“I hadn’t planned on it,” I reply evasively from the laboratory’s rear, my tone softly lamenting. I know that anything I say to Gesine is likely to be repeated back to her cousin, Fallon Bane, who would be furious at the thought of me going anywhere with Lukas.
“Mmm,” she says, looking up from the pile of lab papers she’s correcting. Her lips pout in mock sympathy. “It seems that Lukas Grey has quite lost interest in you. Pity.” Her eyes glint malevolently. “I heard he hasn’t visited you once.”
“Yes,” I tell her, dark amusement flickering inside me. “I’ve felt his absence acutely.”
The thought of Gesine Bane watching me arrive at the Yule Dance with Lukas Grey shatters any lingering hesitancy I might have had about attending. But my small spark of triumph is quickly extinguished as I take in the enormous Gardnerian flag hanging behind Gesine’s desk.
More flags are pinned on my Gardnerian classmates’ tunics and bags, and everyone in our class wears a white Vogel armband. Like Tierney, I wish I could rip my own hideous armband off, throw pyyrchloric acid on it, strike a flint and watch it burst into a churning ball of blue fire.
As if the Vogel armbands aren’t bad enough, Yule Dance postings decorated with Ironflowers cover every available wall of the University. The event coincides with our sacred Ironflower Festival, and it’s being openly touted as an opportunity to revel in patriotic fervor and the overwhelming power advantage we now have in the Realm.
The whole thing fills me with disgust.
Rattled, I focus back in on our lab—the distillation of Ironflower essence. It’s an ingredient with a huge range of applications, but Tierney and I absolutely despise working with Ironflowers. They’re exacting and complicated to handle, and almost impossible to distill without wand-power.
Which means that Tierney and I will be wrestling with this lab for hours longer than the rest of our smug classmates.
As I scan the classroom, I realize that our classmates’ receiving flasks are already filled with dark azure liquid, and Gesine has begun swanning around the room to check on everyone’s progress. She points her wand at each table’s final product in turn, the distillations briefly turning a plum color if the experiment was done correctly.
“We need to hurry,” Tierney says anxiously, glancing at the pale blue liquid in our flask. “She’ll be back here in a moment.”
Her frustration matches my own. If we don’t have something better to show Fallon’s vile cousin, she’ll have an excuse to assign remedial work, which will set us back further and make it even more difficult to pass this class.
A class I need.
“They’re feeding magic into the distillation to spark the reaction,” Tierney says in a coarse whisper.
“I know,” I say, mirroring her discontent. “Fire and water magic...”
“Wait.” Tierney’s eyes grow wide, as if with a sudden idea. Her gaze drops to my Snow Oak pendant. She glances warily over at Gesine, who’s now just a few tables away. “Put your hand on the receiving flask,” she whispers, “and hold on to that pendant of yours. If it coaxes magic into your lines like you told me, then maybe I can draw on your affinities with my water power.”
I hesitate. It’s an audacious idea, but risks revealing her abilities. “Are you sure, Tierney?”
She frowns, as if annoyed that I’m doubting her. “I can control my power.”
Cautiously relenting, I reach one hand toward the flask and grasp hold of my pendant with the other, surreptitiously checking to make sure Gesine isn’t watching us.
Tierney places her slender hands over mine. “Now, concentrate on your affinity lines.”
I pull in a deep breath and tighten my fist around the Snow Oak pendant as the cool sensation of Tierney’s rushing water flows through my hand. My earth lines shudder to life in response to her water power, and my fire lines spark. Tierney’s water flows through my wand hand with increased force and there’s a sudden, hard pull on my lines, my internal branches lacing together and streaming towards the flask, my fire trailing closely behind in a powerful swoop.
Blue fire bursts into existence in the center of the flask, the water coming to a rapid boil, steam gushing from the distillation. We both wrench our hands away from the now scalding glass, and I notice that the liquid is no longer a pale blue.
It’s glowing a deep, incandescent sapphire.
Tierney and I exchange a shocked glance as Gesine Bane is suddenly before us.
“What have you two managed this time?” she asks with disdain. Gesine reaches out, murmurs a spell and touches her wand to our receiving flask.
The distillate stubbornly refuses to budge in color.
Frowning, Gesine touches her wand to the glass again and murmurs another spell. This time, there’s a bright flash of violet around the distillate, but still no change in the color of the liquid.
Tierney and I both gape at the flask.
“It’s blocking my magic,” Gesine says accusingly, her brow a tight, vexed line. She shoots us a furious glare, as if we’re purposely causing trouble, but then her expression turns sly. “Congratulations,” she says snidely. “You’ve managed to fail this lab in the most spectacular fashion yet. Please complete every remedial lab in this section by next week’s end.”
She turns on her heel and strides away.
“What did we do?” I ask Tierney, both of us washed in blue by the distillation’s intense sapphire glow.
“I don’t know,” she says with a stunned shake of her head. Tierney turns to me, green eyes wide. “I could feel your power, though, Elloren,” she whispers. “It was almost as if I could touch it. You’ve got fire. A lot of fire.”
I throw her a cautionary look, and we both set to beginning the experiment over again from scratch.
Tierney coaxes the starting solution to a boil as scholars file out of the room. Willowy Ekaterina Salls and her lab partner hang back, peering at Tierney and whispering to each other conspiratorially, both girls united in their long-standing dislike of her.
“I hear Leander’s going to the dance with his new fastmate,” Ekaterina crows, her eyes sparkling with malicious humor.
I look swifly at Tierney, concerned. It’s still fresh, this wound. Leander Starke has been apprenticing with her glassmaker father for several years, and I know Tierney has feelings for him. But Leander was fasted to Grasine Pelthier, a stunningly pretty young woman, just a few days ago.
Tierney grips the edge of the lab table, head bowed. Her breathing is carefully measured as our pale blue distillation bubbles and sends up steam that’s redolent of Ironflower blossom perfume.
“Ignore them,” I warn Tierney in an urgent whisper, worried that she’ll inadvertently conjure a storm right here in the middle of the classroom.
Tierney grips the table harder. “I’m trying.”
“Think on something else,” I urge. “Something pleasant.”
She knifes a glare at me. “Tell me you’re going to the Yule Dance.” It’s more a demand than a request, her teeth gritted. “That would be pleasant.”
Ekaterina and her friend smirk at us and exit the lab, leaving Tierney and me alone in the room. Relieved, I let out a deep breath and turn back to Tierney, surprised by her choice of subject, but eager to keep her focus away from Leander. “Honestly?” I tell her. “I considered not going.”
Tierney’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. You’re going.”
I give a dismissive snort. “I told Lukas I would, but I threatened to wear my kitchen clothes.”
“Oh, ho. No.” Tierney shakes her head emphatically. “You’re writing to your aunt. Directly after we finish here. You’re going to ask her to have a dress made for you. By the finest tailor in Verpacia.” She accentuates each point with a jab of her finger. “Tell her you need the dress to be the most magnificent dress on all of Erthia. Trust me, this is language your aunt
will understand.”
I tense my brow at her, incredulous. “How can I go...celebrate,” I spit out, “with a bunch of Gardnerians?”
Even though my connection to Lukas could prove to be an important one for all of us, my hatred of all things Gardnerian momentarily overtakes such cold calculation. It’s too horrible, what’s going on—my own people spreading such fear and cruelty over the entire Western Realm. I don’t want to celebrate Yule with them. Or the Ironflower Festival. All I want to do right now is tear all the Gardnerian flags in this room to shreds.
Tierney pins her eyes on me, razor sharp. “My life is quite difficult, Elloren. And it’s likely to become even more difficult.” She leans in. “The one bright spot, the only one right now, is the promise of you sticking this so thoroughly to Her Evil Majesty, Mage Fallon Bane. She may have been struck down, but with her cursed good luck, she’ll eventually rally. And when she does, I want the first thing she hears to be how you went to the Yule Dance with Lukas Grey in the most stunning dress ever seen on all of Erthia.” She leans closer, her eyes storming. “Do not take this away from me, Elloren Gardner.”
I give her a wry look. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” A sardonic gleam lights her gaze. “You’d best listen to me on this. Fallon’s not the only one who can encase you in ice.”
I cough out a laugh. “Fine. I’ll go. And I’ll get the dress.”
Tierney sits back, looking as satisfied as a well-fed cat, a wicked smile forming on her sharp face. “I hope this makes Fallon’s evil head explode,” she murmurs gleefully. “Into a million tiny pieces.”
* * *
Three days later, following the instructions my aunt sent by rune-hawk, Tierney and I make our way to Mistress Roslyn’s dress shop in Verpax City.
The feminine boutique is shockingly non-Gardnerian, filled with gowns in a riot of forbidden colors. The walls are papered in lavender, and vases of pink roses stand on gilded tables between the dress displays.
Mistress Roslyn looks down at me with forced politeness. She’s the Verpacian version of Valgard’s Mage Heloise Florel, only with plaited blond-gray hair and sharp blue eyes. Her seamstress tools are sheathed in a quilted pouch she has tied neatly round her waist. Two green-skinned Urisk girls, both about fourteen years of age, hover nearby, looking nervous. The atmosphere of the shop is elegant and welcoming, complete with a steaming tea service and platter of small cakes, but the fear emanating from Mistress Roslyn and her assistants is a palpable, unsettling thing.
This clearly isn’t a shop that Gardnerians often frequent. The selection of the formfitting black tunics and long skirts Gardnerians usually wear is ensconced in one small corner of the shop. It’s a growing trend among my people to only patronize Gardnerian-owned shops, but I know that fashion is the one area where Aunt Vyvian values craftsmanship above ideology. And from what I’ve heard, the Gardnerians avoiding this shop are missing out on the work of one of the most talented dress designers in the entire Western Realm.
Tierney and I do what we can to diffuse the tension in the room, trying our best to be friendly and accommodating, as Mistress Roslyn hands me the dress wrapped in tissue paper.
“Open it,” Tierney urges me, practically vibrating with anticipation.
A scarlet dress just behind her catches my eye, momentarily distracting me. All scarlet. No black.
What would it be like to wear such a thing?
The whole store, except for the small Gardnerian space, is an explosion of vibrant color. My eyes slide to another gown, this one sky blue and covered with white embroidered birds, ivory lace trimming the sleeves and collar.
“Can you imagine?” I marvel. “A blue dress...”
“I don’t care about blue dresses.” Tierney’s fidgeting from foot to foot, practically jumping out of her glamoured skin. “Open it!”
Not wanting Tierney to let loose with a raging thunderstorm right here in the middle of the shop, I turn my attention back to the parcel. I fold the tissue paper carefully back, and we both gasp as the dress is revealed.
It’s Gardnerian black, deep as midnight, made of the finest silk and fashioned in the usual design—a long, fitted tunic and a separate long skirt. But it’s the most scandalous, decadent, outrageously beautiful Gardnerian dress I’ve ever seen.
Instead of the sacred Ironflowers as acceptable, discreet trim, there’s an explosion of Ironflowers all over the tunic and long skirt—life-size embroidered flowers, lavishly wrought. They look vividly real, as if the dress was held under an Ironwood tree to catch the tree’s blossoms as they rained down upon it. The floral design thickens along the skirt’s hem, and deep blue sapphires are splashed all over the tunic and skirt in a resplendent array.
And there’s more. A separate package sent to the dress shop that I quickly fumble open.
Earrings. Ironflowers made of sapphires with emerald leaves. And a box containing black satin shoes with a slim, tapering heel. Ironflowers are embroidered over the shoes so thickly that they eclipse the black and give the illusion that the shoes are actually blue.
“Wow,” Tierney marvels, momentarily dumbstruck. “That is not exactly pious attire.”
“She is full of horrible contradictions, my aunt,” I say, my eyes riveted on the dress. “She takes a fanatically hard line on practically everything else, but don’t mess with her wardrobe.”
“Sweet gods,” Tierney breathes. “Try it on.”
“Please do, Mage Gardner.” Mistress Roslyn smiles at me, clearly relieved by my reaction to the dress. She motions toward the curtained dressing room with a practiced sweep of her hand. I carefully pick up the tunic and skirt, leaving the earrings and shoes with Tierney, and slip inside.
The skirt fits perfectly around my waist and the formfitting tunic slips on like a second skin. I pull back the rose-patterened curtain and glide out, because the dress seems to demand gliding. It’s as if I’m wearing a work of fine art.
All eyes widen as I approach. I turn toward the full-length mirror, the long skirt swishing, and gasp in wonder.
I’m awash in Ironflowers. Perfectly so. Not a single petal out of place.
“Oh, Mage.” Mistress Roslyn’s mouth falls open, dazed. She seems to have forgotten to be intimidated by me as she steps forward. With a look of intense satisfaction, she fingers one of the embroidered flowers. “This is azurelian thread,” she informs me. “I’ve never had the privilege of working with it before—it’s so expensive. They distill the Ironflower essence and work it into the thread. It takes an incredible number of flowers to create thread like this. But your aunt insisted you have the best.” She swallows, her breathing heightened as she turns to the shop girls. “Orn’lia. Mor’lli. Cut the lanterns. Draw the curtains.”
The Urisk girls hastily snuff out the six amber-glass lanterns and close the curtains. A reverential silence descends upon the room.
I stand utterly still, mesmerized by my reflection in the mirror. The entire dress is alight. Every Ironflower pulses a deep, glowing azure.
“Holy gods,” Tierney says, the emerald glimmer of her face cast blue in the glistening light of the dress. She grins widely at me. “Fallon’s head is definitely going to explode. And frankly, Elloren, so will Lukas’s.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WILDS
The icy air of full winter hits me like a punch to the teeth.
I emerge from the North Tower into the twilight of the sloping field, a pale, rusty sunset giving way to a barren gray sky.
My breath clouds the frigid air, and I pull my dark cloak tight, the hood protecting the hair that Tierney carefully styled for me. Even Ariel paused to gape when I emerged from our North Tower washroom garbed in the splendid Ironflower gown. Marina simply blinked at me, as if mesmerized by the phosphorescent glow of the dress. Only Wynter seemed uneasy, her silver eyes instantly lighting on the Snow Oak pend
ant around my neck, her gaze full of ominous caution.
I pick my way down the jagged, rocky path, ice crunching beneath my feet. My cloak covers most of my dress, but the skirt’s iridescent hem peeks out slightly, washing the surrounding snow in a glowing, sapphire halo. The effect is lovely, but my shoulders are tense beneath the formfitting silk, and I feel jittery with apprehension, reluctant to reenter the Gardnerian fold.
Halted by the weighty silence of the immense field before me, I pause and look toward the twinking lights of the University in the distance. My gaze is drawn past the city and up the snowcapped Southern Spine, the immense mountain range looming over everything alongside its northern twin. Both Spines scythe clear through the clouds, their jagged peaks as sharp as my deepening foreboding.
So impossibly high...
A sense of dark premonition washes over me. They have the look of a trap, these mountains. Ready to close in. Just like the Gardnerians.
Black Witch.
The words whisper on the wind, light as snow.
I glance around uneasily. A creeping awareness of the wilds around me sets the hairs on my neck prickling. The tangled forest is close, not more than several feet away.
I can feel it watching me.
I peer into its gnarled darkness and find nothing but winter’s emptiness and shadows. Unsettled, I glance back toward the University.
Black Witch.
I stiffen as my heart picks up speed.
“Who’s there?” My voice is shrill as my eyes frantically search the shadows of the wilds’ border.
There’s no reply. Only the dry scratch of some tenacious brown leaves still hanging on to the branches for dear life.
A leaf breaks free on a gust of icy wind and shoots toward me. I give a small cry as it smacks into my face and is quickly followed by several more that graze my cheek, my chin, just below my eye. I bat the leaves away like biting insects as the wind dies down.
Silence.
I look toward the snow-covered ground. A scattering of brown leaves lies piled around my feet, but the rest of the snowy ground is untouched. Alarmed, I stare deep into the forest as palpable tendrils of malice creep toward me.
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