Page 23 of The Ordeals
Tessa smiles darkly. ‘No, not really. Not since they made the rule not to harm each other between the Ordeals themselves. But still, the real test is not getting picked off by a rival in an Ordeal. Not being marked as the enemy. It’s all about blending in and not getting too cocky.’ She leans in closer, eyeing the three other hopefuls sitting further down our table. ‘I heard last year, an illusionist created the illusion of a door where there wasn’t one in an Ordeal. In fact, it was a floor-length window, opening directly onto the cliffs. She waited until a rival came along, told her that was the right way and her rival stepped right through it, broke her neck.’
‘Did she survive?’ I ask, keeping my voice light.
‘Gods, no.’ Tessa shakes her head. ‘And that illusionist is still here somewhere, in the year above us. Murdered a fellow hopeful, bold as brass, and now she’s just … here. Studying magic.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, stomach twisting as I consider this. I was expecting rivalry, but all-out murder? I take another sip of toquay. Clearly, I was right to carry my switchblade everywhere.
‘Blackcurrant, honey, oak and … grass.’ The young man who’s sitting across from me, to the right of Tessa drawls, his pale blue eyes like marbles as he takes a sip himself. His features have a fine-boned quality, framed by perfectly slicked-back black hair. He smirks, his lip curling slightly as he lounges back in his chair. He reminds me of the men at society gatherings I’ve infiltrated, particularly the ones who get handsy in crowded spaces. I’m instantly on guard. ‘Gideon Mallory. I suppose you’re first generation?’
The fact he assumes that, that it’s what he is most concerned about, tells me all I need to know. I plaster on a smile. ‘I am.’
He swirls his toquay and raises his voice a fraction, so it carries up and down our table. ‘I suppose no one’s ever told you that first-generation hopefuls usually end up dead by the second Ordeal.Terribleodds.’ His voice drops as he leans towards me. ‘Especially if I hunt every one of you down in thefirst Ordeal.’
A few other men like him snicker, an animal gleam lighting their eyes as they stare at me. On assignments for the Collector, I’ve learned how to deal with men like Gideon Mallory. Maybe I should keep my head down as planned, but I know if I don’t defend myself, he and the rest of his kind will be after me. I’ll be fair game, and Icannotappear weak. I cannot become a target.
I lean forward, flicking my switchblade open under the table, and press the tip of the blade just below his crotch, then murmur, ‘I look forward to watching you try.’
Tessa glances across at Mallory and her eyes widen. She splutters, redcurrant toquay shooting from her nose as she covers a snort. Gideon Mallory narrows his eyes, turning deathly still. ‘You’ve just made your first mistake.’
‘Oh, Ihighlydoubt that,’ I say with a wink, making it abundantly clear I amnotprey before slowly removing my switchblade and leaning back to take another sip of toquay.
He’s about to say more, when the professors all file in. There’s the man with red, slicked-back hair from the Crucible, his tweed jacket sporting velvet elbow patches, and the older man with white hair sitting next to the woman, Professor Lewellyn, who showed me into the parlour at Alabaster House. Her eyes rest on me and I swear her lips form a smile before ranging over the rest of the gathered hopefuls. There are five other members of the faculty present, a tall woman with black braids coiled high on her head dressed all in red, two other men who appear to hang back, hands in pockets, one with a welcoming smile, one with a frown pinching his features, awoman with keen, almost silver eyes, and a woman with a glossy brown bob who wheels her chair in front of them and nods to us, before folding her hands in her lap.
As the other professors take their seats on chairs at a table near the front of the hall, they all turn in deference to her, sitting in the middle of them. The man with white hair pours her a glass of honey-gold toquay, and she raises it, just as every hopeful in the room hastily pours a glass, all of us raising our toquay to her.
‘A toast to this year’s hopefuls. By the end of the semester, twenty of you will have survived the Ordeals and become full scholars, ready to study at Killmarth. This means that more than half of you will either have bowed out and left, failed or, sadly, died in the attempt.’ She pauses, drinking a careful, measured sip of the toquay. ‘Take a good look around. The other people in this room are not your friends. They are your competition. It is an unfortunate fact, truly, that not all those who fail leave Killmarth with their lives. If you want to leave, if you wish to not partake after all and you would rather pursue an ordinary life without training your magic, without becoming the elite that the Crown generously sponsor here, now is the time to do so.’
Silence fills the hall as we all look at each other. I meet Tessa’s eyes and she winces before quickly looking down at the table. No one moves.
‘All right. Now let us discuss the Ordeals themselves.’
Chapter 8
Lying is the Most Fun You Can Have with Your Clothes On
‘You will face three Ordeals: Poisons, Illusions and Lies, before facing the final Ordeal: Initiation, the truest test of your magic. They will each measure your courage, your cunning, your wielding and your conviction. The scholars of Killmarth are the elite. We offer you all our knowledge, our time and patience. And in return, you offer up yourselves to the Crown. From the moment you entered Killmarth, to the time you leave, the Crown will spare no expense testing and training you.’ She smiles, gazing around at all of us. The room has the feel of a held breath, like a set of lungs on the cusp of an exhalation. No one dares move. No one dares even blink.
‘I am Professor Grant. My colleagues will introduce themselves in the coming weeks to you all … if you survive each Ordeal, of course. And to my right here is Caroline Ivey, representative of the Crown. She will be watching, waiting to see the cream rise to the surface over the coming weeks, and will be reporting back to the Crown.’ My gaze travels to the woman with the keen, silvery eyes glittering above a small flick of a smile.
‘This semester is designed to weed out the weak, and we will not begin training in any form until after the second Ordeal. Until then, you must rely on your wits, be resourceful and make alliancesif you wish. On the back of each of your place cards, you will find the name of your partner in the first Ordeal. For the top three hopefuls in the Crucible, you will find the partner’s names you requested. The rest are assigned and will change for each Ordeal. You will train together, work together to complete each Ordeal, and if one of you fails, the other fails. It’s as simple as that.’
A murmur runs up and down the length of the hall as hopefuls check the name on the back of their place cards, some scowling, some nodding thoughtfully. I purposefully avoid searching for Alden in the crowd and turn round my place card to find his name, as expected. The fact my life will be in his hands during the next Ordeal feels like a tie, and I amdonewith ties. I cross my arms, unease forming like a knot in my chest.
‘As Mrs Parnell, our esteemed head housekeeper will no doubt have informed you on arrival, you may explore Killmarth and its grounds, but Darley Hall is off limits. Anyone caught gaining entry will no longer be eligible to compete in the Ordeals. We also do not condone killing outside of the Ordeals, and anyone caught harming another hopeful on the grounds outside of an Ordeal will be asked to leave.’ She looks to the back of the room, just as the first platter of food is carried in. ‘Ah! Dinner.’
The platters and tureens set down on each table are filled with venison, devilled quail eggs, steamed vegetables and potatoes coated in a buttery sauce. There’s a rich gravy to pour over it all, accompanied by the dinner rolls and crisp salad leaves, which I take first, along with the quails’ eggs.
Mallory helps himself to the exact same and scowls at me, before turning to the young man on his left, sporting a roman nose and a cleft chin. ‘Richards, who’ve you got?’
The man makes a fuss of arranging his linen napkin on his lap before spearing a carrot. ‘Betram.’
‘Second gen, nice. I got Betty. Third, from that backwater school in Theine, but better than a first gen …’ His gaze trails over me and they both snicker.
I balance a retort on the edge of my tongue, ready to flip the whole plateful of that salad in his face, when I catch a pair of eyes across a sea of faces, a couple of tables away. It’s Alden, and he’s pushing the food around on his plate. As his gaze locks with mine, he puts down his fork. Then he laughs, turning to the person next to him, leaning in to listen to them talk. He’s completely ignoring me. I must be imagining it, but he hasn’t picked back up his fork. I spear some of the leaves on the end of my own fork, bringing it to my mouth.
Then Gideon Mallory begins to choke.
My fork slips through my fingers, clattering on my plate.
