A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  She forced her rebellious thoughts back to the business at hand. Rehanne stopped chanting, picked up the earring, and nodded at Lina and Tria. She dipped the ruby earring into the water, touched it to Tria’s forehead, then to Lina’s and to her own. Next she dipped the mistletoe into the water and sprinkled it over the runes drawn in the sand as she resumed the chant.

  “Pezon Garal, Chitálcat,

  Sa-kitok, Chucoomakwic,

  Pes Al U-cu Mucamob

  Pes Al Shpayalol Agab.”

  When she finished speaking, she picked up the bowl and held it briefly over the candle, then set it down. At her signal Tria and Lina leaned forward together with Rehanne, and they all breathed softly onto the water, stirring it so that faint ripples played across the surface.

  While Tria and Lina sat quietly, staring into the bowl, Rehanne resumed the chant.

  Her gaze fixed on the water, Tria felt herself caught up in the rhythm of the chant. The room receded, leaving her suspended in emptiness, a silver haze around her, the chant sustaining her, sweeping her with it like a sail on a raft.

  “Hoos Kamé, Shroocané, Shibaltá.”

  Shadows formed around her. She floated through them before they could resolve into distinct shapes. Dimly aware at first of Lina and Rehanne beside her, she lost the sense of their presence when she passed through a zone of intense cold. Although she endured the cold only a few seconds before being carried beyond it, it left her shivering, feeling she had crossed the barrier between life and death.

  She no longer heard Rehanne’s voice; an utter, frightful silence surrounded her. She felt stranded outside time and space in a state of nonbeing where nothing was, yet everything was possible. The tension of utter potentiality stretched her, expanded her like a fragile bubble.

  The bubble burst. Walls, carpet, furniture, sound, smells all winked into being around her.

  She stood in a small, comfortable sitting room. No light was turned on, yet she could see, as clearly as though it were day, the blue and violet flowered davenport along one wall, a low davenport table of brown mahogany in front of it, the dusky rose wing rocker by the bookcase, the brass floor lamp beside it. It was a pleasant, homey room, smelling of flowers and furniture polish and old books. The faint strains of violin music came from another apartment.

  Tria pulled a book from the bookcase and glanced at the flyleaf. Mistress Dova’s signature erased any doubt that she had reached her destination. Tria scanned the titles of the books on the shelves but did not linger. Mistress Dova would keep the Breyadon in a special place, not with her other books.

  Tria soon satisfied herself that the treasured volume was not in the sitting room. A short hall gave access to a study and a bedroom. Tria guessed she would find the Breyadon in the study.

  Bookshelves lined one wall. The neat arrangement of books within it made it easy for Tria to confirm that it held many scholarly tomes but no volume of magic. A rolltop desk offered a more likely repository. It was closed and locked, but Tria found that no hindrance. Although she seemed to have a physical form, walls and other barriers did not restrict her body. Her hands could reach through the locked desktop; her vision easily passed through it to focus on the objects and papers within. To her normal vision the interior of the desk would have been pitch black, but Tria’s spirit vision seemed to carry its own illumination. She discovered how to send her gaze into books and stacked papers so slowly that she could read a single page at a time, exposing Mistress Dova’s fine, precise handwriting in the ledger of her personal finances, the meticulously kept journal covering the current year, and a stack of letters neatly tied with a yellow ribbon. Tria resisted the temptation to read these items. She would not pry into Mistress Dova’s personal life; she was not here for that purpose and would violate the instructor’s privacy no more than she must to find the object of her search.

  It was not in the desk. Nor was it in the small file filled with student papers. Tria had guessed wrong about the study; she moved on to the bedroom.

  The book was not on the floor under the bed, hidden by the hand-embroidered coverlet. Nor was it in the chest of drawers or the dressing table. She turned to the chifforobe, lined with fresh-scented cedar, where clothes not taken for the journey hung in orderly fashion. A shelf above them held hats; pairs of shoes lined a rack below.

  A force like a strong magnet tugged at Tria. The room began to fade around her. She was being drawn back to her physical body. And she had not found the book.

  “No!” she exclaimed. Resisting the pull, she jumped onto the bed, stood on tiptoe, and peered over the ornamental rim around the top of the chifforobe, an inch or so below the ceiling. In that hidden refuge Tria saw the familiar flat wooden box. Straining to remain in the room, she looked into the book. It was much thicker than she’d remembered. It seemed impossible to locate in the hundreds of pages of undecipherable script the verse she wanted. In her despair, the book, the chifforobe, the walls dimmed and swam away.

  She fought the tidal pull and concentrated on the book, speaking aloud its title: “Breyadon.” It surged back into focus. She plunged into it, frantically scanning the first page, the second, the next, easing her spirit vision page by page through the mystical tome, searching for the remembered words.

  She stopped, stared at the line. “Bororave Anthrillosor.” And the next line: “Laysa Grilden Madramor.” She had it! She reread those lines to be sure, moved on to the third: “Vernee Shushar Okravor.”

  “Ah-ha!”

  The triumphant shout halted her reading. The words blurred, disappeared. Oryon’s face floated in the void above the book.

  “What treasure have you led me to? How accommodating of you!” Hands appeared out of the blackness, grasped the Breyadon, and lifted it from its box. Book, hands, face vanished, but Oryon’s mocking laughter swirled around her. Tria stared at the empty box.

  That damning sight remained imprinted on her vision when she sank into her body, felt its heaviness, the hard floor beneath her, the stiffness in her legs. The smell of melting wax tickled her nostrils; the guttering candle cast lurching shadows over the horror-stricken faces of her two companions.

  “Did you see him?” Tria could barely speak.

  Rehanne nodded glumly and Lina snarled.

  “We were with you, though you couldn’t see us,” Rehanne said. “Only you could hunt for the book, but we were lending our strength to your search.”

  “And for what?” Tria asked bitterly. “I only led Oryon to the Breyadon. What will he do with it? And how will I explain to Mistress Dova? I’ve made everything worse.”

  “You found the incantation you were looking for,” Lina said. “Can’t you use it?”

  “I found it, but I never had a chance to read the last line. And if Oryon finds it and does use it … We’ve got to get the book back from him!”

  Lina stood and stretched. “The book is your problem. As far as I’m concerned, we gave your plan our best try and it failed. I intend to put my plan into operation now. You two can do what you want, but I am going after Kress.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A MESSAGE FROM WILCE

  Each day that passed without progress toward their goal seemed an age. It galled Tria to see Oryon strut around as though he owned the school. And Kress no longer displayed any misgivings but swaggered through the halls ordering other students out of his way or demanding favors. Tria saw no evidence of the progress Lina claimed to be making in her campaign to win Kress’s allegiance. In fact, she never saw Lina and Kress together, though Lina insisted that they met often.

  Tria and Rehanne spent most days in the library researching spells and rituals and reading all they could find on the learning of the ancient mages. Tria chafed at the hours wasted poring over musty volumes, pursuing tenuous leads that produced only tired eyes and short tempers.

  Those days of fruitless research seemed endless, but the three weeks between semesters were passing too quickly. Mistress Dova’s imminent return thre
w Tria into a frenzy of indecision. They had accomplished nothing toward recovering the Breyadon. She should confess what she had done to Mistress Dova. But it was likely that the Arcane Studies instructor would not immediately discover the loss. Anyway, Oryon, not she, was guilty of the theft. She did not have to accept responsibility. But she had led Oryon to the book, though by what means he had invaded Rehanne’s spell she was unable to fathom. If she kept silent, would Mistress Dova be able to trace the missing volume? And would her divinations lead her to Oryon or to Tria?

  “We have to get the book back,” Tria said repeatedly to Rehanne. But neither of them could find a way. None of the numerous spells for tracing lost articles seemed to apply to their situation. Spells for recovering stolen items emphasized identifying an unknown thief; none offered help when the thief was known but the whereabouts of the stolen item was a mystery.

  The girls did not think it likely that Oryon would keep the book in his room where his roommate, Jerrol, might find it. Although Jerrol had helped Oryon on the night of the ball, he had since made clear that he was not in Oryon’s confidence. But as the three weeks drew to a close and nothing else occurred to them, Tria and Rehanne decided to make sure Oryon did not have the Breyadon in his room.

  At the supper hour the boys’ floor would be deserted, and the wards would not yet be set. The girls checked to be sure all the boys in residence had responded to the supper bell. They passed into the corridor and located Oryon’s room. Getting into it was suspiciously easy: it was neither locked nor warded. They conducted a rapid but thorough search. The room held few hiding places. Nothing was locked; there were no mysterious packages. The dresser contained only clothes, the desks only textbooks and papers done for courses. An oak armoire held both Oryon’s and Jerrol’s clothes and shoes, nothing more. The room was innocent of all magical paraphernalia except for Oryon’s wand, which lay on his dresser. They found nothing suspicious, nothing even faintly sinister.

  Tria picked up the black wand and rolled it thoughtfully across the palm of her hand. Oryon was the only person she knew who used a wand. Was it only for effect, or did it actually enhance his power? She recalled how he had focused his power through it in their duel. She hadn’t planned to remove anything from the room except the Breyadon, had they been lucky enough to find it. But if she could weaken Oryon by taking the wand …

  She looked up, intending to ask Rehanne’s advice, but a peculiar shifting of shadows drew her gaze to the mirror hanging on the back of the closed door. Instead of her own reflection in the glass, Oryon’s face peered at her. His dark eyes bored into her, warning her off. She dropped the wand. Rehanne’s startled scream told Tria that she, too, saw the face in the mirror.

  The image faded away. The mirror reflected only Tria’s own frightened likeness, yet she stared at it until Rehanne reached past her, opened the door, and dragged her from the room, leaving the wand lying on the floor.

  The corridor was empty, and they passed through it and climbed the stairs to the third floor without meeting anyone. Not that it mattered, Tria reflected bitterly. Oryon knew what they’d done.

  “How does he do it?” Tria asked after they’d described their adventure to Lina. Rehanne had already declared herself mystified by the mirror trick.

  Lina shook her head. “That’s the wrong question. What we need to know is where he’s getting the power to do it.”

  Tria sat on her bed, legs curled to her side. She stared at Lina, startled that the catgirl had pointed out what she should have seen all along. She thought back to the duel she and Oryon had fought in this room. He’d been strong and the outcome had been close, but if he’d had then the power he possessed now, he would easily have defeated her. Somehow, between that night and the time of the Winter Ball, Oryon discovered a way to increase his power. Where had he found the knowledge or acquired the added talent? If they could learn his source …

  “Have you wheedled any information from Kress? Can you get him to tell you where Oryon got his power?”

  “I’m working on it. The thing is, he’s afraid of Oryon. Of course, he doesn’t admit it, but it’s obvious.”

  Rehanne, seated at Tria’s desk, said, “He wasn’t, before the ball.”

  “So he knows about Oryon’s source of strength, but Oryon isn’t sharing it with him.” A sense of excitement welled in Tria. “He must resent that. You’re right, Lina. We’ve got to work on Kress.”

  “I’ve said that all along,” the catgirl pointed out.

  “You didn’t tell us why.”

  “I didn’t have it all worked out. It was clear enough that night that Kress was letting Oryon take the lead. He wouldn’t have done that if they’d been equal in power.”

  Tria nodded. She’d seen that but hadn’t thought through the implications of it. Her anxiety over Wilce had been clouding her mind.

  “Kress has the ability to draw power from others,” Lina went on. “He doesn’t advertise the fact, but I recognized it long ago, since it’s an ability I have, too. And Kathyn pointed it out in her tirade on the night of the ball. Whatever this new power of Oryon’s is, Kress ought to be able to tap into it. But he can’t, that’s clear.”

  Tria’s curiosity prompted her to ask, “How does it work—drawing power?”

  Lina’s long-nailed finger traced a circle on her spread. She didn’t speak. Tria realized she had violated a taboo in asking the question. Drawing power was a proscribed talent unless one had the power donor’s permission. She recalled Master San Marté’s stern lecture on the subject. Yet Tria remembered all too well how Lina had used the talent on her during her struggle with Oryon. Headmistress had known, yet had awarded Lina the same punishment as Tria. And what had Kathyn said on the night of the ball? Something about Headmistress warning her not to let Kress draw power from her. If she’d let him, he’d had her permission, so that wasn’t forbidden, but Headmistress had known about it.

  Headmistress made a great show of demanding rigid adherence to the rules, yet she allowed so many infractions go unpunished.

  Rehanne broke the awkward silence by asking, “Does Oryon have that same talent?”

  “No. I’m sure he doesn’t.” Lina’s quick reply revealed her relief at being able to avoid Tria’s question. “Those who have that ability can always recognize it in someone else.”

  “Hmm. I wondered,” Rehanne paused, rubbed her chin, “I just thought, maybe … could Oryon be drawing in all Wilce’s and Gray’s power and using it for his own ends?”

  Tria straightened and slammed her feet against the floor. “By the seven levels! If he’s doing that, he’ll kill them!”

  Lina looked pensive. Her fingers continued to pluck at the spread. “I suppose it’s possible,” she conceded. “If he has access to them, wherever they are. It wouldn’t explain everything, though. He had to have power before that. Power enough to summon the Dire Women and to control them. And power to develop the ability to draw power, if that’s what he’s doing. Because I know he doesn’t—or didn’t—have that talent.”

  “Could he have stumbled onto a particularly effective spell for summoning the Dire Women?” Rehanne asked. “And could they have taught him to draw power? Don’t Dire Lords have that ability?”

  Tria shuddered, seeing again those voluptuous forms with the death’s-head faces. “They’re totally evil. Anything he learned from them …”

  “They draw power. Yes, that’s it!” Lina bubbled with enthusiasm. “They could draw power from Wilce and Gray and share it with Oryon. And Kress couldn’t draw that kind of secondhand power. So it fits.”

  Tria jumped to her feet. “We’ve got to find Wilce and Gray before he destroys them.” She began to pace the narrow space between the beds.

  Lina watched her, green eyes narrowed to catlike slits. “If we could find the summoning spell he used, would you dare to try it?”

  The question halted Tria in midstep. “Summon the Dire Women? And risk unleashing their evil? You know that’s an absolutely fo
rbidden use of power.”

  “Oryon did it.”

  Tria backed to her bed and sat down, Lina’s wry comment echoing in her brain.

  “And look what happened as a result,” Rehanne said indignantly. “Don’t listen to her, Tria.”

  “What happened was exactly what Oryon wanted to happen,” Lina snapped. “If he could control them, why couldn’t we? You say we have to get Wilce and Gray back right away. Well, the Dire Women took them. Wouldn’t it be logical to have them bring them back?”

  “We don’t know how to do it.” Tria’s expressionless voice belied her inner turmoil. “None of the classes teach spells for invoking Dire Lords or Dire Women, and if the library has any books with that kind of spell, they’re locked away where students can’t use them.”

  “The Breyadon was locked away, and we found it.”

  “And led Oryon to it,” Rehanne said. “We can’t use that spell again. It wouldn’t do us any good anyway; it only works when we know what we’re looking for.”

  “Besides, we’re only guessing about what happened. We’re only guessing that Oryon found a spell for summoning the Dire Women and that they are supplying his power, that they—” Tria choked on the words, “—that they are channeling Wilce’s and Gray’s power to him.”

  “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Lina leaned forward, eyes shining. “It gives us something to work on.”

  “You already have something to work on.” Rehanne glowered at the catgirl. “You’re supposed to be working on Kress.”

  Lina nodded briskly, ignoring Rehanne’s hostile tone. “Kress has to know about the summoning. Remember, Oryon needed his help—and Jerrol’s, Davy’s, and the others’—to keep things under control. Until the Dire Women disappeared with Gray and Wilce. Then suddenly Oryon could act on his own; he didn’t need the others anymore.”