Page 141 of The Black Witch

I watch him leave, his back broad and straight, deeply warmed by his thawing demeanor.

And still wondering how he could possibly be so fast.

* * *

I know I should put in an hour or so memorizing cough remedies. Especially after spending so much time with Professor Kristian—time that should have been spent studying.

I sit in my dim North Tower room, my Apothecarium text open on the desk before me, dawn soon approaching. I need to get at least a few hours of sleep, and I’m running out of time for study. But I can’t seem to focus. Professor Kristian’s tower of history books seems to be quietly waiting for me, and I find it hard to resist their forbidden pull.

Simply possessing these books feels like a traitorous thing. Especially the Keltic history. The Kelts oppressed my people for generations. How can I read a history book written by one of them?

But then I look to Ariel, passed out with one of her chickens. And to Wynter, asleep with threadbare wings wrapped tight around her thin frame. I think of Olilly—how poor she is, and how afraid of me. And of Yvan’s use of my first name, for the first time.

I decide to do the dangerous thing, not the smart thing.

I push my Apothecarium text to the side, pick up Professor Kristian’s history text and begin to read.

PROLOGUE

Vyvian Damon can’t take her eyes off him.

Marcus Vogel owns the Council Chamber. His piercing eyes are like green fire and send rippling waves of excitement through her.

And fear through everyone who’s not aligned with him. She’s sure of that.

He’s going to win in the spring.

The Council members’ seats are set between sanded Ironwood trees that rise up to either side of Vyvian, a tangle of branches flowing out over the ceiling. The arcing Council platform looks out over rows of seating, and today the Council Hall is filled with Mages—almost all of them with white bands around their arms.

Vogel bands.

“Where is the male Icaral?” Vogel inquires with terrible calm, his shattering stare pinned on Council Mage Phinneas Callnan, the traitors’ favorite for the spring High Mage referendum and Council envoy to the military.

Mage Callnan glares back at Vogel, jaw set tight. “Not found, as of yet.”

A troubled murmur sweeps through the crowded room.

“The Ancient One has set the Prophecy ringing in our ears,” Vogel states, the words burning with a zealous fire that shudders heat through Vyvian. “Louder and louder and louder.” Vogel holds upThe Book of the Ancients. “Yet you ignore His Holy Voice.”

Mage Callnan rises to his feet, outrage smoldering in his eyes. “How dare you question my faith!” He jabs his finger toward the heavens. “No one is ignoring His Holy Voice!”

Vogel goes still as a snake, and when he speaks, his voice is low and frighteningly hard. “You ignore Him when you allow the Icaral demon of Prophecy to escape. You ignore Him when you let heathen races procreate likewild beastson land that belongs to theHoly Magedom.You ignore Him when you dismissHis Holy Chargeto claim Erthia for theMages.You ignore Him when you allow Keltic spirits to be smuggled through our borders and for Selkies to be sold right here in Valgard! You ignore Him when you support a depraved University where races mix andIcaral demons roam free!”

The Council Chamber erupts into angry cries that slowly morph into a thundering chant that shakes the very floor.

“Vogel! Vogel! Vogel! Vogel!”

Giddy with vengeful fire, Vyvian scans the other Mage Council members. All twelve of them are there, the doddering High Mage Aldus Worthin seated in the center. Vyvian narrows her eyes at the white-bearded High Mage. He’s peering out over the frenzied crowd with a look of shocked befuddlement. Vyvian sneers.

The old relic.

Vyvian does the math. Five white-banded Council Mages are aligned with Marcus—herself, Mage Gaffney, Mage Greer, Mage Flood and Mage Snowden. Six heathen Mages are aligned with High Mage Worthin and his increasingly profane ideas—static borders that allow infidel races and shapeshifters to hold on to Mage land, a relaxation of the ban on intermarriage, trade with the perverse Amazakaran, support of the race-polluted University. And perhaps the most heinous of all—the allowance of Icaral demons to even exist!

Vyvian looks to the side of the room where bald Priest Alfex waits in the wings, a white band around the arm of his priestly robe.

The favorite for the next vacancy on the Council.

Vyvian smiles.

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