CHAPTER 13
ur professor, Wrythe Pendragon, stands at the front of a stone room wearing the long black robes reserved for instructors and a gold torc.O His sleeves are embroidered with what looks like an unsettling family crest—a shield with a crown and a severed head in the center. He’s not just our professor, but he’s also Avalon Tower’s Seneschal—the headmaster here and a knight of the Round Table. Along with Viviane and Raphael, he comprises the most high-ranking members of MI-13 who meet in secret to plan our missions. And unfortunately, he seems to hate me.
I lean my chin on my wrist and watch the other cadets file in, taking their places on benches on either side of the hall. Light spills in through diamond- pane windows and streaks across the floor.
Wrythe’s shoes clack on the flagstones as he strides between the benches.
He pivots, and his extravagant blond mustache twitches. He adjusts his monocle and stares up at the ceiling. “Magic. The Fey’s biggest advantage over humankind. And, as my brilliant niece Ginevra says, the gravest threat to us as humans.”
Ginevra, the gorgeous woman who’d been in Raphael’s room. My mind starts to wander as I obsess about what he and Ginevra were up to that morning.
I try to concentrate, but I’m exhausted. This morning, Viviane was particularly brutal, putting me through a series of exercises aimed at strengthening my lungs. With my sessions with Viviane, regular classes, equestrian training, written assignments, and memorizing France’s
geography, I’ve scarcely slept in the past three weeks. On top of that, I had three training sessions with Raphael where he kept telling me to ignore my emotions. I was genuinely trying to ignore them around him because his alluring scent and powerful, sun-kissed forearms make me feel crazy.
Slowly, day by day, I’m becoming better. Now, I can disable the tiny training veil for almost ten seconds—as long as I don’t look into Raphael’s deep silver eyes and get distracted.
My knowledge of the Fey language is growing by the day, and my accent doesn’t make Tana visibly wince anymore. As for my fighting skills? Well, they’re still rubbish. I’m weak and small, and bruises cover my body.
I blink, realizing I haven’t been listening to the Seneschal. Instead, I’ve been staring at one of the gargoyles above the doorframe.
Wrythe is pacing, his hands behind his back. His robe is open, and he’s wearing a velvet waistcoat and a blue, star-flecked cravat. “Once, the Fey possessed primal magic, a godlike power that threatened the human world.
The ancient Fey could perform the deadliest of sorceries. And what were the five primal powers that the ancient Fey used to possess?” He looks around at the raised hands, squinting into his monocle. “The five primal powers, anyone?”
I don’t even bother raising my hand anymore. Wrythe never calls on me.
He’s Tarquin’s uncle and apparently shares his nephew’s distaste for me.
When his stare occasionally meets mine, he wrinkles his nose as if he smells something rank.
He points to a ginger man named Valen, who immediately flushes red.
“The ancient Fey could polymorph other creatures. Turn people to frogs or ants, or whatever. They could conjure items into existence, which they mostly used to create fool’s gold that would later disappear. They could control minds, pushing people to act without their consent. They could make people fall in love with them. And…uh…” His eyes widen as he forgets the fifth legendary magical power.
“Uh, Valen?” Wrythe’s mustache twitches. “What sort of power is uh? Is it very dangerous, the magical ritual of uh?”
I hear sniggering from Horatio, Tarquin, and his gang on the other side of the room.
Wrythe shakes his head in disgust. “And the fifth primal power is”—he pivots—“Tarquin?”
Across the room, Tarquin folds his arms. “Aeromancy. Control of the
weather.”
“Exactly.” Wrythe nods in approval. “Aeromancy, amoromancy—also known as love magic—polymorphism, mind control, and conjuration. Those were the five primal powers. Merlin, for example, could reputably control the weather. As an aeromancer, he received the top rank in Avalon Tower. But after he died, the Fey powers began to fade. King Auberon blames the humans for it. Progress and technology. That is partly the reason for the Fey invasion, according to him. No Fey has been able to use any of the five powers for over a millennium.”
Darius mutters to me, “Except the Dream Stalker.”
Wrythe whips around. “Mr. Merton, was there something incredibly important that you had to share with the group?”
Darius clears his throat. “The Dream Stalker, grandson of Queen Morgan.
There are rumors that the Dream Stalker can not only control dreams, but also the weather.”
Wrythe blanches. “We don’t speak of the Fey prince. Are you a moron?”
His words echo off the vaulted ceiling.
Darius shrinks in his seat.
“Don’t ever think of him,” Wrythe continues. “Don’t speak about him.
Don’t bring him up. If you think about him, you might dream about him. And once you dream of him, you invite him in. Then the Dream Stalker will turn your world into a nightmare. He will torture you in every way imaginable.
Everyone here knows this should be avoided. Except, apparently, you and your friend, Ms. Melisende.”
Tarquin turns around to look at us, his eyes twinkling with clear joy.
A cold shudder spreads over my skin like webs of frost. I want to ask more about this Dream Stalker, but obviously, that isn’t allowed.
“Most magic these days is a fragment of the Fey’s early powers.” Wrythe resumes pacing the class. “Simple illusions. Glamour. Mild telepathy. Some agents in MI-13 have these powers as well, now that we allow…all sorts. All sorts.” He repeats that last phrase incredulously, then huffs an awkward laugh. “It is important to note that the Fey should only have one power at a time.” His voice booms off the arched ceiling. “When a Fey has more than one power, the magic becomes weak and unstable. Muddled. Diametric magic is magic that interferes with itself. In the Fey realm, those with diametric magic are treated with contempt, as they usually are driven mad.
They become dangerous and deranged, ravening idiots who will attempt to
feast on humans and Fey alike. Cannibals.”
He turns, pacing in the opposite direction. “Now that the Fey powers have weakened, the Fey are beginning to rely on human technology. What is the best example of that reliance, Tarquin?”
“The train of Gobannos,” Tarquin says with a half-smile.
“That’s right.” Wrythe nods. “The train of Gobannos is part of the status quo agreements. A train that connects the independent, human-controlled south of France with the occupied north. Fey sometimes use it to import human goods. And a few rare times, we’ve smuggled agents onto that train, gaining access to the heart of occupied France.”
He turns around and looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “Ms. Melisende.
Since you’ve been paying such close attention, I would be happy to hear your opinion. Suppose you were an agent on that train, on your way to a gala. How would you present yourself to anyone who starts talking to you? What identity would you adopt?”
Shit. I clear my throat, trying to recall the texts I’d read two nights ago. “I would present myself as a baroness of one of the distant Fey isles in their realm, such as Saxa or Collibus. The majority of Fey aren’t closely familiar with those two families, so they wouldn’t question it. To fortify my cover, I’d come with at least two additional agents, one masquerading as my footman and the other as my personal secretary. They would be able to gather additional information from the common areas.”
“A detailed cover.” Wrythe raises an eyebrow. “And for the additional agents, perhaps you could use your friends, Ms. O’Rourke and Mr. Merton.”
“Sure,” I say warily. Serana and Darius shift uncomfortably. I’m starting to sense a trap.
“And then you would find that those from the Fey regions of Saxa and Collibus are almost never invited to the big galas. And in fact, Fey from Collibus never ride the train because they are backward, unsophisticated, and distrust human inventions. Your cover would instantly be blown. Not only have you got yourself captured, but your friends are now being tortured to death, and it’s all your fault. How do you feel now, when you are being forced to watch your friends carved up to betray our secrets? They would break Ms. O’Rourke’s fingers one by one. Shatter Mr. Merton’s teeth with a mallet. Slowly flay the three of you alive until you told them everything you knew about Camelot. All because you had better things to do than to pay attention in class. Oh, dear. Not very good, is it?”
I feel nauseated, fixing my eyes on the flagstones. When Raphael asked me to join the academy, he didn’t mention the possibility of torture.
“And this is why we have this class.” Wrythe’s voice booms over the hall as he addresses the rest of the room. “It doesn’t matter that Ms. Melisende is barely paying attention to the lives of her friends. Her job, thankfully, is only to get a skilled agent through the barrier. But if the rest of you don’t know every little detail of our enemies’ culture, you will be found out. And your friends will suffer with you on the rack.”
Everyone in the hall is staring at me like I just murdered someone.
The Seneschal puffs his chest. “Now, Ms. Melisende, please tell me—”
The large oak door at one end of the hall groans open, and Raphael and Amon enter the classroom. Wrythe bustles over to them, and Raphael leans in, speaking to him quietly.
Serana exhales. “That absolute bellend. Your answer was much better than anything anyone else could have come up with right now, and you’re still new here.”
“I missed some important details,” I admit miserably.
“Only because you’re stretched so thin! You’re barely sleeping, Nia.”
“Nia Melisende.” Raphael’s voice echoes over the room, and his piercing gaze bores into me.
Amon looks worried, and Wrythe’s face is red with fury, jaw clenched.
Raphael nods at the door. “Come on. You have a mission.”
