Page 63 of The Black Witch

I grab my paperwork, which Fernyllia’s holding out to me, and look squarely with undisguised accusation at Yvan.

He’s holding himself stiffly, not looking at me now, his hands on his hips, his jaw tight, doggedly making his loyalties known.

Against me.

A flood of tears threatening, I turn away from all of them and flee.

* * *

Stumbling as I go, silent tears falling, I struggle to find my way toward the North Tower.

Shelter. Shelter’s all I want right now. A place to sleep and hide until tomorrow, when I can find my brothers and get help.

The hatred in Yvan’s eyes reverberates in my mind, but I feel better the farther from the kitchens I get.

Outside, the clouds have continued to thin and now resemble hundreds of slow-moving, dark snakes, the moon partially hidden by the shifting serpents. I make my way through the winding University streets and its small knots of cloaked strangers, past the Weavers’ Guild building and then a series of damp fields, the cold air and brisk walk gradually calming me.

Some of the fields are home to sheep, huddled by feeding troughs in muddied masses, while others are horse pasture adjacent to long boarding stables.

And then I’m past it all, my steps halting as I stare up across a broad, barren field, the sloping expanse of it scrubby and deserted. A thin wind whistles.

The North Tower lies before me.

It sits clear across the field, a poorly maintained stone path winding up to it. Like a sentinel guarding the forest, this old military post is a last-chance stop before being enveloped by the wilderness to its back and sides, a weathered archer’s turret placed high on the roof.

My new home.

It’s gray and cold and foreboding—everything made of Spine stone, no wood. Nothing at all like Uncle Edwin’s warm, comforting cottage. My heart sinks even lower at the sight of it.

Resignedly, I trudge through the huge field, the tower looming over me as I approach.

I open the sole door at the base of the tower, and it creakily swings open to reveal a small foyer, a spiraling staircase to the left and a storage closet to the right. The door to the closet is open and, by the dim light of a wall lantern, I can see it’s full of buckets, rakes, extra lanterns and a variety of cleaning supplies. I’m heartened to see that it also holds both of my travel trunks and my violin.

I let out a long breath. See, it’ll be all right,I reassure myself. And I’m rooming with a Gardnerian and an Elf. No hateful Urisk or Kelts. Things will be just fine.

I decide to leave my belongings in the closet for the moment and make my way up the staircase, the heels of my shoes almost slipping a few times on the polished stone, my steps echoing sharply throughout the eerily quiet tower.

When I reach the top, another door opens into a short hallway, also lit by a wall lantern. There’s a stone bench placed against one wall and, on either end of the hallway, windows look out over the surrounding fields, the moon peering in. A metal ladder is bolted to the wall before me and leads to the archers’ tower, the ceiling entrance long since nailed shut. There’s another door at the end of the hallway.

That has to be my new lodging.

I wonder if my new lodging mates are asleep or absent, as I can’t make out any light around the door frame. I walk down the deserted hallway toward the door, slightly unnerved by the quiet.

I pause before opening the door and glance out the window, the moon still watching, cold and indifferent. I stare at it for a moment until it’s covered in the shifting clouds, the outside world plunged into a deeper darkness. I turn back to the door, curl my hand around its cool, metal handle and push it open.

The room is pitch-black, but I can make out a large, oval window directly before me.

“Hello,” I say softly, not wanting to startle anyone who might be trying to sleep. The clouds shift, and moonlight spills into the room.

And that’s when I see it. Something crouched just below the window.

Something with wings.

The blood drains from my face, and I’m overcome by a rush of fear so strong that it paralyzes me, rooting me to the spot.

An Icaral.

It’s gotten in somehow. And I’m about to be killed. The thing in front of me emits the same smell of rotted meat as the Icarals in Valgard.

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