A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6) Read online

  “I have a trunk.” Tria pointed to the leather and brass repository of her meager possessions. “I’ll need help bringing it in.”

  “I’ll send two of the boys to fetch it and put it in your room,” the maid said, beckoning Tria inside. “I’m Veronica, the house maid. Come along, now. You’re to be taken directly to meet Headmistress. You’d best not keep her waiting.”

  Tria was taken aback. She had expected to wash off the dust of the journey and change into fresh clothes before meeting anyone. But Veronica gave her no chance to object. She bustled along, strands of hair wriggling like worms in a bait box. After all, Tria thought as she marched after her, why should I care if I make a poor impression? The headmistress can’t possibly be as disappointed in me as I am in the school.

  They passed through a narrow, dim hall into a parlor filled with furniture dingier than what Tria’s parents had on the farm. The velour cushion covers might have been elegant once, but were now so badly worn that the outline of the springs was clearly visible through the cloth. One wing chair matched the davenport, but the rocker and straight chairs were a mismatched lot. What was worse than the age and poor condition of the furniture was the dust that coated the end tables and the art-glass lampshades. At least she and her mother had kept the farmhouse clean. What does the maid do all day? she wondered, gazing at windows too dirty to let in the bright fall sunshine.

  Over the mantel above a soot-caked fireplace hung a badly done portrait of a young man, its dark colors adding to the general gloom. Veronica waved a hand in the direction of the painting. “That’s Lesley Simonton,” she said. “The school’s named for him.”

  With no further explanation, the maid led her into the hall beyond the parlor, where rough wood creaked beneath her feet, paint peeled from the walls, bare bulbs hung from high ceilings. Tria thought it the most depressing place she’d ever seen.

  The odor of overcooked cabbage rolled out of one long intersecting hallway. Surely that stench could not be a portent of the evening meal. Hungry as she was, her stomach would rebel if she sent it anything that smelled that bad.

  They reached and ascended a stairway whose boards protested every step. As she climbed, Tria fought the temptation to bolt and run from the school. She hadn’t yet paid the balance of her tuition; she could leave and give the money back to her father. But she’d promised to make her mother proud.

  She pictured her father receiving her, face taut, angry. She could hear his caustic greeting. “So, you’ve returned a failure, just as I predicted. You’ll be nothing but a drudge for the rest of your life. School for the Magically Gifted! Didn’t I warn you it had to be a hoax to swindle fools with delusions of godhood?”

  And her mother would look more defeated than ever, more hunched, her blue eyes more faded, as she’d welcome Tria home and try to hide her despair.

  No, Momma, I won’t do that to you. I made you a promise, and somehow I’ll keep it.

  On the second floor Veronica stopped before the door opposite the landing. Beyond it a long hall stretched away from the stairs. A call from within answered the maid’s knock. Veronica opened the door and stood aside, allowing Tria to enter alone. She heard the door close behind her.

  She stood in an office lined with bookshelves. The books, their bindings old and tattered, leaned this way and that, rested on their spines, or were stacked in haphazard piles. A green-shaded lamp illuminated the cluttered desk, but left in shadow the figure behind it. Tria could see the woman’s rigid posture but not her features.

  “Welcome to Simonton School, Miss Tesserell. Please take a seat.” A gaunt hand waved through the zone of light at a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner of the office. Tria moved it forward and sat facing the desk.

  A second long-fingered hand moved into the light, this one wearing a ring with a large orange gem that sent reflected sparkles dancing over the papers and books piled on the desk. “I always acquaint myself with my students immediately upon their arrival,” the Headmistress said. The hands plucked apart a stack of papers and drew out a single sheet. Tria recognized her application form. “I personally craft the course of study suited to each individual’s needs and talents. Your instruction begins the moment I sign you in.”

  As if to emphasize her words, the Headmistress picked up a pen and scrawled something across the bottom of Tria’s application. With a sickening jolt, Tria realized that she had just been officially enrolled. A sense of foreboding caused her stomach to cramp, and it was a moment before she realized the Headmistress had asked her a question.

  “I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered.

  “Conceded,” the woman said. “I asked you when and how you realized you had supernormal powers.”

  “Why, I … I always knew I was different.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Tria jerked at the sharp rebuke.

  “You have not ‘always’ lived. You must learn to speak with precision. Try again.”

  “Well, of course, I meant for as far back as I can remember,” Tria said with ill-concealed indignation.

  “And how long is that?” the Headmistress persisted.

  “I don’t know … I think … I remember things that happened when I was a baby.”

  “Too vague.” The Headmistress tapped her blunt nails on the application. The sound grated on Tria’s already raw nerves.

  The woman persevered. “A young child is not aware of its uniqueness. One learns gradually that one has abilities others do not possess, a process that requires several years. Try to recall what first brought you that knowledge.”

  Tria frowned, thinking back. A picture formed in her mind. She stood in her crib. A shaft of bright moonbeams streamed through the window. Gleefully she captured handfuls of moonlight, fashioned it into balls, and tossed the glowing spheres into the air above the crib. Her mother dashed in, snatched her up, and shook her. “You must not do that. Never, never, never,” her mother’s frantic voice scolded. “It is bad, bad, bad to play with light that way. If Poppa sees you, he’ll spank you hard.” With that warning, her mother set her down in the crib and drew the curtains, banishing the silver light and leaving Tria to cry herself to sleep.

  How old had she been? At the age of three she’d been moved from the crib to bed with her sister, Kate. The crib was needed for Timmy, the new little brother who’d lived only a few months. There were no more babies after that, but Tria had grown too big to go back to the crib, and she and Kate shared a bed until Kate left home at seventeen to wed the son of a wheat farmer, that everyone said was a fine match.

  “Well?” The impatient query cut through the memories.

  “I couldn’t have been more than two when I was scolded for making balls of moonlight. That’s when I knew I had a power I wasn’t allowed to use.”

  “But how did you know everyone else did not have the same power but kept it hidden as you did?”

  Tria stared. The concept was ridiculous. “I knew,” she insisted. “If everyone could do it, there’d be no need to keep it hidden.”

  “You reasoned that out at two years of age, did you? Hmmm.” The Headmistress made a notation on the form. “I can see I’ll have to start you off with a class in elementary logic. And you failed to list the shaping of light as one of your talents on this form.”

  “I forgot,” Tria said apologetically.

  “Does that mean you regarded it of no importance?” Giving Tria no chance to answer, she lifted the paper and read, “‘Making flowers bloom out of season, calling fish to the surface of a lake.’ Can you call birds and animals to you as well?”

  “I … I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve never really tried.”

  “Hmph. You know pitifully little about yourself. ‘Causing stones to fly through the air.’ Quite vague. It’s not clear from this whether your talent amounts to anything. Well, we’ll know eventually. In the meantime I’ll put down ‘Has not yet attained the first level.’” She wrote the words across the top of Tria’s application.
/>   Gathering courage, Tria asked, “What does that mean?”

  “Woefully uneducated,” the Headmistress said, shaking her head. “There are seven levels of giftedness, Miss Tesserell. To graduate from this school you must reach the third. Most students need at least three years to attain that level; a few reach it after only two. A very few students have ascended to level four before completing their studies with us. One amazing student attained level five.” Headmistress paused and leaned back, as if silently contemplating that prodigy. “Actually, few of the gifted reach that level in their lifetime. However, I am proud to say that the entire faculty of Simonton School are masters, having achieved either the fifth or sixth level.”

  “What about the seventh level?” Tria dared ask.

  “The seventh level is limited to those rare and revered beings, the Adepts.”

  “Like the one who confirmed that I was gifted and should come here to school?” Tria did not attempt to hide her bitterness.

  “We are fortunate to receive the assistance of that person from time to time. Read your student manual carefully. You will find information on the seven levels and other more practical matters. I’ll have you shown to your room.” She extracted a small bell from under a pile of notebooks. A vigorous shake produced an unmelodic jingle. “You have two hours before supper. I suggest you use them to sharpen your recollections and arrive at more precise descriptions of your supposed abilities.” With that, the woman stood, startling Tria by her towering height, which surpassed that of her father and almost equaled that of the taller Crowley boy. Awed, Tria scrambled to her feet and backed to the door.

  Her guide waited outside. “You’ve passed your first ordeal, missy,” Veronica said with a mirthless chuckle. “We’ll see how you do with your next.” She turned toward the stairs.

  But Tria’s attention was drawn to the hall beyond Headmistress’s office. A shadow solidified into human form. A young man dressed entirely in black stood in the middle of the corridor and stared at Tria, his eyes deep and intense. She thought he would offer a greeting, but he said nothing. Embarrassed, Tria turned away.

  “That’s Oryon Brew,” the maid told her with a sniff of disapproval and without bothering to lower her voice. “This is his second year with us. Highly talented, but a bit too ambitious. The gentlemen’s rooms are down that way. The ladies all live on the third floor. The stairs are warded at night.” She gathered up her dowdy skirt and led Tria up another creaky stairway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES

  At the top of the stairs, preceded by her rotund guide, Tria marched down a long, narrow corridor. A bare bulb hung above the landing; another shed its dim light at the corridor’s far end. Between them, shadows filled the hall.

  Muffled voices came from behind two or three of the closed doors, and through one open door Tria caught a glimpse of someone moving around a small room. Her guide hurried her past so quickly she had no chance to satisfy her curiosity about her fellow students. At least she knew there were other students.

  “How many are enrolled in the school?” she asked when the maid stopped at a door midway down the hall, where the shadows were thickest.

  “When they all arrive, there’ll be thirty-six,” the woman said.

  Thirty-six! Tria’s sick feeling grew. So few students in a school that boasted of being the finest school for the gifted in all Arucadi! True, the gifted comprised a small minority of Arucadi’s total population, but that population exceeded one hundred million, and a legitimate school should have been able to attract far more than thirty-six students. Her father was right: she’d fallen victim to a cruel hoax.

  Veronica must have sensed her dismay. “The emphasis here’s on quality, not quantity,” she said.

  Tria fought down the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

  The little woman unlocked the door and pushed it open. “This is your room. Your roommate won’t be in until tomorrow, so you’ll have it to yourself tonight. If you need me for anything, call.”

  “My trunk—”

  “Right there.” Veronica pointed to the spot beneath the window between the two cots.

  Tria blinked. The trunk was there. She hadn’t seen it when they entered, but the light was poor and her mind had been preoccupied.

  How were two people going to fit into this tiny cell of a room? Although the narrow cots were pushed against the side walls, the space between them was no greater than the width of her trunk, which was, coincidentally, the same width as the window. At the end of each cot, a small desk took up most of the remaining floor space. No dresser; she’d have to keep most of her things in her trunk. No closets, just a wooden rod set into metal supports that held it out from the front wall to one side of the door. Three wire clothes hangers hung on it, hardly enough for both Tria and her roommate to hang their clothes there. And where was her roommate to put her luggage?

  “Who will my roommate be?” she asked as Veronica withdrew.

  “Young woman by the name of Lina Mueller,” Veronica said. “From Stansbury. Bath’s at the end of the hall on your right. Dinner’s in two hours. Come quickly when you hear the bell. You’ll be punished if you’re late.” Veronica shut the door, preventing any more questions.

  Tria’s head whirled. So much to absorb, so much to worry about.

  Punishment for being late to a meal? What punishment? Tria’s distressed imagination conjured up a host of diabolical tortures.

  And a roommate from Stansbury! That she had been paired with a roommate from the east coast was bad enough, but Stansbury was the largest city of Arucadi, and Tria had never even been in a town larger than Harnor, the Inland Province river port that served Carey, her hometown. Would they have anything at all in common?

  A round mirror hung on the back of the door. Tria peered at her reflection in the dirty glass. Her hair was a dusty jumble of long, unruly curls; that smudge really was on her face and not on the mirror, and her middy blouse was soiled from the long bus ride. What a peasant she must have seemed to the Headmistress!

  Although apparently the woman took little notice of dirt. Tria cast a disapproving eye at the dusty windowsill; the sagging, stained mattresses; the rusted metal frames of the cots. She set her valise on a desk and fought back tears.

  “No time to waste crying,” she lectured herself. “I’ve got to clean this rat cage.”

  In the bathroom she found a pail under a chipped washbasin; a mop leaned in the corner of a shower stall. A can of scouring powder sat on a toilet tank.

  Carrying the pail of water in one hand, the mop resting on her shoulder like a rifle, Tria marched back to her room to do battle. A door opened as she approached and a moon face with small round eyes peered out briefly, then ducked back in as though frightened off by the sight of Tria. The incident made her wonder whether other newly arrived students were as upset and disillusioned as she. When she met them at supper, she’d have a chance to find out. But she’d have to rush to get the room and herself clean and presentable in only two hours.

  She dug out the clock packed in her trunk, wound it, and set it on a desk.

  After opening the window, she grabbed the thin pallet from one cot and, kneeling on her trunk, dangled it outside the window and shook it against the outside wall. Dust flew out in a great cloud that gradually dispersed and settled onto the rows of vegetables in the field below her window. She wasted precious minutes watching the dust motes circle one another in the sunlight, forming tiny planetary systems. She imagined glowing suns, each with its coterie of planets, each planet orbited in turn by a collection of infinitesimal moons. Like a great goddess she reached out her hand, waved it around, disrupting the orderly motions, sending the motes into frenzied dance, watching them settle into new constellations.

  What am I doing, dawdling like this? she scolded herself. I’ve got no time for idle dreaming. She ducked back inside and applied herself with renewed diligence to her scrubbing and scraping, dusting and derusting
, polishing and prettying. At last she stood back and surveyed the results.

  The glass of mirror and window gleamed. The floor and walls were spotless. No more cobwebs festooned the ceiling. One bed was made up with crisp white sheets and a soft pink blanket. The ceiling light, properly cleaned, sent out a warmer, more even glow. Her room was cramped—she could do nothing about that—but it had been made livable.

  As she stood, hands on hips, admiring the results of her labor, a bell clanged. Up and down the hall doors opened, footsteps pounded past her door.

  Dinnertime! And she was filthy, the room’s grime transferred to her clothes and skin. She could not go to dinner in such a condition, could not meet her fellow students looking like a chambermaid or a chimney sweep.

  She glared at the clock as though it was to blame for her dilemma. Beneath her fixed stare the clock face blurred, wavered. It swam before her, large as a sun, its hands indistinct shadows across its bright surface, its numerals vague blurs swimming around its gleaming edge.

  Thunder crashed. The building shook. A wave of intense vertigo rocked Tria. She clutched the back of the desk chair to keep from falling.

  The room righted itself. The clock snapped back to its normal size. Tria’s nausea subsided.

  The hands of the clock showed one hour earlier than they had a moment ago.

  She stared, not able to believe what she saw. What had she done? Merely moved the hands of the clock? Or? …

  She whirled around, opened the door, and peered into the hall. No students hurrying from their rooms, no sound of steps clattering down the stairs. The corridor was empty, as it had been all afternoon until the dinner bell had sounded. She must have, somehow, incredibly, set time back an hour.

  No time to marvel. She mustn’t waste the unexpected gift. Tria snatched clean clothes from her trunk and hurried to the bathroom.

  She emerged thirty minutes later thoroughly scrubbed, neatly dressed in a blue-and-white striped overblouse and a dark blue, box-pleated skirt, damp hair tied back into a ponytail secured with a bright blue ribbon.