Tria located her name among those assigned to tend the garden. So she hadn’t gotten away from farm work. At least the job would keep her away from Lina. It also freed her from Nubba, who was assigned kitchen cleanup and had to report immediately. The others continued to study the roster.
“I don’t see your new roommate’s name on any of these lists,” Rehanne said. “If she’s been excused from work detail, we ought to file a complaint.”
Tria was searching the lists to verify Rehanne’s discovery when ear-splitting screams spun her around. She dashed toward the sound, pelted into the kitchen, and found Nubba cowering against the wall just inside the door, her broad features contorted into a grimace of terror. Most of the cleanup crew stared at her with bewildered expressions.
“What is it?” Tria asked.
Nubba pointed to the center of the kitchen, an area that held nothing but empty space.
“I don’t see anything. What’s wrong?” Tria walked toward the spot, saw only a floor covered with old, cracked linoleum long since bleached of whatever colors it once had. Disgusting, but nothing to scream about. “Does anyone here know what she sees?” Tria asked.
The first-year students shook their heads. A second-year student pointed to his temple and drew a circle with his index finger, while another said in disgust, “It’s her way of getting out of work.”
Nubba crept crabwise along the wall to the doorway and stepped outside the room. “Be careful!” she shouted to Tria. “It’s the Shalreg.”
Tria went to Nubba. “What are you talking about? What’s a Shalreg?”
“That … that thing. Can’t you see it?” Nubba pointed a trembling finger.
“There’s nothing to see,” Tria repeated.
“Ohhhh!” Nubba sobbed so that she could barely speak. “Nobody else can ever see it. Why does it only show itself to me?” The question ended in a loud wail.
Mistress Dova stepped up behind Nubba. “Again, Miss Balder?” she said.
Nubba was too distraught to answer, so Tria said, “Something frightened her. She called it a Shalreg.”
“We know it well. Her private ogre.” Mistress Dova grasped Nubba’s shoulder. “Miss Balder, cease that caterwauling at once and listen to me.”
Nubba’s wailing tapered off to soft sniffles. Her face, red from weeping, took on a sullen expression. “It is there,” she said defiantly.
“No one has contested that. But it hasn’t harmed you.”
“It wants to. It clicks its awful pincers at me and shows me its fangs. They’re that long.” Nubba stretched her thumb and forefinger apart as far as they would go.
“I’m sure its appearance is quite fearsome, but the fact remains that in all the years it has haunted you, it has never done you any physical harm.”
“That’s because I always run from it.”
“If it were as fearsome and as powerful as you claim, you would not be able to escape it no matter how far or how fast you ran. I assume you are on kitchen detail. I suggest you get to work.”
She clapped her hands. “All of you. To work. No more gawking and no shirking.” Mistress Dova turned and marched away.
But Nubba broke into fresh sobs. “I can’t go in. That thing is waiting for me. I can’t go.”
“All right, Nubba,” Tria said. “Go on upstairs. I’ll serve your kitchen duty for you. I don’t have to report to the garden for over an hour.”
“You will? You’ll do that for me?” Nubba’s fat face beamed through her tears.
“This time I will. Go on, now.”
Nubba needed no more urging. She fled through the dining hall and vanished from Tria’s sight.
Now Tria knew why Kress had taunted Nubba about a Shalreg, though she still wasn’t certain what it was.
“You shouldn’t have let her off,” said the youth whose gesture had indicated his opinion of Nubba’s sanity. “That Shal-whatever is a convenient invention for avoiding work.” But his freckled face held a broad grin that took the sting out of his rebuke, and when Tria smiled back, he added, “I’m Gray Becq,” and held out his hand.
Tria shook hands, suddenly conscious of her callused palms. “I don’t mind, really,” she said. “I’m used to working hard all day on a farm.”
“All that screaming was just an act?” Soapy hands on hips, a big-boned, square-faced girl left off filling the sink to turn and scowl at Gray.
“Now, Petra,” Gray said soothingly, “I didn’t say that. Wilce claims she’s telling the truth about seeing something, but it does appear at convenient times.”
“Wilce?” Tria remembered the friendly fellow who’d winked at her in the assembly hall.
“Wilce Riverman, my roommate. He’s a truth-speaker.” As he explained, Gray scooped a handful of soapsuds from the sink and with a single deft motion sculpted them into a close likeness of Wilce’s face. The frothy portrait hung in the air a few seconds before the bubbles popped.
Tria clapped her hands. “What a marvelous talent!”
“It’s not much use, and it’s the only one I seem to have,” he said. “I don’t know what good it will ever do me. I’ll probably wind up back home working in my parents’ hardware store.” Gray’s freckled face turned bright red, and he added as if to cover his embarrassment, “Come on, gang, let’s get to work before the dragon catches us.”
He waved a hand over the dirty silverware spread over a steel table. It sprang about, rearranging itself into a coiled dragon with Headmistress’s face, serving spoons forming puffs of smoke issuing from the open mouth. Everyone applauded as the dragon leaped from the table and splashed into the sink full of soapy water.
Laughing, Tria walked to a counter stacked with dirty dishes, picked up a rubber spatula, and scraped uneaten food into the garbage can. Petra, also laughing, plunged her hands into the dishwater and began to scrub the disassembled dragon.
The kitchen crew sped through its tasks, and Tria, her headache gone, rushed outside to her own work detail. Her newfound sense of well-being expanded on the discovering that Wilce headed the garden crew.
He hurried toward her. “I heard what you did for Nubba,” he said. “That was generous. You shouldn’t have to serve double duty.”
“It’s all right. I like gardening.” Tria smiled up at him, touched by the friendly concern in his warm brown eyes. She gathered her nerve to ask about his truth-reading and whether he had ever used it on Headmistress.
She didn’t get the chance. A loud argument broke out between two students picking beans several rows away. Wilce excused himself and hurried to the two. In his presence they calmed and were soon laughing and joking like the best of friends. To Tria’s disappointment, Wilce stayed to help harvest beans.
Tria busied herself showing inexperienced students how to judge when a turnip or carrot was ready for pulling, how to search for cutworms and caterpillars, and how to remove them without damaging the tender leaves of cabbage and lettuce. She had no more chance to talk to Wilce.
The garden covered two or three acres and was filled with a variety of vegetables, healthy and ready for harvesting. This abundance of good, fresh vegetables ought to result in better meals. It might be poor management or incompetent cooks, but Tria couldn’t help suspecting that the harvest was sold for a profit and inferior products purchased for student consumption. Or perhaps most of it went to the faculty residence hall. They must have their own dining hall because, except for the faculty member assigned to preside at each meal, the staff did not eat with the students. Not for them the disgusting stuff they foisted off on the poor students.
With regret she saw the duty time end, which meant she could postpone no longer the return to her room. After washing off at an outside spigot, she climbed the stairs, stood outside the closed door a few moments, took a deep breath, and swung the door open—and stared in amazed bewilderment at the changes.
The stacks of boxes and suitcases were gone. A soft velvet rug with a geometric design of green and beige covered the
floor between the beds and desks. An ornate gold lamp graced the desk at the end of Lina’s bed. Bookends of carved ivory held a row of expensive-looking books. In front of them a gold pen rested in a heavy gold stand. The desk itself was different—larger, finer, with carved, shaped legs, and the sheen of fine mahogany.
Tria’s desk was unchanged, though it now held only her own things, nothing of Lina’s.
In the space between Lina’s desk and the front wall stood a large chifforobe of matching mahogany. It was wide and deep and had a tall wardrobe section with a full-length door and a section of drawers over which a lovely oval mirror was suspended in a frame that could be tilted back and forth. The clothes rod that held a dress and a skirt and blouse of Tria’s looked more tawdry than ever by comparison.
Tria felt her face flush in fury when she saw on her side of the room a vanity table with another mirror. The perfume bottles, cosmetic jars, jewelry boxes, and silver dresser set scattered over it assured her it was not intended for her use.
“How long are you going to stand there gaping? Come inside and close the door.”
Lina lounged on her bed in a white satin dressing gown. Behind her, green silk curtains that matched her bedspread billowed in the breeze. A fringed green scarf draped over the trunk beneath the window made Tria slow to notice that the trunk was not hers.
“How did you get that furniture?” She waved her hand toward the chifforobe and desk.
“I asked for it. You didn’t think I intended to live out of boxes, did you?”
“Asked for it?” Tria couldn’t believe her ears. “Who did you ask?”
“The maid. I told you she offered to help me. She was of great assistance.”
So Veronica played favorites. She hadn’t offered to do anything to help Tria. “What have you done with my trunk?”
“Stored it under your bed. It was too ugly to leave sitting out in the open.”
“Too ugly … Under the bed …” Tria sputtered. “It couldn’t possibly fit under the bed.”
“I adjusted its size a bit. I don’t think I caused any permanent damage.”
Tria bent down and peered beneath the low cot. In the dark space lay a flatter, longer version of what had been her trunk.
“This is outrageous! You had no right. What about the things inside?”
Lina yawned. “Must you raise such a fuss? Everything is in it. I have no interest in your shabby peasant outfits. And speaking of shabby, you must do something about that ugly pink blanket. It clashes terribly with my bedspread.”
Tria could scarcely contain her rage. “The blanket stays,” she snapped. “And my trunk goes back where it was.” She pulled the misshapen trunk from under the cot. “It may not be as fancy as yours, but it was there first. You can squash yours and put it under your bed.”
“Ah, but I won’t. If you have the power, you put it where you want it.”
The scornful curl of Lina’s lip fueled Tria’s anger. Hands doubled into fists, she stared at Lina’s trunk. Her vision blurred. The trunk seemed to recede, to shrink. She kept her bleary gaze fixed on it until she blinked. Her sight cleared. The silk scarf lay on the floor beneath the window. She picked it up, exposing a miniature trunk suitable for a dollhouse.
“There,” she announced. “I doubt that I did any permanent damage to all the fancy things you have in it.” With great satisfaction, she kicked it under Lina’s bed and turned her attention to her own trunk. A brief period of intense concentration restored it to its normal size and shape.
She took hold of its handles to move it into its place beneath the window. With a snarl, a panther sprang onto the trunk. Tria jumped back barely in time to avoid being raked by its extended claws.
Hissing, back arched, tail lashing, it kept Tria from coming nearer and dared her to touch the trunk.
She backed to the door, but her anger overcame her fear. “We’ll compromise,” she said. She grabbed her desk chair and held it out in front of her in animal-trainer fashion. With that shield, she dared to look away from the panther. Her power found Lina’s tiny trunk, drew it out from under the bed, and set it under the window, where she increased it to normal height but half its former width.
The panther hurtled toward her. She held the chair to meet it. The panther struck the legs of the chair, clung to them, and hauled itself up toward Tria.
Tria was only subliminally conscious of using her power. She knew she did not have the strength to hold the chair up with the heavy cat on it on her own. Yet she not only did so, she hurled the panther and chair from her and grabbed the other chair as the black cat, spitting and howling, leaped toward her again.
“I said we’d compromise.” Tria spoke through clenched teeth as she swung the chair to fend off the panther. “You aren’t going to have it all your way.”
The cat opened its mouth for yet another snarl. Tria jammed the chair leg into its mouth. The enraged animal bit down, sinking its fangs into the wood. Tria slung chair and cat against the side of Lina’s desk.
With a yowl of pain, the animal released its hold and dropped to the floor. It stood up on its rear legs and reverted to human form. Pouting, rubbing her jaw, Lina retreated to her bed. “Very well, have it your way.” She gave Tria a sulky look.
“I don’t want it all my way.” Standing where she was between the two desks, Tria used her power to arrange the two trunks side by side in the space under the window, pick up the green silk scarf, and spread it over both trunks.
Lina shrugged. “If that’s all you want, I suppose I don’t object.”
“It’s not all I want,” Tria said, moving to the dressing table with its collection of Lina’s things. “Since this vanity is on my side of the room, I expect to use it. I’ll share it with you; I know you have to have a place to put all this junk.”
She gathered the bottles, jars, and boxes together and confined them to one side of the table. “That’s half for each of us. And the chifforobe is all yours. I can use the clothes rod. That’s more than fair. You’ll have to live with it.”
Lina stretched languidly. “For now,” she said with a yawn. “Only for now.”
Tria could not conceal a grin of triumph despite knowing that Lina would not easily forgive. She’d try to get her revenge. Tria would have to be on guard.
Especially at night.
CHAPTER SIX
LECTURES AND LESSONS
Tria slept only fitfully all night, never losing her awareness of Lina’s presence. Nevertheless, the excitement of embarking on her first day of classes drove away her tiredness. She entered the classroom wing on the first floor of the main building and found the corridor crowded with students streaming to their first class of the new term. With only six classrooms plus a small seminar room, it took only a few moments for her to find her Metaphysical Theory class, a corner room with four rows of three desks each.
She selected a desk in the front row and dusted it off with her handkerchief before she sat. Her nose wrinkled at the odors of ink, chalk dust, and old books. With two walls of windows, the room should have been bright, but the sunlight had to strain through layers of dirt; dead flies littered the sills.
Nubba came in and headed for the third row. “Psst, Tria, come back here,” she whispered. “Old Tumbles is nearsighted; he only calls on the people in the first row.”
Not wanting to be rude, Tria slipped back quickly just as Master Tumberlis tottered in. The two back rows filled, leaving the front rows for late arrivers.
Master Tumberlis leaned on the lectern, cleared his throat, and peered through his thick spectacles. He greeted his pupils in a quavery voice and launched into the opening lecture.
“The worlds are born of dust and the tears of the gods,” he said. “How many worlds we cannot comprehend. The dimensions of existence are infinite, yet even most of the gifted experience no more than three or four. What mankind calls magic is the touch of another dimension. To the ignorant, those who move in dimensions closed to most are magicians, mages,
sorcerers—even gods.”
To Tria’s surprise, she found it fascinating despite the old man’s dry delivery. She scribbled furiously in her notebook, trying to record every word. But his next words so startled her that she forgot to write.
“The School for the Magically Gifted is a microcosm of the multidimensional universe. The uninitiated see only this modest building.” He waved his hand in a vague motion evidently intended to encompass their present location. “Its apparent limits are deceptive. Some believe it haunted because they catch fleeting glimpses of resplendent chambers they cannot enter. You may find open doors in unexpected places. Explore all such passages. See more than you can; strive to expand your senses. You will never know the whole, but go through those doors that open to you.”
She recalled her mother’s counsel to go through a door when it opens, but whatever her mother had meant by the advice, Master Tumberlis seemed to mean much more.
“Master Tumberlis,” red-haired Fenton Rhoze interrupted brazenly, “do you mean I can go up to third floor and visit any girl whose door is open?”
The class snickered. Master Tumberlis squinted in a pathetic effort to locate the offender. “Those who make light of serious matters will never ascend beyond the lowest levels,” he said.
The class quieted, but the serious mood was broken, and the rest of the lecture was uninspired.
But can it be true? Tria wondered. Could there be more to the school than I can see, or is this just another fraudulent claim? I wish I could talk to Wilce about it.
After class ended, she asked Nubba, “Have you ever seen anything like what Master Tumberlis was talking about? Secret passages, hidden rooms, that sort of thing?”
Nubba shifted her gaze away from Tria. “I don’t think secret passages and hidden rooms were exactly what he meant.” She sounded evasive. “There’s things … I’ve seen … well, glimpses, like he said. Out of the corner of my eye. Nothing clear. No door I could go through.”
A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6) Page 5
