Ariel hisses up at me, her eyes in tight, evil slits.
“Leave me alone!” I warn, bumping against a bedpost as I back away. “If you so much as come near me, I will go straight to the Mage Council. They will throw you back in the sanitorium, where you belong, and cut off those foul wings of yours. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in an empty cell, going even crazier than you already are!”
“Then do it, Gardnerian!” she snarls with as much venom as she can muster. “It would be well worth hearing you scream!”
“I’ll also go to the Elves!” I cry, pointing at Wynter. “I’ll tell them that Wynter Eirllyn attacked me, as well!”
“Wynter won’t be the one to attack you!” Ariel screams as Wynter lets out a small cry and cowers on her bed. “I will!”
“They won’t know that!” I threaten. “Just like that Kelt professor believed you, they’ll believe every word I say.”
As my words register, her attempt to look frightening collapses in on itself, morphing into one of sheer horror, her wings falling to hang limply behind her.
She’s afraid of me. Just as Lukas said she’d be.
“I need a bed,” I demand, nervously seizing on my advantage, pointing to the bed behind me. Ariel scuttles over to it and hurriedly retrieves her things, taking out her aggression on her belongings, throwing them viciously on the bed next to Wynter’s, muttering to herself darkly the whole time.
She turns to glower at me. “You can keep me from hurting you, Gardnerian,” she vows, “but you can’t keep me from hating you!”
“The feeling’s mutual!” I snipe back.
I strip the bed of Ariel’s sheets, disgusted by the idea of sleeping on anything that’s touched an Icaral’s skin, and toss them forcefully in her direction. Then I retrieve my things from the downstairs closet and set them by my new bed. I fish out my pen set and some rolled-up parchment, then plop down at my desk and set my writing implements out before me.
I don’t feel powerful, even though Lukas says I am. I feel small and scared and intimidated. And I can feel the Icaral demons watching me.
My eyes stinging hot with tears, I begin to write.
Dear Aunt Vyvian,
Please let me move to different lodging. I know you’re trying to do what you feel is best for me, and I’m thankful for your good intentions, but the Icarals are frightening and dangerous—more than I think you could have ever imagined.
I agree to be courted by Lukas Grey with the intention of fasting to him. I never closed the door to that possibility. I know that is not exactly what you want, but please, Aunt Vyvian, please don’t leave me here with these horrible creatures. I beg of you.
Your Faithful Niece,
Elloren
I dry the ink, fold the parchment and seal it with wax, then snuff out the lamp.
*
That night, after I cry myself to sleep, I dream that I’m far away from the North Tower. In my dream, I’m strong and fierce and feared by everyone around me.
My name is Mage Carnissa Gardner.
I’m locking a large metal cage in the bottom of a dark dungeon, a ring of black keys heavy in my hand. The only light comes from some dim Elfin lumenstone hanging on the walls at intervals, casting a swampy, greenish glow over the scene.
In the cage are Icarals: Ariel, Wynter and the Icarals from Valgard. Iris from the kitchen is there, too, and Bleddyn Arterra.
I hear a sharp snap as the internal metal hooks engage each other. I’m just about to turn away, relieved they’re all safely locked up in prison, when I hear a child cry. I squint at the far corner of the cage. Little Fern and the Valgard Selkie are cowering on the floor. The Selkie looks up at me, her ocean eyes full of sadness.
I motion for her to approach and put the key back in the lock. “You two can come out,” I tell them, fiddling with the key, having a hard time with it.
The Selkie doesn’t move. She remains there on the ground, her arms around the sobbing child. “It’s too late,” she says mournfully, “you’ve already locked it.”
I break out in a cold sweat, the other creatures in the cage having disappeared, only the Selkie and Urisk child remaining. “It can’t be too late,” I insist, straining with the key.
But the lock won’t give.
It’s a mistake. It’s all a mistake. I hear a noise behind me and turn.
A Watcher, perched on an outcropping of stone, white wings glowing in the green light. Its avian eyes full of sorrow.
I turn back to the Selkie and the child. “It’s not too late,” I insist. “I’m going to get you out.”
For the rest of the night I struggle with the lock, but try as I may, it refuses to give.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Gardnerian
I’m awakened the next morning by a knock at the door.
I jolt awake, fear washing over me. Heart thudding, I look around, wildly disoriented. I recoil at the sight of Ariel splayed out on her bed and Wynter curled up in a tight ball, completely buried under her stained bed covering.
“Elloren?”
When I hear Rafe’s voice through the door, it’s as if the entire world has suddenly righted itself. I spring out of bed, burst out into the hallway and throw my arms around my brother.
Rafe chuckles as he staggers backward. He quickly finds his footing and hugs me tightly. “You sure know how to shake things up, don’t you, Ren?” he observes, grinning widely.
I laugh and cry at the same time, overjoyed to be with family again. Suddenly, nothing seems as bad.
His grin fades as he takes in my bruised face. He reaches up to lightly touch my cheek. “Have you seen a healer for this?”
I shake my head against his hand. “I’m okay. It’s better than it was.” I search past him, down the narrow hall. “Where’s Trystan? And Gareth?”
“Downstairs,” he says. “Aislinn and Echo are with them.”
“They’ve put me in with Icarals,” I tell him in a low, cautioning voice. I gesture toward the door behind me.
He nods grimly. “Aislinn and Echo told us everything.”
I wipe at my tears and smile shakily. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Go get dressed,” Rafe urges with an affectionate squeeze to my arm. “You look drawn. We should get some food into you.”
*
The bleak, gray room is startling in the daylight. It’s filthy and smells foul, like the Icarals in Valgard—sour and rotting. And the Icaral demons are awake.
Ariel is now crouching in a corner, still as a gargoyle, watching me carefully through slitted eyes. Wynter’s perched on the sill of the large, circular window, her thin, black wings tight around her, only the top of her head poking through like some oversize turtle.
They look rattled and beaten down.
They’ve been living barely a step above animals. The fireplace is a mess, with ashes spilling out onto the floor. Torn black clothing, books and other ratty belongings are strewn about the room. White bird droppings litter the floor, prompting me to glance upward, squinting at the ceiling and the supporting rafters for signs of avian life, but I can’t make anything out.
The bed I’ve claimed is pressed against the left wall, near the entrance to a small washroom and privy. Ariel’s and Wynter’s beds lay haphazardly against the opposite wall, bracketing the fireplace. The furniture is a motley mix of old, beat-up pieces. There’s no rug on the floor, and no tapestries on the walls to stave off autumn’s encroaching cold. Throughout the night, I had to wrap myself in both my woolen winter cloak and my mother’s quilt to stay even marginally warm.
It’s almost like living in a cave in the woods.
I’m guessing that this old archery post was a convenient place to house the Icarals away from the other scholars, especially the Gardnerians, who view meeting the gaze of a winged one to be spiritually polluting.