by Alane Adams
As Abigail entered the gardens, a whisper of noise made her look up. A young woman with pale skin and long dark hair peered from around the trunk of a moss-covered tree. She seemed almost transparent, as if she wasn’t all there. She reached a hand toward Abigail, and her lips moved but no sound came out.
Abigail stopped to get a better look, but when she blinked, the eerie image vanished.
Great, now I’m imagining things, she thought as she hurried on to the jookberry tree where she and Hugo always met. She craned her neck back to look up into the branches.
A rustling sounded, and Hugo’s sunburned face appeared in a halo of leaves.
“Abigail! I’m back!”
“Obviously, cabbagehead, I can see you.” She smiled, her heart soaring at the sight of her friend. He dropped to the ground, and they hugged swiftly before stepping apart.
“Tell me you had an amazing summer,” she said, “because mine was borrring.”
“I saw an akkar. It’s a giant squid—”
“I know what one is,” she cut in, rolling her eyes. “We studied them in Animals, Beasts, and Creatures. Did it try to sink your ship?”
“No, it just bobbed to the surface, glaring at us with one eye, but it scared the pants off of me.”
Abigail felt a tiny stab of jealousy but forced enthusiasm into her voice. “Thrilling, I’m sure, but I don’t want to be late for class. Calla said you had a message?”
He nodded excitedly. “A few weeks ago, I overheard Jasper talking to Fetch.”
“That little green pest was on the ship?”
“No, we stopped on an island, really just a hunk of rock in the sea, and he was waiting, like he knew we would pass by.”
“Well, what did he say?”
Hugo whipped out his trusty scientific journal and thumbed the pages. “You remember the note Fetch passed to me to give to Jasper to pass on to Odin? The one that said, ‘The Dark One Rises’?” He flashed the scratched image at her.
“Yes.” She hugged herself, fighting back a shiver. How could she forget? Only she knew the note likely referred to her.
“Fetch had a message for Jasper from Odin. I think something terrible’s going to happen.”
“Terrible? Like what?”
“All he said was ‘It has begun.’” He shut his notebook. “What do you suppose it means?”
“No idea. Another mystery for us to solve. Right after we figure out why Melistra hated my mother so much she sent a viken after her. How is your medallion holding up?” Abigail pointed at the obsidian disc he wore around his neck. “All out of magic, I expect?”
He grinned ruefully. “It’s been dead for weeks now, but you should see how good I’ve gotten at ventimus and a few other spells.”
“Here, let me fix it.”
He took off the medallion and dropped it into her palm. She called up a small ball of witchfire on her other hand and dangled the disc in the center of the fire. It spun faster and faster until the witchfire winked out.
“That should last you a few weeks.” She handed it back.
The bell tower began to chime the hour.
“I better get to school,” Hugo said. “Don’t want to be late on my first day.” The skin was peeling off his sunburned nose, and his hair was overlong, hanging over his eyes. “See you after school? I still have so much to tell you about my summer, and Calla wants to join us. She says her great-aunt taught her some amazing spells.”
“Maybe,” Abigail tossed over her shoulder as she hurried off, “if I have time. Lots to do.”
Tears burned her eyes as she hurried down the path. What a rotten friend she was for being so jealous. Lucky Hugo to have had adventures. Lucky Calla to be off with her great-aunt learning spells. Neither of them had the burden she carried, the worrisome secret that burrowed in her chest like a weevil.
The fear that she was something she didn’t want to be. That Vor, the Goddess of Wisdom, had been right when she had warned Abigail that using dark magic would change her.
As she passed by the dormitory tower, a voice trickled out the window, carried on the faint breeze straight to her ear.
Hellooo, dark witch. I’ve missed you.
Abigail stopped, turning her head and searching the openings until she found it. There on a ledge, the ancient spellbook lay open, its pages fluttering back and forth in the breeze.
Let me show you the way, dark witch. Come and play.
“Leave me alone!” She clamped her hands over her ears as its oily laughter followed her into the school building.
Chapter 3
Abigail clutched her schedule, reading the spidery black writing.
Her first class was Awful Alchemy, taught by a witch named Madame Malaria. Horrid Hexes was with her former Spectacular Spells teacher, Madame Arisa. After lunch came Magical Maths II with Madame Vex again and Fatal Flora with Madame Chamomile. Her eyes swiveled back up to a class she’d skipped over. History of Witchery II would now be taught by … Melistra? Since when had Endera’s mother become a teacher? She knew old Madame Greef had retired—the ancient hag could barely hobble along anymore—but why Melistra?
And how would Abigail ever survive?
She could still remember seeing those malevolent green eyes in the darkness as Melistra stepped forward to finish off Abigail after the viken had failed. If not for Madame Vex and the others arriving, Abigail would be dead.
A rush of cold made her tremble. Melistra would fail her, simple as that, and then Abigail would be removed from the Tarkana Academy and sent to live out her days at the Creche. It didn’t seem fair. She had worked so hard to get this far.
The class gong sounded, and Abigail groaned. She’d remained standing shock still in the hallway so long she was late for class.
“You’re late,” said a voice.
Abigail turned, relieved to find it was only Calla. “So are you.”
“But I have a note from my great-aunt excusing me.” She waved a slip of paper. “Don’t worry, I’ll just say you were with me. Madame Malaria won’t know.”
Abigail relaxed a bit as they walked on. “Did you see who’s teaching History of Witchery?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to say anything. Bad news for you, I expect.”
“What am I going to do?”
Calla squeezed her arm. “I’ll be with you. What was Hugo’s message all about?”
“Nothing much. He said he saw an akkar.”
Calla pushed open the door to Madame Malaria’s classroom. The door creaked on its hinges, and the other seventeen secondlings turned at the interruption. Madame Malaria was busy writing on the board.
“Tardiness will not be tolerated,” she said snippily.
“I have a note.” Calla held it in the air. “Abigail and I—”
The chalk snapped in Madame Malaria’s fingers. “Do not tell me lies,” she hissed. The note burst into flames in Calla’s fingers. She quickly dropped it as it crumbled into ash.
Abigail swallowed. “I was out … walking … I’m sorry.”
Madame Malaria turned to face them. She was a tall bony witch with a long face. Her hair was completely gray, tied up in a round knot atop her head.
“You, glitch-witch”—she pointed at Calla—“are lucky to be here. Take a seat.” Calla slunk into the nearest empty seat. “And you”—her finger moved to Abigail—“have already cast powerful spells. Perhaps you don’t think you have anything to learn from me?”
“Not at all,” Abigail said, but Madame Malaria went on.
“Perhaps you think, Abigail Tarkana, that a witchling who can use dark magic as easy as that”—she snapped her fingers, disappearing with a loud pop and then reappearing in front of Abigail as the other girls gasped—“should be teaching the class and not I?”
She snapped her fingers again, and a dizzying ice-drenched feeling came over Abigail. It felt as if the earth had been wrenched out from under her feet, and she stumbled, turning to find herself in front of the class. The other girls
tittered at her.
Endera stood, planting her hands on her desk. “Oh, Madame Abigail, can you please teach me how to tie the laces on my boots?”
The other witchlings erupted in gales of laughter.
Abigail burned, wanting to lash back, but instead she gave Endera a curtsy. “This is Madame Malaria’s class, and as I am clearly a novice, I will bow to her expertise.” Gathering her skirts, she took a seat in the back next to Calla. Madame Malaria sniffed loudly and drifted back to the chalkboard.
“As I was saying, alchemy is the ability to command the elements around us. Bend them to our will. If you understand the base properties of the elements, you can learn to change them into whatever it is you desire.”
Portia raised her hand. “Surely it is more than that, Madame Malaria. It requires magic. That thing we all possess.” She waved at the class.
Madame Malaria’s face went white. “Correct me again and you will find yourself turned into a toad.” She moved swift as a wraith to loom over Portia. “Let’s see how popular you are when there is a pox on your face.” She flicked a finger, and a red boil sprung up on Portia’s perfect skin, making her gasp in horror, one hand flying to her cheek. “Or perhaps your perfectly straight hair will tangle itself in knots.” She flicked another finger, and Portia’s hair sprang out of its smooth locks into a rat’s nest that even a rathos wouldn’t enter. “Keep it up, little witchling, and you will discover that you have a tail.”
The class held its breath to see if she would make good on her promise, but Madame Malaria had had enough of playing games. She resumed her place at the front of the class.
“Real alchemy requires knowledge and a source of power greater than mere witch magic. Ancient alchemists could have turned this stone fortress into gold with a mere snap of their fingers. They could create elixirs to heal the sickest among us.”
“Madame Malaria, is it true they could even make an elixir to restore life?” a witchling asked.
The teacher frowned. “No. It’s possible, theoretically, of course, if you know the proper elements, but not even the most famous alchemists had a source of power great enough to achieve it. They traveled the globe gathering knowledge from every corner. They are the ones who created the table of elements and gave them their names. Tables you all should have been studying over the summer.”
Abigail sat up straighter. That was one thing she had done. There had been little else to do at the Creche.
“Let us begin with a review of common elements.” She wrote the letter S on the board. “We know this as … ?”
“Sulfire,” Endera piped up before Abigail could raise her hand.
“Yes, odorous but useful. Now, how about this?” She wrote Bi.
“Bizzimus,” Portia recited, clearly hoping a correct answer would rid her of that awful boil on her cheek.
“Yes. When we combine sulfire and bizzimus, we can create a potion that will turn a person’s tongue black. A child’s trick. What if we add this?” She wrote out Ru.
Abigail hesitated. The name was on the tip of her tongue, but the cross-eyed witch Minxie piped up, “Ruthium.”
Madame Malaria tilted her chin, pleased. “Yes. A rare element, to be sure. When mixed with iron, it can harden steel to be nearly unbreakable. So now we have bizzimus, sulfire, and ruthium. What are we missing?”
Abigail stared at the letters, letting them sift through her mind until something had her bolting out of her seat. “Cuppernut!”
Madame Malaria stiffened, her shoulders drawing back as she swiveled to level her gaze on Abigail. “Cuppernut? Whatever makes you say that, Abigail?”
“Its letters are Cu.”
Madame Malaria shrugged one shoulder. “And that matters why? The spell doesn’t call for cuppernut. It calls for arsenica.” And with that Madame Malaria turned to the board and wrote the formula down: SBiRuAs.
“What were you thinking?” Calla whispered. “Aren’t we in enough trouble?”
Abigail sank down in her seat, feeling a cold burn of shame. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought … I don’t know.”
But she did know. Because with cuppernut in place of arsenica, the letters rearranged spelled RuBiCuS.
Chapter 4
Hugo hurried up the path toward the Balfin School for Boys. A crowd of students was assembled out front, wrestling and shoving. Off to the side, some of the older boys stood aloof with freshly shaved heads and the long black robes of acolytes-in-training. Only a select few were chosen to study directly under the witches. It was a huge honor. Of course, Hugo’s older brother Emenor was one of them. He barely glanced at Hugo as Hugo raised his hand in greeting.
“Here, you.” A brutish boy with short thick hair shoved a paper in Hugo’s hands. “You’re not in the Balfin Boys’ Brigade. We need more recruits.”
“No, thanks.” Hugo passed the paper back, but the boy gripped his arm with a meaty fist.
“Did I say I was asking you?” He glowered into Hugo’s face, and then Emenor was there, whipping the boy around.
“Oskar, don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Emenor, is this little whelp your brother?”
At Emenor’s nod, Oskar’s eyes narrowed. “Then he should be one of us, not holding out. Get him to join, or you’ll be hearing from us.” Oskar strode off to join a group of boys all wearing the black uniform of the Balfin Boys’ Brigade.
“What was that about?” Hugo asked.
Emenor scratched at his shorn scalp. “You’ve been gone all summer. You’ve missed a thing or two.”
“Like what?”
“Like everyone’s talking about war.”
“With who?”
Emenor scowled, lightly slapping him on the back of the head. “No one. Just go to class, Hugo. And stay away from Oskar.”
He watched as Emenor hurried off. Normally his brother loved to lord it up over Hugo, but he’d barely even said hello when Hugo had returned from weeks at sea last night, instead rushing out the door to some acolyte meeting.
Hugo checked his schedule, pleased to see his first class was with a teacher he knew well. Professor Oakes was teaching History of Witch Battles. Hugo slipped into the classroom and found an empty seat. Oakes walked in carrying an armful of books he dumped on the table.
“Take a seat,” he said, then laughed as he looked around. “Oh, you’re all seated. Great, we can jump right in. This year, we will be studying the great witch battles since the beginning of our time here in Orkney. In the nine hundred-plus years we’ve been here, the witches have been on an endless quest to rule this world. Who can tell me the name of the first great battle?”
The class was silent, so Hugo raised his hand. Oakes nodded at him.
“Was that the Battle at the Ring of Brogar?” Hugo asked, knowing full well it was the correct answer but not wanting to show off.
“Excellent, Hugo. Yes.” Oakes wrote the name on the board. “Can anyone fill in the details? Show me you did your summer reading?”
“I ’as too busy training,” a boy named Ellion said. “I spent the summer crawling through mud and learning how to hold a sword. Didn’t have time for no books.”
“Yeah, what good is history?” a boy named Gregor asked sullenly. “We’re going to be soldiers, not teachers.”
The boys all laughed and slapped each other on the backs.
“You don’t think soldiers need to know history?” Oakes said. “Don’t need to learn from the past? Don’t need to learn from the many mistakes others have made before you?” His voice rose as he spoke, and the boys grew quiet. “Then let me give you a brief history of witch wars with Balfins fighting and dying at their side. Let me tell you just how many victories we can count.”
He strode to the board and drew a large circle on it. “This, gentlemen, is the number of victories the witches can claim since that day at the Ring of Brogar. There have been nine wars fought since Odin dragged these islands into the corner of Asgard we call Orkney. Nine wars and zero victo
ries. We send our soldiers, young men not unlike yourselves, to fight alongside the witches. We are superior fighters in every way to the Orkadian army. But. We. Lose. Every time. Why is that?”
The room was completely silent.
“When you can answer that, then you can skip this class. Now, let’s open our textbooks and look at Chapter One—the Battle at the Ring of Brogar. This was a battle to end all battles. The great Volgrim witch, Catriona, had amassed a powerful claxon of witches to fight at her side. Backing them up, ten brigades of the Balfin Black Guard, all of them protected by magic. Our victory was practically guaranteed. And still, the witches lost. How was that possible?”
“’Cuz the Orkadians cheated.” Ellion straightened in his chair. “I remember it now. They had some magical token from Odin. They used it to trap those Volgrim witches in stone. That’s cheating.”
The boys grumbled in agreement.
Oakes held his hand up for silence. “Indeed, they used the magic of Odin to defeat us that day. With the Volgrim witches trapped in stone, the Tarkana witches were forced to surrender.”
“If they hadn’t had that stone, we’d be running Midgard right now,” Gregor said.
Oakes pointed at him. “Let’s see if you’re right. Tonight’s reading is the rest of Chapter One and the first half of Chapter Two, the Battle of Dunham Brooks.”
The boys groaned as they gathered their things, scraping their chairs back.
“Hugo, a word, please,” Oakes said.
Hugo waited for the other boys to leave and approached the front of the class.
The professor gave him a friendly smile. “How was your summer, Hugo?”
“Good. I traveled on a boat around the islands with a sailor named Jasper.”
“Excellent. Explains the sunburn. Say, would you be interested in being my proctor this semester? I need someone who can help in grading papers for the first years, and as you were my top student, I thought you might be interested.”