He inclines his head to one side, looking perplexed. “Why are you coming to me with this question, Elloren Gardner?”
“I thought you might give me an honest answer. I went to Priest Simitri, but his answer seemed...biased.”
Professor Kristian makes a contemptuous sound and removes his glasses. He grabs a cloth on his desk and peers up at me as he cleans the lenses, eyes narrowing. Replacing the glasses on his nose, he sits back, folds his arms in front of himself and considers me squarely as I hover in the door frame.
“Your clothes, Elloren Gardner,” he begins, “were most likely made by Urisk women on the Fae Islands. Some of these workers may have been children, but all were most certainly paid barely enough to survive and are laboring in conditions akin to out-and-out-slavery. They have no freedom of movement, no means of leaving the Islands for a better life, as they are heavily guarded. They can get off the Islands via pirates who will smuggle them out for a steep price, often delivering them to a worse master who will forever hold deportment or time in prison over their heads. Or they can get off the island by becoming indentured servants to the Gardnerians, which is, again, little more than glorified slavery with the threat of deportment always hanging over them. So, Elloren Gardner, if you are asking me whether your dress is made not of the finest silk, but of the oppression and misery of countless others, the answer would be a firm yes.”
I swallow hard. He certainly doesn’t mince words. His blunt manner of speaking makes me uncomfortable, and I have to remind myself that I haven’t come here looking for more dancing around the truth.
“Thank you for being honest with me,” I tell him, feeling ashamed, thinking of little Fern and her fear of returning to the Fae Islands.
The hard edge of his expression softens a little. His brow knits together, his eyes full of questions. “You’re welcome.”
Having heard more than enough for today, I turn and walk away.
* * *
The next day in the kitchen, I take my place lugging piles of dirty plates and trays from the open dining hall counter to the sinks. I’m in my old, comfortable clothing from home—the brown woolen garb dark enough to pass muster as Garnderian clothing, but just barely. I look more like a Kelt than a Gardnerian. But I feel like myself again. My old tunic and skirt are a far cry from elegant, much too loose to show off even a hint of my figure, but I’m finally able to move and breathe.
My new attire has attracted a good many confused and disapproving stares from my fellow Gardnerians, and even more disapproval from non-Gardnerians.
“You must be kidding,” Iris snaps when she enters the kitchens, her eyes immediately lighting on me as I transfer a pile of plates.
Heat stings the back of my neck, but I attempt to ignore her and keep working.
Bleddyn almost drops the sack of flour she’s lugging when she comes in. “So she’s a Kelt now, is that it?” She spits at the floor, her mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer, her eyes hot on me. She looks to Fernyllia, outraged.
Fernyllia shrugs and glances at me, then gestures discreetly with flour-dusted hands for Iris and Bleddyn to stop.
Olilly, the sickly waif of a serving girl with the lavender skin, eyes me with fearful confusion, looking to Fernyllia for reassurance. The Kitchen Mistress gives the small Urisk maid a comforting smile before her eyes dart warily back to me.
“No matter,” Iris whispers loudly as she takes the flour from Bleddyn, glaring at me with courageous swagger. “You could dress a Roach like a princess, but she’s still a Roach.”
Fernyllia shoots Iris a sharp look of censure, which only partially dampens the dark smiles now on Iris’s and Bleddyn’s lips. The two young women leave for the storeroom, and I can hear them burst into laughter the moment they step out.
Neck burning now, I settle in to vigorously scrubbing plates in the broad sink.
When he finally arrives, Yvan ignores me completely, not even looking over as he takes his place by my side to scrub dishes and pots with a coarse, bristled brush. Eventually he glances over at me, then quickly glances again, a brief flash of surprise in his eyes, before he focuses back on scrubbing pots.
I’m aware of my face going red, imagining what he probably thinks. Braced for more abuse.
“I didn’t stop wearing my other clothes for you,” I awkwardly explain, sounding irritable, the sting from the harsh words he had for me the day before still smarting. “I really couldn’t care less what you think of me.”
He glances over at me again with his usual silent intensity as he scrubs the pot in front of him vigorously.
“I asked Professor Kristian if what you said was true,” I explain defensively, really not wanting Yvan to think that he has any influence over me whatsoever. “He said it was, so I decided I liked my own clothes better, the clothes I grew up wearing. I’m more comfortable this way anyway. That’s the real reason I changed.”
Yvan stops scrubbing for a moment as he stares at the wall in front of us, the muscles in his face and neck tensing. With a sigh, he returns to his work and says, “You look better this way.”
I give a start. A compliment from Yvan?
I’m unexpectedly touched by his words, a warm flush washing over me. His voice, when he’s not angry or irritated, is deep and surprisingly kind.
I stare at him sidelong as he continues to focus only on the pot in front of him.
* * *
I go to visit Professor Kristian’s office again a few days later, questions multiplying like shadowy rabbits in my mind. I’m hungry for answers, wanting to know the truth about things.
Professor Kristian blinks a few times as I enter the room, raising his eyebrows in what looks like surprise at my seeking him out again. He leans forward and peers out into the hallway from which I’ve come, perhaps expecting to see someone else out there. Then, seeing no one, he sits back in his desk chair and eyes me thoughtfully.
A shadow crosses his expression, there and gone again, his brow tensing. “You look just like your father,” he muses. He clears his throat, stiffening. “And your grandmother, of course.”
I blink at him in amazed surprise. “You knew my father?”
His eyes become guarded. “I knew of him. Many people did.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed.
“What brings you here, Mage Gardner?” he inquires, his tone now suspicious. “More questions?”
I nod, and after a long, tense moment, he resignedly gestures to the wooden chair in front of his desk.
I close his door and sit down, feeling awkward and nervous.
“I notice you’ve changed your dress since our last discussion,” he notes, and I think I detect a small glimmer of approval in his eyes.
“Yes, well...um...” I stammer. “I prefer my old clothing anyway.”
He raises his eyebrows at this, releases the papers he’s holding and folds his hands in front of himself, giving me his full attention. “What would you like to know?” he asks.
I bite my lip and let out a long breath before answering. “I want to know about the history of Gardneria.” I hold up my history book. “The real history of Gardneria. Not this.”
The side of his mouth twitches. “That is considered a well-respected text—”
“It’s the Gardnerian history of Gardneria,” I clarify.
He nods. “You are, perhaps, looking for a Keltic history of Gardneria instead?” he asks, wry amusement in his tone.
“No, I’m looking for a factual history.”
He purses his lips and gives me an appraising look. “History is a tricky thing, Mage Gardner. What is written about it is usually subjective, and it’s often very difficult to find the truth of the matter.”
“Well, then,” I persist, “what’s your history of Gardneria?”
He coughs out an uncomfor
table laugh in response. “Professors aren’t supposed to teach that way, Mage Gardner. My opinion hardly matters.”
“Please, Professor Kristian,” I press with some vehemence. “It’s important to me. Please just tell me what you know.”
He looks down at his desk for a moment, his brow knits as if deliberating with himself how best to answer me before meeting my stubborn gaze once more.
“It could take some time,” he cautions.
“I have the time,” I reply, undaunted. I settle back against the chair.
He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable minute, perhaps waiting to see if I’ll give up and go away. “Very well, Mage Gardner,” he finally says, leaning toward me. “The story of Gardneria rightfully begins with Styvius Gardner, your people’s first Great Mage. He was your grandfather...about six generations back, I believe?”
I nod in assent.
“That’s quite the bloodline you have,” he observes, eyeing me shrewdly. “Not only Carnissa Gardner, The Black Witch, but Styvius Gardner, as well—both of Gardneria’s Great Mages in one family.”
I consider this. “I didn’t really know just how revered my family is. And hated. Not until I left Halfix anyway.”
“And I’m sure you know that Styvius was born to a Mage mother back when the Kelts were the region’s ruling power?”
I inwardly stiffen, aware of Professor Kristian’s Keltic ethnicity. “I know that the Kelts hated my people and were horrible to them.”
“And do you know why your people were hated?” Professor Kristian asks.
I eye him squarely. “Prejudice.”
“Quite so,” he says, sitting back and nodding. “They were treated very badly. Abused in every way. Treated like slaves. Sometimes even killed at birth. The Kelts saw them as half-breeds polluted by Fae blood.”
I bristle at the slur, then think uncomfortably about Gareth, Tierney and my own hidden attraction to wood.
He tilts his head. “Haven’t you ever wondered where you get that slight shimmer to your skin?”
“It’s the mark of the First Children,” I tell him. “Set down on us by the Ancient One in blessing.”
He lets out a short, unsurprised laugh. “A lofty notion, indeed. And complete fiction. It’s more likely your people are descended from the union of Kelts settled at the Northern Forest border and Fae Dryads.”
I gape at him, stunned. “What? The Tree Fae?” That’s ridiculous. We’re a pure-blooded race.
“It would explain why your kind possess some weak branch magic, and the Dryads were said to have skin that glimmered in the night,” he says.
I arch my brow at him, eyeing him with deep skepticism. There’s no telling what the Tree Fae looked like—they were killed off by the Kelts long ago. And Gardnerians have wand magic. Not crass branch magic. I clutch at the wooden chair under my hands.
River Maple.
I pull my hands away from the smooth wood and set them in my lap.
“The ancient Kelts had good reason to despise the Fae,” Professor Kristian continues. “When they first set foot on this land, around the year 2000 D, the Fae attacked and enslaved them. But the Kelts quickly discovered that they could gain the upper hand with iron weapons.”
This I already know. The Kelts came here fleeing a war, the distant Keltic lands now impossible to return to, a thick band of kracken-infested sea making it treacherous to travel there. The Kelts came, jammed onto ships, half starved, to the shores of the Western Realm. They were immediately set upon and promptly enslaved by the Fae. Until the Kelts realized that the iron they are impervious to is death to the Fae.
I know that iron-wielding Kelts then annihilated most of the Fae and took over a large chunk of the Western Realm.
An unbidden image of Tierney enters my mind—her ever-present lab gloves, her careful, focused expression when handling iron lab equipment. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
Professor Kristian leans forward. “Styvius Gardner was born a half-breed into Keltic society, one of the despised Kelt-Dryad Mages.”
I blanch. Professor Kristian could be imprisoned if he uttered such outrageous blasphemy in Gardneria. “It’s dangerous to talk like that,” I warn him sharply.
He smiles, his eyes steely. “Perhaps, then, it’s good that my door is shut.”
I stare back at him, amazed by his boldness.
“Shall we continue?”
I swallow and nod.
“The Dryad Fae had been killed off long ago, but Dryad blood lived on in the Mage line, giving the Mages their characteristic black hair, and shimmering skin. And branch magic lived on as well, although at a very weak level—only intricately laminated wooden wands could bring forth a fraction of the same magic Dryads could access through simple branches.
“Styvius Gardner was a different sort of Mage, however. His magic wasn’t weak. From early on, it was apparent that the magic in his veins was much stronger than any Mage who had ever been born. He could summon fire with a ferocity never before seen and create tornadoes out of small breezes.”
I settle back in my chair. This is not new to me. This I’ve heard.
“When Styvius was only eight years old,” Professor Kristian goes on, “he came upon a Kelt overseer viciously beating his Mage mother.”
“I know,” I tell him flatly.
Professor Kristian nods. “Horrified at the sight of his bloodied mother, Styvius killed the overseer, setting him ablaze with wand magic. The Kelts responded by sending out soldiers to kill young Styvius. They murdered his beloved mother as she needlessly tried to shield the boy. The Kelts planned on killing every Mage in the village to teach them a lesson in obedience.
“But Styvius stopped them. Driven mad by the death of his mother, he killed every soldier in sight.”
This I also know. The priests speak of it in church. I know the story of how Styvius took his vengeance on the Evil Kelts, slaying his mother’s cruel tormentors.
“Then he set out and killed every Kelt in his village and all the surrounding villages,” Professor Kristian continues.
This part catches me off guard. “Wait. What?”
Professor Kristian nods gravely. “Everyone. Men. Women. Children. And then he slaughtered everyone in the village next to that one. And the next. And the next.” Professor Kristian pauses, his expression darkening. “He quickly developed a predilection for torture.”
I tense my face at him in disbelief. “What? No. That can’t be right...” My voice trails off as I try to make sense of what he’s saying.
“The Kelts repeatedly tried to kill Styvius,” Professor Kristian goes on, “but he was invincible, able to summon shields to protect himself and throw huge balls of fire. Eventually, the Kelts fled from northern Keltania, sending the beleaguered Mages to settle there in an effort to placate the child. The Mages, of course, loved Styvius. He liberated them, gave them a homeland and exacted vengeance on their Keltic tormentors. That was the beginning of Gardneria.”
I sit there, dumbfounded. It’s bizarre to hear this familiar story told so starkly, stripped of its religious underpinnings. And in my people’s story, they were pure-blooded Mages created by the Ancient One from the seeds of the sacred Ironflowers and gathered up as His First Children.
“When he reached adulthood,” Professor Kristian continues, “Styvius became a religious zealot. He took the Kelts’ Book of the Ancients and decided that the Mages weren’t Kelt-Dryad half-breeds after all, but the First Children talked about in The Book, the rightful owners of Erthia. The Mages, beaten down and abused for generations, were eager to hear this new take on the old religion. Styvius began to claim that he was the Ancient One’s prophet, and that the Ancient One was speaking directly to him. He wrote a new last chapter to The Book and called it ‘The Blessed Mages.’ Then he renamed his people ‘Ga
rdnerian Mages,’ declared northern Keltania to be ‘The Republic of Gardneria’ and installed himself as High Mage.”
I’m inwardly drawing away from him, my people’s cherished history being roughly stabbed at and picked apart by his words.
“So, you don’t believe Styvius was actually a prophet?” I inquire, acutely aware of how blasphemous the question is.
Professor Kristian doesn’t blink. “I think he was a madman.”
I sit there, struggling to make sense of it all.
“Styvius set out to populate the entirety of Erthia with nothing but Mages,” Professor Kristian continues. “He set down in ‘The Blessed Mages’ the commandment that Gardnerian Mage women are to wandfast to Gardnerian men at an early age to keep their magic affinity lines pure and their Mage blood untainted. Styvius himself created the highly protected spells that are still used for the Gardnerian sacrament of wandfasting. Women who broke their wandfasting commitment with non-Gardnerians were to be struck down as brutally as possible, along with their non-Gardnerian lovers. The men’s families were also killed, as a lesson to all. A Banishment ceremony was required to exorcise the Evil of the woman from her family.”
“My neighbor, Sage Gaffney, was Banished,” I tell him, inwardly cringing at the thought.
“And how did you feel about that?” he asks.
I remember Sage’s bloodied hands, her terrified appearance and Shane’s stories of how her fastmate had beaten her.
“I’m very troubled by it,” I reply.
“Shall I continue?” he asks gently, perhaps noticing my discomfort.
I nod in assent.
“For a number of years, the Gardnerians kept to themselves, quietly increasing their numbers—”
“And then the Keltic War came.”
A shadow falls over his expression. “Yes. Styvius’s power had grown. And magic was becoming stronger in a number of your men, more prevalent with each passing generation. Styvius led his Mages to invade Keltania, taking over half of the Keltish lands and ruthlessly annihilating the population of those lands. Styvius planned to continue his conquest until the entire Western Realm was claimed for the Mages.”
The Black Witch Page 33