"Try again," he said, ignoring the blush on her cheeks. Failure. She was such a damn failure.
"It won't work," she replied, staring down at the ground. "I don't have magic to do that kind of thing. I can shift, that's about it."
"Everybody has magic inside of them, even humans. But not everybody knows how to access it. That's why you're here, to learn how to do it. How to fulfil your potential. And once you find your magic, you'll find your destiny."
She looked up at him, open-mouthed. "Did you seriously just say 'destiny'? That's a bit over the top."
He stayed serious. "Apparently, I need to have a chat with the Headmistress. It's appalling that you're not taught your true value and purpose. How are you supposed to be motivated if they don't teach you what your strengths are?"
Ignoring her, he turned around and left, muttering under his breath. She stared at him in confusion. What just happened? Did he really just leave the class on their own?
She looked around. To her great pleasure, Tamsin's eyebrows had a new, singed and smoky look. It suited her... not. Another girl, Anna, was fighting an enormous windhose. A teacher would have come in handy here to help her. But Mr Smith had left. What a weirdo.
Amber looked at her watch and shrugged. It was almost the end of the lesson anyway. With nobody here to stop her, she could just as well leave and do something worthwhile. Like painting.
She headed to the college's studio on the top floor. It was a former attic that the arts teacher, Mrs Mumbly, had refurbished into a bright, welcoming room. This was Amber's second refuge. Any time she didn't spend in her dorms, she spent here among the canvases and the smell of paint.
There was nobody around; she had the studio for herself. Good. She picked up one of the easels and moved it to a skylight at the end of the room. If she stretched, she could just about see out of the window. In the far distance were the rolling hills of the Lowlands, some of them covered in clouds. Between the hills and the school were several rivers and a lot of farmland, but she couldn't see that from here. So she focused on the mountains instead.
She chose a large, square canvas and then went over to the shelf where Mrs Mumbly stored the paints. Everybody painted hills in green, so she was not going to choose that colour. A bottle of azure blue called to her. Why not. Nobody was going to see the painting anyway. It was something she did for herself, not for others. Her teacher was probably the only one who ever saw her paintings, and that simply because she had to leave them here to dry until she could take them to her room.
Taking a large brush, she covered the canvas in blue paint. A solid foundation, her old arts teacher at primary school used to say. Of course, back then she'd only drawn stick figures and misshapen animals. Now, she was trying to depict real life, but usually, she failed at it. Her paintings turned out abstract even when she didn't intend them to. Still, she enjoyed the peaceful feel of the brush touching the canvas, even though she wasn't always happy with the result.
That blue... it reminded her of something. Discarding the brush, she dipped a finger into the paint and drew a rough shape on the canvas. Her motions were fluid, almost automatic. She let her mind drift and her artistic sense took over.
An hour later, Amber was staring at her painting. And wasn't sure what to think. It was weird. That was the only word to describe it, really. It was the silhouette of a man, with a large symbol in the foreground. It looked Celtic, with lots of knots and pretty swirls. Thing was, Amber didn't know anything about Celtic symbols. So why had she drawn one?
It had to be just a random shape, a pattern that her mind came up with. And the man... surely it only looked like Mr Smith because of the blue colour. The same colour as his hair. Yup, total coincidence.
For once, she didn't leave the canvas in the studio. She carefully carried it back to her room, making sure the paint didn't run. There, she put it on her window sill, continuing to look at it. It had to be the strangest painting she'd ever done. She rarely painted people, they were hard to make recognisable and she didn't like it when they turned out looking like someone else. But with him... it was definitely Mr Smith. No doubt about it.
Was she turning into one of those teenage girls who had a crush on their teachers? She surely hoped not. She was too old for that, and he wasn't even that good looking. Interesting, mysterious, yes, but hot... no. She wasn't really into piercings either.
The dinner bell rang and her rumbling stomach told her how hungry she was. Since lunchtime she'd lost her tail, bumped into a blue-haired man who turned out to be her teacher, failed at conjuring a storm and painted the very same man. What a day.
2
Why was the library at this damn school so big? It made it ten times more difficult for Izban to find what he needed. When his grandfather had sent him here to find a specific book, he'd figured it'd be a quick in and out job. That'd all gone wrong when the Headmistress had caught him sneaking in. He'd had to say he was a supply teacher just to get out of that one.
Though from what he'd seen today, he'd do a damn sight better job if he was actually a teacher here. How they weren't teaching their students their true potential was beyond him. Everyone had magic, it was just a case of showing them how to tap into it. And the beithir girl...she had buckets of it. He could sense it rolling off her, even if she didn't seem to think she had it. He wondered what was up with that, but he couldn't waste time thinking on it. There was far too much at stake to get distracted by a pretty redhead.
Dust had settled on the shelves in front of him, so thickly that he almost couldn't tell where one book started and another ended. Whatever was happening at this school, care-taking and teaching weren't it. He trailed his finger across the spines, feeling the old cracked leather beneath the dust. Drawing his hand away wasn't pleasant though. Not with all the dirt now caked on his finger. He couldn't even wipe it off without leaving a stain.
He sighed. He had to look through the books one way or another, otherwise he'd never find the book Epona was supposed to have written. He had doubts over his grandfather's sanity on this one. For a start, he highly doubted a goddess would write a book at all. There wasn't even any evidence that the gods existed after all. But also, even if she had, what use was anything the goddess of horses had written? He was a mage. He hadn't even been near a horse in...forever really.
But, what his grandfather wanted, his grandfather got. So long as he didn't manage to link it all back to the Seven Wardens prophecy, it was fine by Izban. That one he really was fed up of. He'd been told it so many times during his childhood, and there was always a knowing look in his grandfather's eye while he recounted it. Almost like he expected it to come to pass at some point during Izban's lifetime.
Prophecies and the like were all a bunch of codswallop as far as Izban was concerned. None of his people believed in crystal balls, actually no one believed in crystal balls, even the true Romani he'd studied with while living on the continent. He'd laughed when they'd out right admitted that it was all for show. But they did have a point, most humans would believe anything if it gave them a purpose. Most non-humans too if their opinions on prophecy and foretelling were anything to go by.
Elders should always be respected though. And as his grandfather was the Elder Mage, Izban had to do what he was told.
He glanced around, pleased to see he was alone in this section of the library. That meant he could speed the process up at least. He held up his hand, and twisted the simple hawthorn ring he was wearing until a small aos sìth appeared in the palm of his hand. He'd never quite worked out whether the creature was male or female, all he knew was it had taken him a long time to get it to actually help him and not just cause chaos. Their peoples had been tied together for centuries through the practice of creideamh sìth, and the aos sìth was his main source of magic. He just hoped it would never turn on him. He gave his helper enough milk and baked goods to keep it happy though, as tradition dictated.
"Lorg an leabhar mu dhèidhinn Epona!" he whispered. While he
was pretty sure his earlier assessment of being alone was correct, he didn't want to risk it. If anyone caught him using magic, there'd be questions. Even if he was in a supernatural school, there was a surprising lack of magic doing about. He guessed that was because a lot of the students were shifters, but even they had the spark inside them. Some even had the potential to be powerful, like the beithir girl.
The aos sìth leapt from his hand and flew up and down the books on the shelf, making an odd chittering noise as it did. To anyone who hadn't encountered the creatures before, he was sure it'd be unnerving. But to Izban, the sound actually verged on soothing. He'd grown up around them, and was more than used to it as a result.
It stopped in front of a faded green cover, discoloured from age and the hundreds of hands that had no doubt touched the leather. Before books like these had become treasures, no one had really cared how they were handled.
"Thanks," he said aloud, despite knowing the aos sìth already knew that. Their connection was part of the magic of their peoples after all. It chittered again in response, before disappearing into thin air. Which was to be expected. It had done what he'd asked it to, now it would go back to its own plane and gorge itself on milk and bread and the like. He really didn't understand the appeal, but whatever made his little companion happy.
He grimaced as he touched the dust covered book, but carried on anyway, pulling it away from its position on the shelves. The leather was as dry to touch as it looked, and he was already concerned about it not making the journey back to his grandfather. He'd have to bind it in protection spells, which he luckily didn't need the aos sìth for. They were just for certain types of magic.
He took it over to a small wooden table, and placed it down gently, before sinking into the armchair by the side. At least the school knew how to furnish, even if it didn't know how to do much else.
Carefully, he opened the book, only to have a small mushroom cloud of dust explode in his face. He coughed, and wafted his hand in front of him in an attempt to disperse the damn stuff. If he wasn't so in need of keeping his cover, he'd be in the Headmistress’ office right this second giving her a what for about the state of her establishment. He'd almost done that earlier too, after he'd stormed off during his lesson on storms, until he remembered why he couldn't. His mother had always said that his need to do right by everyone was both one of his greatest strengths, and one of his greatest faults. He tended to agree with her. He could really have blown his grandfather's mission, and all for the sake of one little beithir girl.
Once the dust had settled, he looked back at the open page in front of him and groaned. The writing was tiny, and that weird swirly handwriting that medieval folk had been so enamoured with. On the plus side, it appeared to be in Gaelic and not some truly ancient tongue he hadn't mastered yet.
Not that he actually had to read it. His grandfather said he wanted the book itself, not a summary, which meant Izban could get away without doing so. But he was curious now.
He flipped a few more pages, disappointed to discover that a lot of it just seemed to be anatomical sketches of horses. The main curiosity in that being how far ahead of their time whoever wrote this was. Though he supposed anyone could dissect a horse. All they needed was a dead one and a sharp stone. And maybe some water to wash their hands in.
He was beginning to get bored when he flipped onto a page that piqued his interest. Oddly, this one seemed to be labelled aquine. At first, he thought it was a spelling error, but on closer inspection, it definitely wasn't, not if the particularly detailed drawing next to it was anything to go by. He studied the text in more detail. Apparently, who ever had written this book, had counted kelpies as the same as horses. He frowned. There was no mention of their own magic, nor their shifting abilities. In fact, if any real kelpie saw this, they'd probably rip it to shreds. After claiming it was all the selkies' doing of course. He wasn't sure where the rivalry between the two kinds had come from, but it was almost infamous among the supernatural community.
While it was kind of fascinating reading, he still didn't quite understand the point. There was nothing his grandfather was going to gain from this, he was sure. Maybe the old man was losing his marbles. He hoped not. Technically, Izban was supposed to be his successor, but that would mean returning home for good and no more travelling to learn other magics. He still hadn't been to Africa to learn from the Shamans yet, nor from the Inuits further north. Taking over as the Elder Mage wasn't in his plan for years to come. If only his brother was a bit older, then he could avoid the job altogether.
If only this book was the only thing he needed to get, then he could have left this strange school. But no, his grandfather was being greedy and wanted more. Izban looked at his list. Four more items to go, and all of them stranger than the next. As if a book supposedly written by the goddess of horses wasn't strange enough.
He sighed as he read through the next line of instructions. A red ruby, infused with baobhan sìth saliva. Seriously? This sounded more and more like things charlatans would sell at the carnival. He really didn't want to touch anything that had been 'infused with saliva', especially if it was that of an incubus. He'd never met one of those fae, but maybe it was good that way. He was as straight as they came, but he'd read how nobody could resist the vibes of an incubus in heat. He quite liked his genitals intact, and incubi weren't known to be gentle.
There were no notes about where this ruby might be found. Probably not in the library. Did the school have a vault? Time to find out.
He put the book into one of his magically enhanced coat pockets, which both decreased its size and secured it from both magical influences and pickpockets. He couldn’t be careful enough in a place full of naughty teenagers.
Vaults were usually in the basement, so that's where Izban headed next. A door with an old 'staff only' sign made him smirk. It was locked but he didn't even need his aos sìth to open it. He'd been cracking locks with magic since he discovered he had it. His parents had hated it.
With a click, the door opened, leading into a dark corridor. He conjured a light to hover in front of him. He'd never been a fan of the dark. There were no lights on the ceiling that he could see. A very old part of the building then. Before they supplied the building with electricity to make it seem more normal to visitors. Humans didn't take kindly to floating balls of light. After a few metres, the corridor forked into two further hallways. Izban randomly chose the right one. It smelled better. The floor became increasingly uneven and he increased the strength of his light. That's when he spotted some cleverly hidden doors built into the walls. Their doors were the same dark stone as the walls and only a thin black outline gave them away. Curious. He wouldn't have noticed them without the extra light.
He tried pushing the first one but it didn't budge. There was no lock that he could see so that kind of magic was useless. He examined it with his magic awareness, but he couldn't detect anything. It just seemed to be a slab of stone.
Time to summon his aos sìth, who was going to be rather grumpy about being disturbed again.
Unless it wasn't a magic door at all. Maybe there was a lever somewhere? Izban looked around again. On his left were three doors but the wall on his right was smooth. No buttons, levers, wheels. Nothing.
He walked a bit further along the corridor. It ended in a wooden door, one with a lock this time. Easy. He opened it and stopped in surprise. It was a laboratory, as old fashioned as they came. He cautiously entered the room. There was a cauldron, lots of weird vessels and tubes, and rows upon rows of shelves on the walls, laden with filled glasses. This was an alchemist's paradise. Pity that Izban had no interest whatsoever in all of this. Whenever he tried to produce a potion, it usually ended up as something poisonous or simply an ill-smelling mess. It was not one of his talents, so he'd given up trying to find enthusiasm for the art of potion making long ago.
What he was interested in was a way to open those strange stone doors. Maybe there was a clue in here somewhere?
He looked around, trying to ignore the little creatures floating in some of the glasses. He almost thought he spotted an aos sìth in one of them. Gruesome.
3
Amber shivered as the cold air hit her skin. She hated coming down here, but she needed to do it if she had any hopes of her tail regrowing soon. There was something restorative in this room apparently. Or at least, that was what the nurse had told her the first time she'd lost her tail.
That time had been a genuine accident. She'd trapped it in a door frame during one of the early shifting classes, and quickly found herself tail-less.
After that, she'd only lost it when someone had detached it. Apparently, she shouldn't have let them know it would regrow. Their theory now was that if it could regrow itself, then it wouldn't hurt.
The idiots. Of course it hurt. If one of them had their fingernails pulled out it'd still hurt, and they'd grow back. Amber had considered doing it to them in their sleep more than once, but had decided against it. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to her that much.
A loud creaking noise filled the room, worrying her slightly. The entrance to it was hidden, and she was the only student with a key. As she should be. She was the only student who was also a beithir. The rest of them didn't need a room to regrow body parts. Especially not regularly.
So no one should be around. Not to mention they should all be asleep. It was well past lights out, and none of them wanted to risk the intense scolding that would come from the headmistress. No one knew what kind of supernatural she was, but she tended to spew a little bit of fire whenever she was angry. If a student wanted to keep their clothing intact, then they didn't make her angry. It was as simple as that.
The creaking sound came again, and she turned slightly, trying to see what was happening over by the door. Times like this, she wished she didn't have to stand with her back to it. Or stand there naked. The magic needed both to work, annoyingly, so she had no choice. Didn't mean she had to be comfortable with that though.
Through the Storms Page 2
