The Black Witch

by Laurie Forest

  Three reed-straight Elves in front of me start their descent down a spiraling staircase, and I keep close to their heels, tunneling down through one of the thick underground lines of Spine stone that run beneath Verpacia. I remember poring over geological maps with Trystan when he was home for the summer, marveling at the intricate web of thick Spine stone running under the University, a network of hallways and lecture halls cut right into it.

  I gasp as I enter the Metallurgie lecture hall, intricately carved stone arches gracing the entrance, a line of spiraling columns on both sides of the hall.

  But the ceiling.

  It’s curved and made of thick, metallic-violet crystals, as if I’ve stepped into an enormous geode, the crystals glittering spectacularly with golden stars of reflected lamplight.

  My heart lifts.

  It’s like magic.

  To my left, glass-fronted cabinets are cut right into the walls, lined with a rainbow of crystals, stones and metal chunks, all neatly organized. To my right are long tables covered with laboratory equipment, every shape of glass vial and retort, as well as three fully outfitted smith stoves, their chimneys rising straight through the crystal ceiling.

  The chalky smell of minerals, as well as the acrid tang of Bornial flint, hang in the air, but it’s freshened by the cool, clean scent of Spine stone, and I breathe it all in without reserve.

  I’ve been placed in an odd section of this class to make room for my kitchen labor. I scan the hall and realize I’m the only female here.

  Half the hall is filled with Elves, already seated in neat, attentive rows. To the left are a smattering of Kelts, Elfhollen and a much larger grouping of Gardnerian military apprentices. Some of the gray-clad apprentices are seated. A knot of them are standing and notice me right away, shooting me cool, wary looks.

  Fallon’s friends, I realize, my heart sinking, recognizing them from Aunt Vyvian’s dance. Still, I’m begrudgingly impressed by how quickly Fallon’s soured things for me here.

  I sit down near one of the Gardnerians, a relaxed youth sitting at a casual angle with his arm thrown across the back edge of his chair. He watches me with friendly amusement as I pull out my writing implements, parchment folder and text.

  “Hullo, Mage Elloren Gardner.” He greets me heartily. The three standing apprentices shoot him a look of annoyance. He grins back at them.

  He’s attractive, with dancing dark green eyes and a wide, rakish smile. I glance down and take in the fasting lines that mark his hands—that seem to mark most young Gardnerians’ hands, with few exceptions.

  Aunt Vyvian’s right, I think with resignation. All the good ones are being quickly snatched up.

  Inwardly sighing, I extend my hand to him. “Well met...”

  He holds out his own hand and gives mine a cordial shake. “Curran. Mage Curran Dell.” He has four silver lines decorating each of his sleeves.

  I slump down, my eyes darting toward the unfriendly apprentices. “I suppose Fallon’s told you all about me.”

  He laughs. “Oh, yes. She has. Apparently you’re the worst person to ever walk Erthia.”

  I slump down farther. “Oh, that’s just great.”

  He eyes me with exaggerated displeasure. “And you’re betraying your grandmother’s legacy by having no power.”

  “My aunt’s already given me an earful about that,” I comment bitterly.

  He laughs again, his gaze full of mischief. “I suspect you simply...how shall I put this...interfered with Fallon’s all-consuming quest for Lukas Grey.” He gives me a significant look. “That’s like getting between a lion and its prey, that is.” He smiles again then grows more serious and looks closely at me. “Seriously, though, you should consider staying away from Lukas. Crossing Fallon Bane...” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “That’s seriously not good for your health.”

  An icy chill pricks at the back of my neck, sliding around my throat, working its way under my tunic. I shiver and hug myself tight.

  “Drafty in here,” I say to Curran. Of course it is. So much cold stone. So far underground.

  He looks at me quizzically. “I think it’s quite warm. There’s Verpacian Elm stoves all around us...”

  He’s cut off by the sound of smart footsteps on stone floor outside, followed by the creak of the door’s hinges.

  We join the class in sitting at attention, faces turned to the front.

  Our green-robed professor sweeps down the center aisle, and I’m thrust into immediate confusion by the long, green hair that flies out behind him like a pennant.

  I riffle through my papers, checking.

  Professor Xanillir is supposed to be an Elf. A white-haired Elf.

  The professor swoops around his desk and podium, turns to face us and the entire hall lets out a collective gasp.

  He has the long hair and sharp features of an Elf. The gracefully pointed ears and silver eyes.

  But he’s scaled. Completely covered in small, emerald scales that catch the lamplight and reflect back every shade of green, his hair a slightly deeper green than his shimmering skin. And the Elfin-styled tunic that peeks out from under his robe is forest green, covered with sweeping rune-marks that glow as if lit up from behind.

  He’s one of the Smaragdalfar. A Snake Elf.

  I look to Curran with confusion, but he’s busy gaping at our professor.

  Snake Elves are mine Elves. Deep-earth Elves. Dangerous Elves locked in their underground cities by the Alfsigr, controlled with mine demons and pit dragons.

  And I’ve never seen one. Ever.

  How did this one get out? How did a Snake Elf come to stand in front of a lecture hall? In professorial robes?

  I reach back and pull my cloak from the back of my chair, over my shoulders. It’s so cold in here.

  “I am Professor Fyon Hawkkyn,” the Smaragdalfar says, his voice elegantly accented, his star eyes full of hard, searing light, a row of golden hoops pierced through each ear. “Professor Xanillir has resigned in protest of my appointment by Vice Chancellor Quillen. If any of you wishes to move to another section of this lecture, you may speak with the registrar.”

  The Elves rise in one gleaming white motion and silently glide out of the hall, the entire left side now emptied.

  The Snake Elf’s expression remains unflinchingly hard.

  The Gardnerians murmur uneasily amongst themselves, shifting about before settling back down to attention.

  Professor Hawkkyn’s star eyes sweep coldly over our side of the room. They catch on me and bore in. Recognition lights, like Bornial flint catching fire.

  “It seems we have a celebrity amongst us,” he marvels, his mouth tilting with incredulity, his eyes tight on me with unnerving intensity. “The granddaughter of the Black Witch.”

  An amorphous dread washes over me, pooling, and I’m overcome by the sense of real danger—something silent, waiting to bare its teeth. I pull my cloak tighter around myself and stare back at the Snake Elf.

  “There will be no preferential treatment here, Mage Elloren Gardner.” The words are matter-of-fact, but etched in stone.

  “I wouldn’t expect it,” I reply, my voice reedy from the hollowing cold. I glance at the stove closest to me, its red coals glowing hot. I can barely feel its heat.

  The feeling of dread grows, like I’m being watched, even after the Snake Elf takes his eyes off me.

  “We’ll begin with Section Four, gold alloys,” he says with efficient grace, opening the text before him as we all follow suit. “Beginning next class, I’ll group you according to Guild apprenticeship and tailor your Metallurgie study accordingly. We’ve groupings of weapons-makers, smiths, jewelers and a single apothecary.” His eyes flit coldly to me. “Mage Gardner, you’ll work directly with me.”

  “Yes, Professor Hawkkyn,�
� I say, repressing a shiver, the cold and the dread growing.

  He begins to write out a listing of gold alloys on the chalkboard behind him, and I ready myself to take notes, dipping my pen into its inkwell.

  My pen clinks hard, the inkwell almost tipping over from the force, like I’m tapping on solid glass instead of thin black ink. Confused, I pull the inkwell toward me then rapidly let go of it, the glass so cold it burns to touch it. Alarm building, I lean forward and tap my pen back into the ink, a subtle rise of cold fogging up from the container in a small, white puff.

  Frozen solid.

  Curran’s watching me sidelong, his head tilted in question. “What’s wrong with your—”

  The realization hits us both at the same time, Curran’s skin visibly paling.

  Stomach dropping, going light-headed, I glance around, immediately focusing in on the young woman two rows back with the wide, vicious smile, a patient hatred burning in her stunning eyes.

  Fallon Bane.

  I quickly turn back to the front, heart racing, as Professor Hawkkyn’s chalk taps out a broken rhythm, a new thread of icy cold gently winding its way around my throat.

  After class I leave quickly, giving Fallon and her ever-present military guard a wide berth. I notice Curran does the same, the two of us avoiding eye contact with her, treating her as one would treat a rabid animal. I’m uncomfortably aware of her ring of cold still encircling my throat, the icy chill not dissipating until I’m clear out of the Scientifica Wing.

  Every step to the Mathematics lecture hall is filled with frustrated, trembling alarm that slowly gives way to a mounting anger.

  My first lecture, and already Fallon Bane’s set me behind—no notes to study from, only what’s in the text and my memory.

  Fine, you evil witch, freeze my ink, I seethe. Chill my throat. I will not cower before you again.

  She can’t actually hurt me, I reason with myself. She’d be thrown right out of the University, and out of the military and promptly sent to prison. Using magic against a fellow Gardnerian is a major, major crime.

  I grit my teeth and resolve to never slink out of class like a beaten dog ever again.

  I’m still fuming as I take a seat in Mathematics, relieved Fallon is nowhere to be seen in the sea of young Gardnerian men, all of them blessedly civilian.

  I breathe out a long sigh of relief when no one pays much attention to my arrival. My eyes light on the sole Kelt in the room, a young man two rows in front of me, his brown shirt in sharp contrast to our Gardnerian black.

  He turns, and we both flinch as our eyes meet. His posture goes rigid with tight offense as he narrows his green eyes at me with fiery venom.

  Oh, wonderful. The icing on the cake.

  Yvan turns away and I drop my forehead into my hands, railing against my snowballing bad luck.

  First Fallon in Metallurgie, now Yvan Guriel in Mathematics. What next?

  I look back up and glower at his strong back, his hand grasping the side of his desk so hard, his tendons stand out in rigid cords.

  I can almost feel the simmering heat of his hatred, and it sears through me like a fresh wound, cutting me to the core. Tears sting at my eyes.

  Why do I let him rattle me so? I don’t care what he thinks of me.

  An angry heat rises along my neck, and I silently curse him for his ability to upset me so thoroughly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gardnerian History

  After Mathematics I doggedly avoid Yvan Guriel’s hurtful, scathing looks and scurry away to get to my History class on time, tired of being in class with people who openly despise me.

  At least History is clear away from the White Hall complex. It’s a relief to be briefly walking outside, the sunlight warming my face.

  I’m braced for more hatred when I enter the sunlit lecture hall built just off the Gardnerian Athenaeum—braced for ice magic and eviscerating stares and yet another well that Fallon has preemptively poisoned.

  Instead, I’m immediately enveloped by goodwill—solitary scholars and convivial groupings slowly realizing who I am, blinking, murmuring and then blessedly smiling warmly at me.

  It’s all Gardnerians here, no hateful Kelts. And no Gardnerian military apprentices.

  And best of all, no Fallon Bane.

  Every muscle in my body relaxes in relief.

  The scholars are a mix of male and female, every set of hands marked with swirling fasting lines, most holding steaming cups of tea and snacks on small napkins, a long sidetable overflowing with refreshments interspersed with potted orchids.

  It’s like I’ve stumbled off the battlefield and into a genteel party.

  “Welcome, Mage Elloren Gardner,” a tall young woman says warmly, gesturing toward the table of refreshments, an Erthia orb and a third-year scholar’s apothecary pendant hanging from her necklace. “We’re thrilled you’re joining us. Please, have some food and tea.”

  I take in the incredible spread set out for us, head spinning over the sudden change in atmosphere and overwhelming luxury. There’s a full tea service, several types of cheese, seeded crackers, a bowl of grapes, sliced bread, butter rosettes, a variety of jams and a bowl of oatmeal cookies.

  An almost irrepressible laugh bubbles up inside me. I smile back at my fellow scholars.

  Everything will be okay, I comfort myself. Fallon’s a paper dragon. She can’t hurt me. I’m Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter and Vyvian Damon’s niece.

  Immensely grateful for this better turn of events, I set my books down on a desk and pour myself some fragrant vanilla black tea from the elegant porcelain teapot, my hands slowly steadying. The china is decorated with delicate vines, and I can feel my nerves beginning to smooth out the moment the warm, rich tea slides over my lips.

  “I’m Elin,” the tall woman says warmly as I walk back toward my desk. She makes a string of introductions, drawing me into their pleasant circle, and I nod and smile, struggling to remember names, slowly letting go of the remembrance of cold encircling my neck.

  Fallon can’t hurt you. Let it go.

  I glance around the hall where I’ll be taking not only Gardnerian History, but also Botanicals, both taught by Priest Mage Simitri. Rows of exotic orchids are set on long shelves beneath a wall of curving windows. The windows extend to a diamond-paned skylight that forms half the roof, sunlight raining down on us. Pen and watercolor renderings of orchids dot the walls, as well as oil paintings of pivotal moments in the history of my people. One wall is made up entirely of bookshelves lined with weighty history and botany texts. A glass door leads right to a small, domed greenhouse bursting with flowering vegetation.

  And the Gardnerian building is wood. All wood. Not the cold, lifeless Spine stone.

  I breathe in the rich smell of the Ironwood that surrounds me. Heartened, I glance at the nearest watercolor, drinking in the beautiful depiction of a pale pink river orchid. It’s signed Mage Bartholomew Simitri.

  He’s so talented, this new professor of mine. Not just a well-known author of historical and botany texts, he’s evidently an accomplished artist, too.

  A slim Urisk girl darts in bearing another platter full of artfully arranged petit fours in a repeating pattern. Elin and the other friendly Gardnerians around me grow quieter and shoot small, wary glances at the pointy-eared, blue-skinned girl.

  The girl keeps her head ducked submissively down, works silent as a ghost and barely causes a ripple in the air as she leaves.

  The smiles and conversation resume.

  Unease pricks at me over the subtle, collective dislike of the girl, but I remember my own harsh treatment in the kitchen and push the feeling away.

  As I take my seat, the lecture hall’s door opens and our black-haired, hook-nosed, bespectacled professor glides in, his slight portliness and t
he crinkle of laugh lines fanning out from his eyes giving away his age. He’s neatly put together and sets his books down in precise lines on his desk before looking up and beaming at us like we’re long-lost and much-beloved relatives.

  He’s dressed in Gardneria priest vestments, a long black tunic marked with a white bird—one of the Ancient One’s many symbols.

  His eyes light on me and take on a reverential glow. He sweeps around his desk, makes his way down the aisle and bends down on one knee beside me, his hand resting gently on my arm.

  “Mage Elloren Gardner,” he says with deep respect. “Your grandmother, may the Ancient One bless Her, saved my entire family.” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. “We were being herded up for execution when She swept in and freed us. It was Her, and your father, who liberated us and brought us to Valgard.” His eyes glaze over with emotion. “I owe my life to your family. And I am so honored to now have you, Her granddaughter, in my classroom.” He pats my hand and smiles at me as he rises, then, as if overcome, pats my shoulder, as well.

  I’m deeply touched, tears pricking my own eyes. So relieved to be amongst only Gardnerians and embraced by them.

  Priest Simitri looks around, as if overjoyed by the sight of all of us. “Please, Mages, turn to the first section of your history text.”

  I open the book, the first page bearing the title and the author—Priest Mage Bartholomew M. Simitri.

  He opens his arms wide, as if embracing all of us. “Let us begin, Mages, with the beginning. With the blessed Ancient One’s creation of Erthia, the very ground we stand upon. It is the story of every Gardnerian First Child. A story of Good versus Evil. Of Erthia bequeathed to all of us by the Ancient One above. It is...your story.” He speaks with theatrical grace, and a genuine enthusiasm that’s contagious.

  I feel myself becoming instantly caught up in his grand sweep of Gardnerian history. And liking this professor of mine a great deal.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Lupines

  Vastly heartened, I catch up with Aislinn in the White Hall after History.