Tarot Academy 1: Spells of Iron and Bone

by Sarah Piper

  “Do you know where I was yesterday, Miss Trello?”

  My own heart feels sticky and sluggish, and it’s an effort not to go to her. To comfort her.

  “Yes, Starla,” Anna replies. “I know you were in prison.”

  “Yep. I missed my visit to the cemetery. First time in five years. First time since I buried them, because even in the months after, when I was basically catatonic, I still found it in me to go. But I missed yesterday, and now I’m here, a dead murderer for all anyone in Tres Búhos believes, so I guess future visits are out of the question too. I didn’t even get to say goodbye, to tell them what I had to do, to beg forgiveness for breaking the one promise they’d ever really asked of me—no magick. I didn’t get to leave one more bouquet and box of chocolates, or to remind them how much I love them. All because some crazy-ass mage decided to light up my friend and frame me for murder—a murder that my mother probably saw in the cards, which means you probably could’ve interceded.” Stevie leans forward, her hands flat on Anna’s desk as she peers into the woman’s steely eyes. “My parents died heretics, Miss Trello. Betrayed by you and your Academy. Afraid of magick—theirs and mine. Convinced that the only way I could live a long and happy life was to avoid that magick at all costs, despite the fact that this power has been churning inside me since birth. I was born on a fault line between two worlds, between loyalty and destiny, torn between them every day of my life. That pain, that confusion, that uncertainty? That’s my legacy. Not the one left by my parents, but the one left by the Arcana Academy of Arts.”

  There’s absolutely nothing Anna can say to that, so wisely, she doesn’t.

  “But,” Stevie says, brightening as she stands up straight again, “I have no interest in rotting in jail or being executed. The Academy gave me an out, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But you’re also boxing me in, and that’s just a shitty thing to do. I need you to know that.”

  Phaines and I exchange a tense glance, and I hold my breath, waiting for Anna’s response.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Anna says, back to straightening her papers. Her voice, gentle and almost chagrined moments ago, is cool and collected once again. “Though it is my hope that we might eventually get to know each other, Starla. Perhaps come to an understanding, or even a friendship, of a sort.”

  “Friendship?”

  Anna’s smile is as false as they come. “In time, of course.”

  Stevie sighs, then shakes her head. “I am here willingly, under no coercion. Dr. Devane gave me a choice, and I chose to enroll at the Academy. In exchange for my freedom, my education, and my living expenses, I will do everything in my power to decipher my mother’s work. I will attend classes, commit myself to my magickal studies, and work harder than I’ve ever worked on anything in my life, including running my own business. We have a deal, and I will uphold my end of it for as long as I’m able—that’s a promise. And I will also show you the utmost respect as headmistress of the Academy, despite the Academy’s history with my family. But we aren’t friends, Miss Trello. We won’t become friends. That’s not why you invited me here and it’s not why I accepted the invitation. So I think it’d be best if we agree to a policy of honesty rather than pleasantries and not waste each other’s time.”

  The words settle over Anna’s shoulders like a heavy winter coat. She looks almost—shockingly—wounded.

  I glance again at Phaines, but he’s not meeting my eyes. Stevie may not realize it yet, but he, too, is complicit in the crimes against her parents.

  Did Anna really think they could have any kind of personal relationship, after everything that happened?

  “Hindsight is…” Anna shifts uncomfortably in her chair, licks her lips. Strands of gray hair have sprung loose from her sleek bun, now framing her face in a frizzy white halo. More than aging her, it simply undermines her, cracking her ever-present shell of authority and composure.

  For the first time in the years that I’ve known her, Anna looks weak.

  And in that moment, I know without a doubt, it’s all an act. Anna Trello never looks weak. Not unless she means to.

  “Understand, Starla,” she says, her eyes shiny with fake compassion. “Academia is fraught with politics—magickal academia especially. The situation with your parents was… Well, it was a confusing time for all of us. If I could do anything to change things, to bring them back to you—”

  “But—spoiler alert—you can’t.” Stevie unleashes a deep sigh, dashing away the last of her tears. Then, with a shrug and a smile that makes me wonder if the last several minutes even happened, she turns to Phaines and says, “So, what’s this about a magick test?”

  Fifteen

  STEVIE

  Professor Phaines ushers me to a small mahogany conference table on the other side of the office and invites me to sit, take a few deep breaths, and relax.

  Gladly. It may not show on the outside—Goddess, I hope it doesn’t—but my knees are still quaking from my confrontation with Trello. Definitely not how I planned to make a first impression, but once the words started, I just couldn’t stop.

  Better it’s out in the open, though. Better we all know where we stand.

  “Okay?” Phaines asks, smiling as he takes the seat kitty-corner to me. He’s got kind eyes, I decide, and a warm smile to match.

  I never knew my grandparents, but Jessa used to tell me stories about her grandfather in Jalisco, showing her how to grow tomatoes and peppers in the garden, sneaking butterscotch candies to her when her grandmother wasn’t watching. The professor—with his thinning white hair, bulbous nose, and sparkling green eyes—reminds me of someone like that.

  Of course, I’m pretty sure Jessa’s Abeulo Marco isn’t rocking a long green robe piped in silver and a ring that looks like it might possibly have been forged in the fires of Mount Doom, but the post-modern wizard aesthetic seems to work for the Academy’s esteemed librarian.

  Returning his smile, I take some deep breaths, inhaling the faint scents of ink and candle wax that linger in the office. Relaxing isn’t all that easy with Anna and Dr. Devane peering over at me every five seconds like I’m some kind of lab experiment, a chimp learning how to play Monopoly—look! So human, so expressive!—but I don’t sense any danger.

  Granted, I don’t trust them any farther than I can cast my witchfire—Trello least of all—but I do trust that they truly want me here, and they want to keep me safe. As for whether it’s for my personal well-being or their own selfish reasons? Doesn’t matter. I’m out of that hellhole prison, safe from the guards’ filthy hands and electrical prods, safe from angry women throwing piss-soaked rags at my face, safe from the psycho mage who murdered my old friend.

  For now, I’m counting it as a win.

  “The ritual is relatively simple,” Professor Phaines says, his voice taking on a mystical quality that feels more sincere than showy. He retrieves a deck of Tarot cards from a pocket in his robe and sets it on the table. “We start, as in so many magickal rituals, with the cards.”

  With brick-red backs etched in gold and a simple Celtic knot design, the cards are larger than the decks in The Rock Shop, the metaphysical store in Tres Búhos that caters to the new agers. And unlike those decks, this one emanates a faint vibration, a buzz that tickles my palm as I pass my hand over the stack.

  “What do you know about magick and Tarot?” he asks, then laughs, undoubtedly realizing the immensity of his question. “A large can of worms, perhaps, but we have to start somewhere. Do you understand the basics?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know what I understand.” I look into those kind eyes and smile, my nerves untangling a bit more. “I know our magick is connected to the Tarot, and that unlike regular humans, witches and mages are born with open channels to receive that magick. And I know my Mom could divine things from the cards, obviously. Aside from that, I’m not really sure how it all works. My witchfire was just something that started happening when I was a kid—like, I’d think about fire, and, pop
.” I hold up my palm and conjure up a small silver flame, relieved that it’s working again.

  After everything that happened in the prison, I wasn’t sure it would.

  “So yeah, I’m basically a noob.” I shrug. There’s no point in being embarrassed. After all, it’s the Academy’s fault my magickal childhood was stripped from me in the first place.

  “Bah.” Phaines waves a hand, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “You know a good deal more than some of our first-years from the most prominent magickal families, not naming names, of course.” He gives me a wink, then says, “Magick is the natural energy that flows through all things, living and inanimate, whether we see and feel those things or not. The Tarot is a physical, pictorial channel through which mages and witches can harness, repel, amplify, diminish, and alter that energy—to do magick, essentially. There are lots of legends depicting how the cards came to be, and how we came to use them, but you’ll learn about all of that in your classes.”

  I nod, excitement bubbling in my stomach. Sitting here with the professor, feeling the magick of the cards… It’s becoming more real by the minute. This is it—I’m enrolling in the Academy. I’m going to study magick.

  “Before we begin,” he says, “do you have any feelings or instincts about what your gifts might be? The witchfire would suggest a fire affinity, of course, but there may be more dominant gifts inside you.”

  I consider the question. My knack for tea blending is likely connected to the earth element, as is the rock climbing. The fact that I can sense people’s emotions and intentions has qualities of both water and air. And after my experience with the magickal owl energy… Well, I’m not even sure where that fits. Air? Fire? Was it an earth spirit connected to El Búho Grande? Or something not of this earth at all?

  Leaving out the owl bit for now, I tell Professor Phaines my thoughts on the rest.

  “It sounds like you may have multiple gifts,” he says. “We do have some other students this year with two dominant affinities, and one with three, actually. The test will confirm yours, and then we’ll take it from there.”

  He gestures for me to pick up the Tarot deck, then continues.

  “I will lead you through a meditation to connect with your inner guide or guides, which may appear to you in human or animal form. They will be emanations of the Tarot—sometimes the court cards, but other Minor Arcana are known to appear as well. Depending on which Tarot energies you see, that will give us a clue to your dominant elemental gifts.”

  “So if I run into the King of Wands, I’m fire-blessed?”

  “Precisely—the wands represent fire. Although the King would be an indication that you’re quite advanced in your magickal practice, so it’s unlikely you’ll see him just yet.” Professor Phaines pats my arm. “A more likely example would be the Eight of Pentacles. That would tell us that earth magick is your dominant gift, and would suggest that you’re a dedicated and conscientious worker. You see?”

  I nod—it all makes sense. After the Tarot cards started appearing to me a few years ago, I researched everything I could about them. So I know about the elemental correspondences and the areas of life they rule over.

  Wands correspond with fire, and rule things like passion, inspiration, creativity, and spirituality.

  Pentacles, the earth suit, connect to the material realm—money and resources, career, home, physical health, sensual pleasures.

  Emotions and relationships belong to the suit of cups, the water element.

  And air, the element connected with swords, has to do with both conflict and mental energy. Thoughts, communication, words, ideas, things like that.

  I share all of this with Professor Phaines, who beams at me like a proud gramps.

  “I think you’re farther along on this path than you give yourself credit for, Miss Milan.” Then, with an excited gleam in his eyes that probably mirrors my own, he says, “Now, are you ready to reveal your gifts?”

  Sixteen

  STEVIE

  The old professor’s voice is soothing and serene, guiding me into the meditation like the wise yogi grandpa I never knew I needed. I follow the cadence until the scents and sounds of the office fade away, replaced with the pleasant touch of cool, humid air on my skin and a symphony of crickets.

  I open my eyes and find myself standing on a rocky rise, a narrow dirt path winding downward toward an end I can’t yet see. It’s a moonless night, the stars glittering across an inky, endless sky.

  Huge boulders line the path on either side, blocking my view of the surrounding landscape. With no other clear options, I follow the path, the air cooling as I descend, my footfalls softly padding against the dirt. The rhythm of my steps lulls me so completely, I don’t see the lake until I’m practically walking into it.

  I stop short, then look across the expanse of dark water. It’s as still as a mirror, reflecting the black sky and the blanket of bright stars. It’s surrounded by a lush forest, and just beyond the far horizon, a grove of seeing stones bloom from the earth like a copse of ancient stone trees.

  I feel like I’m in a painting, and I’m not sure I want to leave.

  But then the wind shifts, blowing my hair back and sending ripples across the lake.

  The water sparkles, then smoothes out again, and from its dark depths, four women emerge—fierce and beautiful, awe-inspiring, like goddesses from another world. Despite the water, their hair and clothing are dry, fluttering in the breeze. Each woman holds something in her hand, and though I’m not close enough to identify the objects, I know instinctively that they’re magickal.

  I watch in mute admiration as they approach. As if commanded by some invisible general, they stop at once, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the edge of the lake.

  Silently, they watch me. Assess.

  It feels like hours, days, months, and none of us moves.

  The seasons change before my eyes, the lush green forests of summer turning the fiery red-orange of autumn. Moments later, the leaves fall, the lake freezing pure white. My teeth have just started to chatter when winter releases its icy grip, and the first green buds of spring decorate the earth.

  As the spring gives way once again to summer, returning the scene to where it began, the woman on the far left steps forward.

  Her face is gentle and untroubled, framed by long, red-gold hair that reminds me of the autumn leaves that fell just moments before. A bright red dress covers her from head to toe, her shoulders wrapped in a wine-dark cloak that flutters out behind her. A simple crescent moon circlet adorns her head.

  I see now that her object is an old-fashioned chalice, much like the one in the fountain on campus. She closes her eyes and drinks deeply, then extends the cup toward me.

  I wrap my hands around it, and when our fingers touch, I feel her energy, warm and compassionate, deeply sensitive. Sister, I think, and she smiles, as if to answer my thought.

  She guides the chalice to my lips, and I drink, surprised by the warm sweetness flooding my mouth. It tastes like mulled wine, and fills me with a deep sense of comfort and belonging.

  When I open my eyes again, I find her watching me intently, still wearing that serene smile. She offers a gentle bow, then returns to her place beside the others.

  The next woman approaches. Where the first was calm and soft, this woman is bold and commanding, with long dark hair and a circlet of pale blue flowers. She, too, wears a dress, but hers is woven in shades of blue like the sky, her cape tattered at the edges as if she’s endured a great many storms. A raven perches silently on her shoulder, ever watchful.

  As she smiles at me, a sword flashes in her hand, but I know she means no harm. She presses the flat of the blade to her lips, then extends it toward me, touching me on each shoulder like a knight.

  As with the first woman and the chalice, I know instinctively what she wants me to do. Obeying, I hold out my hands, allowing her to press the tip of the sword into the center of each palm. As soon as the blade draws blood, a rush of powe
r courses through my veins, straight to my heart. It’s so intense, I laugh with giddy pleasure.

  The woman mirrors my smile and bows, then returns to her place.

  The third woman is dressed in a bright orange strapless dress printed with dark green salamanders and trimmed with the same Celtic knotwork featured on Professor Phaines’ cards. An olive green cape hangs elegantly over one bare shoulder. Her hair cascades down past her waist, dark auburn shot through with golden highlights. When the breeze catches it, she shimmers like living fire.

  She carries a long staff, and holds it out to me now. The moment I touch it, witchfire engulfs the wood, hot and bright, but neither of us pulls away. At first I think the magick is entirely hers, but then I feel my own, our two fires merging, growing stronger together. Just like with the others, I feel nothing but welcoming kindness. She’s fierce, but compassionate, her power destructive and creative in equal measure.

  The fire fades away, and she steps back with a smile, allowing the last woman to approach.

  She’s the youngest of the group, no more than fourteen or fifteen, with thick dark hair and eyebrows and a round face still clinging to the last vestiges of childhood. She wears a simple long-sleeved gown in a checkerboard pattern of alternating greens and a luxurious velvet cape, deep red trimmed in golden Celtic knots.

  When she looks at me, I can’t help but feel like I’m under the microscope. She doesn’t smile, but finally nods her approval, holding out her small hands to show me a pentacle made of gold. When I touch it, I feel her energy surround me like a protective cloak, merging with my own energy, our magick twining and sinking into the earth like the gnarled roots of a tree.

  Eventually, she returns to the others, all four watching me intently, the breeze catching their hair and gowns.

  “I will not disappoint you,” I say, though I don’t know why those words come to mind. I sense the rightness of them, though, and press my hands to my heart, silently thanking them for their gifts.