Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (15 page)

With a twitching sneer, Atratus
tore his stare away from Madori and returned to his books and
scrolls.

He spent the next hour rattling
off magical theories, barking out fancy words like "material
bindings" and "particle trajectory" and "physiological
claims." Throughout the class, Madori could barely keep up; her
wrist ached from scribbling down notes she didn't even understand.
Lari, however, seemed the model student. Sitting at the head of the
class, she kept raising her hand, answering every question properly,
then turning toward the back tiers to give her fellow students smug
smiles.

Throughout the class, as Madori
kept furiously writing, Neekeya kept raising her hand. The tall
Daenorian girl was practically bouncing in her seat, begging Atratus
to answer his questions. Yet the balding professor wouldn't spare her
a glance. His attention lay fully upon the Magerian students.

We
in the back tier are the outcasts,
Madori thought, glancing at her sides. Along with her quartet sat
other foreigners, all ignored.

And
no quartet is stranger than mine,
she thought with a sigh, wondering how she'd ever pass this class.
She could already see herself returning to Fairwool-by-Night a
failure, flunked out of the university. Her mother would be furious,
Madori thought. At first Koyee had not wanted to let her
daughter—her only child—leave. Once Madori had insisted, shouting
and kicking the walls, Koyee had agreed—on one condition.

"If you leave to the
university," Koyee had said, jabbing Madori's chest, "you
return to me a model mage. You will not loaf around at Teel like you
do at home, sleeping entire turns, collecting stray animals, and
wasting your time. If you go there, you will graduate at the top of
your class, or by the stars of Eloria, do not return home at all."

As Atratus kept rattling out his
lesson, Madori rubbed her sore wrist and heaved yet another sigh.

"Madori Greenmoat!"

The voice boomed across the hall
and Madori started. Realizing she'd been lost in thought, she stared
down at Professor Atratus.

"I asked you a question,
girl," the professor said, brows pushed low over his beady
eyes.

"I . . ." Madori's
throat felt dry. "I'm sorry, Professor. May you repeat the
question?"

Students muttered among
themselves. Lari snickered.

Face turning red, Atratus
grabbed a ruler and slapped his desk with a crack. "You will pay
attention in class, girl, or this ruler will strike more than this
desk. Do you understand?"

Madori ground her teeth and
swallowed down her rage. She forced herself to nod silently.

With a disgusted grunt, Atratus
left his podium and paced across the stage, tapping his ruler against
his left palm.

"A volunteer!" he
called out. "Step down. I normally wait a month before allowing
magic in my classroom, but I believe that this year, with such bright
minds, we may begin early. A volunteer! Raise your hand."
Several hands rose in the class—none from the back tiers. Atratus
didn't even turn to look. Still pacing, he cried out, "Lari!
Lari Serin, step down please, darling child."

Lari rose to her feet, chin
raised, a smug smile upon her face. She gave her fellow students a
few nods, then strutted down the aisle and stepped onto the stage.

"I'm here, Professor
Atratus," she said, voice sweet.

The stooped, balding man nodded
and turned back toward the tiers of seats. He pointed his ruler at
Madori.

"You! Greenmoat. Step down
onto this stage. Since you've been daydreaming, you obviously know
all about Offensive Magic already. Down!"

Madori glanced aside uneasily.
Her friends winced, and Tam reached over to grab and squeeze her
hand.

"You don't have to go down
there," he whispered. "Just mumble an apology. You'll look
a fool but it'll blow over."

Neekeya was struggling for
breath. "Don't go," she whispered.

Madori stared down at the stage.
Pretty and prim, Lari stared up from below, giving Madori her sweet
little smile. And Madori felt it: the old rage rising inside her, the
anger that always got her into trouble.

I
once used this anger against you, Mother and Father,
she thought.
I'm
so sorry. I miss you so much now.

She inhaled sharply through her
nostrils and rose to her feet. She balled up her fists and walked
down the aisle, moving between the rows of seats. As she passed by,
hundreds of eyes followed her. Not a breath stirred. Her innards
trembling, Madori stepped onto the stage.

You
are the daughter of Torin Greenmoat, the great hero of the war, the
man who united day and night,
she
told herself.
You are the daughter of Koyee of Qaelin, the great soldier who led
armies, who slew the tyrant Ferius the Cruel.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
You
don't have to be afraid of a bitter professor and a pampered girl.

"Lari," said Professor
Atratus, "I do believe it's time for a little demonstration of
Offensive Magic. My fellow professors tell me you've been
demonstrating levitation, transformations, and bindings to your
classmates. Will you now demonstrate some . . . real magic?"

Lari nodded and stared at
Madori, her eyes full of cruel delight. She spoke to Atratus, but she
never removed her eyes from Madori. "Gladly."

"Excellent!" said the
stooped professor. "Of course, to demonstrate hurting another
human, we need a human to hurt." He looked at Madori. "But
I think in this case, a mongrel will suffice."

Madori sucked in breath with a
hiss. How could he speak like that? She wanted to march out of the
lecture hall, to find the headmistress, to demand she discipline this
professor for his bile. Yet she simply stood frozen. What could
Headmistress Egeria do, after all? Take the word of a village girl?
Like it or not, Professor Atratus had power here at Teel, and he had
power across Timandra; as a member of the Radians, proudly displaying
their pin, he served Lari's father, perhaps the most powerful man in
all of Moth.

Madori
growled.
So I'll
play your game, Atratus. And I'll defeat you at it.

Swinging his ruler, Atratus
nodded toward Lari. "Now, Lady Serin, please explain the
principles of magically attacking a foe."

Chin raised, Lari recited as
from a book. "The Three Principles of Magic still apply: choose,
claim, change. Advanced mages often choose human flesh or bone as
their material. Once claimed, they can change this material—bending
or shattering bones, tearing flesh, twisting the body into death.
However, in the heat of battle, war mages often choose a faster,
simpler approach. They choose particles of matter floating in the
air. The air is full of matter—gasses, dust, dirt, smoke, even
invisible metal." Lari smiled wickedly. "A mage can form a
storm in the air, striking her opponent with a might greater than any
mace or hammer. Advanced mages can even animate the particles into
astral, striking beasts with minds of their own."

Madori bared her teeth and
raised her fists. All of Professor Atratus's words—and all the words
she had read in her books last turn—cluttered inside her head. She
had learned something about forming a shield of air; she could swear
it. She mumbled to herself, trying to claim the air around her, to
weave it into a dense, soupy force field. Sweat beaded on her brow.
Nothing seemed to happen.

"Excellent, Lady Serin!"
the professor said. "Now demonstrate."

Lari nodded, smiling primly.
"Gladly."

The girl's face changed. Her
smile turned into a snarl, and her eyes blazed with hatred. Her hands
rose, collecting the air into a dark ball of smoke. With a growl,
Lari tossed her missile.

The projectile hurtled across
the stage toward Madori.

Shield
yourself!
cried a voice inside her.
Block
it with air!

But she could not.

The smoky ball, large as a
melon, crashed into her chest.

Madori cried out in pain and
slammed down onto her backside.

The ball shattered, breaking up
into smoky serpents. The tendrils wrapped around Madori's chest,
squeezing, constricting. She couldn't breathe, and tears budded in
her eyes. She tried to grab the tentacles and rip them off, but her
fingers passed through them. Her ribs tightened; she felt like they
might snap.

"Madori!" somebody
shouted somewhere above; she thought it was Tam.

Lying on the stage, she saw
nothing but the smoke, and then through the unholy fog, she saw
Lari's face—cruel, smiling, her hands raised like claws. As the girl
curled her fingers inwards, the smoky tendrils tightened further
around Madori, and she screamed.

Why wasn't Professor Atratus
stopping this? Tears streamed down Madori's face. She wanted to die.

He'll
let me die,
she realized.
Lari
is going to kill me and I'll die here upon the stage as they laugh.

She gritted her teeth.

No.

She thought of the scars along
her mother's arm. Her mother had fought this magic before and
triumphed.

I
am the daughter of a great heroine, a woman who fought the forces of
daylight and defeated them. I can defeat Lari.

Through the fog of pain, the
words from her books returned to her.

She chose her material.

She claimed the smoky tendrils
that constricted her.

She screamed, lashing her hands,
tugging the serpents off like a woman tearing off chains.

The tendrils left her body, and
Madori sucked in air. She leaped to her feet, lashing the tentacles
of smoke forward like whips.

The magic crashed into Lari,
wrapped around her, and knocked her down onto the stage.

Madori rose to her feet,
snarling. She tried to cling to the magic, to tighten the smoke
around Lari, to crush the girl and snap her ribs. But the magic
vanished from her grasp like dreams from wakefulness. The smoke
dissipated.

Lari lay on her back, moaning.
Silence filled the lecture hall. When Madori looked at the rows of
seats, she saw her quartet companions on their feet; Tam stood
halfway down the stairs, mouth opening and closing silently, as if he
had been rushing down to protect her.

An angry wheeze sounded behind
her. Madori spun around and gasped.

She had seen Professor Atratus
mad before, but not like this. His face flushed red, and sweat beaded
on his bald head. His nostrils opened and closed as he breathed
raggedly, and his fingers curled like talons.

Madori took a step back. The
man's rabid glare seemed almost as powerful as Lari's magic.

"I did not allow you to do
magic, mongrel," he hissed, each word labored.

Madori found her rage. She met
his gaze. "I had to defend myself."

With a howl, Professor Atratus
raised his hands. The smoke, which had dispersed, coalesced into dark
ropes. The bonds wrapped around Madori's ankles, pinning her feet to
the ground. More smoky ropes wrapped around her wrists, pinning her
left arm to her side and tugging her right arm toward Atratus. She
struggled and tried to break these magical bindings, to claim them
too, but she could sense this magic was stronger than Lari's. She
could not free herself.

Sneering, Atratus took a step
closer toward her. His lips curled back to show his yellow teeth.
"You will not perform magic in my class without my permission,
mongrel. You will be punished now. Three lashes of my ruler upon your
hand."

She tried to pull back, but she
might as well have broken through iron chains. His ruler whistled
through the air and cracked against her outstretched palm.

Madori bit down on a yelp.

He struck her again, and two
weals rose against her palm. Her hand was still sore from holding the
iron wishbone, and this punishment was like tossing oil onto dying
embers. Tears budded in her eyes.

He swung his ruler a third time,
and Madori nearly passed out from the pain, but she would not scream.
When he released his magic, and the magical chains left her, she
placed her wounded hand under her armpit. It tingled and burned,
reminding her of the pain of holding the iron wishbone.

"Now return to your seat,
half-breed," Atratus said. "Be thankful I only struck you
three times. Next offense it will be thirty. To your seat! And after
your classes this turn, you will report to the kitchens, where you
will spend half a turn scrubbing pots and dishes. Understood?"

Madori nodded silently, not
trusting herself to speak; she felt that if she tried to answer, she
would either shout or cry. Holding her throbbing hand under her
armpit, she climbed the stairs and returned to her seat. She could
feel everyone's eyes upon her, especially Lari's.

 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
A WHISPER FROM HOME

Her palm was still throbbing,
three welts upon it, as Madori made her way down the corridor to her
next class.

The rest of her quartet walked
around her, forming a protective ring. Tam especially was fuming, his
face red, his fists clenched at his sides.

"My father will hear of
this," he said, barking out the words, as they moved down the
columned corridor. "Who does that Atratus think he is? My
parents donate to this university. Hundreds of books in the library
are their gifts." He growled. "I'll get this Atratus
sacked, I will, and I don't care what it takes."

"Tam, please," Madori
whispered. "Lower your voice. It's all right."

Many other students were walking
to and fro around them, not just first-years but older students too,
clad in the lavender, gray, and orange robes denoting their
seniority. The last thing Madori needed was for anyone to hear Tam's
threats and report to Atratus; that would goad the old dog to new
heights of fervor.