I’m aware of my face going red, imagining what he probably thinks. Braced for more abuse.
“I didn’t stop wearing my other clothes for you,” I awkwardly explain, sounding irritable, the sting from the harsh words he had for me the day before still smarting. “I really couldn’t care less what you think of me.”
He glances over at me again with his usual silent intensity as he scrubs the pot in front of him vigorously.
“I asked Professor Kristian if what you said was true,” I explain defensively, really not wanting Yvan to think that he has any influence over me whatsoever. “He said it was, so I decided I liked my own clothes better, the clothes I grew up wearing. I’m more comfortable this way anyway. That’s the real reason I changed.”
Yvan stops scrubbing for a moment as he stares at the wall in front of us, the muscles in his face and neck tensing. With a sigh, he returns to his work and says, “You look better this way.”
I give a start. A compliment from Yvan?
I’m unexpectedly touched by his words, a warm flush washing over me. His voice, when he’s not angry or irritated, is deep and surprisingly kind.
I stare at him sidelong as he continues to focus only on the pot in front of him.
*
I go to visit Professor Kristian’s office again a few days later, questions multiplying like shadowy rabbits in my mind. I’m hungry for answers, wanting to know the truth about things.
Professor Kristian blinks a few times as I enter the room, raising his eyebrows in what looks like surprise at my seeking him out again. He leans forward and peers out into the hallway from which I’ve come, perhaps expecting to see someone else out there. Then, seeing no one, he sits back in his desk chair and eyes me thoughtfully.
A shadow crosses his expression, there and gone again, his brow tensing. “You look just like your father,” he muses. He clears his throat, stiffening. “And your grandmother, of course.”
I blink at him in amazed surprise. “You knew my father?”
His eyes become guarded. “I knew of him. Many people did.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed.
“What brings you here, Mage Gardner?” he inquires, his tone now suspicious. “More questions?”
I nod, and after a long, tense moment, he resignedly gestures to the wooden chair in front of his desk.
I close his door and sit down, feeling awkward and nervous.
“I notice you’ve changed your dress since our last discussion,” he notes, and I think I detect a small glimmer of approval in his eyes.
“Yes, well...um...” I stammer. “I prefer my old clothing anyway.”
He raises his eyebrows at this, releases the papers he’s holding and folds his hands in front of himself, giving me his full attention. “What would you like to know?” he asks.
I bite my lip and let out a long breath before answering. “I want to know about the history of Gardneria.” I hold up my history book. “The real history of Gardneria. Not this.”
The side of his mouth twitches. “That is considered a well-respected text—”
“It’s the Gardnerian history of Gardneria,” I clarify.
He nods. “You are, perhaps, looking for a Keltic history of Gardneria instead?” he asks, wry amusement in his tone.
“No, I’m looking for a factual history.”
He purses his lips and gives me an appraising look. “History is a tricky thing, Mage Gardner. What is written about it is usually subjective, and it’s often very difficult to find the truth of the matter.”
“Well, then,” I persist, “what’s your history of Gardneria?”
He coughs out an uncomfortable laugh in response. “Professors aren’t supposed to teach that way, Mage Gardner. My opinion hardly matters.”
“Please, Professor Kristian,” I press with some vehemence. “It’s important to me. Please just tell me what you know.”
He looks down at his desk for a moment, his brow knits as if deliberating with himself how best to answer me before meeting my stubborn gaze once more.
“It could take some time,” he cautions.
“I have the time,” I reply, undaunted. I settle back against the chair.
He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable minute, perhaps waiting to see if I’ll give up and go away. “Very well, Mage Gardner,” he finally says, leaning toward me. “The story of Gardneria rightfully begins with Styvius Gardner, your people’s first Great Mage. He was your grandfather...about six generations back, I believe?”
I nod in assent.
“That’s quite the bloodline you have,” he observes, eyeing me shrewdly. “Not only Carnissa Gardner, The Black Witch, but Styvius Gardner, as well—both of Gardneria’s Great Mages in one family.”
I consider this. “I didn’t really know just how revered my family is. And hated. Not until I left Halfix anyway.”
“And I’m sure you know that Styvius was born to a Mage mother back when the Kelts were the region’s ruling power?”
I inwardly stiffen, aware of Professor Kristian’s Keltic ethnicity. “I know that the Kelts hated my people and were horrible to them.”
“And do you know why your people were hated?” Professor Kristian asks.
I eye him squarely. “Prejudice.”
“Quite so,” he says, sitting back and nodding. “They were treated very badly. Abused in every way. Treated like slaves. Sometimes even killed at birth. The Kelts saw them as half-breeds polluted by Fae blood.”
I bristle at the slur, then think uncomfortably about Gareth, Tierney and my own hidden attraction to wood.
He tilts his head. “Haven’t you ever wondered where you get that slight shimmer to your skin?”
“It’s the mark of the First Children,” I tell him. “Set down on us by the Ancient One in blessing.”
He lets out a short, unsurprised laugh. “A lofty notion, indeed. And complete fiction. It’s more likely your people are descended from the union of Kelts settled at the Northern Forest border and Fae Dryads.”
I gape at him, stunned. “What? The Tree Fae?” That’s ridiculous. We’re a pure-blooded race.
“It would explain why your kind possess some weak branch magic, and the Dryads were said to have skin that glimmered in the night,” he says.
I arch my brow at him, eyeing him with deep skepticism. There’s no telling what the Tree Fae looked like—they were killed off by the Kelts long ago. And Gardnerians have wand magic. Not crass branch magic. I clutch at the wooden chair under my hands.
River Maple.
I pull my hands away from the smooth wood and set them in my lap.
“The ancient Kelts had good reason to despise the Fae,” Professor Kristian continues. “When they first set foot on this land, around the year 2000 D, the Fae attacked and enslaved them. But the Kelts quickly discovered that they could gain the upper hand with iron weapons.”
This I already know. The Kelts came here fleeing a war, the distant Keltic lands now impossible to return to, a thick band of kracken-infested sea making it treacherous to travel there. The Kelts came, jammed onto ships, half starved, to the shores of the Western Realm. They were immediately set upon and promptly enslaved by the Fae. Until the Kelts realized that the iron they are impervious to is death to the Fae.
I know that iron-wielding Kelts then annihilated most of the Fae and took over a large chunk of the Western Realm.
An unbidden image of Tierney enters my mind—her ever-present lab gloves, her careful, focused expression when handling iron lab equipment. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
Professor Kristian leans forward. “Styvius Gardner was born a half-breed into Keltic society, one of the despised Kelt-Dryad Mages.”
I blanch. Professor Kristian could be imprisoned if he uttered such outrageous blasphemy in Gardneria. “It’s dangerous to talk like that,” I warn him sharply.
He smiles, his eyes steely. “Perhaps, then, it’s good that my door is shut.”
I stare back at him, amazed by his boldness.
“Shall we continue?”