“You know what this means, don’t you?” Tierney whispers darkly.
I nod gravely. If Vogel wins in the spring, it’s not just Marina who will be in trouble—all the Selkies will need to escape back to the sea or risk being put to death.
We read on, finding there’s been a failed motion brought forward by Marcus Vogel to execute anyone who defaces the Gardnerian flag. Another failed motion brought forward by Vogel to execute anyone who maligns The Book of the Ancients in any way. A motion brought forward by Vogel and five other Council Mages to declare war on the Lupines unless they cede a large portion of their land holdings to Gardneria. Another motion to execute all male Icarals held in the Valgard Sanitorium. A motion to execute anyone aiding Snake Elves in their escape east.
And a doggedly renewed motion, put forward for the sixth time by Vogel, to expand iron-testing for Guild admittance and randomly at border crossings to “root out the Fae menace.”
“He may not win,” I remind Tierney.
“Have you seen how many people are wearing white bands?” Tierney counters, her voice shaky.
“Still,” I insist, clinging to hope, “the referendum’s not until spring. And a lot can happen in so many months. He may not win.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she relents, slumping down into a crooked ball, looking small and scared and worn. “I hope you’re right, Elloren Gardner.”
*
The news comes at the end of apothecary lab.
I glance up as Gesine rushes in. Professor Lorel inclines her head as her Lead Apprentice breathlessly whispers to her and gestures excitedly.
I set down my pestle and study them with curious trepidation.
“Scholars,” Mage Lorel announces, her voice uncharacteristically shaken. She appears to be suppressing some deep emotion. “Our beloved High Mage, Aldus Worthin, has joined with the Ancient One.”
A shocked murmuring goes up.
“We have a new High Mage. By referendum this morning, the Council has chosen Priest Marcus Vogel.” Her face lights up with a beatific smile.
Dread rips through me with devastating force, and I grip at the edge of my desk to steady myself as the other white armbanded scholars gasp, then break out into expressions of happy triumph. Some laugh and hug each other, some chat excitedly, some cry tears of joy.
Marcus Vogel.
His sly face flashes into my mind. The remembrance of the feel of his hand on mine. His serpentine stare. The lifeless tree and the black void.
Ancient One, no. This can’t be.
Tierney whips her head to look at me—stark terror in her eyes.
“Tierney...” I can only manage a choked whisper and reach out to grasp her arm.
“Please, scholars,” Mage Lorel implores as she gestures for quiet. Her face is streaked with tears. A reverent silence descends. “A moment of prayer for our late High Mage.”
Everyone lowers their heads and brings their fists to their hearts. Tierney’s frozen, her face gone ashen.
The scholars around us bring fists to foreheads, then back over their hearts as their prayer goes up in unison.
Oh, Most Holy Ancient One, purify our minds, purify our hearts, purify Erthia. Protect us from the stain of the Evil Ones.
The prayer ends, and a cacophony of joyous celebration breaks out.
Tierney stumbles to her feet, almost knocking her stool over, and rushes out the back door, her distraught departure barely causing a ripple in the thick jubilation on the air.
*
I catch up with Tierney in the washroom. She’s bent over one of the porcelain washbasins, violently retching into it. I wet a cloth and go to her, placing my hand on her heaving, crooked back, my stomach painfully clenched.
Tierney remains frozen in place as she grips at the basin, ignoring the strands of her hair that swim in it and my offer of the cloth.
“He’ll close the border,” she says, her voice low and coarse. “He’ll make fasting mandatory.”
“I know,” I say, feeling light-headed.
“We’ll have a year at most to find a partner. And if we don’t, they’ll assign us one.”
“I know.”
“And before he fasts us,” she cuts in, still staring into the basin, “he’ll test our racial purity.” She turns to me, a wild desperation in her eyes. “He’s going to test us with iron.”
“Tierney,” I say with hard defiance. Enough dancing around the truth. “I want to help you. You’re full-blooded Fae, aren’t you?”
She continues to stare at me. When she finally speaks, her voice is a strangled scrape. “I can’t. I can’t speak of it.”
“Not even now?” I whisper urgently. “When your worst fears have been realized? Let me help you!”
“You can’t help me!” Distraught, she wrenches her bent frame away from my hand and makes for the door.
“Tierney, wait!” I call out to her, but she ignores my plea and flees the room.
I follow her out, but it’s clear she doesn’t want me to—she weaves quickly through the crowded hall, and I soon lose sight of her amidst the happy Gardnerians with white-banded arms.
*
I make my way toward my Chemistrie class, eager to find Aislinn.
I don’t have to search long. Aislinn is leaning against a wall, her eyes searching, her face stricken. As soon as she spots me, she rushes toward me down the Chemistrie lab hallway, jostling around celebratory groupings of Gardnerian scholars and subdued, strained-looking Kelts and Elfhollen. A small cluster of Alfsigr Elves stand apart, surveying it all with their usual cool, aloof indifference, which, at the moment, I find infuriating.
“They’re drawing up their numbers,” Aislinn forces out as she reaches me, her hand clutching my arm. “The Gardnerian Guard. Along the border of Keltania and the Lupine wilds. Vogel sent out the orders this morning. Randall’s been put on draft notice. All the military apprentices have. Vogel’s demanded that the Kelts and Lupines cede most of their land to us. The Keltanian Assembly just sent their Head Magistrate to Valgard to try and avert all-out war.”
My mind’s a spinning tumult. “But...the Lupines... Vogel can threaten them all he wants. They’re immune to our magic.”
“They’ll send dragons, Elloren,” Aislinn says, a thread of panic running through her tone. “We have over a thousand of them. If the Lupines and the Kelts don’t cede, the Guard will attack them with dragons.”
*
Every class I have today is transformed by Vogel’s sudden rise. I can’t escape it. Professor Volya can barely get the Gardnerians to settle down enough so she can lecture. Priest Simitri abandons lecture altogether and orders in food and punch.
There’s a deliriously festive mood in Metallurgie, and a young Elf standing at Professor Hawkyyn’s desk, riffling through his notes—as if getting ready to lecture. He’s a white-haired, white-skinned Alfsigr Elfkin, and I glance around, confused, looking for Professor Hawkkyn.
Knots of excited Gardnerians talk animatedly, white bands marking all of their left arms.
The white bands are sprouting like malevolent weeds, along with the Gardnerian flags. Even Curran Dell has taken to wearing one, which I note with deep regret.
“Where’s Professor Hawkkyn?” I ask Curran, who’s talking animatedly with another military apprentice. Curran smiles at me in greeting and opens his mouth to respond, but he’s quickly cut off.
“Hopefully the Snake Elf is back belowground,” Fallon’s voice sounds out from across the room. “Which is where the beast belongs.”
Everyone grows quiet and watches as she crosses the room, her eyes tight on me. “He’s probably run off,” Fallon amends with a wild smile. “He knows what’s coming.” She thrusts her bottom lip out at me in cloying mock sympathy. “Awww. Are you sad, Elloren Gardner? Looking to fast to the Snake Elf?”
Shocked laughter sounds out and echoes behind me. I set my teeth on edge, Curran’s apologetic look doing nothing to dampen my fierce response.