Page 1 of The Ordeals
Chapter 1
The Pickled Gargoyle
On a Thursday afternoon, around three o’clock, the Pickled Gargoyle is alive with scholars. I wander in as if on a whim, stepping towards the bar as I discreetly eye the room and the gathering of flushed faces. They’re clutching tankards of frothing, ruby rhyn, delivering opinions in drawling nasal tones and I realise the brand of scholar I seek isn’t here yet. I signal to Pewter, the barman, and he half turns, revealing an array of drinks at his back. Honey-gold toquay in glinting, chilled bottles, a blackcurrant variety steeped to taste like autumn, and my drink of choice, forest-green velvane, smoky and silky smooth, with a lingering taste of toffees.
Pewter raises an eyebrow, grabbing an octagonal glass, and pours two fingers of velvane before sliding it my way. ‘Not your usual haunt at this hour, Sophia.’
I pick up the glass and take my first sip, the feel of warmth and silk slipping deliciously down my throat. ‘Just came to see my favourite barman.’
‘Liar.’
I grin, sliding over a floren note and he tops up my glass. ‘Yours is the best velvane in the city?’
He chuckles. ‘Still a lie, but I’ll take it.’
‘Any wielders here today?’ I ask casually, taking another sip as I survey the bar.
Pewter slings a cloth from his shoulder, wiping away a puddle of spilled rhyn. ‘None yet. I heard though—’
‘Yes?’
He frowns. ‘That Killmarth entrance exam is soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few hopefuls in here today. A round for courage, you know? It always happens towards the end of September.’
I pass him another floren note, and he adds a generous pour into my glass. His attention is snagged by a woman asking for toquay and I move away from the bar, threading my way through the scholars. Pewter told me exactly what I needed to hear. I’ve been tracking down information since I heard of the college, Killmarth, nine months ago. Perhaps today, at last, I’m in the right place to learn more. And if the entrance exam happens each year towards the end of September, they’re cutting it fine. It’s already the 28th.
Pewter puts an alchemist-made record on the music amplifier and the whole space fills with the soft crooning notes of a female singer from unseen speakers. It’s busier than even a few moments ago, but still none of the scholars are the kind I’m looking for. Too puffed up on poetry and self-importance and none of them, as far as I can tell, wield magic. I swirl the dark green drink in my glass, stepping carefully around their elbows, the frothing rhyn dripping from their tankards. There’s a young woman practically boxed in by two of them, men yapping about their interpretation of the Attestations of the gods, trying to impress her, like their opinions are the only ones that matter. Our eyes meet as I brush past them and she’s got that look, glazed with boredom. Like she wants to escape.
That’s when I twist my hand, like I’m twisting a doorknob, and the bar cuts to darkness. For those two scholars anyway. I hold the illusion, clenching my jaw, even as the telltale headache begins to nag at my temples. The young woman grabs the opportunity, with them swearing and fumbling, and slips away.
I release their minds from the illusion, and they blink at each other, finding their quarry has bolted. Allowing myself a small smile, I sink into the cushioned seat at a table in one of the alcoves at the back.
And I wait.
I’ve trained for moments like this my whole life, blending with a crowd, waiting for a mark the Collector wants, or someone I have a keen interest in. For the past few months since I learned of Killmarth, I’ve gleaned that it is a place for magic wielders to train. And best of all, fully funded by the Crown, the rulers of Kellend, which to a person like me, means it ispossible. But it wasn’t until recently that I overheard a snippet that changed everything.
When you walk through the gates of Killmarth College, all outside magical interference falls away. No one can follow you through their wards, no matter how strong a wielder. I’ve been hunting for more information ever since and, with whisperings that the next intake of hopefuls is about to be chosen, I’m ready to take my place amongst them.
Sipping my velvane, I toy with the silver bracelet on my left wrist, the one that shackles me to the Collector. My uncle, my boss, my keeper. The man who’ll be impatiently waiting even now for me to deliver the vial of blood from today’s assignment. And just as I’m about to give up on this bar and move on to the next one, I hear two voices at the next table.
‘You need to stop,’ one voice says, insistence cutting his tone in a way that makes me want to listen. As the tables lining the back wall are set into alcoves, they can’t see me, but as I sink back into the cushioned seat, toying with the cool octagonal planes of my glass, I can hear them perfectly.
‘… just have to get through it. At Killmarth, you’ll suss out the competition.’
‘Glad you have faith in me.’
‘Just be smart at the Crucible tonight. Don’t slip up, then you’ll be fine. Place practically guaranteed.’
I nearly choke on my drink. Could it be … is the Killmarth entrance examtonight? I’ve heard the word ‘Crucible’ before but hadn’t found the link until now. Hope blooms inside me, my fingertips tingling as I clutch my glass. At last, I’ve found the kind of hopeful scholar I’m looking for. I lean towards them, angling my head so I can better hear over the noise of the bar.
‘You should come back, join me there,’ the other voice says quietly, a male voice, low and melodic, weaving under the harsh, clipped voices of the freshers surrounding our tables.
‘You know I can’t, not yet. My work in Theine has been … challenging. All-consuming.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Just do what you’re supposed to. Get your place at Killmarth, train your magic. It’s what your family want.’
‘And yours?’
