The Black Witch Page 7

“Aren’t they our allies?” I put in, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

  Fallon pins me with her eyes. “For now.”

  Well, that’s interesting. “And the Kelts?” I wonder, looking to Echo. “What are their men like?”

  Fallon snorts derisively as Echo regards me somberly, her fist closed tight around her Erthia sphere. “Their blood is polluted with all types of filth—Fae blood, Urisk...even Icaral.” Echo waits to see if I’m appropriately horrified before continuing.

  Sage’s Icaral baby immediately leaps to mind, casting a pall over everything. I remember how troubled and terrified she was. A Kelt. The demon baby’s father is a Kelt. And she met him at University.

  “Priest Vogel says the Kelts are cast out and no longer First People like us,” Echo continues stridently. “They’ve secretly aligned themselves with Evil Ones, like the desert heathens and the Urisk.”

  “Look out for the Urisk women,” Fallon warns as a side note. “They may look all innocent, but they love going after our men.”

  I’ve heard Warren Gaffney going on about this on more than one occasion. The fact is, Urisk women don’t have any men of their own to go after. The Gardnerian government killed all their males during the Realm War.

  Urisk males are powerful geomancers, able to harness the full, destructive powers of stones and gems. Their existence would pose a serious threat to our country. The women, on the other hand, are completely devoid of magic and are allowed to live in Gardneria as guest workers.

  It’s a horrible thought, though—the Urisk boy babies being killed. It’s a subject I’ve never been able to discuss with Uncle Edwin, as he becomes visibly upset if I try to broach the topic, once to the point of tearing up and clutching at his chest.

  Male Urisk warlords viciously attacked our country when they had power, seeking to wipe us out, but still, it’s all so troubling.

  Echo sighs. “At least Urisk half-breeds only have weak magic, at best.”

  Paige nods to her in agreement, but Fallon is ignoring them both. Instead, she’s watching me with a silent intensity so unnerving that it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. My initial dislike of her deepens.

  “Be careful with those mixed-breeds,” Fallon tells me, a sly smile spreading across her face. I bristle, realizing she’s once again alluding to Gareth and his silver-tipped hair. She slides her thumb along the length of her wand. “Mixed-breeds are everywhere,” she purrs. “You just can’t be too careful.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Textured Silk

  “Stand up straight, now. That’s better...”

  Mage Heloise Florel pulls the measuring tape tight around my waist as I drown in embarrassment. An imperious, square woman about sixty years of age, Mage Florel is the proprietor of the dress shop. Her own long, dark tunic and skirt are exquisitely made, her gray hair plaited and tied back into a neat bun, her eyes like little green searchlights that take in every last detail.

  I’m standing on a pedestal right in the center of her fitting room with Fallon, Echo and Paige looking on. In my underwear!

  “All right. Now lift your arms above your head...”

  Mage Florel, to my mortification, begins measuring above my breasts, around my breasts and under them as she calls out numbers to a quiet Urisk girl. The girl, who looks to be about my age, takes down every number on a small piece of parchment, her face as blank as snow. Fallon makes a show of reading the girl’s notes over her shoulder and then whispering to Paige and Echo, her lips shielded with her hand, a nasty smirk on her face. I just know she’s commenting on my measurements and I flush with embarrassment.

  I glance around at the dark sea of fabric bolts surrounding me, trying to shut out Mage Florel’s poking and prodding. Everywhere I look, lining every wall to the ceiling, is luxurious fabric, much of it embroidered with intricate designs. I’d never have imagined there could be so many variations of black cloth, the colors ranging from the deepest black of night, to hues just on the edge of gray, the textures spanning from silk so shiny you expected to see your reflection in it to matte velvet.

  “You’ve got quite a nice figure,” Mage Florel remarks, eyeing my chest. “Too bad you’ve been hiding it away underneath all of those...clothes.” She nudges my discarded pile of garb with her foot.

  I can feel my face growing even hotter, but this time my embarrassment is mixed in with gratification at the compliment, and how sour Fallon looks in response to Mage Florel’s praise.

  Privately, I’m aware that I have a pleasing figure, but no one has ever publicly commented on my body before. Growing up with an uncle and two brothers, my body has always been very private, and, in the Gardnerian tradition, completely covered—from my neck to my wrists down to my feet. I’ve never shown so much as a bare ankle in public. When I reached the age when I needed more tailored clothing, I took to sewing my dresses myself.

  Finally, to my immense relief, the ordeal is over and Mage Florel orders me to get dressed, then dictates some notes to the Urisk girl regarding alterations and appropriate trim.

  It’s hard not to stare at the young Urisk woman—she’s so lovely. Like the upper-class servants at Aunt Vyvian’s house, she has lavender skin, long, pointed ears and startlingly lovely eyes that glimmer several shades of amethyst. Her violet hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she’s simply dressed in a white linen tunic and white underskirt.

  I think of the Urisk women who work the Gaffneys’ sprawling farm. They’ve always been a bit of a mystery to me, the Urisk farmworkers, with their Uriskal language and tendency to disappear as soon as the harvest work is done for the season. And they are, all of them, wizened and bedraggled. Nothing at all like this beautiful girl.

  The Urisk girl hands the parchment to Mage Florel, who squints at it through half-moon spectacles attached to a long, pearl necklace. “Very good, Sparrow,” she comments. “Go fetch Effrey.”

  Sparrow nods and leaves, her movements graceful. Within a few seconds, another Urisk girl, a skinny, frantic little thing with deep purple skin, hair and eyes, runs into the room and skids to an abrupt halt in front of Mage Florel, Sparrow shadowing close behind. The child looks to be about eight years of age.

  The older woman stares down at the child uncertainly, then directs her to fetch some fabric. A few minutes later the child returns carrying two bolts of cloth that are coming unwound around her legs, one ebony silk flecked with small, golden threads, the other a muted blue-black. They’re large bolts, and the girl looks to be out of breath from the effort.

  Mage Florel lets out a disgusted sigh. “Textured silk, Effrey, I wanted it textured.”

  The girl’s eyes fly open in panic.

  “Let’s make this easier,” Mage Florel offers, the girl looking about ready to burst into tears. “Get me the sample booklets instead. They’re easier to carry than the bolts.”

  Little Effrey sprints out of the room, seeming eager to correct her mistake.

  Mage Florel turns back to us, shaking her head in consternation. “I’m sorry,” she confides. “She’s new. And she’s been extraordinarily difficult to train. She just doesn’t listen carefully.”

  Fallon snorts as she runs her hand along some velvet. “You’d think with ears that big, she’d be able to listen just fine.”

  My head jerks toward Fallon. Mage Florel, Echo and Paige join me in looks of shocked surprise.

  Fallon eyes us incredulously just as little Effrey stumbles back into the room. The child is lugging a thick sample book under one arm, frayed fabric edges poking out the sides. Fallon spits out a laugh and gestures widely toward the little girl. “Oh, so we’re supposed to pretend she doesn’t look like an overgrown bat?”

  Effrey comes to a wobbly stop. She glances up at Fallon, her lip quivering into a miserable frown, her ears seeming to droop at the points. I watch as Sparrow
shoots Effrey a swift look of serious caution, the older girl standing just behind Fallon Bane. Effrey immediately averts her eyes and looks down at her feet.

  “Girl!” Fallon barks at Effrey with exaggerated force, then stifles a laugh when the girl jumps and whips her head up. Fallon flicks her fingers toward herself magisterially. “All right, then. Hand it over.”

  The child lowers her head deferentially as she offers the sample book up to Fallon. I notice her hands are trembling.

  “Thank you,” I say gently, in an effort to soothe the girl. I shoot Fallon a look of censure, bewildered by her cruelty.

  Mage Florel is regarding Fallon with a pained expression, and she makes a point of dismissing little Effrey as soon as Fallon has the sample book in hand. I don’t wonder at Mage Florel’s deference to Fallon Bane, the presumptive heir to my grandmother’s power.

  Fallon sets the sample book on a wooden stand and opens it. She takes her time, monopolizing the booklet as everyone silently waits. Eventually, she lights on fabric of interest to her. “Oh, here we go, Elloren,” she says, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. She pulls a dull black rectangle from the book and holds it up.

  It’s ugly, rough wool. Of worse quality than the clothing I arrived in.

  “I think this would be good for you,” Fallon beams, “especially for your aunt’s party. Don’t you think so, Paige?”

  Paige looks at the fabric sample, her brow knitting tight. She glances over at me and blinks uncertainly. “Um...well...maybe it could work...”

  I can’t figure out if Fallon is joking. She has to be. “I was thinking of something...different,” I venture.

  Fallon widens her eyes in mock affront. “But...this is Gorthan wool. It’s very much the style.” Her gaze flicks toward Echo and Paige mischievously.

  Before I have a chance to respond, Fallon slams the sample book shut and hands it, along with the piece of wool, to Mage Florel. “I think you should make her dress out of this,” she says decidedly, shooting me a wide grin. “In fact, I think you should make her whole wardrobe out of it.”

  A sharp spike of resentment wells up inside me, my heart speeding up as I eye Fallon’s wand. “Wait,” I say, addressing Mage Florel directly. “I’d like to see the samples for myself.”

  Fallon’s smile morphs into a half sneer. “Good heavens, Elloren.” She gestures around the room at the fabric surrounding us. “It’s all black.”

  I meet her eyes. “I’d still like to see them for myself.” The room goes so quiet, one could hear the prick of a pin.

  Fallon’s eyes bore down on me, and I actively resist being cowed by her. They’re mesmerizing, her eyes, striped as they are with alternating lines of light and dark green, the lighter green streaks so light they’re almost white. They make me think of icicles. Sharp as spears.

  After a moment of tense deliberation, Mage Florel sets the book down on another raised table beside me. “Of course, dear,” she says, her eyes flicking toward Fallon warily. “Go ahead.”

  I open the book, uncomfortably aware of Fallon’s icy glare. I flip through the fabric, a violet-black square of velvet momentarily catching my eye, soft as a baby hare.

  “Oh...look at this,” I gasp, half forgetting about Fallon as I turn to the next sample, the black silk lighting up red and yellow around the folds as it moves. “It’s extraordinary.” I turn the fabric this way and that, tipping it toward the closest wall lantern to watch the colors change.

  Mage Florel nods her head in satisfaction. “Ishkartan goldweave,” she says as she removes the swath and cradles it. “Brought in from the Eastern Desert. Flame-gold worked right into the weave. Very fine. Very rare.”

  I look down at the scratchy brown wool of my tunic from home. It’s like trying to compare the finest violin with some coarsely carved instrument.

  Mage Florel smiles at me. “You’ve lovely taste, Mage Gardner.”

  I flip through the next samples and come to an abrupt stop as my eyes light on the loveliest one of all. Midnight black silk. Patterned with vines woven through so subtly you have to look carefully to make them out. But once you do...

  I run my finger along the textured silk. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Salishen silk,” Mage Florel says reverently. “From the Salishen Isles. They’re master weavers, the Salish. True artists. And all of their embroidery is as exquisite as this.”

  I glance up at her. “Do you think you could use this?”

  “Of course, Mage Gardner,” she replies, obviously thrilled by my choice.

  Fallon’s hand comes down on the fabric. “You can’t use this,” she says, her tone hard.

  I blink up at her in resentful surprise. “Why?”

  “Because,” she replies, her voice syrupy with condescension, “this is what my dress is being made of.”

  “Ah, what a pity,” Mage Florel sighs. She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve others, Mage Gardner, don’t you fret. We’ll find something just as lovely for you...”

  Heart racing, I put my own hand down firmly on the fabric sample, right next to Fallon’s. I meet Fallon’s stare and hold it. “No. I want this one.”

  Everyone gapes at me.

  Fallon leans in a fraction and bares her teeth. “You can’t have it.”

  I try to ignore the slight trembling of my hand. “Oh, come now, Fallon,” I say as I gesture at the fabric around us, mimicking her sneering tone. “It’s all black. And I’m sure the cut will be different.” I look over at Mage Florel, whose eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. “Can you make sure it’s very different from hers?”

  Fallon spits out a sound of contempt. “My dress isn’t being made here. I have my own dressmaker.”

  “Well, then,” I tell her. “That simplifies things.” I turn to Mage Florel. “Can you make it for me in time? With this fabric?”

  Mage Florel gives me an appraising look, her eyes darting toward Fallon as if weighing the options. She lifts her chin. “Why, yes, Mage Gardner. I think I can.” She smiles coldly at Fallon. “Why don’t you tell me what your dress is like, dear? I’ll make sure it’s quite different.”

  I’m surprised and bolstered by Mage Florel’s support. But when I turn back toward Fallon, her grin startles me. It’s wide and malicious. She jerks her hand away from the fabric sample and seems pleased when I flinch. “I’m leaving,” she announces, keeping her eyes tight on mine.

  Echo and Paige fly to her and try to placate her and convince her to stay.

  I look away and flip through the samples, barely seeing the fabric. I know it’s a mistake to say more. But I think of her treatment of the little girl and can’t help myself.

  “Don’t worry, Fallon,” I say, careful not to look at her, struggling to keep my voice even. “Maybe your tailor can make you another dress. In Gorthan wool. I hear it’s very much the style.”

  I glance up at Fallon just in time to catch her look of pure, undisguised hostility. Her fist tight on her wand, Fallon stalks out and slams the door behind her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sparrow’s mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Black Witch

  “You look just like Carnissa Gardner. You’re perfect.”

  Paige gushes as I stare at the stranger looking back at me from the full-length ornate mirror.

  We’re in the luxurious bedroom Aunt Vyvian has given me, the crystalline doors and the sunroom’s windows propped open, a balmy ocean breeze wafting in on the night air, the white kittens tussling on my bed. I’ve met with Paige a number of times over the past few days, lunching with her and Aunt Vyvian twice in the city and shopping together once for shoes. I greatly prefer her company to both Echo’s and Fallon’s.

  For the past hour, Mage Florel has been primping and painting me
while Aunt Vyvian stands watch, arms crossed. My aunt directs Mage Florel with the seriousness of a master painter overseeing a work of vital importance, and before long, it seems as if I’m not really in the room. As if I’m staring at someone else, disbelief washing over me.

  The messy hair I’ve never known what to do with now hangs past my shoulders, woven into intricate braids, my eyes rendered large and mysterious by heavy makeup. My eyebrows, which have been plucked and shaped, heighten the effect. My lips are now full and scarlet, my cheekbones accented with blush. It’s amazing—all of the unpleasant, sharp lines of my face transformed into a vision of powerful elegance. And that’s not all—my ears and neck are graced with gold-set emeralds, and the gown Mage Florel made for me...

  It’s breathtaking. The subtly woven vines appear and disappear as the fabric moves, the shimmering tunic like a second skin flowing out over the underskirt.

  My grandmother, more than any other woman, was the standard bearer of Gardnerian beauty. Known as “The Black Witch” by our enemies, she was one of the most powerful Gardnerian Mages ever. Intellectually brilliant, artistically gifted, stunningly beautiful and a ruthlessly effective commander of our military forces—she was all of these things.

  And I don’t just resemble her. I’m her absolute spitting image.

  “Yes,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “that will do. I think our work here is finished, Heloise.” She gets up and smiles broadly. “Elloren, you will come down to the party in an hour’s time. Paige will escort you.” She turns to Paige. “Bring her down the central staircase. I want her to make an entrance.” My aunt pauses to take me in once more, then leaves with Mage Florel, the two women chatting amiably as they go.

  I go back to staring at myself in the mirror, dumbstruck.

  “You must be so proud,” Paige says reverently. “Your grandmother was such a great woman. You must have a calling to follow in her footsteps, Elloren, or else the Ancient One wouldn’t have blessed you with her looks. Wait until everyone sees you!”

  * * *