A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  Her existence, ephemeral though it might be, felt real enough to her, and she did not relish the thought of being snuffed out like the flame of a candle. It helped to have a goal to strive for, though she doubted their ability to achieve it. Mere reflections with faint traces of power could hardly expect to contact a dweller in the real world.

  “What is reality?” Oryon asked. “How do you know Taner is more real than we are?”

  She had no answer and did not think he expected one. She admired his determination, his refusal to yield to hopelessness. She pushed aside the smothering curtain of her own doubts and centered her inner vision on her careful recreation of Taner’s physical appearance. If only she could supply more knowledge of Taner’s character! For that she had to rely on Oryon. She’d never tried to get close to the strange girl from the far northern islands. Taner’s alien accent and rough ways had put her off; she’d been wary of Taner’s quick temper and ever-present dagger.

  “Taner is an idealist,” Oryon said, picking up her thoughts in that uncanny way he had. “She wants to right all the world’s wrongs. It makes her angry when she can’t. In fact, I’m not sure that she ever really admits she can’t; she only concedes that it won’t be easy. She admires strength, despises weakness in any form—moral as well as physical. She has little patience, no empathy at all, but she is intensely loyal, and she expects loyalty in return. That was why, when I became fascinated with Lina …” He shrugged, not needing to say more.

  But there was more. Taner was a husky, raw-boned, plain-looking girl, yet Oryon had seen beauty in her. She was blunt of speech and stubborn in her ways, yet he had found tenderness and constancy. Tria guessed that this Oryon had truly cared for Taner, though the Oryon in the world they’d left behind cared for no one but himself.

  Tria joined her power to Oryon’s, weaving its strands with his to form a mental net to snare Taner’s awareness. The net was weak and tenuous, though she poured all her feeble strength into the casting of it, knowing Oryon was doing the same. The tunnel grew colder, dimmer, more constricted. And their net snared nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MULTIPLE WOES

  The frantic barking was more distant than Tria had thought. She stumbled on, holding the gathered light, though it did little to dispel the darkness. By the time she neared the source of the sound, she was breathless and sweating despite the cold, and a sharp pain lanced her side.

  She spotted the dogs in a small grove near a farmhouse. They were hunting hounds; thank the Power-Giver, they weren’t the big mastiffs so often used as guard dogs. However, their baying had already alerted their owner. The trees, stark in winter bareness, let her see the burly farmer approaching from the other side, a rifle in his hands. The dogs pawed at one tree trunk and leaped toward its lower branches. On one of those branches a black shape crouched, one leg dangling down toward the dogs.

  The smaller and more agile dog leaped for the leg, yelped, and fell back to the ground yipping and whining. Its distress drove its larger companion into a greater frenzy of howling and scratching at the trunk.

  “Back, Towser, back, Essie,” the farmer shouted. “I’ll get it for you. Back, I say!” He aimed the gun at the dark form.

  “No!” Tria’s scream was drowned in the blast of the gun. As she sprinted forward, the large cat toppled from its perch. The dogs charged. Hissing and snarling, the panther tried to pull itself to its feet though one leg was shattered and blood gushed from a wound in its belly.

  Tria hurled her light sphere at the dogs. Startled, they backed off, but rushed back when the light vanished. With her summoning gift she ordered the hounds off their prey, but their blood-lust blocked her call. She ran forward and aimed kicks and blows at the maddened dogs.

  “Get away, girl,” the farmer bellowed. “You crazy?”

  “Get the dogs,” Tria pleaded. “Stop them.”

  The larger dog sank its fangs into her leg.

  “Let her go, Towser. Heel!” When Towser ignored his shouted commands, the farmer knocked the dog aside with the stock of his gun. The hound yelped and retreated. The man grasped Tria by the wrist and jerked her away from the bleeding cat.

  “Got to finish that thing off afore it mauls my dogs.” He pushed Tria aside and took aim.

  “Stop!” Tria hurled herself at him, threw him off balance. She felt the recoil when the rifle fired. The bullet smashed into the tree trunk.

  The farmer whirled and swung the butt of the rifle at Tria. Automatically she shielded and hurled her power at man and weapon. He staggered and fell; the rifle flew from his hand. Tria leaped to defend the panther from the circling hounds.

  The cat had fallen still. The small dog leaped for its throat. Tria grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck and tossed it aside. She bent over the injured panther. It lay in a pool of blood, sides heaving, tongue lolling from its mouth.

  “I won’t let you die, Lina,” Tria sobbed. She gathered the animal into her arms and lurched to her feet. Behind her she heard the snick of the rifle bolt.

  “Witchwoman, are ye?” the farmer growled. “I s’pose that’s your familiar. Neither of ye’ll leave here alive.” He jabbed the barrel of the gun between Tria’s shoulder blades.

  Good. She knew without turning where the rifle was. Her power flowed around the barrel, twisted it upward. With a cry of terror the man dropped the gun and ran.

  The hounds were more persistent. Wanting their prey, they circled her. One nipped at her heels, while the other lunged at her, trying to tear the panther from her.

  Burdened as she was, leg aching where she’d been bitten, she could not outrun them. Nor could she waste her waning power; she needed it to help her carry the heavy panther. She had to fell both dogs with a single swift blow. Her eyes searched out a low, heavy limb. She darted beneath it and used her power to wrench it free and crash it down onto the pursuing hounds.

  Not sure whether she had stunned them, killed them, or merely frightened them off, she ran until she was certain they no longer followed and her aching lungs and weary legs could keep the pace no longer. She stopped and caught her breath, her arms straining despite the power that eased much of the weight.

  Her dress was soaked with the panther’s blood. She strained to see in the darkness whether Lina still lived. A healer could close the gaping stomach wound. Why couldn’t she have had that ability? She focused her power, willed it to staunch the flow of blood. The wound did not close as she had seen Jerrol’s ripped throat close beneath Headmistress’s hand on the night of the ball. Blood no longer poured from the open cavity, but that could be an indication of death rather than of healing. She had to get Lina to a real healer.

  She could see the school now, but her flagging steps would never cover the remaining distance before Lina’s feeble thread of life ran out. Unless she had the power to space-shift.

  I’m third level now. That has to count for something. She pictured the third-floor corridor, pictured herself standing at the door to Verin’s room. A wave of dizziness staggered her, and the panther shuddered in her arms. But she did not move.

  She tried again, this time building the mental image of the second-floor landing outside Headmistress’s office. Her mind created every detail of that spot she knew so well. But her body went nowhere.

  Maybe I’m trying too great a distance. If I could just get to the front entrance …

  Although she couldn’t distinguish them in the darkness, she stared at the point where she knew the front doors to be and pictured the worn wood and damaged carvings, adjusted her grip on Lina, and willed herself to stand at the doors.

  A jolt drove her to her knees. The world spun around her. When the dizzying motion slowed and she could see, the building loomed in front of her. Not the doors, but the side near the front corner. She was close.

  She was also utterly exhausted, unable to lift the dying panther, unable to rise to her feet. She had to get someone’s attention. Her fingers scrabbled in the loose soil until th
ey turned up a stone. With the last vestige of her power she sent it soaring toward a lighted second-floor window. The window opened and a figure leaned out, silhouetted against the light. It might have been Fenton; she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. At the top of her voice she shouted for help.

  The figure retreated. Tria sank to the ground, dragged Lina onto her lap, and prayed the help would come in time.

  Blind. Cold. Alone.

  Tria floated in a void. All sensation was gone. Her thoughts were dim, confused. Fragments of memories surfaced briefly, then sank back into nothingness.

  Her mother standing at the kitchen door dreamily watching a flock of birds fly south. Her father delivering their old cow of a stillborn calf, cursing his “witch daughter” as though Tria were to blame for the misfortune. Headmistress’s long, thin fingers riffling through a stack of papers on her desk. Mistress Dova reading meaningless syllables from the Breyadon. Wilce, hands in his pockets, standing by the patio fountain. A crystal sphere glimpsed through a transparent section of the tunnel between worlds. A stick figure in rags and rotting flesh saying, “I am Oryon.”

  “Taner.” Oryon’s voice. He’d reached her! “Taner, I must know how to reverse the process of creating mirror-image duplicates.”

  For no more than a second Taner’s face, disembodied, ghostly, floated before them, lips parted, moving.

  “Death,” the barely audible voice said. “The secret is death.”

  The link broke, and with the breaking Tria felt final darkness close over her.

  “Death. The secret is death.”

  Oryon’s head jerked up from the papers he was studying. He glared at Tria. “What are you talking about?”

  “I … I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t mean to say that. It was just a … a thought that jumped into my mind.”

  “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?” His voice was knife sharp.

  She shook her head. “I want to get it over with, that’s all. When will you be ready?”

  “Soon. I can’t rush it. The timing has to be right.” His gaze dropped back to the papers he was studying. With his index finger, he underscored a line of writing. “The calculations are tricky. I’ve almost got it.”

  He fell silent, and Tria watched him uneasily. That intrusive thought could have been an omen, a warning surfacing from her subconscious mind to tell her she didn’t have the power for what she intended to attempt.

  “Ah!” Oryon jumped up and stretched, clutching his paper in one hand. “I have it. We can get to work. It will take several hours.”

  Tria rose, straightened the pleats of her blue skirt, and tugged at the cuffs of her white middy blouse. She glanced anxiously at the door. “Won’t Jerrol be back soon?”

  Oryon nodded. “We can’t stay here. A few hours ago I found the perfect place. Did you know this building has an attic?”

  “Attic? No.”

  “It does. I found it while I was looking for—while I was doing some exploring. It will be the perfect place from which to cast our nets over the whole school.”

  He picked up his wand and led her from the room and through the silent hall. At the stairs to the third floor Oryon paused and traced symbols with his wand. “That takes care of the wards,” he whispered.

  She followed him up the stairs. They tiptoed down the girls’ hall. Tria cast a longing glance at the door of her room. If she could only go in, shut the door, and leave all this behind her. The room she had found so ugly and inhospitable on her arrival now seemed an oasis of comfort, a warm refuge.

  Toward the end of the hall, near the washroom, Oryon led her to a door she had never noticed before. She could not possibly have passed it every day without seeing it.

  Nevertheless, it was there. Oryon opened it, and beyond it narrow stairs led upward into darkness.

  Oryon kindled a pale-blue mage light, balanced it in the palm of one hand, and ascended the steps. After pulling the door closed behind her, Tria followed.

  They emerged through a trapdoor into a low-ceilinged area that was little more than a crawl space. Boxes and crates were stored along the sides; Tria recognized some of Lina’s hatboxes. Dust and cobwebs covered everything.

  Oryon dragged a crate into the open space, blew the dust off, sat, and motioned Tria to do the same. Coughing from the dust, Tria selected a large box and pulled it opposite his.

  When both were seated, with the mage light bobbing eerily in the space between them, Oryon grinned. “Wasn’t this a lucky find? Not a fancy hiding place, I’ll grant you, but the location is ideal. Why, it could have been designed for my use. From here I can stretch the lines of power over the entire school. No one will escape my net.”

  Tria sat up and drew her blanket around her, clasping it tightly beneath her chin. “Death,” she said aloud. “The secret is death.”

  She listened to the night’s stillness and heard nothing out of the ordinary. Strange that those words had popped into her head as she woke.

  She must have had a dream. A nightmare, more like it. But she couldn’t remember any part of it.

  She got out of bed, padded to the door, and in her nightgown stepped out into the hall. She looked up and down; it was empty and quiet, and the lights, left burning all night, revealed nothing that could have startled her. Shrugging, she relocked the door and turned on her room light to see the clock.

  Two hours until time to get up and get ready for class. She turned off the light and returned to her bed. No point in worrying about an unremembered dream. Better to sleep while she could.

  “Death,” Tria mumbled to the hands that unfolded her from around the panther and lifted the animal out of her arms. “The secret is death.”

  “So it is, but life is a great secret as well.”

  The firm response focused Tria’s scattered wits. Her bleary gaze fixed on the speaker. Veronica!

  The little maid helped Tria stand and supported her as they walked toward the school. Davy and Jerrol walked ahead of them, bearing the panther on a litter between them.

  “Is she—is she alive?” Tria managed to form the words.

  “Barely. It’ll take a powerful healer to save her.”

  Tria groaned.

  “Don’t give up hope,” Veronica admonished. “We’re blessed with healers here at Simonton School. Verin and Salor have the gift to a high degree, and healing is Headmistress’s greatest talent. They’ve all been sent for. If she hangs on till we get her into the building, she’ll have a chance.”

  Tria wondered why the healers hadn’t come out here but couldn’t muster the energy to ask. She stumbled along until they reached the building. Tria was dismayed to see Davy and Jerrol waiting for them at the front doors. They should have carried Lina inside.

  As she and Veronica approached the entrance, she fell against an invisible barrier, reeled back, and would have fallen if Veronica had not caught her. A power net surrounded the school and would not let them pass. Those inside must be trapped within, while they were barred from entering. Despair staggered Tria. When Veronica released her, she crumpled to the ground.

  Veronica stepped over her and bustled forward. Her small hands grasped unseen threads, pulled, tugged, and spread apart. With her arms stretched wide, she called Davy and Jerrol. “Come, lads, I’ve made a way through. Hurry.”

  Carrying Lina, they ducked under Veronica’s arms and snaked through the barrier, opened the front doors, and went inside.

  “Your turn, Tria. Get up and get a move on.”

  Tria stood, swaying, and somehow forced her feet to take those few steps past Veronica, gather in her loose red dress, grown redder now from being soaked with panther blood, and manage to squeeze through the opening. She halted just inside the doors, unable to go farther until Veronica popped in beside her and took her arm.

  The boys had set the litter down in the middle of the foyer. Headmistress bent over the panther, with Verin and Salor both hovering beside her. Tria stared anxiously and was a
nnoyed when Veronica tugged her arm and pushed her around the healers and their patient.

  “They’ll be at it for some time,” Veronica said. “They don’t need gawkers. And you have work to do.”

  “Work!” Tria gasped. Surely the woman could see how weary and drained she was.

  Veronica nodded. “That net outside is Oryon’s doing. He’s drawing his power around the school, getting ready to make his big move. And you’ll have to stop him.”

  “Me? I’ve used up all my power. I haven’t had any sleep. I can’t—”

  “We’ll all perish if you don’t,” Veronica declared. “You’ll have to try. You have time for a cup of tea first. That’ll refresh you a bit.”

  Too weak to protest, Tria limped after Veronica all the way to the faculty residence hall. She had never before been in Veronica’s small ground-floor apartment. She had not known it was there. Ensconced in a soft armchair in the small, comfortable sitting room, she sipped the tea the little maid served and thought of home.

  Her family’s farmhouse had a parlor like this one, with old-fashioned wingback chairs in front of a cheery fireplace. On wintry evenings, she had often sat cocooned in the chair’s soft cushions, listening to her mother’s tales. It was a place of warmth and safety, and now, as then, she relaxed and her eyelids drifted shut. Dimly she was aware of Veronica’s taking the teacup from her hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SHARDS OF CRYSTAL

  His long legs stretched out in front of him, Oryon placed his hands behind his head and grinned at Tria, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “Best shield I’ve ever spun. Nothing less than a seventh-level Adept will break through.”

  With his hair mussed and a smudge of dirt across one cheek, he looked like a mere schoolboy bent on some harmless bit of mischief. She had to remind herself of his earlier attempts on her life, of what he had done to Wilce and Gray, to Lina, to Kress. And of what he intended now.