Page 33 of Storm of Shadows
One of the twins lifts her nose into the air. “Everyone knows that’s impossible.”
“Do they?”
“Yes,” her sister says with confidence. “The ability of shadow weaving is passed down from generation to generation. It’s inherited. You have to possess the power and the ability in your blood. Ordinaries like them,” she says with a sneer, “could never possess such a power.”
“That’s what is believed.”
“That’s the facts,” the spiky-haired girl says.
“Nonetheless,” the voice says, “we must ensure there are no others who possess such a talent.”
“Right,” a shadow weaver boy who is so stacked with muscle, he looks more troll than human, says, “can you losers do this then?”
He flings back his arm and launches a ball of fire right at the rest of us. Several kids scream, ducking down low, as it skims over our heads and hits the far wall, bursting into a thousand sparks.
“Or this,” one of the twins says, lightning streaking between her palms before she hurtles it our way. There’s more screaming, more students diving out the way in front of me and then the lightning is streaking right towards my face. I’ve no time to moveand if it wasn’t for Fly, knocking me off the bench and onto the floor, it would have hit me right on the nose and scorched a hole in my face.
I groan, sprawled out on my stomach, my legs akimbo.
There is laughing from the front of the room and when I lift my head, I see the twin smirking right at me and I know right then and there.
It was deliberate.
That strike was meant for me.
So much for fading back into the background.
“Enough!” the voice roars, the walls shaking and the benches rattling. Then the shadow weavers are forced down into their seats by an unseen force. They struggle against it, but they are unable to fight it.
“I didn’t ask for practical demonstrations. You are here to learn. And the first thing you will learn is how to feel the magic in your blood.”
“This is a waste of time,” Fly moans, suppressing a yawn, as the voice delivers an explanation on how to determine if magic resides in your veins, how best to coax it out, how to feel for it when needed. But I’m all ears, taking it all in. It’s fascinating. I know so little about magic and shadow weavers and I realize now that that is a mistake. I need to learn everything I can.
After all, if I hope to find answers, I need to pay attention.
Two hours later, we’re dismissed out into the freezing cold corridor and making our way up the stairs. I’m halfway up those steps when I pat my pocket and realize I have lost my pen.
“I forgot my pen,” I say, stopping in my tracks and causing those behind me to bump into me. Several swear at me andpush past, knocking against my shoulder as they do. Fly plasters himself flat against the wall and lets them pass. “It must have fallen out of my pocket when I fell off the bench.”
“You want to go get it?” Fly asks, peering back down towards the classroom.
“Yes,” I say, “it belonged to …” I trail off.
“I’ll wait here,” Fly says, obviously not keen to enter that classroom again until we have to. “That room gives me the creeps. Just be quick, okay? We don’t want to miss out on all the good lunch choices.”
The classroom gives me the creeps too and I’d prefer it if Fly came with me, but it’s a new friendship and I don’t want to seem needy or pathetic.
I trot back down the empty staircase and push against the heavy door with my shoulder, stepping inside.
“Knock before you enter!” a voice roars in anger – that same mysterious voice from before – and I freeze to the spot. Only one candle remains flickering in the room and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. Then I make out a man standing in the middle of the benches, my pen in his hands.
He’s huge, although his well-built frame is contained within a well-cut suit, a dark cloak hanging from his shoulders. His face is chiseled, his nose aquiline and his thick dark hair swept back from his face.
I stand there in shock, my mouth hanging open, my mind whirring. Because I know this man and yet I don’t. He is like an image of a man I once knew – but the details are slightly different – his figure more muscular, his cheeks no longer hollow, his brow heavier, his clothes more refined and his eyes – the eyes are completely different … and yet he looks so much like him.
He stares back at me and for a moment I think he is as shocked as I am. Then the shock fades away, more anger erupting over his features.
“You do not enter a classroom – any room in the academy – without knocking first. Without seeking permission to enter.”
