Confrontation
After my shift is over, I leave without saying goodbye to anyone, and no one says goodbye to me.
The large dining hall outside the kitchen is crowded with scholars and professors and tight groupings of military apprentices sitting at marshwood tables, a steady hum of conversation reverberating throughout the hall, the clinking and clanking of silverware and serving spoons creating a noisy din.
Dusk is descending, the stream of pedestrians passing by the windows fading to dark silhouettes. One of the Urisk laborers busily lights the wall torches and table lanterns.
I scan the vast room, worriedly searching for Lukas’s face.
And that’s when I see the Icarals.
They’re seated at the far edge of the hall, the tables around them deserted as if all the other scholars are actively avoiding them.
My lodging mates—Ariel Haven and Wynter Eirllyn. I didn’t get a very good look at them last night, but I know it has to be them.
Wynter is similar in appearance to every other Elfin maid in the room. Like them, she has silver eyes and long white hair decorated with tiny braids, pale skin, gracefully pointed ears and ivory clothing. But unlike them, her clothing is modified in the back to make room for thin, black wings. She sits slumped, her wings wrapped tight around herself like a blanket.
She looks weak and sad.
Ariel, on the other hand, looks like something out of a nightmare. She’s dressed in complete, screaming defiance of the Gardnerian dress code. Instead of a tunic, she wears a tight black top, laced haphazardly up and down her back. The lacing makes room for wings that are ragged and torn, making her seem like a crow that has suffered a run-in with a clawed predator. She wears pants like a boy, and large clunky boots, and her hair is chopped very short, standing out at odd angles in greasy-looking black spikes. Her eyes are darkly rimmed with black kohl, making her pale green eyes seem almost as white and soulless as those of the Icarals in Valgard. Unlike Wynter, whose wings are low and now folded discreetly behind her, Ariel seems to be making a show of flapping her wings menacingly. She crouches over, as if dodging a blow, her eyes narrowed and angry, scanning the room darkly.
There they are. My tormentors. Sitting there, eating spice cake.
It all comes flooding back—Ariel’s demonic show, the scraping on the door, my terror when I thought I was about to die.
Lukas might have been too harsh with the kitchen workers, but these creatures—they deserve everything they get and more.
I forget about fear as anger rips through me.
My fists balling, I stalk down a side aisle, straight over to their table, and snatch the cake out from under them. They both look up at me with wide-eyed surprise.
“The denizens of hell do not get to eat cake!” I snarl, heart racing.
Ariel shoots up to a standing position, her hands supported by rigid, spindly arms crisscrossed with what look like fresh and healing knife marks. She screws up her face into a frightening grimace and lunges at the cake.
I step quickly aside and she loses her footing, crashing down onto the table, plates and food scattering everywhere. Wynter’s hands fly up to ward off the stray food and drink as sounds of surprise and shock go up around us.
“What’s going on here?” an authoritative male voice says from behind me.
I whirl around and come face-to-face with a green-robed professor—a slightly disheveled Keltic man with messy, shortish brown hair and spectacles.
The professor’s eyes go momentarily wide with shock.
My resemblance to my grandmother. That’s what’s stunned him so. I can see it in his eyes.
The broad room has gone nearly silent, except for some astonished whispering, almost everyone staring at us.
Ariel, now covered in food and drink, pushes herself off the table and points a long finger at me. “She took our food!”
The professor’s shock morphs to extreme dismay then barely concealed outrage.
He glares at me. “Give that scholar back her food!”
That “scholar”? Is he kidding?
“No,” I refuse, stepping away from him, guarding both slices of cake protectively. “She does not get to terrorize me all night long and then get to eat the cake that I iced!”
The professor turns to Ariel, who’s flapping her moth-eaten wings agitatedly. He eyes her suspiciously. “What’s this about, Ariel?”
Ariel? He’s on a first-name basis with her?
“It’s not my fault!” Ariel cries. “She shows up in our room last night, says she can’t lodge with filthy Icarals and throws herself into a closet! I tried to get her to come out, but she kept yelling about how she’s a Gardnerian and the granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner and can’t mix with Icarals or Elves or Kelts! That we’ll pollute her pure blood! She kept going on and on about how the Gardnerians are the superior race, and how everyone else is an inferior Evil One, and how she’s the next Black Witch!”
I’m momentarily paralyzed with shock and outrage.
The Keltic teacher turns to me with an odd, pained look before his expression goes hard.
“That’s...that’s a lie!” I sputter as Ariel’s face behind him morphs from that of the traumatized victim to a dark, calculating grimace. “She stalked me! Terrorized me! I had to barricade myself in a closet! And then she spent most of the night scratching at the door with a knife!”
The professor looks back at Ariel appraisingly then back at me, his eyes cold, his lips set in a tight line.
I’ve lost. Of course he’s on her side. He’s a Kelt.
“Mage Elloren Gardner,” he orders, his face tensing as if my name pains him. I’m not surprised that he knows my name. Everyone knows my name. “Give those scholars back their food.”
The sheer injustice of this roils through me. “Fine!” I snarl, throwing the cake down on the table so hard it bounces off the plates, adding to the general mess.
“Thank you, Professor Kristian,” Ariel says with wide, puppy-dog eyes.
I want to strike her.
“Elloren,” I hear a familiar voice say from behind me, “aren’t you done with your shift?”
I turn to see Lukas approaching me.
His eyes flicker over to Professor Kristian and the Icarals disdainfully then back to me again, his sword and wand at his side. I straighten and set my jaw forward defiantly.
Good. I have backup. Real backup. A Level Five Mage. Not some useless Kelt teacher who’s too ready to believe lying Icarals instead of me.
I turn to Professor Kristian, who’s glaring icily at Lukas, and feel a bitter surge of triumph.
Lukas holds out his arm to me. I take it and walk out without another glance back.
* * *
I walk halfway back to the North Tower with Lukas, the two of us pausing near a small grove of trees in the center of a small courtyard.
I lean back against the tree trunk behind me, my hands finding the cool bark. I close my eyes, breathe in deep and let the wood of the tree relax me.
Mmm. Rock Maple.
The wilds rattle me, but lone stands of trees, cut off from the forest, soothe me, rounding out my sharp edges like calming waters.
When I open my eyes, Lukas is watching me closely, his head cocked with curiosity, his hand also on the tree, his fingers languidly rubbing at the bark.
“Can you feel it?” he asks. “The roots?”
I swallow. These odd leanings of mine—I’m not supposed to speak of them. But clearly, Lukas feels them, too. “They run deep,” I hesitantly answer.
He smiles at me. “Mmm.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, rubbing at the bark, the tree strong at my back. “You’ve...you’ve been a good friend to me.”
He looks me over boldly, then smirks. “Yes, well. I have ulterior motives.”
I roll my eyes at this and sigh. He lets out a short laugh, and I can’t help but smile.
But a lingering unease tugs at me.
“Lukas?” I hesitantly ask.
Lukas leans into the tree’s strong trunk, his sword’s hilt reflecting some nearby lamplight.
“Hmm?” He looks down at me, his face unreadable, a faint shimmer to his skin in this dark.
“Was it...was it necessary to threaten the child?”
He narrows his eyes. “I just did them a favor, Elloren.” He gives a quick look around to check if we’re mostly alone, then, seeing that we are, he turns back to me, his voice going low. “The child’s here illegally. They need to do a better job of hiding her.”
“Oh,” I say, chastened. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
But what about when he threatened Iris’s family and Bleddyn’s sick mother? He certainly wasn’t doing anyone any favors there.
“Elloren, you have to choose what side you’re on,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s always been that way. It will always be that way. Dominate, or be dominated. Those are your choices. You saw what happened to you when everyone thought you wouldn’t fight back, that you couldn’t fight back. How much compassion did they show you?”
He’s right. Of course he’s right. But I just can’t shake the image of little Fern crying.
“She was just so scared of being sent back to the Fae Islands.”
They’ve been part of Gardneria since the Realm Wars. We let the Urisk settle there and provide them with homes and work to do. So why was little Fern so scared?
Shame tugs at me over the part I played in her terror. Yvan’s sharp, accusatory glare flashes to mind.
Unsettled, I wrap my arms around myself for warmth, the chill of encroaching autumn creeping into the air.
Lukas eyes me thoughtfully. “The Fae Islands are a work colony, Elloren. And the Urisk are expected to work. Quite hard. But you need to keep things in perspective. The Urisk women are better off now than they were when their own men were in charge, or when the Sidhe Fae ruled them, for that matter.”
“Still, it seems as if they must be treated...harshly.”
Lukas looks slightly irritated by my observation. “And how did the Urisk or the Fae or the Kelts treat us when they were the major power in the region?”
I already know the answer to that. Worse. They treated us much worse.
The Fae subdued the Urisk, and later, the Kelts subdued the Fae in what seemed like an endless cycle of warfare and violence. And throughout it all, my people were oppressed and abused by all three.
Until recent history.
“Maybe you or I wouldn’t want to work in the Fae Islands’ labor camps,” Lukas goes on, “but believe me, it’s a step up for them.”
“I guess I don’t know enough to make sense of it all,” I admit.
I have so much to learn about these different cultures. About how the world works.
“You’ll learn,” he assures me. “In time.” He glances around at the gathering darkness. “It’s getting late.” He turns back to me. “And you need to confront some Icarals.”
My stomach clenches at the thought of yet more confrontation. “Lukas?” I ask tentatively, looking up at him.
He raises a brow questioningly.
“Are you still relieved that you don’t need to wandfast to me?”
An easy grin spreads over his handsome face. He gives me a once-over. “No, I am not relieved,” he says smoothly. “Now that you’re no longer covered in dirt, I think it’s quite a pity we’re not wandfasted.”
I swallow, my face warming at his close proximity. My eyes dart down his chest to the sleek wand fastened at his waist. I remember Fallon’s ball of ice. “Show me something,” I say, gesturing toward his wand. “Show me some of your magic.”
His smile is slow as his eyes flick over me. He pulls the wand into his hand in one smooth motion. Holding it loosely, he steps back and points it at me, murmurs words in the Ancient Tongue, then takes a deep breath and straightens up, as if pulling power up from his feet.
Translucent black lines curl out from the wand tip, fluidly making their way toward me.
I gasp as they flow and curl around my body. At first I feel a gentle pressure from them, tickling at my skin, teasing.
And then they tighten.
It’s impossible to resist as the swirling lines pull at my waist, my arms, my legs. I find it both exciting and disconcerting to be so much in his power. My feet skid over the grassy ground as he pulls me closer, until I’m right before him. Once there, he flicks his wrist, and the black lines dissolve as he languidly wraps his arms around me.
“That’s amazing,” I breathe, in awe of him.
Lukas smiles and brings his lips to mine.
* * *
It’s late when Lukas finally walks me the rest of the way to the North Tower.
I watch him as he leaves, striding down the sloping field toward the University city’s twinkling lights, his cloak flapping behind him like dark wings.
I reach up to absentmindedly touch my mouth, my lips still warm and swollen from his fevered kisses. But my feelings of bliss begin to evaporate like smoke as I watch him disappear from view.
Darkly resolved, I take a deep breath, turn and make my way into the tower.
* * *
When I enter my room, it’s dark and they’re there, waiting for me. I can see Ariel’s outline, crouched below the window as she was the night before. Wynter huddles on her bed, appearing as if she wants to be anywhere but where she is, silver eyes peeking out over her wings, wide with fear.
I hesitate, Wynter’s terror giving me momentary pause.
Stop it, I tell myself. These aren’t Urisk children. These are Icaral demons.
I ignore Ariel and walk over to the lamp on one of the desks, lighting it quickly with Bornial flint, the Elvish stones sparking to a small flame when tapped together.
An eerie, reddish glow soon covers the room, making Ariel look even more demonic. She creeps toward me slowly, perhaps expecting the same reaction she got out of me last night. I turn to face her, my hand flat on the desk, eyeing her calmly, trying to control the anger welling up within me and the trembling of my hands.
“It would be a shame if the Gardnerian girl caught fire while she was sleeping,” Ariel whispers as she straightens up, unfurling her tattered black wings. She takes another threatening step toward me. “Burning is so painful. I wonder how long she would scream. How long it would take a Gardnerian to die...”
Something snaps within me as Ariel unexpectedly lunges forward. I push her away from me so hard, she falls onto the floor.
It’s a shock to see her there. I’ve never pushed anyone over in my entire life, and my own violence frightens me for a moment.
Ariel hisses up at me, her eyes in tight, evil slits.
“Leave me alone!” I warn, bumping against a bedpost as I back away. “If you so much as come near me, I will go straight to the Mage Council. They will throw you back in the sanitorium, where you belong, and cut off those foul wings of yours. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in an empty cell, going even crazier than you already are!”
“Then do it, Gardnerian!” she snarls with as much venom as she can muster. “It would be well worth hearing you scream!”
“I’ll also go to the Elves!” I cry, pointing at Wynter. “I’ll tell them that Wynter Eirllyn attacked me, as well!”
“Wynter won’t be the one to attack you!” Ariel screams as Wynter lets out a small cry and cowers on her bed. “I will!”
“They won’t know that!” I threaten. “Just like that Kelt professor believed you, they’ll believe every word I say.”
As my words register, her attempt to look frightening collapses in on itself, morphing into one of sheer horror, her wings falling to hang limply behind her.
She’s afraid of me. Just as Lukas said she’d be.
“I need a bed,” I demand, nervously seizing on my advantage, pointing to the bed behind me. Ariel scuttles over to it and hurriedly retrieves her things, taking out her aggression on her belongings, throwing them viciously on the bed next to Wynter’s, muttering to herself darkly the whole time.
She turns to glower at me. “You can keep me from hurting you, Gardnerian,” she vows, “but you can’t keep me from hating you!”
“The feeling’s mutual!” I snipe back.
I strip the bed of Ariel’s sheets, disgusted by the idea of sleeping on anything that’s touched an Icaral’s skin, and toss them forcefully in her direction. Then I retrieve my things from the downstairs closet and set them by my new bed. I fish out my pen set and some rolled-up parchment, then plop down at my desk and set my writing implements out before me.
I don’t feel powerful, even though Lukas says I am. I feel small and scared and intimidated. And I can feel the Icaral demons watching me.
My eyes stinging hot with tears, I begin to write.
Dear Aunt Vyvian,
Please let me move to different lodging. I know you’re trying to do what you feel is best for me, and I’m thankful for your good intentions, but the Icarals are frightening and dangerous—more than I think you could have ever imagined.
I agree to be courted by Lukas Grey with the intention of fasting to him. I never closed the door to that possibility. I know that is not exactly what you want, but please, Aunt Vyvian, please don’t leave me here with these horrible creatures. I beg of you.
Your Faithful Niece,
Elloren
I dry the ink, fold the parchment and seal it with wax, then snuff out the lamp.
* * *
That night, after I cry myself to sleep, I dream that I’m far away from the North Tower. In my dream, I’m strong and fierce and feared by everyone around me.
My name is Mage Carnissa Gardner.
I’m locking a large metal cage in the bottom of a dark dungeon, a ring of black keys heavy in my hand. The only light comes from some dim Elfin lumenstone hanging on the walls at intervals, casting a swampy, greenish glow over the scene.
In the cage are Icarals: Ariel, Wynter and the Icarals from Valgard. Iris from the kitchen is there, too, and Bleddyn Arterra.
I hear a sharp snap as the internal metal hooks engage each other. I’m just about to turn away, relieved they’re all safely locked up in prison, when I hear a child cry. I squint at the far corner of the cage. Little Fern and the Valgard Selkie are cowering on the floor. The Selkie looks up at me, her ocean eyes full of sadness.
I motion for her to approach and put the key back in the lock. “You two can come out,” I tell them, fiddling with the key, having a hard time with it.
The Selkie doesn’t move. She remains there on the ground, her arms around the sobbing child. “It’s too late,” she says mournfully, “you’ve already locked it.”
I break out in a cold sweat, the other creatures in the cage having disappeared, only the Selkie and Urisk child remaining. “It can’t be too late,” I insist, straining with the key.
But the lock won’t give.
It’s a mistake. It’s all a mistake. I hear a noise behind me and turn.
A Watcher, perched on an outcropping of stone, white wings glowing in the green light. Its avian eyes full of sorrow.
I turn back to the Selkie and the child. “It’s not too late,” I insist. “I’m going to get you out.”
For the rest of the night I struggle with the lock, but try as I may, it refuses to give.