A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Headmistress answered stiffly. “You are only a first-year student; you have been assigned to classes designed to give beginning students the foundation on which an ethical practice may be built. If practice is not undergirded by theory—”

  “I know that,” Tria interrupted. “Last term I understood why I was assigned those courses. But this term I’d accepted Oryon’s challenge, and everyone knew it. Why wasn’t I placed in classes that would help me?”

  Headmistress sighed. “Your situation is, as you say, unique. No class we could offer would give you the kind of help you are asking for. You must find the resources within yourself. As I have pointed out before, your only advantage over Oryon is a moral one. He is motivated by selfish ambition, while you are trying to save your friends. Still, you are doomed to failure if you do not go about it in the right way. That is why the Ethics class is important. If you do not see the relevance of Mistress Dova’s and Master Hawke’s classes to your quest, it is because you are taking too narrow a view of the—”

  Tria jumped up from her chair and shouted, “I’ve had all the theory I can stand! I want to get Wilce and Gray back. And Lina. You know about Lina, you must. And Oryon struts around like he already owns the place, and nobody lectures him. Do you think I’m not sorry for the mistakes I’ve made? I’m distraught about them. But how can I avoid mistakes when I know so little? How am I supposed to learn?”

  Headmistress remained seated while Tria’s outburst ran its course. Trembling, fists clenched, Tria waited for an answer.

  Headmistress rose and moved quietly to the door. Her hand on the knob, she paused and gazed into the mirror. Her reflection turned its eyes on Tria and said quietly, “Attend classes and listen to your instructors. Pay heed to your own inner voice. Study your opponent and discover his weaknesses. Do not accept the possibility of defeat. Cultivate patience. Do not compromise your integrity.”

  She turned the knob, opened the door, and glided into the hall, leaving Tria choking on the string of platitudes she’d been given instead of the help she’d begged for.

  Tria dragged herself out of bed after a night of restless sleep punctuated with nightmares and dreams of ill omen. She resented Headmistress’s order to attend classes, but what else could she do? She could not continue to hide in her room as she’d done yesterday. She had to confront her fellow students, had to find out how Taner, Coral, and Irel were, and whether Rehanne would continue the quest.

  Tria could not renounce it. She could not turn her back on Oryon’s helpless victims. She resolved to follow Headmistress’s advice until she found better. She would try to find better. She intended to talk to Veronica and to request an appointment with Mistress Blake. Perhaps one of them would prove of greater help than Headmistress had.

  She dressed in a dark brown wool skirt and a tan lumberjack blouse—plain clothes and dull colors to match her dark mood. When the breakfast bell rang, she waited until the hall cleared, sneaked into the dining room as Master Tumberlis invoked the Power-Giver’s blessing, and slipped into a seat at an empty table. A quick survey of the assembled students brought some relief. She caught sight first of Coral and then of Irel; they were all right. But she couldn’t find Taner, about whom she was most worried.

  This breakfast was like her first at the school: the same sense of isolation, of surrounding hostility. The same sickening effort to choke down weak, watery porridge and hard brown bread. The same haste to escape to her room. Only this time Nubba did not come to rescue her from her isolation. Alone and lonely, she trudged to her first class.

  Her return was not auspicious. Master San Marté directed his lecture to her, and the students gave her no sympathy but continued to ostracize her. She tried to look attentive while her mind was elsewhere. Fortunately, the master’s questions were rhetorical; he expected no answer.

  A single phrase snared her wandering thoughts and snapped her attention back to the lecture: “ the ethical considerations to which all methods of doubling power give rise.” He paused, cleared his throat, smoothed his mustache, and launched into a new topic.

  Doubling power. What did he say about it? If only I’d listened.

  She looked around, but no one was sitting near enough to permit her to read their notes.

  Doubling power. Did Master San Marté suggest how it could be done? If it was common enough to warrant a place in his lecture …

  Oryon had found a way, she was sure of it. His power had doubled—more than doubled—after their duel. Maybe after class I could ask Master San Marté about power doubling. I’ll have to confess I didn’t listen to the lecture. He’ll feel insulted, but what do I care?

  When class ended, she waited while the other students filed out, approached the master as he was gathering up his lecture notes. “Master San Marté,” she began diffidently, “I wonder if you could—”

  “Ah, Miss Tesserell, I wanted to talk to you. You have missed several classes lately, and that work must be made up if you are to pass the course. I’ve prepared a list of the assignments you missed. Please have these done by the end of the week.” He pressed into her hand a sheet of paper covered with his crabbed script. “Excuse me. I have an appointment with Headmistress.”

  He turned and hurried from the room. Dispirited, she trailed out after him.

  Dreading the confrontation with Oryon, she forced herself to enter Mistress Dova’s class and take her usual seat. Again the other students shunned her, some switching desks to avoid sitting near her. Oryon, though, swaggered in and sat beside her. Her stomach lurched, and she hoped she would not disgrace herself by becoming ill. Staring straight ahead, she clasped her hands on her desk, her interlocked fingers straining not to tremble.

  Mistress Dova stalked into the room and slammed her books down on her desk, making Tria jump. She glared at the students. “I have discovered a theft,” she announced in a voice taut with rage.

  Tria’s stomach twisted. Acid filled her throat, making her cough and choke. The noise drew Mistress Dova’s attention.

  She fixed her angry gaze on Tria. “Many of you have seen my copy of the Breyadon, written by the mage Alair. It is one of only six replicas and is extremely valuable. It is also dangerous and must not be misused.” Her gaze shifted back and forth between Tria and Oryon.

  Oryon’s response was a snort of disgust. Tria sat up straight and scarcely suppressed an exclamation of excitement. She had used the Breyadon, and it had led her to the crystal place. Perhaps the mysterious inhabitant of that place was the mage Alair. If so, he had seemed to look on her with favor.

  But he had also warned her against following the wrong path. And she had done that since her visit.

  She knew what she must do. Impatiently she waited for class to end. When it did, Oryon sauntered past her, whistling. He almost seemed to be daring her to tell what she knew. She turned away from him, waited until the other students left, and went to Mistress Dova.

  “I must talk to you, Mistress,” she said. “I know what happened to the Breyadon.”

  Holding nothing back, she confessed all she had done.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DOORS

  Tria ate her lunch alone though all the other tables were filled. She told herself she didn’t mind; the isolation gave her time to think about the conversation she’d had with Mistress Dova. The Arcane Studies mistress had been more sad and hurt than angry at what Tria had done, and had charged her with the responsibility of recovering the Breyadon, as Tria had more or less expected. But she had been shocked to hear Mistress Dova admit she had never considered the possibility of Oryon’s using magic to break the code in which the book was written. Because the mistress had devoted several years of arduous scholarship to the task of translation, it had not occurred to her that the task could be accomplished in days or weeks by someone untroubled by scruples. To Mistress Dova the illicit use of power required for a magical assault against the secrets of an ancient mage was unthinkable. When Tria c
onvinced her that Oryon would make the attempt, she had questioned Tria about her progress and plans in her struggle with Oryon.

  “Headmistress has forbidden any of the faculty to assist you in any way, you know,” Mistress Dova said when Tria finished. “I can’t advise you about your quest, but I can remind you that Breyadon means ‘doors.’ I have always believed that fact to be of key importance to the unraveling of its secrets. You have tried to force open doors that must remain shut. It is wiser to go through doors which are open, though you may not know what lies beyond them.”

  Tria had been unable to pry more than that enigmatic counsel from Mistress Dova; nevertheless she felt great relief at having unburdened herself. Now, puzzling over what doors the instructor could have been referring to, she chewed and swallowed her food mechanically, neither tasting nor noticing what she ate, wanting only to empty her plate and leave.

  As she exited the dining hall, Kress rose from his table and walked past her. Outside the entrance he slowed, and as she passed him, he whispered, “I have to talk to you. Don’t lock your door tonight.”

  He hurried on, and she knew better than to pursue or call to him, but her head whirled with questions: What does Kress want? Is it a trap, a scheme of Oryon’s? Or have I been offered one of Mistress Dova’s mysterious “open doors”?

  She went upstairs, intending to rest until time for her afternoon classes. But Taner’s door was open, and as she passed she saw Taner kneeling beside her footlocker. So Taner, too, had recovered. On an impulse Tria stepped inside. Taner looked up.

  “I’m glad to see you feeling better.” Tria spoke hesitantly, uncertain how she would be received. “I—I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for bringing so much trouble on everyone. I’ve been terribly worried about you.”

  Taner sat back on her heels and lifted an unsmiling face toward Tria. “The evil from the Dire Woman burned deep within me. Because I am strong, I live. But I am not whole. I have lost the use of my power.”

  Tria gasped. “Your power is gone?”

  “Not gone. Dormant. I sense it hiding within me, but I cannot call it forth. So I am returning to my people.”

  Tria saw that Taner had been packing clothes into her footlocker. “You’re leaving? You won’t finish the year?”

  Taner shook her head. “How could it benefit me? At home among my clan, I may recover what I have lost. I will go before the elders of my people and ask the right to earn a new dagger in an ordeal that may bring the healing of my power if it does not bring death. If I succeed, I may return and complete my studies. I can bring no honor upon my people by staying now.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Tria stood in awkward silence until Taner spoke again.

  “I do not blame you, Tria. I cannot say that in your place I would not have made the same attempt. Perhaps, had you had a better partner than Lina, you might have succeeded in controlling the Dire Woman. Lina betrayed you. You should never have trusted her.”

  The accusation shocked Tria. “Why do you say Lina betrayed me?” She hesitated only a moment before confessing, “It was my carelessness that allowed the Dire Woman to get free. I accidentally erased part of the pentagram that would have confined her.”

  Taner’s thick eyebrows met in a fierce frown. “Such a foolish thing, to try to bind a Dire Woman. But Lina attacked Gray, not the Dire Woman. Why?”

  The question startled Tria. “Why, because he was between her and the Dire Woman. He would have defended the Dire Woman.”

  Taner shook her head. “I think you are wrong. You do not comprehend the ways of evil. I had just come out of the washroom, and I had a clear view of the Dire Woman and Gray and the panther. When Gray passed Rehanne and she screamed, I think it jogged his memory. I am sure he was about to attack his keeper when the panther sprang on him. By subduing Gray, Lina may have hoped to win favor with the Dire Woman. She was hungry for power and would take it any way and anywhere she could. You are well rid of her.”

  “I don’t think so. But even if you’re right, I intend to try to rescue her as well as Gray and Wilce.”

  Taner set a last pile of clothes into the footlocker and slammed the lid shut. “It is too late. Forget the foolish quest. One thing you must do: kill Oryon.”

  “Taner, I can’t kill!”

  “It is the only solution.”

  “You cared for him once—or said you did.”

  “I did.” Taner jumped to her feet, waving her fists. The scar on her cheek gleamed white. “He betrayed me. For that alone he deserves death.”

  Frightened, Tria muttered that she needed to get ready for her next class and backed into the hall.

  She’d gone only a few steps when someone called her. Down the hall she saw Rehanne beckoning her. She hurried toward her friend.

  Rehanne stood in the doorway of her room; she did not invite Tria inside. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said in a strained voice, “after seeing what Gray has become, I won’t go on with the quest. You should give it up, too. Gray and Wilce are lost, and you’ve only made matters worse.”

  The cold words stabbed Tria’s heart. “What about Oryon?” The words came out in a strangled whisper. “What about his threat to take over the school? He’s got to be stopped.”

  “Headmistress will stop him when the time comes. If she doesn’t, the school isn’t worth saving.”

  “But, Rehanne—”

  “My mind is made up, Tria. I won’t discuss it further.” Rehanne stepped into her room and shut the door in Tria’s face.

  Tria walked numbly to her room.

  They are both wrong, she told herself. Both Taner and Rehanne. I do have to stop Oryon, but not by killing him. And I can’t give up on Wilce and Gray. I’ll find a way to restore them. And Lina.

  Tria could not be sure Lina hadn’t betrayed her as Taner said. But she must be rescued. No matter what she had done, she didn’t deserve to be left in the hands of the Dire Women.

  Tria closed the door and stood facing it, regarding her reflection in the round mirror. The face that gazed back at her she hardly recognized as her own. Pale and thin, its shadowed eyes gave evidence of the strain she’d been under. New worry lines marred the high forehead; they deepened as she frowned, remembering another image in another mirror.

  Oryon’s image had appeared in his mirror to mock her and Rehanne when they had searched his room. An image. A reflection. A double.

  Doubled power.

  Tria stared at her reflection, visualizing it as a second living self. She summoned her power, cast it outward, willed her mirrored self to absorb it. Something sucked the power from her, and at the same time her image acquired a glow, an impression of strength. The glass between them seemed to disappear, and Tria felt that if she put out her hand, she could clasp the hand of her flesh and blood double, drawn to her, perhaps, from some other dimension.

  She did not test that theory. She said to her mirrored self, “Now give me your power.” What she had sent forth she drew back. Her image paled. Power flowed into her, more than she had sent out. She took deep breaths, let the strength fill her. Whether her power had doubled she could not tell, but it had increased. It coursed through her, infusing her with energy. Even her dull brown and tan clothes looked brighter. She smiled at her image. “Thanks, sister,” she said.

  She thought of the list in her desk drawer, wondering whether she could add a new talent to the second column. Not yet, she decided. She did not yet know what she had accomplished. She needed to test the strength she’d gathered, but her clock told her she had only a few minutes to reach her Paths to Other Worlds class. She could miss it again, but an inner voice urged her to attend and defer the experimenting.

  “I’m sorry,” she spoke to her reflection. “I wanted to try to send you to spy on Oryon. We’ll do it later. Stay with me for now and lend me power.”

  With a new bounce in her step, she walked to class.

  Aletheia looked up from the papers spread out on her lectern. “Good afternoon.”
She delivered the brief greeting with unusual animation. Tria returned it with answering enthusiasm.

  Petra came in right after Tria and, disarmed perhaps by Tria’s welcoming smile, returned the smile and sat beside her. Irel tottered in three or four minutes late and collapsed into the seat nearest the door. Alarmed by her frail appearance, Tria went to her and touched her hand. “Courage, Irel,” she said.

  Aletheia came and stood beside Tria. “Yes, courage, indeed. I have planned a special class today.”

  Irel lifted her head and gazed at Tria and at Aletheia. Her lips achieved a weak upward curve.

  “That’s better.” Aletheia returned to the lectern.

  Tria slipped back to her seat and waited with growing impatience while Aletheia riffled through papers, glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall above the blackboard, interlaced her thin fingers, and bestowed a solemn gaze on each of her three students in turn.

  “I have decided that today we shall attempt a cross-dimensional excursion. How far we go and what you experience will be determined by your receptivity. And I warn you, we must all stay together, which means that we may go only where the weakest of you is capable of going. None of you must wander off on her own. Is that understood?”

  Tria nodded, and the others likewise gave assent. Aletheia came from behind the lectern and stretched out her hands. “Come, join hands and form a circle.”

  Tria rose and clasped Petra’s hand; Petra took hold of Aletheia’s. Irel stood, but kept her hands to her side.

  “Come on, Irel.” Tria stepped closer and caught hold of Irel’s hand. It was cold and limp, and the fingers lay inert in hers.

  Aletheia took Irel’s other hand. “I will have to turn around in a moment so that I can lead you,” she said. “I will release you only long enough to turn and take your hands again. Keep a firm hold and don’t let go.