The Rubicus Prophecy

by Alane Adams

  Chapter 9

  Abigail entered her history class, anxiously searching the coatrack for any sign of the ghost woman, but there were only a few woolen cloaks. She took her seat next to Calla. The girl yawned widely, dark circles under her eyes.

  “Where were you this morning?” Abigail asked. “You missed Awful Alchemy. Madame Malaria was having a shreek’s snit. Someone stole some of her private supplies. Can you imagine? I thought she was going to turn us all into toads unless someone confessed.”

  “Sorry, I overslept.” Calla stifled another yawn. “It took me hours to prepare last night.”

  “Prepare for what?”

  Before Calla could answer, the door swung open, and Melistra swept in, clutching an armful of papers. “Sorry to have ruined your evening by making you all study. Please clear your desks.”

  “What is she talking about?” Abigail whispered to Calla.

  “Today’s exam. She sent a note around to our rooms last night. Didn’t you get it?”

  Abigail shook her head. No doubt Melistra had deliberately forgotten to send it to her. “What’s the test on?”

  “Quiet, please,” Melistra snapped, slapping an exam down on her desk. “Or I’ll think you’re cheating.”

  “Madame Melistra, I don’t feel well.” Abigail forced a loud cough. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “Yes, a severe case of lack of preparedness,” Melistra said with a dramatic eyeroll that made the other girls titter. “You will stay and finish your exam or accept a failure. Your choice.”

  Abigail gritted her teeth. “I’ll stay.”

  The words on the page swam before her eyes. She had spent hours studying hexes and alchemy tables but hadn’t had time for history. What war went where?

  She did her best, scraping at the dregs of memory, but eventually she gave up and set her pencil down. Melistra drifted over and lifted the exam, looking it over. With a brittle laugh, she tore it in half and let the pieces fall to the ground. Abigail burned with shame as the other girls cast her pitying looks.

  Outside class, Calla apologized. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just one test. Next time, I’ll be prepared.”

  “And I’ll make sure you know,” Calla said.

  “I met Hugo this morning. You won’t believe what we saw.” Abigail quickly filled her in on the encounter with the Orkadians.

  “I’ve never heard of the Solstice Treaty. Have you?” Calla asked as they took their seats in Horrible Hexes.

  “No, but if Madame Hestera doesn’t come to an agreement with that Lord Barconian, we’re never leaving this island again.”

  Madame Arisa had just taken her place in front of the class and was about to speak when Endera raised her hand.

  “Madame Arisa, I’ve been having trouble performing the animus hex you assigned.”

  “Me too,” Nelly said.

  “And me,” Glorian added.

  Endera waved a hand at the class. “I thought we could all practice it together.”

  Abigail froze. The animus hex would require her to use witchfire. Without her sea emerald, she would be exposed. Endera was doing this deliberately!

  “I suppose that’s all right,” Madame Arisa said. “Would you like to go first?”

  “No, I hear Abigail does it quite well.” Endera turned to give her an innocent smile. “Maybe she can demonstrate?”

  All eyes turned to her. Abigail stammered, “M-m-madame Arisa, I’m not … that is … I’m not feeling well. May I be excused?”

  Before Madame Arisa could reply, Endera sighed. “Oh, Abigail, not faking it again, are you? She did this earlier in history class. She didn’t study for a test. Failed it completely.”

  “That’s right,” Glorian said. “I never see her do her homework.”

  “I heard her say she haaaates Horrible Hexes,” Nelly added.

  Madame Arisa folded her arms. “Well, Abigail, are you sick or not?”

  Truthfully, Abigail felt as if she were going to lose her breakfast. “I really don’t feel well,” she said, her voice quavering.

  Madame Arisa took pity on her. “Then you may be excused.”

  Grateful, Abigail rose, grabbing her book bag.

  “After you perform the animus hex for the class.”

  Abigail slowly set her bag down as Endera smirked. A whole list of horrible things she wanted to do to the snotty witchling ran through her mind.

  “I’ll do it.” Calla stood, but Madame Arisa waved her off.

  “Abigail can demonstrate before she takes her leave. Today,” Madame Arisa prompted impatiently.

  As Abigail took a jerky step forward, she saw the sea emerald dangling from Endera’s fingers. The girl swung it back and forth, eyes on the ceiling as Abigail walked past. Abigail itched to snatch it away, but Madame Arisa was watching.

  “The animus hex is a Level One curse and part of the section you were to read last night,” Madame Arisa said. “So Abigail should have no problem reciting it for us. It’s one of the most basic hexes a witch can cast. With a simple blast of witchfire, you can turn any object against its owner. Here, you can use my eraser.” She placed the felt brick on the table.

  Abigail tried to think, but sheer panic was making it hard. She couldn’t use witchfire now; everyone would know her magic was different. She had to get that sea emerald back. For a brief moment she thought about sending Endera back to the netherworld for another round with Queen Octonia, then discarded the idea. Using dark magic would just make things worse.

  I can help, came the oily whisper.

  She wanted to ignore it, but desperation made her whisper, “How?”

  A simple fire spell. Yellow mixed with blue—

  “—is green, but I don’t trust you,” Abigail muttered, but really, what choice did she have?

  And then behind Madame Arisa, that strange woman appeared again, peering over the teacher’s shoulder. She wore the black dress of a Tarkana witch. Her skin was pale, so pale. Why wasn’t anyone reacting?

  The woman was motioning at her, shaking her head, her lips moving with an urgent silent message.

  “Anytime,” Madame Arisa said dryly.

  Abigail cleared her throat, sweat breaking out on her forehead. Either she was stark raving mad, or she was seeing things. She could hear Vor’s voice in her head, warning her not to use dark magic, and the invisible woman seemed to agree. But it was that or have everyone find out her secret.

  She stared at the rectangular eraser.

  “Incendium locum,” she said out loud.

  Fiero, amarylia, the spellbook whispered.

  “Farum pinna,” she said.

  Malficia, malachai, drei.

  “Spelto, spelto finx and brine.”

  Invidiam espero vine.

  Abigail wavered and then cast her hands forward, calling the witchfire that came easily to her fingers. At first it sputtered and crackled, as if it were confused, then witchfire burst from the tips of her fingers in the brightest shade of … purple? Abigail nearly dropped her hands in shock, but the magic had its grip on her. A darkness roiled through her veins, as if she had opened some floodgate of power.

  What has the spellbook done now? she thought.

  When the magic finally ran out, her hands dropped to her sides. On the table, the eraser wobbled wildly, then a pair of black wings sprouted out of either side, and a mouth opened up on its face. With a screech, it took to the air, wheeling around Madame Arisa’s hair and snapping at her face. The teacher shot out her own blast of witchfire, incinerating the eraser.

  The entire class was silent, even Endera.

  Madame Arisa trembled with a rare display of emotion. “Abigail, how did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just said the animus spell.”

  “But your witchfire … it was purple. We must investigate this. It could be the sign we have been waiting for—the witchling with different magic. I must notify Madame Hestera. Gi
rls, we may have the Curse Breaker in our midst.” Madame Arisa began to clap, and the other girls joined in.

  Endera glowered at her.

  Abigail pasted a smile on her face. The last thing she wanted was for Madame Hestera to find out her magic was different. Endera must have felt the same way, for the girl sidled forward next to her.

  “That would be something, Madame Arisa”—Endera slyly pressed the sea emerald into Abigail’s hand under the table out of the teacher’s sight—“but I think Abigail said the spell wrong. I’ve heard of that happening before. When you get the spell wrong, your witchfire is all wonky.”

  Abigail gripped the sea emerald, not knowing why Endera was coming to her rescue but not questioning it. “Yes, Madame Arisa, I’m sorry, I think I might have messed up.”

  Madame Arisa frowned. “But the words you spoke were perfect.”

  “No, I’m quite sure I mixed up a line.” Abigail turned away to cough, quickly slipping the necklace over her head. “Please let me try again. I’d hate to embarrass you if I did it wrong and you made a fuss.”

  “All right,” Madame Arisa said. “If you insist.” She fetched another eraser and placed it on the table.

  Abigail said the words again, faster this time, and when she threw her hands forward, green witchfire blazed out. The eraser flopped about weakly and then stopped.

  Abigail sagged with relief.

  Madame Arisa’s face fell. “I don’t see how you could have made a mistake,” she said, looking puzzled, but Endera insisted on taking a turn, and soon, Madame Arisa was in the middle of a dozen girls trying to bring objects in the classroom to life.

  Abigail stepped behind Endera as the girl tried to animate a pencil.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly. “But why did you give it back?

  “If anyone is going to be the Curse Breaker it’s me,” Endera hissed. “Not the offspring of a traitor.”

  After class, Abigail lingered, approaching Madame Arisa as she tidied up. “Madame Arisa, may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, Abigail?”

  “Is there such a thing as … er … ghosts?”

  The teacher arched one pencil-thin eyebrow. “Why ever would you ask such a ridiculous thing?”

  Abigail flushed. “I’m sorry, it was stupid—”

  “Spirits lurk around every corner in this mausoleum,” Madame Arisa went on. “One is my old professor, Madame Weevil, who taught Pickled Poisons back in the day. Her specter is always shaking a branch of hemlock at me.”

  Encouraged, Abigail stepped closer. “How come no one ever talks about them?”

  Madame Arisa gave a slight shrug. “It is not wise to speak of the dead, Abigail. It gives them a reason to make trouble. Ignore them, and it’s like they aren’t there.” Madame Arisa looked down her thin nose at Abigail. “Why do you ask? Is one troubling you?”

  “No … I don’t know … maybe. I see a woman, but no one else does.”

  Madame Arisa’s other brow rose. “Fascinating. My advice is to pretend she’s not there. She’ll tire of you soon enough. Best be off to class.”

  Abigail had reached the door when Madame Arisa added, “Just be glad it’s not a draugar.”

  Abigail turned. “What’s a … draugar?”

  “A draugar is the dead come to life. They’re horrible things, cold and lifeless. They haunt the tombs of the powerful, clinging to the residual aura of power, hoping it might bring them back. Weapons can’t kill them because they’re already dead. They want nothing more than to consume the very essence of life. Even if they can’t use it, they can’t stand it when others have it.”

  “Are there … I mean … there aren’t any around here, are there?”

  Madame Arisa laughed. “Where the powerful are buried, the draugar thrive. I’ve never seen one, but then again, I don’t go looking for them.”

  Chapter 10

  Hugo peered out of the bushes, eyeing the mass of boys in front of the school waiting for classes to start. Where was Emenor? There was no sign of his brother—Hugo would just have to brave it out. Taking a deep breath, he tucked his chin down and hurried toward the throng. As he began thrusting his way through, that bully Oskar spied him and made a beeline for him, an ugly look on his face, but the bell rang in the clock tower, and Headmaster came out and blew the whistle, calling the boys inside.

  As Hugo passed Oskar, the boy elbowed him hard in the side. “I’ll see you later, Suppermill.”

  Rubbing his bruised ribs, Hugo made his way to class and took his seat, surprised to see Professor Oakes wasn’t there yet. The teacher had never been late before.

  The door opened, and a man strode in wearing the uniform of the Black Guard, the witches’ private army. His brass buttons were polished to a high sheen, and rows of medals were pinned to his chest. He stopped in the front of the classroom, clasping his hands behind his back, and studied the boys.

  “I am Lieutenant DeGroot. Prepare for inspection.”

  The boys clambered out of their chairs and snapped smartly to attention. Hugo scrambled up, mimicking their stances. For the first time he noticed that he was the only boy left in his class not wearing the black uniform of the Boy’s Brigade. Surely they couldn’t all be expected to become soldiers?

  The general marched up and down the aisles, commenting on uniforms and pointing out smudges on boys’ shoes. He got to Hugo and stopped. “Where is your uniform, son?”

  “Er, this is my uniform,” Hugo said, looking down at his school blazer and gray shorts.

  “Not any longer. You will check in with the purser and receive your brigade uniform or be expelled, am I clear?”

  “No … I mean, why can’t I wear this?”

  The lieutenant’s bushy brows drew together. “Are you a troublemaker?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then fall in line. Or else be marked as a coward and bring shame to your family name. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’ll be in proper uniform by the end of the day.” “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant straightened, moving away. “As every boy knows, the Black Guard stands ready to defend our patrons, the Tarkana witches, when they are under attack. Or if they simply feel the urge to go out and conquer the world.” De Groot smiled, revealing even white teeth. “We live to serve them. And to gain power for ourselves.”

  He tugged down a coiled map, revealing the realm of Orkney. Balfour Island nestled in the lower right. To the left was the largest island, Garamond, home to the Orkadian High Council and most of Orkney’s other inhabitants, including the hawk-faced Falcory.

  Snatching up a pointer stick, DeGroot slapped it on the center of Garamond on the capital city of Skara Brae. “The foolhardy Orkadian High Council has sent a declaration prohibiting the witches from leaving Balfour Island.”

  “But the witches take us to other islands all the time to gather stuff for their potions and collect specimens,” Ellion said.

  “Well, they did break the Solstice Treaty,” Hugo said. “The Orkadian Council is only enforcing the law.”

  DeGroot’s eyes turned on him, narrowing. “Where did you hear that?”

  Hugo flushed, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “Nowhere, I just heard it.”

  “Floating in the air?”

  Hugo said nothing.

  DeGroot glowered. “Rumors and fabrications. Over the summer, a group of witches visited a small village on Garamond, and a spell or two got out of hand. The Orkadians think they can just contain us here, but they are wrong. Soon we will hold all the power.”

  “But how?” Hugo asked. “If we’ve been banished here?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.” DeGroot pointed at the door. “Leave.”

  “But, sir, this is—”

  “Not your classroom. Three seconds or I’ll remove you with my boot.”

  Hugo wanted to argue, but the look on DeGroot’s face told him the soldier meant business. He quickly gathered his things and cre
pt out as the other boys hissed and booed him.

  He stood uncertainly in the hall. Where was he supposed to go? Then a familiar face appeared in a nearby doorway.

  Professor Oakes.

  He signaled, quickly ushering Hugo into the school library. Speckled light filtered down from a set of high windows, illuminating dust motes and rows of shelves that sagged under the weight of the books they held. Fortunately, the study tables were all empty.

  “What’s going on?” Hugo asked.

  Oakes slumped back against the door, a thin sheet of sweat glistening on his face. “War. Didn’t I tell you, Hugo?” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “There is always a war afoot, and now, it seems a new one is about to begin.” He collapsed into a chair. “My position on the Balfin High Council is in jeopardy. They’re talking about replacing me just because I’m not voting in favor of war. I’m a history teacher, Hugo. I know enough about war to know there is no point to it.”

  Hugo took a seat next to him. “They say the witches broke the Solstice Treaty.”

  The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you be coming across that information?”

  Hugo flushed. “I might have eavesdropped.”

  Oakes leaned forward, an excited look in his eyes. “I might have eavesdropped a time or two myself. The witches have been more … secretive than normal. I usually attend all council meetings, but there have been several closed sessions.”

  “What did they talk about?” Hugo asked.

  Oakes dropped his voice. “I couldn’t hear much, just the same phrase, ‘it’s begun,’ over and over again, like a victory chant.”

  “That’s what Fetch said,” Hugo whispered.

  “Who?”

  “No one important. What do you think it means?”

  “There’s only one logical conclusion. The witches have been waiting centuries for a witch to be born that would break Odin’s curse over them. It would seem they think she’s here. Which means she’s in great danger.”

  A dart of fear ran through Hugo. “Danger? Why? I mean, they want the curse broken, don’t they?”