Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (15 page)

“It’s cracked,” I say.

“Precisely. Back to the forge it goes.”

“So what does the iron do to them?” I ask, carefully placing the piece of armor to the side.

“It cuts off their link. Fetch me the other one, will ya?”

“Which means what, exactly?” I ask, handing him the second vambrace.

“That all it’s got left are its own reserves, and it can’t even use those without a catalyst.”

“A catalyst?”

“That’s us,” Percy says, slapping his thorax. “Sweet, ain’t it?”

The sudden hiss as the bonfire’s flames are reduced down to embers startles me. I stare as, one by one, the gear is buried under the smoldering coal.

“What are they doing?” I ask. “I thought we were supposed to take the defective ones to the forge?”

“That’d be a recharge station,” Percy says, screwing his eyes to look at a spiked mace without poking himself. “They’re puttin’ those with fire elementals in there, the water ones in one of the big vats there, the ice ones in the other, and—”

“And the earth elementals in a pit?” I finish.

He beams at me. “Bull’s-eye! I told ya their source of power was cut off and they couldn’t access ’em no more, right? Well, if we use them too much, they get depleted. So the only way to recharge them is to put them in contact with their primary element again.”

“What about the air elementals?” I ask. “How do you recharge them?”

“There’s no need to,” Percy says. “Everythin’ around us is air, so it naturally keeps its energy levels up. Which is why they’re a favorite with defensive gear.”

“How come you’ve modernized your armor, but you haven’t done the same with your weapons?” I ask. “Wouldn’t guns be more practical?”

“Nah,” Percy says, “it’s hard to beef
¹³
a Fey, let alone capture one. See, they control elements, right? So you can’t just shoot ’em up an’ expect ‘em to just lay there an’ wait to get hit without liftin’ a finger. A sweep of the arm, or tentacle, or other thingamajig, and it gets diverted. Or worse, returned to the sender, postage-free.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead and grabs a dagger. “But if ya had to pick,” he adds, “ya’d go for arrows. A lot more quiet an’, if ya catch ’em off guard, just as deadly.”

All in all, everything he’s said seems logical, which speaks wonderfully to my mathematical mind. For the first time tonight, I’m grateful for Arthur’s orders—I’ve learned more in an hour with Percy than I have in almost two weeks of school.

Yet there’s still one thing that’s been nagging at me since yesterday.

“Why…” I start, then stop.

“Shoot,” Percy says, expectant.

I take a deep breath, wondering how to word my thoughts in a way that’s diplomatic—a very difficult thing for me to do.

“It’s just, I’ve been wondering why we’re going through all this training. I mean, we’re still just kids. So why are we being recruited and brainw—that is, trained for war?” I can’t make myself look him in the eye. “It just doesn’t seem right,” I add under my breath.

For a while, we both work in complete silence, with only the sounds of other students going about their business to distract us. As the light of day ebbs away, Percy mutters something under his breath, and a series of small flames spark to life over his head, then float above both our heads like gentle spirits.

“Thanks,” I say, finally able to see what I’m doing and stop injuring myself.

“No problem,” Percy says, wiping off sweat from his wide forehead. “Now, goin’ back to what you were askin’. It ain’t that easy. First off, there’s the history.”

“History?”

Percy nods, his eyes distant. “People have always been trained to fight at an early age. Back in the olden days, you were considered an adult at twelve, so there’s that to consider. Then, there’s the whole mind thing.”

Bursting with impatience, I wait for him to continue with his explanation, but Percy seems to be content to just work on his shield. For a moment, I wonder if there’s a button I need to push to make him talk, like a punch on the nose or a pull on an earlobe.

“
What
mind thing?” I finally ask.

A small smile plays at the corner of Percy’s mouth as he notices me wringing the gauntlet I’m supposed to be checking.

“That’s the hard part to explain,” he says. “See, at our age, our minds ain’t all formed up yet, so’s easier to get round all the Fey’s tricks and all.”

It looks like he’s going to add something, but he just shakes his head and resumes his silent inspection. Out of frustration,
I throw the gauntlet onto the recharge pile and pick up what appears to be part of a boot.

“No, no, no,” Percy says, picking it right back up. “See how this plate is pratically covering the amethyst? Means it’s almost completely cut off from its element, which ya don’t want neither.”

He pushes the metal part down to reveal the purple stone beneath.

“Remember what I just told ya. Now this is an air rune,” he continues, “so it ain’t so bad, but ya can’t be too cautious, ’cause you sure as hell don’t want to get caught with your pants down at the wrong moment.”

The week goes by in a blur of activity so that by the time the weekend arrives, I’m ready to crawl into a casket, never to rise again. I don’t know why my mother decided to sign me up here— except perhaps for the fact that it’s in a place where the police will never think to look for me—but I’m willing to trade my old, regular life for this one anytime. Except for one minor detail: I still don’t know anything about my father.

This time around, I stay with my class as we board the longboats that are to take us back to the surface.

“What are you going to do this weekend?” Keva asks me, a sudden glint in her dark eyes.

A glint I’ve learned to be wary of. “I don’t know. Why?”

She tosses her long braid back over her shoulder. “Any plans for a soiree or an afternoon picnic, by any chance?”

“Not that I know of,” I reply.

Keva’s smile slides off her face like a dead slug. “Ah, well, there’s always Bri’s tea party then, if my parents will allow me to go.”

“Bri’s having a party?” I ask, surprised. “Even with her brother…”

“Her parents are,” Jack says. “They usually organize some form of get-together once a quarter.”

Keva snorts. “I don’t think any of that’s going to change the fact that they’ve never amounted to much more than squires and blacksmiths.”

“Their great-uncle was part of KORT,” Jack says indignantly.

Keva shrugs. “An oddity in their genealogy.”

“Wait,” I say, “so you mean not everyone becomes a knight here?”

“I thought I told you that already?” Jack says. “You have to prove your worth first, usually by getting your first big catch.”

“Well, sorry for not remembering the billion things you’ve told me in the last two weeks,” I say.

We step into the wooden boat headed for Oshkosh and sit down. When all three barks are filled with students, a teacher boards each one and stands at its prow.

“All right, everyone,” Sir Boris says to our group, “hold on tight!”

I grip the side, somewhat nervous to entrust my safety to a flying object with no wings or motor. Sir Boris places his hand on the figurehead, the carving of a fierce dragon. A moment later, the green glow of a sylph spreads out from beneath his fingers then extends to the rest of the boat, enveloping us in an airtight bubble.

Then, in one nauseating lurch, the longboat rises into the air before flying away. I watch our school rapidly diminish in size, some of the servants waving at us from the fields.

My view of the Lake High and its environs suddenly changes to one of algae, fish, and the odd boot or car tire, before we break through the surface of the lake, in total silence and completely dry.

I let out a slow breath, happy to have made it back to the regular world in one piece. When the boat lands, I find Dean and Arthur are both waiting for me by the car, though they look like they’ve just had a fight again.

“Let’s go,” Arthur says, turning on his heels the moment I touch solid ground. “Irene and Luther are waiting.”

“See you Monday,” I say over my shoulder at a discomfited Keva.

The car ride back home is one of the most boring moments of my existence. I try a few times to start a conversation, but Arthur remains resolutely mute.

We arrive home at the crack of dawn, the neighborhood as quiet as the inside of the car except for a dog barking in the distance. I trip over the threshold in the darkness and curse. I understand that traveling between both worlds needs to be as discreet as possible, but I just can’t get used to this awful schedule.

The moment the door closes, I hear Dean’s car roar to life and drive away. As I take my shoes off, Arthur disappears upstairs without a word.

“Why good day to you too,” I say to the coat stand by the entrance. “Yes, I had a very trying week. What about you? Oh, the usual, was it? Well, so long as you’ve got your health, old chap.”

I choke on the last word as I catch Irene standing in the doorway, eyeing me like I’ve completely gone bonkers.

“Hello, Mother,” I say, the word sounding strange to my ears.

She frowns at me, her corset barely rising with every breath she takes. “Get cleaned up and let Ella know if you want any breakfast,” she says, turning away again.

I start to climb, then pause on the steps. “I have a question,” I say.

Irene’s small frame stops in the doorway.

I lick my lips. “Who was my father?”

“I said to get cleaned up,” she says, her voice clipped. She retreats to the back of the house.

“Please, I just want his name,” I cry out, holding on to the banister.

A door slams shut, and, with a heavy heart, I make my way to my room. My movements sluggish, I change out of my uniform into more comfortable clothes and crash onto the bed.

“Morgan! Come down this instant!”

With a grunt, I push myself off the bed and drag myself downstairs. The door to Irene’s office is wide open, and the rustling sound of paper and drawers closing forcefully rushes out of it.

“What is it?” I ask, standing a safe distance away.

Reflected in the wall mirror, I see a large map of the United States marked with a myriad of crosses and connecting lines. Superimposed on it is another, smaller map of Wisconsin, on which three large red dots have been marked. One of them, I realize with a jolt, is dead in the middle of Lake Winnebago. What are they looking for that could be located close to my school?

Irene flings a bunch of newspapers aside, and a few loose sheets float over to land at my feet, displaying a number of politicians covered in pustules.

“Where’s my cartogram?” Irene asks, her small face red from ransacking her own workroom.

“How should I know?”

“Don’t play games with me, missy! It was right on this desk this morning when you came in.”

I clench my hands into fists. “And as you may recall,” I say, “you sent me straight to my room.”

“Don’t be impertinent!” Her tight curls bounce up and down around her flushed cheeks. “I did not raise you to be rude.”

“You did not raise me at all,” I retort. “If you had, perhaps you wouldn’t be accusing me of theft right now instead of accepting that you’re getting old and losing your mind.”

A resounding smack echoes in the room, followed by a stinging pain. My vision blurs with tears. Openmouthed, I stare at the short woman before me. Not once have I been hit like this before, not even by Sister Marie-Clémence. I clench my teeth to keep myself from crying.

“Out!” Irene yells, striding back inside her office and pressing on the runes traced above the fireplace. “Ella!”

The air in the opposite corner of the room shimmers, and the maid’s small form materializes. I stifle a gasp—Ella’s a Fey?

“Did you not hear me, Morgan?” Irene says, distant and cold again. “Get out of my sight.”

I don’t need to be told a third time. My first impulse is to go back up to my room, but I don’t want to be cooped up inside. This whole house is making me claustrophobic.

I storm outside through the kitchen door. The backyard opens up into a wide vista of green grass, flowering shrubs, and trees, cutting us off from the rest of the world. My cheek still burning, I hurry down the small dirt path, ruminating thoughts of vengeance and rebellion.