Chapter 7 #4
It’s interesting that this chapel is still open and used, with scholars lighting candles when Killmarth is for the study of magic.
The two seem contradictory, worship of the old gods and the surge of magic galvanising and transforming ideas and industry, but perhaps this only highlights my own internalised assumptions.
Perhaps there is space for both in our world.
I avoid the scholars and other professors, but I learn where the main library is, two levels above Keeper’s Hall by the gatehouse, which is only used for formal occasions.
And I find Darley, the hall that is mysteriously permanently closed and forbidden.
I decide to visit the library when it isn’t rife with scholars and hopefuls, when I can take my time to ascertain the collection they hold here, though the pull to lose myself in aged pages of magical learning is strong.
I wonder if any of the other hopefuls are stalking the grounds, hoping to find someone alone like me, someone they can test for weakness.
Even the shadows seem to have eyes, so I carry my switchblade everywhere just in case and keep my hands free and loose at my sides, ready to defend myself if needed.
But in my mind, a map of Killmarth is forming, and as I listen in on the scholars hurrying between lectures and rooms, I hear talk of studying, of theory and research, but also of training.
Of mentors and their abilities and practice, always practice.
As the light dwindles, I call it a day, satisfied with my progress of gaining my bearings and forming an understanding of what the next semester and beyond will look like, and return to Hope Hall to get ready for the welcome reception.
Pressing my lips together, I check my reflection in the age-speckled mirror.
I’ve cast aside my slacks in favour of a rich blue silk blouse, navy skirt and low-heeled boots, an outfit that will allow me to blend in perfectly, but also move quickly if needed.
My lips are a scarlet slash and I blot, then ensure my brown and caramel hair falls perfectly around my face in a sleek wave.
Finally, I fasten pearls at my ears, my most prized possession and they glow with an inner light, reflecting the creamy tone of my skin.
I blink at myself in the mirror, green eyes outlined with black lashes.
Pretty and polished, but not striking, certainly not enough to turn a head if I don’t feel like drawing attention.
Tonight, I mean to observe. It will be my first time in a room with all the other hopefuls at once, and I intend to pick out the weakest, and the strong.
I want no surprises over the coming weeks.
I place a hand on my middle, willing my nerves to calm.
‘You can do this,’ I murmur, casting one final look around the bedroom and depart. The low heels on my boots click all the way up the granite steps to the castle, a few other hopefuls behind and in front of me as we all make our way to Keeper’s Hall.
I step across the courtyard and make my way towards a set of heavy, dark wood doors.
But on the threshold, my footsteps stutter.
The Keeper’s Hall dining room is twice the size of the one in Gantry, laid out the same, yet every table is covered with crisp white linens.
Silverware nestles next to each place setting, candelabras – polished to a silvery glint – pepper the space with light.
The chairs are upholstered in leaf-green velvet, unlike the harsh chairs of dark polished wood in Gantry.
The scent of fine toquay and leather permeates the space, lending it an air of aged sophistication.
I swallow, moving with the other hopefuls to check the place settings.
All our eyes dart to each other, furtive looks to sum each other up.
I linger along each table, cataloguing as many names as I can in my mind.
When I find my name, on the far left near the platform, I slide into it, ever watchful.
Now, I can observe. The other hopefuls filter in, barely a word uttered between them all.
I count fifty-two chairs, fifty-two place settings, fifty-two of us here who made it through the Crucible, here to attempt to complete the Ordeals this semester, and win one of the places as a scholar at Killmarth.
The desperation, the drive to succeed is palpable. I can almost taste it.
Tessa – the young woman from the Crucible – enters, checking the remaining name cards and I’m oddly delighted when she sinks into the chair opposite me.
She winks at me, then pours herself a glass of redcurrant toquay from a decanter in the centre of the table before drinking deeply.
I do the same, the ruby liquid clinging to the inside of the glass as I swirl it around before taking a sip.
‘You survived,’ I say.
‘Barely.’ She scrunches her nose. ‘Greg was a pain in the neck the whole way across that courtyard.’
I laugh and raise my glass to her as the other hopefuls begin filling our table. ‘What do you wield?’
She smiles softly and between blinks, her eyes change from brown, to blue, her skin from light brown to the same milky white as Professor Lewellyn. Then she snaps back to her true self, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a masquier.’
‘Clever,’ I breathe, meaning the compliment.
‘Thanks. Still can’t believe I’m here to be honest. Keep expecting them to say they’ve made a mistake, and I have to leave. Or getting shoved off a cliff.’
‘Does that happen?’
Tessa smiles darkly. ‘No, not really. Not since they made the rule not to harm each other between the Ordeals themselves. But still, the real test is not getting picked off by a rival in an Ordeal. Not being marked as the enemy. It’s all about blending in and not getting too cocky.
’ She leans in closer, eyeing the three other hopefuls sitting further down our table.
‘I heard last year, an illusionist created the illusion of a door where there wasn’t one in an Ordeal.
In fact, it was a floor-length window, opening directly onto the cliffs.
She waited until a rival came along, told her that was the right way and her rival stepped right through it, broke her neck. ’
‘Did she survive?’ I ask, keeping my voice light.
‘Gods, no.’ Tessa shakes her head. ‘And that illusionist is still here somewhere, in the year above us. Murdered a fellow hopeful, bold as brass, and now she’s just … here. Studying magic.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, stomach twisting as I consider this. I was expecting rivalry, but all-out murder? I take another sip of toquay. Clearly, I was right to carry my switchblade everywhere.
‘Blackcurrant, honey, oak and … grass.’ The young man who’s sitting across from me, to the right of Tessa drawls, his pale blue eyes like marbles as he takes a sip himself.
His features have a fine-boned quality, framed by perfectly slicked-back black hair.
He smirks, his lip curling slightly as he lounges back in his chair.
He reminds me of the men at society gatherings I’ve infiltrated, particularly the ones who get handsy in crowded spaces.
I’m instantly on guard. ‘Gideon Mallory. I suppose you’re first generation? ’
The fact he assumes that, that it’s what he is most concerned about, tells me all I need to know. I plaster on a smile. ‘I am.’
He swirls his toquay and raises his voice a fraction, so it carries up and down our table.
‘I suppose no one’s ever told you that first-generation hopefuls usually end up dead by the second Ordeal.
Terrible odds.’ His voice drops as he leans towards me.
‘Especially if I hunt every one of you down in the first Ordeal .’
A few other men like him snicker, an animal gleam lighting their eyes as they stare at me.
On assignments for the Collector, I’ve learned how to deal with men like Gideon Mallory.
Maybe I should keep my head down as planned, but I know if I don’t defend myself, he and the rest of his kind will be after me.
I’ll be fair game, and I cannot appear weak. I cannot become a target.
I lean forward, flicking my switchblade open under the table, and press the tip of the blade just below his crotch, then murmur, ‘I look forward to watching you try.’
Tessa glances across at Mallory and her eyes widen. She splutters, redcurrant toquay shooting from her nose as she covers a snort. Gideon Mallory narrows his eyes, turning deathly still. ‘You’ve just made your first mistake.’
‘Oh, I highly doubt that,’ I say with a wink, making it abundantly clear I am not prey before slowly removing my switchblade and leaning back to take another sip of toquay.
He’s about to say more, when the professors all file in.
There’s the man with red, slicked-back hair from the Crucible, his tweed jacket sporting velvet elbow patches, and the older man with white hair sitting next to the woman, Professor Lewellyn, who showed me into the parlour at Alabaster House.
Her eyes rest on me and I swear her lips form a smile before ranging over the rest of the gathered hopefuls.
There are five other members of the faculty present, a tall woman with black braids coiled high on her head dressed all in red, two other men who appear to hang back, hands in pockets, one with a welcoming smile, one with a frown pinching his features, a woman with keen, almost silver eyes, and a woman with a glossy brown bob who wheels her chair in front of them and nods to us, before folding her hands in her lap.
As the other professors take their seats on chairs at a table near the front of the hall, they all turn in deference to her, sitting in the middle of them.
The man with white hair pours her a glass of honey-gold toquay, and she raises it, just as every hopeful in the room hastily pours a glass, all of us raising our toquay to her.
‘A toast to this year’s hopefuls. By the end of the semester, twenty of you will have survived the Ordeals and become full scholars, ready to study at Killmarth.
This means that more than half of you will either have bowed out and left, failed or, sadly, died in the attempt.
’ She pauses, drinking a careful, measured sip of the toquay.
‘Take a good look around. The other people in this room are not your friends. They are your competition. It is an unfortunate fact, truly, that not all those who fail leave Killmarth with their lives. If you want to leave, if you wish to not partake after all and you would rather pursue an ordinary life without training your magic, without becoming the elite that the Crown generously sponsor here, now is the time to do so.’
Silence fills the hall as we all look at each other. I meet Tessa’s eyes and she winces before quickly looking down at the table. No one moves.
‘All right. Now let us discuss the Ordeals themselves.’