The Black Witch. Laurie Forest
You’re safe now. The Icaral’s weak. Its wings were amputated long ago. Your aunt’s guards and I will escort you to University, and we’ve already sent word to the High Chancellor about what’s happened.”
My wrist is beginning to throb. Miserable, I turn it over for his inspection, bloody scratches and gashes ringing it where the creature gripped me. I wait for Lukas to express some sympathy.
He takes my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes meet mine and his expression goes hard. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It will scar and be a constant reminder to prepare yourself. These are battle scars, Elloren.”
“Why are you so harsh?” I cry, wrenching my wrist away.
“Because,” he grinds out as he grips both arms of my chair, “you do not need to be coddled!”
“You don’t even know me!”
He shakes his head from side to side and takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice gone low.
He stands up, a horizontal line of blood splashed across the front of his tunic, short tendrils of wet hair plastered to his forehead. We’re both damp and sweaty and smell like blood. The image of Lukas slaying the Icaral demon flashes into my mind, rapidly deflating the remnants of my anger.
He saved my life.
Lukas holds his hand out to me, and I reach up to take it.
“You are equal to this, Elloren,” he says firmly as he helps me to my feet.
I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m not the Black Witch, Lukas.”
He sighs deeply and looks at me with resignation. “Let’s go,” is all he says.
* * *
A few hours later I’m in a carriage with Lukas, traveling to Verpacia, the two of us in clean, dry clothing.
“Lukas will protect you,” Aunt Vyvian reassured me back at her mansion, as she directed Urisk servants to quickly pack my things into my travel trunk, plus an additional large trunk she’s provided for me. “You’ll be safer in Verpacia. Especially with Lukas as your guard.”
She could barely hide her smug satisfaction at the way events have played right into her hands, pushing Lukas and me firmly together. But I’m too rattled to be anything but grateful for her assistance, and for Lukas’s help and protection.
I think about how many things my aunt and the others tried to warn me about. It’s just as it says in our sacred text, just as the images on the stained-glass windows portray things to be. The Icarals are hideous things of great Evil, and need to be destroyed before they destroy us. And Sage’s baby, if this is its destiny—to turn into one of those things—then the Mage Council is right in wanting to take it from her, stripping it of its wings and its power.
Killing it, even.
I shudder to think of those creatures armed with overwhelming power at their disposal, and I know that if my attackers had been in possession of their wings, I’d be dead.
And if my aunt is right about this, and about my need to leave home, if her intuition is so good, maybe she’s right about other things, as well. Maybe the Selkies are only dangerous, feral animals—just as horrible as the Icarals when they have their skins. And maybe she’s right about Lukas and wandfasting.
I look over at Lukas as he sits in stony silence, staring out the window through the rain-battered glass, and a surge of gratitude washes over me.
Oh, Uncle Edwin, I anguish, why did you leave me in the dark about what might be out here waiting for me? Did you have any idea? Why didn’t you protect me?
He didn’t know, I realize. It turns out that my sweet uncle is dangerously naive about the world, cooped up in Halfix, isolated amidst his beehives and violins and childish good intentions.
As much as I love Uncle Edwin, I’m forced to consider that he’s not only dangerously ignorant, but he may actually be wrong, too. About so many things.
And Aunt Vyvian might be right.
I resolve to find out the truth for myself.
Verpacia
I stare out at the sheeting rain as I cradle my bruised wrist. After several hours I lose track of how long we’ve been on the road, all the farms and towns bleeding into each other. Lukas is equally silent and deep in thought.
My fear has settled into an anxious unease. I look over at Lukas and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s brooding and remote, but I feel a kinship with his aura of gravity that makes me feel less alone.
Eventually we slow, and I make out one of the Ironwood outposts of our military. A cloaked soldier waves us through.
“The border,” Lukas informs me.
Three trade routes converge here, and we’re gradually stopped by the traffic, most of the horses pulling wagons heavily weighed down by goods.
Thunder crashes, and I strain to see through the rain. A long, ivory wagon passes close by. It’s surrounded by a large contingent of ivory-cloaked soldiers astride pale steeds. The soldiers have white hair, and their eyes are silver.
“Gold merchants,” Lukas says, noting my interest.
Amazement cuts through my lingering haze of fear. “Are they Elves?”
“You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head and look back out. The Elves’ ethereal whiteness is pristine, as if the dirt and grime of this stormy day hasn’t touched them at all.
My eyes are drawn upward by the shifting winds.
I can just make out the western edge of the Verpacian Spine, an impassable mass of vertical rock that borders the country of Verpacia. The white-gray rock seems to reach right up to the heavens and disappears into the storm clouds as the rain batters the bleached stone. Multiple guard towers are carved into the cliffs, hewn from the rock itself. Cloaked archers in pale gray uniforms the color of the Spine climb about the towers like nimble mountain goats. They appear to be keeping a close eye on the convergence of traffic seeking entrance into Verpacia through this break in the Spine.
Our carriage door opens, and an archer pokes his head in. He has a bow slung over his shoulder and rain drips copiously off the edge of his hood. He looks like an Elf, his eyes gleaming silver, but his hair and skin are a silvery-gray only slightly darker than his eyes.
“Lieutenant Grey,” he says congenially, the words heavily accented. He glances over at me, and his smile is whisked right off his face. He blurts out something in what must be the Elfhollen language, his tone one of shock.
“Orin,” Lukas says carefully, as if trying to calm him, “this is Elloren Gardner.”
“She’s not back from the dead, then?” Orin breathes, his eyes locked tight on mine.
Lukas smiles. “Only in appearance.”
Then, to my surprise, they launch into a serious conversation in Elfhollen. Orin gestures sharply toward me several times, his expression deeply conflicted. I stiffen, rattled by Orin’s confrontational tone.
Lukas shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she had any power?”
I glance sidelong at Lukas, surprised. He’s told me more than once that he suspects I have power. My heart thuds nervously, realizing that there’s danger here. And he’s protecting me.
Orin narrows his silver eyes at me one last time, shuts the door and waves us through.
I let out a breath of relief, then turn to Lukas in amazement. “You speak Elfhollen?” Even if he’s well versed in languages, it’s still a surprising