The Ordeals

Chapter 1

The Pickled Gargoyle

O n a Thursday afternoon, around three o’clock, the Pickled Gargoyle is alive with scholars.

I wander in as if on a whim, stepping towards the bar as I discreetly eye the room and the gathering of flushed faces.

They’re clutching tankards of frothing, ruby rhyn, delivering opinions in drawling nasal tones and I realise the brand of scholar I seek isn’t here yet.

I signal to Pewter, the barman, and he half turns, revealing an array of drinks at his back.

Honey-gold toquay in glinting, chilled bottles, a blackcurrant variety steeped to taste like autumn, and my drink of choice, forest-green velvane, smoky and silky smooth, with a lingering taste of toffees.

Pewter raises an eyebrow, grabbing an octagonal glass, and pours two fingers of velvane before sliding it my way. ‘Not your usual haunt at this hour, Sophia.’

I pick up the glass and take my first sip, the feel of warmth and silk slipping deliciously down my throat. ‘Just came to see my favourite barman.’

‘Liar.’

I grin, sliding over a floren note and he tops up my glass. ‘Yours is the best velvane in the city?’

He chuckles. ‘Still a lie, but I’ll take it.’

‘Any wielders here today?’ I ask casually, taking another sip as I survey the bar.

Pewter slings a cloth from his shoulder, wiping away a puddle of spilled rhyn. ‘None yet. I heard though—’

‘Yes?’

He frowns. ‘That Killmarth entrance exam is soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few hopefuls in here today. A round for courage, you know? It always happens towards the end of September.’

I pass him another floren note, and he adds a generous pour into my glass.

His attention is snagged by a woman asking for toquay and I move away from the bar, threading my way through the scholars.

Pewter told me exactly what I needed to hear.

I’ve been tracking down information since I heard of the college, Killmarth, nine months ago.

Perhaps today, at last, I’m in the right place to learn more.

And if the entrance exam happens each year towards the end of September, they’re cutting it fine. It’s already the 28th.

Pewter puts an alchemist-made record on the music amplifier and the whole space fills with the soft crooning notes of a female singer from unseen speakers.

It’s busier than even a few moments ago, but still none of the scholars are the kind I’m looking for.

Too puffed up on poetry and self-importance and none of them, as far as I can tell, wield magic.

I swirl the dark green drink in my glass, stepping carefully around their elbows, the frothing rhyn dripping from their tankards.

There’s a young woman practically boxed in by two of them, men yapping about their interpretation of the Attestations of the gods, trying to impress her, like their opinions are the only ones that matter.

Our eyes meet as I brush past them and she’s got that look, glazed with boredom. Like she wants to escape.

That’s when I twist my hand, like I’m twisting a doorknob, and the bar cuts to darkness.

For those two scholars anyway. I hold the illusion, clenching my jaw, even as the telltale headache begins to nag at my temples.

The young woman grabs the opportunity, with them swearing and fumbling, and slips away.

I release their minds from the illusion, and they blink at each other, finding their quarry has bolted. Allowing myself a small smile, I sink into the cushioned seat at a table in one of the alcoves at the back.

And I wait.

I’ve trained for moments like this my whole life, blending with a crowd, waiting for a mark the Collector wants, or someone I have a keen interest in.

For the past few months since I learned of Killmarth, I’ve gleaned that it is a place for magic wielders to train.

And best of all, fully funded by the Crown, the rulers of Kellend, which to a person like me, means it is possible .

But it wasn’t until recently that I overheard a snippet that changed everything.

When you walk through the gates of Killmarth College, all outside magical interference falls away.

No one can follow you through their wards, no matter how strong a wielder.

I’ve been hunting for more information ever since and, with whisperings that the next intake of hopefuls is about to be chosen, I’m ready to take my place amongst them.

Sipping my velvane, I toy with the silver bracelet on my left wrist, the one that shackles me to the Collector.

My uncle, my boss, my keeper. The man who’ll be impatiently waiting even now for me to deliver the vial of blood from today’s assignment.

And just as I’m about to give up on this bar and move on to the next one, I hear two voices at the next table.

‘You need to stop,’ one voice says, insistence cutting his tone in a way that makes me want to listen.

As the tables lining the back wall are set into alcoves, they can’t see me, but as I sink back into the cushioned seat, toying with the cool octagonal planes of my glass, I can hear them perfectly.

‘… just have to get through it. At Killmarth, you’ll suss out the competition.’

‘Glad you have faith in me.’

‘Just be smart at the Crucible tonight. Don’t slip up, then you’ll be fine. Place practically guaranteed.’

I nearly choke on my drink. Could it be …

is the Killmarth entrance exam tonight ?

I’ve heard the word ‘Crucible’ before but hadn’t found the link until now.

Hope blooms inside me, my fingertips tingling as I clutch my glass.

At last, I’ve found the kind of hopeful scholar I’m looking for.

I lean towards them, angling my head so I can better hear over the noise of the bar.

‘You should come back, join me there,’ the other voice says quietly, a male voice, low and melodic, weaving under the harsh, clipped voices of the freshers surrounding our tables.

‘You know I can’t, not yet. My work in Theine has been … challenging. All-consuming.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Just do what you’re supposed to. Get your place at Killmarth, train your magic. It’s what your family want.’

‘And yours?’

There’s a sharp bark of a laugh then a sliding sound, before one of the men stands and I look away, tapping my fingers against my glass. ‘My family don’t come into this – you know that. Good luck tonight. Don’t get yourself killed.’

I glance up just in time to see the back of his head of dark hair and a tailored jacket as he walks past the bar, Pewter giving him a particularly longing look before the young man sweeps out.

This is my chance, my only chance to find out where the Killmarth entrance exam is held and insert myself amongst the hopeful scholars undertaking it.

I slide forward in my seat, waiting for the exact moment the other young man with the melodic voice stands and moves forward, so I can bump into him.

‘Sorry!’ I say, empty glass in hand as I blink up at him, careful to keep my expression startled, doe-like.

He’s frowning, as though deep in thought, but as his gaze slides over me, the frown falls away.

Surprise throws me off kilter as I take all of him in.

He’s gorgeous. All dark brown hair and soft brown eyes, mouth and cheeks slightly flushed, a rugged quality to his features.

There’s nothing manicured about him, like he might not fit in a standard sort of college for learning. He looks more suited to a battlefield.

He’s wearing what most of the other scholars are in this bar, a white shirt and slacks, but somehow on him, they fit like a disguise he’s thrown on.

As though he’s trying to blend in, just like I am.

He’s adopted the appearance of a brooding scholar, but as he pushes his hair back from his forehead, gaze sweeping over me, I can’t help noticing the way his muscles bunch underneath that white shirt and my treacherous heart flips.

No scholar I’ve ever met is this buff. ‘My fault. I wasn’t looking.

’ Then his eyes drop to my glass. ‘Going to the bar?’

‘Well, I was just leaving, but maybe …’

‘What are you drinking?’ he asks, leaning in so he can hear me over the shrieks of a nearby group. ‘The least I can do is buy you a drink for nearly knocking you flying. Velvane?’

I chuckle and twirl my hair around a finger. ‘Maybe I’ll have just one more, if you’ll join me.’

He hesitates for a heartbeat then nods. ‘Love to. My friend had to leave, and it’s left me at a loose end for a while.’

‘Well, I can tie that up for you,’ I say with a small shrug.

‘Lead the way.’ He smiles, placing his hand on my elbow to steer us through the groups of scholars to the bar, then his hand moves to my lower back, sending a trail of heat across my skin.

Now this … this is someone I could lose myself in.

Someone to drown in and forget what I do, who I am, if only for a few hours.

And if it wasn’t so pressing, if I didn’t need information from this man so badly, I’d happily while away an evening with him.

But today, he’s my mark and I am a huntress.

Taller than me, he leans past, signalling for two more drinks and I imagine Pewter’s mouth becoming a thin, unimpressed line as he pours them out and swipes the floren note this stranger places on the bar beside me.

I can’t take my eyes off him. He smells of silky velvane and woodsmoke and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, something rich and intoxicating.

‘We could grab a table again at the back. It’s kind of crowded by the bar …’ he murmurs in my ear and I allow him to guide me back through the groups of scholars, again with his hand on my lower back, to one of the tables in an alcove and a bench seat, only just wide enough for two.

I slip in beside him, tapping my glass against his and remind myself to stay focused. ‘ Salutar .’

‘ Salutar .’