Chapter 7
Maeve was in a gloomy mood as Hendrix Fawley sprinted downstairs from his dorm , across the Volaticus common room and slammed down a copy of The Daily Divination.
“What?” Asked Maeve as she set her tea aside.
“Look,” said Fawley as he pushed the paper towards her and sat in one of the bright velvet sapphire armchairs. “I looked for you at breakfast but Lavinia said you’ve been eating up here for a week.”
Spinel crept out from under Maeve’s seat and rubbed against Fawley’s legs.
Maeve shot to the edge of her seat with one glance at the headline.
THE DREAD DESCENDENT ALLEGEDLY RETURNS
KEITL CLAIMS TO BE THE PROPHESIED DREAD PRINCE ORATORS OFFICE URGES ALL MAGICALS TO DISREGARD CLAIMS THAT THE FABLED DREAD DESCENDANT RETURNS
She snatched up the article at once.
“Impossible,” she said.
Fawley laughed, a smile wide across his face. “This is insane. Oh, Lavinia also said to give you this.” Fawley handed her a bright pink book.
Maeve flipped over the cover.
“Oh Merlin,” said Maeve tossing the erotic novel onto one of the couches.
She grabbed the newspaper and read over the front page.
KEITL, the rogue German Magical Militia General, has returned to public eye with a jaw dropping declaration: He is the legendary Dread Descendant the Magicals of Earth have waited three hundred years for.
Ambrose Sinclair has repeatedly defended KEITL in his absence, and now the Premier is silent as last. The Pureblood Magical Militia Commander and Elected Official in the Orator’s Office declined to comment this morning.
Orator Moon spoke with us briefly, excusing Premier Sinclair’s dismissal of the public’s questions.
“Premeir Sinclair’s duty is the protection of our world, not to comment on politics.
That priviledge lies with me. Currently there is no validity to Keitl’s claims, most modern Magicals aren’t even certain they believe in this prophecy, let alone a power hungry Militia Captain’s delusions of grandeur.
As our friends in the PMO say, ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.
Maeve set the paper down and looked up at Fawley. He slipped off his dark grey blazer with sapphire stitching and leaned back in his chair. His fingers drummed against his knee.
Maeve’s eyes scanned over the moving photograph of Kietel at the top of the page. He was dressed in his Magical Militia uniform.
Neither of them spoke.
Students were buzzing about the headline as she and Fawley walked to Defensive Magic. Headmaster Rowan was leaned back in his chair, his eyes down at the Daily Divination.
The class was silent. Finally, Rowan tossed the newspaper aside and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk.
“So then,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Thoughts?”
No one moved or made a sound. Until Randolph Grisham spoke. “What does it truly matter?”
Rowan’s brows slowly raised. He nodded slightly. “Are you asking me?”
Grisham nodded.
Rowan stood from his desk and rounded it, making his way to the center of the room. His boots clicked across the hushed classroom.
“It matters, validity aside,” began Rowan, “because we are on the verge of war. Division creates chaos. Chaos yields war.”
“Is it true that he will take all of us away?” Violet asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Rowan didn’t answer right away. “Some interpret the prophecy that way, yes.”
Grisham spoke again. “But it doesn’t seem like he’s getting support. I thought the prophecy spoke about the Dread Descendant being praised by the Magicals.”
“I don’t believe that’s exactly it,” said Rowan.
“They will be drawn to him,” said Maeve.
Rowan looked towards her.
“Yes, that,” said Grisham.
“He makes a point surprisingly,” said Maeve.
A low chuckle bounced across the room. Grisham eyed her.
“They are drawn to him,” argued Rowan. “Or have you not heard many Magical Militia have abandoned their oaths and are now under his command?”
Maeve swallowed. “I don’t mean them.”
“You mean us?” Asked Fawley.
Maeve nodded.
“And that’s your only argument?” Asked Rowan. “Ah.”
Maeve avoided Mal’s gaze, burning into her from across the classroom.
“I mean, he is a very powerful Supreme. And his claims of his lineage have been verified.” Said a voice.
“Actually there is a break in the line,” said another.
“But isn’t that to be expected?” Asked the first.
Rowan spoke over them. “Mr. Rosethorn,’ he called. “Recite the prophecy to us.”
Abraxas leaned back in his seat next to Mal. He swallowed and cleared his throat. He recited the words with almost a boredom, like a pledge he’d memorized since childhood that no longer held meaning.
“In a desperate hour your Prince of Darkness will return. Though a broken line of Magic, into unsuspecting veins. His life will call like to like in those were Magic blood remains. The Descendant of Dread will conquer the plague of the Promised Land, with a single finger not a sword. Rejoice, child of golden blood, freedom shall be yours. On backs and broken necks will balance be restored.”
The classroom turned eerily silent.
A shadow cast over Maeve in the dining hall, and a smooth voice spoke, “I didn’t know.”
She lowered her book and looked up at Malachite, who she had managed to avoid talking to or looking at for over two weeks. She looked back to her book. He had given her well deserved space.
“How?” Scoffed Maeve. “It’s all anyone at school acquaints me with. It’s what they love to gossip about when I walk by as if I can’t bloody hear them.”
Mal’s voice remained cool, in opposition to her’s. “You know I pay no attention to gossip, Maeve.”
The use of her first name didn’t go unnoticed. Maeve was somehow infuriated more by his calm demeanor.
Her book vanished from sight as Malachite whisked it away, seating himself in front of her. She refused to meet his gaze and stared out over the lake instead.
“You had to have known I would find that out eventually.”
Maeve’s head snapped towards him, opening her mouth briefly to snap at him, but resigned, calming herself first.
“I don’t want to see it,” said Maeve cooly.
Mal’s face screwed, looking at her almost dumbly. Maeve sighed, looking at the mahogany table as she spoke.
“You pushed past a barrier that night. A barrier even I don’t go past. Antony’s death. . . The sight of him like that. . . I can’t have it always creeping into my thoughts. I can’t have it keep me up at night, I can’t have it destroy my studies and…”
“You blocked an entire set of memories somehow?”
She nodded.
“How?” Mal shot impatiently. She shot him a look back.
“Rowan did it for me.”
“Of course.” Mal pushed back into his chair with a sour look on his face.
“I couldn’t do it myself. I invented the damn spell myself, it’s just one can’t perform it on oneself.
He said that if I promised to spend the summer working that silly job at the Double O, he would make it so I controlled if I saw those memories.
The other night when you saw that memory, it came flooding back to me like the first time. ”
“I broke past a charm Rowan himself put on you,” said Mal, poorly attempting to hide a wicked smile.
“Yes, by all means, make it about you,” said Maeve.
His eyes shot to hers, but she had a smile tugging at her lips.
“Impressive as it is,” she continued. “I don’t care to see it.”
Mal looked her over and pursed his lips. “You are running from something, that’s unlike you.” He spoke lazily, pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill. “I am here to push you, not to care what memories hurt or haunt you. Face it head on or it will be your downfall I should think.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but Mal was quicker.
“And don’t say you aren’t ready.”
Maeve snapped her jaw tightly shut.
Maeve met Mal in the Dueling Hall later that evening. He was pressing her, much more so than he had been doing. His methods of triumph were becoming more and more uncalculated, which kept Maeve on her toes.
Tonight, each time Mal defeated her, she had to answer a question.
On their first duel, he asked her if she had ever used her memory charm spells to get something she wanted, but possibly otherwise wouldn’t have achieved on her own.
“Wasn’t it on my own, since I cast the spell myself?”
Mal commended her on this clever response.
The second time he bested her, and had her bound by thick rope like strands of magic, he asked her if given the choice to bring back her brother from the dead, at the sacrifice of her Father, would she.
“What a deranged question,” said Maeve, her voice low.
The ropes tightened around her. Her mind slipped to those books Lavinia kept offering to lend her.
“And you haven’t even heard my third question,” replied Mal.
“I already know your third question,” said Maeve.
The ropes grew even tighter, constricting her body. She winced.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” said Maeve. “You want to know why my brother was murdered.”
Mal’s face didn’t change as he stared down at her, which solidified Maeve’s accusation.
“My brother was a werewolf,” admitted Maeve, straining. Mal’s expression didn’t change. “And I’m sure you know people like him aren’t exactly treated kindly. It was supposed to be a secret. Very few knew. He refused the treatment enforced by the Double O to keep him from changing”
Maeve hesitated, but continued when he didn’t say anything.
Of course, that was a gross mistake on my father’s part: assuming very few knew.
He was killed by another wolf it seemed.
It was grotesque when they found him- two of my Father’s men found him-ripped to pieces.
What you saw in my memories was what they managed to piece together of him.
. .” Maeve trailed off, her voice just above a whisper now. “His eyeballs were even carved out.”
“Your father recounted that detail to you?” Mal asked, his voice flat.
“No,” she said incredulously. “I took a dip inside his memory jar one night when he was asleep. Not that the bloody paper didn’t print that too.”
Mal was unfazed as he stood above her.