Page 8

At this time of night, the stained glass depictions of Saints that grace every window are lit from below, their severe faces glowering down at Lonan and me as we stand before him. The school chapel is simple compared to some of the cathedrals in the larger cities, but it crams its centuries-old walls with the grandeur demanded by the school as the crown tabernacle of the Light.

Lonan and I stand silent. Still. As we always do when we meet with him. But then Lonan does the unthinkable and speaks out of turn. “Lord Bernard had a number of enemies. He was as crooked as they come or else you wouldn’t have had us kill him. Surely that’s enough of an explanation for a violent death.”

Van Asten’s eyes lance through Lonan. I have been on the receiving end of that stare too many times. There is nothing worse. I’d rather he scream at me, rage and break things. But my godfather is too formal, too calm for that. Instead, he devours you with a look. “You think the murder of one of the Elders of Gault is so easy to conceal? That there will not be questions? That the school—that I—will not be under scrutiny? A child would raise an eyebrow at your attempt at subterfuge.”

“What would you have had me do? Let him choke her to death?”

I resist the temptation to glance at Lonan. We do not talk back to Van Asten.

“I would have had you use your head,” my godfather says, his voice low and threatening. “Vesper is very capable of defending herself. She has trained just as well as you have.”

“He was choking her. You’re saying I should have just stood by—”

“You do not resort to killing as your first instinct.”

Lord Van Asten steps close to Lonan, who is at least an inch taller and does not balk at the virulent gaze of the older man. It’s suddenly very obvious that Lonan is growing into someone my godfather might not always be able to control.

“You’ve always been an emotional boy, always given to flights of passion, rage, bitterness, tempted into petty revenge like a salamander to a fly. Dark magic feeds off emotion. It’s why you’re so gifted in it, my boy. But you are so steeped in the Dark that you lose your head. Calm your emotionally driven heart and think,” Van Asten says. “You know what the risks are. You know what would happen if the Elders found out about the two of you.”

Gault is now a kingdom primarily ruled by the Eldership, replacing the king in all ways but ceremonial. King Marcel still holds his title, but the monarchy has been stripped of nearly all its governing powers. If the Elders learned that Lord Van Asten, who counts himself as one of their number, was using two Dark meigas to assassinate other members of the gentry . . . well, that would have results I don’t even want to contemplate.

“Lonan, if you can’t control your emotions while wielding the Dark, there will be consequences.”

“It’s my fault.” The words tumble from my lips before I even realize I’m speaking.

Lonan breaks his stance, turning to blink at me. My godfather turns his head slowly in my direction. “Yours, Nightingale?” He uses my childhood pet name, but his words hold an edge of warning, as though calling me Nightingale will soften the blow of his rage.

“I . . . didn’t execute the curse properly.” I fumble with my words. “He should have been fully incoherent at that point. Obviously he had the wherewithal to realize I had tried to hurt him.”

The growl of the word “traitor” will not soon disappear from my memory.

“You’re taking responsibility for the failure of this task?”

“It’s not a failure,” Lonan says. “You told us to kill him, and Lord Bernard is dead.”

“Quiet, Duval.” Van Asten narrows his eyes on me.

“I told you to be expedient,” Van Asten says. “I taught you better than this.” The words sting like a slap.

Emotion rises like a wave, and then, just as quickly, it drops, deflated by the brokenness of my heart. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Van Asten lowers himself back into his seat with a sigh. There’s new tiredness in his eyes, a layer deeper than the sleepless bags around them. A dimness. A hopelessness.

“The fiendlings have gotten worse,” I say. He doesn’t look at me, but the corners of his mouth turn down slightly. “We’re not winning, are we? The war, I mean.”

He sighs deeply and rubs his eyes with his knobbed fingers. “You are too observant for your own good, you know. The Darkness is growing bolder. The Light is losing strength.”

Lonan and I share a glance.

“Will the Elders not take more . . . drastic steps?” Lonan asks. He’s always taken more liberties with my godfather than I have, and I’m afraid he’s run out of them tonight. But they’ve always had an oddly paternal relationship. Lonan showed up a year after the rest of us in our class, dragged out of some orphanage by Van Asten, timid, strange, and alone. I tried to befriend him at first. But then his rise through the ranks of Gossemort was nothing short of meteoric. My godfather started training us both in the Dark magical arts. Suddenly I was being edged out, and the orphaned new student was my equal and rival—for my godfather’s love as much as in academics.

Van Asten relaxes back into his chair, his expression thoughtful and distant as he gazes into the bloodred embers of the dying fire. “This war will get worse before it gets better,” he says. There’s a thread of fear in his voice that I’m completely unused to.

“We heard about something. A sickness spreading through the country. Siphons,” I say.

Van Asten shakes his head. “The townsfolk love gossip. I beg you not to listen to the tall tales of Nurse Verne, Vesper.”

I press further, perhaps only because Lonan dared to. “What about this thing they’re calling the Great Nightmare?”