Sacrifices

by Mercedes Lackey

  The voice came in the same moment a hand descended on her shoulder. Spirit jerked upright with a gasp.

  Ms. Groves was regarding her solemnly.

  “I—” Spirit began.

  “Come with me,” Ms. Groves said.

  EIGHT

  “Now we can talk without being disturbed,” Ms. Groves said, closing the door behind them.

  Ms. Groves’s room—rooms—were up on the third floor. Unlike Spirit’s bedroom, it was divided into two separate rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, with a door between. The furniture was the same style as in Spirit’s sitting room, but there were more and different pieces—Ms. Groves’s sitting room was filled with bookcases and books, and there were pictures on the walls. Photos, mostly: some of kids in Oakhurst uniforms, some of Ms. Groves herself in what looked like exotic foreign places.

  “Tea, Miss White?” Ms. Groves asked matter-of-factly. “I find it loosens the tongue.” Without waiting for a reply, she walked into the other room, returning with an electric kettle. A few moments more, and she was setting a cup on the table beside Spirit.

  “Perhaps you’re still upset by your experience in Radial yesterday,” Ms. Groves said, though not as if she actually believed it.

  For a moment Spirit froze. Ms. Groves—acerbic, demanding Ms. Groves, her History of Magic teacher—wanted to know why Spirit was upset. Wanted her to explain—just the way Ms. Smith always did, going on at everyone in Math Class to “share” their fears and nightmares until half the class ended up in tears—or vanishing.

  She shouldn’t. It was insane to think even for an instant of trusting Ms. Groves. She’d been a teacher here at Oakhurst for years—and she was still here, when nearly all the other teachers had vanished, replaced by Shadow Knights.

  But the need to confide in her—the sense it was something right to do—was almost overwhelming. It should have terrified her (no one knew what School Ms. Groves belonged to, only that she was a Mage), but it didn’t. The feeling was more like the rush of power she’d felt at the library. It was strong, compelling—but it felt right.

  “It’s not that,” Spirit said. “Well, it is. But it’s more—everything!”

  The words came tumbling out of her as if she was confiding in someone she trusted … as much as she’d trusted Mom. Or Dad. She found herself telling Ms. Groves that Addie was leaving, Muirin was making unwise (dangerous) choices, Loch was giving up, Burke was trusting the wrong people. It’s odd, she thought while she was talking. Ms. Groves has always been snarky and strict and gave us extra homework if we even blinked in class, and Ms. Smith is always telling us we can talk to her and saying it’s all right to be scared and everything, but I’d rather talk to Ms. Groves.…

  “—and they know about the—about the bad people who are here, and people keep dying—or vanishing—and—”

  Ms. Groves set her teacup down and drew a quick shape in the air. Spirit felt a sensation like her ears popping from overpressure and broke off, blinking at Ms. Groves in surprise.

  “… and you’re afraid that when the Day of Reckoning comes—as it will—you won’t be able to cope with it all by yourself, aren’t you?” Ms. Groves said calmly.

  Now Spirit found herself gaping in astonishment, too stunned to be scared.

  “My specialty—as you are well aware—is the History of Magic, which some people should take into account,” Ms. Groves said, with a touch of her usual barbed tones. “Yes, you’re in danger. Yes, so are your friends—any of the students who won’t fall under the Breakthrough glamourie are in danger. And now you’re wondering, Miss White, why if I know all this, I haven’t helped you, or done something, or warned anyone. And the fact is, you don’t know who I may have helped or warned, and I don’t intend to tell you, either.”

  “I— But— I— You—” Spirit stammered.

  “Do put your thoughts in order before speaking, Miss White,” Ms. Groves said severely. “Babbling and stammering is most unattractive, as well as evidence of a disordered mind.”

  “But you’re one of the teachers!” Spirit burst out, blushing furiously.

  “Indeed I am,” Ms. Groves said. “But flattering as your implied opinion is, I must inform you I am certainly not powerful enough to oppose the forces arrayed against us by myself. Even saying as much as I am puts us both at risk.”

  “Then why are you doing it?” Spirit asked carefully, choosing her words with care.

  “Because you haven’t come into your Power yet. And that is a very good thing. The spells being woven around Oakhurst and the other children here can’t affect you as strongly. They’re keyed to Gifts, you know. They draw their power from one’s innate magic—a thing which you have not yet manifested. Yes,” Ms. Groves continued, nodding in answer to Spirit’s unvoiced question, “that’s one of the reasons why, from the very beginning, you’ve noticed things about Oakhurst that no one else has. When you tell people what you see, you can break the glamourie that keeps them from seeing it—you have done a great deal of that without being aware of it. But in future I would be very careful about continuing to do so, if I were you. They know which of the students are not … fully bespelled. And they are watching all of you.”

  She drew another symbol in the air, holding a finger to her lips to warn Spirit to silence, and the ear-popping sensation came again.

  “Now,” Ms. Groves said briskly, as if the last few minutes hadn’t occurred at all, “you’ve showed a great deal of promise in your studies, so I’m inclined to think you’d benefit more from an independent study program. Do you have any ideas about what you’d like to study?”

  As she spoke, she walked over to one of the bookshelves and took down a book about the size and thickness of a dictionary. She walked back to where Spirit sat and handed it to her. The book weighed at least two pounds, and it was so old and worn there was no title on the front or the spine. When Spirit opened it, the title page said: The Matter of Britain: Arthur, Camelot, and the Grail 1100–1500.

  Spirit hesitated for only a moment. “I’ve gotten really fascinated with the folklore and mythology of the British Isles, Ms. Groves, so I’d really like to study that,” she chirped brightly.

  Ms. Groves smiled at her approvingly. “A very good choice, Miss White. Let me know if you have trouble finding what you need in the Library. And now, I believe it is almost time for you to report to the Refectory for dinner.”

  Spirit got to her feet. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Ms. Groves.”

  “Don’t mention it, dear child. I certainly won’t,” Ms. Groves said.

  * * *

  Friday was miserable. Spirit had tried to talk to Addie at breakfast, only to have her turn her back and walk away. When she got to Gym Class (it wasn’t Systema now, Mr. Green was just calling it “Training”) she saw Burke and Mr. Green standing together, waiting for the others. Mr. Green said something she couldn’t hear, and Burke laughed. Mr. Green put an arm around his shoulders, beaming at him proudly.

  It made her stomach hurt. She guessed this was what love was—to miss someone when you were just standing across the room from them, to think of everything that happened as something you wanted to share with them, to ache with worry when you thought they were in trouble. I don’t have time for this! she thought in mournful exasperation. How could being in love make you happy and miserable at the same time? Without knowing Burke loved her, she would have despaired a long time ago, but …

  It was distracting her, keeping her from focusing on anything else. And that wasn’t just inconvenient right now.

  It might be fatal.

  All that was bad enough. But because the class was larger now and ran longer, Loch was in it too. He was standing next to Noah, one of the other “Platinum Spoon” boys, and Spirit thought nothing of it—until she saw a couple of the other boys nudging each other and pointing at them when they thought nobody else was looking.

  Loch looked miserable.

  Spirit didn’t see Muirin anywhere at all that day. Not in the
Refectory, and not in the halls. She had a sense of what Mom would’ve called “waiting for the other shoe to drop,” and Spirit wasn’t quite sure what was causing it. It was almost anticlimactic to hear (at dinner that night) they were going to a new schedule. There’d be classes on Saturday now, as well as a half day of classes on Sunday.

  Who needs magic to keep us from noticing things? They’ll just work us all to death.

  She went back to her room right after dinner and read the book Ms. Groves had loaned her until she fell asleep. She didn’t even try to talk to QUERCUS. Why should she? He’d started acting as weird as everyone else.

  * * *

  “As some of you know from experience—ha!—there is ‘escaped tiger’ at large,” Ovcharenko said, striding back and forth in front of the clump of miserable students gathered on the shooting range. “It is necessary for you to be able to protect yourselves at all times. This we will now learn!”

  He beamed at his audience in a way they’d all learned to distrust. The two men in Breakthrough Security uniforms behind him stood perfectly still, as if they saw and heard nothing.

  The morning email had included the schedule of Saturday classes. Most of them were combat-oriented, and because the same email went to everyone, Spirit knew that Saturday afternoons would now involve “combat drill” in which two teams, chosen by Ovcharenko, would compete against each other using their Gifts. Spirit shuddered. She’d never been happier to be a Muggle.

  But that didn’t get her out of her new Saturday morning class. She was scheduled for “Introduction to Shotgun and Rifle,” meaning she’d been told to report to the range right after breakfast. There were about twenty kids here—this was the “beginners” class, for anyone who’d never taken skeet or trapshooting before. That let Burke and Addie out, and Muirin obviously knew how to shoot a gun plus having a free pass with regard to everything.

  That just left her and Loch. She kept glancing toward him. Loch had his head down, ducked into his scarf, and his shoulders hunched. It wasn’t because of the cold—the Skeet Range was actually pretty warm. There were a bunch of giant outdoor heaters set up, but Spirit was willing to bet the main heating element here was (duh) magic.

  The Skeet Range didn’t look anything like the firing ranges Spirit had seen in movies or on television. It just looked like an open field. There wasn’t anything to stand behind to shoot—the only table here was covered with shotguns. Halfway across the field were two large boxes, one set at either edge. Spirit wondered if they were supposed to shoot at them.

  “And so, we teach you the use of weapons,” Ovcharenko said. He walked over to the table and picked up one of the guns. “A shotgun—completely harmless, eh? Pull!”

  One of the security people pulled out something that looked like a television remote. Suddenly both of the boxes out in the field started flinging disks into the air. Spirit knew from what Burke had said that the disks were made of clay—like a flowerpot—and weighed over two pounds each. It seemed a little eerie to see them zipping into the air like Frisbees.

  Ovcharenko swiftly flipped the gun to his shoulder and began to fire. When it was empty, he grabbed a second one and continued shooting. Every shot found its target. Every target disintegrated into a spray of dust.

  Harmless? Spirit thought. Anything that can do that to a big clay disk doesn’t look harmless to me. “I thought Ovcharenko wasn’t a Combat Mage,” Spirit muttered.

  “Ovcharenko’s an Air Mage. He’s using a form of Kenning Magic,” Loch said, moving toward her. “He can Know something so thoroughly he can quickly become an expert.”

  She wondered how he knew. Loch’s Gifts were School of Air. Maybe that was how.

  The security guard who didn’t have the remote control finished reloading the shotguns Ovcharenko had fired. When he was finished, Ovcharenko picked up the nearest one and walked toward Spirit. He was grinning.

  But Spirit wasn’t his target.

  “Take it,” he said, pushing the shotgun at Loch. “Take it! Only pidoras would be afraid of a little shotgun, eh?”

  Spirit saw Loch clench his jaw and grab the shotgun out of Ovcharenko’s hands. Ovcharenko gestured for him to follow, and walked forward until Loch was standing about ten feet in front of the class. Then Ovcharenko went back to the rest of them, choosing students seemingly at random. He handed each of them a shotgun and lined them up next to Loch.

  The last one he chose was Spirit.

  “Come! Come!” he said, thrusting the shotgun at her. She clutched it, terrified she’d drop it and it would go off. It was heavier than she expected it to be. She took her place at the end of the line. Maybe this will be over soon, she thought hopefully. She hoped so. She’d never seen Loch look so furious. And she had absolutely no interest in firing a shotgun.

  “We shoot from left to right,” Ovcharenko said, brandishing his own weapon. “Pull!”

  That means Loch shoots first and I shoot last, Spirit thought. I just hope Loch doesn’t decide to shoot Ovcharenko.

  A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she looked toward it. Mr. Green was walking up around the edge of the crowd. Behind her, she heard the whing! of the trap, followed by a thud as the clay disk hit the ground. She looked back quickly. Ovcharenko was leaning close to Loch, speaking so quietly she couldn’t hear. Loch’s face was white with rage.

  Ovcharenko stepped back. “Pull!” he shouted again.

  She saw Loch raise the shotgun and looked away quickly. It seemed wrong to watch.

  There was the sound of a shot.

  Loch screamed.

  Spirit turned back quickly, almost dropping the shotgun she held. She saw the shotgun in Loch’s hands slew around as if it was dragging him. It swung back and forth—as if he was fighting with it but was unable to drop it—and Loch didn’t look furious now. He looked terrified.

  The other students holding shotguns shifted uncertainly, milling about in place and bumping into each other. They weren’t quite scared enough to run—or maybe they were as scared as Spirit was of the shotguns they held accidentally going off. While everyone was still shifting nervously, Loch stopped moving.

  The shotgun in his hands was pointing straight at her.

  He’s going to shoot me, Spirit realized numbly. She wanted to run, but she was frozen in place.

  Then …

  There was the sound of a shot.

  Spirit screamed and clutched the shotgun in her arms, too terrified to drop it.

  Everything happened so fast.

  Beckett Green jumped in front of her. The load of heavy steel shot struck him, knocking him backward. He fell against her. She staggered backward, and would have fallen if someone behind her hadn’t caught her.

  Mr. Green took a step, then fell to his knees. Then he collapsed, facedown, on the ground. Everyone was screaming.

  Loch, Loch, what about Loch—

  She looked up just in time to see Loch take his shotgun by the barrel and swing it at Ovcharenko as hard as he could.

  * * *

  Spirit was huddled on one of the couches flanking the fireplace in the Main Hall. She’d chosen the one facing the oak tree that formed the central pillar of the space. Sitting with her back to it—now that she knew what it was—gave her the creeps. Muirin and Addie both seemed to agree; they were sitting on either side of her. Burke was standing in front of the fireplace, not looking at any of them.

  Only Loch was absent.

  Loch was in Doctor Ambrosius’s office with Bethany Mitchell and Thomas Carter, the two detectives from the Sheriff’s Office who’d investigated—or not investigated—the disappearance of Nick and Camilla last October. Spirit had been angry then, thinking they just didn’t care. Now she was pretty sure they’d been bespelled into dropping the case.

  Spirit knew Addie and Burke—if not Muirin—had places they were supposed to be right now, but as soon as the word had swept through the school about the disaster on the shooting range, they’d shown up. They�
�d been waiting with Loch when Spirit finished giving her statement. She’d kept it brief: I was waiting to shoot. I heard someone yell. Then Mr. Green jumped in front of me.

  It was the truth. It just wasn’t all of it.

  “Why couldn’t someone save him?” Addie asked, her voice nearly a whisper. “A Greater Healing can do everything short of raising the dead.”

  “There wasn’t anything to Heal,” Muirin said flatly. “His body started dissolving almost immediately—and what it dissolved into was sticks and mud.”

  It was true—or at least it was what Spirit thought she’d seen before someone had thrown a tarp over the body and hustled them all into the gym. (This was Oakhurst; even when you saw something, you couldn’t believe your eyes.)

  Burke winced slightly at Muirin’s words. Spirit felt sorry for him and angry with him at the same time. He’d lost a friend. But he shouldn’t have had … that friend. But maybe Burke was right and I’m wrong. Mr. Green sacrificed himself to save my life … I think. Would a Shadow Knight have done that?

  “That isn’t possible,” Addie said, shaking her head. “It must have been…”

  “An illusion?” Muirin asked. Her tone was mocking, but Spirit could tell it was a put-on. “Ads, Dave Griffin came and got me to talk Anastus down off the ledge—and incidentally keep him from going after Loch, you can thank me later. I saw the body. You know a Gift can’t fool someone with the same Gift. I might not be able to see through an illusion, but I’d know it was there. That means—”

  Suddenly the door to Doctor Ambrosius’s office opened. Loch stumbled out, white-faced, looking as if he’d been crying. He saw the four of them—his face twisted in revulsion, and he turned to head off the other way. But he wasn’t fast enough. Burke was across the expanse of the Main Hall before he’d taken more than a few steps. He put a hand on Loch’s arm, and Spirit thought Loch might have shrugged it off if the two detectives hadn’t come out next. Ms. Corby was with them. She looked over at Spirit, Muirin, and Addie, giving them all a venomous glare.