The young woman stood beside her blonde friend, her dark auburn hair tied back, her hands clasped together. As she gazed around the room, her eyes lingered on Fyn’s handsome face.
Annev ground his teeth, but then Myjun’s eyes caught his and his jealousy was forgotten. She beamed at him and seemed about to speak before she remembered herself. A smile still on her lips, she gave him a tiny wave.
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’
Therin was staring at Myjun, too.
‘Hair like the sun,’ Therin continued. ‘And those freckles! Just a dash on her nose and cheeks – like her skin’s on fire.’
Oh, Annev thought, fists unclenching. He means Faith.
Therin grinned at her. ‘Why do you think they’re here? Are we training with them?’ His face screwed up as an idea struck him. ‘Are they fighting us?’
The question hit Annev like a bucket of ice water. He glanced back at Myjun and saw that the young women all stood at attention, looking towards an older woman who had followed the last four witgirls into the nave. She had grey-streaked brown hair and wore a charcoal-grey dress. Annev had seen her before, usually speaking with Elder Tosan, and she clearly held a senior position within the witwomen.
‘Ladies. Please join your male counterparts,’ she ordered as she glided towards Duvarek, her hands steepled in front of her chest. The eight young women flowed past the crowd of adolescent boys, forming a line opposite them. Annev watched Myjun and saw the tight black leggings that peeked from beneath her flowing yellow skirts. He blinked and realised all of the wit-apprentices were wearing the same tight black uniform.
They have their reaping uniforms on beneath their day clothes …
As the ladies settled into place in front of the male students, Annev sensed a deeper change in the atmosphere. Myjun took a place opposite him, her eyes meeting his before glancing away, but not before an impish smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Annev took a deep breath then exhaled slowly, trying to focus.
Duvarek turned to the Master of Arms. ‘Explain the challenge while I fetch the rods from Narach? He’s so reluctant to let them out of the Vault, I’ll have to prise them from his hands.’
‘Sure. I have the medallions.’ Edra rolled his shoulders and traded places with the Master of Shadows, who hurried through the door out of the nave.
‘The purpose of this lesson is to test your stealth – your skill at avoiding detection and ability to escape others while carrying items of value.’ Edra looked over the assembled acolytes, avatars, and wit-apprentices, making eye contact with Annev and a few of his classmates. ‘You boys know your duty. Thousands of cursed magic artifacts are still loose in the world, and many of them will find their way to Greater Luqura. Odar has entrusted us with finding and securing them in the Vault of Damnation. But we cannot reclaim those artifacts by force. Success requires stealth, cunning and deception. Witmistress Kiara?’
The older witwoman stepped forward and also surveyed the group. Annev held his breath as the full weight of her regard passed over him.
‘Ladies, our sisters are even now gathering the next reap of acolytes. When they return to Chaenbalu, we will raise those newborns and train them for their future callings as Avatars of Judgement. Today we continue your training for the reap itself. It is a dangerous mission, and its successful execution is a key part of your role as a witwoman. Failure here, in these controlled circumstances, will indicate that you are unfit for the rigours of reaping. Do I make myself clear?’
The wit-apprentices bowed their heads, and Annev felt a tinge of dread as he realised they faced their own challenges for advancement at the Academy. It was a strange glimpse into Myjun’s world.
Annev knew that the witwomen and their Wit Circle were secretive beyond even what was normal for the masters and ancients, and that their primary duty was to bring babes back from Luqura so that they could be raised at the Academy as acolytes, avatars and wit-apprentices. But he had no idea how they achieved this goal and had no concept of their hierarchy or the training needed to become a full witwoman. He supposed that, in many respects, abducting infants would be harder than stealing magic artifacts – a baby was alive, after all, and stealing an infant from its parents was an emotional challenge as well as a physical one – but Annev also knew that reaping was a small part of their role, though it was always referred to with reverence. When the masters and ancients explained how acolytes came to the Academy, they claimed the mothers had chosen to give their children to Odar to serve his arcane purposes. Few people other than Titus actually believed that, though. The rest, including Annev, observed the injuries the witwomen sometimes received during the reaping and guessed it was a pretence to cover something less innocent. No one spoke of it openly, though.
The door at the rear of the nave swung open as Duvarek returned, followed swiftly by Steward Markov in his tan robes and the elderly Master Narach. They joined Master Edra and Witmistress Kiara, with Markov towing a black-painted chest. Edra now set down the small unpainted chest he had been carrying, opened it, and pulled out a fistful of wooden discs strung on braided cord. He began separating the tangled wood and string.
‘Each of you – avatars, acolytes and wit-apprentices – will wear one of these.’ Edra freed a wooden disc and lifted it high enough for all the students to see. ‘Today’s test will last an hour and if you have more than one badge at the end of the hour, you will pass.’ He lowered the disc. ‘If you have one, or none, then you fail.’ The students murmured their understanding and Edra began handing out the medallions.
The Master of Shadows gestured for Markov to open the black box and plucked out a slender wooden wand. One half was painted black and the other half was bright gold. Annev noticed that Duvarek was careful not to touch the black end.
Duvarek lifted the rod for all to see. ‘This is a stumble-stick.’
‘A Rod of Paralysis!’ Narach corrected, his voice crabby and irritated. ‘The Master of Secrets names the artifacts in the Vault, and you will show respect by using its correct name.’
Duvarek cleared his throat. ‘The stumble-stick,’ Duvarek repeated, ‘paralyses whatever it touches.’ He lifted the wand, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You grasp the gold handle – that part is safe. Touch someone with the black end, though, and that part of their body will go limp. “Gold, you hold. Black goes slack”. Don’t accidentally stun yourself.’ Duvarek beckoned Markov. ‘A demonstration.’
Markov hesitated, visibly unwilling.
‘Come along, steward.’ Duvarek flashed his teeth at the anxious young man.