Every now and then I glance over at Trystan, and am surprised to catch him peering at Yvan’s back, his expression a bit odd, almost liquid, like he’s slipping into a dream state.
Feeling my stare, Trystan quickly looks back down at his book, and I nonchalantly peek at Yvan out of the corner of my eye to try and figure out what, exactly, Trystan is seeing.
Yvan is resting his forehead on his hand as he reads, his body stiff and ill at ease. It’s a Physicians’ Guild text, and I can make out surgical diagrams on the pages he’s open to.
Yvan cuts a nice figure, I reluctantly admit. He’s long and lean, and when his piercing green eyes aren’t tense, they’re stunning. My eyes are increasingly drawn to him in the kitchens, his strength and lithe grace tangling my thoughts and setting my heart thudding harder. I can’t help but remember how he looked when he smiled at Fern on my first day in the kitchens—how dazzling that smile was, how devastatingly handsome I found him to be.
I bite the inside of my cheek in annoyance.
Why does he have to be so distractingly good-looking? And why do I have to find him so attractive when he clearly doesn’t like me at all? And besides—he’s a Kelt!
But I can’t help but notice that his hostility toward me has lessened lately. I catch him in the kitchens, sometimes, eyeing me back with those intense green eyes of his. As if he’s trying to figure me out. It always sends an unsettling warmth prickling through me. But soon after our eyes meet, there’s always that searing flash of anger as he glares at me, then looks sharply away.
After about an hour of tension-filled silence, Yvan abruptly shuts his book, gets up, grabs the bag on his bed and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The thick, uncomfortable tension in the room leaves with him, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief at his going.
“I don’t know how you can stand living with him,” I tell Trystan. “He’s so intense.”
Trystan doesn’t say anything. His eyes flicker up to meet mine for a brief second before making their way back down to his book.
“Hey,” I say suspiciously, “why were you staring at him?”
Trystan doesn’t say anything for a moment, continuing to focus on his book as I wait impatiently for his response.
“Because he’s beautiful,” Trystan finally says, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper.
The words hang in the air between us, and I can feel the weight of them pressing down on me. I have a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that things I’ve long been ignoring are becoming undeniable.
“What do you mean?” I ask slowly.
He doesn’t answer me, only stiffens and continues to stare at his book.
I’m misinterpreting him. I have to be. Yvan is beautiful. Achingly so. Trystan’s just stating an obvious fact. But the way he said it.
Unwelcome thoughts begin to assert themselves. Whereas I’ve often seen Rafe flirting with girls and noticing the pretty ones walking when we’d travel to the large, open-air winter markets, I’ve never once seen Trystan notice a girl. He’s always been happy to just spend time with Gareth.
Trystan’s eyes flicker up to meet mine again, his expression sad and defiant at the same time. I’m barely breathing, my mouth agape.
“Oh, Trystan. Please tell me you’re not saying...”
His mouth tightens into a hard line, his expression pained.
“You can’t really think he’s...beautiful. You can’t think that way. Trystan, tell me you don’t mean it that way.”
He doesn’t respond and plasters his eyes to a spot on his book as panic rears up inside me.
“Holy Ancient One, Trystan, does Yvan know?”
Yvan can’t know. No one can know this.
“I think so,” Trystan says stiffly. “Maybe that’s why he’s so careful not to undress around me.”
“Oh, Trystan,” I breathe, panic clamoring at the edges of my thoughts, “this is really bad.”
“I know,” he admits tightly.
“The Mage Council...they throw people in prison who...”
“I know, Ren.”
“You can’t be this way. You just can’t. You have to change.”
Trystan continues to stare rigidly at the book. “I don’t think I can,” he says softly.
“Then you can’t tell anyone,” I insist, shaking my head for emphasis. “No one can know.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” His voice is still calm, but I can hear pain breaking through. And an edge of anger.
“Who else knows?” I ask, my thoughts spinning out in all directions.
“I think Rafe’s figured it out.”
“And what does he think?”
Trystan lets out a deep breath. “You know Rafe. He goes his own way on practically everything. And lets others do the same.”
“What about Uncle Edwin?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Gareth?”
“Gareth knows,” he says succinctly.
“You told him?”
Why did he tell Gareth and not me? I feel a sharp pang of hurt.
“He figured it out.”
“How?”
Trystan finally abandons the pretense of reading and closes his book. “He knows because I tried to kiss him.”
My face flies open in shock. “You tried to kiss...Gareth?” For a moment I just gape at him. “What...what did he do? When you tried to...”
“When I tried to kiss him?” he cuts in sharply. “He told me he was sorry, but he was only attracted to women.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the ramifications of his being this way like a dark storm brewing.
I rub at my aching head. “Oh, Trystan,” I say, stunned. My religion has just been turned into a weapon. Aimed straight at my brother. “They’ll see you as one of the Evil Ones. If anyone finds out...”
“I know.”
I shake my head, feeling dazed. “I seem to be collecting them these days, you know.”
“Evil Ones?”
“Icarals, Lupines—” A hidden Water Fae. “—and now you.”
Trystan shrugs slightly in response, suddenly looking very tired.
I gently nudge his foot. “I know you’re not evil, you know,” I softly tell him.
He nods back at me, seeming momentarily at a loss for words.
I sigh deeply, pressing my head back hard against the wall, staring up at the play of shadows on the ceiling rafters from the flickering fireplace and lamplight.
“I’m beginning to think it’s all hogwash anyway,” I tell him. “All this stuff about Evil Ones. But that doesn’t change the fact that everyone else seems to believe it.” I swivel my head on the wall to look at him with concern. “Trystan, I’m really worried about you now. I can’t...” Tears prick at my eyes as an unbidden image forms of Trystan being taken away, thrown into prison somewhere. A fierce urgency wells up inside me, accompanied by a very justified fear for my brother’s safety. “You’ve got to keep this secret.”
“I know, Ren,” he says softly.
“I’m not kidding. This is very dangerous. Promise me. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise. I’ll be careful,” he assures me, and I know he’s being serious and humoring me at the same time. But it will have to be enough for now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
History
Over the next few days Yvan’s intense and aloof manner toward me begins to seriously chafe at my nerves, made worse by my sharp fear that Yvan knows Trystan’s secret. I take to nervously carrying on one-sided conversations with Yvan, desperate to engage him and win his favor.
This particular evening, we’re both cutting up a large pile of turnips, just about my least favorite kitchen task. Iris is kneadin
g bread dough on the next table over, her flaxen hair tied up into pretty braids. I can feel her territorial attention on me, her eyes flitting up to glower at me every so often—a Gardnerian so unforgivably close to her Yvan.
It stings to see Iris and Yvan together sometimes. To hear them laughing in a corner, to witness their easy camaraderie, her casual touches on his shoulder, his arm, his hand. It’s clear they’re old friends, but is there more?
Do they kiss in the shadows? Sneak off late at night to the barn’s dark loft?
I immediately chastise myself for having such thoughts.
Yvan’s a Kelt, and one who dislikes me intensely. I need to ignore how just the sight of him can set my blood racing. Being attracted to a Kelt is pointless enough. In this case, it’s more than a little bit dangerous.
Thoughts of Lukas suddenly come to mind, and I flush, wondering what he’d make of me privately mooning over a Kelt.
Ignoring Iris’s nasty looks, I lever my knife down on the hard root before me with a loud thwap. I find dealing with these starchy vegetables to be as enjoyable as trying to slice through rocks.
I’m relieved a few minutes later, when Iris finally wipes off her hands and steps out. Now is my chance to talk to Yvan, to try to win him to our side—to convince him not to reveal my brother’s secret.
My eyes flit toward him. “So, how are you this evening?” I ask in the most pleasant, honey-coated voice I can muster. Predictably, he just glowers at me briefly before focusing militantly on chopping up the turnips in front of him.
In desperation, I babble on and on about the weather, what I had for lunch, anything inane I can think of to spark his interest as Urisk kitchen workers come and go around us in the flurry of activity almost always present here.
“...And my aunt Vyvian just sent me some new dresses. I think she feels guilty about lodging me with Icarals.” I throw waxy turnip peels into a large, wooden bowl. “It was quite a surprise to get her gift,” I prattle on. “I think she’s trying to win me over via pleasant means, since punishment isn’t working. I’m wearing one of the dresses now. Isn’t it lovely?”
The dress is lovely, with delicate Ironflowers embroidered in deep blue all over the midnight-black silk.
Yvan stops slicing turnips and pauses, stone-still, the newly sharpened knife clenched tight in his hand. “What?” he asks, his eyes two furious slits.
An actual response. Amazing. Though his tone isn’t exactly what I’d hoped it would be. “My dress,” I repeat congenially. “Isn’t the embroidery lovely?”
Yvan sets the knife carefully down on the table and swivels around in his chair to face me. “No,” he says, his voice heavy with disgust. “I think it’s revolting.”
I blink at Yvan in shock. Angry hurt pricks at my insides like tiny pins, and my face starts to flush. My eyes go hard on him. “You overwhelm me with your charm sometimes, do you know that?”
“Those clothes,” he continues caustically, gesturing sharply at my dress, “were made from the blood and sweat of slaves.”
“What are you talking about?” I counter. “Aunt Vyvian got them from a dress shop in Valgard.”
“Do you have any idea who actually makes your fancy silks?”
“No...no, I don’t...but...”
He leans in toward me confrontationally, and I shrink back slightly, intimidated. “Embroidery that intricate? It was done by Urisk workers. On the Fae Islands. Many of them children. Working for practically nothing, beaten if they try to protest.”
He’s lying. He has to be. He’s just trying to be mean.
I glower at him, nervously biting at my lip, but his steady glare doesn’t waver, and I have the overwhelmingly uncomfortable feeling that he’s telling me the truth.
“I... I didn’t know...” I croak out defensively.
“You don’t want to know. None of you want to know,” he spits back. “So, no, I don’t like your dress. I think both you and your dress are revolting.”
A sharp pain stabs at my temple, and my stomach clenches as his words cut through me to the core, tears stinging at my eyes. He’s so mean and unforgiving. Why does he have to go out of his way to be so awful to me? And why do I even let him bother me?
Stupid, idiotic Kelt.
But what if he’s right? Could it be true? My mind is a troubled whirl, and I fight back the tears.
No, I won’t let him make me cry.
I grab at my knife, desperate to shut him and his disturbing words out, and turn my full attention to the rhythmic motion of slicing through the turnips’ thick, unyielding flesh.
* * *
“Priest Simitri,” I venture the next day as I tentatively approach him. It’s the end of class, and Gardnerian scholars are filtering out of the stately lecture hall.
“Mage Gardner.” He greets me warmly, his robes smelling pleasantly of incense, a white Vogel band around his arm. “I have something for you.” He reaches down behind his desk and draws out a beautiful Ironwood tree seedling in a glazed black pot, handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I say, touched by his thoughtfulness.
“It will cleanse your room of the demon stain,” he tells me paternally. He leans in as if we share an unfortunate secret. “The Icarals may not love this, but I think you will find it soothing.”
I inwardly stiffen. They have names, I think. Ariel and Wynter. But I don’t voice anything to indicate my newfound change of heart. “Thank you,” I say instead, taking the small tree from him. It’s heavy in my hands. But as much as I love seedlings, I don’t want it. Not if it will make Wynter—or even Ariel—uncomfortable.
“I’ll help you repot it when it gets a little larger,” he tells me brightly. “The roots are delicate. They need room to spread out.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
Perhaps sensing my unease, he smiles encouragingly. “What can I do for you, Mage Gardner, on this fine day the Ancient One has blessed us with?”
“I was wondering, Priest Simitri,” I say hesitantly, shifting my weight from foot to foot, “if you could tell me if there’s any truth to a rumor I’ve heard.”
He leans back against his desk, clasps his hands together on his lap and gives me his full attention. “The world is full of rumors, Mage Gardner. It is wise to seek out the truth of the matter.”
I smile, feeling bolstered. “Is it true,” I begin cautiously, “that the fabric my clothes are made of might have been made by Urisk on the Fae Islands? Workers who are treated like slaves?”
His expression turns solemn. “It is true that your dress’s fabric may have been made by Urisk workers. It is not true that they are treated like slaves. What is true is that before the Gardnerians took over the Urisk lands, by the grace of the Ancient One, the Urisk were living like savages, worshipping stone statues of false gods, the men taking multiple wives. They waged war on each other almost as much as they waged war on others. They were uncivilized and very dangerous. Now, because of our intervention, the Urisk women lead quiet lives of morality. Are their lives full of hard work? The answer would be yes, but hard work, especially if it can help keep a people from devolving into savagery...well, it can only be a help to them.” He smiles encouragingly at me.
“So,” I press, uncomfortably, “there aren’t any children working there?”
Priest Simitri turns thoughtful. “If there are, I’m sure it’s out of the goodwill of their overseers—so that their mothers can keep an eye on them. Don’t let yourself be sentimental, Elloren. Urisk children are not like Gardnerian children. They are not First Children. They need structure and hard work to rein in their baser instincts. They lack the intelligence, the sensibility...the soul of our people.”
My mind immediately wanders to an image of Fern laughing and blowing bubbles in the kitchen.
No, she’s just like any oth
er child. Just like a Gardnerian child, in fact.
Priest Simitri points to the history book tucked under my arm. “Why don’t you go read the history of the Urisk race in your text. I’m sure what you find there will enlighten you.”
But he wrote the history text. And I’ve already read it. No. I’m not getting the whole story.
I bid Priest Simitri goodbye and depart the lecture hall in search of answers.
There’s only one history professor that I know of who isn’t a Gardnerian. Professor Kristian. The Keltic professor who defended Ariel when I took her spice cake.
* * *
Professor Kristian sits at a small, battered-looking desk in his disheveled office, its door wide-open. Equally worn wooden shelves line the walls, stuffed to the brim with books and papers, some shelves containing double rows of books crammed into them every which way. There are still more piles of large, well-read volumes stacked on his desk and on the floor by the walls.
He sits, engrossed in writing, several books open in front of him. He pushes up at his wire-rimmed glasses every now and then as they repeatedly slip down his nose.
The gesture and the office make me think of Uncle Edwin. My uncle has the same habit of always having to push his glasses up, and a similar tendency to attract clutter, especially books and stacks of violin music.
I cough uncomfortably to get his attention.
He looks up and does a double take.
There’s a brief storm of emotion in his eyes, there and gone again as he regards me with wary caution. He pushes his glasses up and blinks at me several times before saying anything. “Mage Elloren Gardner.”
I try to smile, but it comes off more like some bizarre, crooked lip tightening.
He continues to blink at me as I stand there in the door frame.
“I...I have a question,” I stammer awkwardly.
More blinking.
The words come out in a tangled rush. “I was told...that my clothing, or the cloth anyway...might have been made by slaves. Is there any truth to that?”
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