Tightening Noose
It’s late the next evening when I’m intercepted by a messenger from Lukas’s division, the Twelfth Division River Oak pinned to his tunic.
Apothecary lab has just ended, and Tierney is by my side, a white band now pinned around her arm, as well. “Self-preservation,” she told me when I first took in her white band with no small measure of surprise.
It seems I’m not the only one resorting to camouflage.
The uniformed messenger hands me a long package. “Mage Gardner,” he says with a deferential bob of his head, his breath puffing out from the cold.
There’s a note card affixed to it, my name on the small envelope in neat script, written with an artistic hand.
Lukas’s hand.
A pang of regret rises. After what happened to Ariel, I’ve put Lukas firmly out of my mind, pointedly not responding to his sporadic gifts and notes. I was so mad at him for so many weeks, but guilt has gradually worn that down. I’m just as much to blame for what happened as he is.
I weigh this new gift in my hands, the box not as heavy as I would have thought it would be, given its size. The young soldier gives me another quick bow and sets off.
I sit down on a nearby stone bench. Tierney takes a seat beside me, smatterings of scholars passing by talking quietly, the chill wind picking up in fits and starts.
I hand Tierney the note card and tug at the stiff brown paper, ripping it open, pulling out the black leather case underneath.
A violin case.
Heart thudding, I open the case and gasp when I see what’s inside, nestled in deep green velvet.
A Maelorian violin. Like the one Aunt Vyvian was given temporary use of the night of her dance.
Only this one is brand-new, the Alfsigr spruce varnished to a deep crimson, the edges gilded, the strings gleaming gold in the lamplight. A violin so expensive it could pay for my University tithe about ten times over.
With shaking hands, I take the note card from Tierney and open it.
Elloren,
If you wanted a portrait of me, all you had to do was ask.
Lukas
An incredulous laugh bursts from me, and a warm spark of affection for Lukas Grey is quickly followed by some remorse. I’ve been wrapped up in thoughts of Keltic Yvan while Lukas has been pursuing me from afar, and now this. Chastened, I hold the note out for Tierney to read.
Tierney’s mouth lifts into a crooked smile, her eyes dancing with dark delight.
“It feels bizarre, but I kind of like him at this moment,” she says, her smile growing wider.
I reverently close the violin case, heart fluttering at the sheer giddy excitement of holding such an instrument in my hands. At owning such an instrument.
I become suddenly conflicted—I don’t deserve such attention from a man I don’t plan on fasting to. I resolve to return the violin to Lukas the next time I see him, and to send a note of thanks in the meantime. Lukas deserves at least that.
Feeling eyes on me, I look up.
Gesine Bane and her friends are all staring at me and the violin in my lap, a nasty gleam in their eyes.
My elation instantly turns hard and sour, fear spiking on its heels.
Once Fallon Bane gets wind of this, I realize, it will be open season on me.
* * *
“She can speak, I’m sure of it,” Diana observes to me that night as I send up a stream of music in the washroom, my fingers sore and unaccustomed to playing for so long. I don’t care. It feels so good to have this violin in my hands.
And what a violin.
It renders my out-of-practice efforts into something heartbreakingly lovely.
Marina’s in the bath, curled up naked under the cooling water, her sorrowful gaze rippling up at us. I finish my song and lower my violin as Diana cocks her head in thought. “She can speak, but she just can’t speak in any form we can understand.”
Marina opens her mouth and forces multiple tones through her mouth and gills, the sound transformed by the water, her multiple tones coalescing into a deep, resonating hum that sounds like an eerily mournful song.
Like she’s grieving.
Our Selkie is a puzzle that can’t be solved. Sometimes her animal-like movements and barking multitones are those of a wild thing, but her eyes are inquisitive and intelligent, and I know that Diana’s right.
She’s more than just an animal. More than a seal.
Jarod and Diana have not been able to find Marina’s skin, and she can’t go back home without it—her strength is sapped to the point where she often seems ill. I’ve written to Gareth, asking for information about the Selkie trade and where their skins are kept, but I know his response will be slow in coming. He’s been gone for weeks with the other Maritime apprentices, all of them out to sea until First Month, when winter digs its claws in and all the ocean passes will start to ice over.
Every night an exhausted Marina methodically runs her fingers through our hair, pulling out the tangles more effectively than any brush as she softly mutters in her multitoned language. It seems to soothe her, and it soothes all of us in turn.
All of us but Ariel.
Ariel despises the attention Wynter pays to the Selkie and flaps her wings agitatedly at Marina and mutters obscenities. Fortunately, Ariel’s attention is mostly consumed by an injured raven that now abides with us, along with the two chickens. The owl is long since healed and freed. The raven perches on the bed next to Ariel, the two of them spooky in their blackness and unspoken understanding, the bird’s leg carefully splinted and bandaged.
And so my days wear on.
* * *
Sporadic notices flap in the bracingly cold wind. They’re affixed to University streetlamp posts and outside building entrances, alerting passersby of the Selkie’s theft and a monetary reward for any information as to her whereabouts.
At first sighting, the notices send a sharp spasm of fear through me. But as time passes, and they’re battered down and lost to the relentless wind, my fears are dulled to a blunt point.
Once, thinking I’m alone in an alley, I tear down one of the last notices still remaining and stuff it in my cloak pocket. I look up to see Ni Vin, the young, scarred Vu Trin. She’s standing across the street and staring at me, a curved sword at her side. She gives a subtle nod of approval to me as my heart skitters against my chest.
Then she turns and strides away.
* * *
“There’s mention of it here,” Tierney tells me, her finger coming down on the paper set before her. The two of us pore over the Council Motions & Rulings every week’s end, late at night, feeding our ongoing sleep deprivation.
She’s right. A small mention of an “escaped” Selkie and the posting of a reward, as well as a renewed motion—put forward jointly by Mage Vyvian Damon and Marcus Vogel, and struck down by a slim margin—to have every Selkie in the Western Realm shot on sight.
I rub at my aching temples. “My aunt’s not going to win any awards for compassion, I can tell you that.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Tierney whispers darkly.
I nod gravely. If Vogel wins in the spring, it’s not just Marina who will be in trouble—all the Selkies will need to escape back to the sea or risk being put to death.
We read on, finding there’s been a failed motion brought forward by Marcus Vogel to execute anyone who defaces the Gardnerian flag. Another failed motion brought forward by Vogel to execute anyone who maligns The Book of the Ancients in any way. A motion brought forward by Vogel and five other Council Mages to declare war on the Lupines unless they cede a large portion of their land holdings to Gardneria. Another motion to execute all male Icarals held in the Valgard Sanitorium. A motion to execute anyone aiding Snake Elves in their escape east.
And a doggedly renewed motion, put forward for the sixth time by Vogel, to expand iron-testing for Guild admittance and randomly at border crossings to “root out the Fae menace.”
“He may not win,” I remind Tierney.
“Have you seen how many people are wearing white bands?” Tierney counters, her voice shaky.
“Still,” I insist, clinging to hope, “the referendum’s not until spring. And a lot can happen in so many months. He may not win.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she relents, slumping down into a crooked ball, looking small and scared and worn. “I hope you’re right, Elloren Gardner.”
* * *
The news comes at the end of apothecary lab.
I glance up as Gesine rushes in. Professor Lorel inclines her head as her Lead Apprentice breathlessly whispers to her and gestures excitedly.
I set down my pestle and study them with curious trepidation.
“Scholars,” Mage Lorel announces, her voice uncharacteristically shaken. She appears to be suppressing some deep emotion. “Our beloved High Mage, Aldus Worthin, has joined with the Ancient One.”
A shocked murmuring goes up.
“We have a new High Mage. By referendum this morning, the Council has chosen Priest Marcus Vogel.” Her face lights up with a beatific smile.
Dread rips through me with devastating force, and I grip at the edge of my desk to steady myself as the other white arm-banded scholars gasp, then break out into expressions of happy triumph. Some laugh and hug each other, some chat excitedly, some cry tears of joy.
Marcus Vogel.
His sly face flashes into my mind. The remembrance of the feel of his hand on mine. His serpentine stare. The lifeless tree and the black void.
Ancient One, no. This can’t be.
Tierney whips her head to look at me—stark terror in her eyes.
“Tierney...” I can only manage a choked whisper and reach out to grasp her arm.
“Please, scholars,” Mage Lorel implores as she gestures for quiet. Her face is streaked with tears. A reverent silence descends. “A moment of prayer for our late High Mage.”
Everyone lowers their heads and brings their fists to their hearts. Tierney’s frozen, her face gone ashen.
The scholars around us bring fists to foreheads, then back over their hearts as their prayer goes up in unison.
Oh, Most Holy Ancient One, purify our minds, purify our hearts, purify Erthia. Protect us from the stain of the Evil Ones.
The prayer ends, and a cacophony of joyous celebration breaks out.
Tierney stumbles to her feet, almost knocking her stool over, and rushes out the back door, her distraught departure barely causing a ripple in the thick jubilation on the air.
* * *
I catch up with Tierney in the washroom. She’s bent over one of the porcelain washbasins, violently retching into it. I wet a cloth and go to her, placing my hand on her heaving, crooked back, my stomach painfully clenched.
Tierney remains frozen in place as she grips at the basin, ignoring the strands of her hair that swim in it and my offer of the cloth.
“He’ll close the border,” she says, her voice low and coarse. “He’ll make fasting mandatory.”
“I know,” I say, feeling light-headed.
“We’ll have a year at most to find a partner. And if we don’t, they’ll assign us one.”
“I know.”
“And before he fasts us,” she cuts in, still staring into the basin, “he’ll test our racial purity.” She turns to me, a wild desperation in her eyes. “He’s going to test us with iron.”
“Tierney,” I say with hard defiance. Enough dancing around the truth. “I want to help you. You’re full-blooded Fae, aren’t you?”
She continues to stare at me. When she finally speaks, her voice is a strangled scrape. “I can’t. I can’t speak of it.”
“Not even now?” I whisper urgently. “When your worst fears have been realized? Let me help you!”
“You can’t help me!” Distraught, she wrenches her bent frame away from my hand and makes for the door.
“Tierney, wait!” I call out to her, but she ignores my plea and flees the room.
I follow her out, but it’s clear she doesn’t want me to—she weaves quickly through the crowded hall, and I soon lose sight of her amidst the happy Gardnerians with white-banded arms.
* * *
I make my way toward my Chemistrie class, eager to find Aislinn.
I don’t have to search long. Aislinn is leaning against a wall, her eyes searching, her face stricken. As soon as she spots me, she rushes toward me down the Chemistrie lab hallway, jostling around celebratory groupings of Gardnerian scholars and subdued, strained-looking Kelts and Elfhollen. A small cluster of Alfsigr Elves stand apart, surveying it all with their usual cool, aloof indifference, which, at the moment, I find infuriating.
“They’re drawing up their numbers,” Aislinn forces out as she reaches me, her hand clutching my arm. “The Gardnerian Guard. Along the border of Keltania and the Lupine wilds. Vogel sent out the orders this morning. Randall’s been put on draft notice. All the military apprentices have. Vogel’s demanded that the Kelts and Lupines cede most of their land to us. The Keltanian Assembly just sent their Head Magistrate to Valgard to try and avert all-out war.”
My mind’s a spinning tumult. “But...the Lupines... Vogel can threaten them all he wants. They’re immune to our magic.”
“They’ll send dragons, Elloren,” Aislinn says, a thread of panic running through her tone. “We have over a thousand of them. If the Lupines and the Kelts don’t cede, the Guard will attack them with dragons.”
* * *
Every class I have today is transformed by Vogel’s sudden rise. I can’t escape it. Professor Volya can barely get the Gardnerians to settle down enough so she can lecture. Priest Simitri abandons lecture altogether and orders in food and punch.
There’s a deliriously festive mood in Metallurgie, and a young Elf standing at Professor Hawkyyn’s desk, riffling through his notes—as if getting ready to lecture. He’s a white-haired, white-skinned Alfsigr Elfkin, and I glance around, confused, looking for Professor Hawkkyn.
Knots of excited Gardnerians talk animatedly, white bands marking all of their left arms.
The white bands are sprouting like malevolent weeds, along with the Gardnerian flags. Even Curran Dell has taken to wearing one, which I note with deep regret.
“Where’s Professor Hawkkyn?” I ask Curran, who’s talking animatedly with another military apprentice. Curran smiles at me in greeting and opens his mouth to respond, but he’s quickly cut off.
“Hopefully the Snake Elf is back belowground,” Fallon’s voice sounds out from across the room. “Which is where the beast belongs.”
Everyone grows quiet and watches as she crosses the room, her eyes tight on me. “He’s probably run off,” Fallon amends with a wild smile. “He knows what’s coming.” She thrusts her bottom lip out at me in cloying mock sympathy. “Awww. Are you sad, Elloren Gardner? Looking to fast to the Snake Elf?”
Shocked laughter sounds out and echoes behind me. I set my teeth on edge, Curran’s apologetic look doing nothing to dampen my fierce response.
Anger whips up inside me so strong, I clench my fists and glare at Fallon with pure, undisguised venom.
Fallon’s eyes widen with delight. She turns her whole self toward me, one hand coming slowly to her hip, her grin broadening as she revels in both my rage and the whole world working in her favor. She stares me down with mounting glee, and I fear I will abandon all caution, break down and strike her cruel, self-satisfied face.
Is it worth it, Elloren? I warn myself. Getting kicked out of University for striking another Mage? Who will promptly cut you down with her Black Witch magic?
Instead, I turn on my heels and leave the room, Fallon’s cruel laughter sounding out behind me.
* * *
When I enter the kitchens, Fernyllia’s face is haggard with dark worry, and she gives a start at the sight of me.
Olilly is crying, her heaving back to me. Yvan, Bleddyn, Fernyllia and Iris are grouped around her, consoling her in low tones.
They look like they’ve all sustained a powerful blow.
Head down, I cross the room and set right to work peeling potatoes, stiff and self-conscious, sharply aware of their eyes on me as the room quiets.
I know how I appear to them in my black silks and white armband, the threat of me heightened. My very presence has always been a symbol of Gardnerian might. But now, dressed like this, I’m an extension of Vogel—the monster about to come after them all.
I look up and feel the full, ice-water shock of their hate.
Yvan takes in the brutal glares they’re all leveling in my direction, then turns to me, stricken, his expression pained but open. Wide-open.
And suddenly I’m wide-open to him as well, letting him see all of it—my fear and mounting desperation. My terrible isolation; my appearance reflecting nothing of my true heart.
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment as the room around us fades. The kitchen workers, the iciness of their stares, the crackling fires of the ovens, all of it dissolves like fog. There’s only him.
Only us.
Olilly whimpers, distracting us both, rupturing our safe, protected bubble, the world rushing back in.
Iris is still glaring at me, her eyes flitting suspiciously to Yvan, then me and back to Yvan again as he pulls his eyes away from me and resumes comforting Olilly, his hand on the young woman’s shaking arm.
Iris whispers something in Yvan’s ear and gestures sharply in my direction. Yvan fleetingly meets my eyes, his face tensed with conflict.
Fernyllia speaks softly to Olilly in encouraging tones, and Yvan joins in.
“They won’t send you back,” I hear him say, his low voice resonating deep in me. “We’ll help you get out. Your sister, too.”
And then they all leave together, Iris being the last to exit. She shoots me a jarring look of hate, then steps out of the kitchen and pulls the back door shut with a slam.
* * *
My hands hurt when I finally leave my kitchen shift, my fingers sore from peeling so many potatoes, my chest a tight ball of despair. The sun has set, and night is firmly settled in the sky. The world is starless and dark as I move away from the lantern light by the kitchen’s back entrance.
I take a deep, steadying breath, the cold air bracing. I’m halfway across the small field at the kitchen’s back end, edged by a small stand of forest, the shadows tonight an inky, bottomless black, my steps dragging.
“Stay away from our men.”
I halt, heart speeding, and look toward the shadows, my eyes searching for the source of the vicious words.
I can just make Iris out in the dark, cloudy night. She’s leaning back against a tree trunk, arms confrontationally crossed, tall Bleddyn next to her, looking incensed.
My eyes dart toward a thinly populated path not far from here. Gauging whether or not Iris and Bleddyn can get away with attacking me again.
Iris stalks toward me, and I take a step back.
“I see the way you look at him,” she grinds out, getting up near my face.
A hot flush prickles all over my cheeks, my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about...”
“You Roaches want to own everything,” Bleddyn sneers, her voice deep and throaty, her eyes narrowed to furious slits.
“He’s mine,” Iris insists, the anger cracking open to reveal a pained vulnerability, her lips trembling. She gathers herself, her mouth tightening into an angry line, the hatred in her glare flaring. “Go back to Lukas Grey.” She looks me over with disgust. “Where you belong. Stay away from Yvan.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and my hands clench into fists as I let my fear fall away and glower at her openly.
Bleddyn spits out a laugh. “He doesn’t want her,” she sneers, looking me over with contempt. “How could he? With her pretending to be a Kelt one day and a Roach the next?” She blows a disdainful breath. “She doesn’t even know what skin she’s in.”
Iris looks to Bleddyn, vulnerable again, but infuriatingly heartened by her friend’s cruel words. Iris shoots me one last look of pure hostility, then walks off with Bleddyn, the Urisk girl hissing out, “Roach bitch!” as she passes.
* * *
Rafe and Trystan are in the hallway waiting for me when I return to the North Tower. They’re lit by lamplight, framed in black by the window behind them.
I swallow and fight back a swelling nausea as I take in their somber expressions, livid thoughts about Iris and Bleddyn whisked clear away.
Without comment, Rafe holds out a stiff, folded parchment, defiance in his eyes.
I unfold it, the sense of dread hardening in my gut.
Ancient One, no. It’s a notice of impending draft.
“It’s so quick,” I say, staring at the notice with disbelief. “Vogel only took power this morning.”
“It’s like he was ready for this,” Rafe says, his voice hard with suspicion.
“What?” I question, rattled. “You think Vogel knew this was coming? That our High Mage would die?”
Rafe’s dark stare doesn’t waver. “It makes you wonder. It’s so well planned.”
I remember Vogel’s terrible presence, the black void, the dead tree. I stare back at Rafe, alarm rising.
Trystan is uncharacteristically on edge, his eyes haunted. Looking aimlessly around the cold hallway, he takes a seat on the stone bench, his head dropping into his hands, his fingers clenching his hair.
“It’s a notice of impending draft,” I say, trying to reassure them both, trying to reassure myself. “The draft might not happen for a while.”
“This summer,” Trystan says, not lifting his head, his tone devoid of hope. “He’ll call us in this summer. There’s a weapons shipment that’s to go out just before that.”
My heart is hammering against my chest. I look up to Rafe. “Where would they send you?” I breathe.
Rafe spits out a bitter laugh, like the question is horribly ironic. “To the military base in Rothir.” His jaded grin falls away. “To wage war on the Lupines.”
I feel a sickening drop of my gut. “What will you do?” I ask.
Rafe bares his teeth. “I’ll use it for target practice.” He flicks the edge of the notice. “Right through the Mage Council Seal.” Defiant humor hardening to anger, Rafe looks toward the windows searchingly, then toward the door to my lodging. “Where’s Diana?” His voice is uncharacteristically brusque.
I gesture loosely toward the northern wilderness. “Somewhere in the wilds.”
His mouth set in a tight line, Rafe takes back the notice from me and hoists his bag.
“You’ll never find her—”
“I know where she goes,” he spits out, making for the door.
“What are you going to do?” I call after him, worried.
“Join the Lupines,” he growls before leaving, shutting the door behind him with a hard thud.
I stare after him. Force myself to take a steadying breath. Attempt to beat back the thin line of panic as Rafe’s heavy boot heels clomp down the stairs, the tower door slamming shut. Silence descends.
“They won’t take him in,” Trystan says with calm, terrible assurance.
Trystan’s voice is muted, his head still in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair in tight fists.
“He’s the grandson of the Black Witch,” Trystan continues, tone deadened. “They will never take him in.”
Thoughts spinning, with nothing solid to latch on to, I take a seat next to Trystan and put my hand on his shoulder to steady the both of us. His breath catches then stops for a moment. His slender body shudders, his hands coming down to tightly cover his eyes as he starts to cry. My heart catches in my throat—the silent way Trystan sobs is always more devastating to me than if he keened and wailed.
I put my arm around him and he falls against me, bending in, eyes pressed against my shoulder as I hug him and pull him in tight.
“I don’t want to be part of this anymore.” His voice is constricted almost to a whisper. “They’ve got me filling metal discs with fire power. Anyone who steps on them will be blown to pieces. I’m filling arrows with fire. And ice. For what? To kill who? I don’t want to be a party to what’s coming.” He pauses, growing still. “And it’s only a matter of time before they find out what I am.”
Panic rears its head. “They don’t have to find out.”
He shakes his head side to side, hard against my shoulder. “Of course they’ll find out. When I don’t wandfast—”
“You’ll have to wandfast.” I firmly cut him off, brooking no argument.
Trystan goes very still. He’s quiet for a moment, breathing against my shoulder. He raises his red-rimmed eyes to me. “How?”
The question hangs in the air like a tunnel with no escape. “You just will! You’ll hide it. You’ll hide what you are.”
His calm deepens. He looks at me with unflappable incredulity. “Could you fast to a woman?”
“What?” I spit out, thrown. “Of course not!” A stinging flush rises on my cheeks along with a sudden wave of understanding. My mind casts about, desperately searching for a way out for him, but there’s no clear way to escape this.
After wandfasting comes the sealing ceremony. And consummation is expected the very night of the sealing, the fastlines flowing down the couple’s wrist as proof of consummation. The whole point of our joinings is to create more pure-blooded Mages.
It’s impossible for Trystan to even attempt to pull off a charade of normalcy.
We’re both quiet for a long moment.
“I could go to Noi lands,” he finally says. “They accept...my kind there.” His mouth twists in a cynical half smile. “But I’m the grandson of the Black Witch. Who will ever accept me?”
Incensed on my brother’s behalf, I stamp down my panic, mutiny rising. “I don’t know, Trystan. You might be wrong.”
He looks to me with surprise.
“The grandson of the greatest enemy they ever had,” I darkly muse. “A Level Five Mage. Trained in Gardnerian weapons magic. And disastrously at odds with Gardnerian culture.” I shoot him a defiant smile. “Maybe taking you into the Vu Trin Guard would seem like perfect revenge against the Gardnerians.”
Trystan’s eyes widen. He blinks at me. “You’ve changed.”
I give a deep sigh. “Yes. I have.”
He breathes out a short laugh, affection lighting his eyes. “I’m glad of it.” He wipes his tears away and straightens, shooting me a small smile. “You know there’s very little chance any of this will turn out well.”
I spit out a sound of derision. “Well, who needs good odds? Where would the fun be in that?”
Trystan coughs out another laugh, then takes a deep breath, eyeing me soberly.
“Go,” I tell him, motioning toward the door. “Get some sleep. Down the road, when you’re a rich and successful Vu Trin soldier, you can come back for Uncle Edwin and me and fly us back to Noi lands on the back of one of their dragons.”
“And we’ll all live happily-ever-after?” Trystan questions, a wry gleam back in his eyes.
“Yes,” I staunchly assure him. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Trystan takes his leave, shooting me an appreciative glance before he goes, and my false bravado leaves with him. The North Tower hall is quiet, the walls solid, but the entire world has gone unstable beneath my feet.
The thought of losing both my brothers has my heart breaking to pieces in my chest.
* * *
When I finally open the door to my room, everything is wrong.
There’s no fire in the hearth, and a bone-chilling cold has started to seep into the stone walls. And the atmosphere feels oppressive—laced with a heavy dread.
Ariel lies passed out on her bed, her chickens running about aimlessly, the raven staunchly at her side. A bowl of her nilantyr berries is tipped over beside her, her lips stained black. Marina the Selkie is curled up on my bed next to Aislinn, wide-eyed and afraid. Aislinn’s face is drawn, as if she’s withstood a disorienting blow.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I tell Aislinn, rattled by her expression. “What’s wrong?”
“The Verpacian Council passed a resolution today in solidarity with Marcus Vogel,” Aislinn says, her voice haggard.
My chest tightens. I glance around for Wynter and find her almost blending in with the shadows. She’s crumpled up against the windowsill, black wings tight around herself, her expression despondent.
“What happened?” I ask, the dread growing.
Wynter’s eyes flick to her desk, and I catch sight of the official-looking parchment.
“It was posted on the door,” Wynter says despairingly. “The new Verpacian Council...they’ve...made some changes.”
I swallow nervously, needles of fear pricking along the back of my neck. I go to Wynter’s desk and take the parchment in hand.
It’s an official notice from the Verpacian Council. All Icarals are required to return to their countries of origin after completion of this year’s University studies. Verpacian work papers and Guild admittance will no longer be permitted for Icarals.
“How did they get two-thirds of the Verpacian Council to vote for this?” I ask Aislinn, swiping the parchment through the air. “The Gardnerians only hold a slim majority.”
“The Gardnerians have been emboldened by Vogel’s election, and the rest of the Council are scared. They want to placate the Gardnerians,” she replies.
Wynter begins to cry.
Ariel will have to return to Gardneria. Where she will be imprisoned in the Valgard Sanitorium. And Wynter will be sent back to Alfsigr lands, where her people are debating whether or not to execute her kind.
My sickening dread begins a rapid slide into rage. I curse and hurl my bag at the wall. Marina cries out at the sound, and I immediately feel guilty for it. I slump down onto the bed, bring my hands to my face and force myself to breathe.
Over a thousand dragons.
When I look up again, a line of six mournful Watchers flashes into view. They sit on the long rafter above Wynter, wings tight around themselves, heads hung low.
They fade away as Wynter’s sob deepens into a low, keening wail.
* * *
I huddle close to Aislinn in the North Tower’s hallway as she takes her leave.
Her face is stark in the flickering lantern light, almost gaunt. A freezing rain has moved in, and it pelts the window beside us, a chilling draft seeping through.
Aislinn stops and turns to me. “Maybe Yvan Guriel needs to save his dragon after all,” she ventures tentatively.
I eye her speculatively—it’s such a brazen statement coming from my quiet friend. I cock my head in thought as her meaning dawns.
“Escape,” I voice, a picture of flight forming in my mind.
Aislinn nods, her brow knit tight. “The Icarals...they’ll have to get out, Elloren. And...maybe Marina, too. At some point. And the Lupines...” She breaks off, pained, and looks away.
Jarod.
There could come a time when the Gardnerians force the Lupines off their land, and that time could be soon.
Aislinn meets my eyes once more. “They’re sealing off the borders. But...dragons can fly.”
“Yes, they can, can’t they?” I agree with a sly smile. “Straight over borders.” I consider this possibility. “The dragon’s in a cage,” I warn her. “Made of Elfin steel.”
She takes a steadying breath. “Don’t you have Sage Gaffney’s wand?”
I spit out a dismissive sound. “I do. And Trystan’s powerful. But magic that can break Elfin steel—if those spells exist, he doesn’t have access to them.”
“What if I knew where we could find them?”
I stare at her. “How could you possibly?”
“There’s a spellbook called the Black Grimoire,” she says. “Only the Mage Council and military have access to it. It contains highly protected spells. Military spells. My father has a copy of it in his office, and he’s away meeting with the Northern Lupines. He won’t be back for at least another month.”
I stare at her, disbelieving. “Aislinn, one does not simply borrow a military grimoire.”
Aislinn slumps down, timid, her expression roiling with conflict, but then her jaw stiffens with resolve and she meets my eyes. “Well, I’m going to borrow it. And I’ll have it back to him before he even notices it’s gone.”
I’m stunned by her boldness.
And proud. So incredibly proud.
“Well,” I tell her, a smile spreading across my face. “I suppose it’s time to speak to Yvan Guriel about freeing his dragon.”