The Black Witch

by Laurie Forest

  Stop, I caution myself.

  I force myself to remember the terror of my first night here, how Ariel attacked me, how I cowered in the closet, how Wynter never tried to stop her. How the Icarals in Valgard almost killed me.

  I push all my thoughts aside and drift back to sleep.

  * * *

  She comes to me again in a dream that night.

  The Selkie.

  She’s following me in the woods, trying to keep up with my relentless pace. Autumn leaves crackle beneath me with each step.

  I look the part of the Black Witch, my long, elegant cloak billowing out behind me.

  The Selkie is trying, desperately, to tell me something in a language I don’t understand, that I have no interest in understanding. She runs up beside me, only to fall back again as I refuse to slow down for her, refuse to acknowledge her, seeing her only as a flicker in and out of my peripheral vision. Ignoring when she trips and falls back yet again.

  As the dream fades to black, I’m left with an uncomfortable gnawing sensation that by refusing to slow down and look at her, really look at her, I’m missing something.

  Something of vital importance.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Spiraling Down

  My world spirals down into an ever-worsening ordeal of endless work, extreme sleep deprivation and relentless abuse.

  Fallon freezes my ink every Metallurgie class, so I take to carrying a few sharpened pencils. I forget them one day, and Curran Dell quietly slides a pencil to me with a surreptitious look of sympathy, his dislike of Fallon Bane covert but palpable.

  No longer able to prevent me from taking notes, Fallon soon decides to move on from freezing inkwells. Instead, she freezes my chair to the floor so I have to struggle to get out of my desk, freezes the back of my cloak to the chair and frequently snuffs out the flames I kindle for my laboratory experiments. She keeps the abuse subtle enough that our professor doesn’t notice, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

  And she grins all the while, like it’s one big, fun game.

  * * *

  The workload for an ordinary apothecary apprentice is staggering in and of itself, with countless hours of rote memorization and preparation of medicines. I have the added burden of laboring in the hostile kitchen, enduring Yvan Guriel’s green-eyed glare, as well as the extra tasks piled on daily by Fallon’s cousin.

  “I’m staying away from Lukas,” I blearily tell Gesine one afternoon as she watches me scrub down charcoal-encrusted vials.

  She looks up from her papers, unimpressed, and narrows her eyes at me. “Well, we’ll just have to keep you busy, to make absolutely sure of that.”

  * * *

  On top of everything else, my Icaral roommates continue to be a trial to live with.

  Every night Ariel hovers protectively about her chicken. If I even get near the animal, she screams something unintelligible about cages and setting me on fire. She’s completely unhinged, and I catch her doing mad, confusing things, like listlessly taking a knife to herself, slowly pushing the blade into her flesh until blood comes, adding to the rows of long scars up and down her arms. If she catches me looking, she hisses and screws her face up into a frightening scowl before throwing the knife on the floor and turning herself over to face the wall, her rancid wings lying on the bed like rotting, wilted leaves.

  Under her bed, she keeps a stash of foul-smelling black berries. They’re foreign to me, and I make a mental note to find out what they are once I have the time. Ariel chews them for hours on end, staring at the ceiling apathetically. At other times, she seems to lose herself in studying thick animal husbandry texts, most of them detailing how to care for birds.

  Wynter remains an unsettling ghost, often perched on the windowsill, hiding in her wings. She never says a word in my presence, and I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll ever speak to me at all.

  The two of them don’t seem to get cold and never bother to make a fire. Even being as frozen as I am, I avoid going over to the filthy fireplace, since it’s on their side of the room and I don’t want to provoke Ariel’s wrath. But as fall settles in, the room grows colder and colder, and I’m running out of layers of winter clothes to wear under my quilt.

  Almost every night the Selkie from Valgard haunts my dreams, and I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling lost and alone and scared. At such times the only thing that can calm down my racing heart is the warmth of my quilt and the memory of being wrapped safe in my mother’s arms.

  And the wand. The white wand.

  I’ve hidden it in my pillowcase, and I’m strangely compelled by it. It’s become like a talisman, my hands drawn to it through the fabric. Initially a blank page, the wand is gradually revealing its source wood to me more and more. Every night now, I surrender and let the wood of the wand send snow-white branches into the back of my mind. They unfold within, smoothing out my worry and fear, lulling me as white birds nestle deep in the wand’s secret hollows.

  And sometimes I fancifully muse—what if this truly is the White Wand of legend?

  * * *

  A letter from Aunt Vyvian comes.

  To my niece,

  I received your correspondence, and it has become clear to me that you are in a situation that is quite horrifying.

  I have arranged to have you moved to lovely housing in Bathe Hall. You’ll have a private room waiting for you there, and will only need to share the spacious common area with a quiet Gardnerian scholar and one Elfin girl (to fulfill the University’s ridiculous integration rules).

  Both the room and the common area boast a beautiful view of Verpax’s Central Gardens. You’ll have your own lady’s maid, as well as a private dining area with the menu of your choice. It’s warm and comfortable in Bathe Hall—nothing like the North Tower with winter fast approaching, I would imagine.

  After you move, I will promptly take over your University tithe, which will relieve you of any need to work in the kitchens.

  All you need to do is fast to Lukas Grey.

  Once you are safely fasted to Lukas, you can put this unfortunate and frightening chapter behind you as a harsh but necessary lesson in the realities of the world we Gardnerians are faced with.

  Please do not write again until that felicitous occurrence has taken place. Once it does, the Lodging Mistress has instructions to move you to your new lodging immediately.

  Your attentive aunt,

  Vyvian

  I crumple the letter in my fist and toss it out the North Tower’s hallway window.

  Stubbornly set on the harder path, I shoulder on.

  * * *

  One evening I spot Lukas with Fallon Bane outside the main dining hall, her military guard hanging back a bit. I feel a stab of jealousy so strong, I almost drop the basket of warfrin root I’m lugging.

  You’ve no reason to be jealous, I chastise myself. You’ve no claim on him.

  Quickly spotting me, Fallon gives me a once-over as she takes in my mussed appearance—my flyaway, sweat-soaked hair and hands stained warfrin green right up to the wrists. She shoots me a gloating, triumphant look and makes a point of putting her hand on Lukas’s shoulder.

  Maybe he’s decided to view her magical affinities as exciting after all, I bitterly consider. It’s been over two weeks since I last saw him and vowed to stay away, intimidated by his aggression and his fiery magic, as well as Fallon’s territorial claim on him.

  Lukas turns and catches my eye.

  My stomach clenches into a tight knot as I remember the warm, seductive feel of his kiss, the overwhelming power of his magic. I force my gaze from his before he can detect any of the hurt in my expression and hurry away.

  A few nights later I find a bundle of violin music waiting for me on the stone bench in the North Tower’s hallway. It�
�s by a composer Lukas knows I admire, written out in the composer’s own hand and signed with a flourish. I feel a sharp pang of regret as I hold Lukas’s gift in my medicine-encrusted hands.

  We fit together, Lukas and I. Fire to fire. Branches twining tight.

  I think back to Aunt Vyvian’s letter and how much my situation would improve if I gave in and fasted to Lukas.

  But that black fire of his. It’s too much.

  I shake my head as I flip through the music ruefully.

  It’s no use. Rafe is right about Lukas Grey. Affinity match or no, he’s too powerful, too unpredictable. And too worldly for me.

  He belongs with Fallon Bane.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Revenge

  “It is the nature of Icarals to draw evil and tribulation into the world,” Priest Simitri gently tells me as I wipe away tears, once again lingering behind after his lecture has ended.

  I love Priest Simitri’s classes. Unlike Guild Mage Lorel, who is fair but dauntingly stern, Priest Simitri is refreshingly full of smiling excitement for both his subjects, ecstatic over all things flora as well as the grand sweep of Gardnerian history.

  And he’s not only an enthusiastic and patient teacher, he’s become my supportive confidant, as well—as kind to me as Uncle Edwin.

  Sniffling, I look past Priest Simitri’s shoulder to the oil painting that dominates the lecture hall—two Gardnerian soldiers, wands drawn, boldly facing off against four red-eyed Icarals with black wings unfurled. Outnumbered by Icarals. Just like me.

  I sniff again and nod, keenly aware of how exhausted I am, like an anchor sunk to the ocean’s great depths. “The Icarals frighten me,” I tell him. “I’m...I’m not sleeping well.”

  He nods in grave understanding and squeezes my arm. “Stay strong, Elloren. The Golden Age is coming. The Black Witch will rise, and she will smite them all. The Icarals, the Kelts, the shapeshifters—all the infidel races.”

  Yes, but if it’s Fallon Bane, she might smite me, too.

  His eyes are fixed on me, intent on my absorbing the full weight of the Prophecy. I want to take solace in his words as I rub at the scar encircling my wrist. I want to believe that there’s another Black Witch on her way to usher in a world without cruelty and evil. But I can feel myself succumbing to doubt and a darker and darker melancholy.

  Reluctant as I am to go against my uncle’s wishes, I know that if nothing changes, I will eventually buckle and fast to Lukas Grey—or practically anyone my aunt wants—just to get out of my North Tower dungeon.

  * * *

  That evening I find myself passed out in the kitchen, the side of my face down on a blueberry tart I’m supposed to be assembling. The sticky berry jam is all over my cheek, temple and hair as my eyes flutter open. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been lying there. Everyone is long gone, save Iris Morgaine. Yvan enters the kitchen from outside, a load of wood in his arm for tomorrow morning’s fires. I freeze, not wanting to alert them to my presence.

  Iris bounds over to Yvan as he drops the firewood onto the kitchen’s wood rack. “Here, taste this,” she playfully flirts, offering up a piece of pastry to him.

  “My hands are filthy,” he says with a slight smile.

  “Just open your mouth,” she cajoles, her voice sultry. She leans into him and holds the food up to his lips.

  He awkwardly complies, and she slides the food into his mouth, letting her thumb linger on his lower lip to wipe away a small smear of berry.

  He’s so attractive when he’s not busy glaring at me, his full lips so at odds with the sharp lines of his face, his eyes like sunlight through green glass. I’m momentarily overwhelmed by how handsome he is.

  I remind myself that he’s a Kelt, likely no different from the boy who seduced Sage into breaking her wandfasting. There’s also the undeniable fact that he can’t stand the sight of me.

  “What do you think?” Iris asks, still leaning into him.

  “It’s good,” he mumbles through the food, his eyes intense on her.

  “Would you like more?” It’s clear from her tone that she’s not only offering up the pastry.

  Yvan swallows as if mesmerized.

  “Oh, I got some on your chin,” she purrs.

  He steps back a fraction. “It’s okay.”

  Undaunted, she reaches up with one hand to stroke pastry crumbs off his chin, then leans in to playfully nuzzle his neck.

  He freezes uncomfortably and looks to be fighting off a whole range of powerful emotions. “Iris...”

  A surge of hateful jealousy courses over me, seeing them like this.

  Here I am, with a whole pan of berry tart stuck to my head and my tongue stained blue from boswillin tincture to ward off a persistent chest cold from sleeping in an icy tower. My general appearance is a shambles these days—even the fine clothes Aunt Vyvian bought me can’t disguise the sorry state I’m in. Watching Iris Morgaine, the girl who once attacked me, having so much fun with absurdly gorgeous Yvan Guriel adds a spark to a resentment so raw, its force surprises me. I want to burst into tears and throw the bowl of jam at them all at the same time.

  As if sensing my rancid thoughts, Yvan’s gaze shifts to rest hard on me. A mortified flush sears my face.

  I pull my head off the tart, humiliated by the indentation my face has left in the jam and dough.

  Iris spots me as well, every trace of playfulness erased from her expression. She whispers something into Yvan’s ear.

  “No, I didn’t know she was here,” he says, his eyes still riveted hard on mine.

  Iris hisses something else at him and then storms out, slamming the door behind her.

  Yvan is still glaring at me hotly, reveling in my wretched state, no doubt—the powerless granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner, brought so terribly low.

  I glare back at him, tears pooling in my eyes, my lips trembling, suddenly unable to disguise my naked hurt.

  Yvan’s expression turns momentarily conflicted then unexpectedly concerned.

  The softening of his vivid green eyes sparks a powerful ache deep inside me, and then a sudden, fierce resentment of him and Iris and how they all belong.

  Feeling shaky and struggling to fight off my humiliating, angry tears, I avert my eyes from him, grab up a damp cloth and roughly wipe the jam from my face.

  I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  Everything around me beginning to blur, I throw down the rag and flee. I run all the way back to the freezing North Tower, throw myself into bed, shut my eyes tight to block out the hateful Icarals and cry myself to sleep.

  * * *

  A crash wakes me up the next morning. I’m shivering and mentally reeling from yet another Selkie nightmare. Disoriented, I look around. Ariel and Wynter are gone, but Ariel’s chicken is on my desk, pecking at my pens and papers, haphazardly pushing things down onto the desk chair and floor. My eyes slide down to find the ceramic portrait of my parents cracked to smithereens on the floor.

  My only likeness of my parents.

  Anger crashes through me like an avalanche long straining for release. I launch myself from my bed, rush toward my desk, stoop down and pick up a small slice of the portrait, my mother’s eye still visible on the tiny sliver as tears streak down my face.

  I’ll never see my mother and father’s faces again.

  My anger grows and grows, until it becomes a vicious tide.

  That’s it. It’s time to fight back. Let Ariel try to set me on fire. It will be well worth it. Then I can go to the High Chancellor’s office and get her sent back to the insane asylum she grew up in.

  I get up and throw on some clothes.

  Then I pick up Ariel’s chicken, bring it outside and set it roughly down on the blue-frosted grass.

  I know her c
hicken probably won’t survive long on the University grounds. It’s likely someone will pick it up and return it to the poultry yard. Or it will be eaten by some predator.

  I beat down a small stab of guilt and go to class.

  * * *

  My classes grind by slowly. And through all the lectures and laboratory work, I find it impossible to fight a mounting unease.

  She deserves it, I angrily remind myself as I grind roots and help Tierney prepare a new distillation. And it’s just a chicken. Stolen from the poultry yard. It should have long ago graced a supper plate or been served up as soup.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon I make my way back to the North Tower, wanting to drop off my heavy shoulder sack before going to my kitchen labor. I push through the blustery, gray day as I trudge up the long hill, a light, icy rain pricking at my skin, anger at Ariel spiking with every step.

  When I finally reach the North Tower, I’m mentally girded for battle, ready to take her on.

  I march up the tower steps, each stomp smashing away at my guilt.

  She deserved it. She deserved it. Over and over on each new stair.

  As I reach the upper floor and make my way through the oddly quiet hallway, I notice a strange smell—something charred, like an old cook fire. With nervous trepidation, I grasp the cold handle of our lodging’s door and pull it open.

  All the blood drains from my face when I see what she’s done.

  My quilt. My most beloved possession.

  It lays in the middle of the deserted room, reduced to a charred heap, only a small portion still on fire, the flames crackling and disintegrating the dry fabric.