The Black Witch

by Laurie Forest

  My mind’s a spinning tumult. “But...the Lupines... Vogel can threaten them all he wants. They’re immune to our magic.”

  “They’ll send dragons, Elloren,” Aislinn says, a thread of panic running through her tone. “We have over a thousand of them. If the Lupines and the Kelts don’t cede, the Guard will attack them with dragons.”

  * * *

  Every class I have today is transformed by Vogel’s sudden rise. I can’t escape it. Professor Volya can barely get the Gardnerians to settle down enough so she can lecture. Priest Simitri abandons lecture altogether and orders in food and punch.

  There’s a deliriously festive mood in Metallurgie, and a young Elf standing at Professor Hawkyyn’s desk, riffling through his notes—as if getting ready to lecture. He’s a white-haired, white-skinned Alfsigr Elfkin, and I glance around, confused, looking for Professor Hawkkyn.

  Knots of excited Gardnerians talk animatedly, white bands marking all of their left arms.

  The white bands are sprouting like malevolent weeds, along with the Gardnerian flags. Even Curran Dell has taken to wearing one, which I note with deep regret.

  “Where’s Professor Hawkkyn?” I ask Curran, who’s talking animatedly with another military apprentice. Curran smiles at me in greeting and opens his mouth to respond, but he’s quickly cut off.

  “Hopefully the Snake Elf is back belowground,” Fallon’s voice sounds out from across the room. “Which is where the beast belongs.”

  Everyone grows quiet and watches as she crosses the room, her eyes tight on me. “He’s probably run off,” Fallon amends with a wild smile. “He knows what’s coming.” She thrusts her bottom lip out at me in cloying mock sympathy. “Awww. Are you sad, Elloren Gardner? Looking to fast to the Snake Elf?”

  Shocked laughter sounds out and echoes behind me. I set my teeth on edge, Curran’s apologetic look doing nothing to dampen my fierce response.

  Anger whips up inside me so strong, I clench my fists and glare at Fallon with pure, undisguised venom.

  Fallon’s eyes widen with delight. She turns her whole self toward me, one hand coming slowly to her hip, her grin broadening as she revels in both my rage and the whole world working in her favor. She stares me down with mounting glee, and I fear I will abandon all caution, break down and strike her cruel, self-satisfied face.

  Is it worth it, Elloren? I warn myself. Getting kicked out of University for striking another Mage? Who will promptly cut you down with her Black Witch magic?

  Instead, I turn on my heels and leave the room, Fallon’s cruel laughter sounding out behind me.

  * * *

  When I enter the kitchens, Fernyllia’s face is haggard with dark worry, and she gives a start at the sight of me.

  Olilly is crying, her heaving back to me. Yvan, Bleddyn, Fernyllia and Iris are grouped around her, consoling her in low tones.

  They look like they’ve all sustained a powerful blow.

  Head down, I cross the room and set right to work peeling potatoes, stiff and self-conscious, sharply aware of their eyes on me as the room quiets.

  I know how I appear to them in my black silks and white armband, the threat of me heightened. My very presence has always been a symbol of Gardnerian might. But now, dressed like this, I’m an extension of Vogel—the monster about to come after them all.

  I look up and feel the full, ice-water shock of their hate.

  Yvan takes in the brutal glares they’re all leveling in my direction, then turns to me, stricken, his expression pained but open. Wide-open.

  And suddenly I’m wide-open to him as well, letting him see all of it—my fear and mounting desperation. My terrible isolation; my appearance reflecting nothing of my true heart.

  We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment as the room around us fades. The kitchen workers, the iciness of their stares, the crackling fires of the ovens, all of it dissolves like fog. There’s only him.

  Only us.

  Olilly whimpers, distracting us both, rupturing our safe, protected bubble, the world rushing back in.

  Iris is still glaring at me, her eyes flitting suspiciously to Yvan, then me and back to Yvan again as he pulls his eyes away from me and resumes comforting Olilly, his hand on the young woman’s shaking arm.

  Iris whispers something in Yvan’s ear and gestures sharply in my direction. Yvan fleetingly meets my eyes, his face tensed with conflict.

  Fernyllia speaks softly to Olilly in encouraging tones, and Yvan joins in.

  “They won’t send you back,” I hear him say, his low voice resonating deep in me. “We’ll help you get out. Your sister, too.”

  And then they all leave together, Iris being the last to exit. She shoots me a jarring look of hate, then steps out of the kitchen and pulls the back door shut with a slam.

  * * *

  My hands hurt when I finally leave my kitchen shift, my fingers sore from peeling so many potatoes, my chest a tight ball of despair. The sun has set, and night is firmly settled in the sky. The world is starless and dark as I move away from the lantern light by the kitchen’s back entrance.

  I take a deep, steadying breath, the cold air bracing. I’m halfway across the small field at the kitchen’s back end, edged by a small stand of forest, the shadows tonight an inky, bottomless black, my steps dragging.

  “Stay away from our men.”

  I halt, heart speeding, and look toward the shadows, my eyes searching for the source of the vicious words.

  I can just make Iris out in the dark, cloudy night. She’s leaning back against a tree trunk, arms confrontationally crossed, tall Bleddyn next to her, looking incensed.

  My eyes dart toward a thinly populated path not far from here. Gauging whether or not Iris and Bleddyn can get away with attacking me again.

  Iris stalks toward me, and I take a step back.

  “I see the way you look at him,” she grinds out, getting up near my face.

  A hot flush prickles all over my cheeks, my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

  “You Roaches want to own everything,” Bleddyn sneers, her voice deep and throaty, her eyes narrowed to furious slits.

  “He’s mine,” Iris insists, the anger cracking open to reveal a pained vulnerability, her lips trembling. She gathers herself, her mouth tightening into an angry line, the hatred in her glare flaring. “Go back to Lukas Grey.” She looks me over with disgust. “Where you belong. Stay away from Yvan.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses, and my hands clench into fists as I let my fear fall away and glower at her openly.

  Bleddyn spits out a laugh. “He doesn’t want her,” she sneers, looking me over with contempt. “How could he? With her pretending to be a Kelt one day and a Roach the next?” She blows a disdainful breath. “She doesn’t even know what skin she’s in.”

  Iris looks to Bleddyn, vulnerable again, but infuriatingly heartened by her friend’s cruel words. Iris shoots me one last look of pure hostility, then walks off with Bleddyn, the Urisk girl hissing out, “Roach bitch!” as she passes.

  * * *

  Rafe and Trystan are in the hallway waiting for me when I return to the North Tower. They’re lit by lamplight, framed in black by the window behind them.

  I swallow and fight back a swelling nausea as I take in their somber expressions, livid thoughts about Iris and Bleddyn whisked clear away.

  Without comment, Rafe holds out a stiff, folded parchment, defiance in his eyes.

  I unfold it, the sense of dread hardening in my gut.

  Ancient One, no. It’s a notice of impending draft.

  “It’s so quick,” I say, staring at the notice with disbelief. “Vogel only took power this morning.”

  “It’s like he was ready for this,” Rafe says, his voice hard with suspicion.

 
; “What?” I question, rattled. “You think Vogel knew this was coming? That our High Mage would die?”

  Rafe’s dark stare doesn’t waver. “It makes you wonder. It’s so well planned.”

  I remember Vogel’s terrible presence, the black void, the dead tree. I stare back at Rafe, alarm rising.

  Trystan is uncharacteristically on edge, his eyes haunted. Looking aimlessly around the cold hallway, he takes a seat on the stone bench, his head dropping into his hands, his fingers clenching his hair.

  “It’s a notice of impending draft,” I say, trying to reassure them both, trying to reassure myself. “The draft might not happen for a while.”

  “This summer,” Trystan says, not lifting his head, his tone devoid of hope. “He’ll call us in this summer. There’s a weapons shipment that’s to go out just before that.”

  My heart is hammering against my chest. I look up to Rafe. “Where would they send you?” I breathe.

  Rafe spits out a bitter laugh, like the question is horribly ironic. “To the military base in Rothir.” His jaded grin falls away. “To wage war on the Lupines.”

  I feel a sickening drop of my gut. “What will you do?” I ask.

  Rafe bares his teeth. “I’ll use it for target practice.” He flicks the edge of the notice. “Right through the Mage Council Seal.” Defiant humor hardening to anger, Rafe looks toward the windows searchingly, then toward the door to my lodging. “Where’s Diana?” His voice is uncharacteristically brusque.

  I gesture loosely toward the northern wilderness. “Somewhere in the wilds.”

  His mouth set in a tight line, Rafe takes back the notice from me and hoists his bag.

  “You’ll never find her—”

  “I know where she goes,” he spits out, making for the door.

  “What are you going to do?” I call after him, worried.

  “Join the Lupines,” he growls before leaving, shutting the door behind him with a hard thud.

  I stare after him. Force myself to take a steadying breath. Attempt to beat back the thin line of panic as Rafe’s heavy boot heels clomp down the stairs, the tower door slamming shut. Silence descends.

  “They won’t take him in,” Trystan says with calm, terrible assurance.

  Trystan’s voice is muted, his head still in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair in tight fists.

  “He’s the grandson of the Black Witch,” Trystan continues, tone deadened. “They will never take him in.”

  Thoughts spinning, with nothing solid to latch on to, I take a seat next to Trystan and put my hand on his shoulder to steady the both of us. His breath catches then stops for a moment. His slender body shudders, his hands coming down to tightly cover his eyes as he starts to cry. My heart catches in my throat—the silent way Trystan sobs is always more devastating to me than if he keened and wailed.

  I put my arm around him and he falls against me, bending in, eyes pressed against my shoulder as I hug him and pull him in tight.

  “I don’t want to be part of this anymore.” His voice is constricted almost to a whisper. “They’ve got me filling metal discs with fire power. Anyone who steps on them will be blown to pieces. I’m filling arrows with fire. And ice. For what? To kill who? I don’t want to be a party to what’s coming.” He pauses, growing still. “And it’s only a matter of time before they find out what I am.”

  Panic rears its head. “They don’t have to find out.”

  He shakes his head side to side, hard against my shoulder. “Of course they’ll find out. When I don’t wandfast—”

  “You’ll have to wandfast.” I firmly cut him off, brooking no argument.

  Trystan goes very still. He’s quiet for a moment, breathing against my shoulder. He raises his red-rimmed eyes to me. “How?”

  The question hangs in the air like a tunnel with no escape. “You just will! You’ll hide it. You’ll hide what you are.”

  His calm deepens. He looks at me with unflappable incredulity. “Could you fast to a woman?”

  “What?” I spit out, thrown. “Of course not!” A stinging flush rises on my cheeks along with a sudden wave of understanding. My mind casts about, desperately searching for a way out for him, but there’s no clear way to escape this.

  After wandfasting comes the sealing ceremony. And consummation is expected the very night of the sealing, the fastlines flowing down the couple’s wrist as proof of consummation. The whole point of our joinings is to create more pure-blooded Mages.

  It’s impossible for Trystan to even attempt to pull off a charade of normalcy.

  We’re both quiet for a long moment.

  “I could go to Noi lands,” he finally says. “They accept...my kind there.” His mouth twists in a cynical half smile. “But I’m the grandson of the Black Witch. Who will ever accept me?”

  Incensed on my brother’s behalf, I stamp down my panic, mutiny rising. “I don’t know, Trystan. You might be wrong.”

  He looks to me with surprise.

  “The grandson of the greatest enemy they ever had,” I darkly muse. “A Level Five Mage. Trained in Gardnerian weapons magic. And disastrously at odds with Gardnerian culture.” I shoot him a defiant smile. “Maybe taking you into the Vu Trin Guard would seem like perfect revenge against the Gardnerians.”

  Trystan’s eyes widen. He blinks at me. “You’ve changed.”

  I give a deep sigh. “Yes. I have.”

  He breathes out a short laugh, affection lighting his eyes. “I’m glad of it.” He wipes his tears away and straightens, shooting me a small smile. “You know there’s very little chance any of this will turn out well.”

  I spit out a sound of derision. “Well, who needs good odds? Where would the fun be in that?”

  Trystan coughs out another laugh, then takes a deep breath, eyeing me soberly.

  “Go,” I tell him, motioning toward the door. “Get some sleep. Down the road, when you’re a rich and successful Vu Trin soldier, you can come back for Uncle Edwin and me and fly us back to Noi lands on the back of one of their dragons.”

  “And we’ll all live happily-ever-after?” Trystan questions, a wry gleam back in his eyes.

  “Yes,” I staunchly assure him. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  Trystan takes his leave, shooting me an appreciative glance before he goes, and my false bravado leaves with him. The North Tower hall is quiet, the walls solid, but the entire world has gone unstable beneath my feet.

  The thought of losing both my brothers has my heart breaking to pieces in my chest.

  * * *

  When I finally open the door to my room, everything is wrong.

  There’s no fire in the hearth, and a bone-chilling cold has started to seep into the stone walls. And the atmosphere feels oppressive—laced with a heavy dread.

  Ariel lies passed out on her bed, her chickens running about aimlessly, the raven staunchly at her side. A bowl of her nilantyr berries is tipped over beside her, her lips stained black. Marina the Selkie is curled up on my bed next to Aislinn, wide-eyed and afraid. Aislinn’s face is drawn, as if she’s withstood a disorienting blow.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” I tell Aislinn, rattled by her expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “The Verpacian Council passed a resolution today in solidarity with Marcus Vogel,” Aislinn says, her voice haggard.

  My chest tightens. I glance around for Wynter and find her almost blending in with the shadows. She’s crumpled up against the windowsill, black wings tight around herself, her expression despondent.

  “What happened?” I ask, the dread growing.

  Wynter’s eyes flick to her desk, and I catch sight of the official-looking parchment.

  “It was posted on the door,” Wynter says despairingly. “The new Verpacian Council...they�
��ve...made some changes.”

  I swallow nervously, needles of fear pricking along the back of my neck. I go to Wynter’s desk and take the parchment in hand.

  It’s an official notice from the Verpacian Council. All Icarals are required to return to their countries of origin after completion of this year’s University studies. Verpacian work papers and Guild admittance will no longer be permitted for Icarals.

  “How did they get two-thirds of the Verpacian Council to vote for this?” I ask Aislinn, swiping the parchment through the air. “The Gardnerians only hold a slim majority.”

  “The Gardnerians have been emboldened by Vogel’s election, and the rest of the Council are scared. They want to placate the Gardnerians,” she replies.

  Wynter begins to cry.

  Ariel will have to return to Gardneria. Where she will be imprisoned in the Valgard Sanitorium. And Wynter will be sent back to Alfsigr lands, where her people are debating whether or not to execute her kind.

  My sickening dread begins a rapid slide into rage. I curse and hurl my bag at the wall. Marina cries out at the sound, and I immediately feel guilty for it. I slump down onto the bed, bring my hands to my face and force myself to breathe.

  Over a thousand dragons.

  When I look up again, a line of six mournful Watchers flashes into view. They sit on the long rafter above Wynter, wings tight around themselves, heads hung low.

  They fade away as Wynter’s sob deepens into a low, keening wail.

  * * *

  I huddle close to Aislinn in the North Tower’s hallway as she takes her leave.

  Her face is stark in the flickering lantern light, almost gaunt. A freezing rain has moved in, and it pelts the window beside us, a chilling draft seeping through.

  Aislinn stops and turns to me. “Maybe Yvan Guriel needs to save his dragon after all,” she ventures tentatively.