her. It’s strong.”
“Ah, yes,” my aunt assents with a wistful smile, “she does have some of Mother in her.” Aunt Vyvian proudly launches into a description of my musical accomplishments, my easy acceptance into University.
Vogel’s half listening to her, his eyes fixed on my hands. “You’re not fasted,” he says to me, the words flat and oddly hard.
Defiance flares, deep in my core. I look straight at him. “Neither are you.”
“Good Heavens, child,” a neatly bearded Council member puts in, a golden Council M pinned to his tunic. “Mage Vogel’s a priest. Of course he’s not fasted.” The Council Mage shakes his head and titters a nervous, apologetic laugh toward Priest Vogel.
Vogel ignores him. “She needs to be well fasted,” he says to my aunt, his eyes tight on mine.
“She will be,” Aunt Vyvian assures him.
Vogel briefly turns to my aunt. “To someone of considerable power.”
She smiles conspiratorially. “Of course, Marcus. She’s under my wing now.”
“Has she met Lukas Grey?”
Aunt Vyvian leans to whisper something into Vogel’s ear, her stiff skirts rustling. The other members of their circle fall into easy conversation with each other.
I barely hear them, distracted by the feel of Marcus Vogel’s penetrating stare.
The sound of a boisterous group entering finally draws my attention away.
Fallon Bane sweeps into the room. She’s surrounded by a throng of handsome military apprentices in slate-gray uniforms, as well as her military guard and a few other officers decked out in soldier black. Orbiting them is a smattering of lovely young women.
But none is more beautiful than Fallon.
If she possessed a gown made of the same fabric as mine, she quickly abandoned it. The lush gown she now wears is a spectacular, glittering affair that flies in screaming defiance of the accepted dress code—scandalously purple on the edge of black, rather than black on the edge of purple. The two military men she’s flanked by possess her same features, stunning eyes and smug grin. They must be Fallon’s brothers—one of them taller, his uniform black, while the other wears military-apprentice gray. And they both bear five stripes of silver on their arms.
Fallon instantly zeroes in on me. She lifts a hand as if taunting me, and sends a spiral of smoke rising up that flashes a rainbow of colors. The crowd erupts into delighted “oohs” and “aahs” as all the attention in the room pivots toward her. The older military men in our circle eye her with wary deliberation. Military apprentices aren’t supposed to use magic unless they have permission—it can be grounds for dismissal from our Mage Guard.
The military commander near my aunt gestures toward the officer beside him with a subtle patting of the air—let it go. My head starts to throb. Apparently Fallon Bane isn’t just powerful. It seems she exists independent of all the usual rules.
Fallon jerks her wand, and the colored smoke disappears in a riot of multicolored sparking. The young people surrounding her laugh and applaud.
Fallon resheathes her wand, narrows her eyes at me, leans in toward her taller black-clad brother and murmurs something as the others listen in. They all give each other looks of surprise, then turn to peer at me with expressions of amused disgust.
I clench my toes stiffly, heart sinking, and wonder what lies she’s spreading about me.
The Prophecy
After my aunt gives us leave, Paige leads me quickly away. Her arm’s threaded through mine as she pulls me through a pair of open, ornate doors and into a huge ballroom. Orchestral music swells around us, and I find myself quickly caught up in the grandeur of it.
We’re surrounded by well-to-do Gardnerians, some whirling on the dance floor. Many of the people we pass gasp at the sight of me, smile appreciatively and come forward to extend compliments to my “most excellent family.” Some Urisk servants in smart white tunics circulate with golden trays of small delicacies. Other Urisk serve food from a large table that holds a wide assortment of offerings set off beautifully by vases of red roses, everything richly lit by the multiple branched candelabras that grace the table.
Paige leads me through the crowd toward the food, then gives a start as she spots Fallon and her friends entering, surrounded by Fallon’s military guard. Paige hurriedly grabs two plates, throws some candied fruit on them both and pulls me into a dim corner, the two of us partially hidden by a gigantic potted fern.
“Is that Sylus next to Fallon?” I ask as Paige hands me a plate.
Paige’s brow goes tense as she nibbles at a sugared gooseberry. “Yes, that’s him.”
I shoot her a sympathetic glance as I take a bite of candied cherry. If Sylus Bane is anything like his sister, it’s the worst of luck for mild Paige to be fasted to him.
I glance around as Paige picks at the berries, her fingers quickly becoming sticky from the sugary fruit. My eyes widen in surprise as I catch sight of familiar faces.
“It’s... Sage Gaffney’s parents,” I murmur to Paige in astonishment. They’re in the broad hallway just off to the side of the ballroom, dressed in their usual high-necked, dour, conservative garb. Their expressions are solemn and pained, and they’re being hugged by a series of well-wishers, the peoples’ faces full of grave concern. I scour the room for other members of their family and find Sage’s oldest brother, Shane. He’s at the other end of the food tables, standing beside another potted fern, dressed in his soldier’s uniform and glowering at the crowd.
Paige places her hand on mine in caution. “Elloren, you can’t say her name. And you shouldn’t go to them. Something terrible has happened...”
“I know,” I tell her. “I know all about it. But I don’t understand. Why can’t I say her name?”
Paige swallows, her eyes flitting toward the Gaffneys fretfully. “She’s been Banished.”
“Banished?” I blanch, my mouth falling open. It’s a ritual cutting off. Like a funeral. Reserved for those whose actions are so heinous, their very existence is to be erased to restore honor and purity to their family. “But...my aunt told me they’re trying to help her.”
Paige glances over at Sage’s family, her expression mournful. “I guess she didn’t want to be helped.”
I remember how mad Sage was. Giving birth to an Icaral demon—it’s enough to drive anyone mad. An image fills my mind of Sage weaving me wreaths of ribbons and meadowlark flowers when I was a child. Of Sage letting me play with her little goats. And later, as teens, of Sage patiently teaching me how to embroider intricate designs. We’d sit under the broad oak tree that lies halfway between her estate and my cottage, quietly sewing Ironflowers along the hems of our garments. I always admired her for her quiet grace and artistic ways.
I set my plate down. “I’m going to speak to her brother.”
Paige fidgets. I can see she wants no part of this, that she’s scared by the Gaffneys’ proximity to a real-life nightmare, but she doesn’t stop me as I cross the ballroom to Shane’s side.
* * *
Shane’s hand is grasped around a crystal cup tightly as if he’s trying to decide whom to throw it at. He’s shorter than most of the young soldiers here, but compensates for it with the wiry, athletic build of a fighter—all lean muscle and angry, coiled energy.
“Shane,” I say carefully as I approach, looking around and keeping my voice low. “I heard about Sage.”
He grimaces sharply. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to say