Nothing.
I throw the wand on the floor and lose myself to fear’s icy, suffocating grip. The scraping goes on and on late into the night, and I feel myself falling, falling, until everything fades to black.
*
I’m running through the North Tower’s upstairs hallway.
It goes on and on so far, I can’t see what lies at the end until finally, I come to my new lodging. This time the door is open, and the room is lit with a soft light that glows unearthly red. Heart pounding, I step inside.
Sage Gaffney stands near the window, a single candle with a blood-red flame beside her, casting the room in long shadows. She has a blank look, her eyes hollowed-out sockets.
“Sage,” I say, confused. “Why are you here?”
She doesn’t answer, only opens her dark cloak to reveal the bundle that’s hidden underneath. Something moves inside the tightly wrapped blankets, and she holds it out to me.
I approach her warily, the bundle full of rippling movement, like a baby lizard about to break out of its soft eggshell, straining to be born. I feel a strong sense of revulsion.
Her baby.
The Icaral.
A macabre curiosity drives me on. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach down and pull back the blanket.
A crippling fear seizes me as I face the monster Sage has given birth to, its head that of the Icaral in Valgard, its eyes white and soulless. The creature unfurls foul, black wings, pulls its mouth back into a snarl and lunges...
*
“No! No!” I scream as a woman’s voice cuts through the image before me.
“Wake up, child!”
The dream fades like mist at daybreak, replaced by the face of an elderly Urisk woman kneeling before me, her broad, blue face so deeply lined it resembles a raisin, a brown kerchief holding back her gray hair.
I recoil from the wizened, bony hands that clutch at my shoulders. She releases me and leans back on her heels, her expression one of wary concern. I shake my head hard from side to side, trying to quickly rid myself of the lingering fuzziness.
Did I pass out?
Confused and disoriented, I glance wildly around.
I was dreaming. Was it all a nightmare?
The Urisk woman’s eyes flicker over to something on the floor to the right of me. “You dropped your wand,” she points out.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I grab up the wand and shove it back under the inner lining of my travel trunk, relieved that she doesn’t seem suspicious that I would be in possession of an expensive wand. “I was attacked by Icarals,” I inform her breathlessly.
She doesn’t look surprised. Instead, she tilts her head, regarding me levelly.
“That would have been Miss Ariel, I suppose.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No. They were Icarals. I’m sure of it.”
“Miss Ariel and Miss Wynter are Icarals,” she replies matter-of-factly.
I gape at her in confusion. I shake my head at her again, refusing to believe her. “No. That can’t be. The Vice Chancellor told me that Ariel Haven is a Gardnerian and Wynter Eirllyn is an Elf.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “That is true, Mage Gardner. But it is also true that they are both Icarals.”
The blood drains from my face. “No. That’s impossible,” I say in a whisper, feeling like the room is beginning to spin out of control. “They...they can’t be my lodging mates! They want to kill me!”
“Now, now, child,” she chides, like I’m somehow overreacting. “You’re making yourself hysterical. Miss Wynter wouldn’t hurt a fly. Gentle as can be, that one. Now, Miss Ariel, she can come off a bit scary upon first meeting...”
“A bit?” I cry. “She clawed at this door all night long, telling me every way she wants to kill me!”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it, Mage Gardner,” she reassures me.
I can’t believe it. How can she be so blasé about Icaral demons?
“Where are they?” I demand, looking beyond her into the foyer.
“Gone, Mage. In class, I suppose.”
“They’re scholars here?” I cry, not believing this can be happening. But then I remember Aunt Vyvian talking about two Icaral demons. Here at the University.
My lodging mates.
The realization sets my head spinning.
The Urisk woman gets up off the floor and offers me a hand.
I ignore her and get up myself, not trusting her. Not trusting anything.
She lowers her hand, shoots me an unreadable glance, grabs a mop and bucket and waddles out into the foyer.
I hesitantly move toward the door of the closet, half expecting the Icarals to be crouched behind the walls bracketing the door, but when I see the Urisk woman setting down the mop and bucket, humming a tune to herself, I poke my head out of the closet.
The foyer is empty, except for us.
Sunlight streams through a long window halfway up the spiraling staircase. I can see puffy white clouds working their way across a crystal-blue sky. I venture out of the closet on shaky legs, glancing wildly around, listening intently for sound. Then I turn around and close the closet’s door and immediately feel light-headed.
The scratching I heard, the gouging—it was all real.
The door is completely covered in writing etched deep in the wood by some sharp tool or knife. Over and over, the Icaral wrote “HATE” and “KILL” and a variety of obscenities that cover the entire door. I turn to the Urisk woman.
She’s ceased her humming and is leaning on her mop, studying me calmly.
“Do you see this?” I ask her shrilly.
She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and shakes her head from side to side. “Miss Ariel’s work, by the looks of it.”
How can she be so calm?
“Ariel,” I repeat incredulously. “My new lodging mate. The demon.”
“She’s a bit high-strung, Mage.”
High-strung? Is this a University or a sanitorium?
“Don’t you worry, Mage,” she clucks. “I’ll have that door replaced...”
Not able to stomach any more of her infuriating calmness I stalk past her, fleeing from the North Tower as fast as I can.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tournaments & Tests
I stumble out into the sunshine, my eyes smarting from the glare.
It’s late morning, the sun high in the sky, and the fields, which were so gray the day before, are green and cheerful, rimmed by trees highlighted with the beginnings of vibrant fall color.
I rush down the broad, scrubby field that separates the North Tower from the rolling horse pastures, squinting into the sunlight.
A few curious sheep raise their heads as I hurry past their partitioned fields, the dirt path moist beneath my feet, the scent of mud and greenery on the air. The clacking of multiple looms and the buoyant sound of female conversation waft from the Weavers’ Guild building, the doors propped open to let in the fresh air. Blonde Verpacian and silver-haired Elfhollen girls are coming and going, newcomers lugging baskets of brightly colored yarn. I fly past them all onto the cobbled walkways of the University city, the occasional groupings of scholars, laborers and professors breaking off midsentence to gawk at me.
There are flags flapping everywhere, affixed to buildings, streaming from windows, hanging from belts and saddles. Verpacia’s four-pointed star on gray seems to dominate, with Gardneria’s silver Erthia sphere on black a close second. The streets are crowded, the passersby in a celebratory mood, and uniformed soldiers of every stripe are out in force.
I suddenly remember that this week marks the beginning of the Fall Tournaments. My brothers told me about them, the contests ranging from archery and sword combat to weaving and glasswork. Competitors come from all over Erthia to show off their expertise and impress the various Guilds.
Breathless, I stop in front of the stately Merchants’ Guild, the flags of Gardneria and the pure white flag of the Elfin Alfsigr lands bracketing the entrance. I’m jostled as the crowd surges around me. My eyes dart from building to building as I try to find my bearings in this sea of people, but nothing and no one looks familiar.
“Are you all right?”
I turn to find a young, pointy-eared Elfhollen soldier staring at me with his bright silver eyes.