Page 68 of The Black Witch

Desperation rises inside me. “I’m going to send word to my uncle.”

She eyes me shrewdly. “Your aunt also instructed me to inform you that your uncle has fallen ill. Weak heart, she said.”

Shock blasts through me.“What?”I can barely get the words out. How could Aunt Vyvian have kept this from me?“Is he all right? How long has he been sick?”

“Oh, it seems he’ll recover in time,” she says dismissively. “He has a local physician tending to him, but she feels it would be quite stressful for him to get involved in all of this.” Her eyes are steady on me, giving her words time to sink in.

I stare back at her as my misery slowly coalesces into a white-hot ball of anger.

“Then I’m going to speak to the High Chancellor,” I say, my voice hardening.

She makes a sound of derision. “The High Chancellor doesn’t concern himself with petty problems such as these. Besides, your aunt has already spoken to the Vice Chancellor regarding your lodging arrangements. I think you will find that everyone is in complete agreement as to how things stand.”

So that’s it.

I can’t leave Verpax University because I’m at risk of being killed by a demonic, monstrous, wingless Icaral, and I have no alternative but to live with two demonic, monstrous winged Icarals and work in a place where people want to break my arms and legs.

Or I can pressure my sick uncle to let me wandfast, against his wishes, to a man I barely know.

I stand unsteadily, so angry I’m trembling. “Thank you for meeting with me. Everything is clear to me now.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she says, not bothering to get up. “Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

My legs unstable, I turn to leave.

“Oh, Mage Gardner,” she says mildly, stopping me in my tracks. “What should I tell your aunt if she asks how you are? She can relay your answer to your sick uncle.”

I turn to face her again, swallowing back my angry tears. I square my shoulders and look her straight in the eye. “Tell her,” I say, my voice gone cold, “that I’m fine, and to tell my uncle not to worry—that sending me to University was the best thing he ever did.”

She meets my gaze steadily for a moment then turns her attention back to the lodging book and resumes writing.

* * *

I have no idea where to go next, so I begin aimlessly wandering down the University streets, not caring about my disheveled state and numb to the shocked stares of the passing scholars and professors, following the flow of the festive tournament crowd.

I’m soon outside the central grounds, past the buildings, and finally come to a crowded series of tournament fields, a variety of flags flapping in the cool breeze. An archery competition is visible up ahead, a line of Elfin archers frozen in place with arrows set, their field densely rimmed with spectators. Perfectly in sync, their arrows shoot forth toward oval targets placed on thin poles. They hit the targets with a loudthwap.

“Cael Eirllyn!” the Match Master calls, a young Elf on a white steed riding forward to claim his prize.

Desperate for my brothers, I turn away from the match, weaving through the boisterous crowds, looking everywhere for a familiar face. And then I find one, but not the one I would have ever wanted to find.

Gardnerian military apprentices are competing in a wandwork contest the next field over. A female in the middle of the line of contestants catches my eye. She’s the sole apprentice, the other eight Mages clad in soldier black, Level Five silver stripes on all of their arms.

Fallon Bane.

She’s the only female in their group, everyone’s wands in hand to take aim at the circular wooden bull’s-eye targets that face them across the small field.

I jolt back as fire surges forth from a Mage’s wand, the flames streaking toward the target, exploding into the bull’s-eye in a small, churning ball of fire.

Applause and cheers rise from the mostly Gardnerian spectators. A grouping of Kelts watch the contest, arms crossed in front of their chests, unsettled looks in their eyes.

The rest of the male Mages take turns sending out fire with similar results.

Fallon is last. She raises her arm and waits for the crowd to quiet to a hush. Then she whips her arm forward and sends a white spear of ice coursing toward the target.

I flinch as her spear knifes into the target with an earsplitting crack, and the target explodes into a giant ball of white, smaller side spears impaling every other target in the row, shattering them to the ground.

There’s silence as a cloud of icy snow settles over the destroyed line of targets.

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