Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(21)
This is the dying time, Ash thought, morbid to the bone.
You’ve got to stop thinking so much. It’s the end of term, after all.
In fact, he’d been through a series of grueling exams that day. He was magically depleted and bone-weary, and he wanted to make an early start the next day. Still, he knew from experience that it might not be easy to escape into the oblivion of sleep.
He entered the academy by the postern gate, treading the well-worn path through the park, used by countless students on their way to and from mischief. Just past the gate, he turned down the path toward Stokes, the proficients’ dormitory, which housed senior-level students from several academic houses. He was considered a fourth-year, having spent two years at Spiritas, the healers’ academy, and two at Mystwerk.
His father and mother had schooled together here, back before the war. His mother had spent a year at Wien House, the school that drew would-be warriors from throughout the Seven Realms. His father had attended Mystwerk, the school for wizards, or mages as they were called in the south (usually coupled with fear and loathing).
The entire campus, with its green lawns and time-buffed stone buildings, had the look of a Temple School at home if you overlooked the gritty bits, such as the taverns and inns on Bridge Street. The Bridge would already be crowded with students, eager to celebrate the end of term and the beginning of the Interregnum.
What would his parents have been like, back then, before they’d suffered so many losses? Ash guessed it must have been a carefree time.
It was just then that he felt a presence, like cold water trickling between his shoulder blades, or a cadaver’s hand on the back of his neck. He instinctively turned sideways, to present a smaller target, gripped his amulet, and looked back along the path.
The academy grounds were heavily wooded, and the moon shrouded in clouds. He could barely make out the darker shapes of the trees on either side of the gray strip of flagstone path. The gloomy undergrowth beneath could hide an army. It was probably not an army, but someone was definitely out there, watching him. Several someones.
They weren’t gifted, Ash guessed, or they would show up better in the dark. It was his own gift, and their need, that told him they were there. It was only when he closed his eyes that he could see them, like deeper holes in the shadows. Ash had been trained to discern disorder in others. Had they not been so hungry, he might not have noticed them. They were like lanterns with no light inside.
Ash was more curious than worried. He wasn’t the most powerful wizard, or the most skilled fighter at the Ford, but when it came to predators, he was likely near the top of the local food chain.
Ash took two steps back toward the shadowed border of the trees, meaning to take a closer look. Then froze as he sensed the excitement rippling through the watchers. Not fear, but greed and anticipation, as if they were a pack of high-country wolves with the scent of blood in their noses.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
The breeze freshened and the leaves shivered. The moon freed itself from its wrapping of clouds and light cascaded onto the path. Nearby, an owl spoke and then its blunt shape passed silently overhead. Still the watchers waited in the woods. A small group of students passed by them on the path, and they didn’t stir from their hiding places.
Holes in the darkness. Lanterns. Or wolves. Right. Taliesin had him seeing ghosts and monsters. One thing for sure: there were fewer ghosts and monsters at the Ford than where he was headed.
8
HELLO AND GOOD-BYE
Reaching Stokes Hall, Ash trudged up the well-worn stone steps to the second floor. From all appearances, the dormitory was deserted. Everyone would be at the Bridge by now.
He pushed open his door and pointed at the reading lamp, and it blazed into light. He frowned, rocked on his heels, and scanned the room.
Someone’s been in here.
It was hard to explain. The furnishings were simple: a bed, a dry sink with a pitcher, a desk and chair, the table by the door, a bookcase lined with precious books, a battered chest for his clothes. Although the arrangement of objects appeared to be random, there was a design and power in it, a charm of protection that gently redirected an intruder, turning him away without his realizing it. Ash always placed the spell instinctively. It was something he’d done since he was a boy, since his father had taught it to him. Back then it served to keep his younger sister out of his private things. But now the pattern was disturbed. Items had been picked up and shifted in subtle ways.
Doors in the student quarters were rarely kept locked. No one had much worth stealing, though borrowing was common, as long as you left a note. There was no note, but then nothing seemed to be missing. What was most disturbing was that his charm hadn’t worked to keep them out.
He couldn’t help thinking about Taliesin’s warning. I don’t know that the gifted will be safe here for too much longer.
But there were plenty of gifted at Oden’s Ford—prominent teachers and practitioners. There was no reason anyone would target him. As far as students and faculty at the Ford knew, he was Ash Hanson, son of a minor landowner in the borders. The only person at the Ford who knew his real identity was Taliesin.
Still, he went back to the door and locked it. Then crossed to the hearth, lifted a loose stone, and retrieved the leather case, locked with charms, whose padded pockets and compartments were filled with vials, bottles, and pouches of death. Everything was just as he’d left it. He released a sigh of relief.