by E. E. Holmes
“It was a shame,” Finvarra was saying, interrupting my train of thought. “Still, he may yet prove honorable in his duties at the príosún.”
“He may yet,” I replied, not because I truly believed it, but because it was the proper thing to say.
“By any chance, has Eleanor Ballard sought you out?” Finvarra asked after a delicate pause.
I turned fully to face her now, a definite sense of dread settling over me. “No. Should I be anticipating that she will?”
“I’m afraid so,” Finvarra replied.
I sighed, pulled myself away from the window, and settled heavily into a chair. “Come on, then. Let’s have the worst of it. If I’m to face the dragon, I’d like to be prepared.”
Finvarra laughed. “The dragon? Is that what she’s being called these days? How fitting.”
“I like to think I can settle on an apt metaphor when pressed,” I replied dryly.
“Quite,” Finvarra said, still chuckling. “Well, yes, I do expect you will be facing her soon, though to what extent she will be breathing fire, I cannot say.”
“How so?”
“Her daughters are part of the incoming Apprentice class this year. It will fall to your committee to assign their clan their new Caomhnóir.”
I managed to suppress a groan, but it was a close thing. “I hadn’t yet made that realization.”
“I realize that the assignments will not occur for several weeks yet, and so I felt it only fair to warn you that Eleanor will likely have a fair amount of… input to share with you.”
“Input. There’s a euphemism if ever I heard one,” I replied. “Do you anticipate that our committee will have any say whatsoever, or are we just going to be handed the name of the lucky Novitiate in question?”
Finvarra gave a wry smile. “I cannot say for sure. It is, as I said, a very strong crop of Novitiates this year. I only know that she will have been making arrangements behind the scenes for months—doing her own assessments and making her own inquiries. She will likely have approached the clans from which her chosen candidates have come, so that you are pressured from both sides of the arrangement.”
“Perhaps she would like to simply take over the running of the committee and have done with it,” I suggested, “since she will have rendered our conclusions meaningless before we’ve even made them.”
“An experience with which all of us in leadership are familiar, I assure you,” Finvarra said. “Believe me, Carrick, I do deeply sympathize with your plight. That’s why I felt it wise to put you on your guard.”
“You have my undying appreciation on that score, ma’am,” I replied. “Consider me on high alert for the foreseeable future. And on that note, if you’ve nothing further for me, I’d best head down to the entrance hall.”
“There is one more thing, actually, and it is still on the topic of Clan Sassanaigh.”
“Oh?”
“Eleanor’s girls, Elizabeth and Karen… they’re twins.”
I froze. “Ah. I see.”
“Which means the usual protocols will be in place,” Finvarra said, her tone delicate. “And on that score, Calista would like to see you before you resume duties downstairs.”
I just barely managed to suppress a hearty groan. The usual protocols. Of course. “Is she…?” I gestured toward the door which led to a larger, adjoining office.
“Yes, she’s in. She’s expecting you.”
I turned toward the door, raising my fist to knock upon it, when a laugh floated up from the grounds like a snatch of music, and my breath caught most unexpectedly in my throat. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the effect it had on me—it was as though a melody had been played, a melody that reverberated in some deep intrinsic place—a melody that I knew.
So connected did I feel with this mere moment’s laughter that, quite without conscious decision, I let my hand fall and hurried to the window, staring down into the grounds for the source of the sound. A second snatch of the laughter-song drifted up to me and my eyes fell upon the musician.
Two dark-haired young women stood apart from the milling crowd near the front doors, halfway down the gravel walk that led to the gardens. Even as my eyes found them, the shorter of the two threw her head back and laughed again, longer this time, a melody that rang with sheer and unspoiled joy. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upward, and an almost irrepressible desire to join in the laughter burbled up from some deep, untapped place in me.
“Carrick? What is it?”
Finvarra’s voice was like the breaking of a spell. As I pulled my eyes from the girl on the path, my sense of joy twisted at once into a knotted lump of confusion and horror.
Out loud, I replied, flustered. “Nothing. Nothing at all, ma’am. I just… I thought I heard a disturbance. I was mistaken.”
Inside, however, I was reeling, my mind repeating the same question over and over again: What the bloody hell happened there?
“You’d best not keep Calista waiting,” Finvarra told me, her expression mildly confused. “I shan’t require you again until it is time to commence with the welcome address.”
I pulled myself together. “Yes. Thank you, Finvarra. I’ll see to the High Priestess, then.”
“I know how unnecessary the protocols are, regarding Eleanor’s girls, but just… just humor Calista, all right? She’s not well.” Finvarra sighed, and I knew she was dwelling, once again, on the health of the High Priestess. It was only natural, as her assumed successor, and she certainly wasn’t the only one. We all worried about how much longer Calista would be fit to carry out her duties.
I knocked upon the door and heard a quavering voice reply, “Enter.”
Calista sat in a chair by her window, watching the scene below with a vague preoccupation. Although she had both requested to see me and just bid me enter, she looked mildly surprised to see me standing there when she tore her gaze from the courtyard a moment later.
“Carrick,” she said, and I could tell she was trying to remember why she had called me there.
“Good morning, High Priestess. Finvarra mentioned that you wished to see me, regarding the protocols.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. Of course. Thank you for coming,” Calista said, the confusion clearing from her face at once. She gestured limply toward the window. “Here we are again already. Can you believe it? Another academic year started.”
“It is hard to fathom, madam,” I replied. “Time marches on, as it were.”
“Indeed, it does. But we must be on our toes as always. There is no room for complacency.”
“Just so,” I agreed.
“Each year we make sure to be alert to any threats to our security and stability. This year is no different, and our focus must be on Clan Sassanaigh.”
Inwardly, I thought, “Given Eleanor Ballard’s constant machinations, our focus is always on Clan Sassanaigh.” Outwardly, though, I merely nodded.
“Her girls are twins, and they come from a powerful bloodline. Their abilities are, I believe, impressive already. I have heard no rumblings that either is a Caller, but, of course, Eleanor would never allow any such rumblings to circulate. It will be crucial, therefore, to do our due diligence and keep a watchful eye on them both.”
“Of course,” I said.
I had had this same conversation with Calista several times before. Any Gateway that continued its lineage through a set of twins was automatically subjected to intense scrutiny because of the Prophecy. Paternity had to be confirmed, and abilities had to be carefully determined, to ensure that the fabled subjects of the Prophecy had not come to Fairhaven at last to rain chaos down on us all. As the years passed, many in our leadership had come to consider this exercise a mere precaution, but recently, as Calista’s mental state had begun to show subtle signs of decline, she had fixated upon the Prophecy as something of an inevitability, destined to come thundering down upon our heads at any moment. In fact, she seemed almost disappointed each time we were able to rule out a ne
w Gateway as the apocalyptic pair of legend.
“As always, I will leave no stone unturned to ensure the Northern Clans are protected,” I promised her, “and I will update you regularly on our findings.”
“Be sure you do,” Calista said sternly, before turning her troubled gaze back out the window. Her eyes scanned the milling crowd below as though she suspected the harbingers of the Prophecy would be wearing a sign identifying themselves to onlookers.
I interpreted this as a dismissal and took my leave at once.
§
The air in the barracks crackled with adrenaline—a unique sort of electricity composed of nervous energy, physical exertion, and mental tension. The young men there were highly strung—and likely would be for several months—as they navigated this alien terrain and found their place in it. There was a hierarchy to be built, and this process took time and competition. Once the rough boundaries were sketched out, they would begin to settle into a natural order, congregating around the obvious leaders and forming their factions and cliques. It was a tedious but necessary process that I loathed beyond measure.
Perhaps the worst part about it was the level to which most of the young men in our charge understood which skills were the most valued. The combat skills—along with the brute strength and the prowess it took to master them—while crucial, were hardly the most valuable asset in a good Caomhnóir’s tool kit. A damn lot of good these boys—yes, boys, for that’s precisely what they were—would be if they didn’t master their Castings and hone their spirit sensitivities. Combat had its uses, but against spirits it was, of course, useless. Not that I could blame them for their misconceptions—some of my colleagues emphasized the physical training almost to the exclusion of all else. They saw themselves as soldiers first, a mindset that appealed greatly to the proclivities of youth. It was a much more literal, objective way to weed out the weak and establish a pecking order. It was nothing short of tiresome and oversimplified, and it was about to start all over again in the same, tedious cycle. Yet another reason I loathed the start of the academic year.
“Ah, Carrick! I was just about to send someone to fetch you,” came a shout. It was Seamus, a Caomhnóir who had just been promoted into the leadership ranks. He was a competent Caomhnóir, eager to prove himself, and therefore louder and more insistent upon himself than he had any need to be, but that would mellow once he felt secure in his role, and overall I had been pleased with his work. He had excellent potential. I felt a kinship with him, as I, too, had been promoted to a desirable post over the heads of several older, more experienced candidates when Finvarra’s Caomhnóir had unexpectedly died in a helicopter crash. Finvarra’s confidence in my potential was not enough to convince some in the Caomhnóir leadership that I was the correct choice for the role, but none of their objections had been enough to sway the Deputy High Priestess from her choice. I had been constantly trying to prove myself ever since, and though I had long since proven myself in the eyes of most every member of our Brotherhood, I always harbored a soft spot for other young Caomhnóir who were called to rise to a challenge, and Seamus was certainly one of those.
“How goes it, Seamus?” I responded, as he handed me a roster on a clipboard.
“Shipshape, as it were,” Seamus said, giving me a hearty slap on the back. “Bunks have been assigned and class schedules have been handed out. Tours of the castle will start in less than an hour, and all Novitiates have been assigned to a prefect.”
I raised my eyebrows, impressed in spite of myself. “Well done. I must admit I did not expect things to be so far along.”
Seamus smiled. “It helps that we’ve got so much old blood here. Much less riff-raff than a typical year.”
I nodded, still looking down at the list. “And speaking of old blood, I feel it only fair to warn you that we should be expecting a full-frontal assault imminently.”
Seamus’s confident smile slipped from his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve just been warned that Eleanor Ballard is on the warpath regarding Caomhnóir selection.”
Seamus groaned. “Already? I mean, all right, I knew she’d have something to say about it eventually, but we’ve not even begun initial assessments! Surely, she can’t have her eye on any one Novitiate yet?”
“I think you underestimate her… ah… initiative,” I replied.
“Blast it. Blast it all to hell. Interfering old trout,” Seamus hissed through his clenched teeth.
“Easy, now,” I told him. “Remember your place.”
Seamus closed his eyes and swallowed it all back—yet another underrated skill of an effective Caomhnóir. “Right, then. What do you propose we do about it?”
“Let me handle her,” I said, looking over the list. “Eleanor Ballard isn’t the only one who can take initiative around here.”
The plan had started to form in my head as I walked down to the barracks, and by the time I had finished going through the student registration forms, it had shifted and cohered into something solid, and it might just kill two birds with one stone. If it worked, I would be able to head Eleanor off in her determination to disrupt our process, and forge an important inroad that would make it easier for me to carry out my orders from Calista. By the time I had finished the first round of placement tests and assessments on the Novitiates, I was ready. I marched myself down to the Council chambers with one goal and one goal only: beard the dragon in her lair.
Because there would be welcoming ceremonies that night, I knew that Eleanor would be preparing for her own speech—as the ranking member of the Council under Finvarra, it would be she who would address the new Apprentices after the Deputy High Priestess had made her remarks. It was no surprise, therefore, to hear a rather strident voice from behind the door when I raised my hand to knock upon it. What was a surprise, however, were the words that echoed out into the hallway.
“…can’t believe you’re trying to manipulate things before we’ve even had our first day of classes, Mum!”
“Elizabeth, don’t be a fool. It is not a question of manipulation. It’s a question of ensuring that our clan has the respect and position it deserves.”
“Deserves? Do you even know what that word means? Getting something because you deserve it and getting it because you bullied people into it are hardly the same thing!”
“Am I to believe that my own daughter can’t make the distinction between being a bully and wielding legitimate power?”
The second voice let out a screech of incredulous laughter, and, to my shock, I knew it was the same voice I had heard laughing on the grounds. The joy was gone from the sound, but the melody remained unchanged. “Not the way you do it, no. First, you demand changes to the class schedule to suit your preferences, sending all of the instructors scurrying to rearrange their lives—”
Eleanor scoffed. “They know we will sometimes be required to return to the States on short notice. It would make much more sense if the number of Friday lessons were—”
But the daughter, impressively, steamrolled right over her. “—And now you’re trying to undermine the Novitiate selection, too! They have a process for that, Mum, and at no point does it involve Apprentices’ mothers railroading other people’s decisions! Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“Do you really think you understand this process better than I do? Do you really think that the Caomhnóir leadership will make a choice more fully in your best interests than I would?”
Another derisive laugh. “My best interests? When have you ever cared about anyone’s best interests but your own?”
“Your best interests and mine are entwined, you foolish child. Do you really mean to tell me that you would prefer as your protector some scrawny, incompetent Caomhnóir who is incapable of expelling so much as a fly, is that it?”
“Better that than an overbearing nightmare for a mother!”
A resounding slap echoed behind the door. It took every ounce of my restraint not to fling the door open, a
nd I’m not sure I could have held off a moment longer when footsteps pounded toward it and I leaped back just in time to be confronted with an arresting sight.
An angel of fury, framed in the light of the doorway.
The young woman who looked up at me was a thing of fire. Sparks danced in her dark eyes, electric anger crackled through her curls, and her very movements seemed fueled by ferocity. She held a hand to one cheek, and I could see that the skin beneath it was red and inflamed.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but not a single word could find its way to my lips. I was mesmerized—stunned that something so small and so lovely could be so powerful. From some long-buried school day memory, a line of Shakespeare rose up into my mind.
“And though she be but little, she is fierce.”
Before I could speak, the girl threw a malevolent look over her shoulder and then glared back at me. “Enter at your own peril,” she advised quietly, and stalked off.
I turned and watched her until she disappeared around the corner, feeling as though she had taken all the air in the corridor with her. Then I shook my head to clear it, and turned back to the door in front of me. I had nearly forgotten what I was doing there, what I had come to say. What the devil was wrong with me today?
I clenched and unclenched my fists several times before I trusted myself to knock upon the door and answer the terse summons to enter.
If I had not heard the row that had preceded my entrance into the room, I would never have believed that anything untoward had occurred. Eleanor Ballard looked as she always did—frigidly unflappable and utterly in control of herself. The only clue—and it was a minute one—was the fact that she was running a thumb over the palm of her right hand—the hand, I was quite sure, that had just delivered the blow that had still been glowing upon her daughter’s cheek.
“Ah, Carrick,” she said, her voice as smooth and cold as watered silk. “My apologies if you heard any of that. That was my daughter Elizabeth. She’s a first-year Apprentice this year, along with her twin sister. A brilliant girl but very… spirited.”
