by Lorelei Bell
Chapter 7
“I gather you didn't tell Dorian about the demon,” Stephen said in a vacant tone.
Zofia slid him a sour look of contempt. “When would I have had time? You had the both of us booked all day!” She felt as though a huge fist had punched her in the stomach the way that Dorian had twisted everything around, somehow.
“My faux pas,” Stephen said, and suddenly disappeared before her very eyes. She flinched, letting out a startled cry. She really had to quit doing that when someone Evanished in front of her. Wait a troll minute, did Stephen just Evanish, or was it something else? Because a man next to her dressed in gold robes was laughing, head tilted back, mouth open so that she could see all the back teeth, and in the middle of that uproarious laugh, he disappeared. She shook her head as though she needed to wake up from a dream.
Someone who had been standing with the man turned away and announced, “The Conclave has just begun.”
The Conclave. Dragon shit! She needed to catch Dorian before he too disappeared. She squeezed past two people near the table and spotted Dorian working his way toward the door which led outside. Two more men in gold vanished right in the middle of a heated argument with each other. She understood these men were not Evanishing—at least not under their own Power, but they were being called to the Conclave by the Immortals who could magically take them away without any advanced notice.
Keeping Dorian in sight, Zofia flounced into the space where the two men who had just vanished had been standing. She knew, even at that split second, she didn't really have time to tell him her side of it. And then Dorian suddenly vanished too. When she looked around herself, there wasn't a gold-robed Knight left in the room. They had all gone to Conclave to vote on an inductee.
The twitter of birds drifted to her. Somewhere children were shouting, or screaming. A dog was barking, she could hear the scream of peacocks, and someone was saying in her ear, “Mom! Mom?”
Zofia turned to find Blanche at her side. The sun glinting off her dark hair, fragrant white flowers which ringed her head with little white streamers raining down around the crown, denoting that she was the birthday girl.
“Oh. Blanche,” Zofia said almost as vacantly as had Stephen muttered his last words to her. “Are you having fun?” she added, automatically. She looked into the sky. Was that someone on a broomstick? Another person zoomed around the castle. It couldn't be the Commanders floating off somewhere, since they had all disappeared, not floated out of there. She wondered where the Conclave would meet. Here in the castle? Or somewhere utterly unreachable by normal—for them—means.
“Did you see what Elton did?” Blanche was ranting in her usual teenage protesting screech and that hands-on-her-hips stance. “He's ruined my birthday party!”
“What do you mean he's ruined it?” Zofia said, again, just going through the motions of being the Mom. She really, really did not want to deal with this now.
Blanche thrust her hand out toward the brilliant blue sky over the green lawn. “Just look at him up there!”
Zofia squinted out onto the lawn. She saw people—teenagers, children, and a few adults—standing across the open area, watching something up above. And then she tilted her glance slightly and saw several people flying on brooms, and a ball was being volleyed back and forth. This reminded her of something she had seen once somewhere, but at the moment, she just couldn't conjure it into her already over-loaded brain.
“Is that Elton?” Zofia asked, squinting.
“Yes!”
“What's he doing up there?” She wasn't really all that surprised that Elton was behind this. He had always said that the first chance he got when they returned he would fly on a broom. There had been times that Elton had practiced spelling their broom on First World in order to make it fly—and had failed more than succeeded. But she had always feared that someday he would master the art of making it fly, with him on it. Obviously, his poise and skill on the broom, thirty or so feet in the air, attested to the fact he had succeeded in practicing broom flying without her knowledge. In a way it irked her (because, what if an Ugwump neighbor had seen him?), but in another way, she wasn't a bit surprised, and she was just all out of sympathy for Blanche's problems at the moment. What Elton was doing was perfectly fine.
“He's invented a game on brooms,” Blanche said in her usual petulant tone. “Everyone left my party to go watch him and the others, and—”
“Blanche,” Zofia said in a firm tone. “Isn't it more probable that your party was over, and everyone decided to go off to watch him because there was nothing left to do?”
Blanche stood staring at her as if shell-shocked. Zofia turned away, stumbled on her overly long robe, hitched it up and escaped the gasping and sputtering teenager.
Zofia reentered the conservatory and found Tillie waiting for her under an arch of white, fragrant flowers.
“I heard,” Tillie said.
“Which? About Elton ruining Blanche's party? Or the other?”
Tillie squinted at her. “No, the other,” she said, pursing her lips as though stemming off her own take on that bit of news. “The thing between you, Stephen and Dorian.”
“Yes. That.”
“Well?” Tillie's raised eyebrows gave Zofia pause.
“Well, what?”
“Is there?”
“Is there what?”
“Something going on between you two.”
“You mean Stephen and me?” Zofia's voice rose with indignation. “No!” She moved to push past her, now more than just slightly angry that even she would think such a thing.
Tillie grasped a hand full of white robe at her sleeve, yanking her back. “Are you sure?” she said, eyes pinched with a look that said she didn't believe her. “You came home that day, after going to see him and Paradeep, and you said you'd just had an orgasm.”
“He'd just kissed me!” Zofia said, and at once realized their conversation wasn't exactly private. A few people were standing there gaping at them—well, mostly at her—and that woman with purple hair was standing the closest, almost leaning in so as to hear as much of this conversation as she could. Wonderful, now she would be the talk of the realm.
Moving Tillie away from the woman who to her now looked more like an eggplant with hair, she lowered her voice. “Come on,” Zofia said, one hand full of robe and the other trolling Tillie along. “We can't talk here—” She tripped and caught her balance. “I need to have this hemmed before tonight's feast.” And she rose off the floor and Transvected along.
* * *
The great hall's ceiling went up two floors, with broad arches and massive columns holding it all up. Aisles and galleries high above flanked the main hall, with mullioned windows along the outer walls. A choir of men and women sang old solemn tunes, somewhere out of sight, in one of the galleries above. Their voices echoed beautifully, to the background of conversation.
Zofia stood in line with about three, or four dozen other inductees of the Vanguard, in the darkened hall, holding a human skull with a candle glowing inside the cranium. The eye, nose and gaps between the teeth of her skull created a grim face in amber against the white robe on the youth's broad back who stood right in front of her. She held her palms flat, fingers straight out, as she had been instructed. As she stared at the back of the tall, young man in front of her, she tried not to think too much on the fact she was holding a human skull.
Earlier, up in her room, while Biddle had hemmed up her robe, Zofia told Tillie everything that Dorian and Stephen had said, and assured her that there was absolutely nothing going on between herself and Stephen. She told her how The Four had questioned her in the meeting earlier that day with Stephen (she left out that he had nearly kissed her). Tillie finally relented in her hard-ass interrogation of her. And before they went down for the Induction Feast, she reminded her that she was in competition with each and every one of these young men of the Vanguard, and it was “dog-eat-dog”.
She didn't care about t
hat. She just wanted this to be over with. There would be no way that she would be inducted, not with so many of these fine, strapping young wizards, with relatives in the brotherhood. Even if Zofia managed to get two or three votes, that would hardly be enough to give her an edge in this competition. Stephen could call in favors from other Commanders, of course, and get her voted in, she realized. She just hoped he didn't have a lot of people beholding to him.
Trying not to ponder all this, because it was giving her a nauseous headache, she concentrated on the youth's back in front of her instead. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath, the subtle shifts in his stance, and small jerking movements that made his robe shift. The jack-o-lantern face jiggled and jumped across his back, a hideous grin staring back at her. Her own movements added to the animation. Who the hell came up with this idea anyway of holding skulls as they went one by one into the Feast? This was asinine.
Tillie and Dorian had both become suspicious of Zofia's placement as an inductee—at the last moment, no less. Why hadn't she become suspicious herself? Had Stephen purposely placed her as an inductee—and after tonight, a Knight—just to be under his beck and call only to seduce her finally into bed with him?
She mulled this over in her mind during her long, leg-and-back aching wait to finally file down to the Feast. She rejected this whole scenario, just as she had before, while she had been up in the tower room with him. He had wanted to do more than just kiss her, of course, and well knew this. But if Stephen really wanted to get her into bed, he would not go about it in such a roundabout way. He wouldn't need to make her a Knight, or even an inductee. Even though she would be more accessible if she were a Knight. But, he need not have gone through such an elaborate plot to get her into bed with him. What would be the point?
Her other question which rattled around in her head was if getting her into his bed was not the reason for her being inducted, then what was his true motive behind it? If she was inducted, and became a Knight, what was the assignment he had for her? Obviously there had to be one he had held especially for her. She wouldn't be able to do any real Knight's job. She wasn't trained. Those who were true initiates had gone through years of grueling, and extensive training. She was a ruse. She could see now if she was voted in, there would be a lot of up-set parents tonight.
Staring again at the broad back in front of her, she felt terribly nauseated. Inside the hall, the choir's voices had ebbed. The trill of violins seemed to bring everyone to attention. She could hear the other inductees in front and back of her shift nervously. Someone coughed. Another muttered, “It's about troll time.” Several inductees behind and in front of him chuckled lightly. Zofia couldn't chuckle at anything at the moment. For one thing, she was holding someone's father's skull—she was assured it was not her own father's—and she really didn't like holding the thing. For another, she didn't want to be here at all.
The line of inductees moved. She stepped along, trying to adjust her steps to the funeral-slow pace.
This was it. They would read off the name of the chosen one. The Feast would follow, everyone could go home full and happy. She didn't know anything beyond this. She just hoped and prayed she wouldn't hear her name read off.
The interior of the dining hall was just as dark as the hallway. Her only light was the grimace from the skull glowing against the back of the inductee in front of her—she realized what a specter it was for the only light coming from a skulls' grimace. She followed him as they snaked along. Somehow, the front of the line knew where they were going. Peering into the darkness around herself, she found shadowed faces peering back at her. The families of all the inductees sat at round tables, watching the slow procession in time to the draw of bows on cellos, seeking their son, or brother. The procession wove in and out of these tables. She had no idea where they would end up in this snake dance, until they all stopped. To the sound of a drum roll, the back of the inductee in front of her rotated to face right. She could hear them all shift, and realized that that was what she was supposed to do too. The music had stopped. So had the drum roll.
She turned and found herself facing a long table of somber-looking men. The Commanders. Some were old. Some were not so old. Their table was set about a foot or so higher than the floor where they sat scrutinizing each and every one of them. Hard luminescent faces, with severe lines around their eyes and mouths, created by the only candlelight from white pillar candles. A fine tulle with spirals of gold throughout, decorated the Commander's table. Gold wine goblets bore the seal of the Knights of the Witenagemont, with a black spider on its web against the bare, white dome of a skull.
Stephen sat dead center of this table in a taller chair than the rest. His gaze had drifted across the faces of each inductee, and then settled momentarily on her. It softened when their eyes met. His lips curved ever so slightly into a subtle smile.
Feeling her face burn under that intimate gaze, she had to cast her own gaze downward.
The music suddenly swelled, and then stopped once more. There came that awkward silence where people coughed, shifted in chairs and whispered.
Zofia ventured her gaze back up to the line of Commanders, knowing Dorian would be in among them. Then his eyes blazed out at her, and again, she shifted her gaze back to Stephen.
Stephen scooted back his deeply carved chair and stood.
The moment had come. Her stomach churned horribly. She really thought she would hurl. Somehow, she was able to stem it off.
“Wizards, sorceresses, children, Knights, and distinguished guests. Welcome!” Stephen began, holding his goblet up and looking about himself. “Tonight is a very special occasion,” he went on. “Tonight we celebrate—or should I say observe?—the passing of a long, bloody, and dark era indeed.” He paused to let this sink in, and give whatever he was about to say some high drama. A few coughs sprinkled through the expectant crowd. “The dark ex-lord, Vesselvod Blood is dead.”
A roar of cheers and applause sprang up and filled the hall. Zofia felt slightly awkward at this announcement. She hadn't expected him to announce such a thing. Not here and now.
“To this we owe one sorceress our gratitude, and welcome her as an inductee, here tonight,” Stephen went on. “Please, I want you to give a round of applause to Zofia Trickenbod.”
The crowd cheered and clapped. One by one, they got to their feet. The other inductees bent at the waist and peered at her down the line—they couldn't clap, but they gaped at her with awe.
She was suddenly self-conscious. While she had not actually killed Blood herself, she had been partially responsible for it. And she was not particularly happy to have everyone think she had killed him. Because it was a lie. She wanted to shout I didn't kill him! But didn't.
Her gaze darted over the faces of the Commanders, and found Dorian's sharp glare cutting into her. Her heart sank even lower than before. It was as though he hated her all of a sudden. She wondered if it was because of what had happened to her down in the demon's lair, or did he really think that she and Stephen had something going now?
“Vanguard,” Stephen's voice boomed over the noise. “Take your table.”
Again, the line of inductees moved, and she followed them to the table that was arranged along the wall, at a right angle to that of the Commander's. The decor and place settings on their table was similar to that of the Commander's table, only instead of gold cups, theirs was crystal. Each inductee placed their skulls down on the furthest edge of the table, arranging them so that they looked out across the room. Zofia mimicked their movements. They had not been given the command to be seated, and so stood, waiting.
Now able to take the rest of the room in, Zofia found that another table, directly opposite to that of the Commander's held those men who wore the silver robes. Across from the Vanguard's table was that of the Bronze, the neophytes—those who had just been inducted, and had been a Knight for less than five years. Between them all were the round tables holding mostly the family member
s of the Vanguard.
Trumpets blurted a few pompous notes, and then were silent. Silence invaded for a very brief moment. Everyone seemed to be poised on the edge of their seats. Not one person coughed. A pixie could sneeze and everyone would hear it.
The announcement of the newest member was about to be read.
A wave of dizziness caused Zofia to clutch onto the table—thank goddess she had been able to put that stupid skull down. She couldn't believe this was taking so long. She couldn't understand why she was reacting like this. She wouldn't be picked. She just couldn't be.
Stephen's page had stepped forward out of the deepest shadows and handed him a small scroll, which he opened with a crackle of parchment, and read briefly before lifting his gaze. There was that vague smile. The same one she had seen him wear when their eyes had met, just moments ago. Dragon buggers.
“The votes have all been tallied,” Stephen said, his voice issuing all across the room, and seemed to vibrate in Zofia's ears strangely. The dizziness had not subsided; she was seeing white dots before her eyes, and her stomach roiled. She needed to rush to the bathroom, and fast, but where the water closet would be from here, she didn't know, and there was no time to ask.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Knights… our inductee for this year is—“
It was sudden, and she couldn't stop herself. The contents of Zofia's stomach shot out across the stoneware and shiny crystal and silverware, and flowed down over the edge of the table, looking like very lumpy gravy, but smelling horrible.
“—Zofia Trickenbod—”
People around her stood, gaped, gasped and then made sounds of disgust—she wanted to believe it was because of the vomit, not because of the announcement. There was an awkward moment of silence that seemed to last an eon when Zofia snapped up the cloth napkin and slapped it over her mouth.
She gazed around herself. Everyone was staring at her. No one moved.
“Sorry,” she muttered through the napkin, gathering in the bewildered and astonished looks of everyone around her.
