“Miss Beithir, you should be practicing.” Blue-hair appeared next to her, a stern look on his face.
“I don’t have a partner,” she mumbled. There was something about him that had her on the back foot, and she didn’t like it at all.
Blue-hair sighed. “Right, yes an unlucky class of eleven.”
“I’d hardly call the others unlucky,” she responded.
“But you would yourself? I think you may be letting what you are define you too much, Miss Beithir.”
“Bit hard not to,” she muttered. Especially when her very name was a reminder. “I prefer to be called Amber.” She lifted her chin defiantly.
“You can work with me then, Amber.” His lips quirked into a smile.
“Thanks.” She tried to be sincere, she really did. But she’d much rather just slip by unnoticed.
He rolled up his sleeves, revealing colourful tattoos stretching all the way across his skin. Or all the way that Amber could see. Thoughts of how far they went passed through Amber’s mind, but she quickly dismissed them. These weren’t the kind of thoughts she should be having about a teacher, even a substitute one.
“Do I get to know my partner’s name?” she asked, surprising herself. She wasn’t normally so confident, especially around people she hadn’t met before. Or teachers. She especially didn’t trust teachers.
“Izban - err - Mr Smith.” He coughed as he corrected himself.
Amber frowned. Why would a teacher accidentally introduce himself as the wrong name? Obviously she was right about him being new to the job, otherwise he’d never have made such an obvious slip up.
“Well, Izban - err - Mr Smith, I hope you’re ready to watch the most pathetic storm conjuring ever.”
He ignored her attempt at making fun of his name. "Let's start with looking at the instructions together," he said. "Where's your book?"
Amber was kicking herself inside. So much for going under the radar. "I left it inside."
A frown was appearing on his forehead so she quickly added, "I don't need it. I've got a photographic memory."
"Oh yes, I've heard that about beithirs." He was suddenly looking very curious. "Do all of your kind have that?"
She shrugged. "As far as I know. It's not something special for us. I didn't know not everybody could recall things like I do until I came to Ben Vair." Now that she'd lived among both humans and supernaturals for a while, she was convinced that the conception of snakes being intelligent was based on beithirs.
"Fascinating," he murmured, looking at her as if she was a specimen waiting to be studied. She wasn't sure if she liked being looked at like that. "Let's begin - without your book."
He smiled at her, making him seem like a very different person. But as soon as he stepped away to give her space for the conjuring, he turned into the stern teacher again. Curious.
She looked around. The five pairs were in various stages of success and failure. With a satisfying smirk, she noticed that Tamsin was having trouble controlling the tiny bolts of lightning flashing above her head. Her dark hair was beginning to stand up, destroying her carefully pruned hairdo. Meghan, one of the nicer girls in her class, was swaying her hands above her head, seemingly in total sync with the storm clouds she had conjured. Now if only Amber could do the same...
She sighed and began with the first step in the instructions. Visualise a storm. She huffed. Now that could be anything. A little rainstorm? A summer thunderstorm? A hurricane?
"What's wrong?" her teacher asked and she sighed again. Could this lesson please be over?
"What kind of storm are we supposed to conjure?" she asked and watched in surprise as his eyes lit up.
"Excellent question. Strange that nobody else has asked that. They've all jumped straight into the exercise." He seemed genuinely puzzled by that. What a weird man. "Let's start with something small. A cloud and some lightning, perhaps?"
Amber nodded even though she knew she wouldn't achieve either. She didn't have much magic, and the powers she had were not related to storm conjuring. Not at all. But at this school, everybody needed to go to all the lessons, no matter how irrelevant. Others got additional tutoring in the afternoons, depending on their abilities and species, but so far, nobody had bothered to give her those extra lessons. She was quite glad about that. She excelled in theoretical subjects, partly thanks to her memory, but the practical studies... yuck. They usually ended in her being tailless.
Oh well, she wasn't going to achieve anything by standing here, lost in self-pity. She squared her shoulders and pictured a cloud. Grey, dark, foreboding. About half as tall as she was and just as wide. She added some shading and swirls for good measure. It was just like painting a picture. Except that she was great at art, but not so good with magic. When she had a perfect cloud, she breathed it out of her mind, just like it said in her textbook. She wasn't sure how that was even supposed to work. But that's what it said, 'Breathe out the magic.' Had the people writing it been on some kind of psychedelic drug? She wouldn't be surprised.
She opened her eyes to look at her work. Nothing. Not even a tiny speck of a cloud. Deflated, she sighed. She'd known it from the beginning. She was useless at this. Why did the teachers keep forcing her to try? There was no point.
She was never going to be a mage. Not like him. She could smell it. Opening her mouth ever so slightly, she tasted the air around her. Yup, definitely mage. She may not have a forked tongue in her human form, but she still had the senses of a snake.
"Try again," he said, ignoring the blush on her cheeks. Failure. She was such a damn failure.
"It won't work," she replied, staring down at the ground. "I don't have magic to do that kind of thing. I can shift, that's about it."
"Everybody has magic inside of them, even humans. But not everybody knows how to access it. That's why you're here, to learn how to do it. How to fulfil your potential. And once you find your magic, you'll find your destiny."
She looked up at him, open-mouthed. "Did you seriously just say 'destiny'? That's a bit over the top."
He stayed serious. "Apparently, I need to have a chat with the Headmistress. It's appalling that you're not taught your true value and purpose. How are you supposed to be motivated if they don't teach you what your strengths are?"
Ignoring her, he turned around and left, muttering under his breath. She stared at him in confusion. What just happened? Did he really just leave the class on their own?
She looked around. To her great pleasure, Tamsin's eyebrows had a new, singed and smoky look. It suited her... not. Another girl, Anna, was fighting an enormous windhose. A teacher would have come in handy here to help her. But Mr Smith had left. What a weirdo.
Amber looked at her watch and shrugged. It was almost the end of the lesson anyway. With nobody here to stop her, she could just as well leave and do something worthwhile. Like painting.
She headed to the college's studio on the top floor. It was a former attic that the arts teacher, Mrs Mumbly, had refurbished into a bright, welcoming room. This was Amber's second refuge. Any time she didn't spend in her dorms, she spent here among the canvases and the smell of paint.
There was nobody around; she had the studio for herself. Good. She picked up one of the easels and moved it to a skylight at the end of the room. If she stretched, she could just about see out of the window. In the far distance were the rolling hills of the Lowlands, some of them covered in clouds. Between the hills and the school were several rivers and a lot of farmland, but she couldn't see that from here. So she focused on the mountains instead.
She chose a large, square canvas and then went over to the shelf where Mrs Mumbly stored the paints. Everybody painted hills in green, so she was not going to choose that colour. A bottle of azure blue called to her. Why not. Nobody was going to see the painting anyway. It was something she did for herself, not for others. Her teacher was probably the only one who ever saw her paintings, and that simply because she had to leave them here to dry until she coul
d take them to her room.
Taking a large brush, she covered the canvas in blue paint. A solid foundation, her old arts teacher at primary school used to say. Of course, back then she'd only drawn stick figures and misshapen animals. Now, she was trying to depict real life, but usually, she failed at it. Her paintings turned out abstract even when she didn't intend them to. Still, she enjoyed the peaceful feel of the brush touching the canvas, even though she wasn't always happy with the result.
That blue... it reminded her of something. Discarding the brush, she dipped a finger into the paint and drew a rough shape on the canvas. Her motions were fluid, almost automatic. She let her mind drift and her artistic sense took over.
An hour later, Amber was staring at her painting. And wasn't sure what to think. It was weird. That was the only word to describe it, really. It was the silhouette of a man, with a large symbol in the foreground. It looked Celtic, with lots of knots and pretty swirls. Thing was, Amber didn't know anything about Celtic symbols. So why had she drawn one?
It had to be just a random shape, a pattern that her mind came up with. And the man... surely it only looked like Mr Smith because of the blue colour. The same colour as his hair. Yup, total coincidence.
For once, she didn't leave the canvas in the studio. She carefully carried it back to her room, making sure the paint didn't run. There, she put it on her window sill, continuing to look at it. It had to be the strangest painting she'd ever done. She rarely painted people, they were hard to make recognisable and she didn't like it when they turned out looking like someone else. But with him... it was definitely Mr Smith. No doubt about it.
Was she turning into one of those teenage girls who had a crush on their teachers? She surely hoped not. She was too old for that, and he wasn't even that good looking. Interesting, mysterious, yes, but hot... no. She wasn't really into piercings either.
The dinner bell rang and her rumbling stomach told her how hungry she was. Since lunchtime she'd lost her tail, bumped into a blue-haired man who turned out to be her teacher, failed at conjuring a storm and painted the very same man. What a day.
Chapter 2
Why was the library at this damn school so big? It made it ten times more difficult for Izban to find what he needed. When his grandfather had sent him here to find a specific book, he'd figured it'd be a quick in and out job. That'd all gone wrong when the Headmistress had caught him sneaking in. He'd had to say he was a supply teacher just to get out of that one.
Though from what he'd seen today, he'd do a damn sight better job if he was actually a teacher here. How they weren't teaching their students their true potential was beyond him. Everyone had magic, it was just a case of showing them how to tap into it. And the beithir girl...she had buckets of it. He could sense it rolling off her, even if she didn't seem to think she had it. He wondered what was up with that, but he couldn't waste time thinking on it. There was far too much at stake to get distracted by a pretty redhead.
Dust had settled on the shelves in front of him, so thickly that he almost couldn't tell where one book started and another ended. Whatever was happening at this school, care-taking and teaching weren't it. He trailed his finger across the spines, feeling the old cracked leather beneath the dust. Drawing his hand away wasn't pleasant though. Not with all the dirt now caked on his finger. He couldn't even wipe it off without leaving a stain.
He sighed. He had to look through the books one way or another, otherwise he'd never find the book Epona was supposed to have written. He had doubts over his grandfather's sanity on this one. For a start, he highly doubted a goddess would write a book at all. There wasn't even any evidence that the gods existed after all. But also, even if she had, what use was anything the goddess of horses had written? He was a mage. He hadn't even been near a horse in...forever really.
But, what his grandfather wanted, his grandfather got. So long as he didn't manage to link it all back to the Seven Wardens prophecy, it was fine by Izban. That one he really was fed up of. He'd been told it so many times during his childhood, and there was always a knowing look in his grandfather's eye while he recounted it. Almost like he expected it to come to pass at some point during Izban's lifetime.
Prophecies and the like were all a bunch of codswallop as far as Izban was concerned. None of his people believed in crystal balls, actually no one believed in crystal balls, even the true Romani he'd studied with while living on the continent. He'd laughed when they'd out right admitted that it was all for show. But they did have a point, most humans would believe anything if it gave them a purpose. Most non-humans too if their opinions on prophecy and foretelling were anything to go by.
Elders should always be respected though. And as his grandfather was the Elder Mage, Izban had to do what he was told.
He glanced around, pleased to see he was alone in this section of the library. That meant he could speed the process up at least. He held up his hand, and twisted the simple hawthorn ring he was wearing until a small aos sìth appeared in the palm of his hand. He'd never quite worked out whether the creature was male or female, all he knew was it had taken him a long time to get it to actually help him and not just cause chaos. Their peoples had been tied together for centuries through the practice of creideamh sìth, and the aos sìth was his main source of magic. He just hoped it would never turn on him. He gave his helper enough milk and baked goods to keep it happy though, as tradition dictated.
"Lorg an leabhar mu dhèidhinn Epona!" he whispered. While he was pretty sure his earlier assessment of being alone was correct, he didn't want to risk it. If anyone caught him using magic, there'd be questions. Even if he was in a supernatural school, there was a surprising lack of magic doing about. He guessed that was because a lot of the students were shifters, but even they had the spark inside them. Some even had the potential to be powerful, like the beithir girl.
The aos sìth leapt from his hand and flew up and down the books on the shelf, making an odd chittering noise as it did. To anyone who hadn't encountered the creatures before, he was sure it'd be unnerving. But to Izban, the sound actually verged on soothing. He'd grown up around them, and was more than used to it as a result.
It stopped in front of a faded green cover, discoloured from age and the hundreds of hands that had no doubt touched the leather. Before books like these had become treasures, no one had really cared how they were handled.
"Thanks," he said aloud, despite knowing the aos sìth already knew that. Their connection was part of the magic of their peoples after all. It chittered again in response, before disappearing into thin air. Which was to be expected. It had done what he'd asked it to, now it would go back to its own plane and gorge itself on milk and bread and the like. He really didn't understand the appeal, but whatever made his little companion happy.
He grimaced as he touched the dust covered book, but carried on anyway, pulling it away from its position on the shelves. The leather was as dry to touch as it looked, and he was already concerned about it not making the journey back to his grandfather. He'd have to bind it in protection spells, which he luckily didn't need the aos sìth for. They were just for certain types of magic.
He took it over to a small wooden table, and placed it down gently, before sinking into the armchair by the side. At least the school knew how to furnish, even if it didn't know how to do much else.
Carefully, he opened the book, only to have a small mushroom cloud of dust explode in his face. He coughed, and wafted his hand in front of him in an attempt to disperse the damn stuff. If he wasn't so in need of keeping his cover, he'd be in the Headmistress’ office right this second giving her a what for about the state of her establishment. He'd almost done that earlier too, after he'd stormed off during his lesson on storms, until he remembered why he couldn't. His mother had always said that his need to do right by everyone was both one of his greatest strengths, and one of his greatest faults. He tended to agree with her. He could really have blown his grandfather's mission, and all for
the sake of one little beithir girl.
Once the dust had settled, he looked back at the open page in front of him and groaned. The writing was tiny, and that weird swirly handwriting that medieval folk had been so enamoured with. On the plus side, it appeared to be in Gaelic and not some truly ancient tongue he hadn't mastered yet.
Not that he actually had to read it. His grandfather said he wanted the book itself, not a summary, which meant Izban could get away without doing so. But he was curious now.
He flipped a few more pages, disappointed to discover that a lot of it just seemed to be anatomical sketches of horses. The main curiosity in that being how far ahead of their time whoever wrote this was. Though he supposed anyone could dissect a horse. All they needed was a dead one and a sharp stone. And maybe some water to wash their hands in.
He was beginning to get bored when he flipped onto a page that piqued his interest. Oddly, this one seemed to be labelled aquine. At first, he thought it was a spelling error, but on closer inspection, it definitely wasn't, not if the particularly detailed drawing next to it was anything to go by. He studied the text in more detail. Apparently, who ever had written this book, had counted kelpies as the same as horses. He frowned. There was no mention of their own magic, nor their shifting abilities. In fact, if any real kelpie saw this, they'd probably rip it to shreds. After claiming it was all the selkies' doing of course. He wasn't sure where the rivalry between the two kinds had come from, but it was almost infamous among the supernatural community.
While it was kind of fascinating reading, he still didn't quite understand the point. There was nothing his grandfather was going to gain from this, he was sure. Maybe the old man was losing his marbles. He hoped not. Technically, Izban was supposed to be his successor, but that would mean returning home for good and no more travelling to learn other magics. He still hadn't been to Africa to learn from the Shamans yet, nor from the Inuits further north. Taking over as the Elder Mage wasn't in his plan for years to come. If only his brother was a bit older, then he could avoid the job altogether.
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