Chapter 29
The art of Illusion was the initial subject of lessons in the early days of their new term on Second Island. After that, the focus would shift to dragon combat training as preparations for their Westport posting began in earnest.
Creating illusions required relatively little power but significantly more skill and control than the crafts studied on First Island.
It was a difficult art to convey as so much of it was internal, an act of imagination and focus to conjure the images in the mind and channel them out to take shape in the air.
Some who’d been strong students on First Island, like Senan and Cormac, struggled now, unable to catch the trick of it, forcing it so it fled from them through their reaching fingers.
Others, though, were like amphibians taking happily to their second element, moving effortlessly from water up and out into air.
Ionáin seemed to be one such, an artist born.
In class it seemed he’d always known how to create the illusions; he just needed to be reminded of that fact.
Before long he’d moved far beyond the rest of them.
Ruadh, the senior Master Illusionist, let him work on alone, simply pointing him toward paths he might explore, from which he returned with creations of such crystalline beauty it broke the heart to watch them shimmer into unbeing at the end of each lesson.
Once the theory lessons ended and the apprentices began channeling in class once more, éadha increased her supply of power to Ionáin, making sure to gift him so much he’d hardly need to channel anything from the Fodder he touched.
She was helped by him specializing in Illusion as it was the art involving the least use of power.
Thrilled to have an apprentice so gifted in the art he loved, the Master Illusionist even managed to have Ionáin excused from some other lessons to concentrate on it.
For the most part, in class, éadha was silent.
Gry had been her one ally in lessons, and with him gone she had no one left to talk to anyway.
Sometimes whole days went by when she didn’t speak to anyone.
She missed him every day, only understanding now that he was gone just how much she’d depended on him to always be there with a quip or a wry joke, puncturing the madness of the Masters.
During lessons, she did the bare minimum to avoid getting into trouble.
In their initial classes on the theory of illusions, she was able to avoid Senan entirely.
But on the morning their practical lessons began, Maebh gestured her toward her normal Keeper spot behind Senan.
Fighting down a wave of nausea, éadha took up position wordlessly, trying not to see the smirk on Senan’s face as she did, at this confirmation there were no consequences for him for what he’d done.
Underneath her carapace of silence, though, something new was growing inside éadha.
Born in the crucible of the aerie with Senan on midwinter night, it was fanned to life by the scroll from Gry and Lady Hera.
Day by day it grew, taking on a life of its own, feeding itself on the plentiful scraps of humiliation, cruelty, and fear that littered her days.
She hunched over it at night, held it close to keep her warm, though it was a while before she gave it its true name.
And that name was rage.
She read and reread Leah’s scroll until she had it by heart, each time stoking her fury.
The Channellers, the Families, the Masters—they all lied.
They’d had a choice at the beginning of things, and they chose dominion.
They chose power over others and exploitation, and they hid the fact there was ever even a choice, building their temple of lies here, on the very spot where the choice had died.
They’d lied and they’d lied until they’d built a whole world on a lie.
A lie that created monsters like Senan and Huath.
For all their ceremonies, their histories, and their Annals, she was more the heir of the First Channeller, Leah, than they were.
Her drawing of her own life force to create and to give was descended from the First Sister more than their twisted corruption of power into dominance and control could ever be.
She understood, too, finally, the danger she was in.
Had been in all along. That while she’d been worried about the Masters discovering the truth about Ionáin, now she understood it was her gift the Masters hated above all else.
Because it revealed the lie at the heart of their entire world—that power could be had only by taking it from others.
Ionáin, meanwhile, was still trying to catch her alone, waiting for her before and after class, outside Matins and Vespers.
She knew she should want to go to him, but even though a part of her missed him desperately, she couldn’t do it.
Too much had broken since their night together in the East Tower.
Her body hadn’t been the same since those moments in the aerie.
At night she’d dream of the sound of Senan’s breathing, his fingers digging into her face.
She pushed her bed up against the door, lying there for hours, listening for any movement in the hall outside.
After class, she spent as much time as she dared pounding the running tracks along the cliffs, getting fitter and stronger, returning to the lean hardness of her years in the Keep.
But no matter how fit she got or how exhausted she was falling into bed, still the nightmares came.
The knowledge that her body had made Senan want to hurt her had destroyed something, robbed her of any ease in her own skin.
And she didn’t know how she could face Ionáin, face the thought of his arms holding her, when she could no longer face herself.
On a deeper level, too, there was the realization of how far she’d almost let Senan go when she’d had the power to strike him down all along. All just to hide her secret and ultimately Ionáin’s. How little value she’d placed on herself. What that almost cost her.
This was the other, more tangled reason why she couldn’t face Ionáin.
The sense of there being too much she couldn’t talk to him about.
And she knew, she knew it wasn’t Ionáin’s fault.
It was because of the secrets she’d been keeping from him ever since the day she’d stepped in and given him her power at his Reckoning without ever telling him.
Or further back even, when Magret told her of her gift, and she didn’t go to him in the Keep.
It wasn’t his fault he knew none of this, and she had no right to blame him for not knowing all the sacrifices she’d made. Yet a part of her did.
And then there was Gry. How was she to tell Ionáin about Gry when she wasn’t even sure herself what this grief she was feeling for him meant?
So the days after midwinter passed in a haze of sorrow and silence, anger and avoidance.
It was a chilly morning in the Hall of Illusions, almost two weeks after the Midwinter Ball.
Outside, a late winter storm howled against the windows, and all the apprentices were keeping their cloaks on for the warmth.
Inside, the air shimmered with illusions, the Master Illusionist having given them a free hand that morning.
Senan had tried to recreate a famous early dragon battle, deliberately making his Kaanesien into a grotesque, misshapen monster.
Ionáin, meanwhile, had created a replica of the East Tower, complete with the glass alcove they’d taken refuge in during the snowstorm on midwinter night.
Staring at it numbly, éadha could see how he’d remembered every detail from that night, down to the tumbling snowflakes, the velvet sofa they’d lain on, the single were-light that’d hung over his head as he kissed her.
The only thing missing was the two of them, lost in each other.
He was still trying to reach her, she thought.
Trying to find other ways to tell her not to let go, and as she stared at his illusion she felt a twinge.
Like something from a long time ago that she couldn’t quite grasp anymore, but she knew it’d been bright, and light, and filled with love.
A lump formed in her throat. Had she ever really been that happy?
It was the first time she’d felt anything other than fear, guilt, or anger since that night.
She pushed it down though. She wasn’t someone who got to be happy.
She knew now where such feelings led. The terrible price for her and anyone she cared for.
At the end of the class Ionáin’s illusion shimmered into unbeing. That was the truth of it. It’d only ever been a mirage. But as she followed the other Keepers out of the hall, a hand caught her from behind. It was Ionáin, taking advantage of the fact that Master Ruadh had already left.
“éadha, please,” he said in a low voice. “What’s happened? Why won’t you talk to me?”
She stayed facing away from him, but Ionáin came around to her side. Though she kept her eyes down, she could feel his gaze on her, hear the mix of confusion and concern in his voice.
“People are saying you were mixed up with whatever happened between Gry and Senan at the ball, but I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Please, whatever it is, I can help, but you have to talk to me.”
She couldn’t look at him. If she did, he’d see everything in her eyes. She couldn’t talk to him because if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She pulled her arm out of his grip. “My lord, I’m not your Keeper. If you need something, you should go to her.”
Out of the side of her eyes, she saw Ionáin step back with a look of disbelief. “What are you talking about? I want to help you.”
“You’re mistaken, my lord. We were never able to help each other.” She fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. “We were always better off alone.” And she walked on out of the room.
After that she shut down completely, unable to handle the contradictions that were fissuring within her until she felt she’d break apart.
And when they encountered each other in class or in the refectory or the temple, each time she stared through him, eyes blank.
As if he were a passing stranger while she went on alone.