Page 55 of The Black Witch

“She’s a Level Five,” Aislinn replies with some incredulity. “Of course she can.” Perhaps seeing how upset I am, Aislinn pats my shoulder. “She won’t go too far, Elloren. You’re Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter. If she hurts you, she’ll be dismissed from the Guard.” She eyes me ruefully. “Just...stay away from Lukas. Okay?”

I nod, fuming over Fallon’s casual cruelty. But it’s all easier said than done. How can I possibly stay away from Lukas with Aunt Vyvian bent on my wandfasting to him?

We fall silent as High Chancellor Abenthy begins lengthy introductions of each of the multitude of professors. He details their recent accomplishments to polite, scattered applause that blends in with the sound of the rain. The hall is so large, I have to strain to hear his thin, reedy voice.

Distracted by the wide variety of scholars, I venture a glance across the aisle toward the large grouping of Kelts. They’re very varied in appearance, with a rainbow of light hair shades, eye coloring and skin tones.

The Kelts are not a pure race like us. They’re more accepting of intermarriage, and because of this, they’re very mixed.

I notice that the Kelts’ clothing is varied as well, although uniformly not very fine. These are work clothes, homespun garb best suited for farm chores—the type I wear at home for comfort.

I suddenly feel weighed down and pinched in by my expensive layers of silk.

I miss Uncle Edwin and the comfort of home.

Does Uncle Edwin know about the Icaral attack? Has Aunt Vyvian sent out a runehawk to let him know what happened and that I’m okay?

My eyes are drawn to a stern-faced Keltic youth sitting directly across from us. He’s lanky, with brown hair and starkly angular features. He’s staring straight ahead with a look of great resolve as if it’s taking a huge effort to focus on the High Chancellor and not on something else.

He unexpectedly turns and fixes his startlingly golden-green eyes on me with a look of hatred so intense, I flinch back.

I turn away quickly, my face growing hot, embarrassed to be caught staring at him and stunned by the violence in his emerald glare. I can almost feel the tension vibrating off him.

“Aislinn,” I whisper, swallowing hard, “who’s the Kelt sitting opposite us? He’s looking at me like he wants tokillme.”

Aislinn glances discreetly toward the young man.

He’s turned away and is once again focused, with obvious effort, on the High Chancellor, his fists tightly clenched.

“That’s Yvan Guriel,” she informs me. “Don’t let him rattle you. He hates Gardnerians.”

Especially me, I think.Especially the granddaughter of the Black Witch.

I venture another look in his direction. He’s still staring straight ahead, his jaw flexing with pent-up tension. I sit there for a moment, a disquieting tangle of emotions swamping over me. My foot still smarts from its encounter with an invisible object, my head and wand arm are now throbbing in time with my pulse and my wrist is stinging from the Icaral’s tearing grip. It’s a wonder I’m still upright.

This Yvan Guriel doesn’t even know me,I lament, glaring resentfully at him out of the corner of my eye. He has no right to be so hateful.

“What else do you know about him?” I ask Aislinn, feeling dejected.

“Well,” says Aislinn, leaning in close, “he was almost expelled last year.”

“Why?”

“Practicing medicine without Guild approval. On some Urisk kitchen workers. He’s a physician’s apprentice.”

I risk another glance at Yvan Guriel, surprisingly stung by this stranger’s undisguised loathing. He’s still focused militantly toward the front of the room, practically seething with hostility.

Determined to ignore the hateful Kelt, I let my eyes wander back a few rows to a young man with deep brown skin who towers over everyone around him. There’s an impressive stillness to the way he sits that speaks of military discipline. His dark purple hair is cut short, revealing pointed ears pierced with rows of dark metal hoops. But perhaps the most striking thing about him are the swirling black rune-tattoos that cover his face, which mirror the glowing red rune-marks on his crimson tunic.

“Who’s the tall, tattooed man?” I ask Aislinn.

“Shhhh!” A slim, stern-faced Gardnerian chastises us with vast irritation, and both Aislinn and I shrink back, my face heating. We’re quiet for a long moment.

“That’s Andras Volya,” Aislinn finally whispers.

“He looks like he’s from the East,” I puzzle out, “but his ears are pointed, and he has purple hair.” I know many groups in the East have darker skin, but not pointed ears or purple hair.

“He’s Amaz,” Aislinn clarifies. “They’re of all different races. Andras and his mother are part Ishkart, part Urisk.”

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