Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Ivy
Iarrive fifty paces into the woods with a cool autumn breeze nipping at my arms. As I peer through the darkness, I tug my cloak closer around me.
This time, the scourge sorcerers don’t make me wait for long. It can’t be more than a few minutes before two black-shrouded figures emerge from the thicker blackness between the trees.
Two black-shrouded figures… and a man in noble clothing whose smooth face still holds a touch of baby fat.
I have the vague sense I’ve seen his face around campus—he’s got to be a first year, only eighteen.
I only have two years on him, but seeing his wide eyes and the nervous set of his mouth, I suddenly feel ancient in comparison.
“Come along,” one of the shrouded figures says, managing to sound gruff even with the magical warble altering her voice. At least, I think it’s a her. “The ceremony will begin soon.”
She and her silent companion usher the nobleman and me through the woods at a brisk pace. I sneak glances at the guy, noting the resolve in his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
I’m pretty sure he’s a potential recruit just like me. Why are they bringing us together now?
Why are they letting us see each other? When Benedikt accused me, they let him stay hidden until they started to doubt his story.
I guess I should be glad that their leaving us on equal ground probably means I’m not about to face another accusation of treachery.
Maybe it’s yet another different test. The scourge sorcerers don’t want to risk letting us identify any of the established conspirators, but if we turn on our fellow candidates, they’ll know we can’t be trusted to hold our tongues.
The young man whose name I don’t know keeps quiet, so I do the same. I’m not sure what I could say that would be a good idea anyway. This isn’t exactly a prime setting for small talk.
Fancy meeting you here! Lovely night to plot against the royal family, isn’t it?
I arch an eyebrow slightly in a silent question to Julita. To my relief, she catches on despite the tension that’s seeped into our interactions lately.
No idea who he is, she says. If he’s a first year, he’s only been at the school for a couple of months. He mustn’t be in the leadership division, and he can’t have done anything all that noticeable.
I continue studying him, attempting to commit his face to memory. Dark hair, narrow nose, knobby chin, top-heavy body with broad shoulders but narrow hips.
If I can describe him well enough to the other men, hopefully one of them will have some idea who he is.
After several minutes of tramping through the brush, I develop a suspicion of where we’re headed. Sure enough, we reach the back wall.
One of our escorts raps on the stones with a low muttering, and the shadowy opening appears in front of us.
The woman who spoke earlier prods me through, her companion and the nobleman following behind. We emerge to find one more conspirator dragging the concealed boat onto the river.
Apprehension prickles down my spine. I hardly feel safe on the campus, but my situation is even more precarious when I let these psychopaths guide me beyond the college’s walls.
But any hesitation is dangerous. Benedikt proved as much with his confession—he said he only balked briefly at making the sacrifice they demanded before they decided he wasn’t committed enough.
An odd twinge passes through me, thinking of him and the last time the scourge sorcerers brought me out here. There’s a jab of anger, but also a twinge of grief and guilt.
I hate that Benedikt was selfish enough to turn on me to try to save himself. I don’t understand how he could have bought into this madness.
But I also hate that we made him feel inferior, however inadvertently.
I clamber onto the boat with the shrouded conspirators and the nobleman. We glide across through the darkness without so much as a peep from the guard patrolling the back wall.
Maybe the pretty boy who keeps hassling me should put his gift to better use and catch the actual bad guys around here.
On the far bank, we hike for another short distance to a horse-drawn cart. Five more figures are waiting for us there—only two of them concealed by black shrouds.
I eye the other three as I climb into the cart. They study me with equal suspicion.
These must be potential recruits from elsewhere in the city. They’re at least middle-warders by their clothing—quality fabrics and clean, no patches or darning.
One is really just a kid, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen, but the other two are significantly older than me.
I think the woman, whose mousy brown hair is twisted back from her face in a tight bun, must be in her thirties, and the man maybe a decade older.
The moonlight catches on the silver flecks in his hair.
Then one of our escorts pulls an arched canvas covering over the top of the cart. A tiny bit of moonlight filters through, but no one will be able to see in… and I won’t be able to see where we’re going.
These fiends are cleverer than they have any right to be, Julita mutters.
Two of the conspirators take seats at the front of the cart to start the horses trotting down the rough track. One of the others sits in our midst.
“We have friends ensuring that our travels stay safe from those who’d oppose our hopes for Silana,” she tells us. “If a cry to take flight goes up once we’ve reached our destination, run straight to the cart. We’ll have plenty of advance warning, and the gods will protect us from discovery.”
The gods? More like the conspirators’ deranged magic.
No wonder it’s taken so long for anyone to stumble on the scourge sorcerers. Even Julita only did by chance, because of her history with Wendos. They take every possible precaution to keep themselves hidden.
Even if I called on my men for help, it sounds as if I’d be whisked away before they could reach me.
As I suppress the jitter of my nerves, the shrouded woman retrieves a bottle from beneath her shroud.
“Everyone take a gulp,” she says, handing it to the nobleman next to me. “It’ll open your minds so you can fully embrace what’s ahead.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
The nobleman makes a face after his swallow and passes the bottle to me. I take a quick sniff, but I don’t recognize the sour earthy scent.
Well, I do have plenty of tricks up my sleeve, sometimes literally.
I make a show of filling my mouth and pass the bottle on. Then I raise my arm to swipe my hand across my mouth.
Before I can finish the gesture, the cart bumps on a rut. A dollop of the liquid jolts down my throat.
I spit the rest down my sleeve, silently cursing the lumps in the dirt. At least I didn’t swallow a full portion.
As the cart jostles on, a faint fizzing develops beneath my thoughts. It’s hard to judge the full effect when I’m just sitting here, but my gut clenches with uneasiness.
I have no idea how long the cart ride lasts. We candidates sit in tense silence. The shrouded figures among us intone in the thick, muddled syllables of the arcane dialect I heard Wendos using, so quietly I’m not sure I’d understand them even if I’d learned the language.
The cart jerks to a halt. Our escorts draw back the canvas to reveal a wide clearing surrounded by sparse forest on all sides.
Nothing I can see stands out as a potential landmark to identify this spot. No doubt that’s by design.
There’s a big dark heap off at the other end of the clearing, only a jumble of lumps in the darkness. The conspirators don’t make any move toward it, directing us in front of the cart before leading the horses farther to the side.
When I walk, my mind seems to list as if I’m a boat on a wavy sea. I swallow thickly, the sour aftertaste of the drugged liquid lingering in my mouth.
If I’m feeling out of sorts, how badly will it have affected those who swallowed the entire mouthful?
Then one more shrouded figure steps into the clearing across from us, leading a man who has his hands bound behind his back and a golden crown on his drooping head.
At the first glimpse, my heart lurches. The crowned man has the same dark hair and strapping build as King Konram.
Julita gasps. They couldn’t really have—
No, they couldn’t. She cuts herself off when he raises his head, and we both see a face similar but not the same as the king’s. The nose is large, but more bulbous than hawkish; the eyes are squintier and wider set.
Just a stand-in. But the implications are clear.
They become even more so when the shrouded man leading him lifts his voice.
“This king hasn’t proven himself worthy of ruling over us,” he says, projecting his words out into the stillness of the night. “All those who wish to lead must be properly tested. Rise to the challenge and make him confirm his might.”
I’ve spent a significant part of the past few days observing Ster.
Torstem whenever I could, wanting to make sure I could recognize him if I encountered him in this guise again.
It only takes a couple of sentences before I’m sure this is the law professor’s authoritative tone, even with the magical warbling disguising it.
His cadence sounds just like it does when he’s at his lectern.
Before I have a chance to wonder how we’re going to “rise to the challenge,” one of the other scourge sorcerers presses a knife into my hand. I stare down at it, my fingers instinctively curling around the hilt.
It’s a plain one, but I can tell it’s sharp from the way the faint moonlight hits the blade. My stomach flips over.
The woman from the city glances around, clutching the knife she was handed. “What are we supposed to do?”
Torstem shoves the false king toward us. “Deal a blow. Cut him deep. If the gods are with him, he’ll endure.”
Great God help us, Julita mumbles.
My magic flickers in my chest, but aimlessly. I’m braced for danger, but my riven power can’t tell where the threat is.
In this moment, technically the threat is me.
I adjust my grip on the knife, willing down my queasiness.