“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?”