A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  He’d spent the last hours of the night weaving a net of power and setting it in place around the school’s three buildings, testing it, muttering that it had to hold against anything anyone, even Headmistress and the other sixth-level masters, could do to counteract it. At his insistence, Tria had reluctantly let him draw on her power to supplement his. She knew she couldn’t spare it, but neither could she let him suspect the treachery she planned.

  By the time Oryon announced his satisfaction, the night had passed. Not that any sunlight penetrated their attic hiding place; only the mage light relieved the darkness. But the sounds of activity—hurried footsteps, calling voices, running water, slamming doors—rose from the floor below. The clang of the breakfast bell reminded Tria of her hunger. A good breakfast would replenish her lost strength, but Oryon refused to let her leave the attic.

  “We’ll eat when we’ve finished. In fact, we’ll feast. It won’t be long; you can wait.”

  “Suppose I don’t have the power to do what you want?”

  “You’ll have enough. I don’t want you too strong.”

  So she hadn’t fooled him. He was on his guard against her. She had little hope of foiling his plot, but she had to try.

  He had decreed that they should relax for a time, letting their power build back up. Not too long, however, because when the power net was discovered, the faculty and students would undoubtedly mount a defense. But before their efforts could have any effect, Oryon would act. Another hour, maybe two, and the school would be at his mercy.

  Tria felt drowsy but dared not fall asleep. Although a nap would strengthen her, her distrust of Oryon was too great to let her sleep in his presence. To keep herself awake, she said, “Why have you decided not to wait until the end of the year as you promised?”

  “I offered a full year because my bargain with the Dire Women required it. They supply me with daily infusions of power in exchange for Wilce and Gray and anyone else I send them. By the end of a year their victims would be used up, and I’d have a surplus of power stored up for my takeover. But why should I wait? What I learned from the Breyadon will let me unleash more power than I could gather in a year’s time. I don’t need the Dire Women anymore. They’re nasty creatures; I’ll be well rid of them.”

  Tria wondered how the Dire Women would accept the abrupt cancellation of their bargain. Despite his confidence, Oryon might not be able to recover Wilce and Gray. And if he did, it might be too late—they might have no humanity left.

  She did not voice her thoughts, but they gnawed at her brain, so that she could not relax, could not open the channels and let power flow back into her.

  Too soon Oryon stood, stretched, and announced, “It’s time.”

  Tria wasn’t ready. She had no chance of overcoming Oryon. She had been fooling herself all along; she had never really had a chance.

  It was appropriate that the blue skirt and white middy blouse she’d worn the day she arrived at the school was the outfit she wore now, the day she’d witness the school’s and her own destruction. It was appropriate that she’d put it on today before going to her meeting with Oryon.

  “Stand here,” he said, calling her to a place in front of a stack of boxes leaning against the wall. “Don’t move from this spot. What I do will create an immense surge of force. When it comes, extend your own power to meet it and channel it into the net I’ve placed around the school.”

  “Suppose I can’t do that?”

  “You can. It shouldn’t be that difficult. The net will attract it to some extent anyway.”

  Tria took up her assigned position. “What happens when all that added power flows into the net?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.” He moved away from her to stand near the door, his back to it, facing her. “I promise you a spectacle you’ll never forget.”

  Tria woke, yawned, indulged in a luxurious stretch, then bolted upright as the full sunlight streaming through the window penetrated the haze of her sleep. She jumped out of bed and checked her clock. She’d slept through breakfast and had fifteen minutes to make it to her first class.

  She tore off her nightgown and looked for something to wear. There was almost nothing on the rack; most of her things must be in the pile to be washed. She hadn’t had much time to do laundry lately. The only blouse hanging there was a dressy green charmeuse. She put it on along with an old black tweed skirt—no time to worry about the mismatch. She pulled on her high stockings and jammed her feet into a pair of work shoes when she couldn’t find her good ones. After racing to the washroom to splash water on her face and run her toothbrush over her teeth, she ran back to the room, pulled her brush through her hair, grabbed her books, and dashed down the stairs. As the final bell rang, she skidded into the classroom and flopped into her seat, too breathless to reply to Master San Marté’s exaggerated greeting.

  It was inevitable after her spectacular entrance that Master San Marté should fix his gaze on her as he launched into the day’s lecture. Tria tried to prepare herself for his inevitable questioning. Her mind still felt muzzy. She had to clear it before he attacked.

  “Today we shall consider the ethics of using power to acquire power,” he began. “Those gifted with the ability to draw power from others have, of course, a clearly defined moral choice. They may ethically draw only from those who give free consent to the process, who in effect enter into willing partnership with the one to whom they lend power. The drawing of power from an unwitting victim or the coercing of a donor is manifestly illicit. But other means of using power to beget power are more problematic.” He stroked his mustache. “Miss Tesserell, can you describe for the class an ethically ambiguous means of gaining power?”

  Not yet recovered from her frantic rush and being thrust into the spotlight sooner than she’d expected, Tria blurted out the first answer that entered her mind: “Accepting a gift of power you know the giver who offered cannot spare.”

  “Hmm. An interesting problem.” Master San Marté scratched his head, skewing his toupee to a rakish angle. “Yes, indeed. A question worthy of debate.” He pressed his fingertips together at his waist. “Let us see who can suggest a specific example for our analysis.”

  Tria awoke to Veronica shaking her shoulder, rousing her out of deep slumber. She blinked and looked around, not remembering at first where she was. Gradually the night’s events seeped back into her awareness. She recalled her battle with the farmer and his hounds, her running and place-shifting, carrying the injured panther, the memory reinforced by the look and smell of her blood-stained dress.

  “It’s morning,” Veronica said. “I let you sleep long. Oryon will make his move soon. You’d best get ready.”

  Tria cast off the lingering tendrils of sleep. “How do I do that?”

  Veronica shook her head, sending her gray curls wriggling about her face. “That’s something none can tell you; you’ll have to discover it for yourself. Your rest has built up your strength.”

  “But what will he do? Do you know?”

  “I only know that the power net around our buildings bears his signature, and that means he has decided to make his move. A tension’s been building since the net was cast. Can you feel it?”

  Tria sat quietly, testing all her senses. A certain indefinable dread pressed in on her. She felt threads of power woven around the building, forming a barrier that was tightening, not only closing them in but growing stronger, more deadly, as it drew on the power of those it enclosed.

  Yet nothing was visible. Perhaps she felt nothing more than her own inner fear.

  “Trust your senses, miss,” Veronica said.

  “What are you, Veronica?” Tria dared ask. “You’re no maid, that’s certain.”

  Veronica turned away. “Come, no time for puzzles.” She walked to the door and opened it. “If you survive this challenge, you may know what I am.”

  Tria nodded and got to her feet. At the door she paused. “What about Lina?” she asked. “Is she alive?”


  “The panther lives. The healers were able to seal the wound. Whether Lina survived with it, I cannot say.” As she spoke, Veronica pushed Tria through the door and closed it behind her, leaving Tria standing uncertainly in the corridor of the faculty residence hall with no idea where to go or what to do.

  She headed for the foyer and passed from it into the quadrangle. The fountain had been turned on in recognition of winter’s passing. She lingered beside it a moment, thinking of Wilce and how he had chosen this spot to invite her to the Midwinter Ball. The memory strengthened her resolve. “I have to free you,” she whispered. “I don’t know how I’ll defeat Oryon, but I must find the way.”

  She entered the main building. Classes were already in session. She hurried through the halls, noting with relief that the door to Master San Marté’s classroom was shut, so no one would notice her passing and report her truancy. Although surely the instructors all knew what she was about and would not expect her to attend class. In fact, she marveled that classes were being held despite the threat of doom that hung over the school.

  The sense of dread, of imminent disaster, hung more heavily in this building. Twisting Headmistress’s ring on her finger, she fought down an urge to run. The net, she knew, made escape impossible. And how could she flee when the fate of the school rested in her hands?

  Hardly knowing what she did, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and on to the third. She walked to her room, opened the door, and went inside. Drawn perhaps by the strong memory of Wilce she had experienced by the fountain, she went to the dressing table and from a drawer took the crystal pendant he had given her. She had not worn it since that day in Rehanne’s room when it had communicated such terror. Now, though, she clasped it around her neck. The reflected red of her dress gave it the color of blood.

  Lina’s talisman lay on the dressing table. Tria snatched it up; she might encounter wards she’d need to break.

  Turning away from the dressing table, she glanced at the bed and was startled to see it unmade, the covers thrown off as if someone had arisen in haste. The bed had been made yesterday when she’d last seen it. Someone had slept here last night, someone who had rushed out, leaving the room in disarray.

  She moved to the bed, stooped, picked up the pink blanket from the floor. She dropped it again, paralyzed by the sensation of horror that crept up her spine and spidered over her scalp. While she dithered and dallied, Oryon marshaled his strength. The air crackled with menace. The time of doom had come, and she was not ready.

  Her skin crawled; her hair rose. A thousand needles stabbed her flesh. She stepped to the center of the room and clasped her hand over the pendant. “Wilce!” she cried as a force like a giant hand shoved her to her knees.

  The crystal warmed against her breast. Strength flowed from it into her. She staggered to her feet. As if heading into a strong wind, she struggled toward the door, got it open, and forced her way into the corridor.

  The stairs! She had to reach the stairs. Pummeled by that gale of power, she pushed toward the steps she’d climbed to safety the night before.

  She couldn’t find them. As hard as she tried to visualize them, as much as she willed them to appear, she saw only the beige walls and the washroom door.

  “Oryon!” she yelled toward the ceiling. “Oryon, show yourself, you coward!” At her shout, a narrow doorway became visible in the wall in front of her. Without stopping to wonder at its appearance, she hurled herself through it.

  The bell finally signaled the end of Ethics class, and Tria escaped into the hallway. She might have found the discussion interesting had Master San Marté not kept her at the center of his persistent questioning. In need of fresh air, she hurried into the courtyard.

  The spring sunlight transformed the splashing fountain into a marvel of shimmering crystal. Tria stood close enough to let the cold spray sting her face. She thrust a hand into the falling water, scattering beads of light. A tap on her shoulder startled her, spun her around.

  Kathyn and Rehanne had come up behind her without her hearing them. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Rehanne said.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Kathyn said. “Ever since we heard the news.”

  “What news?”

  “Davy and Jerrol told everyone how you spent the whole night outside hunting for Lina and found her after she’d been shot by a farmer, and you fought off the farmer’s dogs and brought her back.” Rehanne paused and gazed curiously at Tria. “I don’t know how you did it. And without getting hurt. You look like you’ve done nothing but sleep all night.”

  Tria opened her mouth to protest that she had done nothing but sleep all night and had not the slightest idea what Rehanne was talking about. But before she could speak, Kathyn clutched her arm.

  “Kress and Oryon are missing,” she said, her face pinched with fear and anger. “The school’s enspelled so nobody can go in or out, and Verin and Salor and Headmistress worked together to heal the panther but none of them, not even Headmistress, can make it change back to Lina. Terrible things are happening. I didn’t expect to find you out here playing in the fountain.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she finished.

  Rehanne handed Kathyn a handkerchief and said to Tria, “I was wrong in abandoning you to face Oryon alone. I’ve been feeling guilty about going back on my promise to help you fight him. When I heard what you’d done all by yourself, I felt ashamed and knew I had to do what I could. But—you didn’t go to class, did you?” The question held incredulity and reproof.

  Tria nodded, not knowing what to say. She understood none of this, though she did remember that she had planned to search for Lina this morning. She was horrified to think that the panther’s plight had slipped her mind. But they said that she had rescued it. Something very strange was going on.

  And now they wanted her to find and confront Oryon and Kress. She realized with a sudden shock that they didn’t know what had happened to Kress. Kathyn assumed that her brother was with Oryon. When Tria told them the truth, they’d think her foolish for going off to class as if this were a normal school day. She’d have to tell them, though, and together the three of them would find a way to stop Oryon. It was good to have allies. She’d fought the battle alone too long.

  With his wand, Oryon traced a series of symbols on the attic floor. They left no mark, and Tria could not visualize the results of the complex strokes. The marks seemed visible to Oryon; he stared intently at the floor, lifted his wand, and waved it about like an orchestra conductor engaged in a triumphant production. The mage light dimmed to near darkness. From the floor below, someone shouted Oryon’s name. The girl’s voice sounded hauntingly familiar.

  Oryon seemed not to hear the shouts. He spoke a sentence he must have taken from the Breyadon: “Calyor margra felefor, tisitiya mura calyor na.”

  The building shook. The mage light went out. A shout of “Oryon, stop!” was followed by steps scrambling up the stairs in defiance of the wards Oryon had set.

  “Tisit felefor mu ragana lo!” Oryon cried.

  In the blackness, steps pelted toward the sound of that cry. Tria tried in vain to rekindle the mage light. A crash and a curse told her Oryon had been tackled. Forgetting his warning against moving from her position while he worked the spell, she leaped to aid her unknown ally.

  A pillar of flame spouted in front of her. Unable to check her speed, she plunged into its intense heat. Her gasp filled her lungs with searing fire.

  Lina’s ward-breaking talisman clamped between her teeth, Tria climbed the stairs into the darkness above. Oryon’s voice guided her, chanting words that could only come from the Breyadon. At the top she spat the talisman from her mouth and heard it clatter to the bottom of the stairwell. The chanting voice persisted; she shouted again for it to stop. She could see nothing in the utter blackness. Although she had left the door open below, no light penetrated this place of evil.

  How different this dark and musty place from the bright and opulent hall the other s
tairway led me to last night; the thought flitted through her mind as she groped for solid footing. When she found it, she sprang toward the chanting voice.

  Oryon was closer than she’d thought. She crashed into him, knocked him backwards, fell on top of him. With a curse, he grabbed at her and tried to throw her off. She clung to him and summoned her power.

  But it was no power of hers that ignited the sudden conflagration swirling around them. They were at the vortex of a cyclone of fire. She caught a glimpse of something white amid the flames and heard a scream. It might have been her own. A terrible stench choked Tria, made her gag. She could hardly breathe. The light of the flames showed her Oryon’s face peering into hers.

  “You’re too late,” he gloated. “I’ve done it!”

  The scorching heat receded. The walls of flame curved out, away from them, leaving them suspended in the center of a candescent sphere. The floor on which they’d fallen was gone. Oryon scrambled away from Tria and stood, though no solid surface rested beneath his feet. He pointed his wand at her. She tried to rise, struggling like a swimmer in deep water. Oryon laughed at her clumsy efforts.

  “Fire is my element,” he said. “It is the symbol of my power—all-consuming, invincible. Nothing will stand in my path.”

  “You betrayed me. I knew you would.” The thought formed and spoke itself, though Tria did not understand why she said it.

  “As you tried to betray me,” he said. “But you lacked the strength. You’ve never been a match for me. Headmistress thought she was pitting me against my equal; that shows how foolish and impractical she is.”

  “I think you underestimate her.”

  “You are about to see how wrong you are. I brought you here to witness my triumph.”