The North Tower
I follow my map to a long building near the White Hall, enter and make my way through the sizable dining area toward a door at the very end.
An engraved wooden placard on the adjacent wall reads Main Kitchen.
I push on the door, and it swings open on heavy iron hinges. The corridor it opens into is lined with shelves stacked full of cleaning tools, and the smell of soap is heavy in the air. I walk toward another door just ahead and peer through its circular window.
Warm light emanates from the kitchen and spills out over me like a cozy blanket, the smells of food and well-banked fires filling me with comfort.
It smells like home. Like the kitchen in my uncle’s cottage. As if I could close my eyes, and when I opened them, I’d be home, my uncle offering me a mug of warm, mint tea with honey.
On a broad wooden table directly before me, a plump, elderly Urisk woman busily kneads a large pile of bread dough. She’s carrying on a quiet conversation with three other Urisk women doing the same. Almost all of them look like the seasonal laborers at the Gaffneys’ farm—rose-tinted white skin, hair and eyes. Members of the Urisk lower class.
The women laugh every now and then, the fragrant herbs hanging in rows from the rafters above their heads giving the kitchen the look of a friendly forest. A number of young Kelts joke with each other amicably as they go about washing dishes, tending fires, chopping vegetables for tomorrow’s meals. A small Urisk child skips about, her rose-white hair braided, the kitchen laborers skirting around her, careful not to spill hot water or plates of food on her head. She can’t be more than five years old. The little girl is holding some twisted wire and a small bottle, pausing every now and then to blow bubbles at people, the bread makers good-naturedly shooing her and popping bubbles before they can land on the piles of dough.
As I continue to watch the warm scene, relief washes over me.
To think Aunt Vyvian imagined working here would be so terrible. This is work I truly welcome. Peeling potatoes, washing dishes, pleasant people.
And then I see him.
Yvan Guriel.
The angry Kelt. The one who hated me on sight.
But he doesn’t look angry now. He’s sitting in a far corner in front of a table. With him sit four young women—three of them Urisk, one a serious, blonde Keltic girl—all of whom look to be about the same age as me.
There are books and maps open in front of them, and Yvan is talking and pointing to something on one of the pages, almost as if he’s lecturing. Every so often he pauses, and the Urisk girls copy something down onto the parchment in front of them. Two of the Urisk girls nod at him when he speaks, concentrating intently on what he has to say.
These girls have rose-white coloration, like most of the Urisk in the kitchen, and are plainly dressed in aprons over work clothes, their hair pulled back into single braids. But the third Urisk girl is different. She reminds me of the Amazakaran—her hair worn in a series of beaded ropes, her posture defiant, her emerald eyes as intense as Yvan’s. And her hair and skin are as vivid green as her eyes.
The small, bubble-blowing Urisk child runs over to their table, to Yvan, and throws her arms around him, spilling almost the entire bottle of the bubble liquid down his brown woolen shirt.
I wonder what he’ll do, intense and angry as he seems to be.
But he surprises me. He reaches up and puts a gentle hand on the small arm that’s still wrapped around him, the little girl grinning at him widely. Then he turns his head to her and smiles.
My breath catches in my throat.
His broad, kind smile transforms him into a completely different person than the angry young man I saw earlier. He’s dazzling—more boyish than Lukas, but devastatingly handsome. The flickering lantern light of the kitchen highlights his angular features, and his brilliant green eyes, so hateful before, are now so lovely to look at—brimming with intelligence and kindness. Seeing him like this sets off a sudden bloom of warmth in my chest.
He says something to the Urisk child and squeezes her arm affectionately. The child nods, still smiling, and skips off with her bubbles.
For a moment I can’t take my eyes off him, and I imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such a smile.
It’s all so wonderful. Friendship. Cooking. Children.
And, the icing on the cake, a large, gray cat walks across the floor.
It reminds me of home. And I know that once Yvan gets to know me, he’ll see that I’m not a bad person.
Everything is going to work out just fine.
I summon what little courage I have left, push open the swinging door and walk into the kitchen.
As soon as I enter, every last trace of friendly conversation snuffs out like a candle doused with a bucket of cold water.
My transient happiness evaporates.
Yvan stands up so abruptly he almost knocks his chair over, the look of hatred back on his face, his eyes narrowing furiously on me. The fierce green Urisk girl and the blonde Kelt girl shoot up, glaring at me with pure, undisguised loathing. The two other Urisk girls at the table take on looks of terror, glancing from me to the books and maps in front of them as if they’re thieves caught with stolen goods.
I blink at them in confusion.
Are the books not allowed in here? And what about the maps? Why are they so afraid?
One of the older Urisk women pushes the little girl behind her skirts, as if shielding her from me. Everyone in the room begins casting secret, furtive glances at each other, as if they’re trying, desperately, to figure out what to do.
Everyone except for Yvan, the heat in his rage-filled glare radiating clear across the room.
I struggle not to shrink back, an uncomfortable flush rising along my neck and cheeks.
The plump, elderly Urisk woman who was kneading bread comes forward, a forced smile on her face as she wrings her flour-covered hands nervously. “Is there something I can do for you, dear?”
“Um...” I hold out my papers to her with a quavering smile. “I’m Elloren Gardner. This is my labor assignment.”
The blonde Kelt girl’s mouth falls open in surprise. Beside her, the fierce Urisk girl eyes me murderously, and the small child peers out from her hiding spot curiously.
The elderly Urisk woman before me swallows audibly and keeps reading my labor assignment papers over and over, as if there’s been some mistake, and if she only reads it through enough times she’ll find it—as if my being there is just too awful to be true. The headache throbbing behind my eyes spreads out to my temples.
I can feel Yvan’s glare boring into me. He’s taller than I originally thought, and all the more intimidating for it.
“I’m supposed to find Fernyllia Hawthorne,” I offer.
“That would be me, Mage Gardner,” the old woman says, attempting another fake, wavering smile before carefully handing my papers back. “I’m Kitchen Mistress.”
“Oh, well... I’m ready to work.” I smile weakly at them, avoiding eye contact with Yvan. “Just let me know what you need.”
“Oh, Mage Gardner, you’re really not dressed for it,” Fernyllia points out, gesturing toward my fine clothes.
“Yes, I know,” I say apologetically. “I just got in and haven’t had a chance to change.” I look down at my intricately embroidered skirts. “My aunt bought these for me. These clothes. They’re not very practical.”
“Your aunt?” Fernyllia says faintly, like she’s having a bad dream.
“Yes, my aunt... Vyvian Damon.”
Fernyllia and some of the other kitchen workers wince at the mention of my aunt’s name. Yvan’s scowl hardens.
“Yes,” Fernyllia says softly, “I know of her.” She looks up at me imploringly. “I must apologize for my granddaughter being here, Mage Gardner.” She gestures in the direction of the child. “Her mother’s sick and...and I needed to mind her tonight. It won’t happen again.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I reply reassuringly. “I like children.”
Why would it matter that the child’s here? Is there some reason she’s not allowed in the kitchen?
No one’s expression budges.
“And Yvan,” she explains nervously, gesturing toward him, “he’s getting a head start on his University studies. Such a good student he is. But I did tell him that he needs to get his work done elsewhere in the future. A kitchen is no place for books, what with all the things that can spill on them and such!”
I smile and nod at her in agreement, trying to prove myself worthy of their acceptance.
“I wish I was ahead in my studies,” I tell Yvan, attempting a smile as I turn to him and meet his intense eyes. “I’m already behind, it seems...”
His glare goes scalding, as if he’s wildly affronted. I can feel the anger radiating off him in thick waves, bearing down on me.
I swallow audibly, really hurt by his unrelenting, bizarre level of hatred. I blink back the sting of tears and turn to Fernyllia.
Ignore him, I tell myself. Force yourself to ignore him.
“So, what would you like me to do?” I ask with forced pleasantry.
Fernyllia’s eyes dart around, as if she’s trying to figure something important out quickly.
“Why don’t I show Mage Gardner what to do with the compost buckets?” the fierce-looking Urisk girl offers in a slow, careful tone.
Fernyllia’s eyes flicker in the direction of the books and back to me again. She puts on another false, obsequious smile. “That’s an excellent idea, Bleddyn,” she agrees. “Why don’t you go with Bleddyn, Mage Gardner. She’ll show you what to do. You don’t mind being around animals, do you?”
“Oh, no,” I respond with newfound enthusiasm. “I love animals.”
“Good, good,” says Fernyllia as she wrings her weathered hands nervously. “Just follow Bleddyn out, then. The scraps need to go out to the pigs. She’ll show you what to do.”
I feel like Yvan and everyone else in the room are holding their collective breath as I set down my books and papers and follow Bleddyn out of the kitchen and into a back room. A few large, wooden buckets filled with food scraps are lined up by a door.
“Grab two and follow me,” Bleddyn orders icily, her eyes narrowed to slits. I notice that she makes no move to pick up buckets herself, even though there are several more waiting to be brought out.
Bleddyn opens the door with more force than necessary, and it slams against the outside wall of the kitchen with a sharp crack.
The door opens out onto a grassy pasture. Bleddyn grabs a lantern that hangs on a hook next to the door. It’s not raining anymore, but everything remains damp and cold, and I can feel the icy moisture of the grass seeping over the edges of my fancy shoes.
Frost will come soon. I can smell it on the early-autumn air.
As we trudge in the direction of a series of low barns and livestock pens, I find myself yearning for my mother’s quilt and a warm, dry room.
Soon. This day will be over soon. And then Rafe and Trystan and Gareth will be here, and they’ll help me make sense of all the terrible things that have happened.
The storm clouds are breaking up into slender, dark ribbons, a portion of the full moon appearing, then disappearing and appearing again, like some malevolent eye going in and out of hiding. With all the moving clouds and shifting light, the sky seems very large and oppressive, and I feel small and exposed. I think of the Icaral, out there somewhere, hidden like this moon, waiting for me, and a chill courses down my spine.
Bleddyn’s fast pace is creating a yawning distance between us, and I hurry to catch up, not wanting to be caught alone in the darkness.
I follow Bleddyn into one of the barns where pigs are being kept in a series of clean, spacious stalls that smell of mud, fresh hay and food scraps. It’s poorly lit, and I can barely see my way around.
Bleddyn opens the latch on the gate to one of the stalls. She points to a far corner, where a long trough stands, along with a sow nursing a number of snorting, snuffling piglets jockeying with each other for position.
“There,” she says, gesturing toward the trough. “Dump the scraps in there.”
I tighten my grip on the two scrap buckets and walk into the stall, my shoes sinking into something soft. I make a concerted effort to ignore it.
I’ll clean myself up later. And besides, I don’t want this stern Urisk girl to think I’m some pampered Gardnerian who can’t pull my weight. They’ll soon see that I’m as hard a worker as any of them.
As I pull up one foot, the shoe makes an unpleasant sucking sound.
A hard kick to my rear sends me sprawling.
I fall forward into the mud and pig manure, the scrap buckets falling out of my hands and tumbling over, food remnants scattering everywhere, one of my shoes coming loose. The pigs oink excitedly as they frantically scramble about for the food.
I push myself up onto my knees and round on Bleddyn, my heart racing. “Did you just kick me?” I ask, incredulous.
Bleddyn is leaning against a wall, smiling darkly at me.
“Why did you kick me?” I demand as I pull myself up.
The blonde Keltic girl who was standing with Bleddyn in the kitchen walks in.
“She kicked me!” I exclaim to the blonde girl, pointing at Bleddyn.
“I didn’t kick her,” Bleddyn sneers. “She tripped. She’s quite clumsy.”
“I did not trip!” I vehemently contradict. “I was kicked!”
The blonde girl shakes her head from side to side. “Isn’t that just like a Gardnerian? Blaming the help.”
“They’re all the same,” Bleddyn agrees. “Bunch of black Roaches.”
I flinch at the racial insult. It’s a horrible name that mocks the black of our sacred garb. “Get away from me!” I spit out, turning to retrieve my shoe.
I should never have turned my back on them. Another kick sends me flying back down into the muck.
“Why are you doing this?” I cry, scrambling around to face them, my heart pounding. A curious piglet comes over to snuffle at my skirts.
“I cannot believe she tripped again!” Bleddyn exclaims.
“She really is dreadfully clumsy,” the Kelt agrees.
“I think she needs a new labor assignment.”
“Something that doesn’t require walking.”
They both pause to chuckle at this.
I’m stunned. Why are they being so cruel? I’ve done nothing to deserve it.
“Oh, and look, she’s soiled her pretty, pretty dress,” Bleddyn observes.
“Leave me alone!” I insist as I pull myself once more to my feet, every muscle tensed. “If you don’t get away from me, I’ll... I’ll report you both!”
“Shut up!” the Kelt girl barks as she bursts into the stall, fists clenched.
I shrink back from her.
“Now, you listen to me, Gardnerian!” she snarls at me. “Don’t think we don’t know why you’re here!”
“I’m here because I need money for University!”
A swift slap across my face sends me flying backward and into a state of shock. I’ve never been struck in my entire life.
“I told you to shut up, Roach!” she bellows.
Bleddyn stands behind her, smirking.
“How stupid do you think we are?” the blonde girl continues, her tone acid as I cradle my cheek.
“About what?” I cry, bursting into angry tears. “I’m here so I can pay my tithe. Just like you!”
“Liar!” she snarls. “They sent you here to spy on us, didn’t they?”
Spy? What kind of strange world have I landed in?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I choke out at her.
I think of the books. The maps hastily cleared away. What are they all involved in here?
“Look at me, Gardnerian!” the blonde girl demands.
Afraid of being struck again, I comply.
The blonde girl points an unforgiving finger at me. “If you so much as mention to anyone that you saw a child here, or any books or maps, we will find you, and we will break your arms and legs.”
“I think it would be quite easy,” Bleddyn observes, sounding almost bored. “She’s very weak-looking. So willowy.”
“Very willowy,” the Kelt agrees.
“Not much she could do about it, either. She’s a Level One Mage, did you know that?”
“How embarrassing.”
“Her grandmother would be so disappointed.”
I feel a spark of anger rise at their mention of my grandmother. I push it down and watch them carefully.
They eye me for a long moment. I wonder if they’re done beating on me as I cower by the wall, exhausted, filthy and fighting back the tears.
“Anyway,” the blonde girl finally says, “I think we’ve made ourselves clear. See you in the kitchens, Elloren Gardner.”
“Bring back the buckets,” says Bleddyn as they both turn to leave, “and try not to trip again.”
After they leave, I sob for a minute or two before my anger sparks anew.
They can’t treat me this way. They can’t. I roughly wipe the tears from my face. I may be powerless, but I can report them to the Kitchen Mistress. I won’t let them scare me into submission.
My outrage burning away at my fear, I take a deep breath and drag myself back to the kitchen.
* * *
I enter and am met by the same unified silence I departed from.
Bleddyn and the blonde Kelt girl stand bracketing Fernyllia and are both glaring at me menacingly.
Yvan looks momentarily stunned by my appearance.
Fernyllia and the others seem shocked, too, but they quickly recover, masking their dismay with carefully neutral expressions.
Only Yvan’s eyes remain a storm of conflict.
I notice that the child is gone, and so are the books and maps that were on the table.
“They tripped me and slapped me!” I tell Fernyllia, my voice breaking with emotion as I point at Bleddyn and the Kelt girl.
“Now then, Mage, you must be mistaken,” Fernyllia says in a conciliatory tone, but there’s a hard edge of warning in her eyes. “I’m sure Bleddyn and Iris meant you no harm.”
“They beat on me and threatened me!”
“No, Mage,” Fernyllia corrects. “You tripped.”
I gape at her, stupefied. They’re all a united front—united against me.
Head spinning, I grasp for what to do. I could go to the Chancellor and turn every last one of them in. But first I have to get out of here safely.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the night off, Mage Gardner?” Fernyllia offers, but there’s a hint of a command behind her polite, subservient tone. “Get yourself settled in. Your shift here tomorrow begins at fifteenth hour.”
My outrage collapses into an exhausted, browbeaten misery, everything around me going blurry with tears.
I grab my paperwork, which Fernyllia’s holding out to me, and look squarely with undisguised accusation at Yvan.
He’s holding himself stiffly, not looking at me now, his hands on his hips, his jaw tight, doggedly making his loyalties known.
Against me.
A flood of tears threatening, I turn away from all of them and flee.
* * *
Stumbling as I go, silent tears falling, I struggle to find my way toward the North Tower.
Shelter. Shelter’s all I want right now. A place to sleep and hide until tomorrow, when I can find my brothers and get help.
The hatred in Yvan’s eyes reverberates in my mind, but I feel better the farther from the kitchens I get.
Outside, the clouds have continued to thin and now resemble hundreds of slow-moving, dark snakes, the moon partially hidden by the shifting serpents. I make my way through the winding University streets and its small knots of cloaked strangers, past the Weavers’ Guild building and then a series of damp fields, the cold air and brisk walk gradually calming me.
Some of the fields are home to sheep, huddled by feeding troughs in muddied masses, while others are horse pasture adjacent to long boarding stables.
And then I’m past it all, my steps halting as I stare up across a broad, barren field, the sloping expanse of it scrubby and deserted. A thin wind whistles.
The North Tower lies before me.
It sits clear across the field, a poorly maintained stone path winding up to it. Like a sentinel guarding the forest, this old military post is a last-chance stop before being enveloped by the wilderness to its back and sides, a weathered archer’s turret placed high on the roof.
My new home.
It’s gray and cold and foreboding—everything made of Spine stone, no wood. Nothing at all like Uncle Edwin’s warm, comforting cottage. My heart sinks even lower at the sight of it.
Resignedly, I trudge through the huge field, the tower looming over me as I approach.
I open the sole door at the base of the tower, and it creakily swings open to reveal a small foyer, a spiraling staircase to the left and a storage closet to the right. The door to the closet is open and, by the dim light of a wall lantern, I can see it’s full of buckets, rakes, extra lanterns and a variety of cleaning supplies. I’m heartened to see that it also holds both of my travel trunks and my violin.
I let out a long breath. See, it’ll be all right, I reassure myself. And I’m rooming with a Gardnerian and an Elf. No hateful Urisk or Kelts. Things will be just fine.
I decide to leave my belongings in the closet for the moment and make my way up the staircase, the heels of my shoes almost slipping a few times on the polished stone, my steps echoing sharply throughout the eerily quiet tower.
When I reach the top, another door opens into a short hallway, also lit by a wall lantern. There’s a stone bench placed against one wall and, on either end of the hallway, windows look out over the surrounding fields, the moon peering in. A metal ladder is bolted to the wall before me and leads to the archers’ tower, the ceiling entrance long since nailed shut. There’s another door at the end of the hallway.
That has to be my new lodging.
I wonder if my new lodging mates are asleep or absent, as I can’t make out any light around the door frame. I walk down the deserted hallway toward the door, slightly unnerved by the quiet.
I pause before opening the door and glance out the window, the moon still watching, cold and indifferent. I stare at it for a moment until it’s covered in the shifting clouds, the outside world plunged into a deeper darkness. I turn back to the door, curl my hand around its cool, metal handle and push it open.
The room is pitch-black, but I can make out a large, oval window directly before me.
“Hello,” I say softly, not wanting to startle anyone who might be trying to sleep. The clouds shift, and moonlight spills into the room.
And that’s when I see it. Something crouched just below the window.
Something with wings.
The blood drains from my face, and I’m overcome by a rush of fear so strong that it paralyzes me, rooting me to the spot.
An Icaral.
It’s gotten in somehow. And I’m about to be killed. The thing in front of me emits the same smell of rotted meat as the Icarals in Valgard.
Slowly, it rises and unfurls ragged, black wings. And it’s not alone. To the right of it, I see movement on top of what appears to be a dresser. Another winged figure, also crouching like it’s waiting to attack.
Holy Ancient One, there’s two of them.
“Hello, Elloren Gardner,” the Icaral under the window says in a raspy, malevolent voice. “Welcome to hell.”