Page 131 of The Black Witch

“Do you have any idea who actuallymakesyour fancy silks?”

“No...no, I don’t...but...”

He leans in toward me confrontationally, and I shrink back slightly, intimidated. “Embroidery that intricate? It was done by Urisk workers. On the Fae Islands. Many of them children. Working for practically nothing, beaten if they try to protest.”

He’s lying. He has to be. He’s just trying to be mean.

I glower at him, nervously biting at my lip, but his steady glare doesn’t waver, and I have the overwhelmingly uncomfortable feeling that he’s telling me the truth.

“I... I didn’t know...” I croak out defensively.

“You don’twantto know. None of you want to know,” he spits back. “So,no, I don’t like your dress. I think both you and your dress are revolting.”

A sharp pain stabs at my temple, and my stomach clenches as his words cut through me to the core, tears stinging at my eyes. He’s so mean and unforgiving. Why does he have to go out of his way to be so awful to me? And why do I even let him bother me?

Stupid, idiotic Kelt.

But what if he’s right? Could it be true? My mind is a troubled whirl, and I fight back the tears.

No, I won’t let him make me cry.

I grab at my knife, desperate to shut him and his disturbing words out, and turn my full attention to the rhythmic motion of slicing through the turnips’ thick, unyielding flesh.

* * *

“Priest Simitri,” I venture the next day as I tentatively approach him. It’s the end of class, and Gardnerian scholars are filtering out of the stately lecture hall.

“Mage Gardner.” He greets me warmly, his robes smelling pleasantly of incense, a white Vogel band around his arm. “I have something for you.” He reaches down behind his desk and draws out a beautiful Ironwood tree seedling in a glazed black pot, handing it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“It will cleanse your room of the demon stain,” he tells me paternally. He leans in as if we share an unfortunate secret. “The Icarals may not love this, but I think you will find it soothing.”

I inwardly stiffen.They have names, I think.Ariel and Wynter. But I don’t voice anything to indicate my newfound change of heart. “Thank you,” I say instead, taking the small tree from him. It’s heavy in my hands. But as much as I love seedlings, I don’t want it. Not if it will make Wynter—or even Ariel—uncomfortable.

“I’ll help you repot it when it gets a little larger,” he tells me brightly. “The roots are delicate. They need room to spread out.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

Perhaps sensing my unease, he smiles encouragingly. “What can I do for you, Mage Gardner, on this fine day the Ancient One has blessed us with?”

“I was wondering, Priest Simitri,” I say hesitantly, shifting my weight from foot to foot, “if you could tell me if there’s any truth to a rumor I’ve heard.”

He leans back against his desk, clasps his hands together on his lap and gives me his full attention. “The world is full of rumors, Mage Gardner. It is wise to seek out the truth of the matter.”

I smile, feeling bolstered. “Is it true,” I begin cautiously, “that the fabric my clothes are made of might have been made by Urisk on the Fae Islands? Workers who are treated like slaves?”

His expression turns solemn. “Itistrue that your dress’s fabric may have been made by Urisk workers. It isnottrue that they are treated like slaves. Whatistrue is that before the Gardnerians took over the Urisk lands, by the grace of the Ancient One, the Urisk were living like savages, worshipping stone statues of false gods, the men taking multiple wives. They waged war on each other almost as much as they waged war on others. They were uncivilized and very dangerous. Now, because of our intervention, the Urisk women lead quiet lives of morality. Are their lives full of hard work? The answer would be yes, but hard work, especially if it can help keep a people from devolving into savagery...well, it can only be a help to them.” He smiles encouragingly at me.

“So,” I press, uncomfortably, “there aren’t any children working there?”

Priest Simitri turns thoughtful. “If thereare, I’m sure it’s out of the goodwill of their overseers—so that their mothers can keep an eye on them. Don’t let yourself be sentimental, Elloren. Urisk children are not like Gardnerian children. They are not First Children. They need structure and hard work to rein in their baser instincts. They lack the intelligence, the sensibility...thesoulof our people.”

My mind immediately wanders to an image of Fern laughing and blowing bubbles in the kitchen.

No, she’s just like any other child. Just like a Gardnerian child, in fact.

Priest Simitri points to the history book tucked under my arm. “Why don’t you go read the history of the Urisk race in your text. I’m sure what you find there will enlighten you.”

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