Chapter 30
The term continued, and éadha endured. As winter kept its tight grip, she woke each morning believing she couldn’t get up, couldn’t go through the old exhausting routine. But there was no choice. So she pulled herself one foot at a time from her bed and shambled down to Matins.
Still assigned to keep for Senan even though she’d moved to the dorm, each day she stood along the wall of the Hall of Illusions, funneling his draw as he created his misshapen illusions.
Of all the consequences of that night, this was the most bitter.
Knowing he’d gotten away with his assault.
That he could attack her, violate her, leave her bruised and battered, and still she had to obey him.
Secure in the knowledge that almost no matter what he did, he’d always be more valuable to the Masters than her.
But to know that, right under his nose, she was blocking his draw, stopping him from draining the Fodder to the point of collapse—that was her way back to herself.
Proof that, after all, he hadn’t broken her.
That in her own quiet way, she was still fighting, and now she understood what she was fighting for.
After those first few weeks of illusions, the morning came for the apprentices to begin dragon combat training, the last of the Lambay arts.
The class was in the ref filling up on warming food when Ailbhe came in looking drawn and pale, hurrying over to where her closest allies sat.
They huddled together, and murmurs began to spread from the little group outward.
Moments later, silence fell. Ionáin and Linn had come in holding hands, hair tousled and bleary-eyed, heading straight for food, piling each other’s plates high with fruit and sweetbread, giggling and murmuring back and forth before heading over to a corner table where they sat, backs pointedly to the watching room.
Ionáin reached over and took Linn’s hand again, working his fingers in between hers, and she leaned into him, tucking her head under his chin.
Shock waves reverberated through the class all that day.
But that same evening, Senan headed for Ailbhe’s room dressed in his finest clothes.
The next morning when he and Ailbhe swept through the doors of the classroom holding hands, the Channeller world, having momentarily wobbled on its axis, righted itself once more.
Determined to convince the world their pairing wasn’t a consolation prize, the two proud, ambitious creatures quickly installed themselves as undisputed king and queen of the class.
Senan redoubled his efforts to take first place in their year while Ailbhe had a ship sent from Erisen with the most exquisite wardrobe, offhandedly sharing it with friends and allies.
They threw parties for the select few in Senan’s rooms, ingratiating themselves with the Masters for Fodder and molash supply so their evenings became the talk of the island.
éadha watched it all through her numb haze.
Told herself it was for the best, that Ionáin, after all, was only doing what she’d asked, what she’d been telling him for months: accepting the impossibility of them ever being together.
And Linn, after all, was far better for him than Ailbhe: kind, talented, and powerful.
That was it, éadha realized. The solution she should’ve seen all along.
With her Channeller gift, Linn could be the one to cover for Ionáin now.
Be the Keep’s Channeller, save his Family.
Save the day. All that remained for her now was to get Ionáin through the rest of his training, and that’d be it.
Job done. And she’d be free. Free from the Masters, from the Head Keepers, from Senan, from Ailbhe, from all of them.
Alone, but free. It was the best she could hope for after all the harm she’d done—to her aunt and uncle, to Magret, to Gry.
A way, perhaps, to ensure people like Senan didn’t want to hurt her anymore because she wouldn’t be there.
She’d stop playing and walk away. Let them win, if that was what it took.
The Masters, meanwhile, were progressing to the next stage of dragon combat training.
It was also the most difficult for both the Masters and the apprentices.
As far as was possible by their craft and power, the Masters tried to recreate a true dragon battle.
The Master Illusionist created the illusion of a life-size dragon, complete in every detail (though privately éadha thought he deliberately made his vision more nightmarish, with none of the beauty of the real thing).
Master Joen, as Master Combat on Second Island, channeled enormous bolts of real flame that roared from the mouth of the illusion-dragon as it wheeled in the sky.
The Rising Channellers then had to face this fiery nightmare with a Fodder wagon as their sole power source shared between them, just as they would on their dragon patrols in a few months.
Defeating a dragon was more a matter of skill and tactics than brute force; a full-grown dragon could easily outfly or overcome a single Channeller unless they had massive Fodder resources at their disposal.
During the simulations, the apprentices were expected to study the dragon and identify its characteristics and whether there were any patterns to its flight that might make it possible to predict where it would go in response to the first blow.
The favored tactic was a series of quick successive blows from multiple Channellers positioned along its likely flight path that tore its wings and sent it plummeting to the ground.
The danger the apprentices faced as they fought the fiery illusion was real.
They were dependent on their Keepers for a steady resupply of power from the wagon as they poured it out of themselves into their yew staffs and out as firebolts that flew at the target.
Linn and Senan, as two of the strongest apprentices, were expected to take the lead in these combats, which demanded a carefully choreographed response.
But beneath their superficial cooperation there was a real, enduring rancor between them, with Senan still smarting from the humiliation of Linn choosing Ionáin rather than him and a determination on all sides not to be beaten by the other.
The combat ground was well outside the main House on a large rocky outcrop that jutted out to sea. As they prepared for a full combat session one afternoon, Senan strolled over to éadha.
“Well, Keeper, it seems this is to be our last outing together. My dear lady Ailbhe has asked to be formally paired with me as my Keeper for these last few weeks.”
Keeping her head down so Senan wouldn’t see the relief in her eyes, she replied, “Yes, my lord.”
Senan turned toward the combat ground before glancing back.
“You know, I feel I really do owe you something, some little recognition of all the trouble you caused me, between your sabotage at the autumn trials and then your melodrama over nothing at the Midwinter Ball. Let’s make this a session to remember.
Reinforce all the lessons you’ve learned during our time together, shall we? ”
He lifted into the air, arrowing his thread through her and on toward the Fodder wagon parked at the edge of the combat ground.
With a sense of foreboding, éadha picked up the threads, counting and assessing the strengths available, dropping some as they weren’t needed yet.
That day’s illusion wasn’t finished. Ionáin stood by the Master Illusionist, helping him create and hold the dragon illusion.
There was always a polite scramble at the start of the session as each of the Keepers tried to get the best, strongest threads for their Channeller from the limited supply in the Fodder wagon.
The rule was that a Keeper had to release a thread to another if their Channeller was in active combat, but some Keepers were inclined to hoard threads at the outset to reduce the risk of running low.
éadha was unconcerned by this jostling, confident in her ability to supplement the threads with her own power if needed.
Finally, the dragon illusion was ready. Supported by the Master and Ionáin, it rose into the air, flapping its enormous wings, the length of a battleship.
It seemed to be truly flying rather than being lifted by the power flowing from the two yew staffs pointing toward it.
Throwing back its head, it roared then shot up into the sky.
Senan, Linn, and Coll rose after it. Watching the direction of the dragon’s flight, Linn shouted instructions to those behind her, using established Channeller combat codes.
The Channellers lifting up behind her flew into position, forming the points of a net.
At Linn’s word, they shot energy toward each other’s staffs, between them weaving a golden net of power across the dragon’s path.
It wouldn’t hold it but would slow it down, allowing Senan, who’d taken up position behind the dragon, to fly in and hit it from behind.
He’d aim for the weakest point on its back, the join where the wing sprouted from the back and there was a sliver of unmailed skin.