Cold Magic (Spiritwalker 1)

“Search the schoolrooms!” barked a male voice.

Like the other coats, I did not move.

Down they swept, footfalls shuddering on the flooring, doors flung open, childish voices raised with questions, matrons tersely demanding apologies. Two young men in soldiers’ livery paced down the coats, rippling them with strong hands, and yet… they walked right past me. At length the searchers satisfied themselves that no fugitive lurked in the schoolrooms. With no explanation to the matrons—who asked for none—they slammed shut the double entry doors and locked them from the other side.

There I stood, shrouded by coats. Through the now-open doors, I listened to the day’s lesson, which was apparently the same in every age cohort’s classroom, made simple for the little ones and extensive for the eldest.

A history lesson.

Listen, my father had written. Listen to hear if they are telling the truth or only part of the truth, for that is the lesson of history: that the victors tell the tale of their triumph in a manner to grant accolades to themselves and heap blame upon their rivals. Ask yourself if part of the story is being withheld by design or ignorance.

Only he was not my father. It was all a lie.

Tears wove runnels down my cheeks as one matron’s voice above all the others droned on.

“We in the Houses are a tree grown from two roots. We are twin, one born in the north and one born in the south. Our ancestors in the south fled the salt plague and at the end of their journey met our ancestors in the north. We are Celt and Mande, rich in spirit. Those among us who can handle the nyama of the spirit world joined together to form the Houses. Thus, we are grown into what we have now become, we who can grip the handle of power. This all of you know, for it is the story of your ancestors. But there are other peoples in the world who are known to us, each with their own qualities and strengths….”

I cautiously stuck out my head and peered down the corridor to my left. The outline of a door was discernible, a gateway leading out.

A schoolroom door snicked quietly open, bringing with it a swell of matronly voice listing the various well-known peoples of the world and their well-known characteristics: The noble Kushites are gifted rulers, wise and tolerant; the Greeks are philosophers and lovers of art; the Romans are masters of war and engineering; the cunning Phoenicians have plied the seas of commerce for untold generations. The door shut, but the recital went on in muted tones as two girls padded down the corridor and halted in front of me. One had long hair braided tightly and an intelligent gaze in a face whose lineaments and complexion resembled those of the younger boy I’d spoken to earlier, while the other had a white face and blond hair. Nevertheless, there was something similar about their eyes.

They considered me and then looked at each other, their gazes speaking without words. They were young, perhaps twelve winters, fresh faced and healthy and blooming. Then the little beasts each stuck out a hand, palm up, asking for payment.

“You must be what they’re looking for,” said the dark one, with the innocent smile of a child who understands the blackmailer’s art.

“Pay us,” said the fair one, “and we’ll pretend we never saw you.”

“Where does that door lead?” I murmured.

“Are you bargaining with us?” asked the dark one, her eyes wide in surprise.

“Knowing how loud we can scream?” added the fair one reasonably.

I knew how to handle girls like this. Never let them think they held the whip of life and breath over you, or you’d be cursed.

“Of course I’m bargaining,” I retorted in a low but suitably intense voice. “I’m Phoenician. We have to bargain. It’s in our blood.”

They grinned, as bright as a burst of lantern light on a murky night. I braced myself, expecting them to giggle, but they had exceptional self-control. Clearly, they were used to sneaking around where they weren’t supposed to be.

“I know how to unlock the door,” said the dark one.

“You can get outside and go through the park,” added the fair one. “But once you’re outside, we can’t help you.”

“Why are you willing to help at all?”

The fair one sighed and rolled her eyes with the dramatic glamor that wears itself like a burden. “I’m a diviner,” she said with the weariness of one who has already had to explain this too many times. “Or I will be, when I grow up. Of course I know these things.”

“We discussed what we should do,” added the dark one. “You’re no danger to us, so we’re willing to let you go. But we need something in exchange.”

o;Search the schoolrooms!” barked a male voice.

Like the other coats, I did not move.

Down they swept, footfalls shuddering on the flooring, doors flung open, childish voices raised with questions, matrons tersely demanding apologies. Two young men in soldiers’ livery paced down the coats, rippling them with strong hands, and yet… they walked right past me. At length the searchers satisfied themselves that no fugitive lurked in the schoolrooms. With no explanation to the matrons—who asked for none—they slammed shut the double entry doors and locked them from the other side.

There I stood, shrouded by coats. Through the now-open doors, I listened to the day’s lesson, which was apparently the same in every age cohort’s classroom, made simple for the little ones and extensive for the eldest.

A history lesson.