Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (14 page)

Whatever the politics involved, it’s clear things are a lot more serious than a training accident would warrant. And I’m going to find out why.

By the time the weekend ends, I’m as knackered as I was when it started. Maybe it was to keep our minds busy, but the professors have given us mounds of additional work to do, and if it weren’t for Jack, I don’t think I’d ever get my brain right-side up again.

So when we get to Miss Laplace’s math class, I let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, look, the troll has arrived.”

Daniel and his posse, Ross and Brockton, snigger in their usual corner.

“Did you know that the Fey hate to reveal their true names,” Keva says loudly to Nadia, sitting next to her.

Nadia, a tall and spindly girl, doesn’t respond, but then she never does, and I often catch myself wondering if she’s mute like Dean.

“It’s because it gives the one who knows their name power over them,” Keva continues, “which is why we need to call their oghams in EM if we want to draw their power out.”

The whole class sits a little straighter, wondering where she’s going with all this. Even I know this much about EM by now. But one thing’s for sure: my roommate’s got a sharp mind on her, and an even sharper tongue.

“Now imagine if that worked on us! For instance, my last name means ‘record keeper.’” Keva throws her hand up before her as if to stop Nadia’s objection. “I know, not very exciting. Not like Pendragon, whose meaning is rather obvious. But far better than, say, Foreman.” She throws a sly glance at the three boys. “How does it feel, Ross? Do you have the soul of a pig herder? Or maybe that of a pig?”

The greasy-haired boy jumps over his desk, toppling his chair over, and makes for Keva, who easily sidesteps him. He trips over his own feet and lands headfirst on the teacher’s desk.

“What is going on here?”

Miss Laplace has arrived, her eyes bulging behind her glasses. Red-faced, Ross straightens up and sets her table back straight before shuffling back to his seat.

“Nothing, ma’am,” Keva says. “He just won’t accept that I’m refusing his advances.”

Miss Laplace’s features soften. “Ah, young love. I can understand your plight, Mr. Foreman.”

The class giggles at her words, and she looks about her, confused.

“You shouldn’t mock your classmate’s feelings,” she says severely, eliciting only more laughter. “Even at such a young age, one can feel the agonizing pangs of jilted love.”

By now, even stuck-up Laura and Dina are laughing so hard that they’re falling off their chairs.

“Enough,” Miss Laplace says, slamming her book of sacred geometry on her desk. “Since you’re all so wide-awake, we might as well start the lesson. Chapter seventeen. What’s the ratio associated with circles? Miss Kulkarni?”

“Pi,” Keva answers immediately.

“And its uses, Miss Kulkarni?”

“Depends,” Keva says, “but it’s usually associated with protection, especially with a pentagram inscribed in it.”

“And the pentagram is associated with which sacred ratio? Miss Kulkarni?”

This time, Keva has to think a little longer before she answers, “The golden ratio?”

“And how,” Miss Laplace continues, drawing on the board a circle with a five-pointed star inside it, “does a pentacle work? Let’s not ask the same person every time.” Her large eyes swivel over the ranks of students, then finally come to rest on Keva. “Miss Kulkarni?”

“By keeping things out,” Keva says.

“Can you give me an example?”

“Well…” Keva stops fidgeting in her seat to concentrate, and I hear Ross snigger in the back. “It’s not exactly a pentagram,” she says, “but the school?”

Miss Laplace looks a little annoyed, but returns to the blackboard. “It may not look like one to the untrained eye,” she says as she retraces the outside circle of her pentagram, “but the pentagon that is our very own school building is the center of the five-pointed star, as you see here.” She colors in the inside section of the star, and I realize with a jolt that she’s right. “And, of course, we have our stone markers at each vertex, which finish the pentacle that protects our school from any outside invasion.

“But that’s not the only thing circles and pentagrams can do. Apart from keeping things out, what else can they do? Miss Kulkarni?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Keva finally admits.

“They can keep things in,” the teacher says with a note of triumph from catching Keva off guard.

After that, the whole class ends up being a tennis match between the two, tiring everyone else out in the process. When the bell finally rings, we all let out a collective sigh.

“Now’s the time,” Jack says, drawing near me.

“Time for what?” I ask, hurrying to put my EM homework away before Miss Laplace can see it. I still have seventeen more to do, and I don’t want to get this one confiscated.

“To see if EM practices are going to resume or if we’re going to go back to jousting basics.”

“Jousting?” I ask. “As in…a horse and lance and everything?”

“No,” Jack says, “that’s not till we become squires. I meant regular sword practice.” He glances at the clock. “We better get going, though. KORT’s very strict about time.”

We join the rest of the student body gathered on the practice field by the arena. The buzzing of half whispers mixes with the low moaning of the wind as we wait, when there’s a sharp cry, and we see a girl collapse onto her neighbor.

“What’s going on?” I ask. I look about for any sign of Fey attack, adrenaline pumping.

Apparently, I’m not the only one worried, as people look about, but Keva points to a boy holding something over the unconscious girl.

“Just a fish that’s fallen from the lake,” she tells me. “Happens from time to time, when there’s a storm up there.”

Up there. I raise my eyes to the sky-lake. No clouds are ever present that I can see, just a gray expanse that can only be the bottom of Lake Winnebago.

“She got lucky,” Jack says. “This one time, an old, rusted car fell down. Landed on the south side of the forge and caused a massive fire. Took hours to get the flames out!”

“Shut up,” Keva says. “They’re here.”

A group of seniors is now standing on a makeshift platform at the edge of the field, Arthur at the forefront. I can’t quite tell
from this distance, but for a moment, he seems to look straight at me. Then he raises his hands for silence.

“In light of recent events,” Arthur says, his voice clear, “we have long debated what the best direction would be for our school. And that is to keep up with training lessons as they were originally scheduled.”

I hear Jack let his breath out, and everyone around me seems to be feeling less tense.

“The reason being,” Arthur continues, “that we cannot let ourselves get weak. No one knows how many more Fey are out there, and the fact that we’ve encountered fewer of them in the last couple of decades does not necessarily mean their numbers are dwindling or that they’ve weakened.

“However, and I would like to insist on this point, we are now requiring every student to carefully tend to their respective weapons—including the ones used in training. One cannot be too vigilant, and Friday’s tragedy ought not to be repeated. That means you are required to spend the time necessary before and after each practice to check your gear for any defect and perform the necessary cleaning duties instead of letting the staff handle it.”

The crowd doesn’t seem to like this new rule, but Arthur keeps on talking.

“As for the elemental that tried to escape,” he says gravely, “we have the unpleasant task of informing you that its ogham was felled in two.”

I feel a shiver run through me at those words. The Fey’s ogham, its source of power, is gone, which can only mean one thing—we’ve killed it.

“A deplorable fact,” Arthur proceeds, “since it could, and should, have been prevented. We are now one weapon down, and as you are aware, finding replacements is becoming more difficult, so this is a heavy blow.”

Arthur lets his words sink in, and the students’ initial annoyance turns to embarrassment.

“Today’s lesson will therefore be spent going over our gear,” he says. “I want you to make sure every ogham’s iron casing is solid and uncompromised. Any defective piece is to be sent to the forge. And all other equipment is to be thoroughly cleaned and its power reserves restored.

“But before you set to your tasks, I want every page to be associated with an upperclassman to supervise. Ask Jennifer or K here to help you find a partner if need be. Dismissed.”

“Great,” Keva says, puffing her cheeks. “Now I’m definitely going to get a chipped nail.”

Everyone scrambles at once to get to work—the faster we are done, the faster we can finish our day. I’m amazed at how orderly everything is as I watch the school file toward the armory and come back, arms full of weapons and armor.

When we reach the arsenal, Gauvain’s the one who hands me a set of knives and a shield, though not without a doubtful look.

“Sure you can handle this?” he asks. “You’re still a
bébé
¹⁰
here.”

“That’s why I’m going to get paired up with someone who knows what to do,” I reply with a smile.

Gauvain relents, and when I get back outside, people are already set into circles or pairs about the stadium’s floor, checking the equipment, while others are tasked with taking the flawed gear to the forge.

A large fire blazes in the center of the arena, next to two large vats.

“What are they doing?” I wonder, but I discover that both Jack and Keva have left me to my own devices—no pity for the dummy, I guess.

To the right of the entrance is Jennifer, giving Laura and Dina directions before she helps a squire out. I shudder—she’s the last person I want to ask for help. But as I look about the blonde girl, I don’t see this Kay Arthur mentioned, so, with a deep, heartfelt sigh, I approach the curvaceous girl.

“What do you want, page?” she asks me.

I can see tiny beads of sweat hanging around her temples, but even so, Jennifer seems to be glowing. Some people are just born lucky, no matter how undeserving.

“I don’t know who to partner up with,” I say.

“Well, that’s a problem. I doubt anyone wants to pair up with you. It’d be too much work.”

She looks about, and then a cruel glint enters her light-blue eyes.

“Marcos,” she yells.

A large, greasy-looking boy looks up, surprised at being called out. As he nears us, I realize why she picked him for me. An indescribable stench seems to emanate from him, the smell of something sweet and of eggs gone bad.

“Well, there you are!” Percy shouts, striding toward us with purpose.

Jennifer’s smooth brow puckers as Percy throws his arm around my shoulders, forcing me to bend my knees a little.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says to Jennifer. “I’ve bin told to help this little dogie
¹¹
out, considerin’ she don’t know much about the lay of the land.”

This time, Jennifer looks decidedly unhappy. “Get back to work, Marcos,” she snaps at him.

I throw her a bright smile and wave at her as much as my load permits, then follow Percy. We find an empty spot close to the large bonfire, and I settle next to him, a dagger in my lap.

“Is it Arthur who asked you to keep an eye on me?” I ask casually.

“Nah, it was Gauvain, got worried since you’re new and all.” He raises his eyebrow. “Why, ya wanted it to be Arthur?”

“Of course not!” I exclaim, hunching over my weapon to hide my embarrassment. “Just curious.”

“Gimme that before ya cut yerself,” he says.

I hand him the knife reluctantly.

“The way ya go ’bout it is simple,” he says, holding the weapon up so the light of the fire reflects off the blade. He then points at the gleaming black stone wedged inside it near the handle. “See this ogham in the bolster? Ya wanna make sure it’s secure. The last thing ya want is to find yerself with a captured Fey that’s accidentally been set free.”

“Is that what happened to Owen?”

“Uh-huh,” Percy says, testing the gem’s casing. “See, the Fey’s source of magic ain’t the stone itself.”

I stare, wide-eyed, at the black stone. “So why do we call it that?”

Percy shrugs and sets the knife aside. “Shorthand, I guess.” He picks up the first of a pair of vambraces and holds it to the light of the fire. The dull metal of the piece of armor glimmers, and I notice rows of pearls lining its edge.

“It’s more of a…a link, I s’pose,” he drawls, giving me a lopsided smile. “Sorry if my explainin’ ain’t too good. I ain’t got a flannel mouth
¹²
like yer brother.”

I shake my head. “So the oghams link to the real source?” I ask.

“Tha’s right.”

“Which is what?”

“Nature, I guess,” he says after a moment of thought. “Some used to say it was to their queen, Danu, but that was ages ago and must’ve been wrong, ’cause I ain’t heard of her no more, and she’s thought to be long dead now.” He frowns and brings the vambrace closer to his face.

“Come ’ere,” he says.

I crawl over, and he points to a hairline fracture leading out from one of the pearls.