Lies and Prophecy

  “What do you make of it?”

  “You are the diviner, not I.”

  “I know what I think. I want to know what you think.”

  Robert’s brow furrowed. “Well. It must be serious, to produce results this consistent even when you try to ask different questions. If others have experienced the same, be assured the university will set people to investigate at once. More likely, though, the change augured is specific to you.”

  He’d arrived at that conclusion without even knowing about my prior reading. It cemented my growing fear. But then Robert surprised me by adding, “If the change is not personal, and you are the only one to see it, then it’s also possible you are unusually sensitive—or being specifically targeted with a warning.”

  Somehow, that was even less comforting than the thought of the Tower in my life. “Not likely. I’m not going to pick up something everyone else would miss. And no one has a reason to target me.”

  “I should hope not.” Robert dropped the tarot cards and runes back into his drawer. “Ask tomorrow, I would say. And then go from there.” I nodded agreement. Then he frowned in sudden thought. “Not to cast a pall over what should be a happy occasion—but could this be related to your birthday?”

  His question froze me where I stood. I’d been so caught up in homework, and then distracted by this anomaly; I had honestly forgotten what day it was.

  My skin felt as if somebody had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, but I forced my mind to work. “No,” I said slowly, eyes unfocused. “I—I don’t think so. I could be wrong, of course … but that’s the kind of connection my gift would make if it were there. Even if I didn’t get anything else. Until you said that, though, I didn’t even remember that today’s my birthday.”

  “Given your strength of gift, for you not to even think of that aspect does argue against correlation, yes.” Robert snorted then, and gave me an amused, chiding look. “Why were you doing work anyway, silly child? You ought never work on your birthday.”

  “Don’t go there, Robert.” I stood up and stretched, trying to release some of the tension that had taken up permanent residence in my body. “I don’t need another lecture on my course load.”

  “Because it is your birthday, I will concede the point. For now.” He rose to make a mocking bow. The antique clock on his desk chose that moment to begin chiming softly, and our heads both whipped around. “Blast! We’re overdue in the Arboretum.”

  I stared at him blankly. Then memory returned. The equinox: the Palladian Circle was holding a Sabbat ritual. “Crap. I have to get my things.” I grabbed the tarot deck and headed for the doorway, then paused. “Thanks, Robert. I still don’t know what it means, but I feel better anyway.”

  He nodded. “Any assistance I can offer is yours, my lady.”

  ~

  Later that night, when the ritual was over, and the celebratory dinner, and the singing of “Happy Birthday” deliberately rendered in thirteen keys at once—a real achievement, when only seven people were singing it—I went into the Arboretum, feeling my way carefully in the new-moon darkness, stripped off my clothes, and jumped into the Copper Creek.

  It was tradition, dating back to my childhood in Georgia. There, I would spend an hour floating in our pool, thinking over the previous year. Minnesota in late September was not so congenial to that, at least not by my standards. But I kept the practice up in modified form, meditating upon the bank, then jumping into the water at the end. Why should a little hypothermia get in my way?

  My meditation this year was a disaster, though. Happy thoughts about possible Guardianship kept being interrupted by logistics—what requirements would I need to complete before applying to graduate programs?—and personal hurdles—what would my mother say? Once I swept those concerns out of the way, I hit the underlying foundation of tension, the Moon and the Tower, and my gift’s refusal to tell me anything more about them. Finally I gave it up as a bad job and dove in. There was a second tradition to follow, this one dating from my freshman days at Welton, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  Two years ago I’d been hurrying home from my dip, cursing my own idiocy and cataloguing better ways to continue the practice, possibly involving indoor pools or even bathtubs. I hadn’t been looking where I was going, beyond a serious desire to get home before I died. My path cut through the center of campus and the massive monument there: a huge circle of dark green marble, edged with the seals of all the countries that abided by the sidhe-blood laws laid down in the Cairo Accords, and ringed with three grey marble arches symbolizing telekinetic disciplines, telepathic disciplines, and ceremonial magic. I’d been halfway across it and thinking only of home.

  And then something brought my head up with a jerk.

  Someone else was there, approaching from the opposite edge, a wraith all in black, with hair that looked silver in the moonlight and skin as pale as bone. And his eyes….

  I met his gaze before I knew what I was doing, before instinct could warn me away. That we had a wilder on campus was common knowledge, but unlike some people, I hadn’t gone out of my way to gawk. Quite the opposite, in fact—until now.

  Wrenching my gaze down took a herculean effort. And then a second one, to keep walking, to nod as I drew near. As if he were just another student, passing in the night.

  “Are you all right?”

  His voice reflected oddly from the stone. I blinked, and he clarified. “You’re shivering. And wet.”

  I touched my dripping hair and blushed. “Oh. It’s my birthday.” Which didn’t explain anything, so I babbled onward. “I do this every year—go swimming on my birthday—so I jumped into the Copper Creek.”

  He nodded, as if that made sense. I glanced down, saw he had a fistful of battered-looking late roses. “CM assignment,” he said, when he noticed me looking. Then he handed one of them to me. “I’m Julian. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

  No last name given, but I didn’t need it. I knew what he was, and that his surname would be Fiain. It was the Irish word for “wild,” and an international committee formed after First Manifestation had agreed it would be given to all of his kind, who had no families.

  I still had the flower, dried and sitting in a bud vase on the windowsill. And the surreal quality of the whole thing had stayed with me, untouched by our subsequent friendship.

  A year later, when I was on my way home again, full of disappointment that Julian hadn’t come by or called to wish me a happy birthday, I found him waiting in the circle again. This time he gave me a pendant of smooth quartz crystal, intricately wrapped in silver. I’d used it as my focus in magical work ever since.

  So now, even though it was quite out of my way, I headed for the circle.

  He was there, of course, and just as striking in the monochrome setting as before. He rarely wore black. Why he did it for my birthday, I didn’t know. His smile, though, lessened the effect. “Happy birthday, Kim.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks. Fancy seeing you here.”

  He extended one hand. I never quite shook the feeling that he did this by rote, as if he’d read in a book that normal people gave their friends presents on their birthdays. Still, I appreciated the gesture. This time, a black silk bag nestled in his palm; when I lifted it, the contents clinked. Reaching in, I felt stone, and pulled one piece out.

  It was a rune. Raido, the symbol of movement and journeys.

  Julian touched my wrist lightly. “Are you all right?”

  Fleeting as it was, the physical contact jolted me. He did that even less often than he met people’s eyes, and for the same reason. I looked up, involuntarily, and found his face lined with worry.

  “No,” I said, the admission leaping free of me. “I came to Kinfield this afternoon, but you weren’t there—something weird’s coming up in my divination.” I gave him the story of the Moon reading, in simplified form. The warning of hidden threats. Then today’s second act: the Tower, and Hagalaz.

  Julian didn’t nee
d the significances explained to him. “But you drew Raido this time.”

  “Yes. It seems to have stopped now. But I don’t think anything’s changed. Julian….” There was no rational explanation for the fear lurking in my subconscious, no reading or omen I could point to. Just my gift, whispering in my ear. “I think this has something to do with you.”

  He didn’t move, not even to blink. But in that stillness, everything drained out of him, leaving behind a person I hadn’t seen since freshman year—not Julian, my friend, but the wilder who first came to Welton. Focused. Prepared.

  And not entirely human.

  Then he breathed, and broke the effect. “It’s possible. I’ll try to find out.” Life came back into his face. “You should get home, before you freeze.”

  I curled my hand around Raido. It was inscribed in silver on a flat piece of black onyx, and absolutely gorgeous. He lived off a government stipend. How did he manage gifts of this quality? “Thank you, Julian. For these—not for the mother-henning.” He smiled, and on impulse, I offered a hug.

  He accepted it, surprising me. No skin-to-skin contact, but still, wilders didn’t do that kind of thing. Then he stepped back and nodded me onward. “Good night, Kim.” He turned and walked away across the circle, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t going toward Kinfield.

  I rubbed my shoulders to erase the lingering chill. Then, curling my fingers around the bag of runes, I went home to the bed I so desperately needed.

  Chapter Three

  Weeks went by, and nothing.

  No one else had seen the Tower like I had. Nothing leapt up to threaten me or Julian. I went to class, to Div Club, to the library. I fought methodically to think myself past my CM doubts, and made a little progress.

  College. Nothing strange about it.

  Waiting for the other shoe to drop made my temper short. Arriving at Hurst one Monday halfway through October, I snarled, “Papers can bite my ass,” and dropped my bag with an unceremonious thump.

  Robert eyed me from his usual sprawl in his chair. “You’re in an uncommonly good mood, I see.”

  Julian was also watching me warily. No doubt he could feel the waves of irritation coming off me. Everyone in the dining hall probably could. “Did your meeting with Sheffield not go well?” he asked.

  “It went fine. I just don’t want to write the damn thing.”

  “Ah,” Robert said, understanding. “The infamous History 205 paper. First Manifestation: discuss.”

  “In fifteen to twenty pages,” Julian added.

  Exactly. I had to summarize the various theories for the cause of First Manifestation, with arguments for and against. “And add my own opinion on the matter, too. Has nobody pointed out to him that people write their dissertations on that question?”

  “Frequently.” Robert shrugged and passed me the salt. “Ally yourself with Medapati; she’s the safe choice. Some variety of radiation, unmonitored at the time, which triggered the heretofore inactive genes in that portion of the population which possessed them in sufficient quantity for expression.”

  He was quoting our textbook, almost word for word. Three-quarters of my classmates would do the same thing in their papers; most of the rest would paraphrase the physicist’s own article, instead. But I frowned at my chicken nuggets. “If I have to write this thing, I’d rather pick something interesting to say.”

  “Sheffield will love you if you do,” Julian said. “How many Medapati papers do you think he sees every year?”

  I began placing nuggets on my tray, thinking out loud. “Religious explanations. Evangelical Christians trying to shoehorn it into their eschatology, Buddhists claiming half the planet achieved a degree of enlightenment at the same time, Wiccans crowing they were right all along.”

  Robert showed what he thought of that by swiping and eating the “religion” nugget. “Conspiracy and terrorism,” he said, gesturing at one in another corner of the tray. “Biological warfare, or a chemical agent, or radiation attack. But everyone who claimed responsibility has been proved a crackpot.” He looked disappointed when I ate that one myself.

  “A newly-restored connection to the Otherworld,” Julian said. “But we cut back on using iron after First Manifestation, not before.”

  I gave him an opening, but he showed no interest in stealing my food. I nibbled on the chicken myself, thinking. “So that brings me to cousins of Medapati’s theory—like fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field, only we were monitoring that, and the data shows no change.” No wonder so many people went with the easy choice. “Peprah?”

  Robert looked dubious. “Not very scientific.”

  “Not something we have a good scientific model for at present,” I corrected him. “But the advent of gifts made us rejigger a lot of theories anyway. Peprah could work if you accept the stories about Welton—that he showed faint psychic abilities before First Manifestation. That all wilders did.”

  “And that somehow they called forth the full ability in themselves and everyone else? Without knowing they did so? You haven’t convinced me, my lady, and I doubt you will convince Sheffield.”

  “Wilders believe it,” Julian said quietly. “Not Peprah’s whole theory—but about Welton, yes.”

  A quick glance at Robert told me that was news to him, too. “I don’t suppose it’s written down anywhere I could cite?” Julian’s mouth curled in amusement, and he shook his head. “Damn. Well, I may do it anyway, if only to give myself a treat for slogging through all the summary and evaluation. What about you guys? How’s your golem going, Robert?”

  He looked chagrined. “Well enough, but the class was not what I’d hoped.”

  “By which he means,” Julian said, “that golems are harder than he thought, and it’ll take more than one term to make anything complicated.”

  His roommate conceded it with good grace. “Indeed. So far, I have built a construct to sort candy by color. Cower before my might!”

  I laughed. “What about you, Julian?”

  No immediate answer. The humor went out of Robert’s mobile face like somebody had pulled the plug. “He, being a damned fool, will stake himself out for Grayson.”

  Combat shielding again. I shot Julian a worried look, which he ignored. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Robert said grimly.

  “It makes sense,” Julian countered. The very lack of expression in his voice told me how bad it was. “How else is she going to measure our skill? You can’t evaluate a shield by looking at it. You have to test it.”

  “To destruction,” his roommate snapped.

  “Exactly.”

  “To hell with that. An undergraduate should not be in a class where his final exam includes being hit when his shields fail—and you know they will. No matter what you think, Grayson is better than you. And she won’t be protecting you this time.”

  “She’s not putting shields on you?” I stared at Julian, appalled.

  “No,” Robert growled. “She’s not. Because, and I quote this bloody idiot, ‘We get complacent when she does. We’ve got to rely on our own strength.’”

  And she’d barred Julian from using his power reservoir in class, on the legitimate grounds—or so he’d argued at the time—that he couldn’t rely on access to it in a crisis. I hadn’t liked the notion then, but at least he’d been able to draw on it for practice, which was probably the only reason he’d made it this far. Now he would face her with nothing but what remained of his own strength? It was madness. And the way Julian avoided our gazes said he knew it. “Julian, you can’t do this. You’re only an undergrad. She can’t do that to you.”

  “I signed the waiver.”

  Shock hit me like a splash of cold water. “You can’t be serious. Julian, it’s not worth it.”

  He turned his head and looked me directly in the eye. I fought not to react. For a long moment he didn’t respond, and I could feel, with what remained of my attention, Robert swallowing half a dozen things
he wanted to say. Surely Julian would not be this stupid. No class was worth volunteering yourself to be hit full-force when your protections failed.

  “It’s worth it to me,” he said softly, and left the table.

  ~

  Had I done this to him?

  Standing there in the monument, telling him something was coming. Trouble. That it had to do with him. But no, he’d signed up for his courses months ago; whatever was driving Julian, it predated anything I’d done. And I couldn’t convince myself this was what my readings had pointed at, either. Grayson wasn’t the enemy, even if she seemed like it right now. I found the hard copy of the course catalogue under my desk and flipped through it, missing the CM section entirely three times in a row. Finally I found it, and looked up Combat Shielding. It was in the section for graduate students, marked with the symbol that warned of potential danger.

  “Gods damn him,” I growled, and dropped the catalogue on the couch.

  Unbidden, my mind wove an image of him in the test: facing off against Grayson, defending himself, until he finally broke. He’d said he didn’t know if he was going to become a Guardian. Was this preparation for that future, or something else entirely?

  I didn’t know, and neither did Robert or Liesel, and Julian wasn’t going to explain himself. But there was one other person on campus I could look to for help—even if she did keep mutated carnivorous plants in her office.

  Grayson’s unblinking eyes settled on me the moment I sat down in front of her desk. I hadn’t come to her office hours before, precisely because she made me feel like a bug on a microscope slide. But I made myself say, “I was hoping I could ask you some questions about Guardianship.”

  Behind her was something that might have been the fabled Venus flytrap gone wrong. It made for an ominous background. Grayson said, “You’re not the kind of student who comes here hoping for exciting tales of my past, Kimberly. Why the interest?”