Page 82 of The Black Witch

Cool dew coats the fields, reflecting the morning sun like millions of tiny mirrors, giving the long grass a silvery sheen. The silver in Gareth’s hair glints along with the dew as he leans into Trystan for support, his right leg splinted and bandaged.

I rush to Trystan, who’s decked out in his gray military tunic, five silver stripes on his sleeve. Trystan gives me a one-armed hug. “Are you okay, Ren?” he asks, quietly searching my eyes.

I nod bravely, my hair lashing about in the chilly wind that’s kicking up. I reach over to embrace Gareth, and he pulls me into a warm hug and kisses the top of my head.

“We were so worried about you,” he says into my hair.

I laugh against the scratchy wool of his cloak. “I was worried aboutyou. How’s your leg?”

He smiles, then winces as a strong gust of wind hits us, almost knocking him off-kilter. Trystan redoubles his efforts to brace him. “I won’t be dancing a jig anytime soon,” Gareth wryly says, “but the healer said I’ll be fit for my deportment in a few weeks.”

“We would have come up,” Echo informs me gravely, her voice raised to compete with the wind, “but we wanted to avoid the Icarals.” She glances up at the tower worriedly. “You should go to evening service with Aislinn and me, Elloren. The priest can exorcise their evil.”

I shake my head in dismay. “I’m living with them, Echo. I’m going to absorb their evil every single day. I’ll need an army of priests at that rate.”

I remember the priests exorcising me in Valgard. Their droning chants and pungent incense. How frightened I was.

And Vogel.

I squint up at the North Tower looming over us, bleached almost white by the bright sun. The wind changes direction and a stiff breeze slaps against the unyielding stone as we depart.

* * *

The dining hall is densely crowded. Urisk laborers dole out a variety of hot porridges, breads and cheese, the food arranged on long wooden tables. The air is thick with the warm smells of strong tea, hot cider, roasted chestnuts and nutty grains.

I throw my cloak over a bench and set down my bag and violin, the heat a relief after being chilled all night, then further chilled by the wind. I warm my hands at one of the many stoves dotting the room, their pipes snaking along the low ceiling rafters. The radiating warmth uncoils my knotted muscles and gradually sinks into my bones.

Most of the hall is heavily segregated, with small groups of Gardnerians, Verpacians, Elfhollen, Elves and Kelts scattered about, some dressed in the military garb of their respective countries. I catch a glimpse of Fernyllia setting out baskets of rolls, and the sight of her causes a tremor of distress to run through me.

Trystan helps Gareth into a seat and props his splinted leg up on the bench as Rafe goes to get food for all of us. I take a seat next to Aislinn, the stove to my back, and am surprised when Echo remains standing.

“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” I ask.

She peers over at Gareth uncomfortably, her hands clutching a leather-bound text. “I...can’t. I have to go.” She glances across the room, toward a group of young Gardnerian women dressed as primly as she is. “I’m glad you found your family, Elloren.” Her faint smile evaporates as she casts an unfriendly look at Gareth before leaving.

My heart sinks. I know what Echo’s recoiling from.

Gareth’s silver-tipped hair.

Echo joins the gaggle of young women, all of them immediately leaning in to whisper to each other and casting furtive, disapproving glances toward Gareth, who seems blessedly distracted by his splinted leg.

Trystan shoots me a jaded, knowing look.

I inwardly rail against Echo’s prejudice. Gareth is Gardnerian. So what if his hair has an odd silver glint to it? He’s one of us.

“Your friend is here,” Aislinn whispers, distracting me from my thoughts. There’s warning in her tone.

I follow her gaze and see Fallon entering the rustic hall, flanked by her brothers and four armed Gardnerian soldiers.

Wooden chair legs scrape in unison against the stone floor as every Gardnerian military apprentice in the dining hall, save Trystan, rises to pay her homage, their fists going over their hearts in salute.

I watch her closely through slitted eyes.

Go ahead, Black Witch,I glower. Try something with my brothers here. Trystan’s a Level Five Mage. Just like you.

Fallon and Sylus Bane have on their slate-gray military apprentice uniforms, in contrast to Damion’s full-fledged soldier black.

“Her older brother,” I ask Aislinn, “what’s he like?”

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