I look toward Fallon.
She pulls out her wand and mock points it at a thin military apprentice. He freezes, and the others in her party grow silent and tense.
This isn’t allowed. Apprentices are forbidden from pulling wands on each other.
I’m stunned. There are officers dotting the entire ballroom and, again, no one rebukes Fallon for a flagrant violation of the rules.
Fallon laughs and resheathes her wand, diffusing the tension, the onlookers breaking out into nervous laughter. The young apprentice gives them all a thin, frightened smile before slinking away.
Fallon watches him leave, then fixes her eyes on me. Her smile is slow and deliberate, her message unmistakable.
Careful, Elloren Gardner. That could easily be you.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aislinn Greer
Shane takes his leave, and in an effort to calm myself down, I walk over to the refreshment table to get something to drink.
I pour myself some punch but find that my hands are shaking, the glass ladle chattering against the crystal cup as I fill it with sweet, red liquid dotted with edible flower petals. Summoned by Sylus, Paige has reluctantly gone to join him, leaving me all alone.
Suddenly aware of someone’s eyes on me, I glance to the side.
A slight, plain young woman with intelligent green eyes is regarding me calmly from where she sits, a book open and facedown on her lap, her hands resting on it. She’s dressed like Echo Flood, in a conservative, multilayered frock with a silver Erthia sphere hanging from it. No makeup. I notice that the hands resting on her book are unmarked, like mine, and it seems incongruous. Her dress pegs her as a girl from a very conservative family, yet she’s unfasted.
“Fallon doesn’t seem to like you,” she comments as she glances over at Fallon, who’s laughing and eating with her friends. She smiles at me sympathetically, her eyes kind. “You’re brave, you know. In your choice of enemies.”
“You don’t like her, then?” I ask, surprised.
The young woman shakes her head. “Fallon? She’s mean as a snake. So are her brothers.” She shoots me a look of caution. “Mind you, if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”
I raise my eyebrows, relieved to finally be meeting someone outside Fallon’s social circle. I extend my hand to her. “I’m Elloren Gardner.”
She laughs and takes my hand in hers. “That’s obvious. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Let me guess,” I say guardedly. “I’m the girl who looks exactly like my grandmother?”
“No,” she laughs, “you’re the girl who’s been living under a rock somewhere up north. But I think your real claim to fame is that you’ve never been kissed.”
My face going hot, I sigh and reach up to massage my aching forehead. “I should never have told her that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to comfort me. “I have been kissed, and it’s overrated.”
I stop rubbing my forehead. “Really?”
“Really. Two people, smushing their mouths together, tasting each other’s spit, possibly with food bits mixed into it. It’s not at all appealing, when you really think about it.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re a dyed in the wool romantic, aren’t you?”
“I am not the least bit romantic,” she affirms, somewhat proudly. “Romance just complicates life, sets up unrealistic expectations.”
She sits there so neatly, her discreet dress perfectly pressed, her long black hair carefully brushed and pulled back off her face with two silver barrettes.
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right young man yet,” I offer.
“No, I’ve met him,” she says, matter-of-factly. “We’ll be wandfasted by the end of the year. He’s over there.” She gestures with her chin toward the entrance to the large ballroom. “The one just to the right of the door.”
He’s much like all the other young men who are milling about. Square jaw, black hair, green eyes.
I turn back to her. “So you’ve kissed him.”
“Yes, it’s expected.” She sighs with resignation. “They wait so long for...other things, our men. We’re supposed to throw them a bone every now and then, I guess.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“It’s not awful, don’t get me wrong. I mean, it’s tolerable.”
Her lack of enthusiasm makes me laugh. “You make it sound like doing chores!”
“Well, it kind of is.” She’s smiling at me good-humoredly.
“You feel this way, and you’re okay with fasting to him? With marrying him?”
She shrugs. “Oh, Randall’s all right. He’ll make a good fastmate, I suppose. My parents picked him out for me, and I trust them.”
“You mean you had no say in the matter?”
“I don’t need to have a say. I trust them. I knew they wouldn’t pick someone mean. They chose fastmates for my two older sisters, as well.”
I’m fascinated by her complete acceptance of this. “Don’t you want to choose your own fastmate?” Uncle Edwin would never just pick someone for me. Maybe he’d introduce me to someone nice, but he’d certainly leave the decision solely with me.
She shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter who chooses. Most of them are pretty interchangeable anyway. I mean, look at them.” She gestures toward a group of young men dismissively. “It’s hard to even tell them apart.”
She has a point. Looking around the room, I have to admit I’d be hard-pressed to find a memorable face, one that stands out in true contrast.
“What are you reading?” I ask, noticing her book again.
She flushes. “Oh, it’s just a book for University,” she explains, a little too innocently. “I’m getting a head start on my reading.”
The cover confirms what she’s told me: An Annotated History of Gardneria. On second thought, though, the paper cover doesn’t fit the book exactly, hanging a bit over on the sides.
“What are you really reading?” I probe.
At first, her eyes widen in surprise, and then she slumps back in her chair, sighs and hands the book over in mock defeat. “You can’t tell anyone,” she whispers conspiratorially.
I peek under the cover and flip through it. “Love poems!” I whisper back, chuckling. I hand the book back to her and smile. “I thought you weren’t romantic.”
“Not in real life,” she clarifies. “I guess I like the idea of it, though. But I realize it’s pure, unadulterated fantasy.”
“You’re funny,” I say, smiling at her.
She cocks her head to one side, considering me. “And you’re completely different than how I expected you’d be. I’m Aislinn Greer, by the way. My father sits on the Mage Council with your aunt. We’ll be fellow scholars at University.”
“Elloren, I see you’ve made a new friend.”
I turn to find my aunt gliding up to us.
“Good evening, Mage Damon.” Aislinn greets my aunt respectfully as she covers the book with both hands.
“Good evening, Aislinn,” Aunt Vyvian beams. “I was just speaking with your father. So nice to see you here.” She turns to me. “Elloren, I’d like you to go fetch your violin. Priest Vogel would like to hear you perform for us this evening.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor. “Perform? Now? For everyone?”
“Your uncle has told me time and again how extraordinarily talented you are.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Vyvian... I... I can’t...” I’ve never once performed for a crowd, and just the thought of it makes me feel sick with apprehension.
“Nonsense, child,” Aunt Vyvian says dismissively. “Run along and fetch your instrument. No one keeps the next High Mage waiting.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lukas G
rey
It’s a relief when I finally leave the crowded ballroom for the private hallway that leads to my room, my feet cramped in my pinching shoes. I briefly ponder escape.
I enter the deserted room and my breath immediately catches tight in my throat.
There, lying open on my bed, is a violin case. Within, nestled comfortably in green velvet, is a Maelorian violin—the highest-quality violin in the Western Realm, made by Elves in the northern Maelorian Mountains from rare Alfsigr spruce. There’s a note card carefully slid under the strings, a message written in my aunt’s flowing script.
Make the family proud.
I sit down beside the violin and stare at it. How Aunt Vyvian obtained the use of such an instrument, I can’t begin to imagine. When I finally take it in my hands, I feel as if I’m lifting a holy object. A picture of a tapering Alfsigr spruce tree set on a sloping mountainside caresses my mind as I gently pluck at the strings.
Perfectly in tune.
A tingling excitement bubbles up within me as I tighten the bow, lift the instrument into position and slide the bow across the A string.
A perfect note sounds on the air, pure as a still blue lake.
A rush of joy quickens my heart. Overwhelmed, I set the instrument down, go to my travel bag and fish excitedly through the music folder for my favorite piece, Winter’s Dark, quickly locating the stiff parchment. I stare at the crisp lines of notes, the music already dancing in my head.
I glance over at the door and my euphoria rapidly implodes, my unwelcome task waiting to press down on me like a miller’s stone.
Steeling myself, I make a decision. If I’m going to go down in flames in front of half of Valgard, I might as well go down in flames to the tune of the most beautiful piece of music ever composed for the violin.
I carefully secure the violin, tuck my music under one arm, force myself to my feet and purposefully walk out to meet my doom—well, as purposefully as one can possibly walk in the most uncomfortable shoes ever invented.
* * *
I reenter the crowded ballroom and immediately begin to fall apart at the seams, my mouth becoming dry, my gut clenching and worst of all—my hands start to tremble.
My aunt regards me with a polite smile as I approach. She’s speaking with Priest Vogel and a group of Mage Council members. Marcus Vogel stares at me with unblinking intensity, and I wonder again if he can read my mind.
“Thank you for the use of this...amazing violin, Aunt Vyvian,” I say, my voice quavering.
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” she beams. “We’re ready for you.” She gestures toward a gold music stand positioned next to the orchestra and in front of a magnificently carved piano, the ebony of its wood cut into the likeness of multiple trees that support the piano’s broad surface on leafy branches.
Aunt Vyvian leads me to the music stand. The members of the orchestra dip their heads and smile in greeting. I stoop down to fumble with the violin case as the trembling in my hands worsens.
“This is Enith,” my aunt says. I look up to see a young Urisk girl with wide, sapphire eyes and bright blue skin. “She can turn the pages for you.”
“Pages?”
My aunt looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses. “Of your music.”
“Oh, yes...of course.” I straighten up and reach under my arm, handing the parchment to the Urisk girl. She takes in my shaking hands, her brow knit with worry.
The conversation in the vast room gradually dies down to a hush as more and more of the guests notice my aunt waiting for their attention.
“I’d like to introduce my niece, Elloren Gardner,” Aunt Vyvian says smoothly. “Some of you have had the pleasure of meeting her already. Some of you will be attending University with her this year.”
I look out over the crowd and am horrified to see Fallon working her way to the front with a large group of young people.
I reach up to turn to the first page of my music and knock it clear off the stand, the pages scattering everywhere on the floor.
“Sorry,” I choke out hoarsely.
I crouch down and fumble around for the pages, the Urisk girl stooping to help me. I can hear Fallon and her entourage trying to disguise their derisive laughter with coughing.
After what seems like a mortifying eternity, I rise. The Urisk girl grabs the music from my hands, perhaps not willing to let me ruin her designated end of the job.
I lean down again to lift the violin out of its case, rise, steady it with my chin and tense my bow arm to try and bring my trembling under control.
Fallon and her group watch me with wicked anticipation. Aislinn Greer, who’s standing near the front of the crowd, nods with friendly encouragement.
I fear I might throw up right there in front of all of them if I hesitate any longer, so I begin.
My bow strafes the violin with a harsh screech and I wince, surprising even myself with how incredibly horrible I sound. I plow on, disastrously off-key, as I struggle to stay focused on the music, feeling like I’m rapidly losing all control of my shaking hands.
I stop, violin still poised, tears stinging at my eyes, too ashamed to look into the crowd.
More coughing and shocked laughter waft over from Fallon’s direction.
The sound of their ridicule sends a spike of angry hurt through me, unexpectedly steeling my resolve. The violin’s wood faintly pulses with warmth. The image of rough, strong branches flickers behind my eyes then retreats, as if the wood is trying to reach me.
Bolstered, I concentrate on relaxing my hands, force the trembling into submission and begin again. This time my bow slides smoothly across the strings and the melody begins to fall into place. I grit my teeth and play on, the quality of the instrument rendering the music nearly passable...
And then it begins.
Piano music from behind me, accompanying me.
But not just any piano music—beautiful music, twining itself around my feeble attempts at the melody.
I falter for a moment in disbelief.
The piano music catches me, slowing where I’ve stumbled, improvising where I’ve missed the notes. Another swell of warmth suffuses the wood as sinuous branches fill my mind, winding through me.
I relax and fall into the music, little by little, my hands steadying, the notes coming into focus. I close my eyes. I don’t need to look at the music. I know this song.
The crowd in front of me fades then disappears until it’s just me, the violin, the piano and the tree.
And then, no longer relying on the piano for a safety net, I suddenly take off, my hands now steady and sure, the music soaring. I continue beautifully on, even after the piano falls away, leaving me to dive into the long violin solo at the heart of the piece.
Tears come to my eyes as the melody reaches its crescendo, the music piercing through me. I let it flow, through the wood of the bow, the wood of the violin, as I gently, gracefully bring the piece to its mournful close.
I lower my bow, eyes still closed, the room stone silent for one blessed, magical moment.
The ballroom erupts into loud, enthusiastic applause.
I open my eyes as the crowd converges around me, the members of the small orchestra showering me with a cacophony of praise and compliments.
But perhaps the clearest measure of the quality of my performance can be seen in the expression on Fallon Bane’s face. She stands, her mouth agape, looking horrified, while her friends regard me with newly blossoming approval.
I turn to find out who my savior at the piano is, and my breath hitches when I see him.
He is, by far, the best-looking young man I have ever seen in my life, with strong, finely chiseled features, the dashing attire of a Gardnerian soldier and absolutely riveting deep green eyes.
And he’s smiling at me.
I can guess who this is without needing to be introduced.
Lukas Grey.
He gets up from the piano seat in one fluid, graceful movement. He’s tall with broad shoulders, the lean body of a natural athlete, and the controlled movements of a panther. And the sleeves of his black military tunic are marked with five silver bands.
As he approaches me, Fallon Bane immediately falls in next to him, threads her arm territorially through his and fixes me with a threatening glare.
Lukas glances down at Fallon’s arm with surprised amusement, then looks back up at me and cocks one black eyebrow, as if we’re old friends sharing an inside joke. Suddenly, my aunt appears at Lukas’s other side and she focuses in on Fallon, a pleasant, yet calculating look on her face.
“Fallon, dear,” she croons, “Priest Vogel and I need to speak with you.”
Fallon’s face takes on an expression of sheer panic as her eyes dart back and forth from Lukas to me and back to my aunt again. She opens her mouth as if trying to formulate a protest, but nothing comes out. Lukas continues to look at me with those dazzling eyes, amused by the situation.
“Come along, dear.” My aunt directs Fallon. She gestures across the room to where Priest Vogel stands surrounded by a bright-eyed, adoring throng. I cautiously meet the priest’s piercing gaze, and he nods.
Fallon releases Lukas’s arm like she’s abandoning a hard-won treasure and shoots me a look of pure loathing. “I’ll be right back,” she snipes as she passes, her tone holding a thick edge of menace.
As my aunt leads her firmly away, Fallon glances back at us repeatedly, her face a mask of furious desperation.
I turn to Lukas.
Holy Ancient One, he’s beautiful.
“Thank you for playing,” I say with honest gratitude.
He places an arm casually on the top of the piano, leaning into it. “It was a pleasure. It’s not often that I get to play with a superior musician. It was a privilege, actually.”
I laugh nervously. “I’m not the superior musician. I pretty much butchered the beginning.”
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