The Black Witch

by Laurie Forest

  I nod bravely, my hair lashing about in the chilly wind that’s kicking up. I reach over to embrace Gareth, and he pulls me into a warm hug and kisses the top of my head.

  “We were so worried about you,” he says into my hair.

  I laugh against the scratchy wool of his cloak. “I was worried about you. How’s your leg?”

  He smiles, then winces as a strong gust of wind hits us, almost knocking him off-kilter. Trystan redoubles his efforts to brace him. “I won’t be dancing a jig anytime soon,” Gareth wryly says, “but the healer said I’ll be fit for my deportment in a few weeks.”

  “We would have come up,” Echo informs me gravely, her voice raised to compete with the wind, “but we wanted to avoid the Icarals.” She glances up at the tower worriedly. “You should go to evening service with Aislinn and me, Elloren. The priest can exorcise their evil.”

  I shake my head in dismay. “I’m living with them, Echo. I’m going to absorb their evil every single day. I’ll need an army of priests at that rate.”

  I remember the priests exorcising me in Valgard. Their droning chants and pungent incense. How frightened I was.

  And Vogel.

  I squint up at the North Tower looming over us, bleached almost white by the bright sun. The wind changes direction and a stiff breeze slaps against the unyielding stone as we depart.

  * * *

  The dining hall is densely crowded. Urisk laborers dole out a variety of hot porridges, breads and cheese, the food arranged on long wooden tables. The air is thick with the warm smells of strong tea, hot cider, roasted chestnuts and nutty grains.

  I throw my cloak over a bench and set down my bag and violin, the heat a relief after being chilled all night, then further chilled by the wind. I warm my hands at one of the many stoves dotting the room, their pipes snaking along the low ceiling rafters. The radiating warmth uncoils my knotted muscles and gradually sinks into my bones.

  Most of the hall is heavily segregated, with small groups of Gardnerians, Verpacians, Elfhollen, Elves and Kelts scattered about, some dressed in the military garb of their respective countries. I catch a glimpse of Fernyllia setting out baskets of rolls, and the sight of her causes a tremor of distress to run through me.

  Trystan helps Gareth into a seat and props his splinted leg up on the bench as Rafe goes to get food for all of us. I take a seat next to Aislinn, the stove to my back, and am surprised when Echo remains standing.

  “Aren’t you going to eat with us?” I ask.

  She peers over at Gareth uncomfortably, her hands clutching a leather-bound text. “I...can’t. I have to go.” She glances across the room, toward a group of young Gardnerian women dressed as primly as she is. “I’m glad you found your family, Elloren.” Her faint smile evaporates as she casts an unfriendly look at Gareth before leaving.

  My heart sinks. I know what Echo’s recoiling from.

  Gareth’s silver-tipped hair.

  Echo joins the gaggle of young women, all of them immediately leaning in to whisper to each other and casting furtive, disapproving glances toward Gareth, who seems blessedly distracted by his splinted leg.

  Trystan shoots me a jaded, knowing look.

  I inwardly rail against Echo’s prejudice. Gareth is Gardnerian. So what if his hair has an odd silver glint to it? He’s one of us.

  “Your friend is here,” Aislinn whispers, distracting me from my thoughts. There’s warning in her tone.

  I follow her gaze and see Fallon entering the rustic hall, flanked by her brothers and four armed Gardnerian soldiers.

  Wooden chair legs scrape in unison against the stone floor as every Gardnerian military apprentice in the dining hall, save Trystan, rises to pay her homage, their fists going over their hearts in salute.

  I watch her closely through slitted eyes.

  Go ahead, Black Witch, I glower. Try something with my brothers here. Trystan’s a Level Five Mage. Just like you.

  Fallon and Sylus Bane have on their slate-gray military apprentice uniforms, in contrast to Damion’s full-fledged soldier black.

  “Her older brother,” I ask Aislinn, “what’s he like?”

  Aislinn shoots me a look of deep caution. “Damion? He makes Fallon seem like a pussycat.” Aislinn regards them warily as she bites at the side of her lip. “He likes...hurting people.”

  I watch as Damion grabs the arm of a passing Urisk serving girl and jerks her backward. She lets out a startled cry of surprise and nearly drops the large basket of muffins she’s carrying. Damion smiles unkindly and leers at her as Fallon and Sylus pick out some muffins, the two of them chatting and ignoring the girl completely. Damion grabs a muffin, releases the girl’s arm and pushes her off with a manic smile.

  I turn back toward Aislinn with alarm.

  “Maybe you should fast to the ship captain’s son, Elloren,” she whispers, glancing over at Gareth. “Seems the safest course of action. Pursue Lukas Grey, and you set yourself up against the Bane clan. Wait too long to fast, and you could find yourself fasted to someone like Damion.”

  I’m about to protest when Trystan distracts me.

  “His splint’s come undone,” Trystan remarks from where he kneels by Gareth’s leg, fiddling with the bandages.

  I look over at Gareth, who seems worse by the minute. I’m about to suggest that we bring him to see the University physician when I notice Wynter shyly making her way into the hall, her black wings pulled in tight around her. It’s a shock to see her there in the light of day.

  “That’s her,” I breathe to everyone. “That’s one of the Icarals.”

  Aislinn, Trystan and Gareth all follow my gaze.

  Wynter shuffles toward the serving tables, head bent, eyes focused on the floor a few feet in front of her. Groupings of Elves cast disdainful looks in her direction and hide their whispers behind graceful hands. The Gardnerians give her a wide berth, avert their eyes and touch fists to heads then hearts to ward off her evil.

  The Icaral-Elf takes a bowl and timidly approaches one of the Urisk kitchen workers. The elderly woman sneers, then slops some bright green porridge into her bowl.

  I’ve seen them preparing this in the kitchen—ground Alfsigr acorn meal. Staple grain of the Elves. There are so many odd foods in the kitchens with foreign smells and exotic spices, each culture partial to certain dishes.

  Wynter turns, bowl in hand, searching for a place to sit. Spotting an empty table at the far corner of the room, she starts for it.

  Fallon’s, Sylus’s and Damion’s eyes narrow in on Wynter.

  Fallon whispers something to Sylus. They both laugh as they munch on their muffins, a cruel glint in their eyes. Fallon reaches over and inconspicuously slides her wand into her hand, flicking it slightly in Wynter’s direction.

  Wynter trips forward, her porridge spilling all over the floor before she lands, stomach down, on top of it.

  I instinctively move to get up, aghast at Fallon’s behavior, the memory of how she tripped me stark in my mind. Falling in front of all those people—it was frightening and humiliating.

  But...that horrifying night, when Ariel attacked me... Wynter made no move to help...

  Rafe, across the room, shows no such hesitation. He strides over to help Wynter as everyone else around her steps away. He kneels down and gently takes hold of her arm to help her up. The moment he touches her, her head jerks up and her eyes fly wide-open.

  “Get your hands off my sister, Gardnerian!”

  The dining hall grows quiet as an Elfin male pushes through the surrounding scholars and quickly makes his way toward them. He has backup—a younger, willowy Elfin lad, the two of them armed with bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, Elfin blades strapped to their belts.

  Two Elfin archers—some of the most dangerous warriors on all of Erthia.


  Worry spears through me. Rafe’s competent, to be sure, and skilled with a variety of weapons. But he’s no match for Elves.

  Rafe immediately releases Wynter’s arm. She’s risen to her knees, green porridge all over her ivory garments. She stares at Rafe, wide-eyed.

  “Stay away from my sister!” the older Elf snarls, the words heavily accented as he takes a threatening step toward Rafe and reaches for his knife. “Stay away from our women!”

  Rafe holds his hands palms out to the Elf. “Relax, friend, I was only...”

  “I am not your friend!” the Elf hisses through gritted teeth.

  Rafe carefully steps back and bows. “I was only trying to help her. With respect.”

  “Your kind don’t know the meaning of respect!”

  Rafe takes a deep breath as he warily regards the Elf. He turns back toward Wynter, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “Are you okay?” Rafe asks, careful not to touch her this time.

  Wynter looks up at him and nods slowly.

  Wynter’s brother pushes past Rafe and helps Wynter to her feet before turning to glare at my brother. “Don’t ever speak to her again. Do you understand?”

  “You’ve made yourself quite clear,” Rafe replies calmly.

  The Elf shoots Rafe one last, withering glance before leading Wynter out of the dining hall, the two of them trailed by the other Elfin archer.

  Fallon is looking at Wynter, a pleased expression on her face, her brothers talking with each other, already having lost interest.

  And then she turns her head and looks straight at me.

  Her smile is slow and malicious, and it sends a chill down my spine. She leans to say something to her brothers, and they both glance over at me with the same dark smiles. I inwardly recoil as Fallon lightly pats her wand, then laughs and leaves the dining hall with her brothers.

  I slump down in relief.

  A few moments later Rafe returns to our table. He’s carrying a stack of small bowls and a large, steaming bowl of oatmeal coated with a generous helping of roasted chestnuts, honey and sweet butter.

  “Stop attacking the Elfin maidens,” Trystan wryly advises Rafe as he fusses with Gareth’s splint.

  Rafe shoots Trystan a look of mock scorn as he sets out the stack of wooden bowls for us and spoons oatmeal into them.

  “You’re going to get yourself shot,” Trystan warns. “With one of those long arrows of theirs.”

  “I guess that’s what you get when you try to help Icarals,” I say stiffly as Aislinn accepts a bowl of oatmeal from Rafe.

  “The girl’s brother is rude,” Rafe says as he hands me a full bowl, “but his hostility is not completely unjustified.”

  “How can you say that?” I snipe. “He should have thanked you. Ancient One knows, she doesn’t deserve your help.”

  Rafe’s brow tightens, and he pauses in his serving. “I thought Ariel was the one who attacked you.”

  “She was, but Wynter made no move to help me, all night long, knowing I was being terrorized.” I feel a fresh prick of angry tears.

  Aislinn puts a comforting hand on my arm.

  “Even so,” Rafe says as he pours himself hot cider from a ceramic pitcher, “she’s an outcast among Elves and Gardnerians, and Kelts as well, to some extent. That puts her in a dangerous situation. Her brother’s just trying to protect her.” He sits down and stirs his oatmeal. “I shouldn’t have touched her. I forgot that their etiquette is different.”

  “It’s best to stay away from non-Gardnerians,” I comment bitterly.

  Rafe and Trystan shoot me looks of alarmed censure.

  I color. “I don’t mean Gareth. Gareth, you know I don’t mean you. You’re Gardnerian.”

  Gareth winces as Trystan tightens the bandage. “It’s okay, Ren. I know you’re not talking about me.”

  I look to Trystan for reassurance. My quiet younger brother is always long on listening and slow to judge. Trystan gives me a small, encouraging smile, but Rafe is still blinking at me with concern.

  “They hate me,” I defend myself to him, feeling lost. “They all hate me just because I look like our grandmother.”

  Rafe takes a deep breath and reaches across the table to put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I wish we’d been here.”

  “I know,” I mumble.

  Rafe squeezes my hand in solidarity and smiles resignedly. Quiet for a moment, he glances down at the table. When he looks back up at me, his expression has grown strained. “Ren, Uncle Edwin...” His voice trails off.

  “I heard,” I say sadly. “The Lodging Mistress told me he was ill. Do you have any news? Is he getting better?”

  “Aunt Vyvian has him under a physician’s care.” Rafe is quiet for a moment. “Ren, he’s lost use of the left side of his body.”

  I can feel myself growing lightheaded as the weight of this new reality sinks in.

  “Will he get it back?” I force out.

  “Maybe. A little.”

  I swallow, my throat gone dry. “Enough to make violins?”

  Rafe pauses before answering. “No.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, Ancient One, no...” I hang my head as the tears come.

  Aislinn hastily fishes a handkerchief out of her pockets and I absentmindedly take it. A thousand memories swirl around me. Uncle Edwin teaching a small me to make braided holiday bread with his nimble fingers. Uncle Edwin guiding my tiny hands on my violin. The sweet sound of Uncle Edwin playing by the fire on cold winter nights. A jagged fear rides in close on the heels of these images from my happy childhood.

  Uncle Edwin will lose his business. We’ve never been well-to-do, but now we’ll be poor. And beholden to Aunt Vyvian.

  Perhaps I’ve no choice. Perhaps I’ll have to fast to wealthy Lukas Grey.

  “In two years Trystan will be able to earn a wage as a Weapons Mage, and you’ll be apprenticed to a physician,” Rafe says, as if reading my mind. “You’ll make a good wage, as well. And you’ve work to pay off your tithe.”

  “Rafe,” I say, my voice low. “Lukas Grey...he wants to fast to me.”

  Rafe’s face darkens. “You’d be a fool to fast to Lukas Grey. Especially for money.”

  “I’ve already told him no.” For now. I feel a twinge of guilt at not being completely honest with my brother, but it quickly curdles to a defensive frustration with his unasked-for opinions.

  Relief washes over his expression. “Good.” He pats my arm. “Wait to fast. It’s what Uncle Edwin wants. Unless...” Rafe casts a sidelong glance toward Gareth, who’s distracted by Trystan’s efforts to retie the splint bindings.

  I glance over at Gareth, as well.

  A mariner’s fastmate. Beholden to his pleasant, seafaring family instead of Aunt Vyvian. Gareth once suggested that we fast as friends.

  But Gareth and I don’t love each other that way.

  I do want to fast someday. But not to someone I’ll only ever see as a friend. I want to fast to someone I feel strongly about. In every way.

  I turn back to Rafe, and I know that he can see my true feelings in my expression.

  “Wait to fast,” Rafe tells me, squeezing my arm. “Wait until you’re sure.”

  “I’m going to help him to the physician,” Trystan says to Rafe, getting up. “I’m making a mess of this splint.”

  I move to get up, but Rafe gestures for me to stay. “No, Ren. Stay. Eat. We’ll tend to Gareth.” He smiles at me. “Maybe he’ll actually listen to the physician’s instructions this time.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask Rafe, worriedly. “Where will you apprentice?”

  “Well,” he said, straightening, “I’ll finish off the year, and then I’ll apprentice myself to the military. I know it’s not what Uncle Edwin wants, but it’s the
only way. We’ll go see him in a few weeks. Trystan and I,” Rafe tells me reassuringly.

  I feel a stab of hurt. “Me, too,” I insist.

  “No, Ren. You need to stay here, where you’ll be safe.”

  Tears sting at my eyes. The Icaral. I have to stay because of the Valgard Icaral. The one that’s stalking me. “All right,” I relent miserably.

  As I watch Trystan and Rafe leave, Gareth supported between them, anger eats into my sadness.

  Icarals.

  It’s all their fault. If it wasn’t for them, I could visit my uncle, and I wouldn’t be living in nightmarish lodging.

  Aislinn puts her arm around me. “It’ll be okay, Elloren. You’ll see.”

  I barely hear her as hatred flares inside me, searing any speck of compassion I might have felt for Wynter Eirllyn and rendering it to ash.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Metallurgie & Mathematics

  I unfold my University map and stare at the roughly inked parchment, the layout of Verpax resembling an intricate wheel, the White Hall its center. Mammoth spokes radiate out from the White Hall, lecture halls and laboratories dotting the length of each of them, the spokes alternating above and below ground to make way for Verpax’s cobbled street.

  Not too difficult to navigate, thank the Ancient One.

  Knots of scholars of every race and green-robed professors crowd the White Hall’s vast foyer, their conversation and footsteps echoing hollowly off the domed ceiling, morning light streaming down in thick rays from the ring of arching windows necklacing the dome.

  I follow the Scientifica spoke, keeping my map in hand as my anchor, quickly locating the correct side hallway marked with Metallurgie Hall engraved on a golden plate.

  I’ve got all my subjects today, back to back, each class abbreviated and jammed together into one orientation day—Metallurgie lecture, then Mathematics, History and Botanicals, Chemistrie, Apothecarium and finally, kitchen labor—no break, no lunch, save the scones and cheese I set aside from breakfast, wrapped in a cloth napkin and tucked into my tunic pocket.

  I’m a jangling mass of nerves, my cumbersome black skirts swishing around my ankles.