The Mindmage's Wrath: A Book of Underrealm (The Academy Journals 2) (11 page)

She looked skyward. “Blast that man. Doubtless he did not think of it, and has forgotten what it was like to be a student. You are not in trouble.”

Ebon could not help it: he let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his water. He put the cup down and coughed, and then sank into the cushions while pounding on his chest.

Jia graced him with a small smile, though she hid it quickly. “I imagine you were worried.”

“I may have been,” said Ebon, his voice hoarse with choking.

Her smile died. “Well and good. But this is still a matter of gravest importance. I must ask you some questions, and it is imperative that you are absolutely honest.”

Ebon sat up straighter. “Of course, Instructor.”

“Tell me what happened when you left us, the day the Seat was attacked.”

His heart quailed. He had guessed wrong. This was to do with Cyrus, not Credell. She had said he was not in trouble, so she did not suspect him of anything. But still this seemed a dangerous line of questioning.

“I thought I had explained that already.”

“Tell me again. The whole of the tale, from beginning to end.”

Shifting in his seat, Ebon repeated the same lie he had told her before, when he and Adara had landed on the shores of Selvan, and then made their way to the other refugees. It was a lie Adara had helped him craft. In his ear he heard her voice as though she were speaking to him now.
 

They must believe your reason for leaving them, and so it must be something you would do—good-hearted, if perhaps a bit foolish.

“After the blue-clad soldiers attacked us in the streets, I thought I saw someone running close by. They wore black robes, and so I thought a student had become separated from the group. I chased after them.”

“Which was—”

“Foolish, I know,” said Ebon, ducking his head. Hopefully she would think it was shame at her chastisement, rather than at the lie he told. Again, he heard Adara’s soft words.

The best lie is rooted in truth, yet you can make no mention of me whatever. Therefore I shall be someone else—someone who will speak to the truth of your tale, if I ask them to.

“But still, I did it. And when finally I caught them, I found only a woman in a black dress who had fled the fighting. I tried to return with her to the other students, but you had already left through the wall. I followed the trail to the docks, from which you had already sailed. There was a small rowboat that had been cast off from its ship and was nearly too far from the docks to reach. I dove into the Bay, swam to it, and rowed back to her. Then we set out for Selvan.”

“The woman’s name?”

Mitra.

“Mitra. She told me she was a handmaiden from the palace.”

Jia sighed and leaned back, steepling her fingers. “Very well. We have spoken with the woman, and she tells the same tale. I am sorry I had to ask again, but the Dean insisted.”

A wave of relief washed through him, though he tried to hide it.

Jia looked away for a moment, and then leaned forwards again. “Ebon, tell me one thing—and no matter your answer, I vow to you that I will not be upset. Do you swear that you did not return to the Academy at any time during the attack?”

His heart skipped a beat. “No, Instructor. I mean, yes, I do swear it. I did not return here.” Then he hesitated. He had no wish to further this line of thinking—and yet, he had
not
returned to the Academy, and could hardly say anything to incriminate himself. So he pressed on: “Why do you ask?”

She regarded him carefully. “Have you heard any rumors floating about the halls of late?”

Ebon blushed. “Perhaps. Something to do with the vaults.”

Carefully she folded her hands on the desk. “Yes. I would ask you
never
to repeat such rumors. They do no one any good, though of course all our attempts to quell them have only redoubled them. But yes, something was taken from the vaults. Already we sought the thief, of course, but Instructor Credell’s death has given the search a fresh urgency. Whoever broke into the vaults may have had something to do with the murder. So I will ask you once more, and then leave it alone. Did you return to the Academy during the fighting? If you saw anything—anything at all—it could be the kernel of information that helps us discover the thief’s identity—and mayhap the murderer’s.”

Ebon understood at last, and relaxed. They were questioning him not about Cyrus, but about the theft—and not because he was a Drayden, but because he had become separated from the group. He could answer honestly, and with a clear conscience. “No, Instructor. I swear it—I left the Academy when you did, and returned with you. I know nothing of the vaults. I am only relieved you do not suspect me of the theft.”

Jia smirked. “Oh, there was no question of that. The vaults are protected by incredibly powerful enchantments and—you will forgive my saying so—you were only a first-year transmuter. We know without doubt that you had no hand in the theft itself.”

Ebon laughed wryly, and it earned him another smile. “Mayhap this is the first time I am gladdened by my own lack of power.”

“Not for long, I think. Under Perrin’s able tutelage, you should progress through your lessons most quickly.”

He sat up. “I will return to class and attempt to prove you right.”

“Not just yet,” she said, holding up a finger. From a drawer in her desk she withdrew a slip of paper, and then leaned forwards to hand it to him. “A missive, sent for you.”

Ebon frowned—and then he recognized the Drayden family seal pressed into the wax that held the parchment closed. He blanched.

Jia’s eyes hardened. “Is everything all right?”

He tried to force a smile. “Fine, Instructor.” He took the letter and cracked the seal. There, in his mother’s thin handwriting, was a simple note:

We have arrived, and await you in the manor.

—Hesta

Carefully he folded the letter and stowed it in a pocket. His throat was suddenly dry, and he took another sip of water.

“Ebon, you look troubled. Tell me what is wrong.”

“It is my family,” Ebon said reluctantly. “They have arrived upon the Seat.”

Jia leaned back in her chair, letting a few heartbeats of silence stretch between them. “I see. Far be it from me to pry into your affairs, Ebon. But you know, do you not, that you need not visit them if you do not wish to?”

Ebon gave a wry smile and shook his head. “If I did not, they would send someone to fetch me.”

“The family Drayden is powerful indeed, but their reach does not penetrate the Academy’s walls.” Ebon heard steel hidden in her words—not anger at him, but an unyielding promise of strength. “Especially since Dean Cyrus was lost. Stay, if you wish, and I vow that no one will drag you forth.”

Her conviction, and the kindness that rested behind it, brought a lump to the back of his throat and made his eyes smart. But he wondered if she would speak so confidently if she knew of Mako, who seemed to appear and disappear from the library on a whim. “I thank you, Instructor. And if it were only my father who wished to see me, I might do as you say. But it is my mother as well—in fact, the note came from her—and my aunt Halab, who has always been kind to me. And most of all, my sister, Albi, who I have missed the longest. No. I will go to see them, though the good will be tarnished by the bad.”

“As you wish. You may go now, if you wish. I will send a note along to excuse you from the day’s classes. As I said, discuss the vault with no one.”

“I will not, Instructor.”

She gave him a sharp look, eyes glinting. “Not even with Theren and young Kalem?”

Ebon swallowed and looked away. “I ... of course not, Instructor.”

Her pursed lips made him wonder if she believed him. “Hm. Well, if you should think of anything else that might help ...”

“I will tell you at once, Instructor,” said Ebon. “And ... thank you.”

He left her and made for the Academy’s front door, shaking his arms as he went, for a thrill of fear still coursed through him.

twelve

EBON STOPPED IN THE FRONT hall. He had meant to go straight into the street and make for the manor. But now he wondered if he should go up to his dormitory and change into fresh robes. His hands shook no matter how he tried to rid himself of his anxiety, and his breath came so shallow that it set his head to spinning.

He heard his father’s voice in his mind.
Coward. Sniveling coward.
And indeed, he felt himself on the verge of tears. Self-loathing filled him at the fear that blossomed in his breast, and yet he could not dismiss it.

What did he think would happen? Did he think his father would strike him? Harm him? Try to kill him, even? No, certainly not. Especially not if Halab were there, which she would be. Would Shay try to remove him from the Academy? Ebon doubted it, for he could have done that by letter—and again, there was Halab. She would object, and Shay would not gainsay her.

Perhaps Ebon only feared the look in his father’s eyes—the hatred he knew he would find there, and the scorn.

He forced himself to square his shoulders. Never mind going upstairs to change. He had no other clothes—only his student’s robes were allowed in the citadel. He could don a fresh set, but why? It would make no difference to his father. Let Shay see him with some of the day’s dust upon him, and with palms smudged with ink from his books. Ebon was a wizard now—or at least, he was studying to be one. Shay could face that truth, or fly into a rage at it, but it would change nothing.

Quickly then he strode to the Academy’s wide front door. Mellie stood there, and Ebon made to stop and explain. But before he could, she reached over and opened the door without saying a word. He stared for a moment, confused, but then shook his head and left. He had long ago given up on trying to make sense of the mad woman’s actions.

Winter had come at last to the High King’s Seat, and snow fell gently from the grey above. Though clouds covered the sky, they were thin, and so the sun still glowed through them, lighting the island in its glow. The snow muffled all sound, so that the clattering of construction and the rumbling of wagon wheels sounded distant, like a city observed from atop a mountain.

Ebon had retrieved his overcoat from where it hung outside Perrin’s classroom, and he wrapped it tighter about himself. His hood helped keep his hair free of the falling snow. Quietly he murmured thanks that the streets were clear, for his shoes were not meant to wade through deep drifts. Servants of the High King had been about, their horses dragging great plows that pushed the snow off and into the gutters.

Back home, in Idris, the cold had sometimes been worse than this. But Idris was a desert, and never saw snow. Some thought that meant the land was gentler, but in truth, it was the opposite. Here, in the green lands, the earth itself resisted any changes in weather. When the day was hot, the ground held that heat, so that evening took longer to cool the air. And when the sun rose in the morning, the trees clutched at night’s chill, and sent it wafting along on dawn’s breezes.

In the desert, change came fast and harsh. The sun’s absence turned night into a frozen void where one could die from exposure in no time. And daylight’s baking rays were reflected by the sand itself, so that travelers were roasted from above and below. All life and society in Idris were tailored around the desert’s merciless nature, from the homes to the horses. Despite the snow that dusted him now, Ebon found this land far gentler, and felt grateful for it.

He had thought the road to the Drayden manor would seem longer, with the dread of his father looming over him. But in fact, it seemed far too short a time before he stood outside the gates, hands shoved under his arms to protect them from the chill. He hesitated before stepping forwards, keenly aware that he could still turn around and go back to the Academy. Certainly his family would fetch him, one way or another, but it would stall the reunion for at least another day.

But then he thought of his father, the last time they had seen each other. It had been in the courtyard, the very one before which he now stood. And without saying farewell, his father had hidden within a carriage, concealing his face in the curtains, too ashamed to so much as glance at his only living son.

Ebon’s heart burned.
He
was not the coward. That epithet belonged to his father.

He stepped forwards and pounded on the iron gate.

A hatch slid open, and a yeoman peered out. “Master Ebon,” grunted the man. “You are expected. A moment, my lord.”

The hatch screeched shut, and then the gate groaned as men dragged it open. A slight wind wafted out from the courtyard through the gap, making Ebon blink. When the gate was open, he saw the courtyard was filled with wagons. Trade goods to be sold upon the Seat, Ebon guessed—spices, most likely. He trudged through the snow, for here there were no shovels or plows, and through the front door.

No one waited for him in the front hall, nor on the high landing that overlooked it. The staircases were empty, and no servants could be seen moving through the adjoining hallways. But Ebon heard voices from upstairs, where the manor had a sort of common room, and then a light laugh that sent his heart racing: that was Albi for certain, though there was something different about her voice.

Excitement seized him, and left all thought of his father forgotten. He leapt up the stairs two at a time, hand gliding on the rail as a smile forced itself across his face. Feet pounding on the stone, he ran like a child down the hallway and threw open the door.

There they sat—but not for long, for as soon as they saw him they all rose to greet him. Halab caught his eye first, her beaming smile warming him to the heart, and then his mother, who rushed forwards to embrace him. But she was overtaken, as a short, plump figure threw itself past her and into Ebon’s arms, clutching his neck and crying delight into his ear.

“Ebon, you useless, horrible,
horrible
...” Albi’s words vanished, replaced by sharp sniffs as she choked back tears.

He held her, arms locked as though he might never release her—though he did, when Hesta arrived and demanded a free arm to hug her with, as well. Albi drew back a step, looking up at him with shining eyes.