Pennyroyal Academy (7 page)

“Well . . . isn't this exciting news, indeed.”

The staff quickly cleared the hall and escorted the girls back to their barracks, where the night's tensions evaporated into the stars. Evie seemed to be the only one still troubled by the events of the Royal Hall. Enthusiasm rippled down the rows of bunks, topics shifting like birds in flight. The freedom! The grounds! The prophecy! The knights!

Evie remained on her bunk, legs crossed, biting her fingernails. Most of the girls were energized by the witch's proclamation, the potential of one day being the Warrior Princess as fresh and untainted in each of them as new snow. But she had found the whole evening quite traumatic. She hadn't spoken to anyone since leaving Pennyroyal Castle, trailing behind the others until finally they left her alone. And once they were inside, she went straight to her bunk.

“Oi! What's all this moping?” said Anisette with a wink. “We ain't even started the hard stuff yet!”

Evie responded with the weakest of smiles, and Anisette moved off to join some other girls in song. Finally, Princess Hazelbranch entered and raised her hands to appeal for quiet.

“I understand the first day at the Academy can be quite thrilling, girls, but the time has come for lights-out.”

A great communal groan went up, but the cadets started heading back to their bunks just the same. Still, nothing could squelch the excitement in the air.

“Why don't I just . . . leave you to it,” said Basil, standing near the door looking uncomfortable. Hazelbranch had arranged a cot for him in a storehouse behind the barracks.

“If you please, Cadet Basil, there is one final order of company business. And you are very much a member of this company.”

“The prettiest!” shouted Anisette, to a flurry of laughter. Basil could only shake his head ruefully, though he couldn't hide a smile.

“Now, before you can rightfully be considered . . .” Hazelbranch trailed off. Three girls from the far corner of the barracks, nearest the latrine, stepped away from their bunks as one. They huddled together, walking across the bearskins, their faces drawn and serious. “Is everything quite all right?”

“We're sorry, Princess, but we . . . we want to go home.” One of the girls began to weep, burying her head in her friend's shoulder.

“Girls?”

“We don't want to be here anymore. This isn't what we thought it would be.”

And suddenly the joyous atmosphere was punctured like a bubble in a bog. One cadet shouted for them to reconsider, but they had made their decision.

“Come, girls, come,” said Hazelbranch, beckoning them forward. “The three of you wait outside and I'll see you to the castle.”

The girls shuffled past Basil, who stared at the floor with folded arms. Hazelbranch took a step forward and addressed the entire company. “Does anyone else wish to join them?” The Ironbone girls looked at one another, each hoping no one else would take the offer. “There is absolutely no shame in it. Some people simply aren't equipped to battle witches.”

Evie ground her jaw back and forth. It was as though Hazelbranch were speaking directly to her.
Go,
she told herself.
You're only here because of some silly parchment, not to get in the middle of a war. Go. Now.

But she didn't.

“Very well,” said Hazelbranch. “For the rest of you, I will now administer the Pennyroyal Academy oath. If you'll all place your hands over your hearts, and after I've finished, say, ‘I swear it so.'”

Evie's hand rose to her chest. It felt light and numb, as though it belonged to someone else. She turned to face the Pennyroyal coat of arms above the door, with its princess, knight, dragon, and witch.

“I promise to do my duty. To support and defend the free peoples of the world against all witches. I will practice Courage, Compassion, Kindness, and Discipline to the best of my ability, and will always endeavor to live a life of high moral character.”

No one spoke. It was as if they all—from Maggie to Malora—wanted to give the moment the reverence it deserved. Swearing the oath was a final step and a first step all in one. The journey toward princesshood would now begin, and each of them knew it.

“I swear it so,” they said in unison.

Evie, softly, and after everyone else, said, “I swear it so.”

“Congratulations,” said Hazelbranch with a smile. “You are now officially princess cadets, third class. You have just joined the ranks of the greatest princesses ever to live, and if that witch's prophecy is correct, at least one of your year will someday be listed among them.”

The jubilant buzz slowly returned. Hazelbranch began working her way through the room, congratulating each of the girls.

Maggie turned to Evie with a smile. “We did it!”

Evie dropped to her bunk. A black cloud swirled through her head. Swearing the oath had sentenced her to face that which she had hoped to never encounter again.

Despite her overwhelming fatigue, she lay awake hours after the last torch had been snuffed. She stared outside as dull gray clouds spread from one corner of her window to another, slowly swallowing the white moonlight like a curtain being drawn.

What's this?
the witch in the cottage had said, eyes wide and hungry.

What's this?
speaking of Evie as though she were a piece of candy waiting to be devoured.

What's this?
said the witch.

What's this?

“WHAT
ARE
YOU LOT STILL DOING IN BED? IT'S TIME FOR . . .”

In an instant, the pink sunset and crashing seawater of Evie's dream became the dull gray of the barracks. She blinked herself back to consciousness, disoriented to wake somewhere other than the woods. And that's when she saw the incensed face of the Fairy Drillsergeant looking straight at her.

“Bloody hell . . .”

The swish of bedsheets and tunic dresses, the clop of shoes on stone, everything stopped at once. The cadets followed their commander's gaze across the room, where Evie squatted atop the footboard of her bunk. She scrambled to the floor, but it was too late. The Fairy Drillsergeant darted across the barracks.

“DID YOU SPEND THE ENTIRE NIGHT PERCHED UP THERE LIKE A MAGPIE?”

“I . . . I'm sorry, Fairy Drillsergeant.”

“Why?” said the Fairy Drillsergeant, shaking her head. “Why do
I
always get the bloody fopdoodles? I'd lay my wand there's not a single cadet in Bramblestick Company who SLEPT ON THE END OF HER BUNK!”

Evie's mouth quivered. Her eyes had begun to mist over, but she would not let herself cry. “Please, Fairy Drillsergeant . . . I didn't mean to—”

“Looks like we can abandon the hunt for the Warrior Princess, everyone!” The Fairy Drillsergeant glared at Evie, but spoke loudly enough for the whole company to hear. “When this year ends, those of you still here will participate in a daylong challenge called the Helpless Maiden. The rules are simple. You either complete the challenge, or you're not welcome back next year.”

Evie stole a glance at Maggie, who gave her a sympathetic smile. But this only made her feel worse.
How much longer will she want to be friends with the company fool?

“One of every two of you will be dismissed before we even reach the Helpless Maiden.” The Fairy Drillsergeant turned, glaring at Evie with contempt. She flittered so close that Evie could hear the hum of her wings and the soft chime of sparkles. “So tell me, Cadet, how do you intend to last to the end of term when you can't even SLEEP PROPERLY?”

Evie's eyes dropped to the floor and her shoulders slumped. She knew without having to look up that every cadet in the company was staring at her. In all her life, she had never felt like such a crushing failure. Perhaps it would be best for her dismissal to come now, before she embarrassed herself any further . . .

“Well, come on! Move!” shouted the Fairy Drillsergeant, clapping her tiny hands. “All of you, get on with it!” The barracks sprang back to life. She turned to Evie and said in a soft voice, “Get it together, Cadet, or this will be a very short year.”

Less than an hour later, Evie found herself knee-deep in the mud, struggling to see through the sweat pouring down her face. Alongside three others, she had been tasked with pushing a carriage without wheels up a steep, slippery hill.

“PUSH, YOU MILKSOPS, PUSH!”

Teeth grinding, Evie peered around the wooden frame. About ten feet above, the mud leveled off and became grass. The hillside behind them looked like a battlefield, the mud churned and slashed through from the progress they had already made. Their company-mates waited at the bottom, shouting encouragement.

“Let's go, ladies!” called the Fairy Drillsergeant. “I've only got one year to get you in shape! No time for idling!”

Evie let out a cry as she pushed against the metal footplate so hard that her fingers went white. The undercarriage dug into her shoulder, but she knew that adjusting her position was impossible. The whole thing would fall.

“Heave!” shouted a spindly girl on the other side called Cadet Nadele.

One of them slipped and the carriage lurched downward. Evie yelped as the thick wooden frame pressed into her shoulder, but she somehow maintained position.

“Hold! Hold!” shouted another girl, whose name Evie couldn't remember.

But the slight displacement had altered the carriage's momentum. Now the team found themselves struggling, not up the hill, but to avoid going back down. Evie's feet plowed trenches in the mud. She centered all her weight into her toes to try to find purchase.

“It's going!” she called. “It's—”

One of her legs suddenly slipped out. She dropped awkwardly, one leg pointing up the hill, the other down. Screams came from everywhere as the carriage pitched toward her. She threw her body to the side and her face plunged into the mud. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see, either, but she could hear the frantic shouts of her company-mates. She spit sloppy grit from her mouth and pulled glops of it from her eyes. There, at the bottom of the hill, the carriage sat atop a huge curl of black mud.

“Bloody hell, is that really your best?”

Evie's three teammates pulled themselves free from the mud, and all were looking at her.

“I asked you a question, Cadet!”

“I'm sorry, Fairy Drillsergeant, my foot—”

“Your foot is not my concern! My concern is that carriage at the bottom of my hill!”

“Yes, Fairy Drillsergeant, I'm sorry—”

“You certainly are! Back in line!” She floated away, shaking her head in disgust. “You four, you're next!”

Evie slumped down the hill. A brisk wind chilled the mud leeching through her dress. The girls who had yet to take a turn—their uniforms bright and brilliant blue—cheered for the current team. She, meanwhile, wiped herself as clean as she could, trying her best to ignore the glares of the three girls she had failed.

She retreated to the back of the crowd and found some space near the boy, Basil. Maggie and Anisette were still in front, both cheering loudly. It was crushing. Not to see them so excited, but that she couldn't find it in herself to be a part of it, too.

She looked out over the Dortchen Wild and thought about her home. Life was simpler there. And that simple life was still happening, right at this moment, without her. Somewhere out there, beyond the forest sea, her father was probably fishing in the river, her mother tidying up in case friends stopped by. But even daydreaming of home provided little comfort, because her next thought was of her sister, and how much she would love to take part in this training exercise. She had always been stronger and more confident than Evie.

On the hill, Demetra's team had made good progress. The carriage bobbed toward the summit, steadily, and had already reached the spot where Evie's team failed. Malora had a similar grip to Evie's—using her shoulder for power and the footplate for balance. Even splotched with mud, she carried herself with grace and elegance. Evie could quite easily imagine her helping a family of commoners whose wagon had slipped into a ravine. She certainly looked the part of the princess. Perhaps Evie had misjudged her. Perhaps her hostility only served to mask something deeper.
I may not be around to see it, but maybe, with time, she'll actually become friends with Maggie and the others—

“Over there, you lummox!” shouted Malora, an insult directed at Demetra. The Fairy Drillsergeant made no move to intervene. She either hadn't heard or had decided to let it pass. Then, to Evie's astonishment, Demetra shifted her hold on the rear axletree. She was actually listening to Malora's barked order. A surge of anger lanced through Evie's stomach. Why didn't Demetra stand up for herself? How could no one have questioned Malora's insult?

“I must know,” said Basil, “is that a real dragon scale?” Evie glanced over at him with annoyance. “The blood's real, too, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said, agitated. She had never really looked at him before. His chin faded away to nothing, and his nest of brown hair seemed entirely too big for his head. Still, there was something sweet in his eyes.

“I knew it,” he said with an awkward smile. “My brother says there's magic in it, dragon's blood. Says it can show you visions. Visions of what's possible.”

She tried to ignore him and focus on the exercise. Demetra and her team had nearly reached the top, and Ironbone Company's cheers had grown louder.
No more about bloody visions,
she thought.

“He says that anything you see in dragon's blood is possible, but only if you make the right choices. D'you suppose I might have a go? Not now, obviously, but . . .”

She walked away, dropping the scale through the neck of her dress.

“Right. Some other time, then,” he called.

Could that be true? Could the things she had seen that night by the fire actually be possible? What decisions would she need to make to stop that horrifying witch from sending her minions into the night? And what of the princess forced to her knees?

An exultant cheer went up as the carriage crested the hill and the girls pushing it collapsed. Demetra sat up, mud sluicing from her dress, and beamed down at her friends.
She looks like a princess as well.
Evie was happy for her, of course, but Basil had shifted her thoughts away from the hill. She looked beyond Demetra, beyond the trees that fringed the top of the hill. Her eyes focused instead on the low ceiling of clouds covering the sky from horizon to horizon. Fingers of black swirled through the dull gray, dark and darker rivulets stretching across the entire sky.

One eye remained on those clouds as she and her friends crossed through campus for their first classroom lecture, something called Witch Tactics with Lieutenant Volf. To Evie's frustration, Maggie, Demetra, and Anisette had welcomed Basil into their group. So it was the five of them, sapphire uniforms marred by mud and, in Anisette's case, blood, hurrying across a bailey of packed dirt and gravel toward the Wolfseye Keep, a massive structure with glassy, obsidian walls. While the others bantered about their first successful drill at the Academy, Evie just couldn't wrest her focus from the skies.

“One round of field training and I can't feel my arms,” said Demetra.

“Come to me da's shop, hey? We'll show you what real work feels like,” said Anisette.

“Or,” said Basil with a sheepish grin, “she could send a servant round to do it for her.”

Anisette laughed with surprise. “That's quite good, Bas,” she said, punching him in the arm.

Evie caught a glimpse of something across the courtyard. She stopped walking while the others continued on. There, partially obscured behind a copse of bloodapple trees, stood Remington. He laughed easily with his companions, and wore the black Thrushbeard doublet like he had been born to it. His smile contained such surety, as though he always knew a secret no one else did. A memory flickered through her mind. His eyes closing . . . his lips lowering to hers . . .

And then a hand fell lightly on his arm. It was sleeved in white, dotted with mud. Malora bent forward, eyes closed in laughter, leaning against him for support. He said something else, and they both laughed even harder.

“Come on, Eves!” called Demetra.

With a frown, she followed her friends into Wolfseye Keep. Through cold passageways and claustrophobic tubes of spiral stairs, Remington remained on her mind. And she was still thinking about him later as she sat behind a carved wooden desk in Lieutenant Volf's classroom. The air was hot and dry, thanks to a small, glowing hearth next to her desk. Out the window, the Queen's Tower shimmered, its spire enveloped by clouds.

“Happiness and joy are as intolerable to the witch as anguish and misery are to the princess,” said the old man, his white hair fanning off in all directions. This was Lieutenant Volf, the foremost authority on princess lore and history in all the land. He was slight of frame, with a sharp chin that seemed to pull his mouth into a permanent frown. His voice was mostly breath, and labored breath at that. “Calivigne and her Council of Sisters have only one goal in mind: the extinction of happiness. This is not a choice she has made. This is simply
who she is.

“It is most important that you understand this concept,” he said, brittle joints crackling like firewood as he shuffled around a desk so ancient it looked like it had been cut from the world's first tree. “The witch hates you because she must.”

He strode slowly across the front of the room, arms folded behind him. Evie noticed Maggie scrawling notes on her parchment. Nearly everyone else was doing the same. She looked down at her own and frowned. The words
witch tactics
were written across the top and nothing more.

“Many years ago, I had a cadet called Rose-Red who could never appreciate that fact.” A silent charge shot through the room. Even Basil, whose head had been moving steadily toward his desk, now looked up with wide eyes.
Another name I'm meant to know.

“Now, to defeat a witch, one must first understand her.” Far more than the mention of Rose-Red, this statement captured Evie's attention. Through all her agonizing about the Academy—whether to stay or go, whether she would ever prove worthy to serve with these girls, whether she could somehow stand before a witch without crumbling into a quivering mess—somehow it had never occurred to her that she might learn the techniques to fight back. She hadn't even considered that a witch might actually be defeated.