His lady does not take pity on him. His error is not forgiven. He is sentenced to a decade’s service at the Red Fortress and taken away in chains.
I take another sip of water.
*
They call the fourth witness to the front. He kneels before the White Lady and kisses her hand.
It’s Daniel.
A small, shocked sound escapes my lips.
*
Daniel reports that he’s been monitoring me faithfully, as instructed. It has been a great honor to serve his clan and his lady in this way.
He reports that he has seen no evidence of skymagic in me. He believes I have neither the inherent talent nor the required intellect to master even the basics of this magic. He says I’m generally imperceptive and unwilling to challenge myself intellectually. My favorite movie, for example, is the cheesy Hallmark gem, Kooky and Me. What more is there to say?
He reports that I’m reasonably happy with my keepers but that this is mainly due to a childish infatuation with Gunnar Waymond. If it hadn’t been for this powerful distraction, I’d have been far less satisfied: I’m given very little money and often feel humiliated by this. For example, when it became “in” to drink Evian at school instead of regular tap water, Ingrid refused to give me extra money for this luxury. I was so angry that I stopped drinking water altogether. He can give many other examples of my unhappiness with my keepers—my life with them has been a trial.
He has no recommendations to make regarding my future; he leaves such matters in the capable hands of his lady.
He is thanked for his faithful service.
When he walks out, he looks me right in the eye.
*
I am escorted outside by one of the tall women. She leads me to a sofa, one of several in a large white room. I am asked to sit and await the judges’ decision. I am offered some more water. I am very thirsty, but I do not take another sip.
*
At some point the judges must have joined me in the room. They’re sitting around, relaxed and chatting, as if we’re socializing in someone’s home. The mood is jovial and easy. I’m being welcomed and praised and flattered. Everyone seems to be wildly impressed by me, even the White Lady. Nobody says anything about me stealing Daniel’s mother’s magic. I get the idea nobody really believed I was guilty of that crime anyway.
And yet I seem to have passed some kind of test.
I am very, very thirsty.
*
The Red Lord is talking to me. He’s telling me all about the dazzling future that awaits me. My years of suffering as an ordinary girl are over. From now on I will enjoy the privilege and power that is my birthright: beautiful clothes, glittering palaces, expensive cars, glamorous friends, private jets, sparkling jewels, fine food. I will have servants to attend to my every need; I will have more money than I can spend in my lifetime; I will have hairdressers and masseuses and private tutors.
Every day will be more exciting than the previous one. I will finally have the life of my dreams.
*
I know something.
My deepest being is whispering the truth to me, but I cannot quite hear it.
Not yet.
*
There will be foreign travel in my future. And art and literature and beauty.
And magic.
Lord Phillip Shawcross, the handsome young Green Lord, promises that he will take me to his stately home in England, where he himself will teach me earthmagic. Among the tranquil delights of rolling green lawns, serene lakes, dark woodlands and avenues of trees, I will easily master the basics of this beautiful magic, which cannot possibly be experienced among the cattle and cornfields of the ugly agricultural wasteland I now find myself in.
He promises to show me the wonder of all growing things. He promises he will make me see what I’ve been deprived of in those barren deserts and the poisoned artificial farmlands I was raised in: the raw, green, beating heart at the center of everything.
*
I am very thirsty. I lick my dry lips.
The Red Lord offers me another sip of water. I pretend to drink.
I do not swallow.
*
Deron Deleon, the Blue Lord, with his dreadlocks and his shiny white smile, pledges to take me to his private Caribbean island, where he’ll personally initiate me into the joys of seamagic.
In that exquisite retreat of sand and spice and palms, surrounded by aquamarine shallows and the deep-blue waters of the endless ocean, I will finally experience the true wonder of water. To understand the sheer life-giving force of this element, he says, one has to immerse oneself in the depths of its power, surrendering fully to its grandeur.
This is what he is offering me: the eternal, vast, majestic ocean.
He tells me that in time I will feel nothing but pity for the poor, deprived girl who made do with the cracked tiles and chlorine of a small, dirty indoor pool as her only source of water magic.
It’s what my mother would have wanted, he says.
*
The voice inside me is getting louder and louder. Clearer and clearer.
*
Ananya Dara, the Red Lady with the kind eyes and the strong features, will in time, she promises me, invite me to her ancient fortress on a secret hilltop. There, in the delicious warmth of the Indian sun, she will introduce me to the wonders of bloodmagic and I will finally learn that I am my mother’s daughter after all.
She says that the joys of flesh and touch and pleasure will come easily to me; that it always did to Lilith’s heirs. She tells me that I’ll quickly forget my tragic obsession with my keeper once I lose myself in the thrill of unthinking, boundless desire.
She promises me a world of endless delights. Bloodmagic, she says, is passion and bliss. Bloodmagic is infatuation and obsession. Bloodmagic is the true foundation of all love and all life, and she will give me the key to all its secrets.
*
I want to drink the water, but I don’t. My mind is slowly clearing.
I am sitting in a white room and I am talking to strangers.
*
Sonya Orlov, the White Lady with her black eyes and ashy-blond hair, says she will take me to her palace in the snow one day, where no one but the ice bears can marvel at the sight of a human tumbling through the sky on a gust of air.
We shall soar and fall and dip with the flurries of falling snow, she tells me, drunk on the freedom, the solitude, and the power of the sky.
There, she promises me, in an ecstasy of wind and air and openness, I will pity the girl who lived her life hemmed in by so many restrictions, so many petty rules, such convention and restraint.
She promises me freedom. She promises me power.
*
I feel the grain of the bleached cotton under my fingertips. I realize that my head is still hurting. The insides of my cheeks are raw and sore. My forehead burns. I am slowly returning to myself.
I’m almost back.
I am almost here.
*
I will, of course, have to renounce my current keepers, the Red Lord tells me. But I’ll be awarded better keepers this time. The Waymonds have misled and swindled me; I will soon realize that. Do I understand that they’ve kept my fortune from me? All the wealth of the Black Clan should have been at my disposal, riches beyond measure.
They have kept me poor and ignorant and powerless. I must feel so betrayed.
What’s more, they’ve exposed me to great danger. Allowing me to mix freely with ordinary people in an uncontrolled environment was absurdly reckless. This was proven beyond a doubt last night when I was almost killed by a damaged human boy who did not have the faintest idea of my true importance.
Something like that must never be allowed to happen again.
From now on, I will be kept safe, cherished and protected like the precious jewel I am. All the past wrongs against me will be righted. My life will be one of power and privilege.
I will be what I was always meant t
o be: magical and unique.
Special.
*
My thirst is starting to lessen. My body is hurting but my mind is clear.
I listen and I wait.
*
I must be feeling so overwhelmed, the White Lady says sympathetically. Hurt by what must seem like my best friend’s betrayal. Deceived by my keepers’ lies. Tired and emotional after last night’s ordeal.
It might also be that I’m feeling rather strange, the Red Lord adds. Perhaps I feel detached and disconnected. This is understandable: I am tired and surely suffering from shock. Last night’s events were horrific. I must give myself time to heal.
All I need to do now is rest, give my body what it is asking for. I am finally safe. My ordeal is over.
The lords and ladies smile kindly at me.
*
My inner voice is telling me something. Three very simple words.
The fog has lifted from my mind and I get the message clearly, every word ringing as loud as a bell.
This. Is. Bullshit.
Chapter 27
The practice of referring to the male and female leaders of their Clans by the honorary title “Lord” or “Lady” stems from the Renaissance when the Order of Keepers was reformed along modern lines. While those titles reflect the feudal structures in Europe at the time, it is important to note that leadership within the Order of Keepers has never been hereditary or based on familial affiliation.
Throughout the Order’s history, the strongest among us have been entitled to the mantel of leadership, taking it at will from their weaker rivals. And although the blood of certain families may be gifted with uncommon strength—so that a son will follow his father as lord, or a daughter her mother as lady—this has not, until very recently, often been the case. Likewise, it is highly unusual for the Lord and Lady of a Clan to be married to each other, although this, too, has happened at times—usually with dire consequences.
Of late, however, certain families have achieved something very close to dynasties of power within the Order. This is certainly true of the Orlovs, whose females have ruled the Skykeepers for no less than three generations, and, to a lesser extent, the Waymonds, who are all that now remain of the Black Clan.
From A Brief History of The Order of Keepers
by Harry Charles Shawcross (1961)
It’s bullshit. All of it.
Right from the start, the whole thing has been too over the top, almost theatrical.
It’s a con.
They’re selling me some kind of lie, and they’re doing everything they can to make sure I buy it.
They’re good too. Very good. This plan has been worked out to the very last detail, of that I have no doubt.
First, they dazzled me with their wealth and power: there were six kidnappers instead of one; there was the blindfold, the secret location, the candles, the magic tricks; the surveillance and that sadistically tiny cell. I was supposed to fear and respect them, to accept their authority without question. I was meant to feel that there was no escape, that their organization was all-powerful. That there was no point in resisting.
And I did feel that way in the end, kind of.
Second, they tried to rob me of my entire support network. Daniel became a spy who betrayed my trust; Gunn and Ingrid were painted as swindlers who’d deceived me; my school life ended in blood and mayhem and death. I was supposed to feel abandoned, betrayed, and lost. I was supposed to feel there was nobody to turn to except them: my immensely powerful new friends and saviors.
And I did feel lost. For a while.
Third, they attacked me at my weakest point. They poked and prodded and pushed until they were absolutely sure I had no magic inside me. And then they descended on me when I was at my weakest, physically exhausted and emotionally shattered after the terrible night when I killed Jeffrey Black.
It was a good plan.
But not good enough.
In the end they simply didn’t do their homework properly. Because what they missed was simply this: I’m not one of them. My life is different, my values are different, my dreams are different.
They think I am helpless. They think that because I don’t have magic or bodyguards or palaces or private jets or an endless fortune, I have nothing.
But they’re wrong. I have a lot, even if the things I’ve got are things they can’t see or don’t value. I was raised as an ordinary girl, and the good things in my life are ordinary things. Friendship. Trust. Common sense. Decency.
The first mistake they made was to call Daniel to give evidence against me. I can see why they thought it worth the risk: the shock of seeing your most trusted friend admit that he’s been spying on you would be enough to send most people into a spiral of paranoia. And sure, there was a moment there when I felt entirely helpless, as if my world was crumbling down around me and my whole life has been a lie.
But what those powerful lords and ladies didn’t understand is that ordinary friendship simply doesn’t work that way. They could force Daniel to play a role—through blackmail or threats or whatever the hell they did—but they couldn’t force him to actually be someone he’s not. And they can’t force me not to know him anymore.
A really good friendship develops its own secret language over time, a code unbreakable to outsiders. All kinds of random things—shared jokes, obscure references, silly catchphrases—gain a unique meaning between friends who spend a lot of time together. Kooky and Me was one of our in-jokes: a ridiculous movie Daniel and I watched one summer afternoon when we were too lazy to do anything else. The convoluted plot involved a stolen diary, a twelve-year-old villain and a beloved pet rabbit named Kooky, and it was so lame it was almost great. The most absurd part came right at the end. Over a cheerful montage of a girl playing with her bunny, you heard a deep, gravelly voice say: When the world stops making sense. When bad luck and trouble are your only companions. We all deserve a friend like Kooky.
It was wildly over-dramatic, far more suited to a gangster movie than a sugary-sweet tale about a little girl and her bunny. After that scene Daniel and I cried with laughter, literally rolling around on the floor, and later it became a kind of slogan for us. Whenever something went wrong in our lives—a surprise quiz, a nasty comment, a visit to the principal’s office—one of us would whisper, “When the world stops making sense…” and after that everything would seem a bit better, funnier, and more manageable.
After a while that stupid catchphrase came to have its own meaning for us. Something like: You’re not alone. Or: At least we have each other. Or: Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.
When Daniel mentioned Kooky and Me, he was sending me a message, a powerful kind of shorthand that immediately cut through my shocked and bewildered sense of being betrayed. My world had stopped making sense. Bad luck and trouble were my only companions. But at least I had a friend like Daniel.
That’s when I really started listening. I did my best to concentrate even though it seemed as if I was hearing his words through a thick fog. And thank God I did, because otherwise I’d never have known I was being drugged. The feeling of detached confusion I experienced during this second trial was so close to the shock I felt after the fire at school that I couldn’t even tell when it had become a chemically induced state.
It was Daniel who opened my eyes. The story he told about the Evian might’ve been a bit clumsy, but it was also just absurd enough to get his message across: Don’t drink the water.
And once I stopped drinking the water, I slowly started to realize that everything about this trial felt wrong. I was made to feel defensive and guilty, ashamed and attacked, and yet the lords and ladies seemed far less concerned with my own behavior than with Ingrid and Gunn’s. Daniel explained this to me too, by using a phrase so different from the way he usually talks that it penetrated even my foggy brain: Her life with her keepers had become a trial.
Slowly, it all began to make sense.
The trial wasn’t about me; it was ab
out my keepers.
Looking back, none of the judges really seemed that interested in finding out if I had stolen Daniel’s mother’s magic. Before the trial even started—when the Red Lord touched my hand and nothing happened—most of them must’ve decided I wasn’t strong enough to have done such a thing. The White Lady was the only one who hadn’t been convinced; she was only satisfied after that long night in the cell when it took every last ounce of my strength to deny the pull of her magic.
The rest of the trial had been a farce, a fishing expedition to get some dirt on my keepers and then, finally, a way to lure me into the web of their power.
Which is where they made their second mistake.
Again, they failed because they didn’t do their homework. They promised me a life of leisure in castles and palaces and country estates, surrounded by an army of people ready to fulfil my every wish. But I grew up with the freedom to run barefoot through dusty streets in forgotten towns. I was raised by a mother who cared nothing for status or wealth, and I spent my teenage years in a town where people greet their neighbors and laugh at pretension, making up in common sense what they lack in sophistication.
All those stories about the private islands and the servants and the money that they tried to tempt me with? Please. I know when I’m being offered life in a gilded cage.
They were so confident I would fall into their trap, so convinced I wanted an extraordinary, exotic life rather than the one I had. They thought I wanted to be different from everyone around me; special and unique. And to be honest, I might have, once.
But last night I watched a boy plan the death of everyone he knew. He didn’t do it because he was evil. He did it to be “special”. He wanted to be special, just like I want to be special, just like we all want to be special. And while we’re all trying so hard to be special, we forget that we’re ordinary too. All of us. Ordinary people, just doing our best.
Being special isn’t something I want anymore. What I now want is to live in a world where I’m not the most important thing, but where there are, nonetheless, important things.
Ordinary Girl (The Dark Dragon Chronicles Book 1) Page 29