group of gifted students. At one time they had been endowed female trainees of the craft. Taught in secret, they had been destined to join a sisterhood of women older than they-the fabled Acolytes of the Redoubt.
These eight remaining girls were the daughters of Redoubt consuls, and their true identities were known only to a few special people. Handpicked at five years of age, each one had been selected for her above-average intelligence and deep wish to learn the craft. Then they were sent to the secret castle called Fledgling House. It lay to the north, near the slopes of the Tolenka Mountains. But with their caretakers dead, the girls had suddenly been forced to fend for themselves. They soon realized that becoming full-fledged acolytes would be almost impossible.
Their nightmare had begun one day during the previous Season of Harvest. The girls had been playing on the Fledgling House lawns when the sky suddenly darkened with strange creatures. An evil-looking man was riding one, his face leering, predatory.
As the awful beasts descended, Duncan-the consul who oversaw their training in the craft-was killed before their eyes. Martha, their loving matron, was sent flying away to Tammerland atop one of the horrible birds. At that time, the girls ranged in age from six to eighteen. Now nineteen, Mallory was the oldest and best trained. Since that fateful day, the others looked to her for leadership.
But she didn’t feel like a leader as she wended her way deeper into the dingy cell. She had gotten the girls this far, only to wind up in a filthy debtors’ prison with no way out.
Mallory was worldly enough to understand that because the jailor did not know their real identities, no one would be coming to pay off their “debts.” She bristled at that lie. They owed nothing to anyone-a fact she would gladly shout to the heavens if only they could escape this place. They were a mere half day’s walk from the royal palace. But because they were locked inside this gruesome prison, the Redoubt might as well be a thousand leagues away.
At first she had briefly considered telling the leering jailor who they were. But then she thought better of it, fearing that it would only worsen their plight. Even Lothar would fear trying to bargain with the Redoubt wizards for their release. His solution might well be to kill them outright, simply to get them off his hands. And so Mallory remained silent about their true identities. But if only she could somehow inform the acolytes or the wizards, she knew that the mystics would tear this place apart to save them.
Because the jailor did not understand the girls’ importance, Mallory had also wondered why he had taken them prisoner in the first place, for they had no debts. But after overhearing the guards she learned the answer. They were to be sold into sexual slavery as soon as Lothar could arrange it. Several of the lecherous guards had as much as said so.
The girls’ memories of their capture at Fledgling House existed only as short, dreamlike snips in time. Some recalled a beautiful-looking man in a glistening white robe. As her own fragmented remembrances resurfaced, Mallory winced, then locked them away again. It was probably best that they could not remember everything, she realized. The entire tale might be too much for the younger girls to bear.
Even so, they all remembered waking up one day in one of the elaborate Fledgling House chambers. No one was about, and the place was stripped of food. Worse, the Season of Crystal was due to arrive. The thirty confused girls realized that if they stayed there, they would starve. So they started walking toward the only other refuge of magic that they knew-the Tammerland Redoubt. If they could reach the Redoubt they would be cared for.
Leaving Fledgling House, they wisely decided to travel alongside the Sippora River’s meandering banks. The journey would take longer that way, but they hoped that they could catch fish as they went, and use the river water for drinking and washing. People in the villages lining the riverbanks would surely help them on their way, Mallory had reasoned.
But as they neared the river they learned that strange aberrances of the craft were afoot. A great gouge had been carved into the earth, wending its way west toward the Tolenka Mountains. The river was boiling, and of no use to them. Living on their wits, they employed their weakening gifts to trap animals for food, and to divine water.
Given the land’s recent decimation, such devices proved inadequate. By the time they joined the last refugee column trudging its way toward Tammerland, twenty-two of the girls had died. Despite the fact that they had been weakened by starvation, Mallory and a few older girls had done their best to bury their friends where they fell.
The fleeing villagers graciously shared what little food they had. As they all traveled south, the girls slowly regained some strength. By the time they entered the capital, much of Tammerland had been mysteriously burned to the ground and newly rebuilt. For the provincial young girls, it was like walking into a dream world. After learning the way to the royal palace, they immediately set off, hoping that their travails were finally over.
Then they had encountered the kindly old tavern keeper who offered to help them. Seeing the disheveled girls walking across Bargainers’ Square, he had beckoned them into his small establishment.“Come in,” he had said.“The place isn’t much. But please sit for a while away from the sun, and have some free rootberryade. It will do you all good before you resume your journeys.”
The tavern was a dark, dirty place, but to the wayward girls it seemed a palace. The old man could tell that they were refugees, as were so many others in the streets these days. Giving them something to drink was the least he could do, he said. The man’s wife was a pleasant woman, with a dark gray bun and a broad white apron. Smiling, she presented the girls with glasses of cold rootberryade. They drank it greedily, then asked for more. That was the last thing they remembered.
Mallory had been the first to awaken on the prison floor. As her mind cleared, she realized that they had all been drugged. She later met Lothar during his first disturbing meeting with them. Soon after that she heard the guards talking. Putting things together, she quickly understood that the old tavern owner, his wife, and Lothar were in league with one another.
As Mallory sadly shook her head she wondered how many other people had suffered this fate. If only she could escape, then find her way to the palace. She could return with the wizards, and that vile jailor would truly suffer.
As she reached the cell’s rear wall, several large rats ran across the floor. The younger girls shrieked, but Mallory didn’t care. A girl named Magdalene raised an arm to employ the craft against the rats, but Mallory quickly reached out to stop her. The look in her eyes meant business.
“No!” she whispered sternly. “You know our agreement! There is to be no craft use until we are ready! We simply cannot afford to tip our hand! Our powers are weak enough already, and we can’t risk draining them further! Whether you like it or not, that includes you!”
Magdalene glared angrily at Mallory before finally lowering her arm. At sixteen Seasons of New Life, she was third oldest among them. Mallory didn’t like Magdalene. For no good reason, Magdalene always thought herself to be special. Worse yet, she was quick to use the craft first and ask questions later. She had been that way in all her classes at Fledgling House. Sometimes Master Duncan had become so frustrated with her that he threatened to expel her and send her back to her father. Rather surprisingly, the threats never seemed to faze Magdalene.
Mallory gave her another harsh look. “Remember-no use of the craft until we are ready,” she repeated.
Offering their support, the other girls gathered closer. Several of them looked at Magdalene with disdain. As usual, Magdalene didn’t seem to care.
“If she tries anything like that again, stop her,” Mallory told the others. Leaving Magdalene to stew in her own juices, Mallory walked over to see how her best friend was doing.
Ariana was seventeen. Ever since their grueling journey started, she had been Mallory’s right arm. Mallory was the most powerful among them. But Ariana was the most learned-especially concerning spell formation.
Master Duncan had often said that in all of Fledgling House, Ariana had no equal in that discipline. Mallory had even overheard Duncan whisper to Martha that when it came to spell writing, Ariana had already surpassed many consuls he had known. It was this same talent that Mallory was counting on.
Ariana was on her knees, facing the cellar’s far wall. She was tall for her age, with long dark hair. She disliked Magdalene even more than Mallory did. Several times during their journey the two girls had nearly come to blows. Looking up from her work, she smiled.
“I heard that browbeating you gave her,” she said. “Good for you.”
Mallory shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t enjoy it, but someone has to keep her in line.” A faint smile crossed her face. “If I left her to you, only the Afterlife knows what you’d do,” she added, then looked down at Ariana’s
