“Very much the opposite of us,” Echo cuts in. She looks to me. “They’re idol worshippers.”
“Aren’t they our allies?” I put in, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
Fallon pins me with her eyes. “For now.”
Well, that’s interesting. “And the Kelts?” I wonder, looking to Echo. “What are their men like?”
Fallon snorts derisively as Echo regards me somberly, her fist closed tight around her Erthia sphere. “Their blood is polluted with all types of filth—Fae blood, Urisk...even Icaral.” Echo waits to see if I’m appropriately horrified before continuing.
Sage’s Icaral baby immediately leaps to mind, casting a pall over everything. I remember how troubled and terrified she was. A Kelt. The demon baby’s father is a Kelt. And she met him at University.
“Priest Vogel says the Kelts are cast out and no longer First People like us,” Echo continues stridently. “They’ve secretly aligned themselves with Evil Ones, like the desert heathens and the Urisk.”
“Look out for the Urisk women,” Fallon warns as a side note. “They may look all innocent, but they love going after our men.”
I’ve heard Warren Gaffney going on about this on more than one occasion. The fact is, Urisk women don’t have any men of their own to go after. The Gardnerian government killed all their males during the Realm War.
Urisk males are powerful geomancers, able to harness the full, destructive powers of stones and gems. Their existence would pose a serious threat to our country. The women, on the other hand, are completely devoid of magic and are allowed to live in Gardneria as guest workers.
It’s a horrible thought, though—the Urisk boy babies being killed. It’s a subject I’ve never been able to discuss with Uncle Edwin, as he becomes visibly upset if I try to broach the topic, once to the point of tearing up and clutching at his chest.
Male Urisk warlords viciously attacked our country when they had power, seeking to wipe us out, but still, it’s all so troubling.
Echo sighs. “At least Urisk half-breeds only have weak magic, at best.”
Paige nods to her in agreement, but Fallon is ignoring them both. Instead, she’s watching me with a silent intensity so unnerving that it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. My initial dislike of her deepens.
“Be careful with those mixed-breeds,” Fallon tells me, a sly smile spreading across her face. I bristle, realizing she’s once again alluding to Gareth and his silver-tipped hair. She slides her thumb along the length of her wand. “Mixed-breeds are everywhere,” she purrs. “You just can’t be too careful.”
Textured Silk
“Stand up straight, now. That’s better...”
Mage Heloise Florel pulls the measuring tape tight around my waist as I drown in embarrassment. An imperious, square woman about sixty years of age, Mage Florel is the proprietor of the dress shop. Her own long, dark tunic and skirt are exquisitely made, her gray hair plaited and tied back into a neat bun, her eyes like little green searchlights that take in every last detail.
I’m standing on a pedestal right in the center of her fitting room with Fallon, Echo and Paige looking on. In my underwear!
“All right. Now lift your arms above your head...”
Mage Florel, to my mortification, begins measuring above my breasts, around my breasts and under them as she calls out numbers to a quiet Urisk girl. The girl, who looks to be about my age, takes down every number on a small piece of parchment, her face as blank as snow. Fallon makes a show of reading the girl’s notes over her shoulder and then whispering to Paige and Echo, her lips shielded with her hand, a nasty smirk on her face. I just know she’s commenting on my measurements and I flush with embarrassment.
I glance around at the dark sea of fabric bolts surrounding me, trying to shut out Mage Florel’s poking and prodding. Everywhere I look, lining every wall to the ceiling, is luxurious fabric, much of it embroidered with intricate designs. I’d never have imagined there could be so many variations of black cloth, the colors ranging from the deepest black of night, to hues just on the edge of gray, the textures spanning from silk so shiny you expected to see your reflection in it to matte velvet.
“You’ve got quite a nice figure,” Mage Florel remarks, eyeing my chest. “Too bad you’ve been hiding it away underneath all of those...clothes.” She nudges my discarded pile of garb with her foot.
I can feel my face growing even hotter, but this time my embarrassment is mixed in with gratification at the compliment, and how sour Fallon looks in response to Mage Florel’s praise.
Privately, I’m aware that I have a pleasing figure, but no one has ever publicly commented on my body before. Growing up with an uncle and two brothers, my body has always been very private, and, in the Gardnerian tradition, completely covered—from my neck to my wrists down to my feet. I’ve never shown so much as a bare ankle in public. When I reached the age when I needed more tailored clothing, I took to sewing my dresses myself.
Finally, to my immense relief, the ordeal is over and Mage Florel orders me to get dressed, then dictates some notes to the Urisk girl regarding alterations and appropriate trim.
It’s hard not to stare at the young Urisk woman—she’s so lovely. Like the upper-class servants at Aunt Vyvian’s house, she has lavender skin, long, pointed ears and startlingly lovely eyes that glimmer several shades of amethyst. Her violet hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she’s simply dressed in a white linen tunic and white underskirt.
I think of the Urisk women who work the Gaffneys’ sprawling farm. They’ve always been a bit of a mystery to me, the Urisk farmworkers, with their Uriskal language and tendency to disappear as soon as the harvest work is done for the season. And they are, all of them, wizened and bedraggled. Nothing at all like this beautiful girl.
The Urisk girl hands the parchment to Mage Florel, who squints at it through half-moon spectacles attached to a long, pearl necklace. “Very good, Sparrow,” she comments. “Go fetch Effrey.”
Sparrow nods and leaves, her movements graceful. Within a few seconds, another Urisk girl, a skinny, frantic little thing with deep purple skin, hair and eyes, runs into the room and skids to an abrupt halt in front of Mage Florel, Sparrow shadowing close behind. The child looks to be about eight years of age.
The older woman stares down at the child uncertainly, then directs her to fetch some fabric. A few minutes later the child returns carrying two bolts of cloth that are coming unwound around her legs, one ebony silk flecked with small, golden threads, the other a muted blue-black. They’re large bolts, and the girl looks to be out of breath from the effort.
Mage Florel lets out a disgusted sigh. “Textured silk, Effrey, I wanted it textured.”
The girl’s eyes fly open in panic.
“Let’s make this easier,” Mage Florel offers, the girl looking about ready to burst into tears. “Get me the sample booklets instead. They’re easier to carry than the bolts.”
Little Effrey sprints out of the room, seeming eager to correct her mistake.
Mage Florel turns back to us, shaking her head in consternation. “I’m sorry,” she confides. “She’s new. And she’s been extraordinarily difficult to train. She just doesn’t listen carefully.”
Fallon snorts as she runs her hand along some velvet. “You’d think with ears that big, she’d be able to listen just fine.”
My head jerks toward Fallon. Mage Florel, Echo and Paige join me in looks of shocked surprise.
Fallon eyes us incredulously