“Pants.” He raises an eyebrow. “Interesting choice. It’s not a common sight around here.”
Did he expect me to wear a skirt in this frigid building? “It should be,” I reply.
“The House colors look good on you.” He hands me his free arm.Black is hardly a House color. The two dead boys wore the same clothes with different color crests. It’s like saying ice is cold. The statement is as empty as his failed attempt at a compliment.
His suspended arm lingers between us, awkwardly. I shift my gaze upward, and Olivia’s final words rush to me. Now that I’m not dying of exhaustion, I scrutinize Lorne’s green eyes. He could have killed my sister.
“Very well.” His smile is tight as his hand falls to his side. “Let’s go.”
We walk for half an hour, maybe longer. I’m still not used to the complete silence the cuff affords me; the absence of the gnawing ring in my ears is almost unsettling. Listening to the last words of the dead was a constant in my life for twelve years, and every so often, I reach into the silence, looking for the familiarity of my discomfort. But everything’s changed.Ihave changed.
“…majestic of all the towers.” Lorne speaking about architecture brings me back to the present, and I nod mindlessly.
Gorhail Institute has to be bigger than the whole town of Albion, because we’ve only been through the House of Death and the common areas. Lorne sprinkles in the rules about different parts of the institute as we come across them. About how it is of the utmost importance to acquire rank before joining Firstline or even collaborating with other Houses— High Magus to join Firstline, Grand Magus if mages want to work with a different House from their own, and Magus Principalis if they want to work with two foreign Houses. About the three types of magic Gorhail studies, and how the House of Arcane used to be four different Houses before they merged into one. Nothing I do not already know from reading Nan’s books and listening to Olivia talk about school, but I nod along and remain quiet as he talks.
As we walk through a long, dark hallway with red flameless candles, a girl with beautiful brown hair bumps into me. Lorne scowls at her, as if she’s committed a grave offense. She reaches for me, steadies me, and apologizes a few times before rushing away. The way she darts off reminds me of Olivia, or perhaps it is her shiny brown hair and my foolish heart wishing for my sister to walk these halls again.
“This is Hollow Tree.” Lorne’s voice drags me back to the present. “First floor is the dining hall; second floor houses the dean’s office, the chapel, the Magisters’ room, and the overseers’ offices. Well, except for the House of Poison’s office, which is separate because of their superiority complex…”
I don’t hear the rest, because I’m mesmerized by this room: when I look up, walls the color of bark rise a few stories high until they meet a domed glass roof. When she’d first started at the institute, Olivia told me about this place, and I thought she was exaggerating, but it’s every bit as beautiful as she said. My gaze shifts to the long tables, where students gobble up their breakfast. Four of them nearby are digging into large plates of sausage, eggs, mushrooms, and beans. “What was her favorite food?” I ask mindlessly.
Lorne follows my gaze, then looks down. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t know her, I’m sorry.”
He’s lying. I know it in my bones. How can he be a Magister and not know one of his students? Why did he almost call me by her name last night?
“I’m sure we can arrange for a reader to refresh your memory, Lawton.” A low, threatening voice crawls up my spine. My skin prickles. It tells me that danger looms over my head.
Lorne’s eyes twitch at the person walking up behind me. He reaches for my arm, but I step out of the way, angling myself to see whom the voice belongs to.
The mage glowering at Lorne is terrifying. He can’t be more than a couple of years older than me, yet the depth of his eyes mirrors a thousand years.
“I do recall your eating every single meal with…” He pauses, a sliver of amusement in his voice. “What was her name… the nonmagi?”
“Ol…” I hesitate. “Olivia.”
“Olivia,” he drawls. “Still not familiar, Lorne?”
Lorne’s ears turn so red I worry they will burn. He clenches his fists, and for a second, I think he’s going to hit the other mage. But he grabs my wrist instead, pulling me forward. “Miss Corvi, your tour is over. Let’s go.”
The mage lets out a laugh. “Did youaskher if she wanted to go?”
“Sorry,” Lorne whispers as he drags me away. “You need to stay away from that House and the scum who live within it.”
“Let go of my wrist,” I say. It hurts, the way he presses his fingers into my skin. He considers my request, but his grip only tightens when he notices the man following us.
The mage lifts his hand, and a black bracelet starts moving. It uncoils, and I realize it’s not a bracelet at all. It’s a serpent, black as night, its eyes locking on Lorne. He’s an Aspieri from the House of Poison. Nan had veryfew books about them, and most of the ones that referred to the Aspieri had their pages torn out. When I asked Olivia about it, she’d said they weren’t real mages because they had no magic without their aspiers. The prejudice in her voice had bothered me then. It was a reminder of how Gorhail was changing my sister.
“Raiku feels strongly about your choices,” the Aspieri says. I stand still, mesmerized by his right eye turning black the moment his aspier moved. For a moment, I question whether he was the one Olivia warned me about, but her final words were clear:one green eye.
“Archyr, there are consequences for using magic against a Magister.” He loosens his grip on me.
“But no consequences for dragging a mage away against their will?” The Aspieri raises an eyebrow.
Lorne’s jaw clenches so hard I’m afraid it will never move again. His nostrils flare, and his eyes are fighting a silent losing battle. He releases my wrist abruptly and shakes his head at me. “I’ll be in Circle Three, our study hall. I strongly suggest you follow me.”
He huffs as he hurries away, bumping into two young mages and sending one of their trays flying without an apology.
I turn my attention back to the Aspieri. His face looks like it’s been sculpted by the Gods: warm tawny skin, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and yet he wears a permanent scowl, as if he’s angry with the world. The Gods may have blessed him with impossible beauty, but what is beauty if you are rotten inside?