Apparently, my aunt doesn’t care how spiritually polluted I become, as long as I buckle and wandfast to Lukas Grey.
I search through my travel trunk and pull out some of the fine Gardnerian attire my aunt purchased for me—a shiny onyx silk tunic and long skirt. The resentment I feel toward my aunt does not overshadow the fact that, in one day, I’ve been forced to learn where my loyalties must lie. I need to be strong and look strong. I’ve seen firsthand what the Urisk, the Icarals and the Kelts are really like. They consider me an enemy, and I need allies against them—Gardnerian allies. And I need to look powerfully Gardnerian.
Lukas’s words hang in my mind. Dominate, or be dominated.
I wash up quickly, dress in the small washroom, comb my hair and make up my face. I glance at my reflection in the scratched mirror before me. Although my face is bruised and dark half-moons anchor my eyes, I’m regal in the elegant clothing.
Just like my grandmother.
I pause in the bedroom, gathering up my books and papers and stuffing them into my book bag. I eye the two Icarals warily as I do so, feeling the weight of Ariel’s hostile stare pressing against me. Her gaze shifts to my violin case, and I narrow my eyes at her in suspicion.
I made that violin with my own two hands—there’s no way I’m leaving it here with Ariel. I grab the handle of the case, deciding to store it somewhere else for now, and make a hasty exit from the repulsive living quarters and my even more repulsive roommates.
*
Waiting for me and Rafe outside the door are Trystan, Gareth, Echo and Aislinn. I’ve gone from being completely on my own to having a supportive crowd around me.
It’s a vast improvement.
Cool dew coats the fields, reflecting the morning sun like millions of tiny mirrors, giving the long grass a silvery sheen. The silver in Gareth’s hair glints along with the dew as he leans into Trystan for support, his right leg splinted and bandaged.
I rush to Trystan, who’s decked out in his gray military tunic, five silver stripes on his sleeve. Trystan gives me a one-armed hug. “Are you okay, Ren?” he asks, quietly searching my eyes.
I nod bravely, my hair lashing about in the chilly wind that’s kicking up. I reach over to embrace Gareth, and he pulls me into a warm hug and kisses the top of my head.
“We were so worried about you,” he says into my hair.
I laugh against the scratchy wool of his cloak. “I was worried about you. How’s your leg?”
He smiles, then winces as a strong gust of wind hits us, almost knocking him off-kilter. Trystan redoubles his efforts to brace him. “I won’t be dancing a jig anytime soon,” Gareth wryly says, “but the healer said I’ll be fit for my deportment in a few weeks.”
“We would have come up,” Echo informs me gravely, her voice raised to compete with the wind, “but we wanted to avoid the Icarals.” She glances up at the tower worriedly. “You should go to evening service with Aislinn and me, Elloren. The priest can exorcise their evil.”
I shake my head in dismay. “I’m living with them, Echo. I’m going to absorb their evil every single day. I’ll need an army of priests at that rate.”
I remember the priests exorcising me in Valgard. Their droning chants and pungent incense. How frightened I was.
And Vogel.
I squint up at the North Tower looming over us, bleached almost white by the bright sun. The wind changes direction and a stiff breeze slaps against the unyielding stone as we depart.
*
The dining hall is densely crowded. Urisk laborers dole out a variety of hot porridges, breads and cheese, the food arranged on long wooden tables. The air is thick with the warm smells of strong tea, hot cider, roasted chestnuts and nutty grains.
I throw my cloak over a bench and set down my bag and violin, the heat a relief after being chilled all night, then further chilled by the wind. I warm my hands at one of the many stoves dotting the room, their pipes snaking along the low ceiling rafters. The radiating warmth uncoils my knotted muscles and gradually sinks into my bones.
Most of the hall is heavily segregated, with small groups of Gardnerians, Verpacians, Elfhollen, Elves and Kelts scattered about, some dressed in the military garb of their respective countries. I catch a glimpse of Fernyllia setting out baskets of rolls, and the sight of her causes a tremor of distress to run through me.
Trystan helps Gareth into a seat and props his splinted leg up on the bench as Rafe goes to get food for all of us. I take a seat next to Aislinn, the stove to my back, and am surprised when Echo remains standing.
“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” I ask.
She peers over at Gareth uncomfortably, her hands clutching a leather-bound text. “I...can’t. I have to go.” She glances across the room, toward a group of young Gardnerian women dressed as primly as she is. “I’m glad you found your family, Elloren.” Her faint smile evaporates as she casts an unfriendly look at Gareth before leaving.
My heart sinks. I know what Echo’s recoiling from.
Gareth’s silver-tipped hair.
Echo joins the gaggle of young women, all of them immediately leaning in to whisper to each other and casting furtive, disapproving glances toward Gareth, who seems blessedly distracted by his splinted leg.
Trystan shoots me a jaded, knowing look.
I inwardly rail against Echo’s prejudice. Gareth is Gardnerian. So what if his hair has an odd silver glint to it? He’s one of us.
“Your friend is here,” Aislinn whispers, distracting me from my thoughts. There’s warning in her tone.
I follow her gaze and see Fallon entering the rustic hall, flanked by her brothers and four armed Gardnerian soldiers.
Wooden chair legs scrape in unison against the stone floor as every Gardnerian military apprentice in the dining hall, save Trystan, rises to pay her homage, their fists going over their hearts in salute.
I watch her closely through slitted eyes.
Go ahead, Black Witch, I glower. Try something with my brothers here. Trystan’s a Level Five Mage. Just like you.
Fallon and Sylus Bane have on their slate-gray military apprentice uniforms, in contrast to Damion’s full-fledged soldier black.
“Her older brother,” I ask Aislinn, “what’s he like?”
Aislinn shoots me a look of deep caution. “Damion? He makes Fallon seem like a pussycat.” Aislinn regards them warily as she bites at the side of her lip. “He likes...hurting people.”
I watch as Damion grabs the arm of a passing Urisk serving girl and jerks her backward. She lets out a startled cry of surprise and nearly drops the large basket of muffins she’s carrying. Damion smiles unkindly and leers at her as Fallon and Sylus pick out some muffins, the two of them chatting and ignoring the girl completely. Damion grabs a muffin, releases the girl’s arm and pushes her off with a manic smile.
I turn back toward Aislinn with alarm.
“Maybe you should fast to the ship captain’s son, Elloren,” she whispers, glancing over at Gareth. “Seems the safest course of action. Pursue Lukas Grey, and you set yourself up against the Bane clan. Wait too long to fast, and you could find yourself fasted to someone like Damion.”
I’m about to protest when Trystan distracts me.
“His splint’s come undone,” Trystan remarks from where he kneels by Gareth’s leg, fiddling with the bandages.
I look over at Gareth, who seems worse by the minute. I’m about to suggest that we bring him to see the University physician when I notice Wynter shyly making her way into the hall, her black wings pulled in tight around her. It’s a shock to see her there in the light of day.
“That’s her,” I breathe to everyone. “That’s one of the Icarals.”
Aislinn, Trystan and Gareth all follow my gaze.