Terrified, I find my footing and bolt out of the room, down the short hallway, bumping against the stone bench, taking the spiraled stairs three at a time, almost falling.
When I jump to the bottom, jarring my ankle, a realization dawns on me with nauseating clarity.
Nowhere is safe.
If they’re here, they’re probably everywhere. Probably waiting for me outside, as well.
I throw myself into the cleaning closet, slam the door shut and begin barricading myself in with an old shelf, my travel case and finally my feet as I brace my legs against the barricade for leverage. I’m shaking with terror as I sit in the dark, the cold stone floor beneath me, the only light a faint glow rimming the door from the dimly lit foyer and the slight shimmer of my skin.
It’s quiet.
Deathly quiet.
So quiet that my heavy, panicked breathing sounds obscenely loud, my heart audible as it beats wildly against my chest. But I know they’re out there. Waiting for me.
“I’m not the Black Witch!” I shriek at the door, spittle flying from my mouth.
For a moment there’s no response. Only more quiet. When the reply finally comes, it’s close.
“Oh, yes, you are,” the thing hisses mockingly.
Oh, Holy Ancient One, it’s on the other side of the door.
My trembling intensifies, and I begin to recite a prayer from The Book of the Ancients over and over again in a desperate whisper.
Most Holy Ancient One, In the Heavens Above, Deliver me from the Evil Ones...
As I beg for my life to be spared, the demon begins to scrape its nails down the length of the door. Very slowly. Again and again.
Then more silence.
A hard force slams up against the door, jolting me through the barricade, through my legs. I cry out and begin to sob.
“I will kill you,” the voice snarls, “and slowly.”
The scraping begins again, but this time sharper, as if the wooden door is being gouged by a knife.
“You have to sleep sometime, Gardnerian,” the cruel thing sneers. “And when you do, I will cut you...”
The sound of wood being gouged intensifies, and I can feel the rhythmic pressure through my legs. The thing is dismantling the door, taking as much time doing this as it will when it kills me.
My panicked thoughts run wild in my head, like a crazed stallion. Images of Rafe, Trystan and Gareth arriving at school to find me dead in this closet, torn to shreds by Icarals. Images of my uncle’s heart giving out when he discovers what’s happened to me. Of Fallon Bane being overjoyed at my fate. And Sage’s wand being found...
The wand!
I scramble around in the dark, feeling for the straps on my travel trunk, throwing it open, ripping the fabric liner with wildly shaking hands to get at the wand. Sage said it was powerful—maybe so powerful that it will work even for someone as weak as me.
I hold the wand in the way Commander Vin instructed, the end pressed against my palm, and point it toward the scraping sound. I can’t recall the words to any spells. I can only remember some magic words from the tales of my youth. I try them all, tears streaming down my face.
Nothing.
I throw the wand on the floor and lose myself to fear’s icy, suffocating grip. The scraping goes on and on late into the night, and I feel myself falling, falling, until everything fades to black.
* * *
I’m running through the North Tower’s upstairs hallway.
It goes on and on so far, I can’t see what lies at the end until finally, I come to my new lodging. This time the door is open, and the room is lit with a soft light that glows unearthly red. Heart pounding, I step inside.
Sage Gaffney stands near the window, a single candle with a blood-red flame beside her, casting the room in long shadows. She has a blank look, her eyes hollowed-out sockets.
“Sage,” I say, confused. “Why are you here?”
She doesn’t answer, only opens her dark cloak to reveal the bundle that’s hidden underneath. Something moves inside the tightly wrapped blankets, and she holds it out to me.
I approach her warily, the bundle full of rippling movement, like a baby lizard about to break out of its soft eggshell, straining to be born. I feel a strong sense of revulsion.
Her baby.
The Icaral.
A macabre curiosity drives me on. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach down and pull back the blanket.
A crippling fear seizes me as I face the monster Sage has given birth to, its head that of the Icaral in Valgard, its eyes white and soulless. The creature unfurls foul, black wings, pulls its mouth back into a snarl and lunges...
* * *
“No! No!” I scream as a woman’s voice cuts through the image before me.
“Wake up, child!”
The dream fades like mist at daybreak, replaced by the face of an elderly Urisk woman kneeling before me, her broad, blue face so deeply lined it resembles a raisin, a brown kerchief holding back her gray hair.
I recoil from the wizened, bony hands that clutch at my shoulders. She releases me and leans back on her heels, her expression one of wary concern. I shake my head hard from side to side, trying to quickly rid myself of the lingering fuzziness.
Did I pass out?
Confused and disoriented, I glance wildly around.
I was dreaming. Was it all a nightmare?
The Urisk woman’s eyes flicker over to something on the floor to the right of me. “You dropped your wand,” she points out.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I grab up the wand and shove it back under the inner lining of my travel trunk, relieved that she doesn’t seem suspicious that I would be in possession of an expensive wand. “I was attacked by Icarals,” I inform her breathlessly.
She doesn’t look surprised. Instead, she tilts her head, regarding me levelly.
“That would have been Miss Ariel, I suppose.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No. They were Icarals. I’m sure of it.”
“Miss Ariel and Miss Wynter are Icarals,” she replies matter-of-factly.
I gape at her in confusion. I shake my head at her again, refusing to believe her. “No. That can’t be. The Vice Chancellor told me that Ariel Haven is a Gardnerian and Wynter Eirllyn is an Elf.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “That is true, Mage Gardner. But it is also true that they are both Icarals.”
The blood drains from my face. “No. That’s impossible,” I say in a whisper, feeling like the room is beginning to spin out of control. “They...they can’t be my lodging mates! They want to kill me!”
“Now, now, child,” she chides, like I’m somehow overreacting. “You’re making yourself hysterical. Miss Wynter wouldn’t hurt a fly. Gentle as can be, that one. Now, Miss Ariel, she can come off a bit scary upon first meeting...”
“A bit?” I cry. “She clawed at this door all night long, telling me every way she wants to kill me!”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it, Mage Gardner,” she reassures me.
I can’t believe it. How can she be so blasé about Icaral demons?
“Where are they?” I demand, looking beyond her into the foyer.
“Gone, Mage. In class, I suppose.”
“They’re scholars here?” I cry, not believing this can be happening. But then I remember Aunt Vyvian talking about two Icaral demons. Here at the University.
My lodging mates.
The realization sets my head spinning.
The Urisk woman gets up off the floor and offers me a hand.
I ignore her and get up myself, not trusting her. Not trusting anything.
She lowers her hand, shoots me an unreadable glance, grabs a mop and bucket and waddles out into t
he foyer.
I hesitantly move toward the door of the closet, half expecting the Icarals to be crouched behind the walls bracketing the door, but when I see the Urisk woman setting down the mop and bucket, humming a tune to herself, I poke my head out of the closet.
The foyer is empty, except for us.
Sunlight streams through a long window halfway up the spiraling staircase. I can see puffy white clouds working their way across a crystal-blue sky. I venture out of the closet on shaky legs, glancing wildly around, listening intently for sound. Then I turn around and close the closet’s door and immediately feel light-headed.
The scratching I heard, the gouging—it was all real.
The door is completely covered in writing etched deep in the wood by some sharp tool or knife. Over and over, the Icaral wrote “HATE” and “KILL” and a variety of obscenities that cover the entire door. I turn to the Urisk woman.
She’s ceased her humming and is leaning on her mop, studying me calmly.
“Do you see this?” I ask her shrilly.
She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and shakes her head from side to side. “Miss Ariel’s work, by the looks of it.”
How can she be so calm?
“Ariel,” I repeat incredulously. “My new lodging mate. The demon.”
“She’s a bit high-strung, Mage.”
High-strung? Is this a University or a sanitorium?
“Don’t you worry, Mage,” she clucks. “I’ll have that door replaced...”
Not able to stomach any more of her infuriating calmness I stalk past her, fleeing from the North Tower as fast as I can.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tournaments & Tests
I stumble out into the sunshine, my eyes smarting from the glare.
It’s late morning, the sun high in the sky, and the fields, which were so gray the day before, are green and cheerful, rimmed by trees highlighted with the beginnings of vibrant fall color.
I rush down the broad, scrubby field that separates the North Tower from the rolling horse pastures, squinting into the sunlight.
A few curious sheep raise their heads as I hurry past their partitioned fields, the dirt path moist beneath my feet, the scent of mud and greenery on the air. The clacking of multiple looms and the buoyant sound of female conversation waft from the Weavers’ Guild building, the doors propped open to let in the fresh air. Blonde Verpacian and silver-haired Elfhollen girls are coming and going, newcomers lugging baskets of brightly colored yarn. I fly past them all onto the cobbled walkways of the University city, the occasional groupings of scholars, laborers and professors breaking off midsentence to gawk at me.
There are flags flapping everywhere, affixed to buildings, streaming from windows, hanging from belts and saddles. Verpacia’s four-pointed star on gray seems to dominate, with Gardneria’s silver Erthia sphere on black a close second. The streets are crowded, the passersby in a celebratory mood, and uniformed soldiers of every stripe are out in force.
I suddenly remember that this week marks the beginning of the Fall Tournaments. My brothers told me about them, the contests ranging from archery and sword combat to weaving and glasswork. Competitors come from all over Erthia to show off their expertise and impress the various Guilds.
Breathless, I stop in front of the stately Merchants’ Guild, the flags of Gardneria and the pure white flag of the Elfin Alfsigr lands bracketing the entrance. I’m jostled as the crowd surges around me. My eyes dart from building to building as I try to find my bearings in this sea of people, but nothing and no one looks familiar.
“Are you all right?”
I turn to find a young, pointy-eared Elfhollen soldier staring at me with his bright silver eyes.
“No,” I tell him.
“Can I help you?”
I glance around blankly. “I need to find the Lodging Mistress.”
“You’re just across the street from her.” He points to a squat building festooned with Gardnerian flags. “It’s over there.”
Relief floods through me as I dodge pedestrian and horse traffic to get to the office of Mage Sylvia Abernathy, the woman in charge of the scholar housing.
She’s a fellow Gardnerian. She’ll understand the gravity of the situation, and I’m sure she’ll help me.
* * *
A short while later I’m in a stuffy office sitting opposite Mage Abernathy, a pinch-faced woman, our flag prominently displayed behind her long desk. Like the Urisk cleaning woman, she’s oddly unsurprised by my appearance or by my story, and regards me with cold, calm eyes.
“You’ll help me, won’t you?” I plead, thrown by her composure.
For a moment she holds her pen in suspended animation over the stack of papers in front of her. “Why, that’s entirely up to you, Mage Gardner,” she says as she resumes her writing.
“I don’t understand.” I struggle to remain composed.
“Well, Mage Gardner,” she replies absently, “your aunt has been in touch with me about your lodging arrangements. She sent a runehawk with instructions yesterday morn. Of course it would be possible to move you into a room with...more amiable roommates.”
More amiable roommates?
Why isn’t she outraged? I’ve been placed in a room with Icarals! And they tried to kill me!
I force myself to take a deep breath. I need to stay calm, even if all of the people here are completely unhinged.
“How soon can I move?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and even.
She stops writing, sets down her pen, folds her hands and meets my gaze. “Why, as soon as you’re wandfasted, Mage Gardner.”
Oh, Holy Ancient One. My heart begins to hammer against my chest. Aunt Vyvian...
Everyone has a breaking point, Elloren. Don’t force me to find yours.
“I can’t wandfast yet,” I say, my resolve wavering.
“Well, then,” she responds unsympathetically, “I suppose you’ll just have to find a way to deal with your situation.”
Desperation rises inside me. “I’m going to send word to my uncle.”
She eyes me shrewdly. “Your aunt also instructed me to inform you that your uncle has fallen ill. Weak heart, she said.”
Shock blasts through me. “What?” I can barely get the words out. How could Aunt Vyvian have kept this from me? “Is he all right? How long has he been sick?”
“Oh, it seems he’ll recover in time,” she says dismissively. “He has a local physician tending to him, but she feels it would be quite stressful for him to get involved in all of this.” Her eyes are steady on me, giving her words time to sink in.
I stare back at her as my misery slowly coalesces into a white-hot ball of anger.
“Then I’m going to speak to the High Chancellor,” I say, my voice hardening.
She makes a sound of derision. “The High Chancellor doesn’t concern himself with petty problems such as these. Besides, your aunt has already spoken to the Vice Chancellor regarding your lodging arrangements. I think you will find that everyone is in complete agreement as to how things stand.”
So that’s it.
I can’t leave Verpax University because I’m at risk of being killed by a demonic, monstrous, wingless Icaral, and I have no alternative but to live with two demonic, monstrous winged Icarals and work in a place where people want to break my arms and legs.
Or I can pressure my sick uncle to let me wandfast, against his wishes, to a man I barely know.
I stand unsteadily, so angry I’m trembling. “Thank you for meeting with me. Everything is clear to me now.”
“You’re quite welcome,” she says, not bothering to get up. “Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
My legs unstable, I turn to leave.
“Oh, Mag
e Gardner,” she says mildly, stopping me in my tracks. “What should I tell your aunt if she asks how you are? She can relay your answer to your sick uncle.”
I turn to face her again, swallowing back my angry tears. I square my shoulders and look her straight in the eye. “Tell her,” I say, my voice gone cold, “that I’m fine, and to tell my uncle not to worry—that sending me to University was the best thing he ever did.”
She meets my gaze steadily for a moment then turns her attention back to the lodging book and resumes writing.
* * *
I have no idea where to go next, so I begin aimlessly wandering down the University streets, not caring about my disheveled state and numb to the shocked stares of the passing scholars and professors, following the flow of the festive tournament crowd.
I’m soon outside the central grounds, past the buildings, and finally come to a crowded series of tournament fields, a variety of flags flapping in the cool breeze. An archery competition is visible up ahead, a line of Elfin archers frozen in place with arrows set, their field densely rimmed with spectators. Perfectly in sync, their arrows shoot forth toward oval targets placed on thin poles. They hit the targets with a loud thwap.
“Cael Eirllyn!” the Match Master calls, a young Elf on a white steed riding forward to claim his prize.
Desperate for my brothers, I turn away from the match, weaving through the boisterous crowds, looking everywhere for a familiar face. And then I find one, but not the one I would have ever wanted to find.
Gardnerian military apprentices are competing in a wandwork contest the next field over. A female in the middle of the line of contestants catches my eye. She’s the sole apprentice, the other eight Mages clad in soldier black, Level Five silver stripes on all of their arms.
Fallon Bane.
She’s the only female in their group, everyone’s wands in hand to take aim at the circular wooden bull’s-eye targets that face them across the small field.
I jolt back as fire surges forth from a Mage’s wand, the flames streaking toward the target, exploding into the bull’s-eye in a small, churning ball of fire.
The Black Witch Page 17
