The Exiled Queen (24 page)

“Call in his partner,” she murmured to Gryphon.

Gryphon called, “Newling Hayden!”

When Dancer came back in from the corridor, Abelard said, “Hayden, Alister and I have been talking about his experiences in Aediion. What do you remember?”

Dancer’s eyes flicked from Han to Abelard, as if he suspected he was walking into a trap. Han tried to send him a message with his eyes.

“Well,” Dancer said, “I don’t remember much.”

“Blood and bones of the Demon King!” Abelard exploded. “Just tell me what you do remember.” When Dancer glanced at Han again, Abelard gripped Dancer’s chin and wrenched his head around. “Look at me, newling.”

Dancer fingered his amulet as if for reassurance. “Beforehand, we agreed to meet back home, in a place we know on Hanalea. So we—”

“What would you know about Hanalea?” Abelard interrupted. “It is forbidden for wizards to go there.”

“I was born on Hanalea,” Dancer said calmly.

“You’re Spirit clan, aren’t you?” Abelard said as if she hadn’t been talking behind his back. “I’ve never seen any gifted come out of the camps before.”

“I’m mixed-blood,” Dancer said, without elaborating. “So after I spoke the charm, I saw Han walking toward me. He was kind of flickering, like someone you see by firelight, and his clothes kept changing.” He paused. “I guess I must have been dreaming.”

“And — ?” Abelard prompted. “Then what happened?”

“Well, we talked some. Then I — ah — woke up.”

The dean’s eyes narrowed. “But Alister did not return with you?”

Dancer shook his head. “When I opened my eyes, Han was slumped over the table. I waited for him to wake up. Everyone else was awake, except Micah Bayar and Master Gryphon. Fiona went to find you. Then Master Gryphon woke and came to help.”

Abelard reached toward Dancer’s amulet, and it brightened in response. She drew her hand back again. “Unlike Alister, you’ve not totally depleted your amulet. You were either smart enough to follow directions, or you never went there at all.”

She smiled a brittle smile. “Alister. I often work with exceptional students, even newlings. Plan to meet me in my office four weeks from today. I’ll see what I can find out about you in the meantime.” She walked to the podium and picked up the Kinley, riffling through it.

It was their signal to leave so she could have a solitary chat with Gryphon.

Bones, Han thought. What could the dean find out about him in a month? And what would she do with that information?

“Hayden, take Alister back to his room and see that he rests a while,” Gryphon said. “He’ll need to restore power to his amulet before class tomorrow. Don’t forget your pages. And may I suggest you both do the reading for next time,” he called after them as they walked toward the door.

As they crossed the grassy quad, Dancer kept one hand under Han’s elbow, steadying him. Han pulled free. “I’ll live,” he said.

“You’re cold as the Dyrnnewater, you know that, right?” Dancer said. “You’re always hotter than me, but there’s nothing there.” He shook his head in amazement.

“Was it real?” Han asked, scuffling through a pile of leaves. “Did we really meet on Old Woman Creek?”

Dancer nodded, looking sideways at him. “You said Cat was sweet on me.”

“And you said Fiona Bayar lusted after me.” Han raised an eyebrow.

“She does, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, grinning. “Truly.”

“So Abelard wants to work with me and not you,” Han said. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“I’m a copperhead,” Dancer said. “That’s what it’s about.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not exactly heartbroken.”

“If she teaches me anything useful, I’ll pass it along,” Han said. They walked in silence for a few paces. “Did you see anything else?” Han asked. “Before you closed the portal?”

Dancer shook his head. “Like what?”

“Somebody else showed up, just as you left. A blueblood wizard a little older than us. Called himself Crow. You didn’t see him?”

Dancer shrugged. “No. Was it someone from class?”

“I didn’t recognize him, but he had to have been from Mystwerk, anyway,” Han said. “He said he was faculty here.”

“How would he find us on Hanalea? Don’t you have to be able to visualize a place before you visit it in Aediion?” Dancer said.

Han shrugged. “I got no idea. I don’t know how this works. But maybe somebody overheard us saying we were meeting there.” Maybe I should go back and read the text, he thought.

“So what happened?” Dancer said. “Did he say anything?”

Han remembered what Crow had said. Do not tell a soul about this.

No reason he had to do as Crow commanded. “He said he wanted to partner up with me against the Bayars. He offered to teach me magic. Then Gryphon yanked me back.”

Dancer looked at Han for a long moment, his brows drawn together. Finally he said, “Well, you were lucky, Hunts Alone. Fiona went after Abelard because Gryphon and Micah were out almost as long as you. We were beginning to think nobody was coming back. I was about ready to open the portal and go back after you when they woke up. Gryphon rushed over and revived you.”

“Huh,” Han said. “Well, if Gryphon really went to Aediion, he must be stoked, then. He still had plenty of power on board, and I was nearly out.”

“How did you leave it with Crow, then?” Dancer asked.

Han snorted. “I didn’t say, one way or the other, but I an’t a fool. Seems chancy to take lessons from someone I don’t know in a place where I don’t know the rules.”

Just like Oden’s Ford, he thought.

The bells in Mystwerk Tower sounded the end of the first class period, meaning they had fifteen minutes to walk downriver to their next class at Healer’s Hall. Something about amulets and talismans.

“I’ll walk you back to Hampton, and then go on to class,” Dancer said.

“I an’t going back to Hampton,” Han said, turning onto the gallery along the river. “I don’t want to miss class. We’re behind enough already.”

“But Master Gryphon said—”

“We won’t tell him, all right?”

But Crow’s words still sounded in his mind, like a phrase of music he couldn’t forget.

I can teach you how to use that amulet. I can teach you marvelous things.

DEAN’S

DINNER

When Han returned to Gryphon’s class the next day, he made sure he did nothing to call attention to himself. His amulet was still low on power, though he’d stoked it all night long. He kept a hand wrapped around it all morning, and it greedily sucked him dry.

His report on his visit to Aediion was as sketchy as anyone’s. Gryphon smashed his lips together tight, but said nothing after except “Thank you, Alister. That is, indeed, a remarkable story.”

Micah and Fiona provided equally vague reports.

Han read and studied Kinley like a fiend, searching for answers. He couldn’t ask Gryphon because that would only draw the master’s attention. After the incident with Abelard, they left the topic of Aediion for good. The master continued to pick on Han in class, regularly descending on him like a predator bird with broken wings and a savage bite. It was as if he blamed Han for getting him into trouble with Dean Abelard.

Han stayed up late every night, preparing for class, trying to make himself less vulnerable to attack. The threat of humiliation was incredibly motivating.

The rest of the class suffered too, just not so often as Han. Gryphon reduced Darnleigh to tears, ridiculed the Mander brothers, and treated Dancer like an idiot. Even the Bayars came in for tough questioning at times, though it seemed to Han that Gryphon’s verbal blade was blunted in their case. Especially with Fiona.

Twice during the next week, Dean Abelard came into the class and sat at the back of the room. She tapped her fingers on the desk in front of her, her face grim and unsmiling in the faint glow from her amulet. During those sessions Gryphon floundered, often losing his train of thought.

Micah and his cousins spent little time at Hampton Hall, so Han rarely saw them except in class. They preferred The Crown and Castle, where they held court nightly with Fiona and Will and a large crowd of Mystwerk newlings Micah was tight with. It made sense. Most of Han’s class came from the Fells; they’d likely been cozy since childhood.

Han forced himself to go into The Crown and Castle now and then, just to make show, even though the taproom went silent when he entered, and Micah’s mates made a point of grabbing their purses and guarding their amulets if he came anywhere near.

Seven weeks into the term, the newlings were notified that Dean Abelard would host the first Dean’s Dinner at Mystwerk Hall on Temple Day. All Mystwerk students, proficients, and faculty were expected to attend.

Han didn’t look forward to coming under Dean Abelard’s eye again. His face-to-face with her was only a week away. He still clung to the frail hope he could get out of it.

As Han dressed for dinner, he was glad for the red robe of anonymity he pulled on over his clothes. He’d bathed, scraped the stubble from his face, combed his hair, and shined up his amulet with a chamois. He couldn’t think of how else to prepare.

Mystwerk Hall was ablaze with lights as Han and Dancer walked across the quad, the entryway spattered with red robes. For once it wasn’t raining, though a brisk wind from the north said the weather was changing.

Servants wearing Mystwerk livery directed them into the Great Hall.

At the front of the room, long tables glittered with plates and cups and silver—more of each than seemed needful, when there wasn’t even any food set out.

Great banners hung from the cavernous ceilings—wizard house emblems, including the familiar Stooping Falcons of the Bayars.

What would his banner be, if he had one, Han wondered.

Although everyone wore the requisite red robes, most were decorated—with stoles bearing the signia of their wizard houses, and with the badges and embroideries denoting their academic ranks. Many wore jewelry beyond their amulets—gaudy rings on their fingers, heavy gold chains and wrist-cuffs. Even in his red plumage, Han felt underdressed, like the plainest of sparrows.

Han located the Bayars amid a cluster of students on the far side of the room. As he watched, Micah glanced at Han, then said something that set the others to snickering. Fiona was facing Han also, and she looked up and caught his eye. She held his gaze for a long moment, her face as hard and cold as marble, then turned toward Wil.

Han felt the familiar prickle of danger between his shoulder blades. Straying onto blueblood turf was like walking the streets of Southbridge without a gang mark or a reputation to protect you.

Touching his amulet for reassurance, he put his street face on.

Drinks were on offer at a bar in one corner, so he and Dancer headed that way, sliding past clusters of students and faculty.

As they passed, conversation washed over them. Han caught snatches of it—the words “Ragmarket” and “slumlord” and “copperhead” struck his ears like sour notes.

Han scanned the array of glittering bottles, casks, and barrels at the bar. Not just ale and cider, but brandy, wine, and whiskey, too. Han thought of Lucius Frowsley, back home on Hanalea, and wondered if his distillery was still in business, and who carried product for him now.

Han and Dancer both ordered cider. This dinner would be tricky enough to navigate with a clear head.

Adam Gryphon entered the room in his wheeled chair, maneuvering expertly through the crowd toward the bar.

Too bad he can’t use that chair all the time, Han thought. But the academy was riddled with steps, curbs, cobblestones, and other hazards.

Someone tugged at Han’s sleeve, and he spun around, nearly spilling his cider.

He faced a girlie with extremely pale skin and short-cropped, spiky black hair streaked with wizard red. She wore a red robe sewn over with proficient trim. Her hands were loaded with rings, and much of her visible skin was covered in bright, metallic tattoos, like painted-on jewelry. The design seemed to ripple and move on its own.

“They’re talismans and wards,” the girlie explained, brushing her fingers over a symbol on the back of her hand. “To protect against hex magic.”

“Ah,” Han said, trying to think of the right thing to say. “Is someone trying to hex you?”

She nodded, then stood on tiptoes so she could stage whisper in his ear. “I’m Mordra deVilliers,” she said. As if that explained it.

“I’m Han Alister,” Han said. He nodded toward Dancer. “And this is Hayden Fire Dancer.”

“I know,” Mordra deVilliers said, looking from one to the other, her eyes wide and solemn. “Is it true you’re a thief and a murderer?”

Han just looked at her.

There was no trace of judgment in her face, only avid curiosity. When he didn’t answer right away, she rushed on. “They say you’re a notorious criminal, and that you tried to murder Lord Bayar.” She turned to Dancer. “And they say that you are a copperhead spy.”

Dancer glanced at Han. “Who told you that?” he asked.

Mordra tilted her head toward the Bayars’ corner.

“So.” Han rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you think?”

“Well,” she said, nodding at Dancer, “you are a copperhead.” She turned to Han. “And you sound like a street person, even if you’re not dressed like one.” She scanned his face. “And you do look rather ruthless, with those scars and all.”

How did he sound like a street person? Han wondered. He hadn’t even said that much.

“Should you be talking to us, then?” he asked. “Could be chancy.”

Mordra shrugged. “They don’t think much of me either, because I’m from the down-realms. Even though my bloodline is pure, and my father’s on the council. Dean Abelard favors me, though, because I have considerable talent.” She extended her arm, displaying the trim on her robes. “I’m the youngest proficient ever.”

“You must be rum clever,” Han said.

“If you’re smart, she’ll take notice of you too,” Mordra said. “Doesn’t matter who you are.” She glanced at Dancer, and shrugged. “Unless you’re a copperhead, of course.”

This Mordra may be smart, but she’ll say anything that comes into her head, Han thought.

“Maybe I don’t want to be noticed,” he said.

“Oh, you want to be,” Mordra said. “Dean Abelard offers special classes for Mystwerk students with potential.”

“What kind of classes?” Han asked.

Again, Mordra went up on tiptoes, grabbing onto his arm to keep her balance. “Forbidden magic,” she breathed, her warm breath tickling his ear. “Powerful spells.”

An icy voice cut into their conversation. “Shut up, Mordra.”

Startled, Mordra jerked back, nearly falling. Han looked up to see that Fiona had somehow made it all the way across the room without his noticing.

“You shut up,” Mordra said, recovering herself and balling up her fists.

“You’re always spewing nonsense like a newling in his cups,” Fiona went on, rolling her eyes. “Alister is a street thug. He has no interest in your pathetic fantasy life.”

“Actually, it was fascinating,” Han said. “Mordra was just saying that—”

“Never mind,” Mordra interrupted. “Where are you sitting?”

“Wherever there’s room, I guess,” Han said. Far from the Bayars and the dean, he thought to himself. And maybe Mordra, too. She might be the only one willing to talk to him, but her chatter was wearing him out.

“You’re assigned a seat—didn’t you know? I’m at the dean’s table,” Mordra said.

“How do you know where you’re sitting?” Han asked. It always seemed like he was missing information that everyone else knew.

“There are little cards at the places,” Mordra said. “You should walk around and find yours. It’s almost time to sit down.”

Han’s place turned out to be at the dean’s table, too. With both Bayars, Adam Gryphon, another proficient, and another master. So much for avoiding notice.

Dancer was seated at a nearby table with several of the Bayars’ crew. They squirmed and leaned away as if he smelled bad. Dancer sighed and put on his trader face.

It was as if the dean had decided to make everybody miserable on purpose.

Han was seated between Mordra and Fiona, with Micah across from them, next to Master Gryphon.

Fiona sat rigid, staring straight ahead, as if she could pretend Han wasn’t right next to her.

Fortunately, servers arrived in a hurry with soup, ladling it into bowls in front of each person.

It was a thin broth, with a bit of greens floating in it. Not much of a supper, Han thought, surprised. He’d expected a more lavish spread. Spooning some up, he blew on it to cool it off. It tasted smoky and salty, like dried mushrooms and onions.

I hope we get seconds, he thought. Or at least some bread to go with. He took a few more bites, then noticed that nobody else was eating.

Across the table, Micah gazed at him, fingers templed, one eyebrow raised. Mordra leaned over. “You’re supposed to wait until everyone is served and the dean has welcomed us,” she said in a whisper loud enough to be heard at nearby tables. A titter rolled around the room.

Han put his spoon down, feeling the blood rush to his face.

It turned out that soup wasn’t supper. It was what came before supper. Supper was roast quail and potatoes and carrots and little cakes and fruit soaked in brandy set aflame and three different wines and sweet spirits in tiny cups.

Nobody else brought their cider to the table.

Though he tried to follow along with what others were doing, every so often, Han would pick up the wrong fork or eat things in the wrong order, or use the wrong sauce on the wrong thing, and Mordra would correct him in her player’s whisper, sending the room into silent convulsions of laughter.

The only ones not laughing were Dean Abelard, Dancer, Mordra, and Fiona.

Fiona?

All through dinner she drank wine but ate very little, pushing the food around her plate with a scowl on her face until the servers took it away. She drummed her fingers on the table and shifted in her seat.

Sitting next to me takes away her appetite? Han thought.

Several times, Master Gryphon leaned across the table and tried to engage Fiona in conversation, but she seemed distracted, as if she scarcely heard him.

Finally she leaned across Han to speak to Mordra. “Just stop it!” she hissed, as Mordra opened her mouth to speak when Han went to butter his roll, likely with the wrong knife.

“What?” Mordra blinked at her.

“You of all people should not be correcting anyone’s manners!” Fiona went on, her voice brittle as steel at solstice. “You are a disaster.”

Mordra thrust her chin out. “I was just trying to—”

“Stay away from Alister, or you’ll be more of a pariah than you already are,” Fiona warned.

“Both of you shut it!” Han exploded, slamming his hands down on the table, rattling the china and sloshing wine out of glasses. “It’d be easier to eat in the middle of a tavern brawl than to sit between the two of you.”

The room went dead silent.

Fiona scraped back her chair and stood. “Dean Abelard, please excuse me. I’m not feeling well.” She swept out of the hall without a backward glance.

Han looked across the table to where Micah sat staring at him, eyes narrowed in appraisal. Gryphon gazed after Fiona until she disappeared through the doorway, then fixed his uncanny eyes on Han, his face pale and furious. Dean Abelard propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands, a faint smile curving her lips.

Han stopped eating then, too, unwilling to chance more lessons from Mordra. She rattled on, and he answered in short sentences.

Finally, the endless dinner was over. Students and faculty collected into chatty groups. Han and Dancer left the hall by the back door in order to avoid contact with anyone.

“We have to do this every month?” Han muttered, the rich meal like an anvil in his middle. “Bloody bones.”

“Fiona Bayar and Mordra deVilliers were fighting over you?” The wind rattled branches overhead, and Dancer turned his collar up. When Han glared at him, he added, “It looked like it to me.”

“I got no idea what that was all about,” Han said. “Fiona doesn’t want anyone to talk to us. Maybe she wants to isolate us more than we already are.”

“Maybe she wants you for herself,” Dancer said.

“Ha.” They walked on in silence for a moment. “I wonder who goes to Abelard’s classes,” Han mused. “I wonder what she’s up to.”