by Meg Cowley
At Tristan’s high-pitched voice speaking the words, the black cloak’s attention snapped to him.
“Well, well. Who do we have here?”
Tristan shrank away, but he was too far away for Landry to step before him, shield him.
Landry’s heart sank. “My youngest boy. My apprentice,” he lied, praying it would see Tristan escape scrutiny.
The black cloak stalked closer. “So young and scrawny. Poor fodder for a forge. And magical, too, I sense. You are wasted here.” Once more, those lips curled into a menacing smile. “I have a better place for you, boy. If you show promise, you will go far.”
Landry did cross the space then, stopping by Tristan and placing his hand upon the boy’s slim shoulder, willing him not to speak out of turn, for Tristan knew he would never work the forges with his brothers and father. “I need him here, learning the trade.”
The black cloak scoffed and waved Landry aside, but he did not move. “I am beginning to question your loyalty to our king,” he hissed. “To obstruct me is to obstruct our king. You may keep your smiths for now, but the boy comes with me.”
“You cannot have him.” Landry pushed Tristan behind him and raised his hammer. To do what, he had no idea, but the urge to protect his son overrode any common sense, no matter the fact he did not know how he could possibly resist the shadowy and intimidating Order members.
Around him, his smiths bunched forward in solidarity, shielding Tristan with their bodies...only to be blasted away seconds later by a burst of magic that sent them all sprawling.
Caught off guard, Landry was blasted out of the way, too, smashing into a huge anvil that winded him. Dazed, he struggled to his feet, gasping, blackness swimming across his vision. Before him, a struggle, flapping cloaks, hands, magic–screaming.
“Tristan!” Landry bellowed, staggering forward, only to be struck hard across the face and booted to the ground, where he was set upon and kicked in the soft flesh of his stomach, magic searing his skin as hot as the forges burning nearby.
“Fa!” shrieked Tristan as, through his swimming vision, Landry saw them haul the boy away. He watched helplessly as his son clawed at them and struggled, to no avail. They bundled him outside and retreated, away from the groaning mass of Landry’s men.
“Don’t take him!” gasped Landry, once more hauling himself to his feet, though every inch of his body seemed to throb with pain, and the warm trickle running down his face could only be his own blood. His hammer still in his hand, he chased them at a pitiful, faltering stagger, but they had already swept out in short order until only their leader remained, pausing at the door.
He sneered at them all, his face partially illuminated by the baleful winter daylight. “Your boy’s survival will depend on your own loyalty to the king, smith. I suggest you think long and hard about what you wish to do, for he will bear the consequences.” With that, he turned on his heel, his cloak flaring, and left, leaving only stunned silence behind him.
Landry sank to his knees, his hammer dropping to the floor, forgotten, staring at the spot where his son had stood moments before.
Tristan, my boy... I couldn’t protect you. Hot, bitter, angry tears pricked at his eyes.
There was no longer any choice.
He had to stay to save his son, but no matter the price, he would see Aislin and Shayla free of the terror of the city.
Seventeen
Please, don’t leave me. She did not need to say it as she stared up at Dimitri imploringly.
The sharpness of his features softened, but he shook his head slightly, bowed, and left, closing the door with a soft click.
Harper slowly turned back to Khyrion. He stood before her with a sneer that made her skin crawl as his eyes devoured her, from the top of the close-fitting gown with the wide, square neckline that left shivers chasing across her chest, to the bottom, where the fabric pooled around her ankles.
The other four Initiates stood in silence next to her, forming a neat row, their eyes forward and faces blank–the little she could see under the pooling shadows of their black hoods. Dimitri had explained they always walked shrouded, for their identity was a closely guarded secret both outside and inside the Order.
A row of aged, scarred, wooden desks stood behind them, each holding a worn book and random items Harper could not identify in the gloom, for the sconces burned low until her eyes hurt with the strain of trying to see anything at all. It was freezing cold, and the permeating smell of damp earth filtered through the underground chamber.
Harper’s hands and feet were already ice, but she did not dare complain. She wore black, too, but without the same shroud that gave her companions some faint protection. Khyrion bore her cloak, gliding closer to drape it around her shoulders. The coarse wool scratched at her neck. She stared, unflinching, at his chest, just inches before her, hating the sickly sweetness of his breath, the muskiness of his body, the unwelcome caress of his fingers as they slid across her collarbone–deliberately intimate–and clasped the cloak. His fingertips lingered a moment too long at her sternum. She closed her eyes.
Get away from me! she longed to scream, but she kept it to herself. Dimitri had been very clear. Whether she liked it or not, she was to be schooled in the dark arts of the Order.
“Endure all, learn everything you can, do not be fooled by any of it, and mayhap it will become useful,” he had warned her.
As Khyrion stepped back, her eyes opened and she glared at him with the haughty mask she was beginning to make her own, her permanent visage in the dark places. His eyes, black voids, devoured her hungrily, and the hint of a curled lip showed her the depths of his arrogance.
Not an elf to trifle with.
“It’s my pleasure to have you here, princess,” he murmured, but the glint in his eyes did not speak of warm welcomes. To her disgust, he bowed before her, took her hand in his hard, cold one, and placed his warm lips upon her knuckles.
She resisted the impulse to tug her hand away. “I thank you, Grandmaster,” she said, just as Dimitri had instructed.
His lip curled with smug pleasure at her submission. At last, she pulled her hand away, longing to wipe it on her dress to get rid of the feeling of him, for the ghost of his touch still lingered upon her.
He paced before the line of Initiates. “I welcome you to our ranks. You have already passed your Acolyte training, so you know the basics of our hierarchy and workings.”
Harper’s gaze followed him, still a little nonplussed. Dimitri had explained a little, and she hoped she had not missed anything. The Order, by his explanation, was a hierarchical organisation run by nine Grandmasters, the First leading. Under the Grandmasters were Masters, and under them were fully fledged brothers and sisters, whose ranks they would join upon completing initiation.
Chills crawled up Harper’s spine at that. She did not want to join their ranks. Dimitri had refused to explain the terrible things he had done to attain the status of Master. But his reticence only left her feeling more vulnerable, more unprotected against the unknown.
“Today,” Khyrion droned, still pacing, his hands behind his back, “we will study potions at their most basic levels. Those enhanced with our magics, both elven and Order summoned. Potions to heal, to dream, to hurt, to kill.
“Tomorrow, alchemy. The remainder of the week will be maleficium–specifically blood magic–followed by elemental magic and defence. When you are proficient in such basic skills, we shall move on to more complex subject matter.
“Each week, we shall study the same subjects. Each week, you will be tested. Each week, you will either improve or fail and bear the punishment. None of you are exempt from our Order’s high standards.” His gaze roved around them all, but it bored into Harper, who refused to look away. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandmaster,” they murmured as one.
Harper noticed the Initiate to her left, who was shorter in stature than them all, tremble. As they all looked up once more, his hood fell back. Sh
e stifled a gasp whilst he hurried to raise it once more.
He’s just a boy! Eyes wide and fearful. She felt a pang of sadness that he was here, through whatever means, when he was so obviously scared. How did you come to be here? she wondered. She doubted he had volunteered. Are Saradon’s promises of conscription true? Even for children? Her heart sank.
“You will begin at once.” Khyrion’s order snagged her attention once more, and she straightened hurriedly. “Take a desk, turn to page two hundred and twelve, and begin. If you cannot read, raise your hand, and you may partner for today.” He glared at them.
Harper refused to raise her hand. She could only passably read, but she would not humiliate herself. Not before him. The book taunted her from the tatty wooden desk, which was stained, burned, and smooth with wear, in contrast to the tome’s pristine leather binding that did not match the older, yellowed pages inside.
At the end of the line, one shaking hand raised. Khyrion scowled. “Work together then. Henceforth, you will receive supplementary reading lessons at the fifth hour in the morning until you are proficient.
“I will oversee your classes for this first week, after which the Third Grandmaster will instruct you, and I shall perform only your examinations. Prove yourself and you will rise far.” His gaze strayed to Harper again. She narrowed her eyes at him before turning to the page he had instructed.
A... was...t...i...ng... p...o...t...i...on, Harper painstakingly spelled out. She was out of practise, and these were unfamiliar words. A wasting potion?
She decoded the rest of the page laboriously, as quickly as she could, painfully aware that the boy beside her had already begun to sift through the ingredients upon his table.
She looked through hers quickly, all depicted within the book, so she knew which was which, painstakingly illustrated and labelled.
At last, she managed to decode the introduction, whilst the snip snip snip of the boy next to her carefully slicing along a stem in diagonal, thin strips drove into her ears incessantly.
Dependinge on the dosage given, this potente brew shalle bear unto the recipient ailing strengthe by no means traceable, until their vitalitie is utterly spente. Adjust accordingly.
Harper swallowed. This is awful. Who would want to make such a potion?
She gave up trying to decipher the remaining instructions, for the narrow, sloping cursive writing was too difficult to understand, and hurried to catch up to her neighbour, giving him sidelong glances in order to copy every action he did, as Khyrion patrolled behind them.
Into the pot beside her table the ingredients went. With a quick thought, she ignited the wood into instant fire, to Khyrion’s approving nod and a murmur of admiration from her cohorts, some of whom struggled to do the same.
“This is what strong blood can do,” Khyrion said appreciatively. “Such trifling magics achieved with nothing more than half a thought.” He glared disapprovingly at the young man on the end, who could not seem to bring more than a small ember to life. “If you cannot become proficient in the most basic magics, you will fast find yourself redundant here and demoted to other duties.”
Harper’s lips thinned into a line. Cruel man. She focused on her work, carefully following whatever the boy to her side did. Stirring her pot so many times sunwise, then widdershins, sprinkling in a powder made from roots and dried herbs, adding cool, fresh spring water, one drop at a time to a count of seven, before stirring once more.
Grateful for his unwitting guidance, she thanked the stars that she had not tried to decode any of this herself, knowing she would have been utterly at Khyrion’s mercy without the boy. She would have no choice but to practise her own remedial reading work in secret to have any hope of escaping scrutiny.
AT LAST, AFTER WHAT felt like an age that had passed in frenzied minutes, the five of them stood in silence beside their desks and potions, which had been decanted into clear, crystal, stoppered bottles. Khyrion stalked past them, bending low to peer into the bottles and the liquid within, which was almost clear with a tinge of colour that was almost indiscernible in the dark chamber.
The door clattered open and an Acolyte wearing a half-cloak–the sign of the uninitiated, Harper had learned–walked in, precariously balancing five wicker baskets in his arms. Squeaking, rustling, and scratching came from within.
“Excellent. One apiece.”
The Acolyte hurried to obey, bowed, and left quickly.
Harper eyed her wicker case with distrust.
“Inside are your subjects. You will test six drops of your potion on them. If your measurements are correct, it should induce paralysis, sleep, and if they are weak to begin with, perhaps death.”
Khyrion’s voice was monotone. Uninterested. Unbothered. But horror prickled Harper.
“Begin.”
With fumbling fingers, she undid the buckled straps that held it closed, sliding an eye to her companions to see what they did next. Like them, she reached inside to grasp a squealing rat. Smooth fur slid across her palm.
Her belly somersaulted. Before she could think about it–Dimitri had warned her never to think, only to do whilst she was under their tutelage–she quickly drew her potion into a pipette and dripped six drops into the rat’s mouth. Like the others, she kept a firm hold on the animal, though her skin crawled and she longed to drop it to the floor, revulsion bubbling up inside her.
What was she doing? What had she done?
No matter that she disliked rats–though she had eaten them before, as need demanded–she could not mistake the steady slackening of its frantic movements, until it became slow and sonorous in her hands, then soporific. Her grip loosened, but the rat did not spring to life. Instead, it lay, its paws moving sluggishly, the frantic shuddering of its ribs and pattering heart within slowing.
Slower and slower.
Each beat more fleeting, faint, further apart.
When it finally ceased, it was a blow to her own. Shame overwhelmed her. She’d often killed for food without a second thought, such was life, but killing for cruelty, sport, or vice? Never. Hurt closed her throat around the lump that had formed.
“Excellent!” Khyrion strode over and grasped her shoulder. “Excellent work, princess. You excel at the basics, as was expected.”
He let her go and moved on to her neighbour, but she did not move. Her palm still cradled the still form of the grey rat, with its sleek, shining fur, its glossy, dead eyes, and the whiskers that would never quiver again.
She did not hear his words as he spoke to them, his deep, nasally voice booming through the enclosed space. At the flutter of movement, she realised they had been dismissed. The rat slipped through her fingers onto the table with a soft thump that Harper tried to ignore as she hurriedly turned away to file out after her peers.
“A word, princess, if you please.”
Harper halted and her heart sank. Like I have a choice? She turned back to the Grandmaster, face blank, waiting.
Khyrion stalked around his desk toward her. She stiffened with every step he took, until he stood at her side, so close that he cast a shadow over her. She did not turn to him, so he leaned closer.
“I desire to know you better, princess,” he murmured into her ear, daring to reach his hand up and tuck a strand of fraying hair behind her ears. “Perhaps you and I can enjoy some time outside. You would be most welcome to join me in my quarters for dinner, conversation, and...anything else you may desire.”
Harper clenched her jaw at the insinuation. He was too obvious. A power play to ingratiate himself with Saradon, gain standing for himself, no doubt. I’m nothing more than a pawn to help him get there.
“That is a kind offer,” she said in an even tone that gave away no hint of her feelings.
“And one she will have to turn down.”
Harper looked at the doorway to see Dimitri leaning against the stone arch, arms folded and a frown on his face. Relief soared in her.
“I beg your pardon?” sneered Khyrion. “You dare
eavesdrop on me, Lord Ellarian?”
Dimitri pushed away from the doorway, unfolding his arms and placing his hands into his pockets, nonchalantly strolling into the dimly lit room, as though walking through the gardens with no cares, but the glare he cast Khyrion was unflinching.
“Harper is under my tutelage from mid-afternoon daily. We work long into the night.” A curling smirk, which quickly faded, and an insolent glint in his eye left Khyrion under no certain impression as to what that might mean.
Khyrion scowled. “I am your Grandmaster. If I wish to give extracurricular activities–” Harper cringed, “–to my Initiate, you have no right to stop me.”
“Is that so?” Dimitri’s insolence could not have been greater, and Khyrion’s scowl deepened. “Might I remind you that Lord Saradon tasks me personally with ensuring the princess’s wellbeing at all times?
“He fiercely protects her honour, Grandmaster, and would not see her neglect any area of her study, lest she bring shame upon his House. Her attendance at your pleasure will be welcomed by him, no doubt...from morning until mid-afternoon. Then she is my charge to instruct, and her lessons are no less important.”
Khyrion sneered at Dimitri, as though he doubted any tutelage of his could be worth a jot, but he could not defy Saradon’s word. His beady eyes fixed upon Harper once more, and she straightened under his scrutiny.
“My offer stands, princess,” he murmured, stepping closer so his chest cocooned her shoulder, his hand caressing her lower back. “I will welcome you at any time.”
“Grandmaster.” Harper stepped away, dipped into a high curtsey with the minimum amount of respect to Khyrion she could get away with, and slipped her hand into Dimitri’s waiting one. He tucked her arm firmly into his and placed his other hand atop hers.
“Good day, Grandmaster. Carmina nostro fine,” he said in parting. Until our end, the traditional parting of the Order.
“Carmina nostro fine,” Khyrion was forced to reply back through gritted teeth, as Dimitri swept Harper away.