Coloring at his words and the memory of his fiery kiss, I lower my eyes. My skirts are filthy. Covered with dirt, and Ancient One knows what else. And my wrist, my head and the side of my face ache.
Now is not the time to be thinking about kissing Lukas again.
I groan and let my head fall into my hands. “So what am I supposed to do, Lukas?”
For a moment he’s silent.
“Wands aren’t the only tools of power, Elloren,” he says, his voice level. “Find your enemies’ weaknesses. And become dangerous.”
CHAPTER NINE
Balance of Power
Later that afternoon I walk to the kitchen, bolstered by the fact that I’m being escorted by a Level Five Mage in full military regalia whose father is the High Commander of the Gardnerian Mage Guard.
After our talk, Lukas brought me to Aislinn’s lodging, so I’m now cleaned up and wearing one of her conservative tunics over a clean, long black skirt. I’m curvier than Aislinn, and my hips and bust strain a bit at the black silk, but the clothes fit me reasonably well.
Lukas walks ahead of me through the small storage foyer leading to the main kitchen. He strides toward the door ahead and throws it open so hard that it slams against a wall, instantly getting everyone’s attention. They all grow silent and freeze as we walk in, their expressions of fear more intense, more stark, than those inspired by my arrival the day before.
Only Yvan glares openly at Lukas, slowly rising from where he’s just finished loading wood into the cookstove, moving with the slow caution one uses around a predator.
It’s clear that they all know exactly who Lukas is.
There are no books or maps strewn about today. No small children running around. The smell of hearty soup hangs thick in the air.
Lukas looks around, taking his time surveying the scene, taking in every last detail with hard, dark green eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he finally says, his tone and posture showing his displeasure.
“Good afternoon, Mage Grey,” Fernyllia Hawthorne responds. She looks positively stricken.
Lukas glares at her with disdain. “I’d like to speak with Fernyllia Hawthorne, Iris Morgaine and Bleddyn Arterra.”
Fernyllia nervously wipes the flour and bread dough from her hands, visibly trying to collect herself before approaching. Iris and Bleddyn march over, shooting threatening glares at me as they do so. I feel myself withering under the force of their combined hatred and glance over at Lukas. He doesn’t seem the least bit impressed.
“I don’t really believe much in small talk,” Lukas states curtly, “so let’s just get to the point, shall we? Iris Morgaine. I understand your parents are still farming.”
I jerk my gaze toward Lukas, surprised. Where is he going with this?
Iris also looks thrown by the unexpected turn of the conversation, her brow knitting tightly as she glares at Lukas with confusion. “Yes,” she says warily.
“And their farm is right on the Gardnerian border?” Lukas continues.
“It is.”
“Right next to the Essex military encampment, I believe?”
“Yes.”
Everyone has the same puzzled expression. Everyone, that is, except for Fernyllia and Yvan, the former looking flat-out scared, and the latter more furious by the second.
“I’m sure you’re aware that the location of the border there is a matter of some dispute between your government and ours,” Lukas continues.
Iris is silent, her face a picture of dawning horror.
Lukas continues to stare her down. “It would be a shame if our military decided to requisition your parents’ farmland. It would also be a shame if something went amiss during military training exercises, and your parents’ home was fired upon...by accident, of course. These types of occurrences are, luckily, very rare, but they do happen from time to time.”
Iris’s mouth opens a few times as if she wants to say something, but no sound comes out. Lukas appears amused by Iris’s discomfiture.
A cold unease pricks at the back of my neck.
“I will alert my father, Lachlan Grey, High Commander of the Gardnerian Military Forces, as to the whereabouts of your parents’ home, to make sure such an unfortunate event does not occur.”
“Thank...thank you,” Iris finally manages, her voice shaky now, all defiance shattered. “Thank you, sir.”
Lukas nods, pleased with her response, and turns to Bleddyn. “And you, Bleddyn Arterra. You have a mother who labors on the Fae Islands.”
Bleddyn narrows her eyes at him, a blood vessel at her temple becoming more pronounced, her face and body growing rigid with tension. It’s clear that she wants to lash out at us, that she’s struggling to rein in her anger.
“She’s been ill, hasn’t she?” Lukas prods Bleddyn.
Bleddyn doesn’t say anything, but the side of her mouth twitches, her eyes murderous.
“It would be bad for her if it were found that she had been distributing Resistance propaganda amongst the other laborers,” Lukas says smoothly. “That could be grounds for getting her transported to the Pyrran Isles. It’s difficult to survive there if a person is of a healthy constitution. Your mother might not fare well in a place such as that.”
My mind spins, almost dizzy with conflict. The Pyrran Isles—a storm-lashed military prison and war camp—are where we sent our enemies at the end of the Realm War.
Bleddyn’s face collapses. Lukas’s mouth curls up on one side, like a cat immobilizing a mouse.
“There’s no need to look so worried,” he assures her. “Even if your mother were found to be dabbling in the Resistance, I’m sure that a lot could be overlooked if her daughter were to exhibit model behavior, having been so generously granted work papers by the Gardnerian government. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes,” Bleddyn croaks out, almost inaudibly.
Lukas cranes his head forward as if he hasn’t heard her completely. “Yes, what?” he asks.
She seems to be struggling with her jaw for a moment. “Yes, sir,” she finally manages.
Lukas smiles. “That’s better.”
I gape at Lukas, both in awe and troubled by how ruthlessly and efficiently he wields his power over them.
Lukas turns to Fernyllia. “And you, Miss Hawthorne. You have a granddaughter here, don’t you?”
As if on cue, the back door swings open, and the little Urisk girl, Fern, runs in, giggling and hugging the big gray kitchen cat in her small arms. Immediately sensing the tension, her smile evaporates. She sets down the cat and half hides behind her grandmother’s skirts, nervously peering out at us. Fernyllia seems momentarily devastated.
Guilt pricks at me.
But they hit you, I remind myself. They beat you and threatened you. And Fernyllia did nothing to stop them.
“Please, sir,” Fernyllia pleads, “the child is only here because her mother’s ill. I told her to stay out of the kitchens, not to disturb the laborers...”
Lukas smiles benignly. “Relax, Miss Hawthorne. The child can stay. I’m sure she’s useful around the kitchen, and I’m prepared to turn a blind eye to her presence.”
Fernyllia lets out a deep breath and bows her head submissively. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind—”
“No, don’t make that mistake,” Lukas shoots back. “I’m not the least bit kind. A child of her age, with hands as small and nimble as hers, would be a very useful laborer on the Fae Islands.”
Little Fern begins to sob, looking up at her grandmother in desperation, pulling at her skirts as she lets loose a stream of panicked pleas in Uriskal.
Fernyllia doesn’t take her eyes off Lukas, the way you don’t take your eyes off a very dangerous animal. “Fern, be quiet,” she snaps.
Fern, possibly shock
ed by her grandmother’s harsh tone, quiets down to a soft whimper.
Lukas glances around at everyone, his expression stern and unforgiving. “I want to make myself very clear,” he begins. “If Mage Gardner trips again, or bumps her arm on a pot, or accidentally spills boiling water on herself or so much as scuffs her shoe, I will see that the child is on the next ship to the Fae Islands. Is there anything about this that is in any way not clear?” He looks back down at Fernyllia, who is regarding him squarely now, but with no small measure of fear.
“No,” Fernyllia replies. “No, sir. I think we all understand your meaning.”
Lukas nods at her. “Good.” He turns to me, his expression softening. “Elloren, I’ll meet you here at the end of your shift. I’m sure you’ll have a much more pleasant work experience.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice stifled. I feel sick as I watch him leave, my mind in tumult.
Fern is crying softly into her grandmother’s skirts, clutching them with tiny fists. “Don’t let them send me back,” she whimpers miserably as Fernyllia, looking stressed and distracted, attempts to calm her, stroking her head with a weathered hand.
“Shhh, now. No one’s going to send you anywhere.” Fernyllia turns to me, the haze of fear still on her face, showing through her attempt at fake pleasantry. “Mage Gardner, you look tired. Why don’t you ice the spice cakes over there?”
I nod mutely, then go over to the sheets of brown cake, my stomach clenched into tight knots as everyone around me silently does the harder, heavier work.
For the rest of my shift, no one meets my eyes.
Except for Yvan.
Every time he brings a load of wood in to fuel the cooking fires, he shoves it into the stove, slams the iron door, then glares at me with a hatred as sharp as the kitchen knives.
I find myself withering under his hostile stare, my shame spiking when little Fern is quickly ushered out of the kitchens, countless worried glances cast my way.
I plop a pile of sticky frosting down on the sheet of cake and begin to slather it around as tears sting at my eyes.
I wish Lukas hadn’t threatened everyone so mercilessly—especially the child. I wish he hadn’t threatened to harm their families.
My sickening shame stiffens my movements as I work, Fern’s terrified sobbing fresh in my mind.
But what’s the alternative? To let them bully me? To let them kick me and slap me and threaten me with further violence? No, it’s better to make idle threats, if they now fear me.
I may be devoid of magic, but I’m Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter, Vyvian Damon’s niece and favored by Lukas Grey.
For the rest of the shift, I try to cling to my roiling fear and anger to bolster myself and justify Lukas’s actions, but it’s impossible to hold back a fierce wave of sickening guilt. And I’m careful not to meet anyone’s eyes for the rest of the shift.
Especially not Yvan’s.
CHAPTER TEN
Confrontation
After my shift is over, I leave without saying goodbye to anyone, and no one says goodbye to me.
The large dining hall outside the kitchen is crowded with scholars and professors and tight groupings of military apprentices sitting at marshwood tables, a steady hum of conversation reverberating throughout the hall, the clinking and clanking of silverware and serving spoons creating a noisy din.
Dusk is descending, the stream of pedestrians passing by the windows fading to dark silhouettes. One of the Urisk laborers busily lights the wall torches and table lanterns.
I scan the vast room, worriedly searching for Lukas’s face.
And that’s when I see the Icarals.
They’re seated at the far edge of the hall, the tables around them deserted as if all the other scholars are actively avoiding them.
My lodging mates—Ariel Haven and Wynter Eirllyn. I didn’t get a very good look at them last night, but I know it has to be them.
Wynter is similar in appearance to every other Elfin maid in the room. Like them, she has silver eyes and long white hair decorated with tiny braids, pale skin, gracefully pointed ears and ivory clothing. But unlike them, her clothing is modified in the back to make room for thin, black wings. She sits slumped, her wings wrapped tight around herself like a blanket.
She looks weak and sad.
Ariel, on the other hand, looks like something out of a nightmare. She’s dressed in complete, screaming defiance of the Gardnerian dress code. Instead of a tunic, she wears a tight black top, laced haphazardly up and down her back. The lacing makes room for wings that are ragged and torn, making her seem like a crow that has suffered a run-in with a clawed predator. She wears pants like a boy, and large clunky boots, and her hair is chopped very short, standing out at odd angles in greasy-looking black spikes. Her eyes are darkly rimmed with black kohl, making her pale green eyes seem almost as white and soulless as those of the Icarals in Valgard. Unlike Wynter, whose wings are low and now folded discreetly behind her, Ariel seems to be making a show of flapping her wings menacingly. She crouches over, as if dodging a blow, her eyes narrowed and angry, scanning the room darkly.
There they are. My tormentors. Sitting there, eating spice cake.
It all comes flooding back—Ariel’s demonic show, the scraping on the door, my terror when I thought I was about to die.
Lukas might have been too harsh with the kitchen workers, but these creatures—they deserve everything they get and more.
I forget about fear as anger rips through me.
My fists balling, I stalk down a side aisle, straight over to their table, and snatch the cake out from under them. They both look up at me with wide-eyed surprise.
“The denizens of hell do not get to eat cake!” I snarl, heart racing.
Ariel shoots up to a standing position, her hands supported by rigid, spindly arms crisscrossed with what look like fresh and healing knife marks. She screws up her face into a frightening grimace and lunges at the cake.
I step quickly aside and she loses her footing, crashing down onto the table, plates and food scattering everywhere. Wynter’s hands fly up to ward off the stray food and drink as sounds of surprise and shock go up around us.
“What’s going on here?” an authoritative male voice says from behind me.
I whirl around and come face-to-face with a green-robed professor—a slightly disheveled Keltic man with messy, shortish brown hair and spectacles.
The professor’s eyes go momentarily wide with shock.
My resemblance to my grandmother. That’s what’s stunned him so. I can see it in his eyes.
The broad room has gone nearly silent, except for some astonished whispering, almost everyone staring at us.
Ariel, now covered in food and drink, pushes herself off the table and points a long finger at me. “She took our food!”
The professor’s shock morphs to extreme dismay then barely concealed outrage.
He glares at me. “Give that scholar back her food!”
That “scholar”? Is he kidding?
“No,” I refuse, stepping away from him, guarding both slices of cake protectively. “She does not get to terrorize me all night long and then get to eat the cake that I iced!”
The professor turns to Ariel, who’s flapping her moth-eaten wings agitatedly. He eyes her suspiciously. “What’s this about, Ariel?”
Ariel? He’s on a first-name basis with her?
“It’s not my fault!” Ariel cries. “She shows up in our room last night, says she can’t lodge with filthy Icarals and throws herself into a closet! I tried to get her to come out, but she kept yelling about how she’s a Gardnerian and the granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner and can’t mix with Icarals or Elves or Kelts! That we’ll pollute her pure blood! She kept going on and on about how the Gardnerians are the su
perior race, and how everyone else is an inferior Evil One, and how she’s the next Black Witch!”
I’m momentarily paralyzed with shock and outrage.
The Keltic teacher turns to me with an odd, pained look before his expression goes hard.
“That’s...that’s a lie!” I sputter as Ariel’s face behind him morphs from that of the traumatized victim to a dark, calculating grimace. “She stalked me! Terrorized me! I had to barricade myself in a closet! And then she spent most of the night scratching at the door with a knife!”
The professor looks back at Ariel appraisingly then back at me, his eyes cold, his lips set in a tight line.
I’ve lost. Of course he’s on her side. He’s a Kelt.
“Mage Elloren Gardner,” he orders, his face tensing as if my name pains him. I’m not surprised that he knows my name. Everyone knows my name. “Give those scholars back their food.”
The sheer injustice of this roils through me. “Fine!” I snarl, throwing the cake down on the table so hard it bounces off the plates, adding to the general mess.
“Thank you, Professor Kristian,” Ariel says with wide, puppy-dog eyes.
I want to strike her.
“Elloren,” I hear a familiar voice say from behind me, “aren’t you done with your shift?”
I turn to see Lukas approaching me.
His eyes flicker over to Professor Kristian and the Icarals disdainfully then back to me again, his sword and wand at his side. I straighten and set my jaw forward defiantly.
Good. I have backup. Real backup. A Level Five Mage. Not some useless Kelt teacher who’s too ready to believe lying Icarals instead of me.
I turn to Professor Kristian, who’s glaring icily at Lukas, and feel a bitter surge of triumph.
Lukas holds out his arm to me. I take it and walk out without another glance back.
* * *
I walk halfway back to the North Tower with Lukas, the two of us pausing near a small grove of trees in the center of a small courtyard.
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