Page 18 of By the Orchid and the Owl
Shifting movement as everyone twisted left and right to try to make out which sector was sitting where in the stadium. For once, though, none of the older students were showing off their magic. Each sector seemed to bleed together.
I wondered, ever so briefly, if Coen was thinking about me, or if he’d already forgotten our little conversation in the alley last night. The way he’d sauntered off, the portrait of nonchalance, seemed to suggest the latter.
If I just knewwherehe’d gotten this pill from… or why… or how…
That bubble of bliss that Lander had brought with him seemed to pop inside me. Now. Now was the moment I had to decide. Trust Coen, a Mind Manipulating man I’d just met, or trust that the Good Council wouldn’t toss me away before the test?
Because deep down, I knew that whatever had happened last night would happen again on a much larger scale when that faerie metal became a permanent part of my system.
What would my fathers tell me right now, if they were here?
Don would tell me to be wary of funny mushrooms, of course, but Fabian would tell me to trust my instincts. And then Don would go,well, yeah, but never trust your instincts when it comes to mushrooms,my Auntie Greta did that once and she…and Fabian would saythis is different than your Auntie Greta who thought she saw the God of the Cosmos tap-dancing on a frozen lake,Don, and then they would bicker the whole night through.
What wouldItell myself to do, if I was giving my own self advice?
My answer came when that Good Councilthingin the beautiful female body turned to assess the crowd behind her, and I saw the purely predatory hatred ripple in her ice-blue eyes.
No, I might not fully trust Coen, but I didn’t fear him like I fearedher.
As two other instructors brought out a cart of hundreds of metal rods capped with circular bascite stamps, I fished the pill from my pocket.
And popped it in my mouth.
Then swallowed it dry.
Nobody saw, not even Lander, whose eyes were focused on the stage now, but…
Something quieted within me as the pill settled in my stomach, like a faint whine in my ears that I hadn’t even realized was there just… dropping away.
Onstage, Mr. Gleekle spread his arms and boomed, “Let the Branding begin!”
CHAPTER
8
Mrs. Wildenberg dipped a withered hand in the upside-down sunflower hat. When she brought out the first scrap of paper, even the flickering firelight arched over our heads seemed to pause, waiting.
“Archie van Grouse!” her warbled voice rang out.
A boy two rows in front of me trembled to a stand and walked to the stage, hands in his pockets as if he wanted to paint a portrait of casual indifference.
It didn’t work. When he had climbed the two steps up to the raised platform and stood in front of Mr. Gleekle and Mrs. Wildenberg, facing the crowd of thousands, I could see his hands shaking in his pockets.
One of the instructors at the cart brought up a single poker with the bascite stamp on the end, and the other instructor hovered his hands over the brand. Instantly, fire poured from the instructor’s fingers onto the bascite, heating it up to a flaming white circle of light, like a miniature moon on a stick.
Mr. Gleekle took the brand delicately and faced Archie.
“Only a pinch,” he repeated with a jolly smile, and pressed the brand to the boy’s shoulder.
Archie flinched, but no sooner had he done so than the orange imprint of the circle on his skin faded, and he gasped.
I felt a tug at my front pocket, right where the pill had been.
All around me, everyone else gasped, too, as their pockets emptied and hundreds of different items zipped toward the stage, landing in a clinking pile at the boy’s feet: wristwatches, necklaces, rings, even a flew flasks like Rodhi had tried to hide, and rubbers that made several people around me shriek with mirth.
Mr. Gleekle beamed, spreading his arms wide.
“Object Summoner! Well done, boy, well done.”
