Orientation
When Echo Flood enters the room, the soldiers look relieved to be handing me off to her.
My head spins with confusion. “Echo, why are you here? Why didn’t my brothers come for me? And Gareth?”
“Lukas sent for me,” she explains, her large eyes solemn with concern.
“My brothers,” I ask, feeling lost. “Where are they?”
“They were delayed,” Echo explains. “They were caught in the storm, and Gareth’s horse panicked at the thunder. The horse threw him and he broke his leg. They had to double back to Valgard to find a healer.”
“Oh, no.” I struggle to fight back tears. I need to see my family. I don’t want to be alone here.
“Come,” Echo says softly as she places her hand on my arm. “The High Chancellor is addressing all of the scholars. We need to take our places with them.”
* * *
I stay close to Echo’s side as we step into the White Hall.
It’s the largest interior I’ve ever seen, the vast sea of scholars momentarily overwhelming me, the smell of wet wool and lamp oil thick on the dank air.
We’re in an open, curved walkway that rings the entire hall, the Spine-stone floor beneath us mottled with damp, overlapping bootprints.
The domed roof stretches high overhead, a bat wheeling back and forth across the vast space, paintings of constellations on a night sky set high into the sectional dome, a ring of huge, arching windows just beneath. Colorful Guild banners hang below every window, a cacophony of primary colors, silver and gold, some of the banners marked with foreign words in exotic, curling alphabets.
My eyes light on the Apothecary Guild banner. The Gardnerian Guild banners are easy to pick out with their black backgrounds.
Like spokes on some great wheel, long aisles connect the external curving walkway to a central raised dais, where an elderly, white-bearded man stands before a podium. His dark green robe is distinguished by golden trim, his thin voice echoing off the stonework as he directs two latecomer Kelts toward empty seats up front.
Echo leans in, her eyes set on the elderly man. “High Chancellor Abenthy.”
Rows of green-robed professors flank the High Chancellor, their robes uniform, but their faces reflecting a multitude of races.
“Come,” Echo prompts gently, motioning ahead. “I have seats for us.”
I nod, my eyes furtively casting around. The storm-dimmed twilight seems to be seeping through the very walls, aisle lamps on long stands fighting against the shadows with small dandelion puffs of light.
The scholars are heavily segregated into ethnic groups, the darkly clad Gardnerians standing out in sharp relief against the grouping of Elves, the Elves’ blindingly ivory cloaks illuminating their section of the hall.
We start down a side aisle cutting through Gardnerian scholars to the left, Kelts to the right. Kicking up like dust, a small buzz of conversation follows me, my grandmother’s name whispered over and over, awed looks from the Gardnerian side, dark glowering from the Kelts. I stiffen, self-consciously aware of the unwanted attention.
As I follow Echo by the Gardnerian sea of black, my eye is drawn to a subsection of slate gray–uniformed Gardnerians.
Military apprentices.
And within their grouping is a lone, uniformed female, a ring of black-clad Gardnerian soldiers seated around her.
Fallon Bane. And her military guard.
I catch her eye as we pass, and my stomach twists.
She shoots me a dark grin and discreetly reaches for the wand fastened to her belt. She angles it toward me and gives it a small jerk.
I exhale sharply as my foot painfully hits something solid and I trip over it, toppling down to the damp floor.
Small sounds of surprise go up around me.
The floor is cold and gritty and smells like the bottoms of wet boots, and my hands sting from smacking it. For a brief second I lay there as embarrassment washes over me.
A strong hand grabs hold of my arm, effortlessly helping me to my feet.
I look up into the most riveting eyes I’ve ever seen, even more so than the Valgard Selkie’s. They’re bright amber and glow in an inhuman way that seems almost feral.
The eyes belong to a lean, sandy-haired young man wearing simple, earth-toned clothing. His calm, friendly expression stands out in bold contrast to those fierce eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks kindly.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, heart racing. My head whips around to see what I tripped over. There’s nothing there. The aisle is clear. I glance over at Fallon, who’s regarding me with a malicious grin, and a spasm of alarm shoots through me.
She did it. She tripped me.
Fallon’s smile curls even farther upward as she sees the growing dread on my face.
I turn back toward the strange young man, gratitude washing over me.
“Unhand her,” Echo orders him, glaring. “I’ll help her the rest of the way.”
There’s a flash of hurt in his eyes before his face goes tight with offense. He releases me at once.
Echo grabs hold of me and decidedly tugs me away.
“He helped me,” I whisper as she firmly guides me along, accusation in my tone. “What’s wrong? Who is he?”
She glances over at me, her eyes sharp. “One of the Lupines.”
Startled, I look back to where the strange young man is now seated in with the Kelts. He gives me a small smile, which eases my alarm and piques my curiosity. Next to him sits a beautiful girl with long blond hair, plain clothing and the same wild, amber eyes. She sits like she’s royalty, her chin held high, and regards me with barely disguised contempt.
The Lupine twins.
I remember the sordid gossip, the shocking stories about nudity and public mating. About how Lupine males go after any women they can get their hands on. I glance back toward the Lupines and wonder if there’s truth in any of it. I’m so curious about them, but I also feel a twinge of guilt to be thinking about such indecent things.
Finally, we reach our place and Echo guides me, to my immense relief, toward a seat between herself and Aislinn Greer.
As I sit down, Aislinn puts her arm around me and hands me a stack of papers.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking them.
“Maps,” she says. “Your lecture schedule. Lodging and labor assignments. When I heard what happened, I went to the Records Master and got these for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, touched. I look to Aislinn and Echo with gratitude.
Echo pats my arm in solidarity, then focuses in with rapt attention as the High Chancellor begins his opening remarks.
I resentfully look back toward where Fallon is sitting. I can’t see her through the thick crowd.
“When I was walking up that aisle,” I whisper to Aislinn, “I think Fallon Bane tripped me...with magic.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she says, eyeing me gravely. “She’s not too happy about...um... Lukas and you.”
Where is Lukas? I grasp the papers in my lap and bite worriedly at my lower lip. What’s he doing? Will he come for me at some point?
“Can Fallon do that?” I ask anxiously. “Can she conjure invisible objects? And trip people with them?”
“She’s a Level Five,” Aislinn replies with some incredulity. “Of course she can.” Perhaps seeing how upset I am, Aislinn pats my shoulder. “She won’t go too far, Elloren. You’re Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter. If she hurts you, she’ll be dismissed from the Guard.” She eyes me ruefully. “Just...stay away from Lukas. Okay?”
I nod, fuming over Fallon’s casual cruelty. But it’s all easier said than done. How can I possibly stay away from Lukas with Aunt Vyvian bent on my wandfasting to him?
We fall silent as High Chancellor Abenthy begins lengthy introductions of each of the multitude of professors. He details their recent accomplishments to polite, scattered applause that blends in with the sound of the rain. The hall is so large, I have to strain to hear his thin, reedy voice.
Distracted by the wide variety of scholars, I venture a glance across the aisle toward the large grouping of Kelts. They’re very varied in appearance, with a rainbow of light hair shades, eye coloring and skin tones.
The Kelts are not a pure race like us. They’re more accepting of intermarriage, and because of this, they’re very mixed.
I notice that the Kelts’ clothing is varied as well, although uniformly not very fine. These are work clothes, homespun garb best suited for farm chores—the type I wear at home for comfort.
I suddenly feel weighed down and pinched in by my expensive layers of silk.
I miss Uncle Edwin and the comfort of home.
Does Uncle Edwin know about the Icaral attack? Has Aunt Vyvian sent out a runehawk to let him know what happened and that I’m okay?
My eyes are drawn to a stern-faced Keltic youth sitting directly across from us. He’s lanky, with brown hair and starkly angular features. He’s staring straight ahead with a look of great resolve as if it’s taking a huge effort to focus on the High Chancellor and not on something else.
He unexpectedly turns and fixes his startlingly golden-green eyes on me with a look of hatred so intense, I flinch back.
I turn away quickly, my face growing hot, embarrassed to be caught staring at him and stunned by the violence in his emerald glare. I can almost feel the tension vibrating off him.
“Aislinn,” I whisper, swallowing hard, “who’s the Kelt sitting opposite us? He’s looking at me like he wants to kill me.”
Aislinn glances discreetly toward the young man.
He’s turned away and is once again focused, with obvious effort, on the High Chancellor, his fists tightly clenched.
“That’s Yvan Guriel,” she informs me. “Don’t let him rattle you. He hates Gardnerians.”
Especially me, I think. Especially the granddaughter of the Black Witch.
I venture another look in his direction. He’s still staring straight ahead, his jaw flexing with pent-up tension. I sit there for a moment, a disquieting tangle of emotions swamping over me. My foot still smarts from its encounter with an invisible object, my head and wand arm are now throbbing in time with my pulse and my wrist is stinging from the Icaral’s tearing grip. It’s a wonder I’m still upright.
This Yvan Guriel doesn’t even know me, I lament, glaring resentfully at him out of the corner of my eye. He has no right to be so hateful.
“What else do you know about him?” I ask Aislinn, feeling dejected.
“Well,” says Aislinn, leaning in close, “he was almost expelled last year.”
“Why?”
“Practicing medicine without Guild approval. On some Urisk kitchen workers. He’s a physician’s apprentice.”
I risk another glance at Yvan Guriel, surprisingly stung by this stranger’s undisguised loathing. He’s still focused militantly toward the front of the room, practically seething with hostility.
Determined to ignore the hateful Kelt, I let my eyes wander back a few rows to a young man with deep brown skin who towers over everyone around him. There’s an impressive stillness to the way he sits that speaks of military discipline. His dark purple hair is cut short, revealing pointed ears pierced with rows of dark metal hoops. But perhaps the most striking thing about him are the swirling black rune-tattoos that cover his face, which mirror the glowing red rune-marks on his crimson tunic.
“Who’s the tall, tattooed man?” I ask Aislinn.
“Shhhh!” A slim, stern-faced Gardnerian chastises us with vast irritation, and both Aislinn and I shrink back, my face heating. We’re quiet for a long moment.
“That’s Andras Volya,” Aislinn finally whispers.
“He looks like he’s from the East,” I puzzle out, “but his ears are pointed, and he has purple hair.” I know many groups in the East have darker skin, but not pointed ears or purple hair.
“He’s Amaz,” Aislinn clarifies. “They’re of all different races. Andras and his mother are part Ishkart, part Urisk.”
I remember the tattooed women I saw at the Verpacian horse market and am confused.
“But...he’s not a woman.” Amaz tribes are made up only of women. They kill men who wander into their territory. I lean in toward Aislinn. “And I thought they used rune-magery to only have baby girls.”
“They do,” Aislinn concurs, “but it doesn’t always work. Every now and then, a male is born. By accident.” Aislinn gestures to the front of the room with her chin. “That’s his mother—Professor Volya.”
I scan the green-robed professors sitting silently in rows behind the High Chancellor and quickly locate a woman who greatly resembles Andras. Her face is similarly rune-marked, though her hair is black with streaks of purple.
“She refused to abandon Andras when he was a baby, so she was exiled from Amaz lands,” Aislinn explains. “For a while she and Andras lived on their own in Western Keltania, but then she came here. About ten years ago. Andras has pretty much grown up here.”
“What does she teach?”
“Equine Studies, of course. And Chemistrie. That’s one of your classes.” Aislinn reaches over and riffles through my papers, pulls one out and hands it to me. “I’m taking it, too.”
I skim the paper.
APOTHECARY SCIENCES, YEAR ONE
Apothecarium I with Laboratory—Professor
Guild Mage Eluthra Lorel
Metallurgie I with Laboratory—Professor
Guild Master Fy’ill Xanillir
Botanicals I—Professor Priest Mage
Bartholomew Simitri
Advanced Mathematics—Professor Guild
Mage Josef Klinmann
History of Gardneria—Professor Priest Mage
Bartholomew Simitri
Chemistrie I with Laboratory—Professor
Guild Master Astrid Volya
There it is. Chemistrie. Professor Astrid Volya. I glance back over at Andras.
“What’s her son like?” I wonder.
“He’s quiet,” Aislinn whispers, looking over at him. “And he’s amazingly good at every sport: sword fighting, ax throwing, archery, you name it. And he’s a natural with horses, just like his mother. That’s his job. He cares for the horses stabled here. The Amaz can talk to their horses, you know—with their minds. He’s a skilled horse healer, too. Last year one of the Gardnerian military apprentices took a nasty fall on his horse, and the horse’s leg was broken. The animal was so wild with pain, no one could get near it. But Andras could. Within a week, he had the horse good as new.”
“How do you know so much about everyone?” I ask, impressed.
Aislinn smiles. “My own life is so incredibly boring, I have to live vicariously through everyone else’s.” She pauses and lets out a sigh for dramatic effect. “I suppose, seeing as how I’ll be fasting to Randall, perhaps the most boring young man on the face of Erthia, I will always have to amuse myself in this way.”
Around us, scholars are beginning to talk and get up, the High Chancellor having finished his presentation. Aislinn and Echo stand up, and I follow suit, glancing down at my pile of papers. Aislinn helps me search through them and pulls out one from the middle.
“You’re supposed to meet with the Vice Chancellor,” she tells me, handing the paper back to me. “Come. I’ll bring you to her.”
Reluctantly, I say my goodbyes to Echo and follow behind Aislinn, trying my best to ignore the Kelt, Yvan Guriel, as he sets his fiery green eyes on me and shoots me a parting, hostile glare.