Wicked academia, p.20
Wicked Academia, page 20
Minutes passed as they lay there trembling. Screams and trampling feet sounded outside. Cruel laughter. Marion squeezed her eyes shut and counted the pulse of blood in her veins.
Finally, the sounds dulled.
″Are they gone?” Vivian whispered.
The three moved in unison, peering over the edge of the cart. The rain-slick cobblestone gleamed in the dim light. The streets were empty, and the screams distant.
Then one scream was heard over them all.
Father.
His voice, so familiar in songs and bedtime stories and wise musings on the way of life, was now an anguished cry. Coming from above them.
Marion peered through the murk. Released a scream of her own.
Timothée cut it off with a hand to her mouth, pulling her flush against the cart. The canvas fell off. Marion managed a shaky finger up to the clouds.
A great animal flew through the night: a giant bat. Its membranous wings cut through the storm, long snout like a fox, glinting eyes. And clutched in its feet was Father.
A crash of lightning illuminated the sky. And that single moment became burned in Marion’s mind. Her dear father, trapped in the grip of that monster. Blood gushed from her father’s body. His dull eyes flashed open, trained on her, and he reached a hand toward them. “Vivian. Marion. Timothée.”
The great animal swooped down and dropped their Father behind a building. With a screech, the beast flew toward the castle.
Amidst the heavy rain: silence. Then Vivian said, “I must find Father.”
Of course. Of course they had to find Father. They couldn’t leave him. He might be dying.
He might be dead.
Father needed them. But Marion’s body felt like a frozen river: the inside rushing and raving, the outside unmovable.
Vivian jumped out of the cart. Looked around. Crept a few steps out.
Timothée followed her. “Come on, Mare. We have to find Father.”
But Marion couldn’t move. She wasn’t present within her body anymore but hovered above herself. She could see the mask of panic on her own face, the rhythmic rocking of her body as she clutched her knees to her chest. There were no words, no free will.
Only fear.
Timothée and Vivian looked from one another.
″Stay with her,” Vivian said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
″You can’t go alone,” Timothée said.
″I must and I will. I am the eldest.” Vivian’s grey eyes flashed. In that moment, she held such strength that the smallest bead of hope penetrated Marion’s fear. Everything will be alright. Vivian will take care of it.
So Timothée crawled back in the cart, pulling the canvas over them, and Vivian disappeared into the dark.
Marion would replay this memory hundreds of times over the next three years. So many things had gone wrong. And they were all her fault. She had been the one to convince her siblings to go to the festival in the first place. She’d suggested they stay for one more snack.
And she, the coward that she was, let her sister go off alone into the night.
What a weak heart she had.
Marion had no sense of time, lost in this floating world of fear, but at some point, Timothée had grabbed her face and screamed at her: “Vivian hasn’t come back. We have to find her!”
And he had led her stone-stiff body by the hand, like she was a child. Her nice boots splashed in puddles of blood and the rim of her pretty party dress stained red.
And only when they found their sister’s body did Marion come back into herself. Changed forever. Just like Vivian.
For what they found was not their sister, but a screeching, scratching animal. And Marion was no longer a doting sister, but a being whose weak heart had instead turned to stone. Her only job: keep her siblings alive.
Because she’d already failed once.
The next hours, days, weeks, were a mosaic of horrors. Tying Vivian with pillaged rope so she would stop lunging at them. Finding a way down to the sewers, and spending days amidst the river of shit and piss, but at least there were no guards. Timothée limping back down to their little hiding spot, face swollen, eyes black, after getting caught trying to steal a bag of apples.
They had nothing but the things they’d brought with them on their cart: Timothée’s books. And something odd had happened to their cart, which they at least could have sold for a verdallion or two. When Marion went back to retrieve it the next morning, it was nothing but a pile of driftwood, covered in seaweed.
They hadn’t found their father’s body that night. And it wasn’t until Vivian had regained enough control that she told them what she’d seen. Father’s lifeless form in the mud.
Right before the vampires had set upon her.
They made their way out of the sewers, step by step. They found work, a way to keep Vivian herself… mostly. They never returned to Seagrass, for there would be no hiding Vivian’s secret from that small of a village. Better to blend in with the chaos of Wolfhelm.
And only in the quiet moments, when she was alone at the back of her leech shoppe, would Marion grieve for Father. For Seagrass. For whom Vivian used to be.
And how she had failed them all.
Now, all she managed to Kassandra was a shrug. “Nothing much to say. He was another victim in the Dark Prophet’s massacre.”
For the briefest moment, a thousand emotions flashed through Kassandra’s pale eyes. Then her face was stoic once again. “You still hold on to this idea of him as father. You cannot accept he stole you from your rightful home.”
″My home is Seagrass.” Marion’s voice was a breath. “And he was the dearest father one could ask for.”
Kassandra tinkled down the aisle, morning light illuminating her white-blond hair. “And what did Bram tell you of your mother?”
Bram. That wasn’t her father’s name. His name was Henry. “My mother died in childbirth. The tragedy of carrying triplets.”
Kassandra sighed. “How terrible for you to think of the blessing of your life a tragedy.”
Marion never wondered about her mother. Never needed to. Their family always felt so complete with the three of them and Father, and their little home among the lavender. Sometimes Vivian pondered what it’d be like to have a mother plait your hair. So Marion plaited Vivian’s hair. Or Timothée would watch the mothers in Seagrass carrying their children on their backs. So Marion would heave Timothée on her back, despite that he was taller than her.
″I’ve had no need for a mother,” Marion said plainly. And because this was the only control she had over the most powerful woman in Thraina, she added, “And I never will.”
A cold breeze blew the curtains at the back of the dais, and Marion swore she heard the echo of dark laughter.
Kassandra’s lip quivered and a pang of guilt surged up Marion. She’d meant to sting the priestess, but genuine pain filled her features.
″Of course, you don’t.” The Archpriestess stared at the floor. “Rhaemyria’s dream was stolen by that man. My biggest regret is that I lost so many years with you.”
Unsure what to say but desperate to escape the silence, Marion asked: “Rhaemyria’s dream?”
″Come.” Kassandra held out her arm. When Marion approached, she engulfed her, sleeve wide like a wing. The Archpriestess walked them over to the wall, inlaid with a massive stained-glass mural.
Marion knew the image of Rhaemyria and Xydrious instantly. They walked upon a vibrant meadow, each holding the hand of a small child with dark hair. But their gaze was up at the stars, where sat other beings Marion did not recognize. The people in the stars reached down and wept.
″There are many legends of the gods. Some are based in truth. Others are but fanciful tales. Even our dear loremaster doesn’t know the whole of them.” Kassandra winked, an unnervingly normal gesture. “But I shall tell you the true tale that Rhaemyria has told me, so you may know your mother’s wishes.”
Mother. Marion shuddered against Kassandra’s arm.
″You of course know Rhaemyria was the First Mother, the goddess of creation. She created her consort, Xydrious. From their home in the stars, they made Thraina to their liking. And they made other gods to share the stars with them. And Rhaemyria crafted her most precious creation of all: humans.”
Marion stared down at the Archpriestess’s robes. Each little ornament sewed upon her gown was different: little yarn dolls amidst the bells. They may have been cute if not stitched by their necks upon her garment. Now as Marion stared, the dress became more of a wasteland, like the aftermath of a battle fought by string soldiers.
″So enthralled was she by the life she had gifted Thraina, she, Xydrious, and several other gods left their home in the stars to walk among their creations. What a joy! On Thraina, the gods learned both the boons and hardships of life.
″But to feel so much for so long is such a burden. After thousands of years upon the earth, the gods grew homesick for the stars. But the problem was…” Kassandra’s eyes shone. “They’d spent so long among the humans, they’d forgotten how to go home.”
Marion raised a brow. This was a story not told in any liturgy or scripture she knew of.
″And so, Rhaemyria and Xydrious created something no god had ever done before: an earth-born son. Surely, a son of the First Mother and the First Father would wield such power as to guide the gods home.”
They walked to the next stained-glass mural. Noctis stood among black flames, Rhaemyria and Xydrious weeping at his feet. “And their son did wield great power. But he was prideful and malcontent. He was jealous of Rhaemyria’s love for the humans, so he corrupted them. What a fickle, ungrateful boy.”
The windows darkened, shadows replacing sunbeams. Marion rubbed her arms against the chill.
Kassandra approached the mural, reached a hand up to Noctis. “But we know how this story ends. Noctis may have waged his war and corrupted Thraina with his vile creations. Turned Xydrious’s mythical beasts to monsters. Destroyed so many of Rhaemyria’s beloved humans. But he failed. His mother ripped the star from his breast. The war was over.” A single tear ran down her porcelain face. “But how can a mother’s heart ever recover?”
Marion scuffed a toe against the ornate floor. Her stomach growled. She wanted to find Timothée, and then some food.
Kassandra dropped her hand, turned, and held Marion’s gaze. “Every legend you’ve heard tells you the gods returned to the sky. That they’re the ones sending the starfall. But it’s not true, Marion. Without Noctis, the gods could not return. They need someone to lead them.”
Marion looked around. She better not be talking about me.
″It’s you, Marion. It’s you who must lead them.”
Oh bother.
Kassandra crossed the space between them, gripped the side of her face. “Tomorrow night at your Celestial Rite, we will see for truth if my intuition is correct. You will catch a star, and you will not burn. You will emerge from the ashes, as Rhaemyria once did during the dawning of the world. And when you are strong enough, the gods will show themselves to you.”
A great fear settled in Marion’s consciousness. She truly believes. In all of Thraina, the Archpriestess was second in power to Darius Störmberg alone. Or perhaps even more powerful. And she truly believed Marion would lead her beloved gods to the sky…
Prophecy was a drug; people were addicted to the idea of certainty. And so they would move earth itself to ensure this. Even the Archpriestess was a victim of her faith.
What opportunities could be seized by such radical belief?
Marion blinked her eyes, her thoughts strange to her. She didn’t want to exploit Kassandra’s ethos. She wanted Vivian to get better, and to go back down to Thraina.
But until they’d figured out Vivian’s cure, she’d have to play Kassandra’s game. She’d have to catch a star and pray to whatever gods there were that Kassandra was right. She wouldn’t burn.
Marion put her hand over Kassandra’s. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
″Bless you.” Tears welled in the Archpriestess’s eyes.
Marion attempted a warm expression. “I should go find Timothée.”
″Yes, I have business in the Academy as well.” Kassandra smiled. “Please find your brother. There are things in the castle that are not safe for even godlings.”
22
In Which Timothée is Spellbound by Shadows
″Are you sure this is the way?”
″What?” Val crossed his arms. “Are you the only one allowed to hear things?”
Timothée followed Valentine Sun down the twisting set of stairs. He was pretty sure Setviren would say it was off-limits. But he didn’t stop.
Candles dripping hot wax lit these walls instead of crystals, and soon Timothée lost count of how long they’d been walking.
He wanted to say something to Val, to ask about the school, about catching a star, but every time he was about to, he’d catch a look at Val’s face, the curve of his full lips, or the brush of candlelight along his hair, and end up swallowing his words.
An urgent whisper shuddered through him, and the candles flickered in response. This way. Timothée stumbled and grabbed the wall.
Val whirled. “What?”
″We’re going the right way.” He smiled. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was smiling because following the orders of a ghost—or whatever was calling him—was certainly not the best idea. Especially after his father had warned him about this school.
But he’d never ever done anything adventurous with anyone.
And certainly not with a beautiful Starling.
″Stop smiling.” Val got that look again, like a rat was crawling up his arm, but this time the rat was Timothée’s face. “We’re exploring a haunted castle, not heading to the Yuletide Ball.”
Timothée ran a hand through his hair. Now he was imagining Yuletide, feasts, and glowing trees, and… a ball?
Timothée barely stifled his smile. His thoughts turned to the ceremony tomorrow. All this time, he’d thought himself stuck as a poor baker boy. That he’d waste his life away in the slums of Wolfhelm, with only his books for adventures. Maybe Marion was right, and it was all nonsense. But it had given him this chance.
To wield magic would be to change his entire life. He’d never be a nobody, ignored or loathed by society.
He was going to be a Starling.
Pressure grew the deeper they went, and he felt dizzy with the constant spiral. Acrid moisture seeped down the side of the walls. Moss and dirt now covered the previously clean stone. They must be deep underground now.
Could it still be considered underground if you were floating above the air? Timothée wasn’t sure.
″So, how was catching your star?” Timothée asked. “Tomorrow night—”
″Stop.” Val held out his arm. Timothée stumbled into him.
He heard it: not whispers, but the clicking rhythm of steps. Then a different light bloomed along the walls behind them.
″Someone’s coming,” Val said.
″What do we—”
″Leave it to me.” He slammed Timothée against the stone wall. White specks sparkled in his vision.
Val lifted one hand to the black choker around his neck. His fingers danced over the gem. It loosened and fell into his palm. He closed his eyes and tucked the choker into his pocket.
Timothée withheld a gasp. I don’t think he’s supposed to do that.
The rhythm of steps grew louder. He knew he shouldn’t be down here. What if it was Setviren, and he sent him all the way back to Wolfhelm?
″Val—” Timothée hated the wavering in his voice.
Val’s hand clasped over his mouth; the light ends of his hair brushed Timothée’s shoulder. “Try not to scream.”
Why would I…
Dark shadows spooled at Val’s feet and wrapped around their legs. Timothée made a sound, muffled against Val’s hand. This boy, this Dark Star…
It was all true. Dark Stars did have the power of Noctis.
The light on the walls grew brighter, the clicks of the steps louder. Shadows wrapped around their bodies.
Timothée felt the shadows and didn’t feel them. It was like the brink of cold at winter and the ever-pressing heat under the Red Corn Moon.
The hard stone grated against his back. Val’s chest pressed so hard into Timothée he thought his ribs might crack. Val was shorter than him, so Timothée’s mouth was in line with his forehead.
Val’s fingers curled on the stone wall, and he swept his gaze up, so now their faces—
Timothée swallowed.
″Don’t breathe,” Val hissed.
Timothée was going to pass out.
Shadows covered them entirely. The candlelight grew brighter and brighter until Archpriestess Kassandra came into view, long robes trailing, gravastarium staff held tight in her hands. Her beautiful face was fraught with worry and the tiny bells and ornaments sewn into her clothes jingled as she walked down the steps.
This hallway was too narrow. Even shrouded in Val’s shadows, she would certainly see them. Val locked eyes with Timothée. The shadows wavered, pulsing along his edges. His brows knit in concentration—and the Archpriestess passed through them and continued down the stairs.
Timothée’s heart flipped in his chest. She hadn’t just passed around them. She’d passed through them.
He didn’t move after one breath, or two, or three, and he thought he’d stay like that forever with Val’s chest pressed against his own, both boys cloaked in darkness.
Then the shadows dripped off him with the consistency of water that didn’t leave him wet.
Val didn’t back up.
This was so different from dusty bakery storerooms or moldy attics. The energy between them was a living thing. Was this the spark all his stories had talked about? Because, by the Three, it felt like the air might explode if he took another breath.
A hot rush of desire pooled through him as Val breathed against his neck. So new. So different. It was immediate, demanding, urgent. He remembered how long it had taken with Lingrint, with Jenny, the others. But now—
