The Firemage's Vengeance (23 page)

Xain stalked around the bed to loom over him. “A month. A month ago is about the time she vanished from her classes. And so I ask again—how is it possible that you saw her in the kitchens, Drayden?”

“He is not the only one who saw her,” said Jia.

“I am speaking to the boy, for it is his words that have been called into question. He can speak for himself, or he can speak with the Mystics’ encouragement. It matters little to me.”

“She speaks the truth,” said Ebon, feeling somewhat indignant now. “I have not gone mad. My friends saw her as well.”

Xain glanced over his shoulder. “Mayhap. Yet they, too, may prove false.”

Ebon heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Kalem and Theren being ushered into the room by an instructor he did not recognize. Both their eyes fixed at once upon the corpse on the bed. Kalem went Elf-white, and Theren did not look much better.

“This is the body of a girl you both said you saw here, in the Academy,” Xain told them. “Yet she has been dead for weeks. How do you explain this? I cannot read the tale of it, unless someone in this room has been lying.”

Kalem tore his eyes away from Isra at last to meet Xain’s gaze. “If someone has been lying, it is not I. Not in this. We saw her. Theren fought her.”

“Yet I thought you said her eyes were black,” said Xain, and his baleful gaze turned to Theren. “How could you resist a wizard with the strength of magestones?”

“It is as I said before,” said Theren carefully. “We surprised her. I tried to flee, but she turned and ran first.”

“Clearly there is something at work here,” said Jia, her voice calm and measured, and her eyes going too often to Xain. “I am certain the three of you can understand how we would be … confused. Concerned, even. After all, the body casts doubt upon this whole affair.”

Ebon steeled himself. They stood on the brink of the hearth, now, and it seemed their only course was to plunge headlong into the flames. “Of course, Instructor. Yet I can offer no better explanation. And after all,
someone
had you under mindwyrd, did they not? And you as well, Instructor Dasko, for longer.”

Theren tensed. Xain saw her sudden discomfort, and his eyes locked upon her. “But Isra was not the only mindmage at the Academy,” he said.

Feigning surprise, Ebon looked to Theren. “You mean to insinuate that
Theren
had something to do with the mindwyrd? I am only recently acquainted with magic, and nowhere near so mighty in my lore as anyone else present—”

“An understatement if ever there was one,” Xain spat.

Ebon’s nostrils flared, but he pressed on, though anger now burned in his breast. “—but even I know that mindwyrd is only possible with magestones. And if Theren had been using magestones, her eyes would glow black. Theren, cast a spell.”

She looked at him uneasily, but a moment later he saw her focus, reaching for her magic. Her eyes glowed white, and a nearby tray lifted into the air.

“There you have it. Theren has eaten no more magestones than I have, or you yourself, Dean,” said Ebon, chuckling.

“You dare to laugh?
” roared Xain. Ebon flinched as the Dean stepped up to him. But he did not seize Ebon’s robes, nor reach for his magic. He only loomed, his face an inch from Ebon’s, until Ebon wanted to wilt and sink into the floor. “My son has been kidnapped—
my son,
you mewling, dung-licking coward—and you dare to laugh? First I am told that this girl, Isra, stole him away. Then you tell me that you saw her, but did not stop her before she escaped. Now I see her corpse—dead, it seems, since she was supposed to have taken him. Laugh again. Laugh, I implore you, for it may very well break me, but I will take you with me when I shatter.”

Ebon fought to reply, but pure terror had seized him. It was all he could do not to flee, and suddenly he had a desperate need for the privy. Everyone in the room stood frozen.

But it was Dasko who stepped forwards at last, still shaky on his feet, but with a stern look in his eyes. He put a gentle hand on Xain’s shoulder.

“Dean Forredar,” he said quietly. “No one can begrudge you your wrath, nor your grief, which must be boundless in equal measure. These children are as confused as we are, certainly, and far more frightened—for to their mind, they have seen a walking corpse. Ebon was flippant in a moment of foolishness. That does not mean he is evil.”

The instructor’s words were gentle, his tone soothing. But Xain did not subside—rather, Ebon saw his eyes go wide. He took a step back, as though he was regrouping, collecting himself.

“A walking corpse,” he whispered. He turned stark eyes on Isra’s body. “A walking corpse.”

Ebon knew not what the words meant, what dark thing Xain thought he had discovered, but it only increased his fear. Jia stepped forwards into the sudden, awkward silence. “They should return to class, Dean Forredar, unless we have anything more for them.”

Xain did not answer. He only turned back towards the body upon the bed.

“Out with you,” said Jia quickly, brushing them away. They turned and made for the door. She followed them out and around the corner, where she stopped them. Ebon was reminded of the last time she had pulled them aside to speak privately, when they had been caught sneaking into the Academy’s vaults.

“I tire of repeating myself,” she said ruefully. “But I must ask you to forgive the Dean. None of us can imagine the pain of losing a son.”

“Of course, Instructor,” said Kalem politely. Theren only stared off into nothing, while Ebon was still thinking of Xain’s look of dark recognition.

“I know he is angry with you, and anger may not always prompt honesty,” Jia went on. “So I will ask you once more—is there anything else you know, or have seen, that could help? I am afraid there is little hope Erin is still alive, for we have heard nothing from his captors since he was taken. Yet we must cleave to what little hope remains.”

That drew Ebon’s attention. Jia must not know of the ransom note Xain had received. That meant Xain had not told the rest of the faculty. But he only shook his head and muttered, “Nothing, Instructor. I am sorry.” Kalem and Theren gave soft words of agreement.

She sighed. “Very well. Then I have only one more thing to ask. Ebon, please go and see Astrea, immediately. I have sent word to Perrin already. She will excuse the two of you. You seem closer to her than most, and so she should hear of this from you.”

Ebon balked, looking back towards the healing ward for a moment. “I … I have no wish to tell her of Isra’s death, Instructor.”

Jia’s eyes grew mournful. “Nor have I, Ebon. Nor has anyone. But would you rather she hear it from your lips, or as a rumor whispering through the Academy halls?”

He hung his head. “From me, I suppose. But I do not wish for such a duty.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Ebon. Your compassion has never been lacking—and that is why I keep my faith in you.”

They turned from her then, and made their silent way through the halls. Ebon wondered if his friends, too, felt the presence of the corpse behind them, long after the healing ward was out of sight.

twenty-eight

EBON’S STEPS GREW HEAVIER THE closer he drew to Perrin’s classroom, and when at last he reached her door he stopped short. Lifting his hand to turn the latch seemed an impossible task. He very much doubted Astrea even wanted to speak with him just now, as withdrawn as she had become, and he had no wish to speak to her, either, with the news he bore.

Then he thought of her sitting in the dining hall, and hearing some whispered word at her elbow. In his mind he saw her turn at the mention of Isra’s name, and ask a sharp question. He saw the harsh, emotionless mask of her face break down a piece at a time.

Shaking his head, he opened the door.

A few of the students looked up at his return, but Astrea was not one of them. Ebon brushed past her and went to Perrin. The Instructor looked down at him with sorrow in her eyes.

“Instructor,” Ebon murmured. “Jia has asked me to speak with Astrea alone, if I may.”

“I think that is best,” said Perrin. From the pain in her expression, she must have heard about Isra, and knew how hard Astrea would take the news.

Together they approached her, and when they reached the front table, Perrin put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. So great was her size that her hand nearly stretched the width of Astrea’s shoulders.

“Astrea,” she said quietly. “You are excused for a moment. Please follow Ebon outside upon the grounds. The two of you must speak.”

She looked up at Ebon for a moment, her fingers still fidgeting with a flower she held in her hands. Her eyes were emotionless.

“I do not want to.”

Ebon shared a look of confusion with Perrin. “Come, Astrea,” he said. “It will not take long, but we must speak. I have something I must tell you.”

“I do not want to hear it.”

“Please, Astrea,” said Perrin. “It is good for us to speak of the things that trouble us, for otherwise they can fester in us like a sickness.”

“Do you think I do not know that?” said Astrea, and grief sounded in her voice for the first time. With a sigh of resignation she pushed herself down the bench and stood, going to Ebon’s side with a swish of her robes.

“Take whatever time you need,” said Perrin. “And Astrea—if you do not wish to return to class afterwards, you need not.”

Astrea shrugged and followed Ebon from the room. He felt suddenly uncertain, even more than he had before. He would have expected fear or grief from Astrea before she heard the actual news, for all tidings had been dark of late. He did not know how to react to this sullen indifference.

“Let us step out upon the grounds,” said Ebon. “It is too stuffy in these halls.”

She shrugged and followed him out through a white cedar door. Outside, students were practicing their spells in the open air, and he quickly guided her away from them, towards the hedges and the gardens that were free of any onlookers. Above, the sun shone bright in a clear sky, too clear and blue for Ebon’s liking. He was exhausted after a night of shadows and death, and now he was the unwilling bearer of grim news.

“Would that I were like Dorren of old, and the skies changed to suit my mood,” he said aloud. “Then the day would not be so cheery, as if it meant to mock me.”

To his surprise, Astrea nodded. “Often have I wished the same thing. But then we would be firemages, and I must say that I prefer alchemy.”

“Perrin would tell you to say ‘transmutation.’ But I am not she.”

“Yet you said it regardless,” said Astrea. Though the words came out sounding harsh, she glanced up at him from under her wild, frizzy hair and gave a little smirk. It gladdened his heart—but also pained him, for he knew the words he must say would tear that smirk from her lips, and mayhap keep it away for good.

Get it over with,
he chided himself. “Come. Let us sit,” he said, waving a hand towards a stone bench. She sat with him, staring at her hands in her lap, though her fingers did not fidget.

“Have you come to tell me that Isra is dead?” she asked suddenly, even as he was taking a deep breath to speak.

Ebon deflated at once, and his mouth worked as he fought for words. She glanced up at him, and must have seen the answer in his eyes. “I … who told you?” Ebon stammered at last. “They should have let the word come to you from the right lips.”

“When words are sorrowful, it matters little who says them,” she muttered, looking back down at her hands. “But no, no one told me. I guessed it. What else could prompt you to take me from class, and receive Perrin’s approval to do so? It is not as though anyone else could have died. I have no other friends left.”

He knew she must break down at that—yet she did not. She only stared into the distance.

“Are you … all right?” he said, uncertain of what else to say.

She only shrugged.

“Astrea—”

“What do you wish me to say, Ebon?” she snapped. “How many times have I told you not to ask me if I am all right? Do you think that Isra means nothing to me? She is my sister.”

“Of course I did not mean that,” he said quickly. “I only mean … I thought you might weep. No one could blame you if you did.”

She turned away again. “What good will tears do? Mayhap I spilled them all for Credell and Vali, for they will not come now.”

Ebon leaned over, trying to catch her gaze, but still she would not look at him. He saw the great bags under her eyes, dark and hollow, so like Isra’s had been. And he saw how thin and spindly her fingers had become, and how gaunt and sallow her cheeks, and he wondered if she was eating enough. Mayhap grief and anger had taken such a toll on her body that no amount of food or rest could repair it.

And then he remembered seeing eyes like hers before, and hands and cheeks as well—but he had seen them in a mirror, and they were his own, and that had been when Momen died. And suddenly he thought he understood her better. He reached out and put a hand on hers, and she did not pull away.

“I had a brother. Did I ever tell you that?” he said. “I do not like to speak of him. He died when I was very young—just your age, in fact. When I heard what had happened, I went into my room, where I remained for days while everyone waited for me to stop weeping.”

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “I have told you already that I do not need to—”

Quickly he raised his hands in token of surrender. “I do not mean that you should weep. For in truth, I did not. Tears would not come. But that does not mean I did not grieve. I missed him more than I could imagine. It still hurts to speak of him, though I am no closer to crying now.”

That gave her pause. Her fingers fidgeted. “You did not feel bad? Because you could not grieve?”

“I felt terrible,” he murmured. “Sometimes I still do. But in time I learned that I could not blame myself. For we all face loss in our own way. If I could have spent less time in guilt, I would have. I suppose that, in the end, it was hard for me to believe that he was gone. I never even saw his corpse, for he was burned in the distant land where he was killed, and there, too, were his ashes scattered.”