“You are skilled,” Irik said softly to Arabella, the edge of daggers dug into his throat and he could feel Arabella’s cool determination and indifference to his death, she would kill him if required to protect her friend and would feel no regret. He was in the presence of a killer.
“Of course I am skilled,” Arabella said tartly, “Widow Medea sent us here across those godforsaken plains and through the forest for one reason, more important than your life and mine; the girl you so effortlessly flung against the wall is the Foreseen and we need you to train her.”
Irik laughed, “The Foreseen? And she cannot withstand my attack?”
Arabella raised her knee and dug it into his back, an uncomfortable position for Irik, “She is untrained, but more powerful than you could imagine, are you going to help us? Or am I going to have to slit your throat to persuade the others?”
Irik nodded quickly and Arabella kicked him away, sheathing her daggers. Irik walked over to Wynn who was unconscious on the floor, bleeding profusely from her split skull. He lifted her up, supporting her head, and ran his hand over the wound, watching it slowly close. Cocking his head the three dozen men and women ran from the shadows, out of the door and were gone.
Arabella turned to Nethali and opened her mouth to apologise, it was not every day that she assaulted people she had just met. Nethali stood and held up her hand, “You wish to stay here also?”
Arabella nodded, “If it pleases you, we are both being hunted and I could use this time to train and hone my skills.”
Nethali smiled at this, “From that display I can reassure you that your skills seem very honed but yes of course you can stay here. While you are here you are safe, there is an ancient magic that protects us here, evil cannot enter. If you had had malevolent intentions towards us you would have been struck dead as soon as you crossed the outer wall.”
Arabella nodded gratefully, they were safe, after months of travel and of tragedy they had reached the Seminary of Berhandril. Relief flooded through her and she collapsed with exhaustion.
***
Wynn woke in a soft bed, thick cotton sheets draped over her. She opened her eyes slowly, unaware at first where she was, still half wrapped in her dream, and half pondering the fact that the ground had somehow become extremely comfortable. Stretching leisurely she sat up and blearily looked around her and almost jumped from her skin. She was in a large whitewashed room, her bed pushed right up against the wall, a window above her let golden light flood into the room. In the middle sat a chair, a pair of breeches, a cotton shirt, socks and boots draped over it. Further behind that was a cabinet and dresser and next to that a door.
Wynn pulled the covers off and saw she was in undergarments that did not belong to her. She grasped the covers again and pulled them over her, as though someone was watching. Where were her clothes? She swallowed and tried to calm down. Someone had undressed her and placed her in bed. Her heart went cold and nausea rose in her stomach. She could not remember anything. Wait... something. They had reached the Seminary, a man with tattoos and a woman with red hair... next thing she knew her head was in searing pain... and she had woken up in this bed. Slowly and cautiously Wynn swung her legs out of bed and walked to the chair. The floor was cool on her bare feet. She dressed quickly, feeling vulnerable, made her bed, then opened the door and poked her head outside. The corridor was deserted; she stepped outside and shut the door behind her.
She was struck firstly and most importantly by the magnitude of emotions that bombarded her senses. She staggered at the force of it, her hand thrown out to steady herself against the wall. Wynn closed her eyes and took a breath, there were so many people. After a month of near silence, save Arabella and the few weeks with Wolf and her tribe, Wynn had forgotten how overwhelming it was to be so surrounded by the emotions and thoughts of hundreds of people. They spoke all at once and felt all at once but Wynn found after a moment of deep breathing she could push them to the back of her mind, a constant, but quieter noise. They had been asleep, all the students of the Seminary when she had arrived the night before, so the flux had not been there but now the force of them was staggering.
Wynn, when she was recovered, stood up. She had not realised she had doubled over, and had not realised how flushed she was. She could feel the heat on her cheeks and chest. The corridor was still deserted and Wynn was glad. She did not want anyone to see her so incapacitated over a part of her gift that came naturally to everyone else. Brushing the hair from her face Wynn straightened her shoulders and inspected the castle that was to be her home while she learnt how to truly use her magic.
It looked old, the stone walls, and a mere glance at them would make the viewer perceive it as such, but if one looked closer, as Wynn was doing now, she could see the veins of magic that ran through the stone and kept it upright and strong. In places the wall had crumbled completely but the magic ensured the weather was kept out and the heat kept in. On the walls great tapestries hung, woven from the finest thread and Wynn viewed them with interest. Oprend had had tapestries, but nothing like this. They were centuries old, that much was clear, but still bright and beautiful. Landscapes, the castle in its former glory all hung proudly on the ruined walls and Wynn could see why some thought it still beautiful.
The corridor ran both left and right and Wynn had no idea where to go. She listened out for anyone near, the corridor housed a dozen doors which she assumed were bedrooms, but all were empty. Further away she could hear the thoughts of servants and the students as they sat in lessons. The students and professors were further away, on another floor, but the servants were closer and she did not want to meet them. Wynn’s new boots sounded abnormally loud against the stone floor as she walked in the opposite direction.
She had not gone far when the same man that had shown her and Arabella into the castle the night before turned the corner and spotted her, he was carrying a tray laden with food and his face was surprisingly pleasant. She glanced at him and wondered if he had noticed her, she tried to turn on her heel but he cleared his throat and Wynn turned unwillingly back around.
“This is for you,” he said, lifting the tray as he spoke.
“Oh,” Wynn said, feeling foolish. She was unsure whether she was wary of the man or just embarrassed. She eyed the tray and wondered if it was poisoned. Surely they would not have let her sleep and given her spare clothes just to kill her? She smiled weakly at the man and followed him back to her room. He walked in, set the tray on the bed and waited for Wynn to sit beside it. She sat awkwardly, wary of his presence. He smiled encouragingly, seemingly undeterred. She glanced at the food, it looked edible, but her stomach was cold with worry.
“What’s bothering you?” the man asked, “you look famished! Eat it, it’s good, trust me.”
Had he felt her emotions? She glanced at him, her eyes darting over his face. She could feel nothing from him, no emotions or thoughts or flame of the gifted but it felt like he had replied to what she had felt not what her face or body language must have been radiating. He was pleasant looking, she decided, his face expectant as he watched her. Wynn picked up the spoon hesitantly, under the watchful gaze of the man, and slowly began to eat. The food was pottage, a soup stew made from oats, sweetened with honey and tasted wonderful to a tongue that had only tasted stale bread, cold meat, fruit and nuts for over two months. Manners forgotten she shovelled it down, having to force herself not to lick the bowl once she was finished.
The man laughed, “When you are done bring the tray back to the kitchen, take your first left then second right and knock on the door at the end of the corridor. Salina will open it.”
He smiled again and ducked out of the room. Once Wynn was sure he had gone she licked the bowl and spoon. When the bowl really was clean, she lifted the tray and opened the door with her elbow, having flashbacks of her time at Oprend Manor when she had had to learn to open doors with elbows and knees, and walked into the corridor. It was still empty, the servants were near, in the rooms around her, but all focused on cleaning and none were ready to leave. She rushed down the corridor, only once encountering a person, they ignored her completely and Wynn almost ran down the corridor in her haste not to be spoken to. When she reached the kitchen she took a deep breath and knocked on the door. As promised a woman opened the door and ushered her in. She was young compared to Cook, Wynn mused, with brown hair piled messily on top of her head. She was curvy, dressed in a bright green dress which hugged her flatteringly. She had a thick, broad accent, which seemed to be the accent of Berhandril, a lilt and emphasis in certain words.
Salina inspected her unashamedly, picking her arms up and prodding her, “Irik mentioned we had two new guests. He did not mention they were as skinny as twigs,” she clucked, letting go of her arm and sauntering over to the sink to finish washing the dishes. The kitchen was small and narrow. A sink sat underneath the window against the wall, in the middle of the room, counters latched onto it either side. To the right was a door which Wynn guessed led outside. To the left of the room were shelves stacked full of herbs, vegetables, dried and fresh, and cured meats. Beside Wynn, in the wall was an unlit fire, over that hung a hook, which could be turned into a spit. Wynn was gladder than she could say that Salina at least did not have the ability to hide her emotions, there was no Magus flame burning deep inside her and her emotions and thoughts screamed to be heard. In relief Wynn surrounded herself in Salina’s feelings, revelling in the normality – or the normality that Wynn knew since she had become a Magus – of her trivial problems; the dirty dish that refused to become clean, the timings of all her meals, endless recipes, curiosity at Wynn’s presence.
Wynn watched Salina washing the dishes, struck by how unafraid she was. Maybe it was the similarity of the surroundings, and how much Salina reminded her of Cook, but here in this kitchen she was not scared of the Seminary or of the tattooed man or the woman with red hair. Wynn grinned and offered to help and was confused when Salina laughed and shooed her away, as it the prospect had been absurd. Wynn left the kitchen hesitantly feeling lost again.
Leaving the kitchen brought back her fears and as she walked through the maze of corridors Wynn pondered what had happened the night before, instinctively feeling the back of her head as she did so. Nothing was there, and she did not know what she had expected to find, but the memory of the pain had not left her. Irik, the man had been called, and Nethali, these strange people who hid their emotions and attacked visitors. She would avoid them and –
“Wynn!”
Wynn turned around and found Arabella running towards her. Her black hair fanned out behind her and her tanned skin looked beautifully exotic. Despite herself Wynn felt jealousy flare like a flame inside her.
“Where have you been?” She panted, as she reached Wynn.
“Exploring,” Wynn said distractedly, she felt better now Arabella was with her, if they encountered Irik and Nethali Arabella would protect her.
“What do you remember of last night?” Arabella asked. Wynn glanced at her friend, her face was simmering with happiness, it radiated from Arabella and Wynn felt it wash over her. She remembered nothing but flashes, Irik and Nethali stepping from the shadows frighteningly, then their simultaneous rage and then blinding, white hot pain in her skull. Wynn raised her hand to head again. Arabella’s eyes flickered as she saw the flashes.
Her mouth turned down at one side, “Not much, of any importance anyway. Come.”
Arabella grabbed Wynn by the wrist and led her down the corridor. Wynn followed obediently for she trusted Arabella. As they walked she glanced at Arabella’s belt, no weapons were sheathed there, it did not matter to Arabella, she could kill a man with her bare hands and much preferred it to magic, bare hands were undetectable whereas the remnants of magic remained – but for some reason Wynn felt like Arabella’s lack of weapons was a sign that she felt somewhat comfortable and safe here. Arabella stopped outside a door at the end of a corridor and Wynn looked at it, recognising it as the door to the Great Hall, where she had met Irik and Nethali and been attacked.
“What are we doing here?” Wynn said stiffly. She would not forget Irik’s attack easily, he was strange and it seemed, even from only one meeting, that he was prone to great changes in temperament. Strong too, unbelievably strong, both magically and in combat; Wynn knew enough to gauge it in him, and Nethali too.
“Just come,” Arabella urged, ignoring Wynn’s worry and dragging her through the door and into the room. It was not much different than last night, instead that sunlight now flooded through the broken roof highlighting how vast it really was, with no shadows to hide in. Irik and Nethali stood formally in the centre of the room, three dozen or so people behind them. Wynn walked hesitantly forward and stopped a few paces before them.
She inspected them, determined not to cow under their gaze. Irik was tall and muscled, his shaven head severe. Wynn had only ever seen The General in Woodstone sporting such a style. The tattoos that lined his arms were thick and black, lines and swirls that told no story, no words or pictures but were striking against his skin. He was intimidating and Wynn could not help but be terrified of him.
Nethali was softer, standing beside her lover, but equally as daunting. Her red hair was soft and wavy, golden streaks running through it. Her face was hard now, but Wynn knew it was beautiful. Her brown eyes watched knowingly and her full lips were pressed tightly together. Her black dress was tight to her body, completely different to any style Wynn had ever seen. Its long sleeves hugged her arms and a belt clung to her waist. A woman in Woodstone would never wear such a revealing outfit, which showed their shape and curves. It would only ask for trouble and all the women knew what it meant to gain the attention of the soldiers. Nethali was clearly undeterred and flaunted her shape. There must be no such fear here, Wynn mused.
“I would like to apologise for last night,” Irik began, bowing to Wynn, Wynn, startled, did not bow back, but Irik carried on undeterred, “it was completely unnecessary for me punish you just for mentioning Widow Medea. You must understand that she was one of our professors and we all thought she was dead, she tutored us for over a decade and then mysteriously vanished over thirty summers ago, we feared for her life until recently we received consistent news that she had been captured by Aerona. When you mentioned her I wrongly assumed thought you were Aerona’s spies who had somehow broken the ancient magic protecting our castle, come to capture us. I can only apologise again and hope you understand that in these times vigilance is of the utmost importance and that appearances can be deceptive.”