A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  Nubba’s worshipful gaze was embarrassing. Surely the ability to adjust time could not be as rare as she claimed. If that were the case, why would the student manual take such pains to warn against it?

  “Unless you can change the time again, we have to go to the convocation.” Nubba pointed hopefully at Tria’s clock.

  Tria rubbed her aching temples. “I don’t dare do it again. As it is, Headmistress said I’d have to pay back that hour someday.” She headed for the door.

  Nubba dogged her footsteps. “Are you walking over with friends?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to get to know anyone yet.”

  Nubba beamed. “Then you can go with me. We’d better hurry. We get extra work details if we’re late.”

  They entered the flow of students passing in groups of twos, threes, and fours through the halls and down the stairs. One or two nodded at Tria and Nubba as they approached, but none joined them.

  “I think they’re all a little afraid of you,” Nubba whispered.

  “Afraid of me?” The idea was ludicrous. Tria did not consider herself powerful, despite Nubba’s enthused adulation. “I told you what happened—that time changing thing—was an accident. I probably couldn’t do it again if I tried, which I won’t.”

  “Still, it shows you have a lot more power than most of us,” Nubba insisted.

  Tria could think of nothing to say. They walked in silence through a long corridor and out a door opening onto a quadrangle bounded on their right by a stone wall, on their left by a long, narrow two-story building that Nubba identified as the faculty residence hall, and on the far side by a one-story building that was clearly the assembly hall. These buildings, not visible from the road, were of the same faded yellow brick as the main building and were in the same state of disrepair. Flagstone walkways crisscrossed the courtyard, and water sprayed from a fountain in its center. Scraggly rosebushes and flower beds in need of weeding filled the spaces between the walkways, making it necessary to follow a zigzag path instead of crossing directly to the assembly hall, which boasted seven marble steps rising to a wide front entrance. The white marble could have used a good scrubbing.

  Here the students converged to pour up the steps and into the building.

  As a tall blond boy passed them, he called out, “Hey, Nubba, you bring the Shalreg back with you?”

  Nearby students snickered. Nubba’s face turned fiery red, warning Tria not to ask what he meant.

  “Kress Klemmer thinks he’s so smart!” Nubba muttered. Grabbing Tria’s elbow, she held her back until the boy was well past them. They were among the last students to climb the steps and enter the hall.

  The auditorium had been built for a much larger student body. The two side sections had been roped off, forcing the students to occupy the center, and plenty of empty seats remained in it. Tria counted only thirty-four students after all had found places and the rear doors were shut. No one else sat in the row she and Nubba selected.

  Six faculty members sat on metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle behind the lectern on the stage— three men and three women, besides the Headmistress. The Headmistress opened the program by droning a long invocation to the Power-Giver. Tria nearly fell asleep before it ended.

  Introductions followed. Headmistress identified each faculty member, beginning at the end of the semicircle to her right with the doddering whitebeard who had presided over breakfast—Master Tumberlis, Professor of the History and Philosophy of Metaphysics. Next in line a pinch-faced, thin-lipped woman well past her prime was introduced as Mistress Dova. Third, a much younger woman, a pale wraith with long white hair that hung round her like a shroud, was presented only as Aletheia. Tria thought she looked lost in another dimension. Odd that she was not accorded the title of Mistress.

  Next came Master Hawke, Professor of Alchemy, the Mandala, and the Healing Arts. Shoulders broad but stooped, he leaned on an intricately carved cane.

  Master San Marté was a foppish little man, with a waxed mustache and a toupee a shade or two darker than his fringe of graying hair. Hearing that his specialty was ethics, Tria groaned, sure that Headmistress would assign her to all the ethics classes the school offered.

  Last was Mistress Blake, a pretty woman whose youth and ready smile seemed out of place among her colleagues. Scarcely more than a girl, she could have gone unnoticed among the students. Tria was surprised to hear her called the Gifting Mistress and presented as an expert in the development of all supernormal gifts.

  Following the introductions, each instructor came forward and made a welcoming speech consisting mostly of boring repetitions of Headmistress’s opening remarks. Tria let her mind wander. She glanced at the other students, found many of them gazing around as she was. One student nudged another and pointed a finger at a third who’d fallen fast asleep. A sour-faced young woman was cleaning her fingernails with the point of a wicked-looking dagger.

  “Taner better be careful,” Nubba whispered, having evidently followed Tria’s gaze. “She’ll get in trouble if she’s caught with that out. She’s supposed to keep it sheathed.”

  A girl slipped a note to a friend. A young man stared fixedly at the ceiling as if studying the pattern of the acoustical tiles. Next to him a tall, fair-haired youth fidgeted, turned, and met Tria’s eyes. Before she could look away, he grinned and winked. Her face flamed, and she was relieved when he returned his attention to the speaker.

  “That’s Wilce Riverman,” Nubba informed her in a loud whisper. “He’s a second-year student, one of the nicest. He’s a peace-bringer and a truth-reader.”

  Apparently Nubba missed nothing that went on. At least through her Tria was becoming acquainted with her fellow students. This Wilce would be a good person to get to know. Though Tria was painfully shy around boys, she could find out from Wilce about the school’s validity. A truth reader couldn’t be taken in by fraudulent claims, not ones made in direct conversation. He could have been fooled as she had been by the deceptive brochure, but if the school was no more than a swindle, he would certainly not have come back for a second year. If he really was what Nubba claimed, his presence offered hope.

  The professorial greetings ended and Headmistress spoke again, issuing a challenge to the students to apply themselves and strive for excellence. Tria tuned out the harangue and sent her thoughts homeward, imagining her parents going about their daily chores; her mother taking on the additional tasks of feeding the chickens, milking the cows, and slopping the pigs, all things Tria had done; her father and the Cromley boys harvesting wheat and gathering it into the storage barns.

  Her mother would miss her. Her father might miss her help, but she was certain he’d never admit that a daughter of his had gone to a school for the magically gifted. She imagined him explaining her absence. “Tria’s gone to apprentice herself to a dress designer in Tirbat,” he’d tell a nosy neighbor. Or perhaps he’d boast to a friend, “Our Tria’s gone to the west coast to wed a wealthy widower in Port-of-Lords.”

  She began again to picture his disgust if she returned home, when the convocation ended. Headmistress and her staff filed out, and the student body rose and followed.

  In the courtyard, a long table had been set up, and Mistress Dova, Master Hawke, and Mistress Blake sat behind it distributing the schedules for the new term. Tria would have liked to claim hers from Mistress Blake, but they were distributed alphabetically, with Master Hawke handling Tria’s portion.

  “Tesserell,” he repeated when she gave him her name. “Ah, yes.” With that enigmatic if meaningless comment, he pulled a folded paper from a metal file box, handed it to her, and turned to the next student.

  Tria unfolded the paper and glanced at the top where her name was neatly printed: Tesserell, Tria Fay. Next to the name, in the blank following Level, was printed the word “One.”

  So she was no longer considered below first level?

  As she stared at that apparent advancement, Nubba came up and leaned on her shoulder. “W
hose classes are you in?” She peered at the schedule.

  Tria shared the paper with her, saying apologetically, “Headmistress told me I’d only be allowed to learn theory, so that’s what all my courses seem to be.”

  “She’s just trying to scare you,” Nubba said with a chuckle. “All first-year students just learn theory and history and stuff. It isn’t until second year that you start getting practical courses. And even most third-years don’t have all practice.”

  Nubba pointed to the schedule. “See, your first class is Metaphysical Theory. I’m in that too, so we’ll suffer together. Master Tumberlis is so old his bones rattle.” She scanned the rest of the schedule. “Oh, you poor thing! You have Elementary Logic with Old Tumbles, too. He’ll bore you to death. Ugh! Beginning Ethics with Master San Marté won’t be any better. Well, at least you have Survey of Ancient Rites with Mistress Dova. She’s tough but interesting. Three morning classes and one in late afternoon. Too bad. Doesn’t leave a long-enough stretch of free time to go into Millville or anything. Well, better luck next term.”

  Nubba’s pessimistic assessment depressed Tria. She had to force herself to summon the courtesy to ask Nubba about her schedule. Nubba seemed pleased with it, but Tria didn’t bother to listen or remember more of it than the single class they would, as Nubba said, suffer through together.

  “Speaking of suffering, Nubba, please excuse me, won’t you? I have a headache and need to lie down.”

  “But it’s almost lunchtime,” Nubba objected, following Tria toward the building.

  “I know.” Tria walked faster. “I’ll only have a few minutes to rest after I take a headache powder. That’s why I have to hurry.”

  Clutching her schedule, she broke away from Nubba and dashed into the building and up the stairs. Not daring to look behind to see if Nubba was following, she rushed to her room and stepped inside … and stopped, halted by an array of suitcases, a leaning stack of hatboxes, a large trunk, and several crates, piled on every available inch of floor space, on both desks, on Tria’s trunk, and on her neatly made bed.

  The only free space in the room was the second bed, newly adorned with a green silk coverlet and several splendidly embroidered throw pillows. Seated cross-legged on that bed was a beautiful girl, her black hair cut short in a stylish bob, her catlike green eyes gazing at Tria from beneath long, curling lashes.

  “I gather you’re my roommate,” the girl said in the tone one might use to comment on the presence of a cockroach.

  “I’m Tria Tesserell.” Tria tried to be polite. “You must be Lina Mueller.”

  “My fame precedes me.” Her voice became a saccharine purr.

  “The maid told me your name,” Tria snapped, losing patience. “And what are you planning to do with all this stuff?” She flung out a hand, striking and toppling the stack of hatboxes.

  “Careful of those.” Lina pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the fallen boxes. Slowly they righted themselves and floated upward to reform the tall stack.

  Tria snorted. “Look, I could do that, too. But we’re forbidden to use our power without permission and without supervision.”

  “Oh, are we?” Lina arched beautifully shaped eyebrows. “And who is to know what we do in the privacy of our own room? Unless we have a tale-bearer.”

  “I’m no tattler, but I would like to get to my bed and sit down on it.” Tria glared at the girl.

  “You’ll be able to do that soon. The maid promised to help me find room for all this later this afternoon.”

  “Do you expect her to work a miracle? You can see there’s no possible place to put all this. Let’s move it out into the hall until you can send most of it back home.” Tria stooped to pick up a heavy crate.

  A snarl stopped her. She looked up. A sleek black panther stood on the bed, its tail twitching, its lips pulled back to expose its fangs. Tria screamed.

  The panther hissed and settled back on its haunches.

  The door popped open, and Tria looked around to see Nubba stick her head in, panting for breath. “What’s wrong, Tria?”

  Tria jerked her head toward the bed.

  It held only Lina, who said with a demure smile, “My roommate was startled by a little spider that climbed out from between the boxes.”

  Tria repressed the denial that rose to her tongue. “It’s nothing, Nubba. Thanks for checking, but there’s no problem.”

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to enter without knocking?” Lina added coldly.

  “I—I’m sorry. I hope your headache is better, Tria.” Nubba backed from the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Did you have to be unkind to her?” Tria asked sharply.

  “She needed to be put in her place. Nosy pig.”

  The loud ring of the lunch bell cut off Tria’s angry retort. She reached for the door handle. “We have to go to lunch.” Eyeing the barrier of luggage and crates, she added maliciously, “If you can get to the door.”

  A panther leaped from the silk-covered bed to the top of the trunk, vaulted effortlessly over the stack of hatboxes, and landed in the space Tria vacated by jerking the door open and jumping outside.

  Laughing, Lina stepped into the hall beside her.

  Tria looked to see whether anyone was near enough to hear, and assuring herself that no one was, she said in a furious whisper, “Shape-changing is strictly forbidden. You’d better read the rule book.”

  Lina laughed again. “I make my own rules,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LINA

  Lina claimed an empty table near the door and occupied it with a queenly air. Tria spotted Nubba near the front and hurried to the last place at that table, preferring Nubba’s company to Lina’s. She slipped into the chair beside Nubba and nodded at the other three girls at the table.

  With an air of self-importance, Nubba performed introductions. “This is my roommate, Irel Lane. Like you, she’s a first-year student.”

  Irel, thin and pale with a haunted face and downcast eyes, acknowledged the introduction in a soft murmur spoken to her plate.

  “Sometimes Headmistress assigns a second-year student to room with a first-year to act as a mentor,” Nubba said. “She thought Irel needed special help.”

  That explanation had to have been embarrassing to Irel, but the girl said nothing and kept her gaze averted.

  A plain girl with strikingly beautiful eyes—deep, wide-set, and of an unusual turquoise hue—said, “I’m Rehanne Zalos. I’m a first-year student, too. I’m sure all of us first-year students are finding a lot to adjust to. I know we all appreciate the help of second-years like Nubba and Verin.”

  Tria decided she liked Rehanne and resolved to get to know her better.

  Nubba plowed on, apparently oblivious to the discomfort she must have caused Irel as well as to Rehanne’s haste to ease that discomfort. Indicating the remaining girl, she said, “This is Verin Savrile, a healer.”

  “Welcome to Simonton School,” Verin said. Her dark skin, dark eyes, and long, dark braids complemented her serious manner.

  Tria acknowledged the introductions, delighted that her table companions neither acted awed by her as Nubba had been nor contemptuous of her as some seemed to be. They accepted her. Tria looked forward to getting better acquainted. She was sorry that Nubba had only identified Verin’s talent and not that of the others. Although curious about what talents other students might possess, Tria thought it impolite to ask.

  Mistress Dova, who sat alone at the head table, asked the Power-Giver’s blessing on the food. It occurred to Tria that all prayers she had heard here had been addressed to the Power-Giver, and she had not seen altars to any gods, not even to Liadra, Patroness of Castlemount Province. In her home her father had maintained an altar to Harin, Patron of Inland Province, and the family had held a brief worship service there daily at her father’s insistence. The ritual had meant little to Tria, and she was relieved that the school required no such custom.

  The lunch Veronica
set before her was a single dry fish cake on a mound of sticky rice garnished with a sprig of wilted watercress. Tria shuddered but picked up her fork.

  “Look at that little minx!” Nubba’s exclamation drew her tablemates’ attention from their food.

  A glance over her shoulder confirmed Tria’s guess. Nubba was pointing at Lina. All Lina’s table companions were male, and every one of them stared at her as though no one else were present.

  One stirred his food with his fork but never lifted a bite to his mouth. Another pushed his plate away, rested his elbows on the table, chin on his hands, and gazed at Lina in total disregard for good manners. Oryon, in his usual black, chatted and gestured, vying for her attention with the tall, blond youth seated opposite him. Tria recognized that one as the one who had taunted Nubba earlier. What had Nubba called him? Kress, if she remembered correctly.

  Lina smiled and teased, bestowing her favors on all four, though without neglecting her lunch. She ate with great enthusiasm. Like a hungry cat, Tria thought. It’s a wonder she hasn’t complained about the terrible food.

  Verin frowned. “I’m not surprised at Fenton. He chases all the girls. And I hardly know Jerrol. But I’ve never seen Oryon with any girl but Taner, and as for Kress, I thought he had more sense.”

  “So did Kathyn. See how she’s glaring at him?” Rehanne pointed to a pretty blonde at a nearby table.

  “Kathyn is Kress’s twin,” Nubba said, thus explaining the girl’s resemblance to Oryon’s blond rival.

  Tria didn’t care. She wished the others would forget about Lina and her entourage. It was hard enough knowing she was somehow going to have to endure rooming with the catgirl. But Nubba, Verin, and Rehanne refused to talk of anything else. Only Irel seemed uninterested, and Tria’s efforts to engage her in conversation were useless. Irel replied with whispered monosyllables and kept her eyes lowered. Her hands shook as though she suffered from a mild palsy. Tria gave up trying to talk to her and concentrated on choking down the unappetizing meal.

  At the conclusion of the lunch hour, Mistress Dova announced that the duty rosters for the week were posted on the corkboard by the dining-hall door and told everyone to check them before leaving.