The boy—his face wet with Atratus's flying saliva—nodded silently.
Atratus growled like a rabid animal. "Do you want Elorians to snatch them from their beds, to cut them open in their solstice festivals, to feed upon their organs? Or perhaps you want Elorians breeding with your siblings, producing foul, mixed-blood offspring that are lower than animals?"
The boy, pale and trembling, shook his head.
Now, Madori thought, straining. Now, while his back is turned toward me.
Atratus was busy chastising the boy, railing against all the evils Elorians could perform to his parents, siblings, and countrymen. With the man deep in his tirade, Madori sucked in air through her nose, focusing all her effort on claiming the magical bonds he'd placed around her. She forced herself to clear her mind from anything else—to ignore Atratus's words, to ignore her humiliation, to ignore the eyes of the other students.
Choose your material.
Claim it.
Change it.
She tried but could not, and her eyes burned. All she had learned here at Teel, all her months of practice and studying, could not save her from his shackles.
Choose. Claim. Change.
Yet she could not; his magic was too strong.
"—and the Elorians will bring their disease, the Night Plague, into our wells, our farms, our very beds!" Atratus's words were piercing Madori's consciousness, rising and fading from her awareness. "I have jars of the Night Plague in my office, and I have seen its evil, and . . ."
Madori inhaled slowly through her nostrils, letting the breath fill her throat and her lungs, letting it flow to every part of her.
Breath by breath.
Her eyes stung. It was her father's voice speaking in her mind. She saw his kind face again, his wise eyes, his proud smile.
Breath by breath, Billygoat. That's all you must do to survive.
She exhaled slowly, inhaled again, savored the calming energy, and this too was like magic, a magic that cleared her mind. Breath by breath. Healing. Soothing.
Choose.
Claim.
And she had it.
His magic snapped into place in her awareness. She understood every single particle that comprised his ropes, saw the links between them, saw the logic that bound the magic like countless rings in chain mail.
Change.
She tore the links free.
The smoke fled her mouth and she gasped.
The tendrils tore free from her wrists and arms.
"He lies!" Madori shouted, tears in her eyes. "He lies to you! He's nothing but a liar. Elorians are not monsters, but Professor Atratus might be. Reject the Radians! Don't listen to their poiso—"
She could not finish her sentence.
His magic slammed against her with the might of war hammers.
Vaguely, Madori was aware of herself flying through the air. Her back slammed against the wall with a thud, knocking the breath out of her. She slumped down, pain clutching her chest, squeezing her lungs. She could not breathe.
Something was constricting her. Not the black smoke this time. She winced and tears ran down her cheeks, and the skin on her arms tightened, and she realized what material Atratus had chosen this time—not particles in the air but her own flesh. He was squeezing her like an orange.
With a jerk, he raised his hands. She rose into the air, her very skin tugging her body upward. She gasped, sputtered, struggling for breath.
"You will pay for your insolence, mongrel," he sneered, holding her suspended in the air. "You have hereby failed Magical History. I banish you from this class, and at the end of this turn, you will report to my office for thirty lashes, then go work in the kitchens for two straight turns."
He tugged the door open from a distance, then swung his arms. She flew outside like a discarded bit of cloth and landed in the snow. The door slammed shut, sealing her outside, bruised and struggling for breath.
* * * * *
"You have to go to Headmistress Egeria." Tam stood before her, staring at Madori sternly. "He can't do this to you!"
Sitting on her bed, Madori looked down at her throbbing palm. Professor Atratus had forbade her to heal the welts from his latest lashing, vowing to inspect the wounds every turn. Scrubbing pots for half-a-turn hadn't helped her hand feel any better.
"What could Egeria do?" Madori said softly. "She has no important family, no wealth, no influence . . . only a title. Lord Serin is the most powerful man in Mageria, possibly in all Timandra, and Professor Atratus is his pet."
Neekeya sat at Madori's side, wringing her hands. "But there's got to be something Egeria can do! Madori, please. Let's all go speak to her together."
Jitomi nodded. "We all go." His pale cheeks flushed, and the dragon tattoo twitched on his neck as he clenched his jaw. "We will demand she do something about this Atratus."
Madori lowered her head, her two strands of hair drooping. "No. I will go alone. Students are forbidden from entering her tower, and if Atratus catches us—if any professor catches us—I will not have you punished for my sake."
Her friends glanced at one another. Before they could argue, and before Madori could lose her courage, she rose to her feet and left the chamber, closing the door behind her.
The sun was bright and the hour was late; Atratus would be sleeping in his chamber, and if he caught her outside after hours, well, he had already punished so much there wasn't much more Madori feared.
She thanked both Idar, the god of her father, and Xen Qae, the wise philosopher her mother worshiped, when she reached Cosmia Tower without encountering any professor. When she creaked open the door and stepped inside—the place where Atratus had once caught her—she breathed in relief. This hall too was empty.
She climbed the spiraling stairs, looking out every window she passed, seeing more and more of the land as she ascended: the university grounds, with their columned halls and domes and gardens; the town of Teelshire beyond, its roofs tiled, its streets cobbled; and the fields and plains of Mageria. The road she had taken here snaked across the land, and a lump filled Madori's throat to remember the journey with her father. She had groaned at Torin's jokes, called him the dullest man in Moth, and couldn't wait to reach this university. Now she wanted nothing more than to see her father again, run toward him, hug him tightly, and never let go.
If you were here, Father, you wouldn't let any of this happen. You'd fight them all—like you fought the monk Ferius and his armies. I'm so sorry, Father. She stared at the road and the mist beyond. I'm so sorry I never told you how much I truly love you.
She knuckled her eyes dry. A few more steps, and she reached a door and knocked.
As if reacting to her touch, the door unlocked and slowly swung open.
The tower's top chamber was large and round, its brick walls covered with shelves. There were as many artifacts here as in Professor Rushavel's workshop. Madori saw animal statuettes with blinking crystal eyes; counter-square boards whose pieces—soldiers, horses, and elephants—moved as if locked in true battle; model ships whose sails billowed with air and whose oars stroked; toy soldiers with ticking hearts; books whose voices filled her head when she read their spines; little pewter dragons who blasted out sparks of true fire; and many more. An oak desk rose in the room's center, its top hidden under piles of codices, hourglasses, and scrolls. Behind the desk, in a great armchair that nearly swallowed her, sat the headmistress.
Madori expected Egeria to rail, to punish her, to shout that Madori was insolent for bursting in here uninvited and after hours. But the little old woman, barely larger than a child, simply smiled kindly, her face creasing into a map of wrinkles.
"Hello, my dear," the headmistress said.
Madori flinched, for an instant—a single heartbeat—sure that the headmistress was hurtling insults at her, was reaching for a ruler to strike her like Atratus. When the kind tone sank in, Madori realized that this kindness hurt her more than a ruler or insults could. Tears filled her eyes and stream
ed down her cheeks, but it was a good kind of pain, the pain of a scab peeling off.
"Child!" said Egeria, eyes softening.
The headmistress rose to her feet, rushed toward Madori, and embraced her. Madori was used to being the smallest person at Teel, but the headmistress was just the same size, her arms so warm.
"I'm sorry," Madori whispered. "I'm sorry I came here after hours, and I'm so sorry for everything. I had to see you. I had to tell you. I . . ."
She took a deep breath, and she told her.
She spoke of Lari and her quartet vandalizing her room, threatening her, attacking her. She spoke of Atratus binding her in front of the class, striking her palm almost every turn, and sending her to scrub pots after classes so that she could not study. She spoke of all her fear and pain, the nightmare that had been the past few months.
"I'm frightened," she finally said. "I'm frightened of the Radians and I don't know what to do."
She stared expectantly at the headmistress, waiting for soothing words, a promise of protection, some wise advice or at least another embrace.
Instead, the headmistress lowered her head and spoke in a soft voice. "I'm frightened too."
Madori gasped. "But . . . you're a great mage! You're powerful. You're—"
". . . the daughter of a shoemaker," the old woman said. "An old woman. A teacher who loves her students. That is all." She stepped toward the window and stared at the university grounds. "And I love Teel more than anything. For a thousand years the headmasters and mistresses have watched over our school from this tower. We defended Teel even through the great wars with Arden and the kingdoms of Eloria. We were a beacon of knowledge and light, and now . . . now I fear that a great light rises, a light to blind, to burn us all, a light that will sear Mythimna. The light of Radian." Her voice dropped. "They do more in Teel than write pamphlets, chant slogans, and spread hatred. Madori, I have sad news to share with you. Professor Maleen has died."
Madori gasped and covered her mouth. Her eyes stung anew. "Died?"
Egeria placed her hand upon a book of herbalism. "Poisoned. The Night Plague—a disease some claim comes from Eloria, a disease Professor Atratus has been studying. I myself have fallen ill with it; for ten turns I writhed in pain before finding the magic within me to vanquish the illness."
A growl fled Madori's throat, and she clenched her fists. "Atratus! He poisoned you! He— He murdered Maleen!" She clutched the headmistress's hands. "How can you let him still teach here? Can't you dismiss him or . . . or fight him? Or do something?"
Egeria seemed to age and wither before Madori's eyes. "I could do all these things, and then his master would come to avenge his wounded pet. You have met his master." Egeria's voice twisted in disgust. "You have met Lord Tirus Serin."
Madori nodded. "Lari's father."
She thought back to her encounter on the road. How she wished she could return to that turn! She would have stabbed the snake in the throat had she known the full extent of his evil.
The headmistress looked at a parchment map that hung upon the wall. She tapped a drawing of a northern fort. "In Sunmotte Citadel he musters an army, and many more of his forces spread across our kingdom. His pets bark in all centers of power: Professor Atratus here at Teel and other, even crueler men in our great cities. His servants whisper in the ears of our king, guiding all his actions. And his arm reaches beyond Mageria. In all kingdoms of the daylight his men work. Already Radian chapters rise in Arden to our east, Verilon to our north, and Naya to our south."
Madori spoke in a small voice. "So what do we do?"
The headmistress turned toward her and held her hands. "We must be brave. We must fight them at every turn. You will stay at Teel, Madori, and you will learn magic. I am old and I am fading; you and your friends must pick up this fight. We need mages like you—not warriors but healers."
Madori glanced down at her hand; welts still rose upon it. "Atratus said I'm not to heal my wounds anymore."
The headmistress winced, her eyes pained. She stepped around her desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged for a moment. When she returned to Madori, the headmistress held a ring in her hand; it was shaped as a dragon biting its tail, its eyes gleaming gemstones. When she placed it on Madori's finger, the pain of Atratus's lashes faded.
"A ring of healing," Madori whispered. "Neekeya will be delighted."
Egeria shook her head. "No, not a ring of healing, for Atratus would see your wounds healed and find other ways to punish you. It is a ring to soothe pain."
Madori caressed the silver dragon.
But it does not stop the pain inside me, she wanted to tell the headmistress. It does not stop the pain of my mixed blood, my memories, the hatred of others and my humiliation.
She spoke softly. "I don't want you to fade, headmistress. I don't want you to stop fighting, to tell me that I must fight without you. I'm only a child. My friends are only children." She blinked a little too much. "I've always depended on my parents, and on you, to guide my way. How can I face this enemy? I'm not wise. I'm not brave. I'm not strong."
Egeria smiled—a smile of kindness, warmth, and sadness all at the same time, a smile that lit her eyes and creased her face. "The greatest heroes are rarely unusually wise, brave, or strong. They are ordinary people who stand up and do what's right."
When Madori left the tower, she kept running her fingers over and over the dragon ring. When she returned to her chamber, her friends were already asleep, but even when Madori climbed into her bed, sleep would not find her. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, caressing her ring.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
POISON AND STEEL
Torin stood on the city walls, staring down at the sprawling Ardish army.
"Thousands of our finest men and women," he said, the wind in his hair. "The might of Arden."
They mustered in the western fields outside the walls of Kingswall, the ancient capital of the kingdom. Thousands of horses stood in formations, bedecked in armor. Riders sat upon the beasts, all in steel, holding the banners of their kingdom: a black raven upon a golden field. Behind the horses stood the ground troops: pikemen clad in chain mail, their pole weapons hooked and glinting in the sun; swordsmen clad in breastplates, their shields and helms displaying the Ardish raven; and finally archers in leather armor, one-handed swords hanging from their belts, their longbows as tall as men. Finally, behind the warriors, gathered the support troops: engineers, cooks, washer-women, blacksmiths, arrowsmiths, fletchers, cobblers, jugglers and singers, and many other tradesmen.
"I don't know if it's enough," said Cam. "And it pains me to move these men away from the capital. But Hornsford Bridge is where Serin musters, and that is the border we must defend."
Torin looked at his friend. To him, Cam would always be the shepherd's boy from Fairwool-by-Night, his oldest and dearest friend—a scrawny boy with a ready smile, bright eyes, and an easy laugh. Yet now on the walls, Torin saw a leader burdened with worry. Cam had married Queen Linee of House Solira, and he'd been sitting upon the throne for seventeen years now, and those years of concern had left their mark upon him. The first hints of wrinkles spread out from Cam's eyes, and the first gray hairs had invaded his temples.
Torin placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you sure you should ride out with them?"
The wind billowed Cam's hair and cloak. Looking down at the army, he nodded. "Yes. I will ride out with them. Linee will stay here upon the throne, and you'll be here with her. Serin hungers for our kingdom; I don't doubt that. Mageria has been aching for revenge since our two kingdoms fought a few decades ago. They conquered this city once; it was King Ceranor who drove the mages out. They've never forgotten that humiliation, and Serin will want his revenge, even if he was only a babe during that war." Cam wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "I will ride to Hornsford. I will stare him in the eyes, and I will not let him cross that bridge."
Torin stood on the city walls for a long time, watching as Cam joined
the forces, watching as the thousands rode and marched into the distance, their armor bright and their banners high.
When he closed his eyes, Torin saw the war years ago. In his memories, he sailed south along the Inaro River with Koyee, two youths in a little boat, witnessing the horror of Mageria's magic: villages burned to the ground; skeletons of children sprouting two skulls; the charred remains of men and women, their ribs flipped inside out; gruesome hills of bones and the scent of death; and everywhere the buffalo of Mageria painted with blood. He and Koyee had fled the mages in the night city of Sinyong, and Koyee's arm still bore the scars of dark magic.
The last raven banners were now flying over the horizon, and the sunlight glinted against the last troops' armor; it reminded Torin of the strip of dusk back home. He took out the scroll he kept in his pocket, unrolled it, and read Koyee's letter for the tenth time since he received it last turn. It was written in Qaelish, the delicate characters written from top to bottom in neat columns:
Dear Torin,
I miss you and Billygoat and think about you every turn. I've been alone many times in my life, but now the loneliness fills me like icy water invading a cave.
I am frightened. You wrote to me of a menace, of a great light to sear all in its way, of a sun eclipsing the moon. This menace has stretched its fingers across all Timandra; it has reached even our village of Fairwool-by-Night, and its sigils are drawn upon doors and raised as flags in our fields.
I've been spending more time in Oshy across the dusk, and I cannot speak to you of our defenses lest this letter falls into the wrong hands. But I will say this: If we must fight, we are ready. We stand strong.
I've written to Billygoat, but I've not heard back, and I worry our letters our being intercepted on the roads of Mageria. I'm so afraid for her but I know she's strong. I love you and her and pray to see you again soon.
Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) Page 17