Dark Light of Day

by Jill Archer

  “You’re going to be a… Maegester?” Ivy asked, clearly horrified.

  The three of us stared at each other for another minute or so without speaking and then I blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

  Fitz still looked confused. “For what?” he said.

  “For not telling you the truth in the first place.”

  Ivy nodded, looking miserable.

  “Look, I just… well… I just wouldn’t want you to think I’d burn the place down or something.” I was trying to make a joke, but the problem was, with my lack of control, there was an outside chance I might.

  “Wow. You really could, huh?” Fitz asked, looking at me, really seeing me—me—for the first time. It was weird, but not as bad as I thought. I could tell he viewed me with a mixture of awe and morbid curiosity. “What else can you do? How powerful are you? Who else knows? I guess everyone will by tomorrow.” Fitz didn’t even wait for me to answer his questions. He just kept asking them and answering every third one himself. Ivy just sat there, still looking hurt and upset.

  “Fitz!” I finally said, stopping his verbal hemorrhage.

  “Oh,” he said, ceasing. He seemed to realize that Ivy had been oddly quiet.

  “So I guess this means you’ll be moving out,” she said.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Ivy asked.

  “I’ve never told anyone,” I said. “My family doesn’t even talk about it. I was raised as a Hyrke. I’ve learned to live life as a Hyrke. But I realized tonight I couldn’t keep living that way.”

  “Because of the demons,” Ivy whispered. “Were you really going to lie to them?”

  I shrugged. “What does it matter now what I was or wasn’t going to do? I declared by the deadline. I’ve broken no rules. I doubt I’ll ever be some kind of Maegester wunderkind, but at least I’m here, walking, talking—breathing.” I knew I was trying to convince myself more than them but they seemed to appreciate what I was saying. In some small way, it made me feel better. Fitz was even nodding. But then his eyes narrowed.

  “Are you still going to be in the study group?” he asked.

  I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face.

  “Oh, I guess not,” he said. His face fell.

  “No, I am!” I said. “I mean, I’d like to, if you still want me to be.”

  “Well, sure,” said Fitz, in a tone that suggested everything about this discussion was obvious. “How else am I going to pass Sin and Sanction? But you’re on your own for Manipulation.” Fitz and Ivy shared a look of horror.

  “Ivy, I can move to the Maegester floor at Infernus if you want me to,” I said. “But… I’d rather stay here.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding emphatically.

  Fitz left soon after and Ivy and I fell gratefully into bed. This had been the longest day of my life. Just before I dozed off, Ivy’s voice came from the darkness.

  “It must have been hard for you, growing up. Not being able to talk about your magic or let anyone know you had it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’m sure others had it worse.

  “Still, maybe your parents had their reasons. Maybe they just wanted to shield you from what was to come for as long as they could. Keep your childhood as normal as possible.”

  A cold, tight feeling burned like ice inside me. I’d never thought of it that way. But then, who knew what my parents thought or why they did what they did? My childhood had been anything but normal.

  But Ivy continued, oblivious to my conflicted thoughts.

  “You have a good heart, Noon. Fitz thinks so too. No matter what happens, don’t let the demons and what you’ll be expected to do for them or to them ever take that away from you.”

  The Host never said prayers. But if we did, I’d have said Amen to that.

  I woke up before sunrise the next morning. There was something I had to do before my declaration was made public—tell Peter. After all the years of plotting a way to reverse my waning magic, he deserved to hear from me that I’d finally gone and declared that I possessed it and would now start learning how to use it. But when I showed up at the Joshua School, he was already gone.

  “Where did he go?” I asked the boyish-faced man from last night. Was the man ensorcelled? If he didn’t age, maybe he didn’t sleep either.

  “Etincelle.”

  So I was too late. News of my declaration would spread to Etincelle by lunchtime. Peter would hear it from someone else after all.

  “Wait,” said the man, turning back to the wall of cubbies behind him. “He left something for you.” He pulled out a crisp white envelope, similar to the one I’d received from Night, and handed it to me. I stepped outside and read it while walking to class.

  Noon—

  I know what you did. I wish you would have waited. If you were an Angel, I would tell you to have faith. Instead, I shall keep it for both of us. I’ve taken a leave of absence from my studies at Joshua School to continue my search for the spell in Etincelle. You’ll be the first to know of any progress. Don’t get too carried away with following the road you’ve been forced to travel. The farther you go, the harder it will be for me to help you find your way back.

  Peter

  I crumpled up the letter and threw it in the nearest trash can. Readjusting my hood and backpack, I clutched my cloak at the collar, crossed Angel Street and Timothy’s Square and entered Rickard for my first class of the day, Sin and Sanction with Copeland.

  Walking into the classroom was about what I expected it would be like. I lowered my hood and all of the preclass hum—much of it about last night’s demon attack—stopped. All eyes turned toward me. People’s faces showed all sorts of different emotions. Some students were openly gawking, like they were looking at something from a street fair or sideshow. Some people wore an expression of frank assessment, obviously recalculating their academic chances against me now that the new information about my declaration was in. A few looked as if they’d been sucker punched. Those wore a green-around-the-gills expression that suggested my doubling the odds for a chance demon encounter didn’t sit well with them. Ari smiled at me, but smartly withheld any sign of smugness.

  Ivy and Fitz had thankfully saved me a seat between them. I sat down and some of the buzz returned to the room. I couldn’t help thinking most of it was probably about me. When I sat down, Ivy slid a cup of coffee my way. The gesture reminded me uncomfortably of something a Hyrke servant might do for a Host employer until I remembered it was her turn to buy today and that I’d be buying tomorrow. She was proceeding with business as usual. Maybe everyone else would too. I grabbed my books out of my backpack just as Copeland entered the room.

  As law professors went, Ben Copeland was young. He was probably in his late thirties. Physically, he was nothing remarkable. Intellectually, however, he was a powerhouse. He taught class primarily by asking questions, not answering them. He used one case as a jumping-off point from which to start a freewheeling discussion on whatever set of sins we were discussing that day. Usually, he would pick one student and torture them for the entire class. If they couldn’t formulate answers to his increasingly hypothetical questions he would pounce on their nearest neighbors. But he would always return to his original victim, gnawing at them, worrying them, until they were little more than a pile of shaking bones and scrambled brains by the end of class.

  Last night’s cases had all involved theft and varying forms of theft like conversion. I’d read most of them but, due to my own late night sin of breaking and entering Warenne Building to declare, I hadn’t had time to prepare as fully as I would have liked. I took a fortifying sip of coffee, flipped open my notebook, and uncapped my pen. I nearly choked when Copeland barked out my name.

  “Ms. Onyx, please state the case of Creswell v. Henn.”

  Stating the case meant tell the class who the parties were, what the sin was, and whether the accused was eventually found
guilty or innocent. Sometimes it was helpful to state other useful information such as whether either of the parties was a demon, Host, or Hyrke (Hyrke mercy pleas were granted more often than others) and what the consequence of a guilty verdict was. In modern day Halja, consequences were given for some sins as a means of deterrence, not punishment. But for certain egregious sins, the demons still demanded retribution in the form of suffering. I imagine these consequences were a bloodletting of sorts, a release valve for all the pent up evil in Halja. In any case, knowing the consequence of a particular sin gave you an indication of how serious the demons believed the sin to be.

  The case I’d been asked to state was fairly straightforward, although I’d only had time to read through it once. Around the turn of the century, somewhere on the outskirts of New Babylon, a farmer named Henn had leased some land from a man named Creswell. Included in the lease were a house, grounds, meadow, woods, and a cleared area for planting crops. The lease was vague as to how much authority Henn had to implement changes around the farm.

  “Creswell was a landlord who leased land to Henn for farming,” I said. “Henn farmed the land successfully for eighteen years but then sinned and was evicted, just prior to winter, and denied his share of the crop.”

  “Henn’s sin?” Copeland prodded from the front.

  I had to think for a moment, but then I remembered.

  “Waste.” It was some obscure sin related to theft.

  Copeland looked expectant and then made an impatient gesture with his hand. “And… what is waste?” he asked, enunciating each word to underscore how slow he thought my responses were.

  “Waste occurs when one destroys, neglects, spoils, or otherwise wastes the asset one has been entrusted with. Waste can be either voluntary or permissive. Voluntary waste is similar to theft in that it requires an act. Permissive waste can occur simply by not acting—by not taking care of the asset to which one was entrusted. In the Creswell case, Henn’s act of waste was voluntary. The farmer cleared an additional six acres of woods to experiment with a new crop.”

  Copeland nodded. “And was he found guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the experimental crop a failure?”

  “The casebook doesn’t say.”

  “What if the crop had been successful? Do you think the landlord would still have evicted him?”

  “It’s impossible to say,” I said, wondering where Copeland was going with this line of questioning. “Was the landlord an entrepreneur or an arborist? Did Creswell prefer money to trees?”

  “Does any of that matter?”

  Well, sure it did, to rational people. But we lived in Halja and were ruled by demons obsessed with rules, not reasons.

  “No,” I said. “Henn committed waste when he cleared the additional acres absent Creswell’s permission. The failure—or success—of Henn’s crop experiment is irrelevant. Henn didn’t have the authority to decide how to best use the land he was entrusted with.”

  Copeland made a noise, something between noncommittal and murmuring assent. He stared at the ceiling for a moment and I knew the next question would not be about Creswell v. Henn. Most students made it to this point without getting too thoroughly trounced. But when Copeland started hypothesizing, only the most erudite students kept up.

  “What if, instead of a farmer, the accused had been a musician?” Copeland said, “A virtuoso. What if, at an early age, this musician is given to the family’s hearth demon to be trained as a master pianist?”

  I was listening, and following with an academic ear, but part of my brain was sounding an alarm. I had a sinking feeling about where Copeland was going with his waste hypothesis and why he had called on me today.

  “What if,” Copeland continued, “the musician doesn’t want to make music? What if he prefers to paint landscapes?”

  I remained mute, despite the direct question. I didn’t want to go where Copeland was leading me. Of course, by not answering I left my friends open to attack.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald,” Copeland said, abruptly turning to Fitz. “What if the musician refused to play music?”

  Fitz was lost. He shuffled through his notes, seeking inspiration, but finding none. Finally, he asked weakly, “Does the hearth demon like art as much as music?”

  Copeland brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “Ms. Jaynes?” he asked, addressing Ivy, who snapped to attention. She cleared her throat.

  “What if the musician changes his mind?” she said. “And agrees to go back to playing the piano?”

  Copeland frowned. Apparently having the tables turned on him, with students providing more questions than answers, didn’t suit him. He pounced on me again.

  “What if, Ms. Onyx, instead of bestowing the gift of a virtuoso, the boy’s parents hid him from the demons? Would that be waste?”

  It was classic Copeland. He had boxed me into a corner. Damned if I answered, damned if I didn’t…

  “What if by the time the boy was found and trained it was too late? What if the years of neglected training had reduced his talent to shreds and tatters? Would that be waste?”

  I swallowed. I was going to have to say something. Copeland wouldn’t stop asking questions until I did. But while I was dithering about whether my sense of self-preservation was more important than my sense of academic competition, Copeland got to the point.

  “What if the boy was no virtuoso, but a future Maegester? What if the boy—or girl—was hidden from the demons for so long that her waning magic had atrophied by the time she declared? Would that be waste?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Ari’s hand shot up. Copeland looked amused. “Yes, Mr. Carmine?”

  “It wouldn’t be the student’s sin, it would be her parents’,” Ari said, turning to look at me briefly before directing his gaze to the rest of the section. I realized what Ari was about to say was as much for them as for Copeland. “And no sin will have been committed if the value of the lost asset can be restored within a reasonable time.” He turned back toward Copeland.

  “The farmer’s problem was that he didn’t have access to a Mederi to regrow the woods. And the musician’s problem was that he refused to accept the talent that Luck had given him. But Maegesters are far more valuable assets to Halja than dirt diggers or entertainers. No Maegester will be accused of waste if she can prove herself, regardless of any act—or omission—that occurred prior to her declaration.”

  Copeland narrowed his eyes, apparently mulling over what Ari had said, and then he looked at me. “Ms. Onyx?”

  “The doctrine of reasonable restoration can be invoked for the sin of waste,” I said slowly, gathering my thoughts. “But reasonable is defined by the person against whom the waste was committed. For the farmer, the landlord would judge whether Mederi-born new wood was comparable to virgin forest. For the musician, the familial demon would determine when artistic license becomes sinful rebellion.

  “For the future Maegester,” I added, forcing my voice to stay clear and strong, “the Demon Council will judge her fate.”

  Copeland pursed his lips together and nodded.

  “You have a clear grasp of Sin and Sanction, Ms. Onyx. Let us hope that you do as well in your Manipulation class.”

  He moved on to someone else and I felt the sweat trickle down between my breasts. I’d heard Copeland’s message on levels both academic and personal because that’s how he’d meant it. Just because I’d declared, didn’t mean I was out of danger.

  After class, I headed to Corpus Justica. It was Friday and the only other class we had was A&A in the afternoon. Since I was dropping it, there was no point in going. On Monday, I would start Manipulation with the other Maegesters-in-Training. I was dreading that almost as much as I had dreaded declaring. It was bound to be awful. The only other waning magic users I’d ever had any interaction with were my father (hardly ever saw him), Sasha (couldn’t stand), and Ari (completely conflicted about). And then there was the class itself. Manipul
ation was supposed to teach Maegesters how to control demons. I could barely control my own magic.

  The somber mood of Corpus Justica suited me just fine. The hush and stillness, the solemnity, the sheer gravity and immenseness of the place fell around me as thickly as my winter cloak. Walking through the stacks of the library made me feel insignificant. It calmed me. Insignificant people could not make significant mistakes.

  I chose an empty study carrel as far away from the main entrance as I could get. No one was around so I wasn’t very quiet taking my books out of my bag. Two thumps later there were five collective inches of leather-bound material for me to cozy up with. I draped my cloak over one side of the carrel, sat down, and flipped open my books. We had Oathbreaking on Monday, right after Sin and Sanction. I was determined to master remedies over the weekend. Twenty minutes later I was deep into monetary damages versus specific performance when I felt Ari approach. I say felt because it was impossible to mistake that burning, blistery feeling he gave off now that I was free of Peter’s cloaking spell. I turned around.

  Ari was standing a few feet from me, staring.

  “I can feel you,” he blurted out.

  I frowned. So? I could feel him too. It was no secret that those with waning magic could sense one another’s presence.

  “It’s different now,” he said. “It’s more acute.”

  He seemed to be having trouble talking. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. If I didn’t know his confidence was as high as the heavens that once were, I would have said that he was nervous. I suspected he felt awkward, just like I did.

  “Peter cast a cloaking spell over you before you came here, right?”

  I hesitated, than nodded. Any evidence of it was long gone. Mention of Peter’s name made me think of the scene in the alley from last night. I felt my cheeks flush. Ari grabbed a chair and pulled it over next to mine.

  Why was he sitting down?

  Once, we might have been friends—maybe, if things had gone differently. He’d been so easy to talk to on the crossing. But that was before. Before, when we were pretending to be Hyrkes, before the lie of St. Luck’s, the Sasha betrayal, and the threat of forced declaration. Before the scene in the alley last night, when Peter voiced all of my most private fears and darkest insecurities right there in front of Ari. It was like having your clothes ripped off in front of the hottest guy at school. And then having him see that you have this hideous birthmark you’ve been trying to hide. One he knew about but had never really seen. I knew I should learn to love the birthmark, but it was hard when it marked me as a destroyer of men—and women and children, gardens and greens.