Page 86 of The Black Witch

Aislinn puts her arm around me. “It’ll be okay, Elloren. You’ll see.”

I barely hear her as hatred flares inside me, searing any speck of compassion I might have felt for Wynter Eirllyn and rendering it to ash.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Metallurgie & Mathematics

I unfold my University map and stare at the roughly inked parchment, the layout of Verpax resembling an intricate wheel, the White Hall its center. Mammoth spokes radiate out from the White Hall, lecture halls and laboratories dotting the length of each of them, the spokes alternating above and below ground to make way for Verpax’s cobbled street.

Not too difficult to navigate, thank the Ancient One.

Knots of scholars of every race and green-robed professors crowd the White Hall’s vast foyer, their conversation and footsteps echoing hollowly off the domed ceiling, morning light streaming down in thick rays from the ring of arching windows necklacing the dome.

I follow the Scientifica spoke, keeping my map in hand as my anchor, quickly locating the correct side hallway marked withMetallurgie Hallengraved on a golden plate.

I’ve got all my subjects today, back to back, each class abbreviated and jammed together into one orientation day—Metallurgie lecture, then Mathematics, History and Botanicals, Chemistrie, Apothecarium and finally, kitchen labor—no break, no lunch, save the scones and cheese I set aside from breakfast, wrapped in a cloth napkin and tucked into my tunic pocket.

I’m a jangling mass of nerves, my cumbersome black skirts swishing around my ankles.

Three reed-straight Elves in front of me start their descent down a spiraling staircase, and I keep close to their heels, tunneling down through one of the thick underground lines of Spine stone that run beneath Verpacia. I remember poring over geological maps with Trystan when he was home for the summer, marveling at the intricate web of thick Spine stone running under the University, a network of hallways and lecture halls cut right into it.

I gasp as I enter the Metallurgie lecture hall, intricately carved stone arches gracing the entrance, a line of spiraling columns on both sides of the hall.

But the ceiling.

It’s curved and made of thick, metallic-violet crystals, as if I’ve stepped into an enormous geode, the crystals glittering spectacularly with golden stars of reflected lamplight.

My heart lifts.

It’s like magic.

To my left, glass-fronted cabinets are cut right into the walls, lined with a rainbow of crystals, stones and metal chunks, all neatly organized. To my right are long tables covered with laboratory equipment, every shape of glass vial and retort, as well as three fully outfitted smith stoves, their chimneys rising straight through the crystal ceiling.

The chalky smell of minerals, as well as the acrid tang of Bornial flint, hang in the air, but it’s freshened by the cool, clean scent of Spine stone, and I breathe it all in without reserve.

I’ve been placed in an odd section of this class to make room for my kitchen labor. I scan the hall and realize I’m the only female here.

Half the hall is filled with Elves, already seated in neat, attentive rows. To the left are a smattering of Kelts, Elfhollen and a much larger grouping of Gardnerian military apprentices. Some of the gray-clad apprentices are seated. A knot of them are standing and notice me right away, shooting me cool, wary looks.

Fallon’s friends, I realize, my heart sinking, recognizing them from Aunt Vyvian’s dance. Still, I’m begrudgingly impressed by how quickly Fallon’s soured things for me here.

I sit down near one of the Gardnerians, a relaxed youth sitting at a casual angle with his arm thrown across the back edge of his chair. He watches me with friendly amusement as I pull out my writing implements, parchment folder and text.

“Hullo, Mage Elloren Gardner.” He greets me heartily. The three standing apprentices shoot him a look of annoyance. He grins back at them.

He’s attractive, with dancing dark green eyes and a wide, rakish smile. I glance down and take in the fasting lines that mark his hands—that seem to mark most young Gardnerians’ hands, with few exceptions.

Aunt Vyvian’s right, I think with resignation.All the good ones are being quickly snatched up.

Inwardly sighing, I extend my hand to him. “Well met...”

He holds out his own hand and gives mine a cordial shake. “Curran. Mage Curran Dell.” He has four silver lines decorating each of his sleeves.

I slump down, my eyes darting toward the unfriendly apprentices. “I suppose Fallon’s told you all about me.”

He laughs. “Oh, yes. She has. Apparently you’re the worst person to ever walk Erthia.”

I slump down farther. “Oh, that’s just great.”

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