Page 22 of The Ordeals
The cold in the room wraps around me like a shawl, suddenly dousing my anger. Even though he hasn’t said it in so many words, he believes I will fail. That I will leave Killmarth and be at his mercy once more. The very fact that he’s sent this trunk here so swiftly is a warning shot, a reminder that I am not truly free of him.
The window whips out, then back again, breaking into my thoughts, clattering against the frame over and over.
‘Bloody thing,’ I mutter, rubbing my eyes.
The sound of footsteps and the harsh tones of Mrs Parnell rise up from outside. I get up off the floor, cross to the window and peer down into the deep dark. I can make out shapes, maybe two dozen people, all trailing along the steps from the castle that lead to Hope Hall. They must have had to wait in the town until low tide when they could cross. The rest of the hopefuls have arrived.
That damn window clatters in the frame all night long, leaving me to wake far too early with an ache deep in my bones from the damp chill permeating this island. Grumbling, I shuffle over to the trunk and dig through until I find my running shoes. I pull on a tight-fitting, long-sleeve top, and the supple leggings I train in, then drink straight from the tap in the bathroom before throwing the ice-cold water over my face. Instantly, I’m awake, blinking into the mirror above the basin as I tie back my hair, ready for my usual morning routine. Lastly, I tuck my switchblade into the waistband of my leggings. I still know little of the nature of these Ordeals.
The sky’s deep darkness is fading into grey and mauve as I leave Hope Hall, breath clouding in front of me as I begin my run anti-clockwise. There are no defined trails, so I leap across rockyoutcrops, dodge around brambles and listen to the pull and rush of the waves. I discover a series of walled gardens, but don’t dare enter when I hear the kitchen staff laughing and gossiping, preparing for the day. Further around, I find the jumble of homes that must belong to the permanent staff, then further still, the gates I entered through.
Pausing to suck in a breath and stretch out, my gaze travels over the walkway through the sea, then over the small town beyond. There’s another town further around the coast that seems bigger, more lights and homes crowded around the bay there, with a quay and boats in a harbour. I sniff, not wanting to go near those gates, not wanting to tempt fate and keep running.
At breakfast, I don’t speak to any of the other hopefuls, instead keeping my head down to linger over porridge and tea, gleaning what I can about my rivals. From their conversations, they all seem pretty concerned with who is first generation, second, third, and I realise they’re all ranking each other on how we might perform in the Ordeals. A few glance at me, but I guess I’m the outlier. All they know is that I crossed the courtyard pretty early on, but that could have been down to Alden Locke. I don’t fit into a clique; I didn’t go to school with any of them. I’m an unknown and, for now, I prefer to leave it that way.
I spend the rest of the morning preparing. I unpack my trunk, then slink up and down the stairs of Hope, counting the number of floors and closed doors. I can’t get a sense yet of how many of us there are. There are eight floors in Hope Hall, but I hear whispers at Gantry that many rooms sleep two or even three, with hopefuls either forming alliances with the other occupants, or marking them as rivals. The places as scholars in Killmarth are clearly highly sought after, perhaps because they’re funded by the Crown, or perhaps because they’re limited. I realise I am fortunate indeed to havemy own bedroom and a door I can lock; at least I can sleep soundly. But now I’ve gotten away from the Collector, I have to keep my place here. I have to prepare and research as I usually would for any assignment.
The rest of my day between mealtimes and listening to the other hopefuls, I move like a shadow around the college, mapping it in my head. The first rules of my training at the Collector’s hand are to familiarise myself with my surroundings, to get a sense of the exits, the resources, the pitfalls. The castle is vast, wide corridors giving way to half-hidden staircases, to alcoves and deep window seats crowded with faded cushions. There are four halls for scholars: Gantry, Fetlock, Godolphin and Darley as well as Hope Hall for hopefuls and Keeper’s Hall where the offices and library and the faculty reside. The diamond-paned windows overlook the gardens laid out in levels that I ran around at dawn, leading down to the cliff edge, some obscured by hedges and wind-battered trees.
There is a trophy room in Fetlock, one of the other halls, filled with cabinets. It’s set just off the main corridor, and as no one is around, I take my time searching the shields and cups, faint hope flaring in my chest. There are lots of mentions of first-generation hopefuls going on to be commended as scholars, and I wonder if my last name will be amongst them, but it’s not anywhere. A ‘Winter’ briefly snags my gaze, but as soon as I see it is not ‘DeWinter’, my heart sinks and I leave the room, disappointed. Perhaps it will not be as simple as I thought to find evidence of their time here. I’m not even sure what I expect would happen if I did find something. Either way, they are gone. It’s possible that even the markings of their time here are no more than past dreams and dust.
There is even an old chapel to the gods, a smattering of candles burning in the corners, pale wax dripping down their sides. I light one, placing it by a depiction of Gallant the fair and wise as hestrikes unseen foes in the storm-coloured clouds, a spear crackling with lightning in his hands, gold light flaring around his form. I don’t worship as they do in Alloway, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Gallant.
Every story in the Attestations of the gods of our world show Gallant being a force for good and for the people. Aline is always by her hearth, and Argus seems to have a liking for killing and meting out justice. But in this chapel, they’re depicted in a way I do not often see, in vivid colours, Aline in the fields, running her hands through sheaves of corn, a glinting knife in a holder at her waist, Argus in a troubled ocean, the waves parting around him as he stands before a dark mass with glinting eyes.
It’s interesting that this chapel is still open and used, with scholars lighting candles when Killmarth is for the study of magic. The two seem contradictory, worship of the old gods and the surge of magic galvanising and transforming ideas and industry, but perhaps this only highlights my own internalised assumptions. Perhaps there is space for both in our world.
I avoid the scholars and other professors, but I learn where the main library is, two levels above Keeper’s Hall by the gatehouse, which is only used for formal occasions. And I find Darley, the hall that is mysteriously permanently closed and forbidden. I decide to visit the library when it isn’t rife with scholars and hopefuls, when I can take my time to ascertain the collection they hold here, though the pull to lose myself in aged pages of magical learning is strong. I wonder if any of the other hopefuls are stalking the grounds, hoping to find someone alone like me, someone they can test for weakness. Even the shadows seem to have eyes, so I carry my switchblade everywhere just in case and keep my hands free and loose at my sides, ready to defend myself if needed.
But in my mind, a map of Killmarth is forming, and as I listenin on the scholars hurrying between lectures and rooms, I hear talk of studying, of theory and research, but also of training. Of mentors and their abilities and practice, always practice. As the light dwindles, I call it a day, satisfied with my progress of gaining my bearings and forming an understanding of what the next semester and beyond will look like, and return to Hope Hall to get ready for the welcome reception.
Pressing my lips together, I check my reflection in the age-speckled mirror. I’ve cast aside my slacks in favour of a rich blue silk blouse, navy skirt and low-heeled boots, an outfit that will allow me to blend in perfectly, but also move quickly if needed. My lips are a scarlet slash and I blot, then ensure my brown and caramel hair falls perfectly around my face in a sleek wave. Finally, I fasten pearls at my ears, my most prized possession and they glow with an inner light, reflecting the creamy tone of my skin.
I blink at myself in the mirror, green eyes outlined with black lashes. Pretty and polished, but not striking, certainly not enough to turn a head if I don’t feel like drawing attention. Tonight, I mean to observe. It will be my first time in a room with all the other hopefuls at once, and I intend to pick out the weakest, and the strong. I want no surprises over the coming weeks. I place a hand on my middle, willing my nerves to calm.
‘You can do this,’ I murmur, casting one final look around the bedroom and depart. The low heels on my boots click all the way up the granite steps to the castle, a few other hopefuls behind and in front of me as we all make our way to Keeper’s Hall.
I step across the courtyard and make my way towards a set of heavy, dark wood doors. But on the threshold, my footsteps stutter. The Keeper’s Hall dining room is twice the size of the one in Gantry, laid out the same, yet every table is covered with crisp white linens. Silverware nestles next to each place setting, candelabras –polished to a silvery glint – pepper the space with light. The chairs are upholstered in leaf-green velvet, unlike the harsh chairs of dark polished wood in Gantry.
The scent of fine toquay and leather permeates the space, lending it an air of aged sophistication. I swallow, moving with the other hopefuls to check the place settings. All our eyes dart to each other, furtive looks to sum each other up. I linger along each table, cataloguing as many names as I can in my mind. When I find my name, on the far left near the platform, I slide into it, ever watchful.
Now, I can observe. The other hopefuls filter in, barely a word uttered between them all. I count fifty-two chairs, fifty-two place settings, fifty-two of us here who made it through the Crucible, here to attempt to complete the Ordeals this semester, and win one of the places as a scholar at Killmarth. The desperation, the drive to succeed is palpable. I can almost taste it.
Tessa – the young woman from the Crucible – enters, checking the remaining name cards and I’m oddly delighted when she sinks into the chair opposite me. She winks at me, then pours herself a glass of redcurrant toquay from a decanter in the centre of the table before drinking deeply. I do the same, the ruby liquid clinging to the inside of the glass as I swirl it around before taking a sip.
‘You survived,’ I say.
‘Barely.’ She scrunches her nose. ‘Greg was a pain in the neck the whole way across that courtyard.’
I laugh and raise my glass to her as the other hopefuls begin filling our table. ‘What do you wield?’
She smiles softly and between blinks, her eyes change from brown, to blue, her skin from light brown to the same milky white as Professor Lewellyn. Then she snaps back to her true self, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a masquier.’
‘Clever,’ I breathe, meaning the compliment.
‘Thanks. Still can’t believe I’m here to be honest. Keep expecting them to say they’ve made a mistake, and I have to leave. Or getting shoved off a cliff.’
‘Does that happen?’
