Page 53 of The Black Witch

I might not be able to access power, but it’s there. Some echo of the Black Witch. Deep inside me. Coursing through my veins.

Possibly waiting for release.

CHAPTER THREE

Orientation

When Echo Flood enters the room, the soldiers look relieved to be handing me off to her.

My head spins with confusion. “Echo, why are you here? Why didn’t my brothers come for me? And Gareth?”

“Lukas sent for me,” she explains, her large eyes solemn with concern.

“My brothers,” I ask, feeling lost. “Where are they?”

“They were delayed,” Echo explains. “They were caught in the storm, and Gareth’s horse panicked at the thunder. The horse threw him and he broke his leg. They had to double back to Valgard to find a healer.”

“Oh, no.” I struggle to fight back tears.I need to see my family. I don’t want to be alone here.

“Come,” Echo says softly as she places her hand on my arm. “The High Chancellor is addressing all of the scholars. We need to take our places with them.”

* * *

I stay close to Echo’s side as we step into the White Hall.

It’s the largest interior I’ve ever seen, the vast sea of scholars momentarily overwhelming me, the smell of wet wool and lamp oil thick on the dank air.

We’re in an open, curved walkway that rings the entire hall, the Spine-stone floor beneath us mottled with damp, overlapping bootprints.

The domed roof stretches high overhead, a bat wheeling back and forth across the vast space, paintings of constellations on a night sky set high into the sectional dome, a ring of huge, arching windows just beneath. Colorful Guild banners hang below every window, a cacophony of primary colors, silver and gold, some of the banners marked with foreign words in exotic, curling alphabets.

My eyes light on the Apothecary Guild banner. The Gardnerian Guild banners are easy to pick out with their black backgrounds.

Like spokes on some great wheel, long aisles connect the external curving walkway to a central raised dais, where an elderly, white-bearded man stands before a podium. His dark green robe is distinguished by golden trim, his thin voice echoing off the stonework as he directs two latecomer Kelts toward empty seats up front.

Echo leans in, her eyes set on the elderly man. “High Chancellor Abenthy.”

Rows of green-robed professors flank the High Chancellor, their robes uniform, but their faces reflecting a multitude of races.

“Come,” Echo prompts gently, motioning ahead. “I have seats for us.”

I nod, my eyes furtively casting around. The storm-dimmed twilight seems to be seeping through the very walls, aisle lamps on long stands fighting against the shadows with small dandelion puffs of light.

The scholars are heavily segregated into ethnic groups, the darkly clad Gardnerians standing out in sharp relief against the grouping of Elves, the Elves’ blindingly ivory cloaks illuminating their section of the hall.

We start down a side aisle cutting through Gardnerian scholars to the left, Kelts to the right. Kicking up like dust, a small buzz of conversation follows me, my grandmother’s name whispered over and over, awed looks from the Gardnerian side, dark glowering from the Kelts. I stiffen, self-consciously aware of the unwanted attention.

As I follow Echo by the Gardnerian sea of black, my eye is drawn to a subsection of slate gray–uniformed Gardnerians.

Military apprentices.

And within their grouping is a lone, uniformed female, a ring of black-clad Gardnerian soldiers seated around her.

Fallon Bane. And her military guard.

I catch her eye as we pass, and my stomach twists.

She shoots me a dark grin and discreetly reaches for the wand fastened to her belt. She angles it toward me and gives it a small jerk.

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