THE YULE DANCE
Hoods pulled over our heads, Jarod and I move against the flow of festive Gardnerians that’s streaming toward the White Hall’s main entrance.
A Gardnerian soldier positioned by the door spots us and narrows his eyes at obviously Lupine Jarod, his expression rapidly turning belligerent.
I grab hold of Jarod’s hand. “C’mon. If we go that way, they’ll stop us.”
We dodge around Gardnerian couples, stifling laughter at the astonished looks everyone gives us. Clinging to each other’s hands, Jarod and I sneak in through the side entrance that only kitchen workers know about. The muffled sounds of orchestral music and lilting conversation can be heard through the wall of black velvet fabric that hangs in front of us, the curtains extending around the White Hall’s entire peripheral walkway.
I pause to pull my satiny shoes out from my inner cloak pocket and quickly slip them on, leaving my wet boots neatly propped by the edge of a wall to retrieve later.
Jarod and I exchange an anticipatory glance and pull back the edge of the velvet curtain. Both of us excitedly peek inside, like two kids about to find forbidden candy. Warm air rushes toward us, the music growing louder and clearer.
“Oh, Jarod.” I draw in a sharp breath as I take in the incredible transformation the hall has undergone, my earth affinity lines shuddering to life.
Ironwood boughs are suspended above the crowd to create a low ceiling, completely hiding the White Hall’s constellation-adorned dome. Earth Mages must have coaxed the boughs into full bloom, the Ironflower blossoms glowing a sublime blue. Ironwood trees planted in enormous, black-laquered containers ring the hall and are interspersed throughout it, transforming the vast assembly room into a living forest.
A dance floor at the far end of the hall is filled with twirling couples, and scores of blue glass lanterns hang from the dense, overhanging branches, their candles only heightening the ethereal glow of the Ironflowers. The sapphire light sparkles off jewelry, dress beading and the crystal flutes being waved around by celebratory, laughing Gardnerians.
I breathe in deep, the smells of expensive perfume and Ironflower blossoms seductively transforming the hall’s normally dank air. Urisk and Keltic kitchen workers move through the crowd with expressions of forced pleasantry, serving food from golden trays and tending to the lamps. I briefly spot Fernyllia carrying out a selection of appetizers and search the white-aproned workers for a glimpse of Yvan, but he’s nowhere in sight.
Anxious tension rises in me. What if Yvan’s working here tonight?
Jarod and I slip into the hall and remain discreetly behind the line of potted Ironwood trees. I leave my cloak on, not wanting my phosphorescent dress to attract attention just yet, but I pull down my hood and shake out my bejeweled hair. Jarod follows suit, grinning at me, his blond hair charmingly mussed.
An orchestra performs from the hall’s central dais, the music full of melancholy grandeur. The whole scene is both breathtakingly gorgeous and completely disheartening. Seeing so many Gardnerians strutting about like a flock of triumphant, predatory crows is daunting, and it’s hard to look at the oppressively large Gardnerian flag hanging behind the musicians, with its silver Erthia orb on black.
They’re weapons, these flags. Meant to intimidate.
“Refreshment, Mage?”
Torn from my troubled thoughts, I glance down to find an elderly Urisk servant offering up a golden platter, her eyes flitting toward Jarod with surprise, then nervous concern. I glance down at her tray, and my gut clenches at the sight of our traditional holiday cookies, cut in the shape of Icaral wings. Wings like those of my roommates, Ariel Haven and Wynter Eirllyn.
I decline the horrid things with a shake of my head, and the Urisk woman seems more than happy to flee from us.
“Wings?” Jarod inquires as he watches a group of Gardnerians pick the buttery cookies off a tray, the couples laughing as they snap the wings in two before taking a bite.
“Icaral wings,” I reply ashamedly as I remember the baskets of cookies the Gaffneys would send over every Harvest and Yule. “You break them.”
Jarod’s brow tightens as tray after tray of the cookies are brought into the hall, the snapping of the wings sounding like pelting rain. I wince, every snap an imaginary tear at Ariel’s wings. At Wynter’s.
My people will conquer the Western Realm, I lament. As easily as they break these cookies.
“What’s the significance of the Ironflowers?” Jarod asks. “They’re everywhere.”
“There’s a story in our holy book,” I distractedly reply. “A famous prophetess, Galliana, saved my people long ago. The Mages were fleeing from demonic forces and were completely outnumbered. Galliana used the demon-slaying powers of Ironflowers as well as the White Wand to fight back. She’s often called the Iron Flower for that reason.”
“How did she do it?”
I shrug, having heard the story countless times, its drama dulled by repetition. “She rode into battle on a giant raven and struck down the demons with a river of Magefire. Then she led my people across a desert to safety. We’ve a holiday every year commemorating her victory, just before Yule—Gallianalein. The Ironflower Festival. The dance just happens to fall on it this year.”
“Hmm,” Jarod says thoughtfully. He looks around. “Well, if you’re going to build a festival around a flower, you certainly picked a beautiful one.” There’s a hint of rapture in his tone, a devotion that’s often there when he and his sister Diana talk about the natural world.
As he studies the Ironwood decor more closely, Jarod frowns. “They had to kill all these trees to do this.” He glances at me, deep disapproval all over his face.
“I suppose they did.” I survey the boughs and the potted trees cut free of their roots, abashed by the way my earth affinity is pulling toward all the dead wood.
Hungry for it.
“It’s incredibly strange, all this,” Jarod comments. “Why do you Gardnerians build everything to look like fake forests, while you hate actual living forests and revel in burning them down?”
“It’s part of our religion.” I shift uncomfortably. “We’re meant to subdue the wilds. They’re supposedly filled with the spirit of the Evil Ones.”
Offense flashes in his eyes. “Charming. Truly.”
I think of the hostile trees. Whispering to me on the wind. Sensing the magic in my veins...
“And you know what’s stranger still?” he asks.
I shake my head and look to him questioningly.
Jarod scans the expansive hall. “Most of the couples in this room do not want to be with each other.”
My brow lifts in surprise. “Really?”
“More than half. It’s awful.” Jarod points out several ill-matched couples in a rare showing of his Lupine senses. Then he points out the many true attractions that run completely counter to how the couples are paired. He gestures toward a tall, slender military apprentice in a slate gray uniform marked with a silver orb. He’s standing next to a pretty, young Gardnerian woman, the two of them with fastmarked hands.
“You see that man over there?” I nod. Jarod then points at another young man—a muscular mariner’s apprentice, his black tunic edged with a line of Ironflower blue. “Those two men, they’re madly in love with each other. I can feel it from all the way over here.”
Surprise flashes through me, and I observe the two young men more closely. Soon, I can pick out a few surreptitious, heat-filled glances. It’s subtle, but there. I immediately think of my brother Trystan, desperately wishing that he was able to love freely, but scared about what would happen to him if he did.
“They’d be thrown in prison if they were found out,” I tell Jarod, knowing he’s probably already sensed my fear for Trystan’s safety.
Jarod’s blond brow furrows. “I don’t understand your people. You take perfectly natural and normal things and write religious laws that state they’re unnatural. Which is absurd.”
Surprise takes hold. “You allow this in Lupine society? Men with men?”
“Of course.” He’s looking at me with a mixture of pity and concern. “It’s incredibly cruel to treat people this way.”
“There’s nothing in your religion that condemns it?” I ask, stunned. Nothing that condemns my beloved brother? Or forces people to hide who they really are?
Jarod studies me closely, perhaps reading my suddenly troubled emotions. “Elloren,” he says with compassion, “no, there’s not. At all.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I have to look away from him. “So, Trystan would be completely accepted for who he is in Lupine lands?” My voice breaks around the whispered words.
Jarod hesitates, an expression of dismay knotting his brow tighter. “Yes. But...he’d have to become Lupine first.”
I throw Jarod a caustic look. “Which would strip him of his Mage powers, since Lupines are immune to wand magic.” I shake my head ruefully. “He’s a Level Five Mage, Jarod. It’s become an important part of who he is. He’d never want to lose that.”
Jarod nods gravely, and anger on my brother’s behalf spikes inside me. “So, there’s nowhere for him to go, then. Nowhere he can be himself and not be vilified for it.”
“Only the Noi lands,” Jarod says quietly, but we both know that the Noi people aren’t likely to welcome the grandson of the Black Witch into their lands. I inwardly curse the cage that the people of both Realms have forced my brother into.
“Do your people have dances?” I ask a tad crossly, frustrated by the wretched state of things and struggling to regain my composure.
Jarod looks out over the hall, his expression edged with contempt. “No. Not like this. Our dancing...it’s more of a spontaneous thing. And the way your people dance...it’s so...stiff. Our music has a strong rhythm to it, and when our couples dance, it’s very close. Not like this. This is like a child’s dance.”
A flush heats my neck as a picture of Lupine couples fills my mind, twined around each other, moving sensuously to the rhythm of the music.
As I scan the crowd, my eyes land on Paige Snowden. She’s nibbling on a skewer of toasted goldenfish that glint in the lantern light and standing with a knot of young Gardnerian women. A shadow falls over her expression as they’re joined by her fastmate, Sylus Bane. I recoil at the sight of Sylus in his military uniform, a gleaming wand at his hip, the same charismatic, arrogant stance and cruel smile as his vicious siblings, Fallon and Damion.
“You know,” I say to Jarod, intimidation pulling at me, “when Fallon recuperates and finds out I was at this dance with Lukas Grey, she’s going to kill me.”
“No, she won’t,” he counters with surprising confidence as he selects a crystal glass full of blue punch from a servant’s tray. “Diana told Fallon quite a while ago that if she ever bothered you again, she’d rip her head off and display it on a post in front of the University gates.”
I cough out a shocked laugh as Jarod grabs up another glass of punch and hands it to me. He lifts his glass in a toast and straightens. “To freedom,” Jarod says, smiling at me. “For everyone.”
“To freedom,” I agree, momentarily overcome by the sentiment. I smile back at him as we clink our glasses decidedly together.
I sip at the sweet punch. Candied Ironflower petals float on the surface of the blue liquid, and the crystal glass is cool in my hand. I survey the outwardly happy-looking couples, my thoughts turning to Diana and my eldest brother. “My aunt’s cut Rafe off, did you know that?”
Jarod’s pleasant expression dims.
“She found out about Diana,” I tell him. “Everyone knows. My aunt’s sent word that she’s coming to visit us in a few days, once the Mage Council adjourns. Her letter was friendly enough, but I suspect the real reason for her trip is to threaten Rafe.”
Jarod cocks an eyebrow at me. “If she’s cut him off, how’s Rafe going to manage the University tithe?”
I can’t help but smile faintly at the absurdity of it. “He’s working with me now. In the kitchens. Which is funny, because kitchen work is Rafe’s least favorite chore.”
A collective gasp goes up near the entrance to the hall, and we both turn to see Rafe and Diana burst into the room, laughing. He’s pulling her by one arm, a wide grin on his face as she jokingly resists his pull. They’re dressed in rumpled brown hiking clothes, a dead rabbit tied to Diana’s back and swinging behind her.
My mouth falls open as all the blood drains from my face.
Rough shouts of protest go up as Rafe leads Diana to the middle of the dance floor and takes her into his arms, twirling her around smoothly, their faces radiant with happiness.
Alarmed, I glance toward Jarod, whose face has paled.
“This is a Gardnerian dance,” a soldier with the stripes of a Level Three Mage barks out as he stalks toward Diana and Rafe, three more soldiers close on his heels as the music falls away.
A look of white-hot defiance crosses my brother’s face. He shoots the Mage a mocking smile, pulls Diana into an embrace and kisses her deeply.
Waves of shock rip through the room, followed by an angry swell of voices.
The Level Three Mage reaches for his wand. “No!” I choke out, grasping at Jarod’s arm. “Rafe doesn’t have any magic!”
“I know,” Jarod says tightly, the hard muscles of his arm coiling beneath my hand.
Diana pulls away from Rafe, a mischievous look in her eyes. Then she exuberantly grabs my brother’s hand and tugs him after her, the two of them laughing as they bound through the crowd and out of the hall. A torrent of breath releases from my lungs at their escape, the clamor of angry voices soon dissipating along with the threat of violence as the soldiers slowly blend back into the outraged crowd.
After a moment of tense silence, I turn to Jarod. “Do your parents know about them?” I wonder if all hell is about to break loose on both sides of the aisle.
Jarod’s jaw grows rigid. “They do. They’re coming to Founder’s Day.” He hesitates. “Father wants to have a talk with Rafe.”
I shoot him a panicked look. I’ve been looking forward to Founder’s Day, when parents and families traditionally flood into Verpax to visit University scholars. Uncle Edwin is finally well enough to come see us, and I’ve been overjoyed at the prospect of seeing him after so many months apart. He recently sent me a letter, transcribed by one of Aunt Vyvian’s servants, telling me that his health is slowly improving and he’s finally able to walk again with the aid of a cane.
But now, my happy anticipation dims as a sharp worry takes hold. The Lupines may be accepting of a great many things, but I imagine that acceptance does not extend to the descendants of the Black Witch.
“It’s not just my parents and younger sister who are coming,” Jarod worriedly says, glancing at me sidelong. “My father’s entire guard will be accompanying them, as well.”
I grasp my glass tighter. “Your father’s not coming to threaten Rafe, is he?”
Jarod looks out over the crowd, the music tentatively stepping up to quell the collective trauma. “No,” he says with a troubling lack of conviction. “At least I hope not.”
Jarod’s attention is caught by something across the room. He inhales sharply as his eyes fill with emotion. “Aislinn.”
I follow his gaze and soon spot Aislinn’s slender frame gliding through the crowd like a panicked bird in flight. Jarod and I both step forward, away from the shelter of the trees, and I motion to Aislinn with a small wave. She waves back, her eyes widening as they settle on Jarod.
Aislinn’s slightly out of breath as she reaches us. “Jarod. You’re here.” Her openly besotted look quickly tamps down, and she looks away from Jarod, flustered. “I’m so glad I found both of you.”
“I thought you were still in Valgard,” I say, surprised. Aislinn was finally going to tell her father the truth—that she doesn’t want to be fasted to Randall, the fastmate her parents have chosen for her. “Weren’t you going home to talk to your father?”
Aislinn nods stiffly, her eyes filling with anguish. Jarod puts his glass down on a nearby table and places his hand gently on her arm. A Gardnerian woman chatting with her friends nearby catches sight of the gesture, registers that there’s a Lupine in her midst and shoots us a look of deep distress. Their entire group breaks into alarmed murmurs and rapidly flees to another part of the hall.
Tears spill down Aislinn’s face, and she wipes them away with the back of her arm. “Father says I have to fast to Randall. As soon as possible. He was...very angry when I disagreed. It was horrible.” She chokes back a sob, her shoulders shaking. “He told me that a daughter who disobeys her father...is a daughter no more.”
“Oh, Aislinn,” I say, my heart going out to her. “I’m so sorry.”
Her face tenses miserably. “I’m trapped. Father was going to pull me from the University. I had to apologize and beg him to let me stay, and he made me travel back here with Randall. We argued the whole way. Father has him watching me all the time now—I just escaped from him. I’ve got to get away.” She wipes at her eyes again, the silk arm of her tunic streaked with dark lines of tears.
“Come away with me,” Jarod says, his voice filled with calm authority.
Aislinn looks up at him, incredulous. “Jarod, I’d be cut off from my family. Completely cut off. You don’t understand. I...can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Jarod insists, a courageous light in his amber eyes. “Aislinn, this is a mistake. Come away with me right now.”
Aislinn peers out over the crowd, then back up at Jarod, as affection and trust wash over her face. My heartbeat speeds up, and I sense that if Aislinn goes with Jarod now, there’s a chance she’ll leave with him for good.
“Go,” I urgently prod her with a quick glance to Jarod. “You should go with him.”
“Aislinn!” Randall’s arrogant voice calls out from the crowd, and my hope for her plummets. He rushes toward us, looking obnoxiously attractive in his cleanly pressed uniform.
“Unhand her, right now,” he orders as he approaches. When Jarod simply glares at him, Randall roughly grabs Aislinn’s free arm and yanks her toward himself.
“Let her go!” I exclaim.
Aislinn makes a hurt sound and instinctively recoils.
Jarod’s eyes go wild. His lips pull back over long, white teeth as a low growl emanates from his throat. He makes a slight lunge toward Randall, muscles tensed, and I flinch back.
“Get your hand off of her, Gardnerian,” Jarod snarls. “Or I will rip it off.”
Startled, Randall lets go of Aislinn and stumbles back. “Aislinn!” he insists shrilly. “Get away from him!”
Aislinn stares up at Jarod, her eyes gone wide.
A metallic screech tears through the air as four soldiers unsheathe swords and close ranks behind Randall. Emboldened, his expression turns smug. “You are seriously outnumbered here, shapeshifter,” Randall says, artlessly drawing his own sword.
Jarod lunges forward, lightning fast, grabs up Randall’s sword and bends it in half with one hand, casting it to the stone floor with a deafening clank. Randall and the other soldiers flinch back in alarm as a snarl works its way up from the base of Jarod’s throat.
“I am the son of Gunther Ulrich,” Jarod growls, teeth bared, as he grasps hold of her arm once more. “And I could take on every one of you. And win.”
Randall’s throat bobs as he swallows nervously, frozen in place. “Aislinn,” he finally croaks out in a halfhearted demand.
Aislinn shakes her head, as if trying to wake from a spell, her face agonized. “Let me go, Jarod,” she says hoarsely. “I have to go with him.”
Jarod’s head whips toward her. “No, Aislinn. You don’t.”
“Let me go, Jarod. Please.”
Jarod stares at Aislinn for a long moment, his face violently conflicted. He releases her arm.
“Get over here!” Randall orders, a slight tremor in his voice as he thrusts his hand out at Aislinn. She takes it without a word and lets herself be led away.
Jarod stares after her and, for a moment, I fear he’ll go after Randall, there’s such violence in his eyes.
I’m desperate to console him. “Jarod, I...”
Before I can say anything else, he shoots me a wild-eyed look, then stalks across the hall, through the mortified crowd, and out a back door.
I hesitate for a brief, agonized moment before following him, but by the time I reach the terrace outside, Jarod is nowhere in sight. I race through a maze of potted evergreen trees and frosty ice sculptures as I rush toward the terrace’s railing, spotting Jarod’s dark silhouette far across a long, barren field, and I know I’ll never catch up with him.
The wilds lie just beyond the flat expanse.
I call out after him, but to no avail. Despairing, I turn, and the largest of the ice sculptures catches my eye, illuminated in the terrace’s blue lantern light. The sculpture looms over me, the frozen visage of my famous grandmother staring down, wand raised to slay the Icaral lying at her feet—an exact replica of the monument outside Valgard’s Cathedral.
Black Witch.
The words are soft on the cold air.
I look toward the forest just as Jarod stalks into the line of trees and is quickly swallowed up by the blackness of the wilds.