In a cloud of blue chiffon, Tria descended the stairs, her hand resting on Wilce’s arm. How fine he looked in his ruffled white shirt and black tuxedo!
Behind them, to Tria’s deep satisfaction, Gray escorted Rehanne, her plain features radiant, her cheeks reflecting the rose of her organdy gown.
Tria touched her fingertips to the rosebud and carnation corsage that graced her shoulder, its pleasing perfume drifting to her face like a promise. She thought of the gift Wilce would present to her at the evening’s final dance. No matter what it was, she was sure it would delight her. Aglow with anticipation, she felt confident, graceful, no more the ignorant little country girl she’d been.
As she entered the dining hall with Wilce, she noted the envious gazes of the girls who had come without escorts. Her sympathy for them did not prevent a welling of pride.
Her thoughts were so focused on her own transformed appearance, it was a moment before she noticed and gasped at the transformation wrought on the dining hall. It had become a vast ballroom, lavishly decorated with glittering snow banks, its far wall a glass-blue glacier, streamers of stars sweeping down from the high ceiling to bathe the room in a sparkling silver light.
Tria could scarcely remember the required courteous responses as she and Wilce were greeted by each faculty member in the formal reception line that stretched from the doors toward the center of the room.
Master Tumberlis’s long-tailed coat was shiny at the elbows and the lapels were worn, but he bowed and kissed her hand with a dignity that brought tears to her eyes. They received an effusive welcome from Master San Marté, attired in a mauve tuxedo with pink lace cuffs and shirtfront. Mistress Dova was elegant in gold lamé, Mistress Blake lovely in a confection of lavender moiré. Master Hawke wore an imposing black cape and red silk cravat. Aletheia looked more ethereal than ever draped in diaphanous white. At the end of the line, Headmistress stood in a straight black gown, its severe lines offset by a glittering jet bead trim.
Headmistress greeted Tria warmly, beaming approval of her association with Wilce. At last she felt that her early transgressions were forgiven, and she basked in Headmistress’s smile.
The musicians caught her attention. Pulling Wilce along, she hurried across the room for a closer look. Crowded onto a small stage at the base of the glacier, the seven members of the band wore penguin costumes made with real feathers. Beaked and feathered masks completed the illusion.
Tria clapped her hands in delight, and as if waiting for that signal, the musicians picked up their instruments and the music began.
Wilce led her onto the dance floor. She hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself. “I’m not much of a dancer,” she warned him.
“Don’t worry. Just follow me.” One hand firm against her back, he guided her through the uncomplicated pattern of the waltz. At first she watched her feet and counted to herself, “One—two—three; one—two—three.” Soon she learned to anticipate his moves by the motion of his shoulder on which her hand rested. She lifted her gaze and met Wilce’s approving smile.
Gray and Rehanne glided past them, Rehanne’s lovely turquoise eyes broadcasting her happiness. “I’m glad you convinced me to talk Gray into taking Rehanne,” Wilce said, speaking low, his lips beside her ear. “The guys that insisted on coming alone are crazy. They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“I wish they’d get here.” The envious glances of the unescorted girls dampened her joy. Besides Wilce and Tria and Gray and Rehanne, only four other couples were on the floor. Palmer had relented and invited Elspeth after Gray asked Rehanne. Seeing the two dancing cheek-to-cheek made Tria wonder why Palmer had been so reluctant. The other couples were third-year students.
“Guess the rest of the fellows are waiting to make a grand entrance.”
For the moment Wilce’s explanation satisfied her. Giddy with joy and the warmth of his arms, Tria shut her eyes and let the music waft her along a stream of stars, galaxies whirling around her, barren planets bursting into glorious life as she passed.
The music stopped and silence dispelled her dream. The other boys had not yet come. All the girls were present except Irel, who never attended parties, and Taner, who had declared the ball “a foolish custom.” Over half the school’s male students were missing.
The band struck up a lively fox-trot. Tria urged Wilce to ask Nubba to dance. From the sidelines, she admired the graceful way in which he avoided Nubba’s clumsy feet without losing the rhythm of the dance. Gray danced with Coral, and Palmer with Kathyn. The third-year students exchanged partners only among themselves. Lina, in shimmering green, prowled around the edges of the crowd like a cat stalking its prey.
The faculty receiving line disbanded. Old Tumbles wandered over to the refreshment table. Master San Marté danced with Aletheia, while Master Hawke claimed Mistress Blake as his first dance partner. Mistress Dova and Headmistress resisted the music’s appeal and remained near the door, no doubt waiting for the late arrivals.
Where were they? All around her Tria heard strained whispers: “Aren’t they coming?” “They wouldn’t ruin the Midwinter Ball, would they?” “Why are they so late?”
The music ended, the dancers drifted from the floor, and in the silence someone said, “Here they come!”
Jerrol and Davy herded four other boys inside, separated from them, and greeted Headmistress and Mistress Dova. Too far away to hear their conversation, Tria was alarmed to see the two women back slowly toward the wall and stand as stiff and unmoving as statues.
Kress sauntered in, tall and resplendent in a swallowtail coat. A masked woman in a daring backless and strapless silver gown leaned on his arm. Oryon, in black tuxedo and black silk shirt, escorted a woman dressed in low-cut clinging scarlet. She too wore a full face mask.
Reece and Fenton swaggered in behind the two couples. Britnor entered last and closed the ballroom doors. The band struck up a lively melody, and Kress and Oryon paraded their partners onto the dance floor. No other couples moved to join them.
Wilce came up beside Tria and grabbed her elbow. “Those women aren’t students. There’s going to be trouble. I’m taking you out of here.”
Tria shook her head. “They have no right to spoil the ball for everyone.”
“But they will. That’s what they intend. It’s their revenge on Headmistress for punishing them and on you girls for humiliating them and for spoiling their fun in Millville.”
“But they seemed to be over all that,” Tria objected.
“They haven’t forgotten.” Wilce’s worried gaze focused on the conspirators. “I should have realized they were planning more than a joke. But I never talked to Oryon or Kress. The others probably think it is some sort of joke. Jerrol is Oryon’s roommate, so Oryon can twist him around. Fenton never takes anything seriously. Davy’d go along with Fenton. Reece and Britnor are looking to expand their power. Maybe they think this is the way to do it, but they’re in over their heads.” He tugged at her arm. “An explosion’s coming. Let’s go before things get rough.”
“We can’t go,” she snapped. “They’ve done something to Mistress Dova and Headmistress.”
“Just let me get you safely out of here, and I’ll come back and do what I can.”
“I’m not leaving. Whatever they’ve planned, we’ve got to face it.” She looked around, spotted Lina pushing toward her through the crowd, and went to meet her, drawing Wilce with her.
“This is it,” Lina said. “The attack they threatened. You ready?”
Tria shook her head. “I didn’t expect it here in front of everybody. It’ll be hard to defend ourselves. But we’ll have to do whatever we can to stop them.”
The dance ended. Kress and Oryon bowed low; their partners curtsied. With a flourish the women removed their masks, revealing grinning death’s-heads.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHALLENGE
Lina’s sharp intake of breath was followed by an unbelieving whisper. “Dire Women! They’ve summoned Dire
Women!”
The catgirl’s tone sounded far too admiring for Tria’s liking. Tria tore her gaze from the frightful apparitions to cast a sharp glance at her roommate. Lina’s face was pale as her eyes followed the movements of the dreadful women.
With a sound like the crack of a bullwhip, leathery wings unfurled from the Dire Women’s bare backs. The creatures rose into the air and flapped around the room, weaving in and out among the strands of fairy lights like ugly moths, defiling the beauty that had given Tria such delight. Kress and Oryon, Davy, Jerrol, and Fenton spread out on the empty dance floor and, facing the trembling crowd, took positions at the points of an invisible pentagram. Britnor and Reece guarded the doors, allowing no one to leave.
“They’ve lost their minds,” Wilce said, reminding Tria of his presence at her side. His voice was taut, brittle, and he seemed to be talking more to himself than to her. “I should have sensed their trickery. Maybe if I can get to them, use my gift …”
“No, it’s too late for that.” Tria clasped his hand as panic erupted. “Stay here and try to calm things down around us.”
But the girls’ screams grew louder, and no one, not even the faculty, seemed to know what to do.
Master San Marté backed into a corner and fanned a silk handkerchief about as if to ward off the evil.
Master Tumberlis collapsed, clutching his chest. Verin knelt beside him. She beckoned to fellow healer Salor Tribane, who had arrived with the other boys. Looking ashamed, he joined her and placed his hands over the old man’s.
Mistress Dova climbed onto an artificial snowbank and shouted in an arcane tongue—probably a spell, but as far as Tria could see, it produced no effect.
Aletheia, her gaze fixed on the Dire Women, stood on tiptoe, poised as though ready to follow them into another dimension.
Master Hawke traced glowing symbols into the air with his cane. They hung like pretty ornaments, then faded slowly away with no noticeable result.
Headmistress stood as though carved in stone.
Above all the other tumult, Nubba could be heard shrieking about the Shalreg.
Tria groaned. “Don’t tell me that’s here, too.”
She caught sight of Rehanne near the refreshment table, clinging to Gray’s arm. Pulling Wilce with her, Tria struck out in that direction. The scarlet-gowned Dire Woman circled above the refreshment table. She swooped down and caught hold of Gray. Rehanne tried to pull him free, but the woman tore him from her grasp and lifted him into the air as an owl might lift a field mouse.
Above the screams of terror Tria heard the flap of wings. The silver-gowned creature dove toward Wilce.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Tria shouted, jumping in front of Wilce. She flung up her arms to ward off the Dire Woman.
Someone yelled, “Use your power, Tria!”
She could not. Now, when she most needed it, her power deserted her. Surrounded by noise and panic, she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t act. A batlike wing slapped at her arms and face and, with a single powerful stroke, brushed her aside as if she had been a feather.
By the time she recovered her balance, the Dire Woman had snatched Wilce and borne him up toward the ceiling, above the reach of the crowd.
In helpless horror Tria watched the women fly back and forth. They met and hovered a wingspan apart above the center of the room. Wilce and Gray dangled limply in their grasp. Tria couldn’t tell whether they were unconscious—or dead.
With every gaze fixed on them and the astonished crowd holding its collective breath, the Dire Women and their prey vanished. One instant the hideous wings flapped, the skull faces grinned maliciously; the next instant—nothing but white ceiling, empty space, and silence.
“Where did they go?” Rehanne’s anguished cry shattered the stillness.
As though a spell had broken, the room filled again with noise. The five who formed the pentagram relaxed their rigid stance and moved closer together.
Lina stepped forward. As she moved, her body metamorphosed into her panther shape. She bounded toward Jerrol, the nearest of the five. With a snarl she leapt for his throat.
Kathyn ran toward Kress. Tria headed for Oryon. The room crackled and sparked with spells and counterspells as students and faculty shook off their stunned state. The simultaneous unleashing of so much power created currents and crosscurrents. Lights flashed, the room became unbearably hot, odors of sulfur and attar of roses mingled in a nauseous pastiche. Tria’s flesh crawled; her hair stood on end. Her pace slowed; she struggled as though plowing through deep mud.
Lina tumbled to the floor, restored to her human shape. Jerrol, blood pouring through the hand he clamped to his neck, stood as if dazed, then slowly crumpled.
The storm of conflicting magics gained hurricane force. It shoved Tria back, kept her from reaching Oryon.
“Hold!” Headmistress’s voice cut across the confusion. “Withdraw your power.”
The babble died away; the varicolored glows faded. In the lull, Kathyn’s angry voice rang out. “Headmistress was right about you, Kress. She said you were weak. I didn’t want to believe it. She said I had to stop letting you draw power from me, or I’d be dragged down with you. She should have told all your friends the same thing.” She stopped and looked around, as though suddenly aware of the stillness.
When Kathyn turned her head, Kress slapped her cheek, the sharp blow echoing through the room. She spat on him and walked away.
Headmistress strode into the center of the room. She stopped beside Jerrol, bent down, and placed a hand on his torn neck. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, but it eased beneath Headmistress’s touch, and when she stood, the gaping wound was gone. Lina, still sitting on the floor, scowled and scooted toward Tria.
Headmistress confronted the rest of the miscreants. “You will produce Wilce Riverman and Gray Becq at once.”
Davy shifted from foot to foot; Fenton backed off several steps as if to distance himself from the rest; Reece wiped sweat from his face. All three looked nervously at Oryon and Kress. Britnor drew a warding sign in the air in front of him.
Kress gazed after his twin, his face flushed with anger, his fists clenched. He did not look at Headmistress, did not seem aware of her presence.
Unlike his companions, Oryon met Headmistress’s gaze without flinching. He swaggered from the center of the group to place himself in front of the others, face to face with Headmistress, his lips curling in a defiant sneer. “You’re more powerful than I am,” he said. “You bring them back.”
Watching Headmistress, Tria thought she saw a nervous tic flicker across one cheek. But the woman addressed them in a firm voice. “As you know, I have the authority and the ability to strip you of your power. If you do not immediately restore Mr. Riverman and Mr. Becq, you—all of you—” she paused to strafe all the conspirators with her glare, “will be deprived of your gifts and sent home in disgrace.”
At that threat, Kress wrenched his gaze from Kathyn and cast a worried glance at Oryon. Britnor’s hands developed a noticeable tremor.
Oryon said smoothly with a hint of laughter, “Ah, but if you do that, we won’t be able to restore Wilce and Gray, will we? You will have to find them yourself.”
“And you think I cannot?”
Headmistress was sparring with him. Tria gritted her teeth. Come on, she thought. Bring back Wilce and Gray, and give these criminals the punishment they deserve.
But Headmistress said, “You are wrong if you think your cleverness will save you. Consider carefully what you do.”
“I have considered.” Oryon’s arrogant lift of his chin made Tria seethe. “I will not do as you ask, nor will Kress.”
Tria gasped at his audacity. He had to be convinced that he had no reason to fear Headmistress. As she waited for Headmistress to prove him wrong, he continued. “What was done here tonight was our work, Kress’s and mine. The others, as you well know, do not have the power. They were merely assisting in what they thought would be a practical joke.�
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Reece nodded his head vigorously. Davy looked ill. Jerrol rubbed his healed neck and stared at the floor.
Headmistress turned to Kress. “Mr. Klemmer, do you agree to share responsibility with Mr. Brew for what has happened, and do you also absolve these others of blame?”
Kress hesitated, glanced at Oryon, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, I do.”
“So be it,” Headmistress responded. “On your heads be the consequences of your actions. I ask you once more—both of you. Restore the two who were spirited away by your illicit actions.”
Oryon snorted. “I reject the concept of ‘illicit,’” he said. “One may do what one has the power to do, regardless of Master San Marté’s babblings about ethics.”
Gasps and shocked whispers rustled through the room.
Oryon raised his hand, commanding silence. “Now I will instruct you, mistress. I—we—will not restore Wilce and Gray. Instead, I challenge you to restore Mr. Becq and Mr. Riverman. I will grant you the generous term of one year in which to do so. If you succeed before the end of that time, Mr. Klemmer and I will accept our punishment. If you fail, Mr. Becq and Mr. Riverman will perish, and we will reorganize this school under our rules and our administration. And you, esteemed Headmistress, will be stripped of your power.” He stepped back and looked up at Headmistress, his arms crossed over his chest.
The ballroom doors swung open and Veronica walked in. Tria took note of Headmistress’s reaction; she was sure relief registered in her eyes.
“We will conclude this matter in private,” Headmistress announced. “All students except Mr. Brew, Mr. Klemmer, Miss Mueller, and Miss Tesserell are dismissed to your rooms. I am sorry this special event has been ruined for you. Faculty, please conduct the musicians to their bus and monitor to be certain all students reach their rooms without further incident and that no one indulges in unauthorized use of power.”
The faculty moved quickly to obey her. Aletheia was not with the others. Tria wondered whether she could have followed the Dire Women. Maybe she would retrieve Wilce and Gray, though Tria doubted that she had the strength.
A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6) Page 11
