Chapter 27
In the ashen light of a winter’s dawn, Arcane Guild gathered within the temple’s frigid prayer hall, lit by hundreds of tapered candles nestled in polished brass sconces, their smoke drifting upward, melding with the pungent fragrance of incense and sacramental oils.
The temple, it seemed, was excluded from the magical famine that affected the rest of the academy grounds and the little of what she’d seen of Zenaida, because adorning every column, all ten shrines, the primary altar, and even the doorframes were flowers that should not exist in Desolate Winter, outside of royal greenhouses maybe.
Yet here they were, flowers in shades she’d never seen before: blush pink and sunset orange and deepest plum and sea blue, small and large, many-petaled and few, blooming in all their glory. Blooming somehow without soil or vials of water, and more remarkably, despite the lack of spring or summer.
Audra couldn’t stop staring at them, her eyes drinking in the vibrant hues. When one doesn’t know they lack something … it can’t be missed. But now, she knew that she’d been starved all her existence of life and color.
Was this how the ghost had felt yesterday in the washroom? Had she been a conduit of warmth and life to him, as these flowers were to her?
Audra wasn’t alone in her awe. The temple’s marbled floor was obscured, so littered with textured prayer pillows, all occupied by Arcane initiates who were supposed to be in silent prayer and contemplation but who mostly looked around in awe like her.
Incense burned Audra’s nose as she shifted on her own pillow.
She wasn’t accustomed to kneeling for so long or having to pray at all.
The fae had particular prayers for everything, to bless the food, to start the day, to end the day, to protect against enemies, dozens alone for Valric, the sun god, favorite and most high out of the entire pantheon.
And a dozen more prayers to find the next Heir—and she struggled to recite even the simplest. She didn’t agree with their insistence that they must not only memorize but also partake in the prayers.
Religion should be something personal, and yet they were all forced to participate in this.
“During temple class,” Priestess Nyrah’s voice cut through Audra’s thoughts, “you will delve into the intricacies of our four most sacred deities, learning their domains, their favored offerings, and the precise rituals required for supplication.”
It was embarrassing, as the entire ceremony felt like a performance—like religious theater—the acolytes and veiled priestesses with their impassioned-bordering-on-fanatical adoration of the gods.
And the way they studied the initiates—some with derision, making sure prayers were recited at rote—all hoping that one of the sleepy, stumbling, initiates was their precious prophetic savior …
Audra, who’d finally managed to tear her eyes from the floral displays, couldn’t bring herself to lock gazes with any of them, save Twyla, who stood with the other acolytes in the back of the chamber.
When Audra would catch her eye, she would smile, give a small wave.
She reminded Audra of Emyre, and a pang of yearning and homesickness swelled inside her.
She hadn’t seen the girl since the acolyte had given her the tour of the academy.
Though, according to a note pinned to Audra’s door this morning, she was supposed to meet with Twyla after the midday meal today.
Sanctum, the third and final day of their rotating class schedule, was a day of private study, practicum, and prayer, so everyone’s assigned opinantes would sometimes choose this day to review their progress.
Audra hadn’t yet decided whether Twyla was safe for her to confess her utter inability to cast incras, her visions, or the ghost. However, something in her gut told her to keep these enigmas a secret for as long as possible.
When the last prayer ended, Audra sought out Twyla to request postponing their consultation.
Twyla frowned, her birdlike face appearing more pointed than before.
“Well, my report to the Chorus of Echoes isn’t due for another two Sanctums. I suppose if you don’t have any pressing concerns, then that’s alright. ”
Audra had a multitude of pressing concerns, but she hid them behind a wide smile that she prayed was convincing.
Look, one day of being forced to learn prayers, and she was already using them.
Indoctrination worked fast. “I am drowning in assignments, so that would be incredible if we could postpone it. I wouldn’t want to have a negative report. ”
Twyla’s smile was genuine. “That seems fine.”
After saying their goodbyes, Audra hurried from the temple, avoiding the piercing gazes of the sibylline priestesses—their glowing irises followed her anyway, as though they knew she was shrouded in secrets.
As though they could sense she had just defiled the sanctified house of their gods with untruths and deception.
Outside, Wilder, Callum, and Cersha huddled on the temple steps, their noses rosy from the cold, their locs and hair shifting as though dancing on the icy breeze.
“Callum and Cersha have free time today and suggest we try archery; what do you think, Audra?” Wilder asked as Audra eased herself into the circle.
“I’ve heard the arrows are spelled never to miss the intended target. I should like to see this in person,” Callum said, a grin lighting up his broad face.
Wilder raised a curved brow. “Wait, are you saying the arrows will chase you?”
Callum’s grin widened. “Would you like to put it to the test? You can be the target.”
“Only if you go first,” replied Wilder dryly.
Cersha chimed in, “As amusing as it would be to watch Callum pursued around the field by the sharp end of an arrow, I’m meeting with a few others from Echinacea Guild; we have an archemical assessment at the end of the week on staving off infection with local flora.
I can’t seem to remember which herbs are medicinal and which are poisonous.
” She laughed, the sound like tinkling bells.
“Let me know how the archery goes, though.”
Audra had been waiting for an opportunity to be alone in the dorm—she was beginning to spiral, it was imperative she figure out what had gone wrong in incramancy yesterday, lest she suffer a repeat tomorrow.
“I can’t either—I have an appointment with the archivist in the library,” Audra said, hoping that she sounded as light and frivolous as Cersha and not at all like she was fearful that there was something odiously wrong with her.
Wilder frowned, opening her mouth to convince her—so Audra patted Cersha’s shoulder. “Come, Cersha, I’ll walk to Central Main with you.”
Cersha, oblivious, preoccupied with her upcoming assessment, no doubt, agreed and allowed herself to be tugged down the steps behind Audra.
Audra made quick work of her goodbyes with Cersha in the atrium and hurried upstairs to the Arcane residence hall.
She was glad to see that there were other initiates populating the space today—though she’d searched all day yesterday and again this morning at temple, that mysterious man from yesterday hadn’t appeared again.
Not in the residence hall or any of her classes.
She bypassed two initiates kissing noisily on the stairs and hurried up, taking them two at a time.
She was beginning to think the man in the residence hall might have been a ghost …
and yet, she’d felt heat when he’d looked at her, not the frigid, leaching cold permeating from the Basement Lurker.
And, where the Basement Lurker had been shocked that she’d been able to see him, he had spoken to her with a nonchalant casualty.
So not a ghost then, just a mystery—another one that she didn’t have time to solve.
She closed and latched the door to her room and sat on her bed, removing the training parchment she’d borrowed from incramancy class.
She didn’t dare practice the fire sigil again, not alone—what if she caught her bedsheets on fire, or worse, froze her fingers even more this time?
So, she flipped through the text with beginner sigils until she settled on one that seemed relatively harmless.
Audra raised up on her knees and unlatched the locks to the window, using all her might to lift it.
Beneath the window, rows of threaded ivy clung to the black brick of the castle.
She gripped her scissors tight and leaned out, her eyes watering immediately from the wind.
There were plenty of hardy, winterized vines within reach, and it didn’t take long to clip a few good-sized tendrils.
Prize in hand, she slammed the window closed and relatched it, placed the scissors back in her desk, and settled against the wall, her stockinged feet tucked beneath her.
This incra should be simple to perform—this wasn’t a fruit tree she had to coax into producing fruit, or a blighted potato she had to cleanse of disease.
She just had to encourage a flower or two to bloom.
Something the plant desired to do already, and thus, shouldn’t cost much energy.
She studied the swirls and lines of the incra, every intersecting point, making sure she had it memorized, exact.
She pushed aside lingering doubt, cleared her mind of all but this one aim, and laid the vines on the parchment.
From her reading, most botany-centered incramancers cast their incras directly into the soil, as near the roots as possible—or if it were a tree, they would carve the incra into the bark itself, making sure not to go too deep as to harm the tree.
But because the clipping had no roots, she would use the properties of the parchment, which had been spelled to act as a conduit of her will, an amplifier.