The Black Witch

CHAPTER SIX

Valgard

A starlit sky overhead, we arrive, the carriage pulling up before Aunt Vyvian’s three-story home, arching windows lit golden and an expansive, dark wooden staircase spilling toward us in welcome.

Lush gardens arc along the curved entrance road, and I breathe in their heady, sweet scent as the carriage slows. Ironwood trees are bursting with glowing Ironflowers that cast the road in their soft blue luminescence.

Our carriage glides to a smooth stop.

Two Urisk serving women stand on either side of the carriage door as I exit, their straight violet hair tied back into tidy braids, their ears coming to swift points and their skin the soft lavender hue of the Urisk upper class. Their coloration is new to my eyes—the only Urisk I’ve ever seen are those toiling at the Gaffneys’ farm. Those women have the white, rose-tinted skin, hair and eyes of the Urisks’ lowest class—so pale they could almost pass for Alfsigr Elves, were it not for the faintly pink sheen of their skin and hair. These upper-class women’s linen uniforms are crisply starched, snow-white tunics over long gray skirts, their expressions neutral.

Suddenly self-conscious, I grasp at the rough wool of my tunic hem. I’m shabbier than even the servants. I crane my neck up, amazed at the height of the house, and swallow apprehensively, feeling small and insignificant in contrast to this grandeur.

Aunt Vyvian’s mansion is the same style of architecture I saw throughout Valgard—a climbing, multistoried building hewn from Ironwood; the broader, higher floors supported by curved, wooden columns; the roof topped with expansive gardens and multiple potted trees, vines of every variety spilling over the sides.

Like a giant tree.

It sits on elevated land with a panoramic view of the ocean to the back, and down onto twinkling Valgard and the Malthorin Bay to the side.

It’s so beautiful.

Heady with anticipation, I follow at Aunt Vyvian’s heels as she briskly makes her way up the stairs, the double doors opened for us by two more Urisk servants.

She holds herself so elegantly straight, I adjust my posture without thinking and hasten my pace to keep up with her. I wonder how she manages to walk so confidently and gracefully in her slim, tall heels, her skirts swishing around her feet.

I’d probably fall clear over on shoes like that.

My own feet are covered in sturdy boots made for gardening and caring for livestock. I secretly hope I can try feminine shoes like hers.

We pause in the most beautiful foyer I’ve ever been in: tables set with fresh bouquets of red roses, the tilework beneath my feet set in a black-and-green geometric design and a pair of stained-glass doors patterned with climbing vines.

A flutter of excitement rises in me to be in the middle of such luxury.

Aunt Vyvian riffles through some papers on a silver tray held by one of her serving women. “I apologize, Elloren, but I must leave you to get settled on your own.” She pauses and examines one of the papers with shrewd eyes. “Fenil’lyn will show you to your rooms, and then we’ll have a late dinner once you’ve unpacked.” She sets down the letter and smiles expectantly at me.

“Of course. That’s fine,” I respond eagerly. I glance around and break into a wide grin, looking at her with appreciation and a heightened desire to win her approval. “It’s...it’s so lovely here,” I say falteringly, suddenly giddy with nerves.

My aunt nods distractedly as if she’s suddenly lost interest in me, then motions toward the servants and strides away, trailed by three of the Urisk, her heels clicking sharply on the tile floor. One stays behind—Fenil’lyn, I assume.

Aunt Vyvian’s aloof dismissal has a small sting to it.

If I had magic, would I be of more interest to her? I let out a small sigh. On the carriage ride here, my aunt repeatedly brought up her disappointment that I take after my famous grandmother in looks only. No matter, I console myself. It’s a huge honor that she’s chosen to single me out and bring me here.

I follow straight-backed Fenil’lyn down a long hallway decorated with small, potted trees, and out into an expansive central hall. I skid to a stop, stunned by the sight that lies before me.

A central staircase spirals three stories up around a life-size tree sculpture. Wrought-iron grating, stylized to look like flowering vines, encloses each story’s circular balcony.

I quicken my steps to catch up with Fenil’lyn and follow as she starts up the staircase. I take in the lifelike carved leaves, fascinated, and brush my fingers along their textured surface as we ascend.

River Oak.

An image of the source tree lights up my mind like the summer sun, moss-covered branches undulating out.

Reaching the top floor, I wordlessly follow Fenil’lyn onto the top balcony. She stops before two expansive wooden doors and pushes them open.

I peer inside and have to blink to believe my eyes.

A roaring woodstove pumps out a crackling heat, a crimson-canopied bed directly across from it. Sanded trunks and branches rise up near the walls, hewn from dark wood, giving off the smell of their rich beeswax coating, the domed ceiling painted to give the illusion of a starlit sky. I step inside and am immediately enfolded in delicious warmth.

Everything already done for me, no wood to lug.

Directly before me, two cut-crystal doors sparkle gold in the reflected lamp and firelight.

I pause to touch the smooth silk of a golden tassel that hangs from my bed’s canopy, to stare in amazement at the intricate tree design embroidered on the scarlet quilt.

I reach the crystal doors, open them and find a curved sunroom just beyond, its walls made of glass that looks straight out over the ocean, a geometric glass ceiling giving me a panoramic view of the real night sky.

Two snow-white kittens play with a ball of string in the center of the sunroom’s floor. They’re fluffy white, with sky blue eyes. Just like my own cat, Isabel.

Enchanted, I stoop down and pick up one of the kittens. She kneads me with needle-sharp claws as a tiny, rumbling purr emanates from her small chest. The other kitten continues to worry the ball of string.

“For you, Mage Gardner,” Fenil’lyn informs me with a polite smile. She’s slender, with gorgeous eyes the color of amethysts. Her violet hair is streaked with a single stripe of gray. “Mage Damon felt you might be missing your pet.”

My chest floods with a grateful warmth. How incredibly thoughtful.

Happily, I rise and turn to Fenil’lyn, hugging the purring kitten against my chest, the animal’s tiny head tickling under my chin.

“You can call me Elloren,” I tell her, grinning from ear to ear.

She stiffens, her smile freezing in place. “Thank you, Mage Gardner. But that would show disrespect.” She tilts her head gracefully and gives a small bow. “Please allow me to honor you with your proper title.”

It’s odd to be in the presence of an Urisk woman who speaks the common tongue. Odder still to experience such deferential treatment, especially from someone who might be older than Aunt Vyvian. I’m momentarily ill at ease.

“Of course,” I defer, the woman’s frozen smile softening into an expression of relief.

“If you have need of anything, Mage Gardner,” she tells me brightly, “simply ring the bell.” She motions toward a golden-tasseled rope hanging by the door with a practiced wave. “I’ll be back shortly to bring you to dinner.”

“Thank you,” I say, nodding.

She quietly leaves, and I take a deep breath, overcome by my surroundings.

Setting the kitten down in a basket with its littermate, I open the sunroom’s side door.

The salty ocean breeze kisses my face the moment I step out onto a curved balcony. The stone balcony follows the arc of the sunroom, the rhythmic whoosh of waves lapping the dark rocks below. I peer over the balcony’s edge, down two stories toward another, broader balcony, where servants are busy setting out an elaborate dinner.

Our dinner, I realize. Nothing to cook. Nothing to clean.

Breathing in deep, I take in the refreshing, salt-tinged air.

I could get used to this.

I wander back into my rooms and skim my finger over the spines of the books in a small library that’s set into the wall, all the texts related to apothecary medicine.

A thread of amazed gratification ripples through me.

She’s created a custom library just for me.

I remember the runehawk messenger bird Aunt Vyvian had her guard send out to bring word of our arrival, but still, I’m stunned that so many personal touches have been pulled together in two days’ time.

I slide a volume off the shelf and open the cover, the new leather resisting my pull. The drawings of herbs are hand-painted and look so lifelike, I can almost smell their scent.

I wonder if she’ll let me take some of these books to University with me—they’d be of incredible use to me in my studies. A sitting table near the bed has a mirror rimmed with stained-glass roses. On the table sits a gilded brush and comb set, along with brand-new bottles of perfume, their spritzers tasseled with crimson silk.

So many pretty things. Things I never had in a house full of messy males.

I pick up one of the glass bottles, spritz it in the air and inhale.

Mmm. It smells like vanilla and rose.

As the mist falls and dissipates, my eyes light on a shelf set into the wall, a cabinet beneath. Set on the table are two marble statues.

I walk over to them and pick one of the statues up, the polished base cool against my palm. It depicts my grandmother, her wand in her belt, leading Gardnerian children to some destination, smiles on the children’s upturned, adoring faces. I look closely and trace my finger over the face’s sharp features, her thin nose.

It’s me. Or certainly a close likeness.

The second statue is my grandmother again, powerful and fierce, her delicate wand raised, her hair flying out behind her, a dead Icaral demon crushed beneath her feet.

An Icaral, like Sage’s deformed baby.

I pause, troubled, my brow tensing. The thought of Icaral demons is so jarring in the midst of the comforting warmth, the sweet kittens, the luxury cushioning me all around. It makes me want to hide the statue away in a closet and never set eyes upon it again.

Shaking off the dark image, I clean myself up and prepare to meet my aunt for dinner.

* * *

“Are the rooms to your liking, Elloren?”

Aunt Vyvian beams at me as I join her at the balcony table. Fenil’lyn bows and graciously takes her leave.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” I reply, a bit dazzled. “I’ve never seen anything like...” I look out over the spectacular view of the ocean. “Well, like any of this.”

She smiles, pleased. “Well, it’s your birthright. Enjoy it. Your uncle’s deprived you for far too long.” She gestures toward a chair with a light wave of her hand. “Please. Sit. Enjoy the view with me.”

Delighted, I take a seat opposite her, a deep green rug beneath our feet covering the gray stone of the balcony. Lanterns hang on multiple stands and cast the table in a soft glow that reflects off the fine porcelain with tiny, golden pinpricks of light.

A plate’s been made up for me—slices of a citrus-glazed pheasant, precarved on a side table, thin lemon slices decorating the succulent bird; wild rice with dried fruit and nuts; baby carrots. Fresh bread steams between us alongside a dish of butter molded into flowers. A pitcher of mint water and a basket of fresh fruit also adorn the table. And a small table by the balcony’s side wall holds a steaming pot of tea, a tower of small pastries and a bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase.

A servant stands still as a statue by the tea set, a young blue-skinned Urisk woman with vivid sapphire eyes who stares straight ahead into the middle distance, her expression carefully blank. It’s hard to remember she’s a person and not a statue, she’s that still.

Aunt Vyvian’s gaze wanders over me as she sips her water.

I find myself longing for her approval. I try to sit straight, my hands folded lightly on my lap, mimicking her graceful posture. My clothing may be shoddy, but at least I can try to mirror her refined ways.

“Tomorrow I’m sending you to the premier dressmaker in Valgard to have an entire new wardrobe fitted,” she tells me with a small smile. “You can take it to University with you.”

It’s like she can read my wishes, and I’m overcome with gratitude. We’ve never had enough money for fine clothing. A warm rush rises in my neck and cheeks as I blush at her kindness. “Thank you, Aunt Vyvian.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to accompany you.” She sets down her glass and cuts into her pheasant. “I’ve Mage Council business to attend to, but I’m having three young women join you. They’ll be your peers at University.”

“Oh.” I’m nervous and elated by the thought of meeting fellow scholars. I take a bite of the pheasant and it falls apart in my mouth, the glaze bright with lemon and spiked with fresh herbs.

“You’ll like Paige Snowden and Echo Flood a great deal, I’m sure of it,” she muses, taking a neat bite of her food. She dots her mouth with her napkin. “They’re the daughters of Mage Council members. Lovely young women. Pleasant and morally upstanding.”

But—she mentioned three young women. I blink at her in confusion, wondering if I heard her wrong.

“And the third?”

Aunt Vyvian’s mouth grows tight, her face darkening, eyes cool. “That would be Fallon Bane, dear. I very much doubt you’ll like her.”

I gape at her. “Then...why...?”

“Her father is Malkyn Bane. He’s a military commander and has a great deal of Council influence. He’s also a Level Five Mage.” She says this with the gravity it’s due, and I nod and take note of it as I pull a warm piece of bread from the basket.

Level Five Mages are not common, which is why my Level Five brother Trystan is a full-fledged Weapons Guild Mage at the tender age of sixteen.

“Malkyn Bane’s children are all Level Five Mages,” Aunt Vyvian continues with great significance.

I freeze, bread and butter knife in hand. “You can’t mean his daughter, too?”

Aunt Vyvian slowly nods. “Fallon Bane is a Level Five Mage, as are her two brothers.” She gives this a moment to fully sink in.

I gape at her. “A female? With that much power?” That high level of power is almost exclusively held by males, with the notable exception of my grandmother.

My aunt’s face fills with bitter frustration. “That kind of power rightfully belongs in our line. Especially with how much you look like Mother.” She shakes her head, her brow going tight. “But even Trystan, with his great promise, is no match for Fallon Bane. Especially since he got such a late start in his training, due to your uncle’s negligence on that front.” She lets out a frustrated breath and gives me a level look. “Fallon’s only eighteen, and she’s already on the outer reaches of Level Five, Elloren. Much like your grandmother was at her age.”

I remain frozen as realization washes over me. “She’s the next Black Witch.”

Aunt Vyvian’s eyes darken. “No. I refuse to believe it. One of your children will hold that title. Or Trystan’s. But not Fallon Bane. That power is our legacy. Ours alone. No matter how much Fallon Bane and her family like to strut about and pretend they’re the heirs to it.”

I knit my brow in question. “But even if she’s not the Black Witch...if she’s so dangerous, and if you dislike her so—then why is Fallon Bane going dress shopping with me?”

It seems almost comically bizarre.

Aunt Vyvian leans forward and looks me straight in the eye as if conveying something of deep importance. “Because sometimes in this world, it’s good to know what you’re dealing with.”

“I don’t understand.”

Her eyes narrow. “Fallon is obsessed with Lukas Grey.”

Ah, him again.

“So...they’re courting?”

“No,” she puts in flatly. “Not to my knowledge. From what I’ve seen, Lukas has little interest in the girl.” My aunt’s face twists into a disgusted sneer. “Even though Fallon throws herself at him quite wantonly.”

Warmth spreads through my cheeks as I start to realize where all this is going. Lukas is a prize. And Aunt Vyvian is actively plotting for me to win him. Away from Fallon Bane.

“You want me to spend time with Fallon Bane so I can size up the competition?” I say, disbelieving.

Her eyes take on a sly gleam. “There is an opportunity here, Elloren.”

Worry pricks at me. I might not even like this Lukas Grey, so there’s that. But there’s an even larger concern.

I set my bread and knife down and level with her.

“Aunt Vyvian. You’ve really gone out of your way for me. And I don’t want to disappoint you.” A nervous dismay ripples through me—I don’t want to lose her kind regard. I’ve been hungry for a mother figure for so long, for female guidance. But she has to know the truth. “I have no experience in society. There’s just no way I can...swoop down into it and...fit in with this Lukas Grey, or anyone else, for that matter.” I slump, losing heart as I take in the tiny, elaborate braids that decorate her long hair. I’m hungry for knowledge of such pretty ways. “I don’t even know how to do my hair. Or use makeup properly. Or...anything.” If I had my mother...

Aunt Vyvian pats my hand and gives me a warm, maternal smile.

“You don’t have to know anything, dear.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve taken you under my wing. And that’s the best place to be. Simply sit back, enjoy it and follow my lead.”

I smile shyly, encouraged, as I hold on to her cool, smooth hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fallon Bane

“Have you kissed him?”

“Excuse me?”

“Gareth Keeler. Have you kissed him?”

I’m facing an audience of three young women—the University scholars Aunt Vyvian has chosen to be my companions for the day. They sit staring at me with rapt attention, waiting for my answer.

To the most embarrassing question I’ve ever been asked.

Inappropriate, personal questions like this were not acceptable in Halfix, and I inwardly draw back from them in discomfort.

It’s early on my first morning in Valgard, and we are in Aunt Vyvian’s carriage, headed toward the shop of the premier dressmaker in Gardneria. The ride is smooth, the carriage surrounded by twelve armed, high-level Mage soldiers.

Twelve.

Charged with protecting Fallon Bane—our next Black Witch. Aunt Vyvian might not want to believe that she’s the one, but it’s clear from our armed escort that most other Gardnerians don’t agree with this view.

Fallon is, by far, the most intimidating young woman I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful, with full lips, curly black hair down to her waist and large eyes that shine with the whole spectrum of green. But everything else about her flies in the face of convention. For one thing, she’s dressed in a military apprentice uniform modified for a female—the traditional slate-gray silk tunic over a long, gray skirt instead of pants, and marked with a silver Erthia sphere embroidered over her heart. And the arms of her uniform are marked with a Level Five Mage’s five silver bands. Fallon watches me, her legs splayed open, aggressively taking up as much room in the carriage as possible.

She’s the one asking the questions, a slightly contemptuous smirk on her face. My obvious discomfort, given away by the blush I feel forming on my face, seems to greatly amuse her.

“Why are you asking me about Gareth Keeler?” I ask Fallon defensively.

“Your aunt says you know him.”

“I do,” I tell her. “He’s my friend.”

Fallon shoots sly, sidelong glances at both Echo and Paige before setting bright eyes back on me. “Have you looked closely at his hair?”

I bristle, my view of Fallon quickly coalescing into a hard ball of dislike. “His hair is black.”

Fallon smirks wider. “So...if you haven’t kissed Gareth, have you ever kissed anyone?”