren.” My aunt looks pleased. “You’ve gotten right to the heart of it. Without their skins, they can be easily controlled.”
“Why?”
“Because they lose their strength, and because they cannot transform back into seals without them. Without their skins, they cannot get back to the ocean. Being wild animals, no matter how long they are kept in human form, they desperately want to get back to their ocean home. They’re not human, Elloren. It’s only an illusion. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“But why was she in a cage?”
My aunt grimaces at my question, like she’s detected an unpleasant odor. “Some people like to keep them...as pets.”
I scrutinize her face. She’s not looking at me. She’s now glancing toward the window impatiently.
“She...she looked so terrified,” I say, upset.
My aunt’s expression softens. “Well, caged wild animals are never a pleasant sight. I am completely and utterly against the Selkie trade and am doing everything I can to wipe it out.” She pats my hand reassuringly.
I feel some measure of relief wash over me.
“There are better ways to deal with Selkies that are far more humane than keeping them in cages, forcing them to...act human,” she explains thoughtfully as she splays the fingers of one hand in front of herself and scrutinizes her lovely nails.
I’m so glad she feels this way. I know my brothers would agree. They’re staunchly against the abuse of animals. Rafe, especially, hates the sight of wild animals confined or shackled in cruel ways.
“So you’ll help her?” I press.
“Yes, yes, Elloren. Of course I will.” My aunt impatiently straightens her sleeve cuffs. “Once Marcus Vogel becomes High Mage, it will be possible to put an end to this sort of thing.”
I try to be consoled by this, but it’s all so troubling.
She sets her eyes on me. “But really, Elloren, I didn’t bring you here to talk about the local wildlife. There are so many more pleasant things to speak of.”
I nod silently as my aunt points out her favorite shops and historical landmarks, but the face of the Selkie stays fresh in my mind, and I can’t shake the chill I now feel for the rest of the ride.
CHAPTER SIX (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Valgard
A starlit sky overhead, we arrive, the carriage pulling up before Aunt Vyvian’s three-story home, arching windows lit golden and an expansive, dark wooden staircase spilling toward us in welcome.
Lush gardens arc along the curved entrance road, and I breathe in their heady, sweet scent as the carriage slows. Ironwood trees are bursting with glowing Ironflowers that cast the road in their soft blue luminescence.
Our carriage glides to a smooth stop.
Two Urisk serving women stand on either side of the carriage door as I exit, their straight violet hair tied back into tidy braids, their ears coming to swift points and their skin the soft lavender hue of the Urisk upper class. Their coloration is new to my eyes—the only Urisk I’ve ever seen are those toiling at the Gaffneys’ farm. Those women have the white, rose-tinted skin, hair and eyes of the Urisks’ lowest class—so pale they could almost pass for Alfsigr Elves, were it not for the faintly pink sheen of their skin and hair. These upper-class women’s linen uniforms are crisply starched, snow-white tunics over long gray skirts, their expressions neutral.
Suddenly self-conscious, I grasp at the rough wool of my tunic hem. I’m shabbier than even the servants. I crane my neck up, amazed at the height of the house, and swallow apprehensively, feeling small and insignificant in contrast to this grandeur.
Aunt Vyvian’s mansion is the same style of architecture I saw throughout Valgard—a climbing, multistoried building hewn from Ironwood; the broader, higher floors supported by curved, wooden columns; the roof topped with expansive gardens and multiple potted trees, vines of every variety spilling over the sides.
Like a giant tree.
It sits on elevated land with a panoramic view of the ocean to the back, and down onto twinkling Valgard and the Malthorin Bay to the side.
It’s so beautiful.
Heady with anticipation, I follow at Aunt Vyvian’s heels as she briskly makes her way up the stairs, the double doors opened for us by two more Urisk servants.
She holds herself so elegantly straight, I adjust my posture without thinking and hasten my pace to keep up with her. I wonder how she manages to walk so confidently and gracefully in her slim, tall heels, her skirts swishing around her feet.
I’d probably fall clear over on shoes like that.
My own feet are covered in sturdy boots made for gardening and caring for livestock. I secretly hope I can try feminine shoes like hers.
We pause in the most beautiful foyer I’ve ever been in: tables set with fresh bouquets of red roses, the tilework beneath my feet set in a black-and-green geometric design and a pair of stained-glass doors patterned with climbing vines.
A flutter of excitement rises in me to be in the middle of such luxury.
Aunt Vyvian riffles through some papers on a silver tray held by one of her serving women. “I apologize, Elloren, but I must leave you to get settled on your own.” She pauses and examines one of the papers with shrewd eyes. “Fenil’lyn will show you to your rooms, and then we’ll have a late dinner once you’ve unpacked.” She sets down the letter and smiles expectantly at me.
“Of course. That’s fine,” I respond eagerly. I glance around and break into a wide grin, looking at her with appreciation and a heightened desire to win her approval. “It’s...it’s so lovely here,” I say falteringly, suddenly giddy with nerves.
My aunt nods distractedly as if she’s suddenly lost interest in me, then motions toward the servants and strides away, trailed by three of the Urisk, her heels clicking sharply on the tile floor. One stays behind—Fenil’lyn, I assume.
Aunt Vyvian’s aloof dismissal has a small sting to it.
If I had magic, would I be of more interest to her? I let out a small sigh. On the carriage ride here, my aunt repeatedly brought up her disappointment that I take after my famous grandmother in looks only. No matter, I console myself. It’s a huge honor that she’s chosen to single me out and bring me here.
I follow straight-backed Fenil’lyn down a long hallway decorated with small, potted trees, and out into an expansive central hall. I skid to a stop, stunned by the sight that lies before me.
A central staircase spirals three stories up around a life-size tree sculpture. Wrought-iron grating, stylized to look like flowering vines, encloses each story’s circular balcony.
I quicken my steps to catch up with Fenil’lyn and follow as she starts up the staircase. I take in the lifelike carved leaves, fascinated, and brush my fingers along their textured surface as we ascend.
River Oak.
An image of the source tree lights up my mind like the summer sun, moss-covered branches undulating out.
Reaching the top floor, I wordlessly follow Fenil’lyn onto the top balcony. She stops before two expansive wooden doors and pushes them open.
I peer inside and have to blink to believe my eyes.
A roaring woodstove pumps out a crackling heat, a crimson-canopied bed directly across from it. Sanded trunks and branches rise up near the walls, hewn from dark wood, giving off the smell of their rich beeswax coating, the domed ceiling painted to give the illusion of a starlit sky. I step inside and am immediately enfolded in delicious warmth.
Everything already done for me, no wood to lug.
Directly before me, two cut-crystal doors sparkle gold in the reflected lamp and firelight.
I pause to touch the smooth silk of a golden tassel that hangs from my bed’s canopy, to stare in amazement at the intricate tree design embroidered on the scarlet quilt.
I reach the crystal doors, open them and find a curved sunroom just beyond, its walls made of glass that looks straight out over the ocean, a geometric glass ceiling giving me a panoramic view of the real night sky.
Two snow-white kittens play with a ball of string in the center of the sunroom’s floor. They’re fluffy white, with sky blue eyes. Just like my own cat, Isabel.
Enchanted, I stoop down and pick up one of the kittens. She kneads me with needle-sharp claws as a tiny, rumbling purr emanates from her small chest. The other kitten continues to worry the ball of string.
“For you, Mage Gardner,” Fenil’lyn informs me with a polite smile. She’s slender, with gorgeous eyes the color of amethysts. Her violet hair is streaked with a single stripe of gray. “Mage Damon felt you might be missing your pet.”
My chest floods with a grateful warmth. How incredibly thoughtful.
Happily, I rise and turn to Fenil’lyn, hugging the purring kitten against my chest, the animal’s tiny head tickling under my chin.
“You can call me Elloren,” I tell her, grinning from ear to ear.
She stiffens, her smile freezing in place. “Thank you, Mage Gardner. But that would show disrespect.” She tilts her head gracefully and gives a small bow. “Please allow me to honor you with your proper title.”
It’s odd to be in the presence of an Urisk woman who speaks the common tongue. Odder still to experience such deferential treatment, especially from someone who might be older than Aunt Vyvian. I’m momentarily ill at ease.
“Of course,” I defer, the woman’s frozen smile softening into an expression of relief.
“If you have need of anything, Mage Gardner,” she tells me brightly, “simply ring the bell.” She motions toward a golden-tasseled rope hanging by the door with a practiced wave. “I’ll be back shortly to bring you to dinner.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding.
She quietly leaves, and I take a deep breath, overcome by my surroundings.
Setting the kitten down in a basket with its littermate, I open the sunroom’s side door.
The salty ocean breeze kisses my face the moment I step out onto a curved balcony. The stone balcony follows the arc of the sunroom, the rhythmic whoosh of waves lapping the dark rocks below. I peer over the balcony’s edge, down two stories toward another, broader balcony, where servants are busy setting out an elaborate dinner.
Our dinner, I realize. Nothing to cook. Nothing to clean.
Breathing in deep, I take in the refreshing, salt-tinged air.
I could get used to this.
I wander back into my rooms and skim my finger over the spines of the books in a small library that’s set into the wall, all the texts related to apothecary medicine.
A thread of amazed gratification ripples through me.
She’s created a custom library just for me.
I remember the runehawk messenger bird Aunt Vyvian had her guard send out to bring word of our arrival, but still, I’m stunned that so many personal touches have been pulled together in two days’ time.
I slide a volume off the shelf and open the cover, the new leather resisting my pull. The drawings of herbs are hand-painted and look so lifelike, I can almost smell their scent.
I wonder if she’ll let me take some of these books to University with me—they’d be of incredible use to me in my studies. A sitting table near the bed has a mirror rimmed with stained-glass roses. On the table sits a gilded brush and comb set, along with brand-new bottles of perfume, their spritzers tasseled with crimson silk.
So many pretty things. Things I never had in a house full of messy males.
I pick up one of the glass bottles, spritz it in the air and inhale.
Mmm. It smells like vanilla and rose.
As the mist falls and dissipates, my eyes light on a shelf set into the wall, a cabinet beneath. Set on the table are two marble statues.
I walk over to them and pick one of the statues up, the polished base cool against my palm. It depicts my grandmother, her wand in her belt, leading Gardnerian children to some destination, smiles on the children’s upturned, adoring faces. I look closely and trace my finger over the face’s sharp features, her thin nose.
It’s me. Or certainly a close likeness.
The second statue is my grandmother again, powerful and fierce, her delicate wand raised, her hair flying out behind her, a dead Icaral demon crushed beneath her feet.
An Icaral, like Sage’s deformed baby.
I pause, troubled, my brow tensing. The thought of Icaral demons is so jarring in the midst of the comforting warmth, the sweet kittens, the luxury cushioning me all around. It makes me want to hide the statue away in a closet and never set eyes upon it again.
Shaking off the dark image, I clean myself up and prepare to meet my aunt for dinner.
* * *
“Are the rooms to your liking, Elloren?”
Aunt Vyvian beams at me as I join her at the balcony table. Fenil’lyn bows and graciously takes her leave.
“They’re lovely, thank you,” I reply, a bit dazzled. “I’ve never seen anything like...” I look out over the spectacular view of the ocean. “Well, like any of this.”
She smiles, pleased. “Well, it’s your birthright. Enjoy it. Your uncle’s deprived you for far too long.” She gestures toward a chair with a light wave of her hand. “Please. Sit. Enjoy the view with me.”
Delighted, I take a seat opposite her, a deep green rug beneath our feet covering the gray stone of the balcony. Lanterns hang on multiple stands and cast the table in a soft glow that reflects off the fine porcelain with tiny, golden pinpricks of light.
A plate’s been made up for me—slices of a citrus-glazed pheasant, precarved on a side table, thin lemon slices decorating the succulent bird; wild rice with dried fruit and nuts; baby carrots. Fresh bread steams between us alongside a dish of butter molded into flowers. A pitcher of mint water and a basket of fresh fruit also adorn the table. And a small table by the balcony’s side wall holds a steaming pot of tea, a tower of small pastries and a bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase.
A servant stands still as a statue by the tea set, a young blue-skinned Urisk woman with vivid sapphire eyes who stares straight ahead into the middle distance, her expression carefully blank. It’s hard to remember she’s a person and not a statue, she’s that still.
Aunt Vyvian’s gaze wanders over me as she sips her water.
I find myself longing for her approval. I try to sit straight, my hands folded lightly on my lap, mimicking her graceful posture. My clothing may be shoddy, but at least I can try to mirror her refined ways.
“Tomorrow I’m sending you to the premier dressmaker in Valgard to have an entire new wardrobe fitted,” she tells me with a small smile. “You can take it to University with you.”
It’s like she can read my wishes, and I’m overcome with gratitude. We’ve never had enough money for fine clothing. A warm rush rises in my neck and cheeks as I blush at her kindness. “Thank you, Aunt Vyvian.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to accompany you.” She sets down her glass and cuts into her pheasant. “I’ve Mage Council business to attend to, but I’m having three young women join you. They’ll be your peers at University.”
“Oh.” I’m nervous and elated by the thought of meeting fellow scholars. I take a bite of the pheasant and it falls apart in my mouth, the glaze bright with lemon and spiked with fresh herbs.
“You’ll like Paige Snowden and Echo Flood a great deal, I’m sure of it,” she muses, taking a neat bite of her food. She dots her mouth with her napkin. “They’re the daughters of Mage Council members. Lovely young women. Pleasant and morally upstanding.”
But—she mentioned three young women. I blink at her in confusion, wondering if I heard her wrong.
“And the third?”
Aunt Vyvian’s mouth grows tight, her face darkening, eyes cool. “That would be Fallon Bane, dear. I very much doubt you’ll like her.”
I gape at her. “Then...why...?”
“Her father is Malkyn Bane. He’s a military commander and has a great deal of Council influence. He’s also a Level Five Mage.” She says this with the gravity it’s due, and I nod and take note of it as I pull a warm piece of bread from the basket.
Level Five Mages are not common, which is why my Level Five brother Trystan is a full-fledged Weapons Guild Mage at the tender age of sixteen.
“Malkyn Bane’s children are all Level Five Mages,” Aunt Vyvian continues with great significance.
I freeze, bread and butter knife in hand. “You can’t mean his daughter, too?”
Aunt Vyvian slowly nods. “Fallon Bane is a Level Five Mage, as are her two brothers.” She gives this a moment to fully sink in.
I gape at her. “A female? With that much power?” That high level of power is almost exclusively held by males, with the notable exception of my grandmother.
My aunt’s face fills with bitter frustration. “That kind of power rightfully belongs in our line. Especially with how much you look like Mother.” She shakes her head, her brow going tight. “But even Trystan, with his great promise, is no match for Fallon Bane. Especially since he got such a late start in his training, due to your uncle’s negligence on that front.” She lets out a frustrated breath and gives me a level look. “Fallon’s only eighteen, and she’s already on the outer reaches of Level Five, Elloren. Much like your grandmother was at her age.”
I remain frozen as realization washes over me. “She’s the next Black Witch.”
Aunt Vyvian’s eyes darken. “No. I refuse to believe it. One of your children will hold that title. Or Trystan’s. But not Fallon Bane. That power is our legacy. Ours alone. No matter how much Fallon Bane and her family like to strut about and pretend they’re the heirs to it.”
I knit my brow in question. “But even if she’s not the Black Witch...if she’s so dangerous, and if you dislike her so—then why is Fallon Bane going dress shopping with me?”
It seems almost comically bizarre.
Aunt Vyvian leans forward and looks me straight in the eye as if conveying something of deep importance. “Because sometimes in this world, it’s good to know what you’re dealing with.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fallon is obsessed with Lukas Grey.”
Ah, him again.
“So...they’re courting?”
“No,” she puts in flatly. “Not to my knowledge. From what I’ve seen, Lukas has little interest in the girl.” My aunt’s face twists into a disgusted sneer. “Even though Fallon throws herself at him quite wantonly.”
Warmth spreads through my cheeks as I start to realize where all this is going. Lukas is a prize. And Aunt Vyvian is actively plotting for me to win him. Away from Fallon Bane.
“You want me to spend time with Fallon Bane so I can size up the competition?” I say, disbelieving.
Her eyes take on a sly gleam. “There is an opportunity here, Elloren.”
Worry pricks at me. I might not even like this Lukas Grey, so there’s that. But there’s an even larger concern.
I set my bread and knife down and level with her.
“Aunt Vyvian. You’ve really gone out of your way for me. And I don’t want to disappoint you.” A nervous dismay ripples through me—I don’t want to lose her kind regard. I’ve been hungry for a mother figure for so long, for female guidance. But she has to know the truth. “I have no experience in society. There’s just no way I can...swoop down into it and...fit in with this Lukas Grey, or anyone else, for that matter.” I slump, losing heart as I take in the tiny, elaborate braids that decorate her long hair. I’m hungry for knowledge of such pretty ways. “I don’t even know how to do my hair. Or use makeup properly. Or...anything.” If I had my mother...
Aunt Vyvian pats my hand and gives me a warm, maternal smile.
“You don’t have to know anything, dear.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve taken you under my wing. And that’s the best place to be. Simply sit back, enjoy it and follow my lead.”
I smile shyly, encouraged, as I hold on to her cool, smooth hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Fallon Bane
“Have you kissed him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gareth Keeler. Have you kissed him?”
I’m facing an audience of three young women—the University scholars Aunt Vyvian has chosen to be my companions for the day. They sit staring at me with rapt attention, waiting for my answer.
To the most embarrassing question I’ve ever been asked.
Inappropriate, personal questions like this were not acceptable in Halfix, and I inwardly draw back from them in discomfort.
It’s early on my first morning in Valgard, and we are in Aunt Vyvian’s carriage, headed toward the shop of the premier dressmaker in Gardneria. The ride is smooth, the carriage surrounded by twelve armed, high-level Mage soldiers.
Twelve.
Charged with protecting Fallon Bane—our next Black Witch. Aunt Vyvian might not want to believe that she’s the one, but it’s clear from our armed escort that most other Gardnerians don’t agree with this view.
Fallon is, by far, the most intimidating young woman I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful, with full lips, curly black hair down to her waist and large eyes that shine with the whole spectrum of green. But everything else about her flies in the face of convention. For one thing, she’s dressed in a military apprentice uniform modified for a female—the traditional slate-gray silk tunic over a long, gray skirt instead of pants, and marked with a silver Erthia sphere embroidered over her heart. And the arms of her uniform are marked with a Level Five Mage’s five silver bands. Fallon watches me, her legs splayed open, aggressively taking up as much room in the carriage as possible.
She’s the one asking the questions, a slightly contemptuous smirk on her face. My obvious discomfort, given away by the blush I feel forming on my face, seems to greatly amuse her.
“Why are you asking me about Gareth Keeler?” I ask Fallon defensively.
“Your aunt says you know him.”
“I do,” I tell her. “He’s my friend.”
Fallon shoots sly, sidelong glances at both Echo and Paige before setting bright eyes back on me. “Have you looked closely at his hair?”
I bristle, my view of Fallon quickly coalescing into a hard ball of dislike. “His hair is black.”
Fallon smirks wider. “So...if you haven’t kissed Gareth, have you ever kissed anyone?”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral, greatly put off by her intrusive behavior. “Of course not. I’m unfasted.” And not in the habit of throwing myself at young men, unlike you.
Fallon flashes a devious look at Echo, which sends my dislike of Fallon flaring higher. Then she turns her mischievous gaze back on me, her tone thick with condescension. “You’re not in the backwoods anymore, Elloren. It’s okay to kiss a boy.”
Echo purses her lips at Fallon. “Some of us have morals,” she chastises. “Even in Valgard.”
Fallon spits out a disdainful laugh and rolls her eyes at me, like I’m an old chum.
Echo’s regarding me now, with serious, owl-like eyes, as if measuring my worth. She’s garbed in the manner of the most religious Gardnerians, her black tunic double-layered and very high in the collar, a small Erthia sphere hanging from a silver chain around her neck, her hair unadorned and parted straight as a pin.
Noticing Fallon’s and Echo’s unfriendly expressions, Paige smiles at me encouragingly. She’s the only truly pleasant person in the group, her curly black hair escaping from jeweled barrettes, spilling out over round, rosy cheeks.
Fallon takes note of Paige’s happy expression. “Paige has been kissed,” Fallon teases, her tone unkind.
That wipes the smile clear off Paige’s face. “Well...umm...” Paige stammers as she looks down at the marked hands that fidget in her lap. “I’m fasted.”
“She’s been fasted since she was thirteen,” Fallon leans in and whispers to me, as if this is a delicious secret.
“You have?” I’m surprised. Thirteen seems awfully young. But then I think of Sage—she was fasted at thirteen.
“I’m... I’m fasted to Fallon’s brother, Sylus,” Paige mumbles, seeming less than overjoyed by this.
Fallon throws an arm around Paige and hugs her tight with mock affection. “We’re going to be actual sisters!”
Paige glances meekly at Fallon and forces a small, quavering smile.
I motion toward Echo’s marked hands. “Have you been fasted a long time?”
Echo’s solemn stare doesn’t waver. “To Basyl Dorne. Five years ago.”
I study her, trying to catch a glimpse of how she feels about this, but Echo’s as private and unreadable as a statue.
My eyes wander to Fallon’s unmarked hands. “So... I see you’re not fasted.”
Fallon’s expression turns cold, and she fixes me with a belligerent stare. “Not yet.” She says it like a challenge.
“Fallon likes Lukas Grey.” Paige giggles nervously. Fallon swivels her head smoothly toward Paige and stares her down. Paige’s smile vanishes. “Well...you do...like Lukas, I mean.”
I remember my aunt’s gushing praise of Lukas Grey, the prospective fasting partner she seems to want most for me. I’m amused that Aunt Vyvian actually thinks I could compete with Fallon Bane for anything—and win.
“He’s really handsome,” gushes Paige, “and his father is the High Commander of the entire Mage Guard. He comes from a very important family, and he’s a Level Five Mage.”
Fallon is watching me closely, a gloating look on her face, like she’s won some prize.
“When are you getting fasted to Lukas?” I ask.
Fallon’s smile freezes, and she narrows her eyes at me. “Soon. Very soon.” There’s warning in her inflection. Stay away from Lukas. He’s mine.
I wonder why she’s so insecure about him, and whether or not she knows Aunt Vyvian ludicrously wants him for me. I find myself even more curious about my aunt’s party, if only for the chance to meet the mysterious Lukas Grey. My eyes are drawn to the wand that sticks out from Fallon’s belt like some great thorn.
“So—” I gesture toward the wand “—you’ve quite a bit of power, I’ve heard.”
She bares her teeth. “A little.”
I can tell by the incredulous looks Echo and Paige throw her that she’s being wildly sarcastic.
“I’ve never seen magic used,” I tell her.
Her feral smile inches wider. “You’ve no magic, then?”
I shake my head, bothered by the gloating look on her face.
In one smooth, deft movement, Fallon pulls out her wand, holds it straight up and murmurs a spell.
A loud crack sends Echo, Paige and me recoiling back against our seats as a flash of blue light bursts from Fallon’s wand. The sound jars me to the bone, and I gasp as the light quickly coalesces into a whirling, glowing sphere that floats just above the wand’s tip, its rhythmic, deep whoosh a jagged scrape to my ears, the carriage rapidly cooling, frost forming on the windows.
“Stop it, Fallon,” Echo snaps as she glares at Fallon with annoyance, all of us cast in sapphire light. “You’ll freeze us to death.”
Fallon lets out a contemptuous laugh but relents. She murmurs more strange words and the iceball instantly morphs into a roiling, white vapor that quickly explodes into a frigid, odorless mist and disappears.
Fallon sits back and grins, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
“That’s amazing,” I breathe, swallowing hard, fighting back a shiver.
“That’s nothing,” Paige says, eyes wide. “You should see what else she can do. She’s a Level Five Mage. One of the best of the whole Guard.”
“It sounds like you and Lukas Grey are well suited for each other,” I tell Fallon placatingly, wanting to be struck clear off her list of potential enemies.
Aunt Vyvian needs to abandon her absurd dream of matching me with Lukas Grey. All she’s going to do is place me directly into scary Fallon Bane’s line of fire.
Fallon seems pleased by my comment. She nods approvingly, sets her wand back into her belt and relaxes against her seat.
Echo shoots Fallon a look of mild disapproval, then glances down at my unmarked hands and frowns. “I don’t understand why you’re not fasted.”
“My uncle wants me to wait until I’m older,” I tell her, increasingly put off by Echo’s judgmental approach. And besides, Fallon looks to be about the same age as me, and she isn’t fasted, either.
“Oh, what fun you’ll have,” Paige enthuses with a dreamy look of longing. “All the parties and dances and your first kiss!”
“Have you met anyone you’re interested in?” Fallon probes, sizing me up to see if I’m competition for Lukas, no doubt.
“No.” I shake my head. “I haven’t really had a chance to, being from Halfix. It’s so isolated there. And this is only my first full day in Valgard.”
Fallon regards me with renewed interest. She narrows her eyes. “Have you ever been around any men...other than Gardnerian men?”
My brow knits tight and I feel myself growing defensive over my sheltered upbringing. “What do you mean?” I ask guardedly.
Fallon spits out a short laugh. “I mean, have you ever been around Keltic boys? Or Elves? Or... Lupine?”
I eye her with astonishment. “There aren’t Lupines at the University, are there?” That strikes me as incredibly dangerous. Lupines are vicious wolf-shifters. Stronger than the strongest Gardnerian, and completely immune to our magic.
“I’m afraid there are,” Echo replies, a grave expression on her face.
“That’s rather shocking,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m really surprised.” But then I think back to Aunt Vyvian’s conversation with Uncle Edwin, and her outrage over the University’s misguided racial integration—even Icaral demons are allowed to attend.
Paige is worriedly chewing at her bottom lip, her eyes round as two saucers.
Fallon leans in toward me with obvious relish, her voice a scratchy whisper. “Lupines don’t ever marry, did you know that? They simply grab whomever they like and mate with them in the woods.”
“Like animals,” Echo chimes in, with great indignation.
“Really?” It’s all so scandalous. And troubling.
“I’ve heard,” continues Fallon, “that sometimes they grab young women, pull them into the woods and mate with them...as wolves!”
Paige gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.
“Is that even possible?” I question, aghast.
Fallon laughs and settles back into her seat. “Stay away from the Lupine boys.”
“They don’t always mate in the woods,” Echo informs me darkly as she fingers her sphere pendant.
Paige shrinks down, clearly apprehensive to hear what Echo is about to say, as Fallon eyes me with gleeful anticipation, everyone waiting for me to ask the obvious question.
I blink at them. This is the most outrageous conversation I’ve ever had and, despite myself, I’m overcome by lurid fascination. “Where...um...where do they...” I motioned with my hands to finish.
Echo seems to approve of my reluctance to just come out with it. She leans closer. “My father used to be the Council’s ambassador to the Lupines, and he’s actually visited the Lupine Territory. I overheard him talking to my mother about them, and he said that when Lupines are about our age they get their whole pack together—that’s what they call their societies, like a pack of wolves—and they stand up in front of everyone, pick out someone to mate with and mate with them right there, in front of everyone. Even the children.”
My face is growing very hot. This is the most sordid thing I have ever heard in my entire life. “Won’t it be sort of...dangerous? To go to University with them?” I wonder.
“There’s only two of them.” Fallon flicks her hand dismissively. “Brother and sister. Twins.”
Well, that’s a relief. Only two Lupines. How dangerous could only two Lupines be?
“What about the Elves?” I ask. My brothers have told me they make up about a quarter of the scholars at the University. “What are they like?”
“Complete opposite,” Fallon says with a shake of her head. “Very prissy.” She snorts in derision. “It’s amazing they ever get around to ever having children. They’re extremely protective of their women, though. If a boy of another race so much as touches one of their women...”
“Like anyone would want to,” scoffs Echo.
“I think the girl Elves are pretty,” Paige confesses sheepishly. Fallon throws her a quick, withering glance. “They are!” Paige insists. “They have those dainty pointed ears. And white hair, and white clothes...kind of the opposite of us...”
“Very much the opposite of us,” Echo cuts in. She looks to me. “They’re idol worshippers.”
“Aren’t they our allies?” I put in, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
Fallon pins me with her eyes. “For now.”
Well, that’s interesting. “And the Kelts?” I wonder, looking to Echo. “What are their men like?”
Fallon snorts derisively as Echo regards me somberly, her fist closed tight around her Erthia sphere. “Their blood is polluted with all types of filth—Fae blood, Urisk...even Icaral.” Echo waits to see if I’m appropriately horrified before continuing.
Sage’s Icaral baby immediately leaps to mind, casting a pall over everything. I remember how troubled and terrified she was. A Kelt. The demon baby’s father is a Kelt. And she met him at University.
“Priest Vogel says the Kelts are cast out and no longer First People like us,” Echo continues stridently. “They’ve secretly aligned themselves with Evil Ones, like the desert heathens and the Urisk.”
“Look out for the Urisk women,” Fallon warns as a side note. “They may look all innocent, but they love going after our men.”
I’ve heard Warren Gaffney going on about this on more than one occasion. The fact is, Urisk women don’t have any men of their own to go after. The Gardnerian government killed all their males during the Realm War.
Urisk males are powerful geomancers, able to harness the full, destructive powers of stones and gems. Their existence would pose a serious threat to our country. The women, on the other hand, are completely devoid of magic and are allowed to live in Gardneria as guest workers.
It’s a horrible thought, though—the Urisk boy babies being killed. It’s a subject I’ve never been able to discuss with Uncle Edwin, as he becomes visibly upset if I try to broach the topic, once to the point of tearing up and clutching at his chest.
Male Urisk warlords viciously attacked our country when they had power, seeking to wipe us out, but still, it’s all so troubling.
Echo sighs. “At least Urisk half-breeds only have weak magic, at best.”
Paige nods to her in agreement, but Fallon is ignoring them both. Instead, she’s watching me with a silent intensity so unnerving that it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. My initial dislike of her deepens.
“Be careful with those mixed-breeds,” Fallon tells me, a sly smile spreading across her face. I bristle, realizing she’s once again alluding to Gareth and his silver-tipped hair. She slides her thumb along the length of her wand. “Mixed-breeds are everywhere,” she purrs. “You just can’t be too careful.”
CHAPTER EIGHT (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Textured Silk
“Stand up straight, now. That’s better...”
Mage Heloise Florel pulls the measuring tape tight around my waist as I drown in embarrassment. An imperious, square woman about sixty years of age, Mage Florel is the proprietor of the dress shop. Her own long, dark tunic and skirt are exquisitely made, her gray hair plaited and tied back into a neat bun, her eyes like little green searchlights that take in every last detail.
I’m standing on a pedestal right in the center of her fitting room with Fallon, Echo and Paige looking on. In my underwear!
“All right. Now lift your arms above your head...”
Mage Florel, to my mortification, begins measuring above my breasts, around my breasts and under them as she calls out numbers to a quiet Urisk girl. The girl, who looks to be about my age, takes down every number on a small piece of parchment, her face as blank as snow. Fallon makes a show of reading the girl’s notes over her shoulder and then whispering to Paige and Echo, her lips shielded with her hand, a nasty smirk on her face. I just know she’s commenting on my measurements and I flush with embarrassment.
I glance around at the dark sea of fabric bolts surrounding me, trying to shut out Mage Florel’s poking and prodding. Everywhere I look, lining every wall to the ceiling, is luxurious fabric, much of it embroidered with intricate designs. I’d never have imagined there could be so many variations of black cloth, the colors ranging from the deepest black of night, to hues just on the edge of gray, the textures spanning from silk so shiny you expected to see your reflection in it to matte velvet.
“You’ve got quite a nice figure,” Mage Florel remarks, eyeing my chest. “Too bad you’ve been hiding it away underneath all of those...clothes.” She nudges my discarded pile of garb with her foot.
I can feel my face growing even hotter, but this time my embarrassment is mixed in with gratification at the compliment, and how sour Fallon looks in response to Mage Florel’s praise.
Privately, I’m aware that I have a pleasing figure, but no one has ever publicly commented on my body before. Growing up with an uncle and two brothers, my body has always been very private, and, in the Gardnerian tradition, completely covered—from my neck to my wrists down to my feet. I’ve never shown so much as a bare ankle in public. When I reached the age when I needed more tailored clothing, I took to sewing my dresses myself.
Finally, to my immense relief, the ordeal is over and Mage Florel orders me to get dressed, then dictates some notes to the Urisk girl regarding alterations and appropriate trim.
It’s hard not to stare at the young Urisk woman—she’s so lovely. Like the upper-class servants at Aunt Vyvian’s house, she has lavender skin, long, pointed ears and startlingly lovely eyes that glimmer several shades of amethyst. Her violet hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she’s simply dressed in a white linen tunic and white underskirt.
I think of the Urisk women who work the Gaffneys’ sprawling farm. They’ve always been a bit of a mystery to me, the Urisk farmworkers, with their Uriskal language and tendency to disappear as soon as the harvest work is done for the season. And they are, all of them, wizened and bedraggled. Nothing at all like this beautiful girl.
The Urisk girl hands the parchment to Mage Florel, who squints at it through half-moon spectacles attached to a long, pearl necklace. “Very good, Sparrow,” she comments. “Go fetch Effrey.”
Sparrow nods and leaves, her movements graceful. Within a few seconds, another Urisk girl, a skinny, frantic little thing with deep purple skin, hair and eyes, runs into the room and skids to an abrupt halt in front of Mage Florel, Sparrow shadowing close behind. The child looks to be about eight years of age.
The older woman stares down at the child uncertainly, then directs her to fetch some fabric. A few minutes later the child returns carrying two bolts of cloth that are coming unwound around her legs, one ebony silk flecked with small, golden threads, the other a muted blue-black. They’re large bolts, and the girl looks to be out of breath from the effort.
Mage Florel lets out a disgusted sigh. “Textured silk, Effrey, I wanted it textured.”
The girl’s eyes fly open in panic.
“Let’s make this easier,” Mage Florel offers, the girl looking about ready to burst into tears. “Get me the sample booklets instead. They’re easier to carry than the bolts.”
Little Effrey sprints out of the room, seeming eager to correct her mistake.
Mage Florel turns back to us, shaking her head in consternation. “I’m sorry,” she confides. “She’s new. And she’s been extraordinarily difficult to train. She just doesn’t listen carefully.”
Fallon snorts as she runs her hand along some velvet. “You’d think with ears that big, she’d be able to listen just fine.”
My head jerks toward Fallon. Mage Florel, Echo and Paige join me in looks of shocked surprise.
Fallon eyes us incredulously just as little Effrey stumbles back into the room. The child is lugging a thick sample book under one arm, frayed fabric edges poking out the sides. Fallon spits out a laugh and gestures widely toward the little girl. “Oh, so we’re supposed to pretend she doesn’t look like an overgrown bat?”
Effrey comes to a wobbly stop. She glances up at Fallon, her lip quivering into a miserable frown, her ears seeming to droop at the points. I watch as Sparrow shoots Effrey a swift look of serious caution, the older girl standing just behind Fallon Bane. Effrey immediately averts her eyes and looks down at her feet.
“Girl!” Fallon barks at Effrey with exaggerated force, then stifles a laugh when the girl jumps and whips her head up. Fallon flicks her fingers toward herself magisterially. “All right, then. Hand it over.”
The child lowers her head deferentially as she offers the sample book up to Fallon. I notice her hands are trembling.
“Thank you,” I say gently, in an effort to soothe the girl. I shoot Fallon a look of censure, bewildered by her cruelty.
Mage Florel is regarding Fallon with a pained expression, and she makes a point of dismissing little Effrey as soon as Fallon has the sample book in hand. I don’t wonder at Mage Florel’s deference to Fallon Bane, the presumptive heir to my grandmother’s power.
Fallon sets the sample book on a wooden stand and opens it. She takes her time, monopolizing the booklet as everyone silently waits. Eventually, she lights on fabric of interest to her. “Oh, here we go, Elloren,” she says, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. She pulls a dull black rectangle from the book and holds it up.
It’s ugly, rough wool. Of worse quality than the clothing I arrived in.
“I think this would be good for you,” Fallon beams, “especially for your aunt’s party. Don’t you think so, Paige?”
Paige looks at the fabric sample, her brow knitting tight. She glances over at me and blinks uncertainly. “Um...well...maybe it could work...”
I can’t figure out if Fallon is joking. She has to be. “I was thinking of something...different,” I venture.
Fallon widens her eyes in mock affront. “But...this is Gorthan wool. It’s very much the style.” Her gaze flicks toward Echo and Paige mischievously.
Before I have a chance to respond, Fallon slams the sample book shut and hands it, along with the piece of wool, to Mage Florel. “I think you should make her dress out of this,” she says decidedly, shooting me a wide grin. “In fact, I think you should make her whole wardrobe out of it.”
A sharp spike of resentment wells up inside me, my heart speeding up as I eye Fallon’s wand. “Wait,” I say, addressing Mage Florel directly. “I’d like to see the samples for myself.”
Fallon’s smile morphs into a half sneer. “Good heavens, Elloren.” She gestures around the room at the fabric surrounding us. “It’s all black.”
I meet her eyes. “I’d still like to see them for myself.” The room goes so quiet, one could hear the prick of a pin.
Fallon’s eyes bore down on me, and I actively resist being cowed by her. They’re mesmerizing, her eyes, striped as they are with alternating lines of light and dark green, the lighter green streaks so light they’re almost white. They make me think of icicles. Sharp as spears.
After a moment of tense deliberation, Mage Florel sets the book down on another raised table beside me. “Of course, dear,” she says, her eyes flicking toward Fallon warily. “Go ahead.”
I open the book, uncomfortably aware of Fallon’s icy glare. I flip through the fabric, a violet-black square of velvet momentarily catching my eye, soft as a baby hare.
“Oh...look at this,” I gasp, half forgetting about Fallon as I turn to the next sample, the black silk lighting up red and yellow around the folds as it moves. “It’s extraordinary.” I turn the fabric this way and that, tipping it toward the closest wall lantern to watch the colors change.
Mage Florel nods her head in satisfaction. “Ishkartan goldweave,” she says as she removes the swath and cradles it. “Brought in from the Eastern Desert. Flame-gold worked right into the weave. Very fine. Very rare.”
I look down at the scratchy brown wool of my tunic from home. It’s like trying to compare the finest violin with some coarsely carved instrument.
Mage Florel smiles at me. “You’ve lovely taste, Mage Gardner.”
I flip through the next samples and come to an abrupt stop as my eyes light on the loveliest one of all. Midnight black silk. Patterned with vines woven through so subtly you have to look carefully to make them out. But once you do...
I run my finger along the textured silk. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Salishen silk,” Mage Florel says reverently. “From the Salishen Isles. They’re master weavers, the Salish. True artists. And all of their embroidery is as exquisite as this.”
I glance up at her. “Do you think you could use this?”
“Of course, Mage Gardner,” she replies, obviously thrilled by my choice.
Fallon’s hand comes down on the fabric. “You can’t use this,” she says, her tone hard.
I blink up at her in resentful surprise. “Why?”
“Because,” she replies, her voice syrupy with condescension, “this is what my dress is being made of.”
“Ah, what a pity,” Mage Florel sighs. She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve others, Mage Gardner, don’t you fret. We’ll find something just as lovely for you...”
Heart racing, I put my own hand down firmly on the fabric sample, right next to Fallon’s. I meet Fallon’s stare and hold it. “No. I want this one.”
Everyone gapes at me.
Fallon leans in a fraction and bares her teeth. “You can’t have it.”
I try to ignore the slight trembling of my hand. “Oh, come now, Fallon,” I say as I gesture at the fabric around us, mimicking her sneering tone. “It’s all black. And I’m sure the cut will be different.” I look over at Mage Florel, whose eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. “Can you make sure it’s very different from hers?”
Fallon spits out a sound of contempt. “My dress isn’t being made here. I have my own dressmaker.”
“Well, then,” I tell her. “That simplifies things.” I turn to Mage Florel. “Can you make it for me in time? With this fabric?”
Mage Florel gives me an appraising look, her eyes darting toward Fallon as if weighing the options. She lifts her chin. “Why, yes, Mage Gardner. I think I can.” She smiles coldly at Fallon. “Why don’t you tell me what your dress is like, dear? I’ll make sure it’s quite different.”
I’m surprised and bolstered by Mage Florel’s support. But when I turn back toward Fallon, her grin startles me. It’s wide and malicious. She jerks her hand away from the fabric sample and seems pleased when I flinch. “I’m leaving,” she announces, keeping her eyes tight on mine.
Echo and Paige fly to her and try to placate her and convince her to stay.
I look away and flip through the samples, barely seeing the fabric. I know it’s a mistake to say more. But I think of her treatment of the little girl and can’t help myself.
“Don’t worry, Fallon,” I say, careful not to look at her, struggling to keep my voice even. “Maybe your tailor can make you another dress. In Gorthan wool. I hear it’s very much the style.”
I glance up at Fallon just in time to catch her look of pure, undisguised hostility. Her fist tight on her wand, Fallon stalks out and slams the door behind her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sparrow’s mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.
CHAPTER NINE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Black Witch
“You look just like Carnissa Gardner. You’re perfect.”
Paige gushes as I stare at the stranger looking back at me from the full-length ornate mirror.
We’re in the luxurious bedroom Aunt Vyvian has given me, the crystalline doors and the sunroom’s windows propped open, a balmy ocean breeze wafting in on the night air, the white kittens tussling on my bed. I’ve met with Paige a number of times over the past few days, lunching with her and Aunt Vyvian twice in the city and shopping together once for shoes. I greatly prefer her company to both Echo’s and Fallon’s.
For the past hour, Mage Florel has been primping and painting me while Aunt Vyvian stands watch, arms crossed. My aunt directs Mage Florel with the seriousness of a master painter overseeing a work of vital importance, and before long, it seems as if I’m not really in the room. As if I’m staring at someone else, disbelief washing over me.
The messy hair I’ve never known what to do with now hangs past my shoulders, woven into intricate braids, my eyes rendered large and mysterious by heavy makeup. My eyebrows, which have been plucked and shaped, heighten the effect. My lips are now full and scarlet, my cheekbones accented with blush. It’s amazing—all of the unpleasant, sharp lines of my face transformed into a vision of powerful elegance. And that’s not all—my ears and neck are graced with gold-set emeralds, and the gown Mage Florel made for me...
It’s breathtaking. The subtly woven vines appear and disappear as the fabric moves, the shimmering tunic like a second skin flowing out over the underskirt.
My grandmother, more than any other woman, was the standard bearer of Gardnerian beauty. Known as “The Black Witch” by our enemies, she was one of the most powerful Gardnerian Mages ever. Intellectually brilliant, artistically gifted, stunningly beautiful and a ruthlessly effective commander of our military forces—she was all of these things.
And I don’t just resemble her. I’m her absolute spitting image.
“Yes,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “that will do. I think our work here is finished, Heloise.” She gets up and smiles broadly. “Elloren, you will come down to the party in an hour’s time. Paige will escort you.” She turns to Paige. “Bring her down the central staircase. I want her to make an entrance.” My aunt pauses to take me in once more, then leaves with Mage Florel, the two women chatting amiably as they go.
I go back to staring at myself in the mirror, dumbstruck.
“You must be so proud,” Paige says reverently. “Your grandmother was such a great woman. You must have a calling to follow in her footsteps, Elloren, or else the Ancient One wouldn’t have blessed you with her looks. Wait until everyone sees you!”
* * *
I follow Paige through the winding hallways, populated only by the occasional, harried Urisk maid rushing past and deferentially ignoring us.
As we step out onto a cherrywood-banistered mezzanine, I feel my throat go dry. I pause at the crest of a sweeping staircase and look down over a mammoth, circular hall.
A sea of important-looking Gardnerians lies before us, uniformly garbed in black. Roughly half of them are in military uniform, most high-ranking, a few wearing the silver-edged cloaks of the magically powerful.
First, there are a few curious glances our way. Then someone gasps. A hush falls over the room.
I blink down at them, distracted by the enormous chandelier that dominates the foyer—hundreds of candles set on the branches of a carved, inverted frostbirch tree hung with leaf-shaped crystals. It suffuses the entire room with a dancing, changeable glow.
My eyes circle around the foyer, my gaze drawn toward a man standing in its center. He’s tall and slender and wearing a long, dark priest’s tunic, the image of a white bird emblazoned on his chest. He’s younger than most priests, with compelling razor-sharp features, a high forehead and straight black hair that falls to his shoulders. His green eyes are so intense and vivid, they seem to glow white-hot, as if lit from within.
He’s staring at me with a look of recognition so strong, it throws me.
An image bursts into view—the scorched shell of a tree, black limbs rising up against a barren sky.
Sucked into the image’s dark void, I grasp at the balcony for support.
The tree flickers then sputters out.
I squint up at the chandelier and let out a deep breath. Perhaps a trick of the light. It had to be a trick of the light.
Heart pulsing, I glance back down at the priest. He’s still staring at me with disconcerting familiarity. My aunt is standing close beside him. She beckons me to join their circle with one graceful, outstretched hand, her dark tunic and skirts winking sapphire.
Paige puts her hand on my shoulder, her voice soft and encouraging. “Go ahead, Elloren.”
Feeling rattled, I force one foot in front of the other and focus on the rich, emerald carpeting of the stairs that mutes my footsteps and blessedly keeps me from slipping on my new, slick heels, my hand tight on the shiny railing. The cherrywood steadies me, the source tree solid and strong.
As I step off the last stair, the wide-eyed, appreciative crowd parts, and soon I’m standing before the young priest. The image of the lifeless tree sputters to life once more. Thrown, I blink hard to clear the image, and it rapidly fades to nothing.
There’s something so wrong here. It’s like I’m standing before a deep forest, everyone sure that nothing’s amiss. But a wolf is waiting in the shadows.
I meet the priest’s overpowering stare.
“Elloren,” my aunt beams. Her hand sweeps toward him. “This is Marcus Vogel. He sits on the Mage Council with me and may well be our next High Mage. Priest Vogel, my niece, Elloren Gardner.”
Marcus Vogel reaches out with serpentine grace, takes my hand and leans to kiss it, fascinated curiosity lighting his gaze.
I fight the urge to slink back.
His skin is oddly warm. Almost hot. And he’s looking at me as if he can see clear into the back of my head to the image of the tree still reverberating there.
“Elloren Gardner,” he croons, his voice unexpectedly throaty. There’s a subtle, seductive quality to him that sets off a probing heat deep in my center—like an eerie invasion. I tense myself against it.
Vogel closes his eyes, smiles and takes a deep breath. “Her power. It courses through your veins.” He opens his eyes, his gaze now riveted on my hand. He traces a finger languidly over the skin of it, and an uncomfortable shiver works its way up my spine. Vogel lifts his gaze to mine, eyes intent, his voice a lull. “Can you feel it?”
I’m cast into a troubled confusion. “No,” I force out as I try to unobtrusively tug my hand away. He holds firm.
“Has she been wandtested?” His question to my aunt comes out thick as dark honey.
“Yes, several times,” my aunt assures him. “She’s powerless.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his unflinching eyes boring down on Aunt Vyvian.
My confident, unflappable aunt visibly wilts under Vogel’s penetrating stare. “Yes...yes, quite.” Aunt Vyvian falters. “Her uncle assured me of it. He had her formally tested again only last year.”
I look to my aunt, astonished by both her cowering behavior and her words. No one wandtested me a year ago. I haven’t been tested since I was a small child.
Why did Uncle Edwin lie?
Vogel’s black void presses into me, warm and relentless, and I inwardly shrink back from it, eyeing his fiery stare with mounting trepidation.
Why does he unnerve me so much when Aunt Vyvian and so many other Mages clearly worship the ground he walks on?
Vogel releases my hand and I pull it back protectively, fingers repeatedly clenching, trying to throw off the disturbing feel of him.
“What a pity,” he laments, reaching up to touch my face with deft, artist’s fingers. I resist the urge to recoil. He tilts his head in question and breathes deeply, as if smelling the air. “And yet...there is something of Carnissa’s essence about her. It’s strong.”
“Ah, yes,” my aunt assents with a wistful smile, “she does have some of Mother in her.” Aunt Vyvian proudly launches into a description of my musical accomplishments, my easy acceptance into University.
Vogel’s half listening to her, his eyes fixed on my hands. “You’re not fasted,” he says to me, the words flat and oddly hard.
Defiance flares, deep in my core. I look straight at him. “Neither are you.”
“Good Heavens, child,” a neatly bearded Council member puts in, a golden Council M pinned to his tunic. “Mage Vogel’s a priest. Of course he’s not fasted.” The Council Mage shakes his head and titters a nervous, apologetic laugh toward Priest Vogel.
Vogel ignores him. “She needs to be well fasted,” he says to my aunt, his eyes tight on mine.
“She will be,” Aunt Vyvian assures him.
Vogel briefly turns to my aunt. “To someone of considerable power.”
She smiles conspiratorially. “Of course, Marcus. She’s under my wing now.”
“Has she met Lukas Grey?”
Aunt Vyvian leans to whisper something into Vogel’s ear, her stiff skirts rustling. The other members of their circle fall into easy conversation with each other.
I barely hear them, distracted by the feel of Marcus Vogel’s penetrating stare.
The sound of a boisterous group entering finally draws my attention away.
Fallon Bane sweeps into the room. She’s surrounded by a throng of handsome military apprentices in slate-gray uniforms, as well as her military guard and a few other officers decked out in soldier black. Orbiting them is a smattering of lovely young women.
But none is more beautiful than Fallon.
If she possessed a gown made of the same fabric as mine, she quickly abandoned it. The lush gown she now wears is a spectacular, glittering affair that flies in screaming defiance of the accepted dress code—scandalously purple on the edge of black, rather than black on the edge of purple. The two military men she’s flanked by possess her same features, stunning eyes and smug grin. They must be Fallon’s brothers—one of them taller, his uniform black, while the other wears military-apprentice gray. And they both bear five stripes of silver on their arms.
Fallon instantly zeroes in on me. She lifts a hand as if taunting me, and sends a spiral of smoke rising up that flashes a rainbow of colors. The crowd erupts into delighted “oohs” and “aahs” as all the attention in the room pivots toward her. The older military men in our circle eye her with wary deliberation. Military apprentices aren’t supposed to use magic unless they have permission—it can be grounds for dismissal from our Mage Guard.
The military commander near my aunt gestures toward the officer beside him with a subtle patting of the air—let it go. My head starts to throb. Apparently Fallon Bane isn’t just powerful. It seems she exists independent of all the usual rules.
Fallon jerks her wand, and the colored smoke disappears in a riot of multicolored sparking. The young people surrounding her laugh and applaud.
Fallon resheathes her wand, narrows her eyes at me, leans in toward her taller black-clad brother and murmurs something as the others listen in. They all give each other looks of surprise, then turn to peer at me with expressions of amused disgust.
I clench my toes stiffly, heart sinking, and wonder what lies she’s spreading about me.
CHAPTER TEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Prophecy
After my aunt gives us leave, Paige leads me quickly away. Her arm’s threaded through mine as she pulls me through a pair of open, ornate doors and into a huge ballroom. Orchestral music swells around us, and I find myself quickly caught up in the grandeur of it.
We’re surrounded by well-to-do Gardnerians, some whirling on the dance floor. Many of the people we pass gasp at the sight of me, smile appreciatively and come forward to extend compliments to my “most excellent family.” Some Urisk servants in smart white tunics circulate with golden trays of small delicacies. Other Urisk serve food from a large table that holds a wide assortment of offerings set off beautifully by vases of red roses, everything richly lit by the multiple branched candelabras that grace the table.
Paige leads me through the crowd toward the food, then gives a start as she spots Fallon and her friends entering, surrounded by Fallon’s military guard. Paige hurriedly grabs two plates, throws some candied fruit on them both and pulls me into a dim corner, the two of us partially hidden by a gigantic potted fern.
“Is that Sylus next to Fallon?” I ask as Paige hands me a plate.
Paige’s brow goes tense as she nibbles at a sugared gooseberry. “Yes, that’s him.”
I shoot her a sympathetic glance as I take a bite of candied cherry. If Sylus Bane is anything like his sister, it’s the worst of luck for mild Paige to be fasted to him.
I glance around as Paige picks at the berries, her fingers quickly becoming sticky from the sugary fruit. My eyes widen in surprise as I catch sight of familiar faces.
“It’s... Sage Gaffney’s parents,” I murmur to Paige in astonishment. They’re in the broad hallway just off to the side of the ballroom, dressed in their usual high-necked, dour, conservative garb. Their expressions are solemn and pained, and they’re being hugged by a series of well-wishers, the peoples’ faces full of grave concern. I scour the room for other members of their family and find Sage’s oldest brother, Shane. He’s at the other end of the food tables, standing beside another potted fern, dressed in his soldier’s uniform and glowering at the crowd.
Paige places her hand on mine in caution. “Elloren, you can’t say her name. And you shouldn’t go to them. Something terrible has happened...”
“I know,” I tell her. “I know all about it. But I don’t understand. Why can’t I say her name?”
Paige swallows, her eyes flitting toward the Gaffneys fretfully. “She’s been Banished.”
“Banished?” I blanch, my mouth falling open. It’s a ritual cutting off. Like a funeral. Reserved for those whose actions are so heinous, their very existence is to be erased to restore honor and purity to their family. “But...my aunt told me they’re trying to help her.”
Paige glances over at Sage’s family, her expression mournful. “I guess she didn’t want to be helped.”
I remember how mad Sage was. Giving birth to an Icaral demon—it’s enough to drive anyone mad. An image fills my mind of Sage weaving me wreaths of ribbons and meadowlark flowers when I was a child. Of Sage letting me play with her little goats. And later, as teens, of Sage patiently teaching me how to embroider intricate designs. We’d sit under the broad oak tree that lies halfway between her estate and my cottage, quietly sewing Ironflowers along the hems of our garments. I always admired her for her quiet grace and artistic ways.
I set my plate down. “I’m going to speak to her brother.”
Paige fidgets. I can see she wants no part of this, that she’s scared by the Gaffneys’ proximity to a real-life nightmare, but she doesn’t stop me as I cross the ballroom to Shane’s side.
* * *
Shane’s hand is grasped around a crystal cup tightly as if he’s trying to decide whom to throw it at. He’s shorter than most of the young soldiers here, but compensates for it with the wiry, athletic build of a fighter—all lean muscle and angry, coiled energy.
“Shane,” I say carefully as I approach, looking around and keeping my voice low. “I heard about Sage.”
He grimaces sharply. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to say her name?” He gestures toward his family with his cup, a disgusted look on his face. “They might Banish you, too.”
I glance over at the Gaffneys, troubled. “What happened to her? Is she okay?”
His expression darkens with worry and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Elloren. I don’t know where she is. No one knows. And my younger sisters have run off with her.”
My breath catches tight. Her sisters, too! I remember the surreal sight of Sage heading into the wilderness and feel a sharp spike of guilt. Oh, Ancient One, I should have said something...
He shakes his head again in disbelief. “They sent the entire Fifth Division out after them. But they couldn’t find them. It’s like they all disappeared into thin air.”
The Fifth Division is made up of the best Gardnerian trackers. It’s impossible to hide from them. They gained notoriety during the Realm War, ferreting out secret enemy bases, locating hidden groups of dangerous Fae. It’s rumored that the best of them can read a week-old trail left behind in the woods. I know all this because they’ve been actively recruiting my brother, Rafe, for a few years now.
“Isn’t that your division?” I ask. “Why aren’t you out with them?” Shane’s a tracker. And a talented one at that. Just like Rafe.
Shane’s face twists into a mask of bitterness. “Well, Elloren, it seems they thought I lacked the necessary level of detachment needed to kill my own sister.”
My face blanches. “Kill her?”
Shane’s expression turns pained. “She didn’t just give birth to an Icaral, Elloren. They believe she’s given birth to the Icaral.”
I’m frozen into stunned silence.
We all know of the Prophecy, set down by the late Atellian Lumyn, one of the greatest Seers our church has ever known.
A Great Winged One will soon arise and cast his fearsome shadow upon the land. And just as Night slays Day, and Day slays Night, so also shall another Black Witch rise to meet him, her powers vast beyond imagining. And as their powers clash upon the field of battle, the heavens shall open, the mountains tremble and the waters run crimson...and their fates shall determine the future of all Erthia.
Lumyn was considered to be a prophet, his writings read by all pious Gardnerians and second only to our holy scripture, The Book of the Ancients. He died when I was a child living in Valgard, and I still remember the crowded streets on the day of his funeral, the communal outpouring of grief.
Mage Lumyn accurately predicted the rise of my grandmother to power and her battle with an Icaral demon. He set down his final Prophecy soon after my grandmother’s death and the end of the Realm War, and it sent waves of shock barreling through Gardneria. My people thought the Icaral demons were defeated. That they were finally safe from the Icarals’ terrible fire and winged darkness. But now an even greater demonic threat loomed on the horizon.
“The time is here,” Shane rasps in a harsh whisper. “The Church Seers have confirmed it. And not just them. The Seers of other races, too. They’ve all read the same message—the Icaral of Prophecy is here. A male, possessed of his wings and full powers. Every other male Icaral has been captured and stripped of its wings. Don’t you see, Elloren? It has to be my sister’s baby.”
“No.” I shake my head, desperate to refute this. It’s too awfully bizarre. How could kind, thoughtful Sage give birth to the demon of Prophecy? “It can’t be...”
But I know from his expression that it can.
Shane looks down at his punch glass, barely able to contain his misery. “Did you know he beat her?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Tobias. Quite the temper that one has.” He looks around at the crowd, anguish breaking through. “You know, she did everything they ever wanted her to do. All of them. He started in on her soon after she got to University. That’s why she ran off with that Kelt.” Now he’s grasping his glass so hard I fear it might shatter. “He took advantage of her,” Shane grinds out, fury swimming in his eyes. “Isn’t that just like a Kelt? He used my sister, forced his filthy self on her and now...” He breaks off, his eyes glazing over with angry tears.
I reach out for him, but he flinches away from me.
“Shane, it can’t be,” I press, undaunted. “The Prophecy isn’t just about an Icaral. There has to be a Black Witch, too, and there isn’t anyone with that level of power...”
Shane shoots me a look of wild incredulity. “Of course there is. Or there will be.” He glances pointedly across the room at the Banes.
My throat tightens. Fallon Bane. The next Black Witch. Sent to kill the demon baby of Sage Gaffney. It’s the stuff of nightmares.
I turn back to Shane, my voice weak. “Do you really think Fallon Bane could become that powerful?”
“Yes, at the rate her power’s growing.” Shane’s face closes down, his voice going hard, devoid of all hope. “There’s nothing that can be done about it, Elloren. It’s all over for my sister. Go back to your family. This isn’t your affair.”
I look toward Fallon.
She pulls out her wand and mock points it at a thin military apprentice. He freezes, and the others in her party grow silent and tense.
This isn’t allowed. Apprentices are forbidden from pulling wands on each other.
I’m stunned. There are officers dotting the entire ballroom and, again, no one rebukes Fallon for a flagrant violation of the rules.
Fallon laughs and resheathes her wand, diffusing the tension, the onlookers breaking out into nervous laughter. The young apprentice gives them all a thin, frightened smile before slinking away.
Fallon watches him leave, then fixes her eyes on me. Her smile is slow and deliberate, her message unmistakable.
Careful, Elloren Gardner. That could easily be you.
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Aislinn Greer
Shane takes his leave, and in an effort to calm myself down, I walk over to the refreshment table to get something to drink.
I pour myself some punch but find that my hands are shaking, the glass ladle chattering against the crystal cup as I fill it with sweet, red liquid dotted with edible flower petals. Summoned by Sylus, Paige has reluctantly gone to join him, leaving me all alone.
Suddenly aware of someone’s eyes on me, I glance to the side.
A slight, plain young woman with intelligent green eyes is regarding me calmly from where she sits, a book open and facedown on her lap, her hands resting on it. She’s dressed like Echo Flood, in a conservative, multilayered frock with a silver Erthia sphere hanging from it. No makeup. I notice that the hands resting on her book are unmarked, like mine, and it seems incongruous. Her dress pegs her as a girl from a very conservative family, yet she’s unfasted.
“Fallon doesn’t seem to like you,” she comments as she glances over at Fallon, who’s laughing and eating with her friends. She smiles at me sympathetically, her eyes kind. “You’re brave, you know. In your choice of enemies.”
“You don’t like her, then?” I ask, surprised.
The young woman shakes her head. “Fallon? She’s mean as a snake. So are her brothers.” She shoots me a look of caution. “Mind you, if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”
I raise my eyebrows, relieved to finally be meeting someone outside Fallon’s social circle. I extend my hand to her. “I’m Elloren Gardner.”
She laughs and takes my hand in hers. “That’s obvious. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Let me guess,” I say guardedly. “I’m the girl who looks exactly like my grandmother?”
“No,” she laughs, “you’re the girl who’s been living under a rock somewhere up north. But I think your real claim to fame is that you’ve never been kissed.”
My face going hot, I sigh and reach up to massage my aching forehead. “I should never have told her that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to comfort me. “I have been kissed, and it’s overrated.”
I stop rubbing my forehead. “Really?”
“Really. Two people, smushing their mouths together, tasting each other’s spit, possibly with food bits mixed into it. It’s not at all appealing, when you really think about it.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re a dyed in the wool romantic, aren’t you?”
“I am not the least bit romantic,” she affirms, somewhat proudly. “Romance just complicates life, sets up unrealistic expectations.”
She sits there so neatly, her discreet dress perfectly pressed, her long black hair carefully brushed and pulled back off her face with two silver barrettes.
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right young man yet,” I offer.
“No, I’ve met him,” she says, matter-of-factly. “We’ll be wandfasted by the end of the year. He’s over there.” She gestures with her chin toward the entrance to the large ballroom. “The one just to the right of the door.”
He’s much like all the other young men who are milling about. Square jaw, black hair, green eyes.
I turn back to her. “So you’ve kissed him.”
“Yes, it’s expected.” She sighs with resignation. “They wait so long for...other things, our men. We’re supposed to throw them a bone every now and then, I guess.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“It’s not awful, don’t get me wrong. I mean, it’s tolerable.”
Her lack of enthusiasm makes me laugh. “You make it sound like doing chores!”
“Well, it kind of is.” She’s smiling at me good-humoredly.
“You feel this way, and you’re okay with fasting to him? With marrying him?”
She shrugs. “Oh, Randall’s all right. He’ll make a good fastmate, I suppose. My parents picked him out for me, and I trust them.”
“You mean you had no say in the matter?”
“I don’t need to have a say. I trust them. I knew they wouldn’t pick someone mean. They chose fastmates for my two older sisters, as well.”
I’m fascinated by her complete acceptance of this. “Don’t you want to choose your own fastmate?” Uncle Edwin would never just pick someone for me. Maybe he’d introduce me to someone nice, but he’d certainly leave the decision solely with me.
She shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter who chooses. Most of them are pretty interchangeable anyway. I mean, look at them.” She gestures toward a group of young men dismissively. “It’s hard to even tell them apart.”
She has a point. Looking around the room, I have to admit I’d be hard-pressed to find a memorable face, one that stands out in true contrast.
“What are you reading?” I ask, noticing her book again.
She flushes. “Oh, it’s just a book for University,” she explains, a little too innocently. “I’m getting a head start on my reading.”
The cover confirms what she’s told me: An Annotated History of Gardneria. On second thought, though, the paper cover doesn’t fit the book exactly, hanging a bit over on the sides.
“What are you really reading?” I probe.
At first, her eyes widen in surprise, and then she slumps back in her chair, sighs and hands the book over in mock defeat. “You can’t tell anyone,” she whispers conspiratorially.
I peek under the cover and flip through it. “Love poems!” I whisper back, chuckling. I hand the book back to her and smile. “I thought you weren’t romantic.”
“Not in real life,” she clarifies. “I guess I like the idea of it, though. But I realize it’s pure, unadulterated fantasy.”
“You’re funny,” I say, smiling at her.
She cocks her head to one side, considering me. “And you’re completely different than how I expected you’d be. I’m Aislinn Greer, by the way. My father sits on the Mage Council with your aunt. We’ll be fellow scholars at University.”
“Elloren, I see you’ve made a new friend.”
I turn to find my aunt gliding up to us.
“Good evening, Mage Damon.” Aislinn greets my aunt respectfully as she covers the book with both hands.
“Good evening, Aislinn,” Aunt Vyvian beams. “I was just speaking with your father. So nice to see you here.” She turns to me. “Elloren, I’d like you to go fetch your violin. Priest Vogel would like to hear you perform for us this evening.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor. “Perform? Now? For everyone?”
“Your uncle has told me time and again how extraordinarily talented you are.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Vyvian... I... I can’t...” I’ve never once performed for a crowd, and just the thought of it makes me feel sick with apprehension.
“Nonsense, child,” Aunt Vyvian says dismissively. “Run along and fetch your instrument. No one keeps the next High Mage waiting.”
CHAPTER TWELVE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Lukas Grey
It’s a relief when I finally leave the crowded ballroom for the private hallway that leads to my room, my feet cramped in my pinching shoes. I briefly ponder escape.
I enter the deserted room and my breath immediately catches tight in my throat.
There, lying open on my bed, is a violin case. Within, nestled comfortably in green velvet, is a Maelorian violin—the highest-quality violin in the Western Realm, made by Elves in the northern Maelorian Mountains from rare Alfsigr spruce. There’s a note card carefully slid under the strings, a message written in my aunt’s flowing script.
Make the family proud.
I sit down beside the violin and stare at it. How Aunt Vyvian obtained the use of such an instrument, I can’t begin to imagine. When I finally take it in my hands, I feel as if I’m lifting a holy object. A picture of a tapering Alfsigr spruce tree set on a sloping mountainside caresses my mind as I gently pluck at the strings.
Perfectly in tune.
A tingling excitement bubbles up within me as I tighten the bow, lift the instrument into position and slide the bow across the A string.
A perfect note sounds on the air, pure as a still blue lake.
A rush of joy quickens my heart. Overwhelmed, I set the instrument down, go to my travel bag and fish excitedly through the music folder for my favorite piece, Winter’s Dark, quickly locating the stiff parchment. I stare at the crisp lines of notes, the music already dancing in my head.
I glance over at the door and my euphoria rapidly implodes, my unwelcome task waiting to press down on me like a miller’s stone.
Steeling myself, I make a decision. If I’m going to go down in flames in front of half of Valgard, I might as well go down in flames to the tune of the most beautiful piece of music ever composed for the violin.
I carefully secure the violin, tuck my music under one arm, force myself to my feet and purposefully walk out to meet my doom—well, as purposefully as one can possibly walk in the most uncomfortable shoes ever invented.
* * *
I reenter the crowded ballroom and immediately begin to fall apart at the seams, my mouth becoming dry, my gut clenching and worst of all—my hands start to tremble.
My aunt regards me with a polite smile as I approach. She’s speaking with Priest Vogel and a group of Mage Council members. Marcus Vogel stares at me with unblinking intensity, and I wonder again if he can read my mind.
“Thank you for the use of this...amazing violin, Aunt Vyvian,” I say, my voice quavering.
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” she beams. “We’re ready for you.” She gestures toward a gold music stand positioned next to the orchestra and in front of a magnificently carved piano, the ebony of its wood cut into the likeness of multiple trees that support the piano’s broad surface on leafy branches.
Aunt Vyvian leads me to the music stand. The members of the orchestra dip their heads and smile in greeting. I stoop down to fumble with the violin case as the trembling in my hands worsens.
“This is Enith,” my aunt says. I look up to see a young Urisk girl with wide, sapphire eyes and bright blue skin. “She can turn the pages for you.”
“Pages?”
My aunt looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses. “Of your music.”
“Oh, yes...of course.” I straighten up and reach under my arm, handing the parchment to the Urisk girl. She takes in my shaking hands, her brow knit with worry.
The conversation in the vast room gradually dies down to a hush as more and more of the guests notice my aunt waiting for their attention.
“I’d like to introduce my niece, Elloren Gardner,” Aunt Vyvian says smoothly. “Some of you have had the pleasure of meeting her already. Some of you will be attending University with her this year.”
I look out over the crowd and am horrified to see Fallon working her way to the front with a large group of young people.
I reach up to turn to the first page of my music and knock it clear off the stand, the pages scattering everywhere on the floor.
“Sorry,” I choke out hoarsely.
I crouch down and fumble around for the pages, the Urisk girl stooping to help me. I can hear Fallon and her entourage trying to disguise their derisive laughter with coughing.
After what seems like a mortifying eternity, I rise. The Urisk girl grabs the music from my hands, perhaps not willing to let me ruin her designated end of the job.
I lean down again to lift the violin out of its case, rise, steady it with my chin and tense my bow arm to try and bring my trembling under control.
Fallon and her group watch me with wicked anticipation. Aislinn Greer, who’s standing near the front of the crowd, nods with friendly encouragement.
I fear I might throw up right there in front of all of them if I hesitate any longer, so I begin.
My bow strafes the violin with a harsh screech and I wince, surprising even myself with how incredibly horrible I sound. I plow on, disastrously off-key, as I struggle to stay focused on the music, feeling like I’m rapidly losing all control of my shaking hands.
I stop, violin still poised, tears stinging at my eyes, too ashamed to look into the crowd.
More coughing and shocked laughter waft over from Fallon’s direction.
The sound of their ridicule sends a spike of angry hurt through me, unexpectedly steeling my resolve. The violin’s wood faintly pulses with warmth. The image of rough, strong branches flickers behind my eyes then retreats, as if the wood is trying to reach me.
Bolstered, I concentrate on relaxing my hands, force the trembling into submission and begin again. This time my bow slides smoothly across the strings and the melody begins to fall into place. I grit my teeth and play on, the quality of the instrument rendering the music nearly passable...
And then it begins.
Piano music from behind me, accompanying me.
But not just any piano music—beautiful music, twining itself around my feeble attempts at the melody.
I falter for a moment in disbelief.
The piano music catches me, slowing where I’ve stumbled, improvising where I’ve missed the notes. Another swell of warmth suffuses the wood as sinuous branches fill my mind, winding through me.
I relax and fall into the music, little by little, my hands steadying, the notes coming into focus. I close my eyes. I don’t need to look at the music. I know this song.
The crowd in front of me fades then disappears until it’s just me, the violin, the piano and the tree.
And then, no longer relying on the piano for a safety net, I suddenly take off, my hands now steady and sure, the music soaring. I continue beautifully on, even after the piano falls away, leaving me to dive into the long violin solo at the heart of the piece.
Tears come to my eyes as the melody reaches its crescendo, the music piercing through me. I let it flow, through the wood of the bow, the wood of the violin, as I gently, gracefully bring the piece to its mournful close.
I lower my bow, eyes still closed, the room stone silent for one blessed, magical moment.
The ballroom erupts into loud, enthusiastic applause.
I open my eyes as the crowd converges around me, the members of the small orchestra showering me with a cacophony of praise and compliments.
But perhaps the clearest measure of the quality of my performance can be seen in the expression on Fallon Bane’s face. She stands, her mouth agape, looking horrified, while her friends regard me with newly blossoming approval.
I turn to find out who my savior at the piano is, and my breath hitches when I see him.
He is, by far, the best-looking young man I have ever seen in my life, with strong, finely chiseled features, the dashing attire of a Gardnerian soldier and absolutely riveting deep green eyes.
And he’s smiling at me.
I can guess who this is without needing to be introduced.
Lukas Grey.
He gets up from the piano seat in one fluid, graceful movement. He’s tall with broad shoulders, the lean body of a natural athlete, and the controlled movements of a panther. And the sleeves of his black military tunic are marked with five silver bands.
As he approaches me, Fallon Bane immediately falls in next to him, threads her arm territorially through his and fixes me with a threatening glare.
Lukas glances down at Fallon’s arm with surprised amusement, then looks back up at me and cocks one black eyebrow, as if we’re old friends sharing an inside joke. Suddenly, my aunt appears at Lukas’s other side and she focuses in on Fallon, a pleasant, yet calculating look on her face.
“Fallon, dear,” she croons, “Priest Vogel and I need to speak with you.”
Fallon’s face takes on an expression of sheer panic as her eyes dart back and forth from Lukas to me and back to my aunt again. She opens her mouth as if trying to formulate a protest, but nothing comes out. Lukas continues to look at me with those dazzling eyes, amused by the situation.
“Come along, dear.” My aunt directs Fallon. She gestures across the room to where Priest Vogel stands surrounded by a bright-eyed, adoring throng. I cautiously meet the priest’s piercing gaze, and he nods.
Fallon releases Lukas’s arm like she’s abandoning a hard-won treasure and shoots me a look of pure loathing. “I’ll be right back,” she snipes as she passes, her tone holding a thick edge of menace.
As my aunt leads her firmly away, Fallon glances back at us repeatedly, her face a mask of furious desperation.
I turn to Lukas.
Holy Ancient One, he’s beautiful.
“Thank you for playing,” I say with honest gratitude.
He places an arm casually on the top of the piano, leaning into it. “It was a pleasure. It’s not often that I get to play with a superior musician. It was a privilege, actually.”
I laugh nervously. “I’m not the superior musician. I pretty much butchered the beginning.”
His eyes glint. “Yes, well, you were nervous. But you quickly made up for it.”
He languidly pushes himself up and holds his hand out to me. “I’m Lukas Grey.”
“I know,” I reply unsteadily, taking his hand. His handshake is firm and strong.
“You know?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Fallon. When I saw her take your arm, I figured out who you were. She told me that you’re about to be fasted to her.”
“Oh, did she now?” He’s grinning again.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“She did corner me earlier to tell me all about you,” he says, smiling.
“What did she say?”
“Well, the obvious. That you look exactly like your grandmother.” He leans in so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “I’ve seen portraits of your grandmother. You’re much more attractive than she ever was.”
I gulp, mesmerized by him.
He straightens back up as my face starts to betray my quickening pulse by coloring.
“What else did she tell you?” I ask.
“She said that you’re head over heels in love with Gareth Keeler.”
A nervous laugh comes sputtering out of me. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
“So it’s not true?”
“No!” I say, scrunching my face up in disbelief. “I mean...we used to take baths together!”
He grins wickedly.
“In a washbasin!” I splutter, making it worse.
“Lucky for him,” he says, raising his eyebrows in delight.
“No, no...it’s not at all what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that I’m becoming more envious of Gareth Keeler by the minute.”
“We were small children,” I cry, desperately trying to exorcise the picture forming in his mind. “I’ve known him all my life. We grew up together. He’s like a brother to me.”
He just stands there, grinning, enjoying this way too much.
I sigh. “What else did Fallon tell you?” I ask, giving up.
“She told me that you’ve never been kissed.”
I roll my eyes at this, mortified. “I should never have told her that. I think she’s told everyone in the room.”
He fixes me with eyes full of suggestion. “Well, that’s easily remedied.”
“What?” I say stupidly.
He steps back and holds out his hand. “C’mon,” he says, grinning.
I can make out Fallon across the room, still cornered by my aunt, giving us a look of pure rage.
Heart pounding, I take Lukas’s hand and follow as he leads me briskly through the crowd and out of the ballroom.
* * *
I pass Paige in the foyer, and her eyebrows shoot up. She frantically shakes her head from side to side and opens her mouth to say something, which comes out as an incoherent squeak. I know I’m infringing unforgivably on Fallon’s territory, but this is, by far, the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me.
I stumble a bit, trying to keep up with Lukas’s long stride as he leads me around the foyer’s staircase and down a series of halls. I catch glimpses of grandeur along the way—more chandeliers, a portrait of my grandmother, beautiful landscapes of the Verpacian mountains and the Voltic Sea.
The decor suddenly changes as we duck down a side hallway with deep maroon carpeting and burgundy walls suffused with the soft, amber glow of sporadic wall lamps. The hallway is deserted, the distant sounds of the party now muffled and far away. Lukas slows and leads me down the length of it, past where it curves to where it ends.
He stops and turns to face me, his grin returning. I step back and nervously feel for the wall behind me as I eye the ebony wand affixed to his belt.
He leans in close, places a hand on the wall beside me and reaches up to brush a loose tendril of my hair back behind my ear.
I swallow audibly, my heartbeat becoming erratic.
“Now,” he says silkily, “what’s this about your never having been kissed?”
I open my mouth to say something. To let him know that I don’t know how to kiss, and that I’m probably very bad at it, but before I can say anything, he raises my chin, leans in and brings his lips to mine with gentle pressure, all of my concerns instantly disappearing into a puff of smoke.
He lets his lips linger on mine briefly before pulling away a fraction and bringing his mouth close to my ear. “There,” he whispers softly. “Now you’ve been kissed.”
I’ve fallen into a complete daze. Aislinn was so very wrong about this.
I reach up tentatively and place my hands on his shoulders. I can feel the warmth of him through the silk of his tunic.
“You’re very beautiful,” he breathes as he leans in for another kiss.
His lips are more insistent this time, and I’m growing warm to his touch in a way I’ve never experienced, feeling as if I’m floating deeper and deeper into a dream. He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me in close. It feels so good to be kissed by him, to be so close to him—dangerously good. Better than the feel of smooth River Maple. Better than the velvety bark of the Verpacian Elm. Better than anything.
The feeling swells into a strong flash of sensation as if every piece of wood surrounding us fleetingly blazes with torchlight. The fire courses through me from my feet, through my body, heating my lips as a vision of dark, primordial forest fills my mind.
I gasp and pull back, the fire immediately dampening, the image blurred then gone.
Lukas looks momentarily stunned, his eyes gone wide, his hands tight around me.
“They told me about you,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the wild thrill of being with him. “They told me...that you’re powerful.”
Lukas’s eyes narrow in on me intently and he flashes me a disconcertingly wicked grin. “I am,” he says as he studies me. “But so are you. Perhaps even more so. I can sense it about you.” His fingers lightly trace along the back of my neck. “Only you don’t know it, do you?” His eyes darken. “Yet.”
My breath catches as he teasingly runs his thumb just above the collar on the back of my dress. It’s incredibly exciting and deeply alarming all at the same time.
I shake my head. “I only look like my grandmother. I’ve no magic.”
“Really,” Lukas says, cocking his head to one side contemplatively, his hand now resting loosely on my hip. “Have you ever picked up a wand, Elloren?”
“Not that I remember.”
His face takes on a darker look, the edges of his lips curling. “Well,” he says, pleased with this new knowledge, “we’ll just have to take care of that, as well.” He snakes his arm around my waist and leans in close. “You should be wandtested. By me.”
“Lukas!” a male voice calls from the hallway.
My body stiffens, my face reddening. Lukas, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed.
It’s Sylus Bane.
Sweet Ancient One, not another Bane. Not now.
Sylus’s eyes widen when he realizes who I am, then his gaze narrows, his mouth lifting in a jaded smirk. “Well, if it isn’t Mage Elloren Gardner! Fast work, Lukas. As usual, you have my complete and utter admiration.” He spits out a short laugh. “Just wait until Fallon gets wind of this...”
A creeping dread shivers up my spine. Fallon’s going to kill me.
“Is there a particular reason why you are so rudely interrupting us?” Lukas calmly asks.
There’s a chilly edge to his tone, and Sylus Bane’s smirk dampens. “Well,” Sylus explains, “we’re going...out. I assumed you’d be joining us. Unless, of course, you’re much too busy here?”
Lukas sighs and gives me a somewhat reluctant look. He turns to face Sylus. “I’ll meet you out front momentarily.”
Sylus grins wickedly, as if he’s won some secret contest, before he makes his exit. I relax a bit.
Lukas leans on the wall, one arm lightly around my waist.
I look closely at him. “Are you involved with Fallon Bane?”
He tilts his head and gives me a wry look. “I courted her. Briefly. Quite a while ago.”
“Oh.” I nod in complete understanding now.
He lets out a resigned sigh, his gaze level. “Our affinity lines clash. Disastrously, in my opinion, though obviously not in hers. She has a strong affinity for ice. I’ve none.” He rubs his fingers along my lower back, a delicious heat trailing his touch. His mouth tilts into a grin. “I’ve more of an affinity for fire.”
I hold his stare and imagine I could fall right into the smoldering green of it.
Trystan’s told me all about Mage affinities, how magic runs deep along elemental lines, every Mage possessing a different proportion of the five elementals: fire, earth, air, light and water, Trystan having leanings toward both fire and water magic.
I can sense Lukas’s magic. I can feel his fire.
Lukas has grown quiet and appears to be considering something.
“Come to the Yule dance with me,” he says.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a dance held every Yule at the University for Gardnerian scholars and graduates. Come with me.”
I swallow, not believing this is happening. It has to be a dream. “All right,” I say, nodding dumbly.
He grins widely and reaches up to play with my hair. “We should be getting back,” he says ruefully. “Your aunt will be wondering what became of you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, drawn in by his languid touch. “She seemed pretty happy to see us leave together.”
Overjoyed, actually.
“Yes, well...” he agrees, chuckling. He pulls away and offers me his arm. I thread my arm through his, part of me feeling oddly reckless, not wanting to leave, wanting to stay here alone with him, to feel the fire of his kiss light up the room.
When we reach the foyer, a group of young soldiers and military apprentices, Sylus amongst them, shout boisterously to Lukas. I look past them to see my brother Rafe approaching at a brisk pace, his eyes darting back and forth between Lukas and myself.
“Hey, Ren,” he greets me warmly.
I let go of Lukas’s arm and give my brother an affectionate hug.
“Where’s Trystan?” I ask, overjoyed to be with my brother again, but self-consciously aware of Lukas by my side.
“Trystan is staying with Gareth and his family,” Rafe tells me, smiling. “You know how much he loves large social gatherings.”
I laugh at this. “Where’s the harem that Trystan says you’re usually trailed by?” I tease.
He grins mischievously. “I just got here.” Rafe turns to Lukas, his smile becoming tight—less a friendly gesture, more a tiger bearing its teeth. “Giving my sister a tour, were you?”
“Something like that,” Lukas replies evenly.
Although Rafe is still smiling, his right arm clenches, his hand closing into a fist.
“How’s that bow arm of yours, Rafe?” Lukas asks pleasantly.
“Deadly accurate as ever, Lukas.”
Lukas turns to me, ignoring the sudden tension in the air. “I keep trying to get your brother to apprentice with the military. He could be very successful. Best tracker, best hunter...best Gardnerian archer I’ve ever seen. He’s a dangerous man, your brother.”
“Oh, now, I’m not all that dangerous, Lukas,” Rafe says, still smiling. “Not unless someone were to bother my little sister, that is.”
Lukas laughs at this. “I seriously doubt that she needs your protection, Rafe.”
Rafe’s eyes flicker toward me questioningly before lighting again on Lukas.
One of the soldiers calls out for Lukas to join them.
“I’ll let you two catch up with each other,” Lukas says. He takes my hand and leans to kiss the back of it, a smile on his lips. His touch sends a delicious chill down my spine and I struggle to maintain my composure. “Elloren, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. He straightens and turns to my brother. “Rafe,” he says as he tips his head to my brother in acknowledgment.
“Lukas,” my brother replies coolly.
We both watch as Lukas strides off in the direction of his fellow soldiers and makes his exit with them.
Rafe turns to me, visibly relaxing. “I hear you were quite the star tonight.” His face takes on a look of mock suspicion. “Who are you, and what have you done with my shy, reserved sister?”
“I’m her glamoured double,” I laugh.
The foyer is now mostly empty, except for the two of us. It seems the party is dying down, the buzz of conversation emanating from the ballroom quieter, the music now absent.
“Hey, Ren,” Rafe says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “you know I wouldn’t tell you how to run your life, right?”
I look up at him curiously, wondering what’s prompted this comment.
He inhales deeply, as if wanting to choose his words carefully. “I know Aunt Vyvian wants you fasted, but...don’t jump into anything with Lukas Grey, all right?”
I feel myself flushing and shrug evasively. “I’m not.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Rafe cautions me. “And I know you’re smart, but so is he. And he has more...experience in the world.”
I purse my lips in embarrassed annoyance, wanting to ignore this.
Rafe lets out a long sigh and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Just be careful, all right?”
“I will,” I promise edgily.
Upon hearing this, Rafe seems to relax, and his usual easy expression returns. “All right, all right,” he says, holding up his hands in mock defeat. “This concludes the overprotective older brother part of the evening.”
“Good,” I say with relief, attempting to bury his warning in the back of my mind. I notice a group of nice-looking girls hovering near the door to the ballroom, giggling and looking at Rafe.
“Hey, Rafe,” I say, “have you ever met Aislinn Greer?”
“Not formally.” He lifts one eyebrow in question.
“I just met her a while ago. I should introduce the two of you.”
He laughs. “You’re trying to set me up with her, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I realize you don’t need much help with that.” I glance over at the knot of giggling girls. I suspect they’ll converge around Rafe like a flock of geese as soon as I’m done talking to him. “Aislinn seems...different. She’s smart...nice...”
“I’ll tell you what,” he bargains, amused. “There’s a dance every Yule at University. You go with Gareth, and I’ll ask Aislinn Greer.”
“I can’t,” I say hesitantly, not wanting to displease my older brother. “I’ve already agreed to go with Lukas.”
“Elloren.” He reaches out to touch my arm, his voice once again serious. “I’m not kidding about Lukas Grey. Stay away from him. He’s incredibly powerful. You’re playing with fire there.”
Maybe I want to play with fire.
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, my tone completely and utterly noncommittal.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Wandfasting
“I received some correspondence this morning,” my aunt informs me as we sit in her breakfast alcove.
We’re surrounded on three sides by arching windows that overlook well-maintained gardens. A nearby display of blood-red roses pierces the gloomy, overcast day.
I can barely make out the sound of silverware on the gilded porcelain as my aunt neatly cuts into the omelete and spiced fruit before her. Her half-eaten scone sits pristinely on an adjacent plate. Everything she does—calligraphy, eating, dressing—is always so tidy. It’s easy to feel disheveled and bumbling next to her constant perfection. I glance down at my own half-eaten scone, a circle of fine crumbs orbiting the plate.
“Correspondence from whom?” I wonder as I try to clean up my stray crumbs with the tip of my finger.
“Lukas Grey’s parents.”
My finger freezes. I look up, my aunt taking her time with this news as she tranquilly sips at her tea.
“Are you friends with them, then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
My aunt shoots me a bemused smile. “Of course, dear. I’ve known Lachlan and Evelyn for years.”
I take a small bite from my scone, attempting to appear nonchalant.
“Apparently,” she continues, as she cradles her teacup, “Lukas indicated to them last night that he would agree to fast to you.”
I choke on the scone. “What?”
My aunt flashes a large, white smile at me, like a cat that has just eaten a canary. “It seems you made quite an impression.”
“He wants to wandfast to me?” I sputter, crumbs flying from my mouth.
She eyes me quizzically. “Why are you so surprised? You’re of age, Elloren. Most Gardnerian girls your age are already fasted, or are soon about to be...”
“But I’ve only just met him!”
“That’s of no consequence,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.
I stare at her, stunned. Of no consequence. Seriously?
“We should arrange for the two of you to be fasted as soon as possible,” Aunt Vyvian states decidedly. “Enith...”
My aunt turns to the blue-skinned Urisk girl who helped me with my music last night. She stands against the wall, silent and expressionless, like a statue.
“Yes, ma’am?” Enith responds.
“Send word to the Greys,” my aunt instructs. “Let them know that Elloren is very pleased to accept Lukas’s proposal and that we would like to arrange for the fasting to take place as soon as possible. Perhaps after tomorrow’s church service.”
“Wait...” I plead, interrupting her. “I can’t fast to Lukas.”
Aunt Vyvian holds her scone in suspended animation. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
Enith is glowering at me, wide-eyed and appalled, like I’ve just thrown a jar of preserves at both of them.
“I’ve known him exactly one day.” Sweet Ancient One, what could Lukas be thinking?
“Elloren,” my aunt breathes, setting her scone down, “this type of proposal, from a family such as this, from a young man such as Lukas Grey, does not come along every day.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I can’t. I’ve only just met him. And...and I promised Uncle Edwin...”
“Promised him what?”
“That I’ll wait until I’m done with my education to fast to someone.”
My aunt’s mouth falls open. “But that’s at least two years from now!”
“I know.”
“Elloren,” she says, her voice low, “you’d be a fool to turn down this proposal.”
My resolve stiffens. “Perhaps if he likes me that much, he can court me first.”
Her eyes take on a hard glint. “Perhaps I should send word to the Greys that they should reconsider their initial plan.”
“What plan?”
“Why, to have Lukas fasted to Fallon Bane, my dear.”
I freeze, completely thrown. “But,” I counter, “Lukas told me he’s not going to fast to Fallon.”
My aunt makes a sound of derision. “Really, Elloren. Do you honestly think he’ll wait for you forever?” Her gaze turns calculating. “I’m sure Fallon Bane would be happy to take your place.”
An unbidden image of Lukas kissing smug, perfect Fallon forms in my mind, his back to me as he clings to her passionately, her eyes open, glaring at me with malicious triumph. She wouldn’t hesitate to accept a wandfasting proposal from Lukas Grey.
But to fast to him after knowing him for only one day—that would be madness.
And Rafe has concerns. Enough to warn me off Lukas.
“Do you want to be alone all your life, Elloren?” my aunt coos, leaning forward. “Don’t you want to be fasted someday? To have a family? Do you know how unlikely that will be if you go unfasted for much longer?” She sits back. “Of course there will be a few choices left after you finish University. The young men that no one else wants. But is that what you really want?”
Her words get under my skin, and I momentarily wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.
A chill starts from deep within me, and it has nothing to do with the damp outside. I suddenly very much want my uncle.
“I... I just can’t,” I say weakly.
She narrows her eyes at me. “What, pray tell, am I to tell Lukas’s parents?”
“Tell them,” I begin, my throat becoming constricted, “that I am very thankful for their proposal and I will consider it, but I need time to get to know Lukas a little better.”
“It seems like you were getting to know him pretty well last night, my dear,” she snipes as she takes a sip of her tea.
My face goes hot.
“Don’t you think my servants tell me everything?” She purses her lips at me. “If you’re going to indulge in that type of behavior, Elloren, you need to fast to the young man, and quickly.”
I’m completely mortified.
“If you assume I’m going to sit idly by and watch while you go off to University unfasted and potentially disgrace your entire extended family by falling in with the wrong man, like Sage Gaffney did, you certainly don’t know me very well.” She sets down her tea and leans forward. “You forget, Elloren, that not only will I refuse to pay your University tithe while you are unfasted, I know and am on very close terms with the University’s High Chancellor, in addition to most of the Gardnerian professors and the Lodging Mistress. If I need to, I can make things very unpleasant for you there.” She collects herself and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m only doing this for your own good, Elloren. And for the good of our family. You do realize you can avoid all sorts of unpleasantness if you simply agree to fast to Lukas Grey.”
It hurts that she would threaten me—like a sharp slap. “I’m not saying I won’t consider it,” I counter, thrown. “I just can’t fast to him so quickly. I’d like to get to know him a little first.”
If Uncle Edwin was here, he’d take my side.
“Honestly, Elloren,” she says coldly, “you are making this very difficult for me.”
My anger flares. “Then maybe it’s lucky for you that you’re not my official guardian.”
Silence. The Urisk girl freezes, her eyes gone wide with shock.
Aunt Vyvian’s gaze narrows. “My brother doesn’t always have the firmest grasp on reality, my dear. I would never have allowed him to take you in if I had known...” She breaks off, her eyes angrily brimming with some unspoken thought.
“Known what?” I press, stung by her easy dismissal of my uncle.
She leans forward, teeth bared. “That you would grow up to turn down a fasting proposal that every girl in Gardneria would give her eyeteeth for!”
Her expression turns venomous and I shrink back, shocked by the frightening change in her demeanor.
My aunt quickly collects herself, regaining her careful sheen of control, like thick curtains being drawn around her true feelings.
“I shall simply have to find a way to help you change your mind,” she states, her voice once again tranquil. She lightly taps her teacup.
The Urisk girl springs forward to fill it, as if her life depends on it.
My aunt takes her time, mixing some cream into her tea. “I have found that everyone can be persuaded to do the right thing if the right kind of pressure is applied.”
I stare at her with a new wariness, watching as she lifts the porcelain cup with long, graceful fingers.
“Everyone has a breaking point, Elloren. Everyone.” She regards me levelly. “Don’t force me to find yours.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Icarals
The next morning our ride to church is uncomfortably silent, our carriage surrounded by Aunt Vyvian’s personal guard. Dark clouds loom above Valgard and threaten a storm. I peer up at them, my cheek pressed against the cool glass of the carriage’s window, wishing I was with my brothers and Gareth.
Aunt Vyvian is studying me icily, perhaps considering how best to bend my will. She’s been trying to convince me to wandfast for every one of the fifteen days we’ve been together, and that pressure, after yesterday’s wandfasting offer, has now turned markedly oppressive. She’s keeping me with her until the last possible moment, desperate to have me buckle and wandfast to Lukas Grey before going off to University.
We’re to arrive at Valgard’s Grand Cathedral hours before morning service so that Aunt Vyvian can discuss some government business with Priest Vogel. Then she’s insisting I attend service with her—where, I suspect, we’ll conveniently run into Lukas and his family. I flush uncomfortably at the thought of seeing him again.
Later, after the service, I’m to make the carriage journey to University alone. Rafe, Trystan and Gareth are long gone, having left together early this morning on horseback.
I long to be with them. I don’t want to be in these fancy, restrictive clothes that necessitate slower carriage travel anymore. And I long to break free of Aunt Vyvian’s unforgiving watch. I want to be on horseback with my brothers and Gareth, riding to Verpacia and the bustling University.
Soon, I remind myself. You’ll be out of here soon enough.
The dark forest of buildings ahead gives way to an expansive, circular plaza, a larger-than-life marble statue of my grandmother dominating its middle. I focus right in on it, wondering if I’ll be able to make out my own features in the marble face, but it’s too far away.
Approaching the plaza, we make a sharp turn to the right, and I almost gasp as Valgard’s Cathedral bursts into view, even grander than I remembered it.
* * *
Broad, sweeping columns rise skyward, eventually coalescing to form one, narrowing spire that supports a silver Erthia sphere at its zenith. The whole structure is wrought from Ironwood the color of wet earth. A mammoth central arch with two smaller, adjacent arches frames the entrance, the huge front doors richly carved with images from The Book of the Ancients.
The carriage halts just in front of the cathedral, and I almost trip down its steps as I disembark, my gaze riveted on the immense, vertigo-inducing structure. I crane my neck to take it all in, the silver sphere highlighted by the darkening sky.
My aunt ushers me into the cathedral and toward one of the countless, intricately carved pews.
“Sit here,” she directs sternly.
I obey as her heels click down an aisle that leads to the broad dais and altar. Two priests in dark, flowing robes circle the altar, lighting candles and waving incense, the white bird symbol of the Ancient One emblazoned on their chests. Above the altar hangs another Erthia sphere.
My aunt approaches the priests, then launches into hushed conversation with them. They take turns surreptitiously glaring in my direction as my stomach twists itself into uncomfortable knots. And then they’re gone, having exited together through a side door, leaving me all alone in the vast space.
I am bereft, my palms flat on the wood of my seat.
But soon the wood of the cathedral begins to lull me into a calmer state. Numerous columns, some straight, some diagonal and curving, rise toward an irregular ceiling covered with crisscrossing arches. It’s like being underneath the root system of an enormous, otherworldly tree.
I close my eyes, slide my palms against the wood and breathe in its amber scent.
Soothed, I open my eyes to find a copy of The Book of the Ancients sitting beside me.
I pick up the black, leather-bound tome and run my finger along its gilded title. I know this book well. Unbeknownst to my uncle, who seems to disapprove of religion in general, I keep my grandmother’s old copy under my pillow, the gilded holy book passed down to me by Aunt Vyvian when I was a small child. Sometimes, in the dark of night, when sadness comes, when the void left by my parents’ deaths seems too painful to bear, The Book’s many prayers for strength in times of hardship and sorrow are of great comfort to me.
Just as the first rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, I open to the first page and read.
The Creation
In the beginning, there was only the Ancient One. The universe was vast and empty. And out of the great, unfathomable nothingness, the Ancient One brought forth the planets and the stars, the sun and the moon and Erthia, the Great Sphere.
And on this Great Sphere, the Ancient One separated the land from the water and brought forth all manner of living things: the green plants, the birds of the air, the beasts of the field and forest and water.
And the Ancient One looked down upon it all and was pleased.
But the Ancient One was not finished. The breath of life was sent out over the Great Sphere, and from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree sprang the First Children, who were to dwell on the Great Sphere; and the Angelic Ones, who were to dwell in the Heavens.
At first, all dwelled in harmony.
All of creation joined together to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.
But it came to pass that the Angelic Ones, winged as they were, began to feel that they did not need to obey. They began to feel that they were better than the Ancient One, and that they owned the Heavens.
And it came to pass that the Angelic Ones flew down to the First Children and pleaded with them to turn away from the Ancient One and to worship them instead. The First Children were angered by this betrayal and refused. The First Children told the Angelic Ones that they would worship and glorify none other than the Ancient One. The Angelic Ones, angered in turn by the refusal of the First Children, brought down a host of evil upon them: the shapeshifters who preyed upon them at night, the wyverns who attacked from above, the sorceresses who sought to mislead them and all manner of dark creatures and tricksters, thus scattering the First Children and sending them into disarray.
And it came to pass that the Ancient One looked down and saw the sufferings of the First Children, and that the Angelic Ones had become Evil Ones in their betrayal. In great fury and righteousness, the Ancient One smote the Angelic Ones and sent them hurtling down to the surface of the Great Sphere. And then the Ancient One spoke to the Angelic Ones, who were now Evil Ones, saying unto them:
“From now on, you shall no longer be counted among my children and will be known as Icarals, the most despised of all creatures. You will wander the surface of my Great Sphere without a home. My True Children, My First Children, will join together to smite you and to break your wings.”
And thus it came to pass that the True Children once again joined together from all corners of the Great Sphere to smite the Evil Ones and to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.
So ends the first book of Creation.
I glance up at the stained-glass windows that shine between the columns as I remember the stories in the sacred text associated with each image, the normally vivid colors of the scenes strangely darkened by the stormy skies.
The first window depicts the Ancient One symbolized by a graceful, white bird, sending down rays of light to Erthia below. I take in a deep breath as the familiar, protective image fills me with warmth.
The images continue, all around: the reluctant prophetess, Galliana, astride a giant fire raven, leading our people from slavery, White Wand in hand; the First Children receiving the deep blue Ironflowers as a symbol of the Ancient One’s promise to keep them free from oppression, the flowers offering magical protection from demon fire.
I briefly glance down at the familiar Ironflower trim worked into the hem of my sleeve, comforted by the flowers’ symbolic promise of safety.
Next comes images of terrible battles: First Children slaying winged Icaral demons as the demons shoot fire from their palms; First Children soldiers combating bloodthirsty shapeshifters—wolf-shifters, fox-shifters and even a wyvern-shifter with slits for eyes and a forked tongue hanging from its mouth.
Above all these images, the Ancient One’s light shines down.
As I ponder the religious teachings of my youth, movement near the stained-glass wyvern-shifter catches my eye.
Just above its reptilian head is a clear portion of glass, and I can make out two small eyes watching me through it. The eyes flick up and out of view, revealing a strong silver beak and then...nothing.
A Watcher.
Curious, I get up, walk toward the back of the church and exit through the mammoth front doors.
As the doors swing shut behind me, I’m instantly aware of a strange current in the air. I stare down over the empty plaza, searching everywhere for the bird.
There, in the plaza’s center, stands the huge stone statue of my grandmother. The plaza is eerily quiet, the normally raucous seagulls absent. The odd colors of the sky shift slightly, and I hear another small, far-off murmur of thunder. I look up to see dark clouds slowly lumbering toward the church.
Halfway down the cathedral stairs, I see it. The white bird. It flies across the wide plaza and lands just behind my grandmother’s statue.
I reach the statue of my grandmother and circle slowly around it, searching for the bird. Soon the huge marble monument completely blocks the cathedral from view. I pause in its shadow, riveted by it.
The soft rumbling of thunder jostles the silence like a faint drumroll.
My grandmother stands, larger than life, my identical features finely wrought by a master’s chisel, every fold of her billowing robes perfectly rendered, so lifelike it seems as if I could reach up and move the fabric. Her left arm is raised in a graceful arc above her head, her wand arm pointing straight down at an Icaral that lies prostrate at her feet, his face a contorted mask of agony.
At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.
The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.
You could never be me.
The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.
Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.
My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.
“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”
I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.
The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.
I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.
A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.
But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.
It used to have wings.
It’s an Icaral demon. My screams turn to sobs of terror as I catch a glimpse of a dagger in its hand.
I raise my palms in supplication, a silent, desperate plea for mercy as I begin to grow faint.
The demon scuttles forward with surprising quickness and agility and grabs my wrist so hard, its long fingernails dig into my skin, piercing my flesh. I let out a muffled cry.
It holds tight onto me, its soulless eyes widening in shock. “It is She! It truly is the Black Witch!”
“Then do not hesitate!” snarls the creature restraining me. “Kill it, Vestus! Kill it before it can become like Her!”
My knees buckle as the creature called Vestus pulls his dagger back and raises it above his head. Thunder smashes against the sky.
“History will now be rewritten, Black Witch!” Vestus shrieks. “The Prophecy will be shattered, and the Icaral will live! You will die, and we will rise!”
Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The creature’s hand jerks backward to ready his attack, but then a longer blade bursts through the creature’s chest. A fountain of blood spurts out, covering me, and I’m falling, falling, the creature behind me also falling away, freeing me. I slam into the cold, hard ground, aware of the overwhelming, ferrous smell of blood.
And then a soldier is before me.
Lukas!
He pulls his sword out of the Icaral and pushes the creature forward, dead, its head slamming onto the stone tile inches from me with a sickening crack.
I whirl around just in time to see one of my aunt’s guards dragging off the second Icaral, this one taller and more muscular than the other, but bloodied and unconscious. Thunder cracks loudly as the wind strengthens and pushes my blood-soaked clothing flat against my skin.
A movement beyond my aunt’s guard catches my eye—just a small glimpse in a dark alley beyond the plaza, beyond the road.
Another Icaral looks at me for a split second, then disappears from sight.
A strong hand grabs my arm. I jump in fright and whirl around to see Lukas shouting something at me. I close my eyes tight and jerk my head from side to side, desperate to pull myself together, to focus. I open my eyes as all the sound around me rushes back in with a roar, like a dam opened.
“There’s another one!” I cry to Lukas, pointing toward the alleyway.
Lukas pulls out his wand and aims it in that direction. A burst of blue-green lightning spears from his wand’s tip and explodes into the alley. It incinerates the walls of the buildings on either side with a crackling boom that sends a sharp pain through my ears.
Lukas yells to the guards as four other Mages run toward us, their wands drawn, their cloaks edged with rows of silver lines.
Lukas calls out orders, and all of the Mages run off in the direction of the alley.
“Are you hurt?” Lukas shouts at me as the heavens open up and the rain pours down, the water mixing with the blood of the Icarals, forming dark, violent puddles. I nod, and Lukas pulls me to my feet. He braces me with a strong arm around my waist, his other hand still gripping his blood-stained sword. I grip my throbbing wrist as he guides me across the plaza.
Lightning flashes around us as we quickly make our way toward the cathedral. Soldiers fan out over the plaza, and a small crowd of Gardnerians, including my aunt and Echo Flood, look out from the open cathedral doors with horrified faces.
Marcus Vogel stands amongst them, the calm eye of the hurricane.
And the bird, the white bird, sits above the doorway in a hollowed-out, sheltered crevice, as still as the artwork adorning the cathedral.
Watching me.
* * *
Lukas paces back and forth across the room like a caged animal, glancing over at me every so often, his jaw set tight, face ruddy, his brow furrowed with angry impatience. Like me, he’s soaked through with rain and blood, his sword sheathed and hanging at his side. His pacing is interrupted when one of my aunt’s guards comes in to speak with him, the two of them talking so low I can’t make out what they’re saying. Lukas’s hand is on his hip as he speaks to the man, both of them tense, the guard taking a subordinate stance as Lukas gives him a series of orders. The guard nods and leaves with a look of serious purpose.
I’m sitting on a wooden chair in Priest Vogel’s cathedral sanctuary, shivering uncontrollably, feeling dazed and frightened, surrounded by black-robed priests.
Vogel is looming over me, holding outstretched hands above my head, his eyes firmly closed as he intones a prayer in the Ancient Tongue. An image of dark Icaral wings and lifeless trees flashes behind my eyes and sends a vicious chill through me.
The priest to the left of Vogel swings a gold ball filled with incense from a long chain. Pungent smoke wafts from holes in the sphere, burning my nose, my stomach clenching with nausea.
Even though they’re closed, I can feel Vogel’s eyes.
Echo sits next to me and holds my hand tight.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, still in shock. This can’t be real. I’m trapped in a nightmare. None of this can be real.
“Shhh, Elloren,” she whispers kindly. She gives my hand a squeeze of solidarity. “You have looked into the eyes of an Icaral. To do this is to pollute your soul. Priest Vogel is exorcizing the stain.”
My wrist burns where the Icaral dug its claws into my flesh.
“I want my uncle,” I whimper, tears starting to fall. I feel lost among all these unfamiliar people, and frightened by the need for ritual purification.
And I’m scared of Vogel.
My aunt stands in the doorway with two more priests, old men with snow-white hair. They speak in hushed tones, their expressions grave.
I drop my face into my hands and begin to sob. My shivering gets worse as Priest Vogel drones on and on, rattling me with his remote chanting of prayers and the sense of his dark void swirling around me. I cry as the chanting falls away and the dark void subsides, only half aware of Lukas asking for a moment alone with me.
The room grows quiet.
“Elloren. Look at me.”
I jump at the sound of Lukas’s stern voice and the feel of his strong hand gripping my arm. I straighten and pull my tear-soaked hands from my eyes.
He’s down on one knee, his head level with mine, eyes full of fire. “Stop it.”
His harsh tone stuns me into astonished silence.
I choke back my tears as anger at his treatment wells up within me. Wasn’t he right there? Didn’t he see those...things? A dark fury takes root, replacing my fear with steel-cold anger.
“That’s better!” Lukas snarls as I glare at him with as much hatred as I can muster. “You are not weak!”
“How can you say that?” I spit out, wanting to strike him. “You’re wrong!”
“No, I’m not,” he vehemently counters, still gripping me. “I can sense power in you. You look exactly like your grandmother, and her blood runs through your veins. Your uncle has done you a grave disservice by not preparing you for something like this.”
“Don’t you dare speak against my uncle!” I cry. I try to jerk my arm away from him, but he holds on tight.
“No, Elloren, it needs to be said. He did this to you by leaving you unarmed and ignorant!”
An uncomfortable doubt rises in the back of my mind. I beat it back.
“You don’t know anything about my uncle,” I say firmly. “You’ve never even met him!”
“They were at your uncle’s house, Elloren.”
I stop trying to wrench away from him. “What do you mean?”
“The Icarals. Galen got a confession from one of them before he killed it. They escaped from the Valgard Sanitorium. One of them was an empath. He found out about you from a worker there—someone who knows your aunt. They were waiting for this, Elloren—for the next Black Witch to be found. They went straight to your uncle’s house, but you were gone. They found your uncle sleeping, and the empath read where you were from his thoughts by touching him. If your aunt hadn’t pulled you from there, you’d be dead right now.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen. No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. “I’m powerless. Why would those...things think that I’m the Black Witch?”
Lukas doesn’t answer. He just keeps his unwavering stare fixed on me.
I already know the answer, though. It’s my blood. Her blood—that’s what the creature sensed. And I look just like her.
“The third Icaral,” I finally say, my voice strangled. “Did they find it?”
Lukas takes a deep breath. “No.”
“And my uncle?” I ask, almost in a whisper.
“He’s fine,” he says, his voice losing its angry edge. “They weren’t after him, Elloren. They were after you.” Lukas’s hand loosens then falls away from my arm. “We’ve sent guards to your uncle’s house as a precaution.”
“But what about Rafe? And Trystan?”
“I’ve already sent guards to find them and escort them across Verpacia’s border, if they haven’t crossed already.”
“And once they’re across?”
His lips turn up at the edges. “You won’t have to worry about them once they cross the border. It’s ward-magicked. Verpacia’s military force is formidable, and they have the help of the Vu Trin sorceresses. You’ll be safe there, as well. You’re safe now. The Icaral’s weak. Its wings were amputated long ago. Your aunt’s guards and I will escort you to University, and we’ve already sent word to the High Chancellor about what’s happened.”
My wrist is beginning to throb. Miserable, I turn it over for his inspection, bloody scratches and gashes ringing it where the creature gripped me. I wait for Lukas to express some sympathy.
He takes my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes meet mine and his expression goes hard. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It will scar and be a constant reminder to prepare yourself. These are battle scars, Elloren.”
“Why are you so harsh?” I cry, wrenching my wrist away.
“Because,” he grinds out as he grips both arms of my chair, “you do not need to be coddled!”
“You don’t even know me!”
He shakes his head from side to side and takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice gone low.
He stands up, a horizontal line of blood splashed across the front of his tunic, short tendrils of wet hair plastered to his forehead. We’re both damp and sweaty and smell like blood. The image of Lukas slaying the Icaral demon flashes into my mind, rapidly deflating the remnants of my anger.
He saved my life.
Lukas holds his hand out to me, and I reach up to take it.
“You are equal to this, Elloren,” he says firmly as he helps me to my feet.
I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m not the Black Witch, Lukas.”
He sighs deeply and looks at me with resignation. “Let’s go,” is all he says.
* * *
A few hours later I’m in a carriage with Lukas, traveling to Verpacia, the two of us in clean, dry clothing.
“Lukas will protect you,” Aunt Vyvian reassured me back at her mansion, as she directed Urisk servants to quickly pack my things into my travel trunk, plus an additional large trunk she’s provided for me. “You’ll be safer in Verpacia. Especially with Lukas as your guard.”
She could barely hide her smug satisfaction at the way events have played right into her hands, pushing Lukas and me firmly together. But I’m too rattled to be anything but grateful for her assistance, and for Lukas’s help and protection.
I think about how many things my aunt and the others tried to warn me about. It’s just as it says in our sacred text, just as the images on the stained-glass windows portray things to be. The Icarals are hideous things of great Evil, and need to be destroyed before they destroy us. And Sage’s baby, if this is its destiny—to turn into one of those things—then the Mage Council is right in wanting to take it from her, stripping it of its wings and its power.
Killing it, even.
I shudder to think of those creatures armed with overwhelming power at their disposal, and I know that if my attackers had been in possession of their wings, I’d be dead.
And if my aunt is right about this, and about my need to leave home, if her intuition is so good, maybe she’s right about other things, as well. Maybe the Selkies are only dangerous, feral animals—just as horrible as the Icarals when they have their skins. And maybe she’s right about Lukas and wandfasting.
I look over at Lukas as he sits in stony silence, staring out the window through the rain-battered glass, and a surge of gratitude washes over me.
Oh, Uncle Edwin, I anguish, why did you leave me in the dark about what might be out here waiting for me? Did you have any idea? Why didn’t you protect me?
He didn’t know, I realize. It turns out that my sweet uncle is dangerously naive about the world, cooped up in Halfix, isolated amidst his beehives and violins and childish good intentions.
As much as I love Uncle Edwin, I’m forced to consider that he’s not only dangerously ignorant, but he may actually be wrong, too. About so many things.
And Aunt Vyvian might be right.
I resolve to find out the truth for myself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Verpacia
I stare out at the sheeting rain as I cradle my bruised wrist. After several hours I lose track of how long we’ve been on the road, all the farms and towns bleeding into each other. Lukas is equally silent and deep in thought.
My fear has settled into an anxious unease. I look over at Lukas and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s brooding and remote, but I feel a kinship with his aura of gravity that makes me feel less alone.
Eventually we slow, and I make out one of the Ironwood outposts of our military. A cloaked soldier waves us through.
“The border,” Lukas informs me.
Three trade routes converge here, and we’re gradually stopped by the traffic, most of the horses pulling wagons heavily weighed down by goods.
Thunder crashes, and I strain to see through the rain. A long, ivory wagon passes close by. It’s surrounded by a large contingent of ivory-cloaked soldiers astride pale steeds. The soldiers have white hair, and their eyes are silver.
“Gold merchants,” Lukas says, noting my interest.
Amazement cuts through my lingering haze of fear. “Are they Elves?”
“You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head and look back out. The Elves’ ethereal whiteness is pristine, as if the dirt and grime of this stormy day hasn’t touched them at all.
My eyes are drawn upward by the shifting winds.
I can just make out the western edge of the Verpacian Spine, an impassable mass of vertical rock that borders the country of Verpacia. The white-gray rock seems to reach right up to the heavens and disappears into the storm clouds as the rain batters the bleached stone. Multiple guard towers are carved into the cliffs, hewn from the rock itself. Cloaked archers in pale gray uniforms the color of the Spine climb about the towers like nimble mountain goats. They appear to be keeping a close eye on the convergence of traffic seeking entrance into Verpacia through this break in the Spine.
Our carriage door opens, and an archer pokes his head in. He has a bow slung over his shoulder and rain drips copiously off the edge of his hood. He looks like an Elf, his eyes gleaming silver, but his hair and skin are a silvery-gray only slightly darker than his eyes.
“Lieutenant Grey,” he says congenially, the words heavily accented. He glances over at me, and his smile is whisked right off his face. He blurts out something in what must be the Elfhollen language, his tone one of shock.
“Orin,” Lukas says carefully, as if trying to calm him, “this is Elloren Gardner.”
“She’s not back from the dead, then?” Orin breathes, his eyes locked tight on mine.
Lukas smiles. “Only in appearance.”
Then, to my surprise, they launch into a serious conversation in Elfhollen. Orin gestures sharply toward me several times, his expression deeply conflicted. I stiffen, rattled by Orin’s confrontational tone.
Lukas shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she had any power?”
I glance sidelong at Lukas, surprised. He’s told me more than once that he suspects I have power. My heart thuds nervously, realizing that there’s danger here. And he’s protecting me.
Orin narrows his silver eyes at me one last time, shuts the door and waves us through.
I let out a breath of relief, then turn to Lukas in amazement. “You speak Elfhollen?” Even if he’s well versed in languages, it’s still a surprising choice.
Lukas smirks. “I have an odd talent for picking up the more obscure languages.” He eyes me appraisingly. “How much do you know about the Elfhollen?”
I consider for a moment. “They’re half-Elf, right? With Mountain Fae blood? I’ve read a little about them.”
“It’s a nice combination, really,” Lukas muses as he throws his arm along the back of his seat. “Deadly archers with perfect balance. It’s lucky for Verpacia that the Alfsigr hate mixed-breeds. The Alfsigr Elves were idiots to drive the Elfhollen from their land.” He flicks his finger in the direction of the sentry towers and the agile Elfhollen soldiers stationed in and around them. “They’re one of the only reasons Verpacia is able to keep control of the Pass. That, and the Vu Trin border wards.” Lukas bears his teeth. “And the Vu Trin sorceresses.”
I look over at Lukas, surprised by his matter-of-fact way of discussing half-Elves and sorceresses. And his friendly demeanor toward one of them. Most Gardnerians are as distrustful of half-Elves as the Alfsigr Elves are. It’s understandable—we were almost wiped out several times. Of course we want to keep our race pure and intact.
All around us, the Elfhollen soldiers brave the icy rain to search through wagons: looking under secured wax cloth, opening up barrels, questioning the drivers. Some of the soldiers are accompanied by heavily armed women garbed in black, their hair and eyes as dark as their uniforms. Their uniforms bear glowing blue rune-marks that are so beautiful, I can’t tear my eyes away,
“Are those Vu Trin soldiers?” I ask Lukas, transfixed by the sight of the lethal-looking women and their shimmering rune-marks.
Lukas nods, eyeing them with what looks like respect. “They’re a guest military force here. They control the western and eastern passes through the Spine. Their presence is part of the treaty agreement that formally ended the Realm War.”
“It’s strange to me,” I say, marveling at the curved swords the Vu Trin carry at their sides and the rows of silver throwing stars strapped across their chests. “Women as soldiers.”
Lukas seems amused by this. “The men of their race don’t have any magic. But the women more than make up for it, believe me.”
A tall Vu Trin motions sharply for a group of Kelts on horseback to halt, her face steel-hard. Her uniform’s arms are marked with lines of circular ward symbols that glow blue. A smaller Vu Trin woman, with only one glowing sleeve ward, searches the Kelts’ saddlebags.
“What are they looking for?” I wonder.
“Smugglers.”
“Of what?”
Lukas shrugs. “Weapons, spirits...pit dragons.”
Spirits don’t surprise me. Forbidden by our religion, they’re illegal in Gardneria. A number of passages in The Book of the Ancients touch on the evil of intoxication. But my eyes widen at the mention of dragons.
“Pit dragons?”
“They’re a particularly vicious type of dragon,” Lukas explains. “Used as weapons. And for sport.” He turns from the window to glance at me. “They’re pure dragon. They don’t shift.”
I’ve only seen dragons twice. Both times were in Halfix, the dragons high in the sky. They were black Gardnerian military dragons, used for transport and as powerful weapons. But I know there are other dragons rumored to be somewhere in the Eastern Realm. Wyverns who can breathe fire and shift to human form. And Wyrm shapeshifters who breathe lightning and can control the weather.
Our carriage hits a bump and jostles me from my thoughts. It’s all stop and go for quite a while, but soon the traffic lessens and we’re on our way.
After a few hours the rain thins and I gasp as the tops of the northern and southern peaks of the Spine become visible, like two great walls bracketing the entire country of Verpacia. I’ve never seen anything as high as these snowcapped and intimidatingly beautiful peaks.
I’m glued to the window for the rest of the ride. There’s so much to see, the thrill of the unknown lighting me up.
We pass a busy horse market full of foreigners, our carriage slowed to the pace of walking by the heavy road traffic. Fascinated, I take it all in.
Elves are showing off ivory mares, the Elves’ hoods down to reveal gracefully pointed ears and long, white hair decorated with thin braids. Near the Elves are a group of muscular women garbed in black pants, boots and red tunics that shine brightly with fiery crimson rune-marks. The glowing symbols remind me of the blue rune-marks used by the Vu Trin sorceresses, though these women are a far more mixed group. Some are pale with blond hair, and others have skin in varying shades of brown and a rainbow of Urisk hues.
They’re as heavily armed as the Vu Trin sorceresses, and many have facial markings shaped like the runes on their clothing, as well as some piercings. A gleaming metal hoop is stuck right through the bottom of one red-haired woman’s nose, her ears sharply pointed and multiply pierced with dark metallic hoops.
“Amazakaran,” Lukas informs me. “Horsewomen of the Caledonian mountains.”
I stare at them, wide-eyed. “Are they as dangerous as the Vu Trin?”
Lukas laughs. “Just about.”
“They look like they aren’t really one race. Except they’re all dressed similarly.”
“The Amaz allow women of any race to join them.” He smiles at me and motions toward them. “They’d let you in, Elloren. And train you to use an ax like that.”
I gape at him, then look back toward the largest Amazakaran there. Her white-rose hair is braided and pulled back, and her face is heavily tattooed. She carries a huge, gleaming, rune-marked ax strapped to her back, and I jump slightly as the woman sets her fierce gaze on me, her eyes narrowed and dangerous. I whip my eyes quickly away from her, heart thudding, as the carriage gives a lurch forward and whisks the Amaz warrior from my sight.
We press on, and soon we’re traveling through forest and down a winding road, the rain picking up. There’s a clearing up ahead, and the Southern Spine comes into view, the forest falling away.
Rain-fogged Verpax appears, spread out before us, the countless domes and spires of the University city completely filling the immense valley. A haze of golden light from countless lanterns and torchlights hangs in the darkening fog. It’s a gated city, surrounded by a stone wall, the gates bracketed by guard towers.
I stare out over the scene, excitement and trepidation rising in equal measure.
Lukas turns to me, his mouth tilting into a wry smile. “Welcome to Verpax.”
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PROLOGUE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
“We cannot allow the Black Witch to be in possession of the White Wand.”
“The White Wand chooses its own path. You know that, Kam. To interfere would be to court disaster.”
The two women stand in the guard tower at Verpax’s entrance gate. They watch through high-arched windows as an elegant carriage makes its way down the winding road that leads to the University. The carriage’s horses press on slowly, their heads bowed by the rain and howling wind.
Every so often, thunder rumbles in the distance.
One of the women, a Gardnerian, is still and calm, her dark green eyes narrowed behind gold-rimmed spectacles as she peers through the diamond-paned glass, her ebony hair tied back into a neat bun.
The second woman, a Vu Trin sorceress, is garbed in a black uniform marked with glowing blue rune-marks. She wears a series of razor-sharp metal stars strapped diagonally across her chest, curved swords sheathed at her sides. Her eyes are dark, her skin a deep brown, and she wears her straight black hair tied into a tight, ropy coil, as is the custom of the Vu Trin soldiers.
“If she is indeed the one, we need to strike her down immediately,” the sorceress says with fierce resolve. “Before she realizes her power. While there is still time.” She sets her cold gaze back on the carriage as a streak of lightning scythes through the sky, flashing against the steel of her weapons.
The Gardnerian holds up a hand in calm protest as she watches the carriage. Thunder cracks overhead. “Patience, Kam. Patience. We must give the girl a chance.”
The sorceress turns her head sharply to face her companion. “Have you forgotten the Prophecy?”
“The Prophecy is vague. The girl has a choice, as we all do. Her future is not fixed. She might not choose the path of darkness.”
“And what of this girl’s grandmother? What of her?” The sorceress’s face grows hard. “Was she not once just a girl, as well? A girl with a choice? A girl who chose to kill thousands of my people!”
The Gardnerian takes a deep breath and slowly turns to face the sorceress, her expression one of grave sympathy. “I know how much you have suffered, Kam.”
The sorceress’s face flinches. “No. You do not.”
The words hang in the air for one long minute as the women regard each other.
The Gardnerian places a comforting hand on the sorceress’s arm, but the sorceress remains military stiff, her hands clenched tight on her swords as if ready to attack the very memory of atrocities endured. After a moment, the Gardnerian lets her hand drop and turns back to the window. Thunder rumbles again to the west.
“Now is not the time to strike her down, Kam,” the Gardnerian states. “The Wand has chosen her. We must wait a bit to find out why—to see what this girl is made of. I do not plan on making her life here easy. Curiously, I have her aunt’s cooperation in this.”
The sorceress cocks a questioning eyebrow.
“Vyvian Damon has her own motivation for putting some pressure on the girl,” the Gardnerian explains. “A wandfasting conflict. She wants the girl to fast to Lukas Grey.”
“Rising star of the Gardnerian military forces. How fitting.”
The Gardnerian chooses to ignore the comment.
“My assassins are restless,” the sorceress cautions darkly. “I cannot promise you that the girl will be safe if they view you as complacent, not after what this girl’s grandmother did to our people, and what she would have succeeded in doing had the Icaral not cut her down. And this girl—” she gestures in the direction of the carriage with a sharp jerk of her chin “—if she is indeed The One, she is prophesied to be even greater in power than Carnissa, perhaps the most powerful Mage that has ever existed.”
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Laurie Forest
A new Black Witch will rise…her powers vast beyond imagining.Elloren Gardner is the granddaughter of the last prophesied Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, who drove back the enemy forces and saved the Gardnerian people during the Realm War. But while she is the absolute spitting image of her famous grandmother, Elloren is utterly devoid of power in a society that prizes magical ability above all else.When she is granted the opportunity to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an apothecary, Elloren joins her brothers at the prestigious Verpax University to embrace a destiny of her own, free from the shadow of her grandmother's legacy. But she soon realizes that the university, which admits all manner of people—including the fire-wielding, winged Icarals, the sworn enemies of all Gardnerians—is a treacherous place for the granddaughter of the Black Witch.As evil looms on the horizon and the pressure to live up to her heritage builds, everything Elloren thought she knew will be challenged and torn away. Her best hope of survival may be among the most unlikely band of misfits…if only she can find the courage to trust those she's been taught to hate and fear.
A new Black Witch will rise...her powers vast beyond imagining.
Elloren Gardner is the granddaughter of the last prophesied Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, who drove back the enemy forces and saved the Gardnerian people during the Realm War. But while she is the absolute spitting image of her famous grandmother, Elloren is utterly devoid of power in a society that prizes magical ability above all else.
When she is granted the opportunity to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an apothecary, Elloren joins her brothers at the prestigious Verpax University to embrace a destiny of her own, free from the shadow of her grandmother’s legacy. But she soon realizes that the university, which admits all manner of people—including the fire-wielding, winged Icarals, the sworn enemies of all Gardnerians—is a treacherous place for the granddaughter of the Black Witch.
As evil looms on the horizon and the pressure to live up to her heritage builds, everything Elloren thought she knew will be challenged and torn away. Her best hope of survival may be among the most unlikely band of misfits...if only she can find the courage to trust those she’s been taught to hate and fear.
The Black Witch
Laurie Forest
To my mother, Mary Jane Sexton, artist, creative genius, intellectual (1944–2015)
LAURIE FOREST lives deep in the backwoods of Vermont, where she sits in front of a woodstove drinking strong tea and dreaming up tales-full of dryads, dragons and wands. The Black Witch is her first novel, and Wandfasted (The Black Witch prequel) is her first ebook novella. Enter her realm at www.laurieannforest.com (http://www.laurieannforest.com).
Contents
Cover (#u0b5e1f37-e393-581e-aab5-45e3d020c6cc)
Back Cover Text (#u3384fc8e-0eaf-5aaa-81f0-e18aab0c0118)
Title Page (#u26e2226b-38ef-5cf3-9598-2e533275a0b9)
Dedication (#u63803842-3a73-59f3-9ff8-9769ad1a2eb7)
Map (#u942d0818-41c3-529c-9fae-3d277ec148d3)
About the Author (#u58840e7e-e4e6-50e5-9e38-869fbe809a33)
PART ONE (#u2fc195d1-51e6-5057-a74c-9d7929b031eb)
PROLOGUE (#u4a9dc1f5-9fb1-59a5-8646-b245afcdf8cf)
CHAPTER ONE (#ucf39f81e-d264-57ae-a82d-b749cd27e3ff)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua02ae066-2aa8-52d2-982c-8109fc5e5cc3)
CHAPTER THREE (#u40b7b28a-50e4-57f0-b86f-fc8fcb638eaa)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u65bcd422-90b7-5060-8452-af87bc7ba272)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucca5a76f-525b-5098-9112-082b5638237a)
CHAPTER SIX (#u3695d0e5-588e-551b-b905-bb6902a2cfd2)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u93246d63-57f7-5e58-9bfc-5bc583e43047)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#uee984cbe-a43d-5b13-9ac2-8fedc351d49f)
CHAPTER NINE (#u09523636-adcf-59c8-b41b-91d60a58cc10)
CHAPTER TEN (#u56aff06d-cc0f-5b6f-ae15-ec4f92445a05)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#u34307f2e-a6a9-5a24-9a83-f7911cfe175d)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#uf05b0d86-3c8a-546e-983e-f3a71160f375)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#u1d03168b-e6c2-5ba7-86b8-9e2f4e597695)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#u0de215cf-2ca2-59c2-b2fe-beb24cac3758)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#u74162578-5170-50f6-bade-00c90ef88c7b)
PART TWO (#ud4da61c8-5cbf-516f-b164-b6352f093142)
PROLOGUE (#u08ce9b71-9838-599b-9418-4d38ccdd1551)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
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PROLOGUE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The woods are beautiful.
They’re my friends, the trees, and I can feel them smiling down at me.
I skip along, kicking at dry pine needles, singing to myself, following close at the heels of my beloved uncle Edwin, who turns every so often, smiles and encourages me to follow.
I am three years old.
We have never walked so far into the woods, and the thrill of adventure lights up my insides. In fact, we hardly ever walk into the woods. And Uncle Edwin has brought only me. He’s left my brothers at home, far away.
I scramble to keep up with him, leaping over curved roots, dodging low-hanging branches.
We finally stop in a sunny clearing deep in the forest.
“Here, Elloren,” my uncle says. “I have something for you.” He bends down on one knee, pulls a stick from his cloak pocket and presses it into my tiny fist.
A present!
It’s a special stick—light and airy. I close my eyes, and an image of the tree the stick came from enters my mind—a big, branchy tree, soaked in sunlight and anchored in sand. I open my eyes and bounce the stick up and down in my hand. It’s as light as a feather.
My uncle fishes a candle out of his pants pocket, gets up and sets the candle on a nearby stump before returning to me. “Hold the stick like this, Elloren,” he says gently as he bends down and holds his hand around mine.
I look at him with slight worry.
Why is his hand trembling?
I grasp onto the stick harder, trying my best to do what he wants.
“That’s it, Elloren,” he says patiently. “Now I’m going to ask you to say some funny words. Can you do that?”
I nod emphatically. Of course I can. I’d do anything for my uncle Edwin.
He says the words. There are only a few of them, and I feel proud and happy again. Even though they’re in another language and sound strange to my ears, they’re easy to say. I will do a good job, and he will hug me and maybe even give me some of the molasses cookies I saw him tuck away into his vest before we left home.
I hold my arm out, straight and true, and aim my feather-stick at the candle, just like he told me. I can feel him right behind me, watching me closely, ready to see how well I listened.
I open my mouth and start to speak the nonsense words.
As the odd words roll off my tongue, something warm and rumbling pulls up into my legs, right up from the ground beneath my feet.
Something from the trees.
A powerful energy shoots through me and courses toward the stick. My hand jerks hard and there’s a blinding flash. An explosion. Fire shooting from the tip of the stick. The trees around us suddenly engulfed in flames. Fire everywhere. The sound of my own screaming. The trees screaming in my head. The terrifying roar of fire. The stick roughly pulled from my hands and quickly cast aside. My uncle grabbing me up, holding me tight to his chest and racing away from the fire as the forest falls apart around us.
* * *
Things change for me in the forest after that.
I can feel the trees pulling away, making me uneasy. And I begin to avoid the wild places.
Over time, the childhood memory becomes cloudy.
“It’s just a dream,” my uncle says, comforting me, when the burning scene returns in the dark of sleep. “About that time you wandered out into the forest. During that lightning storm. Think on pleasant things, and go back to sleep.”
And so I believe him, because he cares for me and has never given me a reason not to believe.
Even the forest seems to echo his words. Go back to sleep, the leaves rustle on the wind. And over time, the memory fades, like a stone falling to the bottom of a deep, dark well.
* * *
Into the realm of shadowy nightmares.
Fourteen years later...
CHAPTER ONE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Halfix
“Take that, you stupid Icaral!”
I glance down with amusement at my young neighbors, a basket of freshly picked vegetables and herbs balanced on my hip, a slight near-autumn chill fighting to make itself known through the warm sunlight.
Emmet and Brennan Gaffney are six-year-old twins with the black hair, forest green eyes and faintly shimmering skin so prized by my people, the Gardnerian Mages.
The two boys pause from their noisy game and look up at me hopefully. They sit in the cool, sunlit grass, their toys scattered about.
All the traditional characters are there among the brightly painted wooden figures. The black-haired Gardnerian soldiers, their dark tunics marked with brilliant silver spheres, stand valiantly with wands or swords raised. The boys have lined the soldiers up on a wide, flat stone in military formation.
There are also the usual archvillains—the evil Icaral demons with their glowing eyes, their faces contorted into wide, malicious grins, black wings stretched out to their full size in an effort to intimidate, fireballs in their fists. The boys have lined these up on a log and are attempting to launch rocks at them from the direction of the soldiers with a catapult they’ve fashioned from sticks and string.
There are assorted side characters, too: the beautiful Gardnerian maidens with their long black hair; wicked Lupine shapeshifters—half-human, half-wolf; green-scaled Snake Elves; and the mysterious Vu Trin sorceresses. They’re characters from the storybooks and songs of my childhood, as familiar to me as the old patchwork quilt that lies on my bed.
“Why are you here?” I ask the boys, glancing down into the valley toward the Gaffneys’ estate and sprawling plantation. Eliss Gaffney usually keeps the twins firmly near home.
“Momma won’t stop crying.” Emmet scowls and bangs the head of a wolf-creature into the ground.
“Don’t tell!” Brennan chastises, his voice shrill. “Poppa’ll whip you for it! He said not to tell!”
I’m not surprised by Brennan’s fear. It’s well-known that Mage Warren Gaffney’s a hard man, feared by his fastmate and children. And the startling disappearance of his nineteen-year-old daughter, Sage, has made him even harder.
I look to the Gaffneys’ estate again with well-worn concern.
Where are you, Sage? I wonder unhappily. She’s been missing without a trace for well over a year. What could have possibly happened to you?
I let out a troubled sigh and turn back to the boys. “It’s all right,” I say, trying to comfort them. “You can stay over here for a while. You can even stay for supper.”
The boys brighten and appear more than a little relieved.
“Come play with us, Elloren,” Brennan pleads as he playfully grabs at the edge of my tunic.
I chuckle and reach down to ruffle Brennan’s hair. “Maybe later. I have to help make supper, you know that.”
“We’re defeating the Icarals!” Emmet exclaims. He throws a rock at one of the Icarals to demonstrate. The rock collides with the small demon and sends it spinning into the grass. “Wanna see if we can knock their wings off?”
I pick up the small figure and run my thumb across its unpainted base. Breathing in deep, I close my eyes and the image of a large tree with a dense crown, swooping branches and delicate white flowers fills my mind.
Frosted Hawthorne. Such elegant wood for a child’s plaything.
I open my eyes, dissolving the image, focusing back in on the demon toy’s orange eyes. I fight the urge to envision the tree once more, but I know better than to entertain this odd quirk of mine.
Often, if I close my eyes while holding a piece of wood, I can get the full sense of its source tree. With startling detail. I can see the tree’s birthplace, smell the rich, loamy carpet beneath its roots, feel the sun dappling its outstretched leaves.
Of course, I’ve learned to keep these imaginings to myself.
A strange nature fixation like this smacks of Fae blood, and Uncle Edwin has warned me to never speak of it. We Gardnerians are a pure-blooded race, free from the stain of the heathen races that surround us. And my family line has the strongest, purest Mage blood of all.
But I often worry. If that’s true, then why do I see these things?
“You should be more careful with your toys,” I gently scold the boys as I shake off the lingering image of the tree and set the figure down.
The sound of the boys’ grand battles recedes into the distance as I near the small cottage I share with Uncle Edwin and my two brothers. I peer across the broad field toward our horse stables and give a start.
A large, elegant carriage is parked there. The crest of the Mage Council, Gardneria’s highest level of government, is artfully painted on its side—a golden M styled with graceful, looping calligraphy.
Four military guards, real-life versions of Emmet and Brennan’s toys, sit eating some food. They’re strapping soldiers, dressed in black tunics with silver spheres marking their chests, with wands and swords at their sides.
It has to be my aunt’s carriage—it can’t possibly be anyone else’s. My aunt is a member of our ruling High Mage Council, and she always travels with an armed entourage.
A rush of excitement flashes through me, and I quicken my pace, wondering what on all of Erthia could have possibly brought my powerful aunt to remote Halfix, of all places.
I haven’t seen her since I was five years old.
* * *
We lived near her back then, in Valgard, Gardneria’s bustling port city and capital. But we hardly ever saw her.
One day, clear out of the blue, my aunt appeared in the front room of my uncle’s violin shop.
“Have you had the children wandtested?” she inquired, her tone light, but her eyes sharp as ice.
I remember how I tried to hide behind Uncle Edwin, clinging to his tunic, mesmerized by the elegant creature before me.
“Of course, Vyvian,” my uncle haltingly answered his sister. “Several times over.”
I looked up at my uncle with confused surprise. I had no memory of being wandtested, even though I knew that all Gardnerian children were.
“And what did you find?” she asked probingly.
“Rafe and Elloren are powerless,” he told her as he shifted slightly, cutting off my view of Aunt Vyvian, casting me in shadows. “But Trystan. The boy has some magic in him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Vyvian, quite.”
And that was when she began to visit with us.
Soon after, my uncle unexpectedly soured on city life. Without warning, he whisked my brothers and me away to where we now live. In tiny Halfix. At the very northeastern edge of Gardneria.
Right in the middle of nowhere.
* * *
As I round the corner of our cottage, I hear the sound of my name through the kitchen window and skid to a stop.
“Elloren is not a child anymore, Edwin.” My aunt’s voice drifts out.
I set my basket of vegetables and herbs on the ground and crouch low.
“She is too young for wandfasting,” comes my uncle’s attempt at a firm reply, a tremor of nervousness in his voice.
Wandfasting? My heart speeds up. I know that most Gardnerian girls my age are already wandfasted—magically bound to young men for life. But we’re so isolated here, surrounded by the mountains. The only girl I know who’s been fasted is Sage, and she’s up and disappeared.
“Seventeen is the traditional age.” My aunt sounds slightly exasperated.
“I don’t care if it’s the traditional age,” my uncle persists, his tone gaining confidence. “It’s still too young. She can’t possibly know what she wants at this age. She’s seen nothing of the world...”
“Because you let her see nothing of it.”
My uncle makes a sound of protest but my aunt cuts him off. “No, Edwin. What happened to Sage Gaffney should be a wake-up call for all of us. Let me take Elloren under my wing. I’ll introduce her to all the best young men. And after she is safely fasted to one of them, I’ll apprentice her with the Mage Council. You must start to take her future seriously.”
“I do take her future seriously, Vyvian, but she is still much too young to have it decided for her.”
“Edwin.” There’s a note of challenge in my aunt’s smooth voice. “You will force me to take matters into my own hands.”
“You forget, Vyvian,” my uncle counters, “that I am the eldest male of the family, and as such, I have the final say on all matters concerning Elloren, and when I am gone, it will be Rafe, not you, who will have the final say.”
My eyebrows fly up at this. I can tell my uncle is treading on thin ice if he has decided to resort to this argument—an argument I know he doesn’t actually agree with. He’s always grousing about how unfair the Gardnerian power structure is toward women, and he’s right. Few Gardnerian women have wand magic, my powerful grandmother being a rare exception. Almost all of our powerful Mages are men, our magic passing more easily along male lines. This makes our men the rulers in the home and over the land.
But Uncle Edwin thinks our people take this all too far: no wands for women, save with Council approval; ultimate control of a family always given to the eldest male; and our highest position in government, the office of High Mage, can only be held by a man. And then there’s my uncle’s biggest issue by far—the wandfast-binding of our women at increasingly younger ages.
“You will not be able to shelter her forever,” my aunt insists. “What will happen when you are gone someday, and all the suitable men have already been wandfasted?”
“What will happen is that she will have the means to make her own way in the world.”
My aunt laughs at this. Even her laugh is graceful. It makes me think of a pretty waterfall. I wish I could laugh like that. “And how, exactly, would she ‘make her own way in the world’?”
“I’ve decided to send her to University.”
I involuntarily suck in as much air as I can and hold it there, not able to breathe, too shocked to move. The pause in their conversation tells me that my aunt is probably having the same reaction.
Verpax University. With my brothers. In another country altogether. A dream I never imagined could actually come true.
“Send her there for what?” my aunt asks, horrified.
“To learn the apothecary trade.”
A giddy, stunned joy wells up inside me. I’ve been begging Uncle Edwin for years to send me. Hungry for something more than our small library and homegrown herbs. Passionately envious of Trystan and Rafe, who get to study there.
Verpax University. In Verpacia’s bustling capital city. With its apothecary laboratories and greenhouses. The fabled Gardnerian Athenaeum overflowing with books. Apothecary materials streaming into Verpacia’s markets from East and West, the country a central trade route.
My mind spins with the exciting possibilities.
“Oh, come now, Vyvian,” my uncle reasons. “Don’t look so put out. The apothecary sciences are a respectable trade for women, and it suits Elloren’s quiet, bookish nature more than the Mage Council ever could. Elloren loves her gardens, making medicines and so forth. She’s quite good at it.”
An uncomfortable silence ensues.
“You have left me with no alternative but to take a firm stand on this,” my aunt says, her voice gone low and hard. “You realize that I cannot put one guilder toward Elloren’s University tithe while she is unfasted.”
“I expected as much,” my uncle states coolly. “Which is why I have arranged for Elloren to pay her tithe through kitchen labor.”
“This is unheard of!” my aunt exclaims. Her voice turns tight and angry. “You’ve raised these children like they’re Keltic peasants,” she snipes, “and frankly, Edwin, it’s disgraceful. You’ve forgotten who we are. I have never heard of a Gardnerian girl, especially one of Elloren’s standing, from such a distinguished family, laboring in a kitchen. That’s work for Urisk, for Kelts, not for a girl such as Elloren. Her peers at University will be shocked.”
I jump in fright as something large bumps into me. I turn as my older brother, Rafe, plops down by my side, grinning widely.
“Surprise you, sis?”
It’s beyond me how someone so tall and strapping can move as quietly as a cat. I imagine his extraordinary stealth comes from all the time he spends wandering the wilds and hunting. He’s clearly just back from a hunt, his bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, a dead goose hanging upside down over the other.
I shoot my brother a stern look and hold up a finger to shush him. Aunt Vyvian and Uncle Edwin have resumed their wandfasting argument.
Rafe raises his eyebrows in curiosity, still smiling, and tilts his head toward the window. “Ah,” he whispers, bumping his shoulder into mine in camaraderie. “They’re talking about your romantic future.”
“You missed the best part,” I whisper back. “Earlier they were talking about how you would be my lord and master when Uncle Edwin is gone.”
Rafe chuckles. “Yeah, and I’m going to start my iron-fisted rule by having you do all my chores for me. Especially dishwashing.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“And I’m going to have you wandfasted to Gareth.” He continues to bait me.
My eyes and mouth fly open. Gareth, our good friend since childhood, is like a brother to me. I have no romantic interest in him whatsoever.
“What?” Rafe laughs. “You could do a lot worse, you know.” Something just over my shoulder catches his eye, and his smile broadens. “Oh, look who’s here. Hello, Gareth, Trystan.”
Trystan and Gareth have rounded the cottage’s corner and are approaching us. I catch Gareth’s eye, and immediately he flushes scarlet and takes on a subdued, self-conscious expression.
I am mortified. He obviously heard Rafe’s teasing.
Gareth is a few years older than me at twenty, broad and sturdy with dark green eyes and black hair like the rest of us. But there’s one notable difference: Gareth’s black hair has a trace of silver highlights in it—very unusual in Gardnerians, and read by many as a sign of his less-than-pure blood. It’s been the source of relentless teasing all throughout his life. “Mongrel,” “Elfling” and “Fae blood” are just a few of the names the other children called him. The son of a ship captain, Gareth stoically endured the teasing and often found solace with his father at sea. Or here, with us.
An uncomfortable flush heats my face. I love Gareth like a brother. But I certainly don’t want to fast to him.
“What are you doing?” my younger brother, Trystan, asks, confused to see Rafe and me crouched down under the window.
“We’re eavesdropping,” Rafe whispers cheerfully.
“Why?”
“Ren here’s about to be fasted off,” Rafe answers.
“I am not,” I counter, grimacing at Rafe, then look back up at Trystan, giddy happiness welling up. I break out into a grin. “But I am going to University.”
Trystan cocks an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Rafe answers jovially.
Trystan eyes me with approval. I know my quiet, studious younger brother loves the University. Trystan’s the only one of us with magical power, but he’s also a talented bow maker and fletcher. At only sixteen years of age, he’s already been pre-accepted into the Gardnerian Weapons Guild and apprenticed with the military.
“That’s great, Ren,” Trystan says. “We can eat meals together.”
Rafe shushes Trystan with mock severity and motions toward the window.
Humoring us, Trystan bends his wiry frame and crouches down. Looking ill at ease, Gareth does the same.
“You’re wrong, Edwin. You can’t possibly send her to University without wandfasting her to someone first.” My aunt’s domineering tone is beginning to fray at the edges.
“Why?” my uncle challenges her. “Her brothers are unfasted. And Elloren’s not a fool.”
“Sage Gaffney wasn’t a fool, either,” my aunt cautions, her tone dark. “You know as well as I do that they let in all manner of unsuitable types: Kelts, Elfhollen...they even have two Icarals this year. Yes, Edwin, Icarals.”
My eyes fly up at this. Icaral demons! Attending University? How could that even be possible? Keltic peasants and Elfhollen are one thing, but Icarals! Alarmed, I look to Rafe, who simply shrugs.
“It’s not surprising, really,” my aunt comments, her voice disgusted. “The Verpacian Council is full of half-breeds. As is most of the University’s hierarchy. They mandate an absurd level of integration, and, quite frankly, it’s dangerous.” She gives a frustrated sigh. “Marcus Vogel will clean up the situation once he’s named High Mage.”
“If, Vyvian,” my uncle tersely counters. “Vogel may not win.”
“Oh, he’ll win,” my aunt crows. “His support is growing.”
“I really don’t see how any of this pertains to Elloren,” my uncle cuts in, uncharacteristically severe.
“It pertains to Elloren because the potential is there for her to be drawn into a wildly unsuitable romantic alliance, one that could destroy her future and reflect badly on the entire family. Now, if she was wandfasted, like almost all Gardnerian girls her age, she could safely attend University—”
“Vyvian,” my uncle persists, “I’ve made up my mind about this. I’m not going to change it.”
Silence.
“Very well.” My aunt sighs with deep disapproval. “I can see you are quite decided at present, but at least let her spend the next week or so with me. It makes perfect sense, as Valgard is on the way from here to the University.”
“All right,” he capitulates wearily.
“Well,” she says, her tone brightening, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, if my niece and nephews would kindly stop crouching under the window and come in and join us, it would be lovely to see everyone.”
Gareth, Trystan and I give a small start.
Rafe turns to me, raises his eyebrows and grins.
CHAPTER TWO (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Aunt Vyvian
The Gaffney twins buzz past as I make my way into the kitchen, which is now full of friendly, boisterous noise.
My aunt stands with her back to me as she kisses Rafe on both cheeks in greeting. My uncle shakes hands with Gareth, and the twins are practically hanging from Trystan while holding up their toys for his inspection.
My aunt releases Rafe, stops admiring how tall he’s become, and turns toward me in one fluid, graceful movement.
Her gaze lights on me and she freezes, her eyes gone wide as if she’s come face-to-face with a ghost.
The room grows silent as everyone else turns their attention toward us, curious as to what’s amiss. Only my uncle does not look confused—his expression grown oddly dark and worried.
“Elloren,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “you have grown into the absolute image of your grandmother.”
It’s a huge compliment, and I want to believe it. My grandmother was not only one of my people’s most powerful Mages, she was also considered to be very beautiful.
“Thank you,” I say shyly.
Her eyes wander down toward my plain, homespun clothing.
If ever there was anyone who looks out of place in our tiny kitchen, it’s my aunt. She stands there, studying me, amidst the battered wooden furniture, soup and stew pots simmering on our cookstove and bunches of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling.
She’s like a fine painting hanging in a farmer’s market stall.
I take in her stunning, black, formfitting tunic that hangs over a long, dark skirt, the silk embroidered with delicate, curling vines. My aunt is the absolute epitome of what a Gardnerian woman is supposed to look like—waist-length black hair, deep green eyes and swirling black wandfasting lines marking her hands.
I’m suddenly acutely aware of the sad state of my own appearance. At seventeen, I’m tall and slender with the same black hair and forest green eyes of my aunt, but any resemblance ends there. I’m dressed in a shapeless brown woolen tunic and skirt, no makeup (I don’t own any), my hair is tied into its usual messy bun and my face is all sharp, severe angles, not smooth, pretty lines like my aunt’s.
My aunt sweeps forward and embraces me, obviously not as dismayed by my appearance as I am. She kisses both my cheeks and steps back, her hands still grasping my upper arms. “I just cannot believe how much you look like her,” she says with awed admiration. Her eyes grow wistful. “I wish you could have gotten to know her, Elloren.”
“I do, too,” I tell her, warmed by my aunt’s approval.
Aunt Vyvian’s eyes glisten with emotion. “She was a great Mage. The finest ever. It’s a heritage to be proud of.”
My uncle begins scurrying around the kitchen, setting out teacups and plates, clunking them down on the table a little too loudly. He doesn’t look at me as he fusses, and I’m confused by his odd behavior. Gareth stands rooted by the woodstove, his muscular arms crossed, watching my aunt and me intently.
“You must be tired after your trip,” I say to my aunt, feeling nervous and thrilled to be in her lofty presence. “Why don’t you sit down and rest? I’ll get some biscuits to go with the tea.”
Aunt Vyvian joins Rafe and Trystan at the table while I fetch the food, and Uncle Edwin pours tea for everyone.
“Elloren.” My aunt pauses to sip at her tea. “I know you overheard my conversation with your uncle, and I’m glad you did. What do you think about being fasted before you go to University?”
“Now, Vyvian,” my uncle cuts in, almost dropping the teapot, “there’s no point in bringing this up. I told you my decision was final.”
“Yes, yes, Edwin, but there’s no harm in getting the girl’s opinion, is there? What do you say, Elloren? You know that most of the young girls your age are already wandfasted, or about to be.”
My cheeks grow warm. “I, um...we’ve never talked much about it.” I envy Trystan and Rafe as they sit playing with the twins and their toys. Why isn’t this conversation about Rafe? He’s nineteen!
“Well—” my aunt shoots a disapproving look at my uncle “—it’s high time you did discuss it. As you overheard, I’m taking you with me when I leave tomorrow. We’ll spend the next few weeks together, and I’ll tell you all about wandfasting and what I know about the University. We’ll also get you a new wardrobe while we’re in Valgard, and your brothers can meet up with us for a day or two. What do you say to that?”
Leaving tomorrow. For Valgard and the University! The thought of venturing out of isolated Halfix sends ripples of excitement through me. I glance at my uncle, who wears an uneasy look on his face, his lips tightly pursed.
“I’d like that very much, Aunt Vyvian,” I answer politely, trying to keep my overwhelming excitement at bay.
Gareth shoots me a look of warning, and I cock my head at him questioningly.
My aunt narrows her eyes at Gareth. “Gareth,” she says pleasantly, “I had the privilege of working with your father before he retired from his position as head of the Maritime Guild.”
“He didn’t retire,” Gareth corrects, stiff challenge in his tone. “He was forced to resign.”
The kitchen quiets, even the twins sensing the sudden tension in the air. My uncle catches Gareth’s eye and slightly motions his head from side to side, as if in caution.
“Well,” says my aunt, still smiling, “you certainly speak your mind very frankly. Perhaps talk of politics is best left to those of us who have finished our schooling.”
“I have to be going,” Gareth announces, his tone clipped. He turns to me. “Ren, I’ll come by to see you when you’re in Valgard. Maybe I can take you sailing.”
My aunt is studying me closely. I blush, realizing what conclusion she must be forming in her mind about the nature of my relationship with Gareth. I don’t want to respond too enthusiastically, to give the wrong impression. But I don’t want to hurt Gareth’s feelings, either.
“All right, I’ll see you there,” I tell Gareth, “but I might not have time for sailing.”
Gareth throws a parting, resentful look at my aunt. “That’s okay, Ren. Maybe I can bring you by to say hello to my family at least. I know my father would love to see you.”
I glance over at my aunt. She’s calmly sipping her tea, but the corner of her lip twitches at the mention of Gareth’s father.
“I’d like that,” I say cautiously. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Well, then,” Gareth says, his face tense, “I’ll be off.”
Rafe gets up to see him out, the legs of his chair squeaking against the wooden floor as he pushes it from the table.
Trystan gets up, too, followed by my uncle and the twins, and all the males make their way out of the kitchen. I sit down, feeling self-conscious.
My aunt and I are alone.
She’s tranquilly sipping her tea and studying me with sharp, intelligent eyes. “Gareth seems to take quite the interest in you, my dear,” she muses.
My face grows hot again. “Oh, no...it’s not like that,” I stammer. “He’s just a friend.”
My aunt leans forward and places a graceful hand on mine.
“You aren’t a child anymore, Elloren. More and more, your future will be decided by the company you keep.” She looks at me meaningfully, then sits back, her expression lightening. “I am so glad your uncle has finally come to his senses and is letting you spend some time with me. I have a number of young men I am very eager for you to meet.”
* * *
Later, after we have eaten supper, I make my way outside to bring the leftover scraps from dinner to the few pigs we keep. The days are getting shorter, the shadows longer, and a chill is steadily creeping in, the sun less and less able to fight it off.
Before, in the light of day, the idea of attending University seemed like an exciting adventure, but as the tide of night slowly sweeps in, I begin to feel apprehension coming in with it.
As eager as I am to see the wider world, there’s a part of me that likes my quiet life here with my uncle, tending the gardens and the animals, making simple medicines, crafting violins, reading, sewing.
So quiet. So safe.
I peer out into the distance, past the garden where the twins were playing, past the Gaffneys’ farmland and estate, past the sprawling wilderness, to the mountains beyond—mountains that loom in the distance and cast dark shadows over everything as the sun sets behind them.
And the forest—the wild forest.
I squint into the distance and make out the curious shapes of several large white birds flying in from the wilds. They’re different from any birds I’ve ever seen before, with huge, fanning wings, so light they seem iridescent.
As I watch them, I’m overcome by a strange sense of foreboding, as if the earth is shifting beneath my feet.
I forget, for a moment, about the basket of pig slop I’m balancing on my hip, and some large vegetable remnants fall to the ground with a dull thud. I glance down and stoop to gather them back into the basket.
When I straighten again and look for the strange white birds, they’re gone.
CHAPTER THREE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Goodbye
That night I’m in my quiet bedroom, softly illuminated by the gentle glow of the lantern on my desk. As I pack, my hand passes through a shadow, and I pause to look at it.
Like all Gardnerians, my skin shimmers faintly in the dark. It’s the mark of the First Children, set down on us by the Ancient One above, marking us as the rightful owners of Erthia.
At least, that’s what our holy book, The Book of the Ancients, tells us.
The traveling trunk Aunt Vyvian has brought for me lies open on the bed. It hits me that I’ve never been away from my uncle for more than a day, not since my brothers and I came to live with him when I was three, after my parents were killed in the Realm War.
It was a bloody conflict that raged for thirteen long years and ended with my grandmother’s death in battle. But it was a necessary war, my beleaguered country relentlessly attacked and ransacked at the beginning of it. By the time it ended, Gardneria was allied with the Alfsigr Elves, ten times its original size, and the new, major power in the region.
All thanks to my grandmother, The Black Witch.
My father, Vale, was a highly ranked Gardnerian soldier, and my mother, Tessla, was visiting him when Keltic forces struck. They died together, and my uncle took us in soon after.
My little white cat, Isabel, jumps into my trunk and tries to pull a string from my old patchwork quilt. It’s the quilt my mother made while pregnant with me, and it’s linked to the only vivid memory I have of her. When I wrap myself in it, I can hear, faintly, the sound of my mother’s voice singing me a lullaby, and almost feel her arms cradling me. No matter how bad a day I’ve had, just wrapping myself in this quilt can soothe me like nothing else.
It’s as if she sewed her love right into the soft fabric.
Next to my trunk stands my apothecary kit, vials neatly stacked inside, tools secured, the medicines meticulously prepared. I’ve inherited this affinity for medicinal plants and herbs from my mother. She was a gifted apothecary, well-known for several creative tonics and elixirs that she developed.
Beside my apothecary supplies lies my violin, case open, its amber, lacquered wood reflecting the lantern light. I run my fingers along the violin’s smooth surface.
I made this instrument, and there’s no way I can part with it. I’m not supposed to know how to make violins, since women aren’t allowed in the music crafter’s Guilds. My uncle hesitated to teach me, but as time went on, he became increasingly aware of my natural talent and relented.
I love everything about violin-making. My hands have always been drawn to wood, soothed by it, and I can tell just by touching it what type it is, whether or not the tree was healthy, what kind of sound it will support. I can lose myself for hours on end carving, sanding, coaxing the raw wood into the graceful shapes of violin parts.
Sometimes we play together, my uncle and I, especially during the winter evenings by the light of the hearth.
A polite knock on the door frame breaks my reverie, and I turn to see my uncle standing in the open doorway.
“Am I disturbing you?” My uncle’s face is gentle and softer than usual in the dim, warm light. His words, however, have a troubling edge of concern to them.
“No,” I reply tentatively. “I’m just finishing packing.”
“Can I come in?” he asks, hesitating. I nod and take a seat on my bed, which looks forlorn and foreign without its quilt. My uncle sits down next to me.
“I imagine you’re feeling quite confused,” he says. “Your aunt sent word a few months ago that she might be paying us a visit at some point, to discuss your future. So I started to make arrangements with the University. Just in case. I knew it was possible that she’d come for you someday, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be for a few more years at least.”
“Why?” I ask. I’m incredibly curious about why Aunt Vyvian has taken such a sudden interest in me—and why Uncle Edwin is so rattled by it.
My uncle wrings his clasped hands. “Because I do not believe what your aunt wants for your future is necessarily the best thing for you.” He pauses and sighs deeply. “You know I love you and your brothers as much as if you were my own children.”
I lean over onto his shoulder. His wool vest is scratchy. He puts his arm around me, and some of the stray hairs from his scraggly beard tickle my cheek.
“I’ve tried to shelter you, and protect you,” he continues, “and I hope that your parents, if they were here, would understand why I’ve made the decisions that I have.”
“I love you, too,” I say, my voice cracking, my eyes filling with tears.
I’ve wanted to venture out for so long, but it’s suddenly hitting me—I won’t see my uncle or my loving home for a long time. Maybe not until spring.
“Well, now, what’s this?” he asks, rubbing my shoulder to comfort me.
“It’s just all so fast.” I sniff back the tears. “I want to go, but... I’ll miss you. And Isabel, too.” Isabel, perhaps sensing my need for comfort, jumps onto my lap, purring and kneading me.
And I don’t want you to be lonely with me gone.
“Oh, there now,” my uncle says, as he hugs me tighter. “Don’t cry. I’ll take good care of Isabel, and you’ll see her soon enough. You’ll be back before you know it, with tales of all sorts of grand adventures.”
I wipe at my tears and pull away to look up at him. I don’t understand the urgency. He’s always been so reluctant to let me go anywhere, always wanting to keep me here at home. Why has he made such a quick decision to finally let me go?
Perhaps seeing the questions in my eyes, my uncle lets out a deep sigh. “Your aunt can’t force the issue of wandfasting as long as Rafe and I are here, but she can force the issue of schooling—unless I choose first. So I’m choosing. I’ve some contacts in the University’s apothecary school, so it was no trouble finding you a spot there.”
“Why don’t you want me to apprentice at the High Mage Council with Aunt Vyvian?”
“It doesn’t suit you,” he explains with a shake of his head. “I want you to pursue something...” He hesitates a moment. “Something more peaceful.”
He looks at me meaningfully, like he’s trying to convey a secret hope and perhaps an unspoken danger, then he reaches down to pet Isabel, who pushes her head against him, purring contentedly.
I stare at him, confused by his odd emphasis.
“If they ask you,” he says, focused in on the cat, “I’ve already wandtested you, and you have no magic.”
“I know, but... I don’t remember.”
“It’s not surprising,” he says, absently, as he continues to stroke the cat. “You were very young, and it wasn’t very memorable, as you have no magic.”
Only Trystan has magic, unlike most Gardnerians, who have no magic, or weak magic at best. Trystan has lots of magic. And he’s trained in weapon magic, which is particularly dangerous. But since my uncle won’t allow wands or grimoires in the house, Trystan’s never been able to show me what he can do.
Uncle Edwin’s eyes meet mine, his expression darkening. “I want you to promise me, Elloren,” he says, his tone uncharacteristically urgent. “Promise me that you won’t leave school to apprentice with the Mage Council, no matter how much your aunt pressures you.”
I don’t understand why he’s being so grave about this. I want to be an apothecary like my mother was, not apprenticed with our ruling council. I nod my head in agreement.
“And if something happens to me, you’ll wait to wandfast to someone. You’ll finish your education first.”
“But nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“No, no, it’s not,” he says, reassuringly. “But promise me anyway.”
A familiar worry mushrooms inside me. We all know that my uncle has been struggling with ill health for some time, prone to fatigue and problems with his joints and lungs. My brothers and I are loath to speak of this. He’s been a parent to us for so long—the only parent we can really remember. The thought of losing him is too awful to think of.
“Okay,” I say. “I promise. I’ll wait.”
Hearing these words, some of the tension leaves my uncle’s face. He pats my shoulder approvingly and gets up, joints cracking as he stands. He pauses and puts his hand affectionately on my head. “Go to University,” he says. “Learn the apothecary trade. Then come back to Halfix and practice your trade here.”
Some of the creeping worry withdraws its cold hands.
That sounds just fine. And perhaps I’ll meet a young man. I do want to be fasted, someday. Maybe, after I’m fasted, my fastmate and I could settle here in Halfix.
“All right,” I agree, bolstered.
This is all sudden and unexpected, but it’s exactly what I’ve wished for. Everything will work out for the best.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me. “You’ve a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night. Sleep well.”
I watch him leave, his shy, friendly smile the last thing I see before he gently shuts the door.
CHAPTER FOUR (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The White Wand
I’m awakened by a sharp rapping at my window. I jerk up from my bed, look toward the window and am startled by the sight of an enormous white bird sitting on a branch outside, staring intently at me.
One of the birds I saw flying in from the mountains.
Its wings are so white against the blue light of predawn, they seem otherworldly.
I creep out of bed to see how close I can get to the bird before spooking it, but don’t get far. As soon as I lose contact with the bed, the bird silently spreads its massive wings and flies out of sight. I rush to the window, fascinated.
There, I can still see it, staring fixedly at me, as if beckoning me to follow.
It’s across the field, near the long fence that separates our property from the Gaffneys’ estate.
I haphazardly dress and run outside, instantly consumed by the strange blue light that covers everything, transforming the familiar landscape into something ethereal.
The bird is still staring at me.
I walk toward it, the odd-colored scene making me feel like I’m in a dream.
I get quite close to the creature when it flies away again, past the garden, where the fence to my left disappears briefly into some dense bushes and trees.
I follow, feeling a thrill course through me, like I’m a child playing hide-and-seek. I round the corner to a small clearing, then jump with fright and almost bolt in the opposite direction when I see what’s there.
The white bird, along with two others, sits on a long tree branch. Directly below stands a spectral figure in a black cloak, its face hidden in the shadow of an overhanging hood.
“Elloren.” The voice is familiar, halting me before I start to run.
Realization of who this is crashes through me.
“Sage?” I’m amazed and confused at the same time, my heart racing from the jolt of fear.
She stands, just beyond the fence. Sage Gaffney, our neighbor’s eldest daughter.
Warily, I make my way toward her still figure, aware of the watchful birds above. As I get closer, I begin to make out her face in the blue light, her gaunt, terrified expression startling me. She was always a pleasant, healthy-looking girl, a University scholar and daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Gardneria. Her zealously religious family fasted her at thirteen to Tobias Vassilis, the son of a well-thought-of Gardnerian family. Sage had everything any Gardnerian girl could ever dream of.
But then she disappeared soon after starting University. Her family searched for her for over a year to no avail.
And yet here she is, as if risen from the dead.
“Wh-where have you been?” I stammer. “Your parents have been looking everywhere for you...”
“Keep your voice down, Elloren,” she commands, her eyes fearful and darting around restlessly. She seems poised and prepared for escape, a large travel sack hanging from her back. Something is moving beneath her cloak, something she’s carrying.
“What’s under your cloak?” I ask, bewildered.
“My son,” she says with a defiant lift of her chin.
“You and Tobias have a son?”
“No,” she corrects me, harshly, “he is not Tobias’s.” She says Tobias’s name with such pure loathing, I wince. And she keeps the child hidden.
“Do you need help, Sage?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to spook her any more than she already is.
“I need to give you something,” she whispers, then reaches with a shaking hand for something hidden under her cloak. She pulls out a long, white wand that rises up from an exquisitely carved handle, its tip so white it reminds me of the birds’ wings. But my eyes are quickly drawn away from the wand to her hand.
It’s covered with deep, bloody lash marks that continue up her wrist and disappear beneath the sleeve of her cloak.
I gasp in horror. “Holy Ancient One, what happened?”
Her eyes are briefly filled with despair before they harden again, a bitter smile forming on her mouth. “I did not honor my wandfasting,” she whispers acidly.
I’ve heard tales of the harsh consequences of fast-breaking, but to see it...
“Elloren,” she pleads, the look of terror returning. She pushes the wand out at me as if trying to will me to take it. “Please. There’s not a lot of time! I’m supposed to give it to you. It wants to go to you.”
“What do you mean, it wants to go to me?” I ask, confused. “Sage, where did you get this?”
“Just take it!” she insists. “It’s incredibly powerful. And you can’t let them get it!”
“Who’s them?”
“The Gardnerians!”
I force out a disbelieving breath. “Sage, we’re Gardnerians.”
“Please,” she begs. “Please take it.”
“Oh, Sage,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no reason for me to have a wand. I’ve no magic...”
“It doesn’t matter! They want you to have it!” She gestures with the wand toward the tree above.
“The birds?”
“They’re not just birds! They’re Watchers. They appear during times of great darkness.”
None of this makes any sense. “Sage, come inside with me.” I try to sound as soothing as I can. “We’ll talk to my uncle...”
“No!” she snarls, recoiling. “I told you, it only wants you!” Her expression turns desperate. “It’s the White Wand, Elloren.”
Pity flashes through me. “Oh, Sage, that’s a children’s story.”
It’s a religious myth, told to every Gardnerian child. Good versus Evil—the White Wand pitted against the Dark Wand. The White Wand, a pure force for good, coming to the aid of the oppressed and used in ancient, primordial battles against demonic forces. Against the power of the Dark Wand.
“It’s not just a story,” Sage counters, teeth gritted, her eyes gone wild. “You have to believe me. This is the White Wand.” She lifts the wand again and thrusts it toward me.
She’s mad, completely mad. But she’s so agitated, and I want to calm her fears. Relenting, I reach out and take the wand.
The pale wood of the handle is smooth and cool to the touch, strangely devoid of any sense of its source tree. I slide it under my cloak and into a pocket.
Sage looks instantly relieved, like a heavy burden has been lifted.
Movement in the distance catches my eye, just inside where the wilds begin. Two dark figures on horseback are there and gone again so quickly, I wonder if it’s a trick of the light. There are so many strange, dark shadows this time in the morning. I glance up and look for the white birds, and I have to blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing things.
They’re gone. With no sound made in leaving. I spin around on my heels, searching for them. They’re nowhere in sight.
“They’re gone, Elloren,” Sage says, her eyes once again apprehensively scanning around as if sensing some impending doom. She grasps my arm hard, her nails biting into my skin.
“Keep it secret, Elloren! Promise me!”
“Okay,” I agree, wanting to reassure her. “I promise.”
Sage lets out a deep sigh and releases me. “Thank you.” She looks in the direction of my cottage. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I beg of her. “Don’t go. Whatever’s going on... I want to help you.”
She regards me mournfully as if I’m dauntingly naive. “They want my baby, Elloren,” she says, her voice cracking, a tear spilling down her cheek.
Her baby? “Who wants your baby?”
Sage wipes her eyes with the back of her shaking, disfigured hand and casts a sidelong glance at my cottage. “They do!” She looks over her shoulder and gives her own home a pained look. “I wish... I wish I could explain to my family what’s really going on. To make them see. But they believe.” Her frown deepens, and she sets her gaze hard on me. “The Council’s coming for him, Elloren. They think he’s Evil. That’s why your aunt’s here.”
“No, Sage,” I insist. “She’s here to talk to me about wandfasting.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. They’re coming for my baby. And I have to leave before they get here.” She looks away for a moment as if desperately trying to compose herself. She hides her hand back under her cloak and cradles the small bundle inside. I wonder why she won’t let me see him.
I reach out to touch her arm. “You’re imagining all this, Sage. There’s no way anyone would want to hurt your baby.”
She glares at me with angry frustration, then shakes her head as if resigned to madness. “Goodbye, Elloren,” she says as if she pities me. “Good luck.”
“Wait...” I implore as she begins to walk along the fence line in the direction of the great wilderness. I follow her brisk pace, the fence separating us, leaning over it to reach her as she veers away, her back receding into the distance—a dark, ghostly figure making her way through the last of the morning mist.
The trees swallow her up into their darkness just as the sun rises, transforming the eerie blue dreamworld of early morning into the clear, sunlit world of day.
My fingers fumble under my cloak for the wand, half expecting it to be gone, expecting to find that I was sleepwalking and imagined all of this. But then I feel it—smooth and straight and very much real.
* * *
I rush back to the house, the sunlight steadily gaining strength.
Shaken, I’m desperate to find Uncle Edwin. Surely he’ll know what to do.
As I round the trees, I’m surprised to see Aunt Vyvian standing in the doorway watching me, her expression unreadable.
A small wave of apprehension washes over me at the sight of her, and I immediately slow my pace, struggling to turn my expression blank, as if returning from an uneventful morning stroll. But my mind is a tumult.
Those marks on Sage’s hands—they were so horrible. Maybe Sage is right. Maybe the Council is planning to take her baby away...
Aunt Vyvian tilts her head and eyes me thoughtfully as I approach. “Are you done packing?” she asks. “We’re ready to go.”
I stand awkwardly in front of her, not able to move forward as she’s blocking the doorway. “Yes, I’m done.” I’m acutely aware of the wand, my hand involuntarily drawn to it.
My aunt’s eyes flicker in the direction of the Gaffneys’ farm. “Did you visit with Sage Gaffney?” Her face is open, welcoming me to confide in her.
Shock flashes through me. How does she know that Sage is here?
I glance back toward the wilds, my heart thumping against my chest.
Sage was right. Aunt Vyvian isn’t just here for me. Clearly she’s here for Sage, too. But surely she would never harm a baby?
Aunt Vyvian sighs. “It’s all right, Elloren. I know she’s here, and I realize it must be terribly upsetting to see her. She’s...very troubled. We’re trying to help her, but...” She shakes her head sadly. “How is she?” Her tone is one of maternal concern. Some of my tension lightens.
“She’s terribly frightened.” The words rush out. “The baby. She thinks someone wants to harm him. That someone from the Council is coming to take him away from her.”
My aunt doesn’t seem surprised by this. She fixes me with the type of look adults use when they are about to reveal to a child some unfortunate, troubling fact of life. “The Council is coming to take custody of her baby.”
I blink in shocked surprise.
Aunt Vyvian lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “The child is deformed, Elloren. It needs a physician’s care, and much more.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I breathe, almost not wanting to know.
Aunt Vyvian searches my eyes, hesitant to tell me what I know will be something monstrous. “Elloren,” she explains gravely, “Sage has given birth to an Icaral.”
I recoil at the word. No! It can’t be. It’s too horrible to imagine. One of the Evil Winged Ones—like giving birth to a grotesque demon. No wonder Sage didn’t let me see her child.
The dull thud of horses’ hooves sounds in the distance, and I spot another Mage Council carriage rounding the hills and making its way down into the valley toward the Gaffneys’ estate. It’s followed by eight Gardnerian soldiers on horseback.
“Can the child be helped?” My voice comes out in a shocked whisper as I watch the carriage and the soldiers nearing the cottage.
“The Council will try, Elloren.” My aunt reassures me. “Its wings will be removed and a Mage Priest will do everything he can to try and save the child’s twisted soul.” She pauses and looks at me inquisitively. “What else did Sage say to you?”
It’s a simple enough question, but something pulls me up short, some amorphous fear. And Sage has enough problems already.
Clearly she’s stolen this wand. It can’t possibly be the wand of myth that she imagines it to be, but it’s obviously an expensive wand. Probably belonging to Tobias.
I’ll wait until all this dies down and find a way to return it to him. And I don’t mention that Sage has run off into the woods—I’m sure the Council will find her soon enough on their own anyway.
“She didn’t say much else,” I lie. “Only what I’ve told you.”
My aunt nods in approval and lets out a small sigh. “Well, then, enough of this. We’ve a big journey ahead of us.”
I attempt a small, resigned smile in return and bury Sage’s secret deep within, as well as my guilt in keeping it.
CHAPTER FIVE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Selkie
I stare out the window of my aunt’s grand carriage as the scenery gradually changes from wilderness interspersed with farmland to small towns with more horse traffic. We sit opposite each other on green silk-cushioned seats, windows to our sides. A red, tasseled cord hangs from the ceiling that can be pulled to get the driver’s attention.
I run my fingers nervously along the polished wood that lines my seat, its smooth touch soothing to me. An image of its source tree suffuses my mind, delicate, pointed leaves sparkling gold in the sunlight.
Star Maple.
I breathe in deep and let the tree anchor me.
All throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, my aunt quietly works on Mage Council paperwork on a small table that folds out from the wall.
Aunt Vyvian’s the only woman to ever sit on our ruling Mage Council. She’s one of twelve Mages there, not counting our High Mage. You have to be important to be on the Mage Council, and it’s usually made up of powerful priests or Guild leaders, like Warren Gaffney, who’s the head of the Agricultural Guild. But Aunt Vyvian has especially high status, being the daughter of the Black Witch.
Aunt Vyvian dips her pen in an inkwell with a sharp tap, her script graceful as a professional calligrapher’s.
Glancing up, she smiles at me, then finishes up the page she’s working on and places it into a large, important-looking, black leather folder, the Mage Council’s golden M affixed to its front. After clearing the table, she collapses it back against the wall, smooths her skirts and turns her attention to me.
“Well, Elloren,” she begins pleasantly, “it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, and an even longer time since we’ve had a chance to talk. I really do regret that your uncle left everything to the last minute like this. It must be very confusing for you, and I suspect you have some questions.”
I ponder this. Sage’s deformed hands are foremost on my mind.
“When I saw Sage this morning,” I begin, tentatively, “her hands were wounded...horribly wounded.”
My aunt looks a bit taken aback. She sighs deeply. “Elloren,” she says, her face solemn, “Sage left her fastmate and ran off with a Kelt.”
A rush of shock runs through me. The Kelts killed my parents. They oppressed my people for generations. How could kind, gentle Sage have run off with...a Kelt?
My aunt’s brow tightens in sympathy. “I know this must be hard for you, since you were friendly with the girl, but wandfasting is a sacred commitment, and breaking that commitment has serious consequences.” Her face softens when she sees my troubled expression. “Do not despair, Elloren,” she says to comfort me. “There is hope yet. Tobias is willing to take Sage back, and there may be hope for her child, as well. The Ancient One is full of compassion when we truly repent and beg for forgiveness.”
I remember Sage’s defiance and think it highly unlikely she will beg for anyone’s forgiveness, least of all Tobias’s. I’ve hidden Sage’s white wand inside the lining of my travel trunk, so at least being in possession of a stolen wand won’t be added to her horrific troubles.
“It doesn’t hurt to be fasted, does it?” I ask Aunt Vyvian worriedly.
My aunt laughs at this and leans forward to pat my hand with affection. “No, Elloren. It’s not painful at all! The priest simply has the couple hold hands before waving his wand over them and reciting a few words. It’s not something you feel, although it does leave an imprint on your hand, which you’ve seen before.” My aunt holds out her hand, which is marked with graceful black swirls that extend to her wrist.
Unlike my uncle, who never married, most Gardnerian adults have some variation of these marks on their hands and wrists, the design unique to each couple and influenced by their Mage affinity lines. Hers are quite beautiful; undimmed by time and the death of her fastmate in the Realm War.
“Do not let Sage’s unfortunate situation color your view of wandfasting,” my aunt cautions. “Wandfasting is a beautiful sacrament, meant to keep us pure and chaste. The lure of the Evil Ones is strong, Elloren. Wandfasting helps young people such as yourself to stay on the path of virtue. It’s one of the many things that sets us apart from the heretic races all around us.” She motions toward me with both hands, palms upturned. “That is why I would like to see you wandfasted to someone you find appealing, someone who would be right for you. I’m having a party at week’s end while you’re in Valgard. Let me know if there is any young man who particularly catches your fancy.” My aunt smiles at me conspiratorially.
A heady anticipation ripples through me.
What if I meet a young man I like at my aunt’s party? Might he ask me to dance? Or to walk with him in a beautiful garden? There’s a dearth of young, unfasted men in Halfix, and none that I fancy. Meeting a young man in Valgard is a thrilling thought, and I spend a fair bit of time dreamily considering it.
It takes several days to reach Valgard, and we stop often to change horses, stretch our legs and retire in the evening to sumptuous lodging. My aunt picks only the best guesthouses—delicious food brought to our rooms, fresh flowers gracing the tables and soft bedding stuffed with down.
Over meals and during the long carriage rides, Aunt Vyvian tells me about the people she’s invited to her party: the various young men, along with their accomplishments and family connections, as well as the young women I will be meeting and who they’re wandfasted to. She also speaks about her hopes for the rise of Marcus Vogel to High Mage, our highest level of government. Our current High Mage, Aldus Worthin, is elderly and getting ready to step down in the spring.
Marcus Vogel’s name catches my attention. I remember a conversation my brother Rafe recently had with Uncle Edwin about him. Uncle Edwin was surprisingly strident in his dismissal of Vogel, calling him a “rabid zealot.”
“Half the Council is still behind Phinneas Callnan for our next High Mage,” Aunt Vyvian tells me, her tone clipped. “But the man has no spine. He’s forgotten his own faith and how we were almost destroyed as a people.” She shakes her head in strident disapproval. “If it was up to him, I suspect we’d all be slaves again, or half-breeds.” She pats my hand as if I need consoling on this point. “No matter, Elloren. The referendum’s not until spring, and Vogel’s support grows every day.”
Though her harsh words make me uneasy, I find myself falling under Aunt Vyvian’s congenial spell, and she brightens in response to my rapt attention. She’s a wonderful traveling companion, charming and vivacious. And she paints such vivid pictures of each person she describes that I imagine I’ll be able to recognize them on sight.
She seems particularly fond of a young man named Lukas Grey—a powerful, Level Five Mage and rising star in the Gardnerian military.
“He’s the son of the High Commander of the entire Mage Guard,” she tells me as we roll along, a spectacular view of the Voltic Sea to my right, the late-afternoon sun sparkling on its waves. “And he’s a top graduate of the University.”
“What did he study?” I ask, curious.
“Military history and languages,” she crows.
I can tell from the way her eyes light up when she speaks of him that he’s her first choice of fasted partner for me. I humor her, doubting that this much-sought-after young man will spare even a glance toward a shy girl from Halfix. But it’s enjoyable to listen to her enthusiastic descriptions, nonetheless.
“Only three years out of University and already a first lieutenant,” she gushes brightly. “There’s talk that within a year’s time, Lukas Grey could be the youngest commander in the history of the Guard.”
My aunt prattles on for a long time about Lukas and several other young men. As she speaks, I glance out the window and watch the scenery go by. Gradually, the buildings of the towns we pass through are becoming taller, grander and closer together, and lanterns are lit to welcome the twilight. Our progress is now slowed by heavier carriage and horse traffic. We crest a hill, pass through a wooded area, and then, suddenly, it’s before us—a sloping valley leading straight to Valgard, Gardneria’s capital city.
Like an elegant cloak clasp, gleaming Valgard rings the Malthorin Bay. A glorious sunset lights the ocean beyond and bathes everything in the rich colors of a well-stoked fire. Tiny ships speckle the water. Valgard’s docks resemble the curved half of a long fishbone.
I can scarcely breathe as I take it all in, the city glittering in the fading light, points of illumination sprouting throughout, like fireflies waking. Our carriage weaves down into the valley, and before long, we’re in the heart of the capital.
I slide the carriage window open and stare.
Buildings made of luxurious, dark Ironwood rise up around me, the progressively wider upper stories supported by richly carved ebony columns. Curling emerald trellises thick with lush, flowering vines flow out over the rooftops and down the buildings’ sides.
I close my eyes and breathe in the rich Ironwood. It’s traditional for our homes to be made of this wood and styled in designs that look like forests and trees—a symbol of the Ancient One’s creation of my people from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree, giving us dominion over all the trees and all the wilds.
We pass an open-air restaurant, dining tables spilling out onto a promenade surrounded by decorative fruit trees, all of it lit by diamond-paned lanterns. The smell of rich food wafts into the carriage—roasted lamb, sautéed fish, platters of herbed potatoes.
A small orchestra plays beneath a plum tree.
I turn to my aunt, thrilled by the beautiful music. I’ve never heard an orchestra before. “Is that the Valgard symphony?”
Aunt Vyvian laughs. “Heavens, no, Elloren. They’re employees of the restaurant.” She eyes me with amused speculation. “Would you like to hear the symphony while you’re here?”
“Oh, yes,” I breathe.
There’s an endless variety of shops, cafés and markets. And I’ve never seen so many Gardnerians together before, their uniformly dark garb lending an air of elegance and gravity to their appearance, the women’s black silken tunics set off by glittering gems. I know it says right in our holy book that we’re supposed to wear the colors of night to remember our long history of oppression, but it’s hard to keep such somber thoughts in mind as I look around. It’s all so wonderfully grand. I’m seized by a heady excitement, coupled with a desire to be part of it all. I glance down at my simple, dark brown woolen clothing and wonder what it would be like to wear something fine.
The carriage lurches, and we turn sharply to the right and make our way down a narrow, darker road, the buildings not as lovely as the ones on the main thoroughfare, the storefront windows mysteriously harder to see through, the lighting a moody red.
“I had my driver take a shortcut,” my aunt says by way of explanation as she flips through more Council papers, the golden lumenstone in the carriage lantern growing in brightness in response to the dark.
I marvel at the lumenstone’s rich, otherworldly light. Elfin lumenstone is incredibly expensive, the golden stone the rarest. I’ve only seen swampy green lumenstone in the Gaffneys’ outdoor lamps back home.
Aunt Vyvian lets out a sigh and pulls down one of the blinds. “This isn’t the best part of town, Elloren, but it will shave quite a bit of time off our journey. I suggest you close the window. It’s not an attractive area. Frankly, it should all be razed and rebuilt.”
I lean forward to close my open window and draw the blind as the carriage slows to a halt. It’s been a constant stop and go ever since we reached the city because of the heavy street traffic.
A split second before I’m about to pull the cord, something hits the window with a loud smack—a white bird’s wing, there and gone so fast, I swear I imagined it. I press my face to the window and try to locate the bird.
They’re not just birds, they’re Watchers! Sage’s words echo in my mind.
And that’s when I see her—a young woman only a few feet away from me.
She is, by far, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, even dressed as she is in a simple white tunic. Her long, silver hair sparkles like sun glinting off a waterfall and spills out over translucent skin so pale, it’s almost blue. She has a lithe, graceful figure, her legs folded together to one side, her weight supported by slender, alabaster arms.
But it’s her eyes that are the most riveting. They’re huge and gray as a stormy sea. And they’re filled with wild terror.
She’s in a cage. An actual, locked cage, only big enough for her to sit in, not stand, and it’s placed on a table. Two men stand staring at her while engaged in some private conversation. On the other side of the cage, two boys are poking at her side with a long, sharp stick, trying for a reaction.
She doesn’t seem to even register that they’re there. She’s looking straight at me, her eyes absolutely locked on to mine. Her look is one of such primal fear, I pull back from the sheer force of it, my heart beginning to pound against my chest.
The woman lunges forward, grabs fiercely at the bars in front of her and opens her mouth. My head jerks back in surprise as slender rows of silvery slits on both sides of the base of her neck fly open, her skin puffing out around them.
Holy Ancient One—she has gills!
The woman lets loose a high-pitched, earsplitting croak, the likes of which I have never heard before. I have no idea what she’s trying to scream, what’s happened to her voice, but still, her meaning is clear. She’s crying out for my help.
The men jump at the sound, put their hands over their ears and shoot her a look of annoyance. The boys laugh, perhaps thinking they provoked her cry. The boys push the stick into her once more, harder this time. Again, she doesn’t flinch. She just keeps her eyes locked on mine.
My eyes dart to the sign on the storefront above her. Pearls of the Ocean, it reads. Suddenly the carriage lurches forward, and she’s gone.
“Aunt Vyvian,” I cry, my voice strained and high-pitched, “there was a woman! With...gills! In a cage!” I point to the window on the side where she had been, my heart racing.
My aunt glances quickly in the direction of the window, her expression one of mild disgust. “Yes, Elloren,” she says, sighing. “It was hard to miss the screeching.”
“But, but...what...” I can barely get the words out.
“Selkies, Elloren, it’s a Selkie.” She cuts me off, clearly not wanting to discuss it further.
I’m stunned by her nonchalance. “She was in a cage!” I point again at the window, still not believing what I just saw.
“Not everything is how it appears on the surface, Elloren,” she says stiffly. “You’ll have to learn that if you’re going to be part of the wider world.” She peers over at me and studies my troubled face, perhaps seeing that a longer explanation is unavoidable. “They may look like humans, Elloren, but they aren’t.”
The very human-looking, terrified eyes of the young woman are burned into my mind. “What are they?” I ask, still shaken.
“They’re seals. Very fierce seals, at that.” My aunt pauses to lean back against the elaborately embroidered cushions. “Long ago, the Selkies were enchanted by a sea witch. Every full moon they come to shore somewhere on the coast, step out of their seal skin and emerge in human form. For many years they caused a great deal of havoc—attacking sailors, dismantling ships. It was terrible.”
“But she looked so frail.”
“Ah, it’s like I just said. Appearances can be deceiving. Selkies, in possession of their skins, are stronger than the strongest Mage, and like most seals, they are very dangerous predators.”
“And without their skins?”
“Very good, Elloren.” My aunt looks pleased. “You’ve gotten right to the heart of it. Without their skins, they can be easily controlled.”
“Why?”
“Because they lose their strength, and because they cannot transform back into seals without them. Without their skins, they cannot get back to the ocean. Being wild animals, no matter how long they are kept in human form, they desperately want to get back to their ocean home. They’re not human, Elloren. It’s only an illusion. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“But why was she in a cage?”
My aunt grimaces at my question, like she’s detected an unpleasant odor. “Some people like to keep them...as pets.”
I scrutinize her face. She’s not looking at me. She’s now glancing toward the window impatiently.
“She...she looked so terrified,” I say, upset.
My aunt’s expression softens. “Well, caged wild animals are never a pleasant sight. I am completely and utterly against the Selkie trade and am doing everything I can to wipe it out.” She pats my hand reassuringly.
I feel some measure of relief wash over me.
“There are better ways to deal with Selkies that are far more humane than keeping them in cages, forcing them to...act human,” she explains thoughtfully as she splays the fingers of one hand in front of herself and scrutinizes her lovely nails.
I’m so glad she feels this way. I know my brothers would agree. They’re staunchly against the abuse of animals. Rafe, especially, hates the sight of wild animals confined or shackled in cruel ways.
“So you’ll help her?” I press.
“Yes, yes, Elloren. Of course I will.” My aunt impatiently straightens her sleeve cuffs. “Once Marcus Vogel becomes High Mage, it will be possible to put an end to this sort of thing.”
I try to be consoled by this, but it’s all so troubling.
She sets her eyes on me. “But really, Elloren, I didn’t bring you here to talk about the local wildlife. There are so many more pleasant things to speak of.”
I nod silently as my aunt points out her favorite shops and historical landmarks, but the face of the Selkie stays fresh in my mind, and I can’t shake the chill I now feel for the rest of the ride.
CHAPTER SIX (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Valgard
A starlit sky overhead, we arrive, the carriage pulling up before Aunt Vyvian’s three-story home, arching windows lit golden and an expansive, dark wooden staircase spilling toward us in welcome.
Lush gardens arc along the curved entrance road, and I breathe in their heady, sweet scent as the carriage slows. Ironwood trees are bursting with glowing Ironflowers that cast the road in their soft blue luminescence.
Our carriage glides to a smooth stop.
Two Urisk serving women stand on either side of the carriage door as I exit, their straight violet hair tied back into tidy braids, their ears coming to swift points and their skin the soft lavender hue of the Urisk upper class. Their coloration is new to my eyes—the only Urisk I’ve ever seen are those toiling at the Gaffneys’ farm. Those women have the white, rose-tinted skin, hair and eyes of the Urisks’ lowest class—so pale they could almost pass for Alfsigr Elves, were it not for the faintly pink sheen of their skin and hair. These upper-class women’s linen uniforms are crisply starched, snow-white tunics over long gray skirts, their expressions neutral.
Suddenly self-conscious, I grasp at the rough wool of my tunic hem. I’m shabbier than even the servants. I crane my neck up, amazed at the height of the house, and swallow apprehensively, feeling small and insignificant in contrast to this grandeur.
Aunt Vyvian’s mansion is the same style of architecture I saw throughout Valgard—a climbing, multistoried building hewn from Ironwood; the broader, higher floors supported by curved, wooden columns; the roof topped with expansive gardens and multiple potted trees, vines of every variety spilling over the sides.
Like a giant tree.
It sits on elevated land with a panoramic view of the ocean to the back, and down onto twinkling Valgard and the Malthorin Bay to the side.
It’s so beautiful.
Heady with anticipation, I follow at Aunt Vyvian’s heels as she briskly makes her way up the stairs, the double doors opened for us by two more Urisk servants.
She holds herself so elegantly straight, I adjust my posture without thinking and hasten my pace to keep up with her. I wonder how she manages to walk so confidently and gracefully in her slim, tall heels, her skirts swishing around her feet.
I’d probably fall clear over on shoes like that.
My own feet are covered in sturdy boots made for gardening and caring for livestock. I secretly hope I can try feminine shoes like hers.
We pause in the most beautiful foyer I’ve ever been in: tables set with fresh bouquets of red roses, the tilework beneath my feet set in a black-and-green geometric design and a pair of stained-glass doors patterned with climbing vines.
A flutter of excitement rises in me to be in the middle of such luxury.
Aunt Vyvian riffles through some papers on a silver tray held by one of her serving women. “I apologize, Elloren, but I must leave you to get settled on your own.” She pauses and examines one of the papers with shrewd eyes. “Fenil’lyn will show you to your rooms, and then we’ll have a late dinner once you’ve unpacked.” She sets down the letter and smiles expectantly at me.
“Of course. That’s fine,” I respond eagerly. I glance around and break into a wide grin, looking at her with appreciation and a heightened desire to win her approval. “It’s...it’s so lovely here,” I say falteringly, suddenly giddy with nerves.
My aunt nods distractedly as if she’s suddenly lost interest in me, then motions toward the servants and strides away, trailed by three of the Urisk, her heels clicking sharply on the tile floor. One stays behind—Fenil’lyn, I assume.
Aunt Vyvian’s aloof dismissal has a small sting to it.
If I had magic, would I be of more interest to her? I let out a small sigh. On the carriage ride here, my aunt repeatedly brought up her disappointment that I take after my famous grandmother in looks only. No matter, I console myself. It’s a huge honor that she’s chosen to single me out and bring me here.
I follow straight-backed Fenil’lyn down a long hallway decorated with small, potted trees, and out into an expansive central hall. I skid to a stop, stunned by the sight that lies before me.
A central staircase spirals three stories up around a life-size tree sculpture. Wrought-iron grating, stylized to look like flowering vines, encloses each story’s circular balcony.
I quicken my steps to catch up with Fenil’lyn and follow as she starts up the staircase. I take in the lifelike carved leaves, fascinated, and brush my fingers along their textured surface as we ascend.
River Oak.
An image of the source tree lights up my mind like the summer sun, moss-covered branches undulating out.
Reaching the top floor, I wordlessly follow Fenil’lyn onto the top balcony. She stops before two expansive wooden doors and pushes them open.
I peer inside and have to blink to believe my eyes.
A roaring woodstove pumps out a crackling heat, a crimson-canopied bed directly across from it. Sanded trunks and branches rise up near the walls, hewn from dark wood, giving off the smell of their rich beeswax coating, the domed ceiling painted to give the illusion of a starlit sky. I step inside and am immediately enfolded in delicious warmth.
Everything already done for me, no wood to lug.
Directly before me, two cut-crystal doors sparkle gold in the reflected lamp and firelight.
I pause to touch the smooth silk of a golden tassel that hangs from my bed’s canopy, to stare in amazement at the intricate tree design embroidered on the scarlet quilt.
I reach the crystal doors, open them and find a curved sunroom just beyond, its walls made of glass that looks straight out over the ocean, a geometric glass ceiling giving me a panoramic view of the real night sky.
Two snow-white kittens play with a ball of string in the center of the sunroom’s floor. They’re fluffy white, with sky blue eyes. Just like my own cat, Isabel.
Enchanted, I stoop down and pick up one of the kittens. She kneads me with needle-sharp claws as a tiny, rumbling purr emanates from her small chest. The other kitten continues to worry the ball of string.
“For you, Mage Gardner,” Fenil’lyn informs me with a polite smile. She’s slender, with gorgeous eyes the color of amethysts. Her violet hair is streaked with a single stripe of gray. “Mage Damon felt you might be missing your pet.”
My chest floods with a grateful warmth. How incredibly thoughtful.
Happily, I rise and turn to Fenil’lyn, hugging the purring kitten against my chest, the animal’s tiny head tickling under my chin.
“You can call me Elloren,” I tell her, grinning from ear to ear.
She stiffens, her smile freezing in place. “Thank you, Mage Gardner. But that would show disrespect.” She tilts her head gracefully and gives a small bow. “Please allow me to honor you with your proper title.”
It’s odd to be in the presence of an Urisk woman who speaks the common tongue. Odder still to experience such deferential treatment, especially from someone who might be older than Aunt Vyvian. I’m momentarily ill at ease.
“Of course,” I defer, the woman’s frozen smile softening into an expression of relief.
“If you have need of anything, Mage Gardner,” she tells me brightly, “simply ring the bell.” She motions toward a golden-tasseled rope hanging by the door with a practiced wave. “I’ll be back shortly to bring you to dinner.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding.
She quietly leaves, and I take a deep breath, overcome by my surroundings.
Setting the kitten down in a basket with its littermate, I open the sunroom’s side door.
The salty ocean breeze kisses my face the moment I step out onto a curved balcony. The stone balcony follows the arc of the sunroom, the rhythmic whoosh of waves lapping the dark rocks below. I peer over the balcony’s edge, down two stories toward another, broader balcony, where servants are busy setting out an elaborate dinner.
Our dinner, I realize. Nothing to cook. Nothing to clean.
Breathing in deep, I take in the refreshing, salt-tinged air.
I could get used to this.
I wander back into my rooms and skim my finger over the spines of the books in a small library that’s set into the wall, all the texts related to apothecary medicine.
A thread of amazed gratification ripples through me.
She’s created a custom library just for me.
I remember the runehawk messenger bird Aunt Vyvian had her guard send out to bring word of our arrival, but still, I’m stunned that so many personal touches have been pulled together in two days’ time.
I slide a volume off the shelf and open the cover, the new leather resisting my pull. The drawings of herbs are hand-painted and look so lifelike, I can almost smell their scent.
I wonder if she’ll let me take some of these books to University with me—they’d be of incredible use to me in my studies. A sitting table near the bed has a mirror rimmed with stained-glass roses. On the table sits a gilded brush and comb set, along with brand-new bottles of perfume, their spritzers tasseled with crimson silk.
So many pretty things. Things I never had in a house full of messy males.
I pick up one of the glass bottles, spritz it in the air and inhale.
Mmm. It smells like vanilla and rose.
As the mist falls and dissipates, my eyes light on a shelf set into the wall, a cabinet beneath. Set on the table are two marble statues.
I walk over to them and pick one of the statues up, the polished base cool against my palm. It depicts my grandmother, her wand in her belt, leading Gardnerian children to some destination, smiles on the children’s upturned, adoring faces. I look closely and trace my finger over the face’s sharp features, her thin nose.
It’s me. Or certainly a close likeness.
The second statue is my grandmother again, powerful and fierce, her delicate wand raised, her hair flying out behind her, a dead Icaral demon crushed beneath her feet.
An Icaral, like Sage’s deformed baby.
I pause, troubled, my brow tensing. The thought of Icaral demons is so jarring in the midst of the comforting warmth, the sweet kittens, the luxury cushioning me all around. It makes me want to hide the statue away in a closet and never set eyes upon it again.
Shaking off the dark image, I clean myself up and prepare to meet my aunt for dinner.
* * *
“Are the rooms to your liking, Elloren?”
Aunt Vyvian beams at me as I join her at the balcony table. Fenil’lyn bows and graciously takes her leave.
“They’re lovely, thank you,” I reply, a bit dazzled. “I’ve never seen anything like...” I look out over the spectacular view of the ocean. “Well, like any of this.”
She smiles, pleased. “Well, it’s your birthright. Enjoy it. Your uncle’s deprived you for far too long.” She gestures toward a chair with a light wave of her hand. “Please. Sit. Enjoy the view with me.”
Delighted, I take a seat opposite her, a deep green rug beneath our feet covering the gray stone of the balcony. Lanterns hang on multiple stands and cast the table in a soft glow that reflects off the fine porcelain with tiny, golden pinpricks of light.
A plate’s been made up for me—slices of a citrus-glazed pheasant, precarved on a side table, thin lemon slices decorating the succulent bird; wild rice with dried fruit and nuts; baby carrots. Fresh bread steams between us alongside a dish of butter molded into flowers. A pitcher of mint water and a basket of fresh fruit also adorn the table. And a small table by the balcony’s side wall holds a steaming pot of tea, a tower of small pastries and a bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase.
A servant stands still as a statue by the tea set, a young blue-skinned Urisk woman with vivid sapphire eyes who stares straight ahead into the middle distance, her expression carefully blank. It’s hard to remember she’s a person and not a statue, she’s that still.
Aunt Vyvian’s gaze wanders over me as she sips her water.
I find myself longing for her approval. I try to sit straight, my hands folded lightly on my lap, mimicking her graceful posture. My clothing may be shoddy, but at least I can try to mirror her refined ways.
“Tomorrow I’m sending you to the premier dressmaker in Valgard to have an entire new wardrobe fitted,” she tells me with a small smile. “You can take it to University with you.”
It’s like she can read my wishes, and I’m overcome with gratitude. We’ve never had enough money for fine clothing. A warm rush rises in my neck and cheeks as I blush at her kindness. “Thank you, Aunt Vyvian.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to accompany you.” She sets down her glass and cuts into her pheasant. “I’ve Mage Council business to attend to, but I’m having three young women join you. They’ll be your peers at University.”
“Oh.” I’m nervous and elated by the thought of meeting fellow scholars. I take a bite of the pheasant and it falls apart in my mouth, the glaze bright with lemon and spiked with fresh herbs.
“You’ll like Paige Snowden and Echo Flood a great deal, I’m sure of it,” she muses, taking a neat bite of her food. She dots her mouth with her napkin. “They’re the daughters of Mage Council members. Lovely young women. Pleasant and morally upstanding.”
But—she mentioned three young women. I blink at her in confusion, wondering if I heard her wrong.
“And the third?”
Aunt Vyvian’s mouth grows tight, her face darkening, eyes cool. “That would be Fallon Bane, dear. I very much doubt you’ll like her.”
I gape at her. “Then...why...?”
“Her father is Malkyn Bane. He’s a military commander and has a great deal of Council influence. He’s also a Level Five Mage.” She says this with the gravity it’s due, and I nod and take note of it as I pull a warm piece of bread from the basket.
Level Five Mages are not common, which is why my Level Five brother Trystan is a full-fledged Weapons Guild Mage at the tender age of sixteen.
“Malkyn Bane’s children are all Level Five Mages,” Aunt Vyvian continues with great significance.
I freeze, bread and butter knife in hand. “You can’t mean his daughter, too?”
Aunt Vyvian slowly nods. “Fallon Bane is a Level Five Mage, as are her two brothers.” She gives this a moment to fully sink in.
I gape at her. “A female? With that much power?” That high level of power is almost exclusively held by males, with the notable exception of my grandmother.
My aunt’s face fills with bitter frustration. “That kind of power rightfully belongs in our line. Especially with how much you look like Mother.” She shakes her head, her brow going tight. “But even Trystan, with his great promise, is no match for Fallon Bane. Especially since he got such a late start in his training, due to your uncle’s negligence on that front.” She lets out a frustrated breath and gives me a level look. “Fallon’s only eighteen, and she’s already on the outer reaches of Level Five, Elloren. Much like your grandmother was at her age.”
I remain frozen as realization washes over me. “She’s the next Black Witch.”
Aunt Vyvian’s eyes darken. “No. I refuse to believe it. One of your children will hold that title. Or Trystan’s. But not Fallon Bane. That power is our legacy. Ours alone. No matter how much Fallon Bane and her family like to strut about and pretend they’re the heirs to it.”
I knit my brow in question. “But even if she’s not the Black Witch...if she’s so dangerous, and if you dislike her so—then why is Fallon Bane going dress shopping with me?”
It seems almost comically bizarre.
Aunt Vyvian leans forward and looks me straight in the eye as if conveying something of deep importance. “Because sometimes in this world, it’s good to know what you’re dealing with.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fallon is obsessed with Lukas Grey.”
Ah, him again.
“So...they’re courting?”
“No,” she puts in flatly. “Not to my knowledge. From what I’ve seen, Lukas has little interest in the girl.” My aunt’s face twists into a disgusted sneer. “Even though Fallon throws herself at him quite wantonly.”
Warmth spreads through my cheeks as I start to realize where all this is going. Lukas is a prize. And Aunt Vyvian is actively plotting for me to win him. Away from Fallon Bane.
“You want me to spend time with Fallon Bane so I can size up the competition?” I say, disbelieving.
Her eyes take on a sly gleam. “There is an opportunity here, Elloren.”
Worry pricks at me. I might not even like this Lukas Grey, so there’s that. But there’s an even larger concern.
I set my bread and knife down and level with her.
“Aunt Vyvian. You’ve really gone out of your way for me. And I don’t want to disappoint you.” A nervous dismay ripples through me—I don’t want to lose her kind regard. I’ve been hungry for a mother figure for so long, for female guidance. But she has to know the truth. “I have no experience in society. There’s just no way I can...swoop down into it and...fit in with this Lukas Grey, or anyone else, for that matter.” I slump, losing heart as I take in the tiny, elaborate braids that decorate her long hair. I’m hungry for knowledge of such pretty ways. “I don’t even know how to do my hair. Or use makeup properly. Or...anything.” If I had my mother...
Aunt Vyvian pats my hand and gives me a warm, maternal smile.
“You don’t have to know anything, dear.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve taken you under my wing. And that’s the best place to be. Simply sit back, enjoy it and follow my lead.”
I smile shyly, encouraged, as I hold on to her cool, smooth hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Fallon Bane
“Have you kissed him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gareth Keeler. Have you kissed him?”
I’m facing an audience of three young women—the University scholars Aunt Vyvian has chosen to be my companions for the day. They sit staring at me with rapt attention, waiting for my answer.
To the most embarrassing question I’ve ever been asked.
Inappropriate, personal questions like this were not acceptable in Halfix, and I inwardly draw back from them in discomfort.
It’s early on my first morning in Valgard, and we are in Aunt Vyvian’s carriage, headed toward the shop of the premier dressmaker in Gardneria. The ride is smooth, the carriage surrounded by twelve armed, high-level Mage soldiers.
Twelve.
Charged with protecting Fallon Bane—our next Black Witch. Aunt Vyvian might not want to believe that she’s the one, but it’s clear from our armed escort that most other Gardnerians don’t agree with this view.
Fallon is, by far, the most intimidating young woman I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful, with full lips, curly black hair down to her waist and large eyes that shine with the whole spectrum of green. But everything else about her flies in the face of convention. For one thing, she’s dressed in a military apprentice uniform modified for a female—the traditional slate-gray silk tunic over a long, gray skirt instead of pants, and marked with a silver Erthia sphere embroidered over her heart. And the arms of her uniform are marked with a Level Five Mage’s five silver bands. Fallon watches me, her legs splayed open, aggressively taking up as much room in the carriage as possible.
She’s the one asking the questions, a slightly contemptuous smirk on her face. My obvious discomfort, given away by the blush I feel forming on my face, seems to greatly amuse her.
“Why are you asking me about Gareth Keeler?” I ask Fallon defensively.
“Your aunt says you know him.”
“I do,” I tell her. “He’s my friend.”
Fallon shoots sly, sidelong glances at both Echo and Paige before setting bright eyes back on me. “Have you looked closely at his hair?”
I bristle, my view of Fallon quickly coalescing into a hard ball of dislike. “His hair is black.”
Fallon smirks wider. “So...if you haven’t kissed Gareth, have you ever kissed anyone?”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral, greatly put off by her intrusive behavior. “Of course not. I’m unfasted.” And not in the habit of throwing myself at young men, unlike you.
Fallon flashes a devious look at Echo, which sends my dislike of Fallon flaring higher. Then she turns her mischievous gaze back on me, her tone thick with condescension. “You’re not in the backwoods anymore, Elloren. It’s okay to kiss a boy.”
Echo purses her lips at Fallon. “Some of us have morals,” she chastises. “Even in Valgard.”
Fallon spits out a disdainful laugh and rolls her eyes at me, like I’m an old chum.
Echo’s regarding me now, with serious, owl-like eyes, as if measuring my worth. She’s garbed in the manner of the most religious Gardnerians, her black tunic double-layered and very high in the collar, a small Erthia sphere hanging from a silver chain around her neck, her hair unadorned and parted straight as a pin.
Noticing Fallon’s and Echo’s unfriendly expressions, Paige smiles at me encouragingly. She’s the only truly pleasant person in the group, her curly black hair escaping from jeweled barrettes, spilling out over round, rosy cheeks.
Fallon takes note of Paige’s happy expression. “Paige has been kissed,” Fallon teases, her tone unkind.
That wipes the smile clear off Paige’s face. “Well...umm...” Paige stammers as she looks down at the marked hands that fidget in her lap. “I’m fasted.”
“She’s been fasted since she was thirteen,” Fallon leans in and whispers to me, as if this is a delicious secret.
“You have?” I’m surprised. Thirteen seems awfully young. But then I think of Sage—she was fasted at thirteen.
“I’m... I’m fasted to Fallon’s brother, Sylus,” Paige mumbles, seeming less than overjoyed by this.
Fallon throws an arm around Paige and hugs her tight with mock affection. “We’re going to be actual sisters!”
Paige glances meekly at Fallon and forces a small, quavering smile.
I motion toward Echo’s marked hands. “Have you been fasted a long time?”
Echo’s solemn stare doesn’t waver. “To Basyl Dorne. Five years ago.”
I study her, trying to catch a glimpse of how she feels about this, but Echo’s as private and unreadable as a statue.
My eyes wander to Fallon’s unmarked hands. “So... I see you’re not fasted.”
Fallon’s expression turns cold, and she fixes me with a belligerent stare. “Not yet.” She says it like a challenge.
“Fallon likes Lukas Grey.” Paige giggles nervously. Fallon swivels her head smoothly toward Paige and stares her down. Paige’s smile vanishes. “Well...you do...like Lukas, I mean.”
I remember my aunt’s gushing praise of Lukas Grey, the prospective fasting partner she seems to want most for me. I’m amused that Aunt Vyvian actually thinks I could compete with Fallon Bane for anything—and win.
“He’s really handsome,” gushes Paige, “and his father is the High Commander of the entire Mage Guard. He comes from a very important family, and he’s a Level Five Mage.”
Fallon is watching me closely, a gloating look on her face, like she’s won some prize.
“When are you getting fasted to Lukas?” I ask.
Fallon’s smile freezes, and she narrows her eyes at me. “Soon. Very soon.” There’s warning in her inflection. Stay away from Lukas. He’s mine.
I wonder why she’s so insecure about him, and whether or not she knows Aunt Vyvian ludicrously wants him for me. I find myself even more curious about my aunt’s party, if only for the chance to meet the mysterious Lukas Grey. My eyes are drawn to the wand that sticks out from Fallon’s belt like some great thorn.
“So—” I gesture toward the wand “—you’ve quite a bit of power, I’ve heard.”
She bares her teeth. “A little.”
I can tell by the incredulous looks Echo and Paige throw her that she’s being wildly sarcastic.
“I’ve never seen magic used,” I tell her.
Her feral smile inches wider. “You’ve no magic, then?”
I shake my head, bothered by the gloating look on her face.
In one smooth, deft movement, Fallon pulls out her wand, holds it straight up and murmurs a spell.
A loud crack sends Echo, Paige and me recoiling back against our seats as a flash of blue light bursts from Fallon’s wand. The sound jars me to the bone, and I gasp as the light quickly coalesces into a whirling, glowing sphere that floats just above the wand’s tip, its rhythmic, deep whoosh a jagged scrape to my ears, the carriage rapidly cooling, frost forming on the windows.
“Stop it, Fallon,” Echo snaps as she glares at Fallon with annoyance, all of us cast in sapphire light. “You’ll freeze us to death.”
Fallon lets out a contemptuous laugh but relents. She murmurs more strange words and the iceball instantly morphs into a roiling, white vapor that quickly explodes into a frigid, odorless mist and disappears.
Fallon sits back and grins, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
“That’s amazing,” I breathe, swallowing hard, fighting back a shiver.
“That’s nothing,” Paige says, eyes wide. “You should see what else she can do. She’s a Level Five Mage. One of the best of the whole Guard.”
“It sounds like you and Lukas Grey are well suited for each other,” I tell Fallon placatingly, wanting to be struck clear off her list of potential enemies.
Aunt Vyvian needs to abandon her absurd dream of matching me with Lukas Grey. All she’s going to do is place me directly into scary Fallon Bane’s line of fire.
Fallon seems pleased by my comment. She nods approvingly, sets her wand back into her belt and relaxes against her seat.
Echo shoots Fallon a look of mild disapproval, then glances down at my unmarked hands and frowns. “I don’t understand why you’re not fasted.”
“My uncle wants me to wait until I’m older,” I tell her, increasingly put off by Echo’s judgmental approach. And besides, Fallon looks to be about the same age as me, and she isn’t fasted, either.
“Oh, what fun you’ll have,” Paige enthuses with a dreamy look of longing. “All the parties and dances and your first kiss!”
“Have you met anyone you’re interested in?” Fallon probes, sizing me up to see if I’m competition for Lukas, no doubt.
“No.” I shake my head. “I haven’t really had a chance to, being from Halfix. It’s so isolated there. And this is only my first full day in Valgard.”
Fallon regards me with renewed interest. She narrows her eyes. “Have you ever been around any men...other than Gardnerian men?”
My brow knits tight and I feel myself growing defensive over my sheltered upbringing. “What do you mean?” I ask guardedly.
Fallon spits out a short laugh. “I mean, have you ever been around Keltic boys? Or Elves? Or... Lupine?”
I eye her with astonishment. “There aren’t Lupines at the University, are there?” That strikes me as incredibly dangerous. Lupines are vicious wolf-shifters. Stronger than the strongest Gardnerian, and completely immune to our magic.
“I’m afraid there are,” Echo replies, a grave expression on her face.
“That’s rather shocking,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m really surprised.” But then I think back to Aunt Vyvian’s conversation with Uncle Edwin, and her outrage over the University’s misguided racial integration—even Icaral demons are allowed to attend.
Paige is worriedly chewing at her bottom lip, her eyes round as two saucers.
Fallon leans in toward me with obvious relish, her voice a scratchy whisper. “Lupines don’t ever marry, did you know that? They simply grab whomever they like and mate with them in the woods.”
“Like animals,” Echo chimes in, with great indignation.
“Really?” It’s all so scandalous. And troubling.
“I’ve heard,” continues Fallon, “that sometimes they grab young women, pull them into the woods and mate with them...as wolves!”
Paige gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.
“Is that even possible?” I question, aghast.
Fallon laughs and settles back into her seat. “Stay away from the Lupine boys.”
“They don’t always mate in the woods,” Echo informs me darkly as she fingers her sphere pendant.
Paige shrinks down, clearly apprehensive to hear what Echo is about to say, as Fallon eyes me with gleeful anticipation, everyone waiting for me to ask the obvious question.
I blink at them. This is the most outrageous conversation I’ve ever had and, despite myself, I’m overcome by lurid fascination. “Where...um...where do they...” I motioned with my hands to finish.
Echo seems to approve of my reluctance to just come out with it. She leans closer. “My father used to be the Council’s ambassador to the Lupines, and he’s actually visited the Lupine Territory. I overheard him talking to my mother about them, and he said that when Lupines are about our age they get their whole pack together—that’s what they call their societies, like a pack of wolves—and they stand up in front of everyone, pick out someone to mate with and mate with them right there, in front of everyone. Even the children.”
My face is growing very hot. This is the most sordid thing I have ever heard in my entire life. “Won’t it be sort of...dangerous? To go to University with them?” I wonder.
“There’s only two of them.” Fallon flicks her hand dismissively. “Brother and sister. Twins.”
Well, that’s a relief. Only two Lupines. How dangerous could only two Lupines be?
“What about the Elves?” I ask. My brothers have told me they make up about a quarter of the scholars at the University. “What are they like?”
“Complete opposite,” Fallon says with a shake of her head. “Very prissy.” She snorts in derision. “It’s amazing they ever get around to ever having children. They’re extremely protective of their women, though. If a boy of another race so much as touches one of their women...”
“Like anyone would want to,” scoffs Echo.
“I think the girl Elves are pretty,” Paige confesses sheepishly. Fallon throws her a quick, withering glance. “They are!” Paige insists. “They have those dainty pointed ears. And white hair, and white clothes...kind of the opposite of us...”
“Very much the opposite of us,” Echo cuts in. She looks to me. “They’re idol worshippers.”
“Aren’t they our allies?” I put in, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
Fallon pins me with her eyes. “For now.”
Well, that’s interesting. “And the Kelts?” I wonder, looking to Echo. “What are their men like?”
Fallon snorts derisively as Echo regards me somberly, her fist closed tight around her Erthia sphere. “Their blood is polluted with all types of filth—Fae blood, Urisk...even Icaral.” Echo waits to see if I’m appropriately horrified before continuing.
Sage’s Icaral baby immediately leaps to mind, casting a pall over everything. I remember how troubled and terrified she was. A Kelt. The demon baby’s father is a Kelt. And she met him at University.
“Priest Vogel says the Kelts are cast out and no longer First People like us,” Echo continues stridently. “They’ve secretly aligned themselves with Evil Ones, like the desert heathens and the Urisk.”
“Look out for the Urisk women,” Fallon warns as a side note. “They may look all innocent, but they love going after our men.”
I’ve heard Warren Gaffney going on about this on more than one occasion. The fact is, Urisk women don’t have any men of their own to go after. The Gardnerian government killed all their males during the Realm War.
Urisk males are powerful geomancers, able to harness the full, destructive powers of stones and gems. Their existence would pose a serious threat to our country. The women, on the other hand, are completely devoid of magic and are allowed to live in Gardneria as guest workers.
It’s a horrible thought, though—the Urisk boy babies being killed. It’s a subject I’ve never been able to discuss with Uncle Edwin, as he becomes visibly upset if I try to broach the topic, once to the point of tearing up and clutching at his chest.
Male Urisk warlords viciously attacked our country when they had power, seeking to wipe us out, but still, it’s all so troubling.
Echo sighs. “At least Urisk half-breeds only have weak magic, at best.”
Paige nods to her in agreement, but Fallon is ignoring them both. Instead, she’s watching me with a silent intensity so unnerving that it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. My initial dislike of her deepens.
“Be careful with those mixed-breeds,” Fallon tells me, a sly smile spreading across her face. I bristle, realizing she’s once again alluding to Gareth and his silver-tipped hair. She slides her thumb along the length of her wand. “Mixed-breeds are everywhere,” she purrs. “You just can’t be too careful.”
CHAPTER EIGHT (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Textured Silk
“Stand up straight, now. That’s better...”
Mage Heloise Florel pulls the measuring tape tight around my waist as I drown in embarrassment. An imperious, square woman about sixty years of age, Mage Florel is the proprietor of the dress shop. Her own long, dark tunic and skirt are exquisitely made, her gray hair plaited and tied back into a neat bun, her eyes like little green searchlights that take in every last detail.
I’m standing on a pedestal right in the center of her fitting room with Fallon, Echo and Paige looking on. In my underwear!
“All right. Now lift your arms above your head...”
Mage Florel, to my mortification, begins measuring above my breasts, around my breasts and under them as she calls out numbers to a quiet Urisk girl. The girl, who looks to be about my age, takes down every number on a small piece of parchment, her face as blank as snow. Fallon makes a show of reading the girl’s notes over her shoulder and then whispering to Paige and Echo, her lips shielded with her hand, a nasty smirk on her face. I just know she’s commenting on my measurements and I flush with embarrassment.
I glance around at the dark sea of fabric bolts surrounding me, trying to shut out Mage Florel’s poking and prodding. Everywhere I look, lining every wall to the ceiling, is luxurious fabric, much of it embroidered with intricate designs. I’d never have imagined there could be so many variations of black cloth, the colors ranging from the deepest black of night, to hues just on the edge of gray, the textures spanning from silk so shiny you expected to see your reflection in it to matte velvet.
“You’ve got quite a nice figure,” Mage Florel remarks, eyeing my chest. “Too bad you’ve been hiding it away underneath all of those...clothes.” She nudges my discarded pile of garb with her foot.
I can feel my face growing even hotter, but this time my embarrassment is mixed in with gratification at the compliment, and how sour Fallon looks in response to Mage Florel’s praise.
Privately, I’m aware that I have a pleasing figure, but no one has ever publicly commented on my body before. Growing up with an uncle and two brothers, my body has always been very private, and, in the Gardnerian tradition, completely covered—from my neck to my wrists down to my feet. I’ve never shown so much as a bare ankle in public. When I reached the age when I needed more tailored clothing, I took to sewing my dresses myself.
Finally, to my immense relief, the ordeal is over and Mage Florel orders me to get dressed, then dictates some notes to the Urisk girl regarding alterations and appropriate trim.
It’s hard not to stare at the young Urisk woman—she’s so lovely. Like the upper-class servants at Aunt Vyvian’s house, she has lavender skin, long, pointed ears and startlingly lovely eyes that glimmer several shades of amethyst. Her violet hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she’s simply dressed in a white linen tunic and white underskirt.
I think of the Urisk women who work the Gaffneys’ sprawling farm. They’ve always been a bit of a mystery to me, the Urisk farmworkers, with their Uriskal language and tendency to disappear as soon as the harvest work is done for the season. And they are, all of them, wizened and bedraggled. Nothing at all like this beautiful girl.
The Urisk girl hands the parchment to Mage Florel, who squints at it through half-moon spectacles attached to a long, pearl necklace. “Very good, Sparrow,” she comments. “Go fetch Effrey.”
Sparrow nods and leaves, her movements graceful. Within a few seconds, another Urisk girl, a skinny, frantic little thing with deep purple skin, hair and eyes, runs into the room and skids to an abrupt halt in front of Mage Florel, Sparrow shadowing close behind. The child looks to be about eight years of age.
The older woman stares down at the child uncertainly, then directs her to fetch some fabric. A few minutes later the child returns carrying two bolts of cloth that are coming unwound around her legs, one ebony silk flecked with small, golden threads, the other a muted blue-black. They’re large bolts, and the girl looks to be out of breath from the effort.
Mage Florel lets out a disgusted sigh. “Textured silk, Effrey, I wanted it textured.”
The girl’s eyes fly open in panic.
“Let’s make this easier,” Mage Florel offers, the girl looking about ready to burst into tears. “Get me the sample booklets instead. They’re easier to carry than the bolts.”
Little Effrey sprints out of the room, seeming eager to correct her mistake.
Mage Florel turns back to us, shaking her head in consternation. “I’m sorry,” she confides. “She’s new. And she’s been extraordinarily difficult to train. She just doesn’t listen carefully.”
Fallon snorts as she runs her hand along some velvet. “You’d think with ears that big, she’d be able to listen just fine.”
My head jerks toward Fallon. Mage Florel, Echo and Paige join me in looks of shocked surprise.
Fallon eyes us incredulously just as little Effrey stumbles back into the room. The child is lugging a thick sample book under one arm, frayed fabric edges poking out the sides. Fallon spits out a laugh and gestures widely toward the little girl. “Oh, so we’re supposed to pretend she doesn’t look like an overgrown bat?”
Effrey comes to a wobbly stop. She glances up at Fallon, her lip quivering into a miserable frown, her ears seeming to droop at the points. I watch as Sparrow shoots Effrey a swift look of serious caution, the older girl standing just behind Fallon Bane. Effrey immediately averts her eyes and looks down at her feet.
“Girl!” Fallon barks at Effrey with exaggerated force, then stifles a laugh when the girl jumps and whips her head up. Fallon flicks her fingers toward herself magisterially. “All right, then. Hand it over.”
The child lowers her head deferentially as she offers the sample book up to Fallon. I notice her hands are trembling.
“Thank you,” I say gently, in an effort to soothe the girl. I shoot Fallon a look of censure, bewildered by her cruelty.
Mage Florel is regarding Fallon with a pained expression, and she makes a point of dismissing little Effrey as soon as Fallon has the sample book in hand. I don’t wonder at Mage Florel’s deference to Fallon Bane, the presumptive heir to my grandmother’s power.
Fallon sets the sample book on a wooden stand and opens it. She takes her time, monopolizing the booklet as everyone silently waits. Eventually, she lights on fabric of interest to her. “Oh, here we go, Elloren,” she says, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. She pulls a dull black rectangle from the book and holds it up.
It’s ugly, rough wool. Of worse quality than the clothing I arrived in.
“I think this would be good for you,” Fallon beams, “especially for your aunt’s party. Don’t you think so, Paige?”
Paige looks at the fabric sample, her brow knitting tight. She glances over at me and blinks uncertainly. “Um...well...maybe it could work...”
I can’t figure out if Fallon is joking. She has to be. “I was thinking of something...different,” I venture.
Fallon widens her eyes in mock affront. “But...this is Gorthan wool. It’s very much the style.” Her gaze flicks toward Echo and Paige mischievously.
Before I have a chance to respond, Fallon slams the sample book shut and hands it, along with the piece of wool, to Mage Florel. “I think you should make her dress out of this,” she says decidedly, shooting me a wide grin. “In fact, I think you should make her whole wardrobe out of it.”
A sharp spike of resentment wells up inside me, my heart speeding up as I eye Fallon’s wand. “Wait,” I say, addressing Mage Florel directly. “I’d like to see the samples for myself.”
Fallon’s smile morphs into a half sneer. “Good heavens, Elloren.” She gestures around the room at the fabric surrounding us. “It’s all black.”
I meet her eyes. “I’d still like to see them for myself.” The room goes so quiet, one could hear the prick of a pin.
Fallon’s eyes bore down on me, and I actively resist being cowed by her. They’re mesmerizing, her eyes, striped as they are with alternating lines of light and dark green, the lighter green streaks so light they’re almost white. They make me think of icicles. Sharp as spears.
After a moment of tense deliberation, Mage Florel sets the book down on another raised table beside me. “Of course, dear,” she says, her eyes flicking toward Fallon warily. “Go ahead.”
I open the book, uncomfortably aware of Fallon’s icy glare. I flip through the fabric, a violet-black square of velvet momentarily catching my eye, soft as a baby hare.
“Oh...look at this,” I gasp, half forgetting about Fallon as I turn to the next sample, the black silk lighting up red and yellow around the folds as it moves. “It’s extraordinary.” I turn the fabric this way and that, tipping it toward the closest wall lantern to watch the colors change.
Mage Florel nods her head in satisfaction. “Ishkartan goldweave,” she says as she removes the swath and cradles it. “Brought in from the Eastern Desert. Flame-gold worked right into the weave. Very fine. Very rare.”
I look down at the scratchy brown wool of my tunic from home. It’s like trying to compare the finest violin with some coarsely carved instrument.
Mage Florel smiles at me. “You’ve lovely taste, Mage Gardner.”
I flip through the next samples and come to an abrupt stop as my eyes light on the loveliest one of all. Midnight black silk. Patterned with vines woven through so subtly you have to look carefully to make them out. But once you do...
I run my finger along the textured silk. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Salishen silk,” Mage Florel says reverently. “From the Salishen Isles. They’re master weavers, the Salish. True artists. And all of their embroidery is as exquisite as this.”
I glance up at her. “Do you think you could use this?”
“Of course, Mage Gardner,” she replies, obviously thrilled by my choice.
Fallon’s hand comes down on the fabric. “You can’t use this,” she says, her tone hard.
I blink up at her in resentful surprise. “Why?”
“Because,” she replies, her voice syrupy with condescension, “this is what my dress is being made of.”
“Ah, what a pity,” Mage Florel sighs. She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve others, Mage Gardner, don’t you fret. We’ll find something just as lovely for you...”
Heart racing, I put my own hand down firmly on the fabric sample, right next to Fallon’s. I meet Fallon’s stare and hold it. “No. I want this one.”
Everyone gapes at me.
Fallon leans in a fraction and bares her teeth. “You can’t have it.”
I try to ignore the slight trembling of my hand. “Oh, come now, Fallon,” I say as I gesture at the fabric around us, mimicking her sneering tone. “It’s all black. And I’m sure the cut will be different.” I look over at Mage Florel, whose eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. “Can you make sure it’s very different from hers?”
Fallon spits out a sound of contempt. “My dress isn’t being made here. I have my own dressmaker.”
“Well, then,” I tell her. “That simplifies things.” I turn to Mage Florel. “Can you make it for me in time? With this fabric?”
Mage Florel gives me an appraising look, her eyes darting toward Fallon as if weighing the options. She lifts her chin. “Why, yes, Mage Gardner. I think I can.” She smiles coldly at Fallon. “Why don’t you tell me what your dress is like, dear? I’ll make sure it’s quite different.”
I’m surprised and bolstered by Mage Florel’s support. But when I turn back toward Fallon, her grin startles me. It’s wide and malicious. She jerks her hand away from the fabric sample and seems pleased when I flinch. “I’m leaving,” she announces, keeping her eyes tight on mine.
Echo and Paige fly to her and try to placate her and convince her to stay.
I look away and flip through the samples, barely seeing the fabric. I know it’s a mistake to say more. But I think of her treatment of the little girl and can’t help myself.
“Don’t worry, Fallon,” I say, careful not to look at her, struggling to keep my voice even. “Maybe your tailor can make you another dress. In Gorthan wool. I hear it’s very much the style.”
I glance up at Fallon just in time to catch her look of pure, undisguised hostility. Her fist tight on her wand, Fallon stalks out and slams the door behind her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sparrow’s mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.
CHAPTER NINE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Black Witch
“You look just like Carnissa Gardner. You’re perfect.”
Paige gushes as I stare at the stranger looking back at me from the full-length ornate mirror.
We’re in the luxurious bedroom Aunt Vyvian has given me, the crystalline doors and the sunroom’s windows propped open, a balmy ocean breeze wafting in on the night air, the white kittens tussling on my bed. I’ve met with Paige a number of times over the past few days, lunching with her and Aunt Vyvian twice in the city and shopping together once for shoes. I greatly prefer her company to both Echo’s and Fallon’s.
For the past hour, Mage Florel has been primping and painting me while Aunt Vyvian stands watch, arms crossed. My aunt directs Mage Florel with the seriousness of a master painter overseeing a work of vital importance, and before long, it seems as if I’m not really in the room. As if I’m staring at someone else, disbelief washing over me.
The messy hair I’ve never known what to do with now hangs past my shoulders, woven into intricate braids, my eyes rendered large and mysterious by heavy makeup. My eyebrows, which have been plucked and shaped, heighten the effect. My lips are now full and scarlet, my cheekbones accented with blush. It’s amazing—all of the unpleasant, sharp lines of my face transformed into a vision of powerful elegance. And that’s not all—my ears and neck are graced with gold-set emeralds, and the gown Mage Florel made for me...
It’s breathtaking. The subtly woven vines appear and disappear as the fabric moves, the shimmering tunic like a second skin flowing out over the underskirt.
My grandmother, more than any other woman, was the standard bearer of Gardnerian beauty. Known as “The Black Witch” by our enemies, she was one of the most powerful Gardnerian Mages ever. Intellectually brilliant, artistically gifted, stunningly beautiful and a ruthlessly effective commander of our military forces—she was all of these things.
And I don’t just resemble her. I’m her absolute spitting image.
“Yes,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “that will do. I think our work here is finished, Heloise.” She gets up and smiles broadly. “Elloren, you will come down to the party in an hour’s time. Paige will escort you.” She turns to Paige. “Bring her down the central staircase. I want her to make an entrance.” My aunt pauses to take me in once more, then leaves with Mage Florel, the two women chatting amiably as they go.
I go back to staring at myself in the mirror, dumbstruck.
“You must be so proud,” Paige says reverently. “Your grandmother was such a great woman. You must have a calling to follow in her footsteps, Elloren, or else the Ancient One wouldn’t have blessed you with her looks. Wait until everyone sees you!”
* * *
I follow Paige through the winding hallways, populated only by the occasional, harried Urisk maid rushing past and deferentially ignoring us.
As we step out onto a cherrywood-banistered mezzanine, I feel my throat go dry. I pause at the crest of a sweeping staircase and look down over a mammoth, circular hall.
A sea of important-looking Gardnerians lies before us, uniformly garbed in black. Roughly half of them are in military uniform, most high-ranking, a few wearing the silver-edged cloaks of the magically powerful.
First, there are a few curious glances our way. Then someone gasps. A hush falls over the room.
I blink down at them, distracted by the enormous chandelier that dominates the foyer—hundreds of candles set on the branches of a carved, inverted frostbirch tree hung with leaf-shaped crystals. It suffuses the entire room with a dancing, changeable glow.
My eyes circle around the foyer, my gaze drawn toward a man standing in its center. He’s tall and slender and wearing a long, dark priest’s tunic, the image of a white bird emblazoned on his chest. He’s younger than most priests, with compelling razor-sharp features, a high forehead and straight black hair that falls to his shoulders. His green eyes are so intense and vivid, they seem to glow white-hot, as if lit from within.
He’s staring at me with a look of recognition so strong, it throws me.
An image bursts into view—the scorched shell of a tree, black limbs rising up against a barren sky.
Sucked into the image’s dark void, I grasp at the balcony for support.
The tree flickers then sputters out.
I squint up at the chandelier and let out a deep breath. Perhaps a trick of the light. It had to be a trick of the light.
Heart pulsing, I glance back down at the priest. He’s still staring at me with disconcerting familiarity. My aunt is standing close beside him. She beckons me to join their circle with one graceful, outstretched hand, her dark tunic and skirts winking sapphire.
Paige puts her hand on my shoulder, her voice soft and encouraging. “Go ahead, Elloren.”
Feeling rattled, I force one foot in front of the other and focus on the rich, emerald carpeting of the stairs that mutes my footsteps and blessedly keeps me from slipping on my new, slick heels, my hand tight on the shiny railing. The cherrywood steadies me, the source tree solid and strong.
As I step off the last stair, the wide-eyed, appreciative crowd parts, and soon I’m standing before the young priest. The image of the lifeless tree sputters to life once more. Thrown, I blink hard to clear the image, and it rapidly fades to nothing.
There’s something so wrong here. It’s like I’m standing before a deep forest, everyone sure that nothing’s amiss. But a wolf is waiting in the shadows.
I meet the priest’s overpowering stare.
“Elloren,” my aunt beams. Her hand sweeps toward him. “This is Marcus Vogel. He sits on the Mage Council with me and may well be our next High Mage. Priest Vogel, my niece, Elloren Gardner.”
Marcus Vogel reaches out with serpentine grace, takes my hand and leans to kiss it, fascinated curiosity lighting his gaze.
I fight the urge to slink back.
His skin is oddly warm. Almost hot. And he’s looking at me as if he can see clear into the back of my head to the image of the tree still reverberating there.
“Elloren Gardner,” he croons, his voice unexpectedly throaty. There’s a subtle, seductive quality to him that sets off a probing heat deep in my center—like an eerie invasion. I tense myself against it.
Vogel closes his eyes, smiles and takes a deep breath. “Her power. It courses through your veins.” He opens his eyes, his gaze now riveted on my hand. He traces a finger languidly over the skin of it, and an uncomfortable shiver works its way up my spine. Vogel lifts his gaze to mine, eyes intent, his voice a lull. “Can you feel it?”
I’m cast into a troubled confusion. “No,” I force out as I try to unobtrusively tug my hand away. He holds firm.
“Has she been wandtested?” His question to my aunt comes out thick as dark honey.
“Yes, several times,” my aunt assures him. “She’s powerless.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his unflinching eyes boring down on Aunt Vyvian.
My confident, unflappable aunt visibly wilts under Vogel’s penetrating stare. “Yes...yes, quite.” Aunt Vyvian falters. “Her uncle assured me of it. He had her formally tested again only last year.”
I look to my aunt, astonished by both her cowering behavior and her words. No one wandtested me a year ago. I haven’t been tested since I was a small child.
Why did Uncle Edwin lie?
Vogel’s black void presses into me, warm and relentless, and I inwardly shrink back from it, eyeing his fiery stare with mounting trepidation.
Why does he unnerve me so much when Aunt Vyvian and so many other Mages clearly worship the ground he walks on?
Vogel releases my hand and I pull it back protectively, fingers repeatedly clenching, trying to throw off the disturbing feel of him.
“What a pity,” he laments, reaching up to touch my face with deft, artist’s fingers. I resist the urge to recoil. He tilts his head in question and breathes deeply, as if smelling the air. “And yet...there is something of Carnissa’s essence about her. It’s strong.”
“Ah, yes,” my aunt assents with a wistful smile, “she does have some of Mother in her.” Aunt Vyvian proudly launches into a description of my musical accomplishments, my easy acceptance into University.
Vogel’s half listening to her, his eyes fixed on my hands. “You’re not fasted,” he says to me, the words flat and oddly hard.
Defiance flares, deep in my core. I look straight at him. “Neither are you.”
“Good Heavens, child,” a neatly bearded Council member puts in, a golden Council M pinned to his tunic. “Mage Vogel’s a priest. Of course he’s not fasted.” The Council Mage shakes his head and titters a nervous, apologetic laugh toward Priest Vogel.
Vogel ignores him. “She needs to be well fasted,” he says to my aunt, his eyes tight on mine.
“She will be,” Aunt Vyvian assures him.
Vogel briefly turns to my aunt. “To someone of considerable power.”
She smiles conspiratorially. “Of course, Marcus. She’s under my wing now.”
“Has she met Lukas Grey?”
Aunt Vyvian leans to whisper something into Vogel’s ear, her stiff skirts rustling. The other members of their circle fall into easy conversation with each other.
I barely hear them, distracted by the feel of Marcus Vogel’s penetrating stare.
The sound of a boisterous group entering finally draws my attention away.
Fallon Bane sweeps into the room. She’s surrounded by a throng of handsome military apprentices in slate-gray uniforms, as well as her military guard and a few other officers decked out in soldier black. Orbiting them is a smattering of lovely young women.
But none is more beautiful than Fallon.
If she possessed a gown made of the same fabric as mine, she quickly abandoned it. The lush gown she now wears is a spectacular, glittering affair that flies in screaming defiance of the accepted dress code—scandalously purple on the edge of black, rather than black on the edge of purple. The two military men she’s flanked by possess her same features, stunning eyes and smug grin. They must be Fallon’s brothers—one of them taller, his uniform black, while the other wears military-apprentice gray. And they both bear five stripes of silver on their arms.
Fallon instantly zeroes in on me. She lifts a hand as if taunting me, and sends a spiral of smoke rising up that flashes a rainbow of colors. The crowd erupts into delighted “oohs” and “aahs” as all the attention in the room pivots toward her. The older military men in our circle eye her with wary deliberation. Military apprentices aren’t supposed to use magic unless they have permission—it can be grounds for dismissal from our Mage Guard.
The military commander near my aunt gestures toward the officer beside him with a subtle patting of the air—let it go. My head starts to throb. Apparently Fallon Bane isn’t just powerful. It seems she exists independent of all the usual rules.
Fallon jerks her wand, and the colored smoke disappears in a riot of multicolored sparking. The young people surrounding her laugh and applaud.
Fallon resheathes her wand, narrows her eyes at me, leans in toward her taller black-clad brother and murmurs something as the others listen in. They all give each other looks of surprise, then turn to peer at me with expressions of amused disgust.
I clench my toes stiffly, heart sinking, and wonder what lies she’s spreading about me.
CHAPTER TEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
The Prophecy
After my aunt gives us leave, Paige leads me quickly away. Her arm’s threaded through mine as she pulls me through a pair of open, ornate doors and into a huge ballroom. Orchestral music swells around us, and I find myself quickly caught up in the grandeur of it.
We’re surrounded by well-to-do Gardnerians, some whirling on the dance floor. Many of the people we pass gasp at the sight of me, smile appreciatively and come forward to extend compliments to my “most excellent family.” Some Urisk servants in smart white tunics circulate with golden trays of small delicacies. Other Urisk serve food from a large table that holds a wide assortment of offerings set off beautifully by vases of red roses, everything richly lit by the multiple branched candelabras that grace the table.
Paige leads me through the crowd toward the food, then gives a start as she spots Fallon and her friends entering, surrounded by Fallon’s military guard. Paige hurriedly grabs two plates, throws some candied fruit on them both and pulls me into a dim corner, the two of us partially hidden by a gigantic potted fern.
“Is that Sylus next to Fallon?” I ask as Paige hands me a plate.
Paige’s brow goes tense as she nibbles at a sugared gooseberry. “Yes, that’s him.”
I shoot her a sympathetic glance as I take a bite of candied cherry. If Sylus Bane is anything like his sister, it’s the worst of luck for mild Paige to be fasted to him.
I glance around as Paige picks at the berries, her fingers quickly becoming sticky from the sugary fruit. My eyes widen in surprise as I catch sight of familiar faces.
“It’s... Sage Gaffney’s parents,” I murmur to Paige in astonishment. They’re in the broad hallway just off to the side of the ballroom, dressed in their usual high-necked, dour, conservative garb. Their expressions are solemn and pained, and they’re being hugged by a series of well-wishers, the peoples’ faces full of grave concern. I scour the room for other members of their family and find Sage’s oldest brother, Shane. He’s at the other end of the food tables, standing beside another potted fern, dressed in his soldier’s uniform and glowering at the crowd.
Paige places her hand on mine in caution. “Elloren, you can’t say her name. And you shouldn’t go to them. Something terrible has happened...”
“I know,” I tell her. “I know all about it. But I don’t understand. Why can’t I say her name?”
Paige swallows, her eyes flitting toward the Gaffneys fretfully. “She’s been Banished.”
“Banished?” I blanch, my mouth falling open. It’s a ritual cutting off. Like a funeral. Reserved for those whose actions are so heinous, their very existence is to be erased to restore honor and purity to their family. “But...my aunt told me they’re trying to help her.”
Paige glances over at Sage’s family, her expression mournful. “I guess she didn’t want to be helped.”
I remember how mad Sage was. Giving birth to an Icaral demon—it’s enough to drive anyone mad. An image fills my mind of Sage weaving me wreaths of ribbons and meadowlark flowers when I was a child. Of Sage letting me play with her little goats. And later, as teens, of Sage patiently teaching me how to embroider intricate designs. We’d sit under the broad oak tree that lies halfway between her estate and my cottage, quietly sewing Ironflowers along the hems of our garments. I always admired her for her quiet grace and artistic ways.
I set my plate down. “I’m going to speak to her brother.”
Paige fidgets. I can see she wants no part of this, that she’s scared by the Gaffneys’ proximity to a real-life nightmare, but she doesn’t stop me as I cross the ballroom to Shane’s side.
* * *
Shane’s hand is grasped around a crystal cup tightly as if he’s trying to decide whom to throw it at. He’s shorter than most of the young soldiers here, but compensates for it with the wiry, athletic build of a fighter—all lean muscle and angry, coiled energy.
“Shane,” I say carefully as I approach, looking around and keeping my voice low. “I heard about Sage.”
He grimaces sharply. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to say her name?” He gestures toward his family with his cup, a disgusted look on his face. “They might Banish you, too.”
I glance over at the Gaffneys, troubled. “What happened to her? Is she okay?”
His expression darkens with worry and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Elloren. I don’t know where she is. No one knows. And my younger sisters have run off with her.”
My breath catches tight. Her sisters, too! I remember the surreal sight of Sage heading into the wilderness and feel a sharp spike of guilt. Oh, Ancient One, I should have said something...
He shakes his head again in disbelief. “They sent the entire Fifth Division out after them. But they couldn’t find them. It’s like they all disappeared into thin air.”
The Fifth Division is made up of the best Gardnerian trackers. It’s impossible to hide from them. They gained notoriety during the Realm War, ferreting out secret enemy bases, locating hidden groups of dangerous Fae. It’s rumored that the best of them can read a week-old trail left behind in the woods. I know all this because they’ve been actively recruiting my brother, Rafe, for a few years now.
“Isn’t that your division?” I ask. “Why aren’t you out with them?” Shane’s a tracker. And a talented one at that. Just like Rafe.
Shane’s face twists into a mask of bitterness. “Well, Elloren, it seems they thought I lacked the necessary level of detachment needed to kill my own sister.”
My face blanches. “Kill her?”
Shane’s expression turns pained. “She didn’t just give birth to an Icaral, Elloren. They believe she’s given birth to the Icaral.”
I’m frozen into stunned silence.
We all know of the Prophecy, set down by the late Atellian Lumyn, one of the greatest Seers our church has ever known.
A Great Winged One will soon arise and cast his fearsome shadow upon the land. And just as Night slays Day, and Day slays Night, so also shall another Black Witch rise to meet him, her powers vast beyond imagining. And as their powers clash upon the field of battle, the heavens shall open, the mountains tremble and the waters run crimson...and their fates shall determine the future of all Erthia.
Lumyn was considered to be a prophet, his writings read by all pious Gardnerians and second only to our holy scripture, The Book of the Ancients. He died when I was a child living in Valgard, and I still remember the crowded streets on the day of his funeral, the communal outpouring of grief.
Mage Lumyn accurately predicted the rise of my grandmother to power and her battle with an Icaral demon. He set down his final Prophecy soon after my grandmother’s death and the end of the Realm War, and it sent waves of shock barreling through Gardneria. My people thought the Icaral demons were defeated. That they were finally safe from the Icarals’ terrible fire and winged darkness. But now an even greater demonic threat loomed on the horizon.
“The time is here,” Shane rasps in a harsh whisper. “The Church Seers have confirmed it. And not just them. The Seers of other races, too. They’ve all read the same message—the Icaral of Prophecy is here. A male, possessed of his wings and full powers. Every other male Icaral has been captured and stripped of its wings. Don’t you see, Elloren? It has to be my sister’s baby.”
“No.” I shake my head, desperate to refute this. It’s too awfully bizarre. How could kind, thoughtful Sage give birth to the demon of Prophecy? “It can’t be...”
But I know from his expression that it can.
Shane looks down at his punch glass, barely able to contain his misery. “Did you know he beat her?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Tobias. Quite the temper that one has.” He looks around at the crowd, anguish breaking through. “You know, she did everything they ever wanted her to do. All of them. He started in on her soon after she got to University. That’s why she ran off with that Kelt.” Now he’s grasping his glass so hard I fear it might shatter. “He took advantage of her,” Shane grinds out, fury swimming in his eyes. “Isn’t that just like a Kelt? He used my sister, forced his filthy self on her and now...” He breaks off, his eyes glazing over with angry tears.
I reach out for him, but he flinches away from me.
“Shane, it can’t be,” I press, undaunted. “The Prophecy isn’t just about an Icaral. There has to be a Black Witch, too, and there isn’t anyone with that level of power...”
Shane shoots me a look of wild incredulity. “Of course there is. Or there will be.” He glances pointedly across the room at the Banes.
My throat tightens. Fallon Bane. The next Black Witch. Sent to kill the demon baby of Sage Gaffney. It’s the stuff of nightmares.
I turn back to Shane, my voice weak. “Do you really think Fallon Bane could become that powerful?”
“Yes, at the rate her power’s growing.” Shane’s face closes down, his voice going hard, devoid of all hope. “There’s nothing that can be done about it, Elloren. It’s all over for my sister. Go back to your family. This isn’t your affair.”
I look toward Fallon.
She pulls out her wand and mock points it at a thin military apprentice. He freezes, and the others in her party grow silent and tense.
This isn’t allowed. Apprentices are forbidden from pulling wands on each other.
I’m stunned. There are officers dotting the entire ballroom and, again, no one rebukes Fallon for a flagrant violation of the rules.
Fallon laughs and resheathes her wand, diffusing the tension, the onlookers breaking out into nervous laughter. The young apprentice gives them all a thin, frightened smile before slinking away.
Fallon watches him leave, then fixes her eyes on me. Her smile is slow and deliberate, her message unmistakable.
Careful, Elloren Gardner. That could easily be you.
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Aislinn Greer
Shane takes his leave, and in an effort to calm myself down, I walk over to the refreshment table to get something to drink.
I pour myself some punch but find that my hands are shaking, the glass ladle chattering against the crystal cup as I fill it with sweet, red liquid dotted with edible flower petals. Summoned by Sylus, Paige has reluctantly gone to join him, leaving me all alone.
Suddenly aware of someone’s eyes on me, I glance to the side.
A slight, plain young woman with intelligent green eyes is regarding me calmly from where she sits, a book open and facedown on her lap, her hands resting on it. She’s dressed like Echo Flood, in a conservative, multilayered frock with a silver Erthia sphere hanging from it. No makeup. I notice that the hands resting on her book are unmarked, like mine, and it seems incongruous. Her dress pegs her as a girl from a very conservative family, yet she’s unfasted.
“Fallon doesn’t seem to like you,” she comments as she glances over at Fallon, who’s laughing and eating with her friends. She smiles at me sympathetically, her eyes kind. “You’re brave, you know. In your choice of enemies.”
“You don’t like her, then?” I ask, surprised.
The young woman shakes her head. “Fallon? She’s mean as a snake. So are her brothers.” She shoots me a look of caution. “Mind you, if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”
I raise my eyebrows, relieved to finally be meeting someone outside Fallon’s social circle. I extend my hand to her. “I’m Elloren Gardner.”
She laughs and takes my hand in hers. “That’s obvious. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Let me guess,” I say guardedly. “I’m the girl who looks exactly like my grandmother?”
“No,” she laughs, “you’re the girl who’s been living under a rock somewhere up north. But I think your real claim to fame is that you’ve never been kissed.”
My face going hot, I sigh and reach up to massage my aching forehead. “I should never have told her that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to comfort me. “I have been kissed, and it’s overrated.”
I stop rubbing my forehead. “Really?”
“Really. Two people, smushing their mouths together, tasting each other’s spit, possibly with food bits mixed into it. It’s not at all appealing, when you really think about it.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re a dyed in the wool romantic, aren’t you?”
“I am not the least bit romantic,” she affirms, somewhat proudly. “Romance just complicates life, sets up unrealistic expectations.”
She sits there so neatly, her discreet dress perfectly pressed, her long black hair carefully brushed and pulled back off her face with two silver barrettes.
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right young man yet,” I offer.
“No, I’ve met him,” she says, matter-of-factly. “We’ll be wandfasted by the end of the year. He’s over there.” She gestures with her chin toward the entrance to the large ballroom. “The one just to the right of the door.”
He’s much like all the other young men who are milling about. Square jaw, black hair, green eyes.
I turn back to her. “So you’ve kissed him.”
“Yes, it’s expected.” She sighs with resignation. “They wait so long for...other things, our men. We’re supposed to throw them a bone every now and then, I guess.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“It’s not awful, don’t get me wrong. I mean, it’s tolerable.”
Her lack of enthusiasm makes me laugh. “You make it sound like doing chores!”
“Well, it kind of is.” She’s smiling at me good-humoredly.
“You feel this way, and you’re okay with fasting to him? With marrying him?”
She shrugs. “Oh, Randall’s all right. He’ll make a good fastmate, I suppose. My parents picked him out for me, and I trust them.”
“You mean you had no say in the matter?”
“I don’t need to have a say. I trust them. I knew they wouldn’t pick someone mean. They chose fastmates for my two older sisters, as well.”
I’m fascinated by her complete acceptance of this. “Don’t you want to choose your own fastmate?” Uncle Edwin would never just pick someone for me. Maybe he’d introduce me to someone nice, but he’d certainly leave the decision solely with me.
She shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter who chooses. Most of them are pretty interchangeable anyway. I mean, look at them.” She gestures toward a group of young men dismissively. “It’s hard to even tell them apart.”
She has a point. Looking around the room, I have to admit I’d be hard-pressed to find a memorable face, one that stands out in true contrast.
“What are you reading?” I ask, noticing her book again.
She flushes. “Oh, it’s just a book for University,” she explains, a little too innocently. “I’m getting a head start on my reading.”
The cover confirms what she’s told me: An Annotated History of Gardneria. On second thought, though, the paper cover doesn’t fit the book exactly, hanging a bit over on the sides.
“What are you really reading?” I probe.
At first, her eyes widen in surprise, and then she slumps back in her chair, sighs and hands the book over in mock defeat. “You can’t tell anyone,” she whispers conspiratorially.
I peek under the cover and flip through it. “Love poems!” I whisper back, chuckling. I hand the book back to her and smile. “I thought you weren’t romantic.”
“Not in real life,” she clarifies. “I guess I like the idea of it, though. But I realize it’s pure, unadulterated fantasy.”
“You’re funny,” I say, smiling at her.
She cocks her head to one side, considering me. “And you’re completely different than how I expected you’d be. I’m Aislinn Greer, by the way. My father sits on the Mage Council with your aunt. We’ll be fellow scholars at University.”
“Elloren, I see you’ve made a new friend.”
I turn to find my aunt gliding up to us.
“Good evening, Mage Damon.” Aislinn greets my aunt respectfully as she covers the book with both hands.
“Good evening, Aislinn,” Aunt Vyvian beams. “I was just speaking with your father. So nice to see you here.” She turns to me. “Elloren, I’d like you to go fetch your violin. Priest Vogel would like to hear you perform for us this evening.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor. “Perform? Now? For everyone?”
“Your uncle has told me time and again how extraordinarily talented you are.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Vyvian... I... I can’t...” I’ve never once performed for a crowd, and just the thought of it makes me feel sick with apprehension.
“Nonsense, child,” Aunt Vyvian says dismissively. “Run along and fetch your instrument. No one keeps the next High Mage waiting.”
CHAPTER TWELVE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Lukas Grey
It’s a relief when I finally leave the crowded ballroom for the private hallway that leads to my room, my feet cramped in my pinching shoes. I briefly ponder escape.
I enter the deserted room and my breath immediately catches tight in my throat.
There, lying open on my bed, is a violin case. Within, nestled comfortably in green velvet, is a Maelorian violin—the highest-quality violin in the Western Realm, made by Elves in the northern Maelorian Mountains from rare Alfsigr spruce. There’s a note card carefully slid under the strings, a message written in my aunt’s flowing script.
Make the family proud.
I sit down beside the violin and stare at it. How Aunt Vyvian obtained the use of such an instrument, I can’t begin to imagine. When I finally take it in my hands, I feel as if I’m lifting a holy object. A picture of a tapering Alfsigr spruce tree set on a sloping mountainside caresses my mind as I gently pluck at the strings.
Perfectly in tune.
A tingling excitement bubbles up within me as I tighten the bow, lift the instrument into position and slide the bow across the A string.
A perfect note sounds on the air, pure as a still blue lake.
A rush of joy quickens my heart. Overwhelmed, I set the instrument down, go to my travel bag and fish excitedly through the music folder for my favorite piece, Winter’s Dark, quickly locating the stiff parchment. I stare at the crisp lines of notes, the music already dancing in my head.
I glance over at the door and my euphoria rapidly implodes, my unwelcome task waiting to press down on me like a miller’s stone.
Steeling myself, I make a decision. If I’m going to go down in flames in front of half of Valgard, I might as well go down in flames to the tune of the most beautiful piece of music ever composed for the violin.
I carefully secure the violin, tuck my music under one arm, force myself to my feet and purposefully walk out to meet my doom—well, as purposefully as one can possibly walk in the most uncomfortable shoes ever invented.
* * *
I reenter the crowded ballroom and immediately begin to fall apart at the seams, my mouth becoming dry, my gut clenching and worst of all—my hands start to tremble.
My aunt regards me with a polite smile as I approach. She’s speaking with Priest Vogel and a group of Mage Council members. Marcus Vogel stares at me with unblinking intensity, and I wonder again if he can read my mind.
“Thank you for the use of this...amazing violin, Aunt Vyvian,” I say, my voice quavering.
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” she beams. “We’re ready for you.” She gestures toward a gold music stand positioned next to the orchestra and in front of a magnificently carved piano, the ebony of its wood cut into the likeness of multiple trees that support the piano’s broad surface on leafy branches.
Aunt Vyvian leads me to the music stand. The members of the orchestra dip their heads and smile in greeting. I stoop down to fumble with the violin case as the trembling in my hands worsens.
“This is Enith,” my aunt says. I look up to see a young Urisk girl with wide, sapphire eyes and bright blue skin. “She can turn the pages for you.”
“Pages?”
My aunt looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses. “Of your music.”
“Oh, yes...of course.” I straighten up and reach under my arm, handing the parchment to the Urisk girl. She takes in my shaking hands, her brow knit with worry.
The conversation in the vast room gradually dies down to a hush as more and more of the guests notice my aunt waiting for their attention.
“I’d like to introduce my niece, Elloren Gardner,” Aunt Vyvian says smoothly. “Some of you have had the pleasure of meeting her already. Some of you will be attending University with her this year.”
I look out over the crowd and am horrified to see Fallon working her way to the front with a large group of young people.
I reach up to turn to the first page of my music and knock it clear off the stand, the pages scattering everywhere on the floor.
“Sorry,” I choke out hoarsely.
I crouch down and fumble around for the pages, the Urisk girl stooping to help me. I can hear Fallon and her entourage trying to disguise their derisive laughter with coughing.
After what seems like a mortifying eternity, I rise. The Urisk girl grabs the music from my hands, perhaps not willing to let me ruin her designated end of the job.
I lean down again to lift the violin out of its case, rise, steady it with my chin and tense my bow arm to try and bring my trembling under control.
Fallon and her group watch me with wicked anticipation. Aislinn Greer, who’s standing near the front of the crowd, nods with friendly encouragement.
I fear I might throw up right there in front of all of them if I hesitate any longer, so I begin.
My bow strafes the violin with a harsh screech and I wince, surprising even myself with how incredibly horrible I sound. I plow on, disastrously off-key, as I struggle to stay focused on the music, feeling like I’m rapidly losing all control of my shaking hands.
I stop, violin still poised, tears stinging at my eyes, too ashamed to look into the crowd.
More coughing and shocked laughter waft over from Fallon’s direction.
The sound of their ridicule sends a spike of angry hurt through me, unexpectedly steeling my resolve. The violin’s wood faintly pulses with warmth. The image of rough, strong branches flickers behind my eyes then retreats, as if the wood is trying to reach me.
Bolstered, I concentrate on relaxing my hands, force the trembling into submission and begin again. This time my bow slides smoothly across the strings and the melody begins to fall into place. I grit my teeth and play on, the quality of the instrument rendering the music nearly passable...
And then it begins.
Piano music from behind me, accompanying me.
But not just any piano music—beautiful music, twining itself around my feeble attempts at the melody.
I falter for a moment in disbelief.
The piano music catches me, slowing where I’ve stumbled, improvising where I’ve missed the notes. Another swell of warmth suffuses the wood as sinuous branches fill my mind, winding through me.
I relax and fall into the music, little by little, my hands steadying, the notes coming into focus. I close my eyes. I don’t need to look at the music. I know this song.
The crowd in front of me fades then disappears until it’s just me, the violin, the piano and the tree.
And then, no longer relying on the piano for a safety net, I suddenly take off, my hands now steady and sure, the music soaring. I continue beautifully on, even after the piano falls away, leaving me to dive into the long violin solo at the heart of the piece.
Tears come to my eyes as the melody reaches its crescendo, the music piercing through me. I let it flow, through the wood of the bow, the wood of the violin, as I gently, gracefully bring the piece to its mournful close.
I lower my bow, eyes still closed, the room stone silent for one blessed, magical moment.
The ballroom erupts into loud, enthusiastic applause.
I open my eyes as the crowd converges around me, the members of the small orchestra showering me with a cacophony of praise and compliments.
But perhaps the clearest measure of the quality of my performance can be seen in the expression on Fallon Bane’s face. She stands, her mouth agape, looking horrified, while her friends regard me with newly blossoming approval.
I turn to find out who my savior at the piano is, and my breath hitches when I see him.
He is, by far, the best-looking young man I have ever seen in my life, with strong, finely chiseled features, the dashing attire of a Gardnerian soldier and absolutely riveting deep green eyes.
And he’s smiling at me.
I can guess who this is without needing to be introduced.
Lukas Grey.
He gets up from the piano seat in one fluid, graceful movement. He’s tall with broad shoulders, the lean body of a natural athlete, and the controlled movements of a panther. And the sleeves of his black military tunic are marked with five silver bands.
As he approaches me, Fallon Bane immediately falls in next to him, threads her arm territorially through his and fixes me with a threatening glare.
Lukas glances down at Fallon’s arm with surprised amusement, then looks back up at me and cocks one black eyebrow, as if we’re old friends sharing an inside joke. Suddenly, my aunt appears at Lukas’s other side and she focuses in on Fallon, a pleasant, yet calculating look on her face.
“Fallon, dear,” she croons, “Priest Vogel and I need to speak with you.”
Fallon’s face takes on an expression of sheer panic as her eyes dart back and forth from Lukas to me and back to my aunt again. She opens her mouth as if trying to formulate a protest, but nothing comes out. Lukas continues to look at me with those dazzling eyes, amused by the situation.
“Come along, dear.” My aunt directs Fallon. She gestures across the room to where Priest Vogel stands surrounded by a bright-eyed, adoring throng. I cautiously meet the priest’s piercing gaze, and he nods.
Fallon releases Lukas’s arm like she’s abandoning a hard-won treasure and shoots me a look of pure loathing. “I’ll be right back,” she snipes as she passes, her tone holding a thick edge of menace.
As my aunt leads her firmly away, Fallon glances back at us repeatedly, her face a mask of furious desperation.
I turn to Lukas.
Holy Ancient One, he’s beautiful.
“Thank you for playing,” I say with honest gratitude.
He places an arm casually on the top of the piano, leaning into it. “It was a pleasure. It’s not often that I get to play with a superior musician. It was a privilege, actually.”
I laugh nervously. “I’m not the superior musician. I pretty much butchered the beginning.”
His eyes glint. “Yes, well, you were nervous. But you quickly made up for it.”
He languidly pushes himself up and holds his hand out to me. “I’m Lukas Grey.”
“I know,” I reply unsteadily, taking his hand. His handshake is firm and strong.
“You know?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Fallon. When I saw her take your arm, I figured out who you were. She told me that you’re about to be fasted to her.”
“Oh, did she now?” He’s grinning again.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“She did corner me earlier to tell me all about you,” he says, smiling.
“What did she say?”
“Well, the obvious. That you look exactly like your grandmother.” He leans in so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “I’ve seen portraits of your grandmother. You’re much more attractive than she ever was.”
I gulp, mesmerized by him.
He straightens back up as my face starts to betray my quickening pulse by coloring.
“What else did she tell you?” I ask.
“She said that you’re head over heels in love with Gareth Keeler.”
A nervous laugh comes sputtering out of me. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
“So it’s not true?”
“No!” I say, scrunching my face up in disbelief. “I mean...we used to take baths together!”
He grins wickedly.
“In a washbasin!” I splutter, making it worse.
“Lucky for him,” he says, raising his eyebrows in delight.
“No, no...it’s not at all what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that I’m becoming more envious of Gareth Keeler by the minute.”
“We were small children,” I cry, desperately trying to exorcise the picture forming in his mind. “I’ve known him all my life. We grew up together. He’s like a brother to me.”
He just stands there, grinning, enjoying this way too much.
I sigh. “What else did Fallon tell you?” I ask, giving up.
“She told me that you’ve never been kissed.”
I roll my eyes at this, mortified. “I should never have told her that. I think she’s told everyone in the room.”
He fixes me with eyes full of suggestion. “Well, that’s easily remedied.”
“What?” I say stupidly.
He steps back and holds out his hand. “C’mon,” he says, grinning.
I can make out Fallon across the room, still cornered by my aunt, giving us a look of pure rage.
Heart pounding, I take Lukas’s hand and follow as he leads me briskly through the crowd and out of the ballroom.
* * *
I pass Paige in the foyer, and her eyebrows shoot up. She frantically shakes her head from side to side and opens her mouth to say something, which comes out as an incoherent squeak. I know I’m infringing unforgivably on Fallon’s territory, but this is, by far, the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me.
I stumble a bit, trying to keep up with Lukas’s long stride as he leads me around the foyer’s staircase and down a series of halls. I catch glimpses of grandeur along the way—more chandeliers, a portrait of my grandmother, beautiful landscapes of the Verpacian mountains and the Voltic Sea.
The decor suddenly changes as we duck down a side hallway with deep maroon carpeting and burgundy walls suffused with the soft, amber glow of sporadic wall lamps. The hallway is deserted, the distant sounds of the party now muffled and far away. Lukas slows and leads me down the length of it, past where it curves to where it ends.
He stops and turns to face me, his grin returning. I step back and nervously feel for the wall behind me as I eye the ebony wand affixed to his belt.
He leans in close, places a hand on the wall beside me and reaches up to brush a loose tendril of my hair back behind my ear.
I swallow audibly, my heartbeat becoming erratic.
“Now,” he says silkily, “what’s this about your never having been kissed?”
I open my mouth to say something. To let him know that I don’t know how to kiss, and that I’m probably very bad at it, but before I can say anything, he raises my chin, leans in and brings his lips to mine with gentle pressure, all of my concerns instantly disappearing into a puff of smoke.
He lets his lips linger on mine briefly before pulling away a fraction and bringing his mouth close to my ear. “There,” he whispers softly. “Now you’ve been kissed.”
I’ve fallen into a complete daze. Aislinn was so very wrong about this.
I reach up tentatively and place my hands on his shoulders. I can feel the warmth of him through the silk of his tunic.
“You’re very beautiful,” he breathes as he leans in for another kiss.
His lips are more insistent this time, and I’m growing warm to his touch in a way I’ve never experienced, feeling as if I’m floating deeper and deeper into a dream. He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me in close. It feels so good to be kissed by him, to be so close to him—dangerously good. Better than the feel of smooth River Maple. Better than the velvety bark of the Verpacian Elm. Better than anything.
The feeling swells into a strong flash of sensation as if every piece of wood surrounding us fleetingly blazes with torchlight. The fire courses through me from my feet, through my body, heating my lips as a vision of dark, primordial forest fills my mind.
I gasp and pull back, the fire immediately dampening, the image blurred then gone.
Lukas looks momentarily stunned, his eyes gone wide, his hands tight around me.
“They told me about you,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the wild thrill of being with him. “They told me...that you’re powerful.”
Lukas’s eyes narrow in on me intently and he flashes me a disconcertingly wicked grin. “I am,” he says as he studies me. “But so are you. Perhaps even more so. I can sense it about you.” His fingers lightly trace along the back of my neck. “Only you don’t know it, do you?” His eyes darken. “Yet.”
My breath catches as he teasingly runs his thumb just above the collar on the back of my dress. It’s incredibly exciting and deeply alarming all at the same time.
I shake my head. “I only look like my grandmother. I’ve no magic.”
“Really,” Lukas says, cocking his head to one side contemplatively, his hand now resting loosely on my hip. “Have you ever picked up a wand, Elloren?”
“Not that I remember.”
His face takes on a darker look, the edges of his lips curling. “Well,” he says, pleased with this new knowledge, “we’ll just have to take care of that, as well.” He snakes his arm around my waist and leans in close. “You should be wandtested. By me.”
“Lukas!” a male voice calls from the hallway.
My body stiffens, my face reddening. Lukas, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed.
It’s Sylus Bane.
Sweet Ancient One, not another Bane. Not now.
Sylus’s eyes widen when he realizes who I am, then his gaze narrows, his mouth lifting in a jaded smirk. “Well, if it isn’t Mage Elloren Gardner! Fast work, Lukas. As usual, you have my complete and utter admiration.” He spits out a short laugh. “Just wait until Fallon gets wind of this...”
A creeping dread shivers up my spine. Fallon’s going to kill me.
“Is there a particular reason why you are so rudely interrupting us?” Lukas calmly asks.
There’s a chilly edge to his tone, and Sylus Bane’s smirk dampens. “Well,” Sylus explains, “we’re going...out. I assumed you’d be joining us. Unless, of course, you’re much too busy here?”
Lukas sighs and gives me a somewhat reluctant look. He turns to face Sylus. “I’ll meet you out front momentarily.”
Sylus grins wickedly, as if he’s won some secret contest, before he makes his exit. I relax a bit.
Lukas leans on the wall, one arm lightly around my waist.
I look closely at him. “Are you involved with Fallon Bane?”
He tilts his head and gives me a wry look. “I courted her. Briefly. Quite a while ago.”
“Oh.” I nod in complete understanding now.
He lets out a resigned sigh, his gaze level. “Our affinity lines clash. Disastrously, in my opinion, though obviously not in hers. She has a strong affinity for ice. I’ve none.” He rubs his fingers along my lower back, a delicious heat trailing his touch. His mouth tilts into a grin. “I’ve more of an affinity for fire.”
I hold his stare and imagine I could fall right into the smoldering green of it.
Trystan’s told me all about Mage affinities, how magic runs deep along elemental lines, every Mage possessing a different proportion of the five elementals: fire, earth, air, light and water, Trystan having leanings toward both fire and water magic.
I can sense Lukas’s magic. I can feel his fire.
Lukas has grown quiet and appears to be considering something.
“Come to the Yule dance with me,” he says.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a dance held every Yule at the University for Gardnerian scholars and graduates. Come with me.”
I swallow, not believing this is happening. It has to be a dream. “All right,” I say, nodding dumbly.
He grins widely and reaches up to play with my hair. “We should be getting back,” he says ruefully. “Your aunt will be wondering what became of you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, drawn in by his languid touch. “She seemed pretty happy to see us leave together.”
Overjoyed, actually.
“Yes, well...” he agrees, chuckling. He pulls away and offers me his arm. I thread my arm through his, part of me feeling oddly reckless, not wanting to leave, wanting to stay here alone with him, to feel the fire of his kiss light up the room.
When we reach the foyer, a group of young soldiers and military apprentices, Sylus amongst them, shout boisterously to Lukas. I look past them to see my brother Rafe approaching at a brisk pace, his eyes darting back and forth between Lukas and myself.
“Hey, Ren,” he greets me warmly.
I let go of Lukas’s arm and give my brother an affectionate hug.
“Where’s Trystan?” I ask, overjoyed to be with my brother again, but self-consciously aware of Lukas by my side.
“Trystan is staying with Gareth and his family,” Rafe tells me, smiling. “You know how much he loves large social gatherings.”
I laugh at this. “Where’s the harem that Trystan says you’re usually trailed by?” I tease.
He grins mischievously. “I just got here.” Rafe turns to Lukas, his smile becoming tight—less a friendly gesture, more a tiger bearing its teeth. “Giving my sister a tour, were you?”
“Something like that,” Lukas replies evenly.
Although Rafe is still smiling, his right arm clenches, his hand closing into a fist.
“How’s that bow arm of yours, Rafe?” Lukas asks pleasantly.
“Deadly accurate as ever, Lukas.”
Lukas turns to me, ignoring the sudden tension in the air. “I keep trying to get your brother to apprentice with the military. He could be very successful. Best tracker, best hunter...best Gardnerian archer I’ve ever seen. He’s a dangerous man, your brother.”
“Oh, now, I’m not all that dangerous, Lukas,” Rafe says, still smiling. “Not unless someone were to bother my little sister, that is.”
Lukas laughs at this. “I seriously doubt that she needs your protection, Rafe.”
Rafe’s eyes flicker toward me questioningly before lighting again on Lukas.
One of the soldiers calls out for Lukas to join them.
“I’ll let you two catch up with each other,” Lukas says. He takes my hand and leans to kiss the back of it, a smile on his lips. His touch sends a delicious chill down my spine and I struggle to maintain my composure. “Elloren, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. He straightens and turns to my brother. “Rafe,” he says as he tips his head to my brother in acknowledgment.
“Lukas,” my brother replies coolly.
We both watch as Lukas strides off in the direction of his fellow soldiers and makes his exit with them.
Rafe turns to me, visibly relaxing. “I hear you were quite the star tonight.” His face takes on a look of mock suspicion. “Who are you, and what have you done with my shy, reserved sister?”
“I’m her glamoured double,” I laugh.
The foyer is now mostly empty, except for the two of us. It seems the party is dying down, the buzz of conversation emanating from the ballroom quieter, the music now absent.
“Hey, Ren,” Rafe says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “you know I wouldn’t tell you how to run your life, right?”
I look up at him curiously, wondering what’s prompted this comment.
He inhales deeply, as if wanting to choose his words carefully. “I know Aunt Vyvian wants you fasted, but...don’t jump into anything with Lukas Grey, all right?”
I feel myself flushing and shrug evasively. “I’m not.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Rafe cautions me. “And I know you’re smart, but so is he. And he has more...experience in the world.”
I purse my lips in embarrassed annoyance, wanting to ignore this.
Rafe lets out a long sigh and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Just be careful, all right?”
“I will,” I promise edgily.
Upon hearing this, Rafe seems to relax, and his usual easy expression returns. “All right, all right,” he says, holding up his hands in mock defeat. “This concludes the overprotective older brother part of the evening.”
“Good,” I say with relief, attempting to bury his warning in the back of my mind. I notice a group of nice-looking girls hovering near the door to the ballroom, giggling and looking at Rafe.
“Hey, Rafe,” I say, “have you ever met Aislinn Greer?”
“Not formally.” He lifts one eyebrow in question.
“I just met her a while ago. I should introduce the two of you.”
He laughs. “You’re trying to set me up with her, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I realize you don’t need much help with that.” I glance over at the knot of giggling girls. I suspect they’ll converge around Rafe like a flock of geese as soon as I’m done talking to him. “Aislinn seems...different. She’s smart...nice...”
“I’ll tell you what,” he bargains, amused. “There’s a dance every Yule at University. You go with Gareth, and I’ll ask Aislinn Greer.”
“I can’t,” I say hesitantly, not wanting to displease my older brother. “I’ve already agreed to go with Lukas.”
“Elloren.” He reaches out to touch my arm, his voice once again serious. “I’m not kidding about Lukas Grey. Stay away from him. He’s incredibly powerful. You’re playing with fire there.”
Maybe I want to play with fire.
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, my tone completely and utterly noncommittal.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Wandfasting
“I received some correspondence this morning,” my aunt informs me as we sit in her breakfast alcove.
We’re surrounded on three sides by arching windows that overlook well-maintained gardens. A nearby display of blood-red roses pierces the gloomy, overcast day.
I can barely make out the sound of silverware on the gilded porcelain as my aunt neatly cuts into the omelete and spiced fruit before her. Her half-eaten scone sits pristinely on an adjacent plate. Everything she does—calligraphy, eating, dressing—is always so tidy. It’s easy to feel disheveled and bumbling next to her constant perfection. I glance down at my own half-eaten scone, a circle of fine crumbs orbiting the plate.
“Correspondence from whom?” I wonder as I try to clean up my stray crumbs with the tip of my finger.
“Lukas Grey’s parents.”
My finger freezes. I look up, my aunt taking her time with this news as she tranquilly sips at her tea.
“Are you friends with them, then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
My aunt shoots me a bemused smile. “Of course, dear. I’ve known Lachlan and Evelyn for years.”
I take a small bite from my scone, attempting to appear nonchalant.
“Apparently,” she continues, as she cradles her teacup, “Lukas indicated to them last night that he would agree to fast to you.”
I choke on the scone. “What?”
My aunt flashes a large, white smile at me, like a cat that has just eaten a canary. “It seems you made quite an impression.”
“He wants to wandfast to me?” I sputter, crumbs flying from my mouth.
She eyes me quizzically. “Why are you so surprised? You’re of age, Elloren. Most Gardnerian girls your age are already fasted, or are soon about to be...”
“But I’ve only just met him!”
“That’s of no consequence,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.
I stare at her, stunned. Of no consequence. Seriously?
“We should arrange for the two of you to be fasted as soon as possible,” Aunt Vyvian states decidedly. “Enith...”
My aunt turns to the blue-skinned Urisk girl who helped me with my music last night. She stands against the wall, silent and expressionless, like a statue.
“Yes, ma’am?” Enith responds.
“Send word to the Greys,” my aunt instructs. “Let them know that Elloren is very pleased to accept Lukas’s proposal and that we would like to arrange for the fasting to take place as soon as possible. Perhaps after tomorrow’s church service.”
“Wait...” I plead, interrupting her. “I can’t fast to Lukas.”
Aunt Vyvian holds her scone in suspended animation. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
Enith is glowering at me, wide-eyed and appalled, like I’ve just thrown a jar of preserves at both of them.
“I’ve known him exactly one day.” Sweet Ancient One, what could Lukas be thinking?
“Elloren,” my aunt breathes, setting her scone down, “this type of proposal, from a family such as this, from a young man such as Lukas Grey, does not come along every day.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I can’t. I’ve only just met him. And...and I promised Uncle Edwin...”
“Promised him what?”
“That I’ll wait until I’m done with my education to fast to someone.”
My aunt’s mouth falls open. “But that’s at least two years from now!”
“I know.”
“Elloren,” she says, her voice low, “you’d be a fool to turn down this proposal.”
My resolve stiffens. “Perhaps if he likes me that much, he can court me first.”
Her eyes take on a hard glint. “Perhaps I should send word to the Greys that they should reconsider their initial plan.”
“What plan?”
“Why, to have Lukas fasted to Fallon Bane, my dear.”
I freeze, completely thrown. “But,” I counter, “Lukas told me he’s not going to fast to Fallon.”
My aunt makes a sound of derision. “Really, Elloren. Do you honestly think he’ll wait for you forever?” Her gaze turns calculating. “I’m sure Fallon Bane would be happy to take your place.”
An unbidden image of Lukas kissing smug, perfect Fallon forms in my mind, his back to me as he clings to her passionately, her eyes open, glaring at me with malicious triumph. She wouldn’t hesitate to accept a wandfasting proposal from Lukas Grey.
But to fast to him after knowing him for only one day—that would be madness.
And Rafe has concerns. Enough to warn me off Lukas.
“Do you want to be alone all your life, Elloren?” my aunt coos, leaning forward. “Don’t you want to be fasted someday? To have a family? Do you know how unlikely that will be if you go unfasted for much longer?” She sits back. “Of course there will be a few choices left after you finish University. The young men that no one else wants. But is that what you really want?”
Her words get under my skin, and I momentarily wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.
A chill starts from deep within me, and it has nothing to do with the damp outside. I suddenly very much want my uncle.
“I... I just can’t,” I say weakly.
She narrows her eyes at me. “What, pray tell, am I to tell Lukas’s parents?”
“Tell them,” I begin, my throat becoming constricted, “that I am very thankful for their proposal and I will consider it, but I need time to get to know Lukas a little better.”
“It seems like you were getting to know him pretty well last night, my dear,” she snipes as she takes a sip of her tea.
My face goes hot.
“Don’t you think my servants tell me everything?” She purses her lips at me. “If you’re going to indulge in that type of behavior, Elloren, you need to fast to the young man, and quickly.”
I’m completely mortified.
“If you assume I’m going to sit idly by and watch while you go off to University unfasted and potentially disgrace your entire extended family by falling in with the wrong man, like Sage Gaffney did, you certainly don’t know me very well.” She sets down her tea and leans forward. “You forget, Elloren, that not only will I refuse to pay your University tithe while you are unfasted, I know and am on very close terms with the University’s High Chancellor, in addition to most of the Gardnerian professors and the Lodging Mistress. If I need to, I can make things very unpleasant for you there.” She collects herself and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m only doing this for your own good, Elloren. And for the good of our family. You do realize you can avoid all sorts of unpleasantness if you simply agree to fast to Lukas Grey.”
It hurts that she would threaten me—like a sharp slap. “I’m not saying I won’t consider it,” I counter, thrown. “I just can’t fast to him so quickly. I’d like to get to know him a little first.”
If Uncle Edwin was here, he’d take my side.
“Honestly, Elloren,” she says coldly, “you are making this very difficult for me.”
My anger flares. “Then maybe it’s lucky for you that you’re not my official guardian.”
Silence. The Urisk girl freezes, her eyes gone wide with shock.
Aunt Vyvian’s gaze narrows. “My brother doesn’t always have the firmest grasp on reality, my dear. I would never have allowed him to take you in if I had known...” She breaks off, her eyes angrily brimming with some unspoken thought.
“Known what?” I press, stung by her easy dismissal of my uncle.
She leans forward, teeth bared. “That you would grow up to turn down a fasting proposal that every girl in Gardneria would give her eyeteeth for!”
Her expression turns venomous and I shrink back, shocked by the frightening change in her demeanor.
My aunt quickly collects herself, regaining her careful sheen of control, like thick curtains being drawn around her true feelings.
“I shall simply have to find a way to help you change your mind,” she states, her voice once again tranquil. She lightly taps her teacup.
The Urisk girl springs forward to fill it, as if her life depends on it.
My aunt takes her time, mixing some cream into her tea. “I have found that everyone can be persuaded to do the right thing if the right kind of pressure is applied.”
I stare at her with a new wariness, watching as she lifts the porcelain cup with long, graceful fingers.
“Everyone has a breaking point, Elloren. Everyone.” She regards me levelly. “Don’t force me to find yours.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Icarals
The next morning our ride to church is uncomfortably silent, our carriage surrounded by Aunt Vyvian’s personal guard. Dark clouds loom above Valgard and threaten a storm. I peer up at them, my cheek pressed against the cool glass of the carriage’s window, wishing I was with my brothers and Gareth.
Aunt Vyvian is studying me icily, perhaps considering how best to bend my will. She’s been trying to convince me to wandfast for every one of the fifteen days we’ve been together, and that pressure, after yesterday’s wandfasting offer, has now turned markedly oppressive. She’s keeping me with her until the last possible moment, desperate to have me buckle and wandfast to Lukas Grey before going off to University.
We’re to arrive at Valgard’s Grand Cathedral hours before morning service so that Aunt Vyvian can discuss some government business with Priest Vogel. Then she’s insisting I attend service with her—where, I suspect, we’ll conveniently run into Lukas and his family. I flush uncomfortably at the thought of seeing him again.
Later, after the service, I’m to make the carriage journey to University alone. Rafe, Trystan and Gareth are long gone, having left together early this morning on horseback.
I long to be with them. I don’t want to be in these fancy, restrictive clothes that necessitate slower carriage travel anymore. And I long to break free of Aunt Vyvian’s unforgiving watch. I want to be on horseback with my brothers and Gareth, riding to Verpacia and the bustling University.
Soon, I remind myself. You’ll be out of here soon enough.
The dark forest of buildings ahead gives way to an expansive, circular plaza, a larger-than-life marble statue of my grandmother dominating its middle. I focus right in on it, wondering if I’ll be able to make out my own features in the marble face, but it’s too far away.
Approaching the plaza, we make a sharp turn to the right, and I almost gasp as Valgard’s Cathedral bursts into view, even grander than I remembered it.
* * *
Broad, sweeping columns rise skyward, eventually coalescing to form one, narrowing spire that supports a silver Erthia sphere at its zenith. The whole structure is wrought from Ironwood the color of wet earth. A mammoth central arch with two smaller, adjacent arches frames the entrance, the huge front doors richly carved with images from The Book of the Ancients.
The carriage halts just in front of the cathedral, and I almost trip down its steps as I disembark, my gaze riveted on the immense, vertigo-inducing structure. I crane my neck to take it all in, the silver sphere highlighted by the darkening sky.
My aunt ushers me into the cathedral and toward one of the countless, intricately carved pews.
“Sit here,” she directs sternly.
I obey as her heels click down an aisle that leads to the broad dais and altar. Two priests in dark, flowing robes circle the altar, lighting candles and waving incense, the white bird symbol of the Ancient One emblazoned on their chests. Above the altar hangs another Erthia sphere.
My aunt approaches the priests, then launches into hushed conversation with them. They take turns surreptitiously glaring in my direction as my stomach twists itself into uncomfortable knots. And then they’re gone, having exited together through a side door, leaving me all alone in the vast space.
I am bereft, my palms flat on the wood of my seat.
But soon the wood of the cathedral begins to lull me into a calmer state. Numerous columns, some straight, some diagonal and curving, rise toward an irregular ceiling covered with crisscrossing arches. It’s like being underneath the root system of an enormous, otherworldly tree.
I close my eyes, slide my palms against the wood and breathe in its amber scent.
Soothed, I open my eyes to find a copy of The Book of the Ancients sitting beside me.
I pick up the black, leather-bound tome and run my finger along its gilded title. I know this book well. Unbeknownst to my uncle, who seems to disapprove of religion in general, I keep my grandmother’s old copy under my pillow, the gilded holy book passed down to me by Aunt Vyvian when I was a small child. Sometimes, in the dark of night, when sadness comes, when the void left by my parents’ deaths seems too painful to bear, The Book’s many prayers for strength in times of hardship and sorrow are of great comfort to me.
Just as the first rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, I open to the first page and read.
The Creation
In the beginning, there was only the Ancient One. The universe was vast and empty. And out of the great, unfathomable nothingness, the Ancient One brought forth the planets and the stars, the sun and the moon and Erthia, the Great Sphere.
And on this Great Sphere, the Ancient One separated the land from the water and brought forth all manner of living things: the green plants, the birds of the air, the beasts of the field and forest and water.
And the Ancient One looked down upon it all and was pleased.
But the Ancient One was not finished. The breath of life was sent out over the Great Sphere, and from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree sprang the First Children, who were to dwell on the Great Sphere; and the Angelic Ones, who were to dwell in the Heavens.
At first, all dwelled in harmony.
All of creation joined together to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.
But it came to pass that the Angelic Ones, winged as they were, began to feel that they did not need to obey. They began to feel that they were better than the Ancient One, and that they owned the Heavens.
And it came to pass that the Angelic Ones flew down to the First Children and pleaded with them to turn away from the Ancient One and to worship them instead. The First Children were angered by this betrayal and refused. The First Children told the Angelic Ones that they would worship and glorify none other than the Ancient One. The Angelic Ones, angered in turn by the refusal of the First Children, brought down a host of evil upon them: the shapeshifters who preyed upon them at night, the wyverns who attacked from above, the sorceresses who sought to mislead them and all manner of dark creatures and tricksters, thus scattering the First Children and sending them into disarray.
And it came to pass that the Ancient One looked down and saw the sufferings of the First Children, and that the Angelic Ones had become Evil Ones in their betrayal. In great fury and righteousness, the Ancient One smote the Angelic Ones and sent them hurtling down to the surface of the Great Sphere. And then the Ancient One spoke to the Angelic Ones, who were now Evil Ones, saying unto them:
“From now on, you shall no longer be counted among my children and will be known as Icarals, the most despised of all creatures. You will wander the surface of my Great Sphere without a home. My True Children, My First Children, will join together to smite you and to break your wings.”
And thus it came to pass that the True Children once again joined together from all corners of the Great Sphere to smite the Evil Ones and to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.
So ends the first book of Creation.
I glance up at the stained-glass windows that shine between the columns as I remember the stories in the sacred text associated with each image, the normally vivid colors of the scenes strangely darkened by the stormy skies.
The first window depicts the Ancient One symbolized by a graceful, white bird, sending down rays of light to Erthia below. I take in a deep breath as the familiar, protective image fills me with warmth.
The images continue, all around: the reluctant prophetess, Galliana, astride a giant fire raven, leading our people from slavery, White Wand in hand; the First Children receiving the deep blue Ironflowers as a symbol of the Ancient One’s promise to keep them free from oppression, the flowers offering magical protection from demon fire.
I briefly glance down at the familiar Ironflower trim worked into the hem of my sleeve, comforted by the flowers’ symbolic promise of safety.
Next comes images of terrible battles: First Children slaying winged Icaral demons as the demons shoot fire from their palms; First Children soldiers combating bloodthirsty shapeshifters—wolf-shifters, fox-shifters and even a wyvern-shifter with slits for eyes and a forked tongue hanging from its mouth.
Above all these images, the Ancient One’s light shines down.
As I ponder the religious teachings of my youth, movement near the stained-glass wyvern-shifter catches my eye.
Just above its reptilian head is a clear portion of glass, and I can make out two small eyes watching me through it. The eyes flick up and out of view, revealing a strong silver beak and then...nothing.
A Watcher.
Curious, I get up, walk toward the back of the church and exit through the mammoth front doors.
As the doors swing shut behind me, I’m instantly aware of a strange current in the air. I stare down over the empty plaza, searching everywhere for the bird.
There, in the plaza’s center, stands the huge stone statue of my grandmother. The plaza is eerily quiet, the normally raucous seagulls absent. The odd colors of the sky shift slightly, and I hear another small, far-off murmur of thunder. I look up to see dark clouds slowly lumbering toward the church.
Halfway down the cathedral stairs, I see it. The white bird. It flies across the wide plaza and lands just behind my grandmother’s statue.
I reach the statue of my grandmother and circle slowly around it, searching for the bird. Soon the huge marble monument completely blocks the cathedral from view. I pause in its shadow, riveted by it.
The soft rumbling of thunder jostles the silence like a faint drumroll.
My grandmother stands, larger than life, my identical features finely wrought by a master’s chisel, every fold of her billowing robes perfectly rendered, so lifelike it seems as if I could reach up and move the fabric. Her left arm is raised in a graceful arc above her head, her wand arm pointing straight down at an Icaral that lies prostrate at her feet, his face a contorted mask of agony.
At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.
The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.
You could never be me.
The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.
Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.
My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.
“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”
I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.
The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.
I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.
A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.
But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.
It used to have wings.
It’s an Icaral demon. My screams turn to sobs of terror as I catch a glimpse of a dagger in its hand.
I raise my palms in supplication, a silent, desperate plea for mercy as I begin to grow faint.
The demon scuttles forward with surprising quickness and agility and grabs my wrist so hard, its long fingernails dig into my skin, piercing my flesh. I let out a muffled cry.
It holds tight onto me, its soulless eyes widening in shock. “It is She! It truly is the Black Witch!”
“Then do not hesitate!” snarls the creature restraining me. “Kill it, Vestus! Kill it before it can become like Her!”
My knees buckle as the creature called Vestus pulls his dagger back and raises it above his head. Thunder smashes against the sky.
“History will now be rewritten, Black Witch!” Vestus shrieks. “The Prophecy will be shattered, and the Icaral will live! You will die, and we will rise!”
Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The creature’s hand jerks backward to ready his attack, but then a longer blade bursts through the creature’s chest. A fountain of blood spurts out, covering me, and I’m falling, falling, the creature behind me also falling away, freeing me. I slam into the cold, hard ground, aware of the overwhelming, ferrous smell of blood.
And then a soldier is before me.
Lukas!
He pulls his sword out of the Icaral and pushes the creature forward, dead, its head slamming onto the stone tile inches from me with a sickening crack.
I whirl around just in time to see one of my aunt’s guards dragging off the second Icaral, this one taller and more muscular than the other, but bloodied and unconscious. Thunder cracks loudly as the wind strengthens and pushes my blood-soaked clothing flat against my skin.
A movement beyond my aunt’s guard catches my eye—just a small glimpse in a dark alley beyond the plaza, beyond the road.
Another Icaral looks at me for a split second, then disappears from sight.
A strong hand grabs my arm. I jump in fright and whirl around to see Lukas shouting something at me. I close my eyes tight and jerk my head from side to side, desperate to pull myself together, to focus. I open my eyes as all the sound around me rushes back in with a roar, like a dam opened.
“There’s another one!” I cry to Lukas, pointing toward the alleyway.
Lukas pulls out his wand and aims it in that direction. A burst of blue-green lightning spears from his wand’s tip and explodes into the alley. It incinerates the walls of the buildings on either side with a crackling boom that sends a sharp pain through my ears.
Lukas yells to the guards as four other Mages run toward us, their wands drawn, their cloaks edged with rows of silver lines.
Lukas calls out orders, and all of the Mages run off in the direction of the alley.
“Are you hurt?” Lukas shouts at me as the heavens open up and the rain pours down, the water mixing with the blood of the Icarals, forming dark, violent puddles. I nod, and Lukas pulls me to my feet. He braces me with a strong arm around my waist, his other hand still gripping his blood-stained sword. I grip my throbbing wrist as he guides me across the plaza.
Lightning flashes around us as we quickly make our way toward the cathedral. Soldiers fan out over the plaza, and a small crowd of Gardnerians, including my aunt and Echo Flood, look out from the open cathedral doors with horrified faces.
Marcus Vogel stands amongst them, the calm eye of the hurricane.
And the bird, the white bird, sits above the doorway in a hollowed-out, sheltered crevice, as still as the artwork adorning the cathedral.
Watching me.
* * *
Lukas paces back and forth across the room like a caged animal, glancing over at me every so often, his jaw set tight, face ruddy, his brow furrowed with angry impatience. Like me, he’s soaked through with rain and blood, his sword sheathed and hanging at his side. His pacing is interrupted when one of my aunt’s guards comes in to speak with him, the two of them talking so low I can’t make out what they’re saying. Lukas’s hand is on his hip as he speaks to the man, both of them tense, the guard taking a subordinate stance as Lukas gives him a series of orders. The guard nods and leaves with a look of serious purpose.
I’m sitting on a wooden chair in Priest Vogel’s cathedral sanctuary, shivering uncontrollably, feeling dazed and frightened, surrounded by black-robed priests.
Vogel is looming over me, holding outstretched hands above my head, his eyes firmly closed as he intones a prayer in the Ancient Tongue. An image of dark Icaral wings and lifeless trees flashes behind my eyes and sends a vicious chill through me.
The priest to the left of Vogel swings a gold ball filled with incense from a long chain. Pungent smoke wafts from holes in the sphere, burning my nose, my stomach clenching with nausea.
Even though they’re closed, I can feel Vogel’s eyes.
Echo sits next to me and holds my hand tight.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, still in shock. This can’t be real. I’m trapped in a nightmare. None of this can be real.
“Shhh, Elloren,” she whispers kindly. She gives my hand a squeeze of solidarity. “You have looked into the eyes of an Icaral. To do this is to pollute your soul. Priest Vogel is exorcizing the stain.”
My wrist burns where the Icaral dug its claws into my flesh.
“I want my uncle,” I whimper, tears starting to fall. I feel lost among all these unfamiliar people, and frightened by the need for ritual purification.
And I’m scared of Vogel.
My aunt stands in the doorway with two more priests, old men with snow-white hair. They speak in hushed tones, their expressions grave.
I drop my face into my hands and begin to sob. My shivering gets worse as Priest Vogel drones on and on, rattling me with his remote chanting of prayers and the sense of his dark void swirling around me. I cry as the chanting falls away and the dark void subsides, only half aware of Lukas asking for a moment alone with me.
The room grows quiet.
“Elloren. Look at me.”
I jump at the sound of Lukas’s stern voice and the feel of his strong hand gripping my arm. I straighten and pull my tear-soaked hands from my eyes.
He’s down on one knee, his head level with mine, eyes full of fire. “Stop it.”
His harsh tone stuns me into astonished silence.
I choke back my tears as anger at his treatment wells up within me. Wasn’t he right there? Didn’t he see those...things? A dark fury takes root, replacing my fear with steel-cold anger.
“That’s better!” Lukas snarls as I glare at him with as much hatred as I can muster. “You are not weak!”
“How can you say that?” I spit out, wanting to strike him. “You’re wrong!”
“No, I’m not,” he vehemently counters, still gripping me. “I can sense power in you. You look exactly like your grandmother, and her blood runs through your veins. Your uncle has done you a grave disservice by not preparing you for something like this.”
“Don’t you dare speak against my uncle!” I cry. I try to jerk my arm away from him, but he holds on tight.
“No, Elloren, it needs to be said. He did this to you by leaving you unarmed and ignorant!”
An uncomfortable doubt rises in the back of my mind. I beat it back.
“You don’t know anything about my uncle,” I say firmly. “You’ve never even met him!”
“They were at your uncle’s house, Elloren.”
I stop trying to wrench away from him. “What do you mean?”
“The Icarals. Galen got a confession from one of them before he killed it. They escaped from the Valgard Sanitorium. One of them was an empath. He found out about you from a worker there—someone who knows your aunt. They were waiting for this, Elloren—for the next Black Witch to be found. They went straight to your uncle’s house, but you were gone. They found your uncle sleeping, and the empath read where you were from his thoughts by touching him. If your aunt hadn’t pulled you from there, you’d be dead right now.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen. No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. “I’m powerless. Why would those...things think that I’m the Black Witch?”
Lukas doesn’t answer. He just keeps his unwavering stare fixed on me.
I already know the answer, though. It’s my blood. Her blood—that’s what the creature sensed. And I look just like her.
“The third Icaral,” I finally say, my voice strangled. “Did they find it?”
Lukas takes a deep breath. “No.”
“And my uncle?” I ask, almost in a whisper.
“He’s fine,” he says, his voice losing its angry edge. “They weren’t after him, Elloren. They were after you.” Lukas’s hand loosens then falls away from my arm. “We’ve sent guards to your uncle’s house as a precaution.”
“But what about Rafe? And Trystan?”
“I’ve already sent guards to find them and escort them across Verpacia’s border, if they haven’t crossed already.”
“And once they’re across?”
His lips turn up at the edges. “You won’t have to worry about them once they cross the border. It’s ward-magicked. Verpacia’s military force is formidable, and they have the help of the Vu Trin sorceresses. You’ll be safe there, as well. You’re safe now. The Icaral’s weak. Its wings were amputated long ago. Your aunt’s guards and I will escort you to University, and we’ve already sent word to the High Chancellor about what’s happened.”
My wrist is beginning to throb. Miserable, I turn it over for his inspection, bloody scratches and gashes ringing it where the creature gripped me. I wait for Lukas to express some sympathy.
He takes my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes meet mine and his expression goes hard. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It will scar and be a constant reminder to prepare yourself. These are battle scars, Elloren.”
“Why are you so harsh?” I cry, wrenching my wrist away.
“Because,” he grinds out as he grips both arms of my chair, “you do not need to be coddled!”
“You don’t even know me!”
He shakes his head from side to side and takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice gone low.
He stands up, a horizontal line of blood splashed across the front of his tunic, short tendrils of wet hair plastered to his forehead. We’re both damp and sweaty and smell like blood. The image of Lukas slaying the Icaral demon flashes into my mind, rapidly deflating the remnants of my anger.
He saved my life.
Lukas holds his hand out to me, and I reach up to take it.
“You are equal to this, Elloren,” he says firmly as he helps me to my feet.
I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m not the Black Witch, Lukas.”
He sighs deeply and looks at me with resignation. “Let’s go,” is all he says.
* * *
A few hours later I’m in a carriage with Lukas, traveling to Verpacia, the two of us in clean, dry clothing.
“Lukas will protect you,” Aunt Vyvian reassured me back at her mansion, as she directed Urisk servants to quickly pack my things into my travel trunk, plus an additional large trunk she’s provided for me. “You’ll be safer in Verpacia. Especially with Lukas as your guard.”
She could barely hide her smug satisfaction at the way events have played right into her hands, pushing Lukas and me firmly together. But I’m too rattled to be anything but grateful for her assistance, and for Lukas’s help and protection.
I think about how many things my aunt and the others tried to warn me about. It’s just as it says in our sacred text, just as the images on the stained-glass windows portray things to be. The Icarals are hideous things of great Evil, and need to be destroyed before they destroy us. And Sage’s baby, if this is its destiny—to turn into one of those things—then the Mage Council is right in wanting to take it from her, stripping it of its wings and its power.
Killing it, even.
I shudder to think of those creatures armed with overwhelming power at their disposal, and I know that if my attackers had been in possession of their wings, I’d be dead.
And if my aunt is right about this, and about my need to leave home, if her intuition is so good, maybe she’s right about other things, as well. Maybe the Selkies are only dangerous, feral animals—just as horrible as the Icarals when they have their skins. And maybe she’s right about Lukas and wandfasting.
I look over at Lukas as he sits in stony silence, staring out the window through the rain-battered glass, and a surge of gratitude washes over me.
Oh, Uncle Edwin, I anguish, why did you leave me in the dark about what might be out here waiting for me? Did you have any idea? Why didn’t you protect me?
He didn’t know, I realize. It turns out that my sweet uncle is dangerously naive about the world, cooped up in Halfix, isolated amidst his beehives and violins and childish good intentions.
As much as I love Uncle Edwin, I’m forced to consider that he’s not only dangerously ignorant, but he may actually be wrong, too. About so many things.
And Aunt Vyvian might be right.
I resolve to find out the truth for myself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
Verpacia
I stare out at the sheeting rain as I cradle my bruised wrist. After several hours I lose track of how long we’ve been on the road, all the farms and towns bleeding into each other. Lukas is equally silent and deep in thought.
My fear has settled into an anxious unease. I look over at Lukas and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s brooding and remote, but I feel a kinship with his aura of gravity that makes me feel less alone.
Eventually we slow, and I make out one of the Ironwood outposts of our military. A cloaked soldier waves us through.
“The border,” Lukas informs me.
Three trade routes converge here, and we’re gradually stopped by the traffic, most of the horses pulling wagons heavily weighed down by goods.
Thunder crashes, and I strain to see through the rain. A long, ivory wagon passes close by. It’s surrounded by a large contingent of ivory-cloaked soldiers astride pale steeds. The soldiers have white hair, and their eyes are silver.
“Gold merchants,” Lukas says, noting my interest.
Amazement cuts through my lingering haze of fear. “Are they Elves?”
“You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head and look back out. The Elves’ ethereal whiteness is pristine, as if the dirt and grime of this stormy day hasn’t touched them at all.
My eyes are drawn upward by the shifting winds.
I can just make out the western edge of the Verpacian Spine, an impassable mass of vertical rock that borders the country of Verpacia. The white-gray rock seems to reach right up to the heavens and disappears into the storm clouds as the rain batters the bleached stone. Multiple guard towers are carved into the cliffs, hewn from the rock itself. Cloaked archers in pale gray uniforms the color of the Spine climb about the towers like nimble mountain goats. They appear to be keeping a close eye on the convergence of traffic seeking entrance into Verpacia through this break in the Spine.
Our carriage door opens, and an archer pokes his head in. He has a bow slung over his shoulder and rain drips copiously off the edge of his hood. He looks like an Elf, his eyes gleaming silver, but his hair and skin are a silvery-gray only slightly darker than his eyes.
“Lieutenant Grey,” he says congenially, the words heavily accented. He glances over at me, and his smile is whisked right off his face. He blurts out something in what must be the Elfhollen language, his tone one of shock.
“Orin,” Lukas says carefully, as if trying to calm him, “this is Elloren Gardner.”
“She’s not back from the dead, then?” Orin breathes, his eyes locked tight on mine.
Lukas smiles. “Only in appearance.”
Then, to my surprise, they launch into a serious conversation in Elfhollen. Orin gestures sharply toward me several times, his expression deeply conflicted. I stiffen, rattled by Orin’s confrontational tone.
Lukas shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she had any power?”
I glance sidelong at Lukas, surprised. He’s told me more than once that he suspects I have power. My heart thuds nervously, realizing that there’s danger here. And he’s protecting me.
Orin narrows his silver eyes at me one last time, shuts the door and waves us through.
I let out a breath of relief, then turn to Lukas in amazement. “You speak Elfhollen?” Even if he’s well versed in languages, it’s still a surprising choice.
Lukas smirks. “I have an odd talent for picking up the more obscure languages.” He eyes me appraisingly. “How much do you know about the Elfhollen?”
I consider for a moment. “They’re half-Elf, right? With Mountain Fae blood? I’ve read a little about them.”
“It’s a nice combination, really,” Lukas muses as he throws his arm along the back of his seat. “Deadly archers with perfect balance. It’s lucky for Verpacia that the Alfsigr hate mixed-breeds. The Alfsigr Elves were idiots to drive the Elfhollen from their land.” He flicks his finger in the direction of the sentry towers and the agile Elfhollen soldiers stationed in and around them. “They’re one of the only reasons Verpacia is able to keep control of the Pass. That, and the Vu Trin border wards.” Lukas bears his teeth. “And the Vu Trin sorceresses.”
I look over at Lukas, surprised by his matter-of-fact way of discussing half-Elves and sorceresses. And his friendly demeanor toward one of them. Most Gardnerians are as distrustful of half-Elves as the Alfsigr Elves are. It’s understandable—we were almost wiped out several times. Of course we want to keep our race pure and intact.
All around us, the Elfhollen soldiers brave the icy rain to search through wagons: looking under secured wax cloth, opening up barrels, questioning the drivers. Some of the soldiers are accompanied by heavily armed women garbed in black, their hair and eyes as dark as their uniforms. Their uniforms bear glowing blue rune-marks that are so beautiful, I can’t tear my eyes away,
“Are those Vu Trin soldiers?” I ask Lukas, transfixed by the sight of the lethal-looking women and their shimmering rune-marks.
Lukas nods, eyeing them with what looks like respect. “They’re a guest military force here. They control the western and eastern passes through the Spine. Their presence is part of the treaty agreement that formally ended the Realm War.”
“It’s strange to me,” I say, marveling at the curved swords the Vu Trin carry at their sides and the rows of silver throwing stars strapped across their chests. “Women as soldiers.”
Lukas seems amused by this. “The men of their race don’t have any magic. But the women more than make up for it, believe me.”
A tall Vu Trin motions sharply for a group of Kelts on horseback to halt, her face steel-hard. Her uniform’s arms are marked with lines of circular ward symbols that glow blue. A smaller Vu Trin woman, with only one glowing sleeve ward, searches the Kelts’ saddlebags.
“What are they looking for?” I wonder.
“Smugglers.”
“Of what?”
Lukas shrugs. “Weapons, spirits...pit dragons.”
Spirits don’t surprise me. Forbidden by our religion, they’re illegal in Gardneria. A number of passages in The Book of the Ancients touch on the evil of intoxication. But my eyes widen at the mention of dragons.
“Pit dragons?”
“They’re a particularly vicious type of dragon,” Lukas explains. “Used as weapons. And for sport.” He turns from the window to glance at me. “They’re pure dragon. They don’t shift.”
I’ve only seen dragons twice. Both times were in Halfix, the dragons high in the sky. They were black Gardnerian military dragons, used for transport and as powerful weapons. But I know there are other dragons rumored to be somewhere in the Eastern Realm. Wyverns who can breathe fire and shift to human form. And Wyrm shapeshifters who breathe lightning and can control the weather.
Our carriage hits a bump and jostles me from my thoughts. It’s all stop and go for quite a while, but soon the traffic lessens and we’re on our way.
After a few hours the rain thins and I gasp as the tops of the northern and southern peaks of the Spine become visible, like two great walls bracketing the entire country of Verpacia. I’ve never seen anything as high as these snowcapped and intimidatingly beautiful peaks.
I’m glued to the window for the rest of the ride. There’s so much to see, the thrill of the unknown lighting me up.
We pass a busy horse market full of foreigners, our carriage slowed to the pace of walking by the heavy road traffic. Fascinated, I take it all in.
Elves are showing off ivory mares, the Elves’ hoods down to reveal gracefully pointed ears and long, white hair decorated with thin braids. Near the Elves are a group of muscular women garbed in black pants, boots and red tunics that shine brightly with fiery crimson rune-marks. The glowing symbols remind me of the blue rune-marks used by the Vu Trin sorceresses, though these women are a far more mixed group. Some are pale with blond hair, and others have skin in varying shades of brown and a rainbow of Urisk hues.
They’re as heavily armed as the Vu Trin sorceresses, and many have facial markings shaped like the runes on their clothing, as well as some piercings. A gleaming metal hoop is stuck right through the bottom of one red-haired woman’s nose, her ears sharply pointed and multiply pierced with dark metallic hoops.
“Amazakaran,” Lukas informs me. “Horsewomen of the Caledonian mountains.”
I stare at them, wide-eyed. “Are they as dangerous as the Vu Trin?”
Lukas laughs. “Just about.”
“They look like they aren’t really one race. Except they’re all dressed similarly.”
“The Amaz allow women of any race to join them.” He smiles at me and motions toward them. “They’d let you in, Elloren. And train you to use an ax like that.”
I gape at him, then look back toward the largest Amazakaran there. Her white-rose hair is braided and pulled back, and her face is heavily tattooed. She carries a huge, gleaming, rune-marked ax strapped to her back, and I jump slightly as the woman sets her fierce gaze on me, her eyes narrowed and dangerous. I whip my eyes quickly away from her, heart thudding, as the carriage gives a lurch forward and whisks the Amaz warrior from my sight.
We press on, and soon we’re traveling through forest and down a winding road, the rain picking up. There’s a clearing up ahead, and the Southern Spine comes into view, the forest falling away.
Rain-fogged Verpax appears, spread out before us, the countless domes and spires of the University city completely filling the immense valley. A haze of golden light from countless lanterns and torchlights hangs in the darkening fog. It’s a gated city, surrounded by a stone wall, the gates bracketed by guard towers.
I stare out over the scene, excitement and trepidation rising in equal measure.
Lukas turns to me, his mouth tilting into a wry smile. “Welcome to Verpax.”
(#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
PROLOGUE (#uad4e0001-9de7-545d-b3f5-dd4948018802)
“We cannot allow the Black Witch to be in possession of the White Wand.”
“The White Wand chooses its own path. You know that, Kam. To interfere would be to court disaster.”
The two women stand in the guard tower at Verpax’s entrance gate. They watch through high-arched windows as an elegant carriage makes its way down the winding road that leads to the University. The carriage’s horses press on slowly, their heads bowed by the rain and howling wind.
Every so often, thunder rumbles in the distance.
One of the women, a Gardnerian, is still and calm, her dark green eyes narrowed behind gold-rimmed spectacles as she peers through the diamond-paned glass, her ebony hair tied back into a neat bun.
The second woman, a Vu Trin sorceress, is garbed in a black uniform marked with glowing blue rune-marks. She wears a series of razor-sharp metal stars strapped diagonally across her chest, curved swords sheathed at her sides. Her eyes are dark, her skin a deep brown, and she wears her straight black hair tied into a tight, ropy coil, as is the custom of the Vu Trin soldiers.
“If she is indeed the one, we need to strike her down immediately,” the sorceress says with fierce resolve. “Before she realizes her power. While there is still time.” She sets her cold gaze back on the carriage as a streak of lightning scythes through the sky, flashing against the steel of her weapons.
The Gardnerian holds up a hand in calm protest as she watches the carriage. Thunder cracks overhead. “Patience, Kam. Patience. We must give the girl a chance.”
The sorceress turns her head sharply to face her companion. “Have you forgotten the Prophecy?”
“The Prophecy is vague. The girl has a choice, as we all do. Her future is not fixed. She might not choose the path of darkness.”
“And what of this girl’s grandmother? What of her?” The sorceress’s face grows hard. “Was she not once just a girl, as well? A girl with a choice? A girl who chose to kill thousands of my people!”
The Gardnerian takes a deep breath and slowly turns to face the sorceress, her expression one of grave sympathy. “I know how much you have suffered, Kam.”
The sorceress’s face flinches. “No. You do not.”
The words hang in the air for one long minute as the women regard each other.
The Gardnerian places a comforting hand on the sorceress’s arm, but the sorceress remains military stiff, her hands clenched tight on her swords as if ready to attack the very memory of atrocities endured. After a moment, the Gardnerian lets her hand drop and turns back to the window. Thunder rumbles again to the west.
“Now is not the time to strike her down, Kam,” the Gardnerian states. “The Wand has chosen her. We must wait a bit to find out why—to see what this girl is made of. I do not plan on making her life here easy. Curiously, I have her aunt’s cooperation in this.”
The sorceress cocks a questioning eyebrow.
“Vyvian Damon has her own motivation for putting some pressure on the girl,” the Gardnerian explains. “A wandfasting conflict. She wants the girl to fast to Lukas Grey.”
“Rising star of the Gardnerian military forces. How fitting.”
The Gardnerian chooses to ignore the comment.
“My assassins are restless,” the sorceress cautions darkly. “I cannot promise you that the girl will be safe if they view you as complacent, not after what this girl’s grandmother did to our people, and what she would have succeeded in doing had the Icaral not cut her down. And this girl—” she gestures in the direction of the carriage with a sharp jerk of her chin “—if she is indeed The One, she is prophesied to be even greater in power than Carnissa, perhaps the most powerful Mage that has ever existed.”
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Laurie Forest
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Детская проза
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A new Black Witch will rise…her powers vast beyond imagining.Elloren Gardner is the granddaughter of the last prophesied Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, who drove back the enemy forces and saved the Gardnerian people during the Realm War. But while she is the absolute spitting image of her famous grandmother, Elloren is utterly devoid of power in a society that prizes magical ability above all else.When she is granted the opportunity to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an apothecary, Elloren joins her brothers at the prestigious Verpax University to embrace a destiny of her own, free from the shadow of her grandmother′s legacy. But she soon realizes that the university, which admits all manner of people—including the fire-wielding, winged Icarals, the sworn enemies of all Gardnerians—is a treacherous place for the granddaughter of the Black Witch.As evil looms on the horizon and the pressure to live up to her heritage builds, everything Elloren thought she knew will be challenged and torn away. Her best hope of survival may be among the most unlikely band of misfits…if only she can find the courage to trust those she′s been taught to hate and fear.