The Exiled Queen

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Now that Newling... ah... Morley has rejoined us, I’ll repeat the question,” Askell said. “Someone asked whether an amulet loaded with charmcaster magic could be used by someone else—gifted or not. I, frankly, don’t know. I thought perhaps that you might be able to answer that question, being a northerner.”

  “I — I don’t know for sure, but I don’t believe so,” Raisa said. “I’ve heard that the power accumulated in an amulet can only be used by the wizard who put it there.”

  “Thank you, Morley,” Askell said. “So we’ve seen that the tactics used by Alger Waterlow, known as the Demon King, were both innovative and devastatingly effective.”

  Some of the students made the sign of Malthus to protect against demon magic.

  Askell rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t rely on Saint Malthus to protect you from magical attack,” he said. “Now, then. Some scholars suggest Waterlow may have traveled to Carthis and trained under sorcerers there. I can find no primary sources to support that. We do know that just prior to the Breaking, he was well fortified on Gray Lady with Queen Hanalea and an arsenal of weapons. He might have held off the armies of the Seven Realms indefinitely, save that he was betrayed by someone inside.”

  Askell looked up from his notes. “Surround yourselves with trustworthy people,” he said. “If you don’t, all the weaponry and tactics in the world can’t save you.”

  When the lecture was over, Raisa collected her notes and stuffed them into her carry bag. Then walked up the aisle to where Askell was gathering his materials together.

  “That was excellent, Master Askell,” Raisa said, smiling. “Thank you. I learned so much. You have an amazing knowledge of a topic that we don’t talk about at home.”

  Askell stopped shuffling papers and gazed at her for a long moment. “Thank you, Newling Morley,” he said dryly. “Suddenly it all seems worthwhile.”

  Raisa blinked at him. “Sir,” she said. “Have I done something wrong? To make you dislike me?”

  Askell sighed. “Newling Morley, dislike implies a certain degree of interest, a certain engagement or focus, as on an adversary.” He shook his head. “No. I don’t dislike you particularly. Nor do I like you.”

  Raisa held Askell’s gaze for a long moment. “Thank you, sir,” she said finally. “I am reassured.” She saluted him, her fist pressed to her chest, turned, and walked out of the hall.

  At least, if it ever came to war between Arden and the Fells, Ardenine arrogance would work in her favor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MYSTWERK

  HOUSE

  Han and his party finally reached Oden’s Ford one afternoon in late September, four weeks after classes had begun. They entered the eastern gate of the academy in a driving rain, on the Wien House side. The guards at the gate gave them directions to the Mystwerk House quad on the far side of the bridge.

  The main road wound its way around and between the buildings of the academy. Han scanned his surroundings with interest. As the bells in the temple towers bonged four o’clock, students in hooded rain cloaks burst from doorways, hurried down covered galleries, and splashed through puddles between the buildings. They all seemed to be in a hurry.

  Stone pillars identified the colleges—Factor House, Merchant House, Isenwerk House—all designed and built for the business of learning. Each school centered on a grassy quad, and consisted of classroom buildings, libraries, and dormitories. The academy reminded Han of Southbridge Temple, but on a larger scale.

  The dormitories were impressive, too—three and four stories tall, built of brick and stone, with great stone chimneys and arched doorways.

  Oden’s Ford was like a small city, without the gritty, ugly bits. Even in the rain, it seemed illuminated, its glittering stone buildings set like jewels into green lawns, their flower borders like the embroidery on ladies’ dresses. Everything was still green and lush, though autumn was well under way back home in the mountains.

  “The bridge should be up this way,” Dancer said, as they passed the building marked Wien Hall. “The stables are just ahead, on this side of the bridge, but the Temple School and Mystwerk are on the other side of the river. I’ve heard it’s not wise for the gifted to linger on this side.”

  “Why not?” Han asked, as Dancer urged Wicked forward, cutting between two long, low buildings that smelled of hay and horses. As they passed between the stables, horses within whinnied a greeting and Ragger answered with a challenge.

  “Wien House cadets and Mystwerk students don’t mingle,” Dancer said. He turned to Cat. “After we leave off our horses, is it all right if we go to Mystwerk quad first, then over to the Temple?”

  Cat shrugged and rolled her eyes, like she’d be willing to wait forever. “Maybe I can share your crib,” she said to Han. “Even if I’m at the Temple School.”

  “We’ll ask,” Han said. He had no idea what the rules were, or how many students shared a room. An awful thought struck him. Maybe all the newlings slept in the same room. Maybe he’d be sharing with the Bayars. He’d never be able to close his eyes.

  “Hunts Alone!” Dancer’s warning shout broke into his reverie. Han looked up to see that a girlie in a hooded rain cloak had turned across the courtyard in front of him. With her face turned away from the weather, she hadn’t seen them. He reined in, hard, splashing water over her.

  She shook the water from her cloak and glared up at him. “Look where you’re going, will you? You nearly ran me over.” He caught a brief glimpse of her face in the shadow of her hood before she spun around and hurried away, moving at a near run, head down against the driving wind and rain.

  Han stared at her back, rendered speechless by surprise. Then said, “Rebecca?”

  She disappeared between the buildings.

  Memories slid through his mind like scenes from an unfinished play: Jemson’s study at Southbridge Temple, Rebecca touching his bruised face with cool fingers, saying Who did this? like she was ready to go to battle for him; Rebecca, huddled in a corner of his crib in Ragmarket, glaring at him, daring him to make a move. And finally, strutting out of Southbridge Guardhouse, proud as any queen, leading a dozen freed Raggers.

  “What is it?” Dancer asked, looking after the fleeing girlie. “Who’s that?”

  Han shrugged. “My mistake. She looked like someone I knew back home.”

  Cat snorted. “Trust you to go making eyes at a girlie as soon as we arrive.” Dismounting, she led her pony toward the stable doors.

  Han hesitated, still staring at the spot where the girlie had disappeared. Even if it wasn’t Rebecca, girlies didn’t usually run away from him.

  It probably didn’t help he’d dumped water on her.

  It was just as well. His life was complicated enough. Han swung down to the ground and followed after Cat.

  After leaving off their horses, they crossed an arching stone bridge lined with shops and taverns that were just opening their doors. Han could smell roasting beef, bacon, and sausage.

  They’d ridden straight through lunch that day, in their haste to get to the Ford before dark. Han’s stomach rumbled, and he wondered if they should stop or chance getting something to eat at the dormitory.

  Dancer and Cat walked on, though, and Han followed after, but not without some longing backward looks.

  Mystwerk Hall was the size of the cathedral temple in Fellsmarch, a sprawling building that had been added onto with no obvious plan in mind. The wings of the building warred with each other, divided in front by the original temple, circling around for a back-alley fight in the rear. The temple was topped with a tall stone bell tower pierced with tall windows, like narrowed eyes.

  Any one part would have been beautiful on its own, but taken together they created a brittle tension that appealed to Han.

  An older student occupied a desk in the front hall of the building, his head bent over a spidery manuscript, one hand twisting a lock of his tightly curled hair. He was from Bruinswallow, maybe—and his robe was edged with gold t
hread.

  Han and his friends hesitated in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged, but the young man seemed engrossed in his reading and didn’t look up.

  “The fancy work means he’s a proficient,” Dancer whispered, fingering his own plain sleeve.

  “What’s a proficient?” Han asked, wishing he knew more about what he was getting into.

  “He’s passed two sets of exams. First, you’re a newling. Then a secondary, then proficient. If he passes his thirds, he’ll graduate as a master and he can be faculty,” Dancer said. “Three years of reading, writing, and teaching, and he can go for a dean.”

  Dancer had been studying up on Oden’s Ford for months.

  He cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me,” he said in Common.

  The proficient looked up distractedly, as if his mind still traveled a distant road. “Oh. Sorry. I’m Timis Hadron, proficient on duty,” he said in accented Common. He looked them up and down, taking in their travel-worn appearance. “Did you just get in?”

  “I’m Hayden Fire Dancer,” Dancer said, “and this is Hanson Alister. We’re new fall term students for Mystwerk House. I’m sorry we’re late; we had some trouble traveling through Arden.”

  Hadron nodded. “You are not the only ones. Three other newling Mystwerk students arrived yesterday, and two more have yet to arrive. It is unfortunate that the Peace doesn’t extend into Arden, yes?”

  He pulled a register book toward him and scanned the names. His finger stabbed down at the page. “Ah, yes. Dean Abelard has inquired about you several times. She will be relieved to know you’re here.” He glanced over at Cat, who was shifting from one foot to the other. “And this is — ?”

  “This is Cat Tyburn,” Dancer said. “She’s not enrolled in Mystwerk, but we hoped she could stay with us.”

  “No servants allowed,” Hadron said, making a notation in his ledger without looking up. “They should have told you when you enrolled.”

  “I an’t no servant!” Cat snapped, slapping her hand down on the register book.

  “No sweethearts, either,” Hadron said. He looked up, startled, when Cat seized hold of the front of his robe, jerking him forward. She glared down into his face.

  Cat was tense. Han could tell. “Cat. Leave off,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “He an’t the enemy.”

  Grudgingly, Cat relaxed her hold on the fabric and stepped back.

  “Or bodyguards,” Hadron continued, tapping his quill against the manuscript.

  “Cat is a newling at the Temple School,” Han said.

  “Really.” Hadron sat back in his chair and regarded Cat with interest. “I apologize, Newling Tyburn. Newlings at Mystwerk often arrive with an entire staff of servants and expect us to find housing for them. They are astonished when we say no. If you’re a temple newling, you’ll stay right in the temple itself.”

  “Don’t want to stay in the temple,” Cat muttered. “Can’t I stay here?”

  Hadron shook his head. “Newlings stay in assigned housing.” He paused. “Congratulations on gaining admission to the Temple School—it’s very competitive.”

  Cat just fumbled with her scarf, retying it around her hair.

  “You’ll like it, believe me,” Hadron went on. “It’s the best housing on campus. Much better than where they’ll be.” He nodded toward Han and Dancer.

  “Maybe they could come stay with me, then,” she muttered.

  “Don’t worry,” Dancer said. “It’ll be all right. It can’t be far away. We’ll be together a lot.”

  “Like I’d want to snuggle up to you,” Cat said, folding her arms across her chest.

  While they talked, students trickled through the entry hall in twos and threes, their red robes swishing across the stone floor. They eyed the newcomers curiously, pointing and whispering, fingering their amulets.

  Han glanced down at his clan travel garb, soiled from the road, and felt out of place. Straightening, he put his shoulders back, his street face on.

  “Let us make arrangements for the two of you, shall we?” Hadron said to Han and Dancer. “You’ve left your horses back at the stables, yes?” When Han nodded, Hadron pushed a pen-and-ink map across the desk toward them.

  “You Mystwerk newlings will be in Hampton Hall dormitory, here.” He pointed, then looked up at them apologetically. “Not the best accommodations, since you are among the last to arrive, but you’ll be out of the rain. The dorm master will have linens for you, and show you your room. The dining halls are here.” His finger stabbed down on the map. “Curfew is ten o’clock on class days, later on temple days. All newlings are expected to be inside their dormitories by then unless they’re meeting with a faculty member or participating in a sanctioned discussion group or event.”

  Cat curled her lip, making no attempt to hide her amazement at this long list of rules, but Han kept his face blank. He’d been running the streets since he was a lytling. Mam had long ago given up on telling him when to come and go.

  He’d find his way around the rules.

  “The dorm masters will have your schedules posted. You’ll be expected to attend classes tomorrow. I’ll let Dean Abelard know you’re here. She and the other faculty will advise you as to what assignments you’ll need to catch up with the other students.”

  Hadron pulled his manuscript back toward him. “Is there anything else?” he asked, politely dismissing them.

  “We’re set. Thank you,” Han said, and led the way out of Mystwerk Hall.

  “I an’t going to stay in no temple,” Cat growled, before they’d even descended the wide stone steps of the hall.

  “You got no choice if you want to stay here,” Han said. “It’s a long way back to Fellsmarch.”

  “Why not at least try it?” Dancer said. “You can always quit. Meantime, you get housed and fed; you’re out of Fellsmarch, and you’re out of the war.”

  Cat didn’t honor that with an answer.

  Han knew better than to push her. “That must be the Temple School,” he said, pointing to a stone building with soaring towers just across the quad. “It is close. Let’s stop at our dormitory and take a look at your crib. Then get something to eat.”

  Hampton Hall looked to be one of the oldest buildings on campus—a four-story stone structure shaded by massive oak trees, the stone walkway worn down by the tread of millions of feet over thousands of years.

  The common room smelled of damp wool and wood smoke. Two students hunched over a table next to the fire, playing royals and commons. They looked up as Han, Dancer, and Cat entered, running their gaze over the three of them. Wrinkling their blueblood noses, they returned to their game.

  The dorm master Dilbert Blevins was a middle-aged, harried-looking individual with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, who acted as though they’d come late on purpose.

  “I’m warning you, boys, there’s not much left, so I don’t want to hear you complaining about it,” he said, as soon as they introduced themselves. “I heard enough complaining already.” His fishy gaze slid over Cat, her duffel bag over one shoulder, her basilka slung across the other. “You can’t be having girlies up in your rooms,” he said.

  “We know,” Han said, thinking they might as well be living in the temple. “She promised to — help us arrange things.”

  “Hmmpfh,” Blevins said. “Well, if she’s going up, I’m going up with you.” He eyed their spare belongings. “That’s it? Well, least you didn’t bring everything you own, like some people.”

  That’s where you’re wrong, Han thought. This is everything I own.

  Blevins handed Han and Dancer each a stack of books and thrust bundles of linens into their faces. He led the way up a steep staircase that wound up and up. On each landing, a narrow window pierced the thick stone, admitting the smeared, dismal light the rain allowed. Rendered clumsy by the weight of multiple bags, Han nearly stumbled over the uneven steps.

  All the way up, Blevins kept up a continual litany of complaints, mostly about stu
dents with high expectations.

  Han steeled himself for the worst. No matter how bad it is, he thought, I’ll make it work. I won’t spend much time in my room anyway.

  The stairway to the fourth floor was even narrower than the previous three, as if the top floor had been an attic now converted into living space. The landing was roomier on this floor, but the ceilings at either end of the hallway sloped under the peaked roof.

  Blevins led the way down the dark hallway to the right, finding his way as if by instinct. At the end of the hall there were two doors, one on either side. Drawing a large key from the pocket of his robe, Blevins unlocked both doors and pushed them open.

  “Doors stay unlocked at all times so the dorm masters can get in for inspection,” he said, glaring at Cat in case they’d missed his point.

  Han’s hand closed around his amulet. “Unlocked? But what about—”

  “Students should leave their valuables to home,” Blevins said. “First years are two to a room, but being as you’re some of the last students to arrive, and being as these rooms are smaller than most, you each get your own. Washroom’s on the third floor.”

  “We both have our own room?” Han rocked back on his heels in surprise.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Blevins said, swiping at his nose with his sleeve.

  Han glanced into each room. Identical in size and furnishings, they were tiny and slope-roofed, set into gables, really, with leaded glass windows opposite the doors.

  Han chose the room on the left and set his duffel bag and linens down on the straw-ticking mattress that graced the bed.

  Cat made as if to follow him in, and Blevins barked, “Girlies stay in the hall.”

  The air was stale and stuffy, even this late in the season, and Han knew it would be impossibly hot in the summertime.

  A small hearth pierced the outside wall, with a pile of seasoned wood stacked next to it, but Han couldn’t imagine it would ever be needed for heat.