Dark Light of Day (12 page)

“For not telling you the truth in the first place.”

Ivy nodded, looking miserable.

“Look, I just… well… I just wouldn’t want you to think I’d burn the place down or something.” I was trying to make a joke, but the problem was, with my lack of control, there was an outside chance I might.

“Wow. You really could, huh?” Fitz asked, looking at me, really seeing me—
me
—for the first time. It was weird, but not as bad as I thought. I could tell he viewed me with a
mixture of awe and morbid curiosity. “What else can you do? How powerful are you? Who else knows? I guess everyone will by tomorrow.” Fitz didn’t even wait for me to answer his questions. He just kept asking them and answering every third one himself. Ivy just sat there, still looking hurt and upset.

“Fitz!” I finally said, stopping his verbal hemorrhage.

“Oh,” he said, ceasing. He seemed to realize that Ivy had been oddly quiet.

“So I guess this means you’ll be moving out,” she said.

“Do you want me to?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ivy asked.

“I’ve never told anyone,” I said. “My family doesn’t even talk about it. I was raised as a Hyrke. I’ve learned to live life as a Hyrke. But I realized tonight I couldn’t keep living that way.”

“Because of the demons,” Ivy whispered. “Were you really going to lie to them?”

I shrugged. “What does it matter now what I was or wasn’t going to do? I declared by the deadline. I’ve broken no rules. I doubt I’ll ever be some kind of Maegester wunderkind, but at least I’m here, walking, talking—breathing.” I knew I was trying to convince myself more than them but they seemed to appreciate what I was saying. In some small way, it made me feel better. Fitz was even nodding. But then his eyes narrowed.

“Are you still going to be in the study group?” he asked.

I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face.

“Oh, I guess not,” he said. His face fell.

“No, I am!” I said. “I mean, I’d like to, if you still want me to be.”

“Well, sure,” said Fitz, in a tone that suggested everything about this discussion was obvious. “How else am I going to pass Sin and Sanction? But you’re on your own for Manipulation.” Fitz and Ivy shared a look of horror.

“Ivy, I can move to the Maegester floor at Infernus if you want me to,” I said. “But… I’d rather stay here.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding emphatically.

Fitz left soon after and Ivy and I fell gratefully into bed. This had been the longest day of my life. Just before I dozed off, Ivy’s voice came from the darkness.

“It must have been hard for you, growing up. Not being able to talk about your magic or let anyone know you had it.”

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’m sure others had it worse.

“Still, maybe your parents had their reasons. Maybe they just wanted to shield you from what was to come for as long as they could. Keep your childhood as normal as possible.”

A cold, tight feeling burned like ice inside me. I’d never thought of it that way. But then, who knew what my parents thought or why they did what they did? My childhood had been anything but normal.

But Ivy continued, oblivious to my conflicted thoughts.

“You have a good heart, Noon. Fitz thinks so too. No matter what happens, don’t let the demons and what you’ll be expected to do for them or to them ever take that away from you.”

The Host
never
said prayers. But if we did, I’d have said
Amen
to that.

I
woke up before sunrise the next morning. There was something I had to do before my declaration was made public—tell Peter. After all the years of plotting a way to reverse my waning magic, he deserved to hear from me that I’d finally gone and declared that I possessed it and would now start learning how to use it. But when I showed up at the Joshua School, he was already gone.

“Where did he go?” I asked the boyish-faced man from last night. Was the man ensorcelled? If he didn’t age, maybe he didn’t sleep either.

“Etincelle.”

So I was too late. News of my declaration would spread to Etincelle by lunchtime. Peter would hear it from someone else after all.

“Wait,” said the man, turning back to the wall of cubbies behind him. “He left something for you.” He pulled out a crisp white envelope, similar to the one I’d received from Night, and handed it to me. I stepped outside and read it while walking to class.

I crumpled up the letter and threw it in the nearest trash can. Readjusting my hood and backpack, I clutched my cloak at the collar, crossed Angel Street and Timothy’s Square and entered Rickard for my first class of the day, Sin and Sanction with Copeland.

Walking into the classroom was about what I expected it would be like. I lowered my hood and all of the preclass hum—much of it about last night’s demon attack—stopped. All eyes turned toward me. People’s faces showed all sorts of different emotions. Some students were openly gawking, like they were looking at something from a street fair or sideshow. Some people wore an expression of frank assessment, obviously recalculating their academic chances against me now that the new information about my declaration was in. A few looked as if they’d been sucker punched. Those wore a green-around-the-gills expression that suggested my doubling the odds for a chance demon encounter didn’t sit well with them. Ari smiled at me, but smartly withheld any sign of smugness.

Ivy and Fitz had thankfully saved me a seat between them. I sat down and some of the buzz returned to the room. I couldn’t help thinking most of it was probably about me. When I sat down, Ivy slid a cup of coffee my way. The gesture reminded me uncomfortably of something a Hyrke servant might do for a Host employer until I remembered it was her turn to buy today and that I’d be buying tomorrow. She was proceeding with business as usual. Maybe everyone else would too. I grabbed my books out of my backpack just as Copeland entered the room.

As law professors went, Ben Copeland was young. He was probably in his late thirties. Physically, he was nothing remarkable. Intellectually, however, he was a powerhouse. He taught class primarily by asking questions, not answering them. He used one case as a jumping-off point from which to start a freewheeling discussion on whatever set of sins we were discussing that day. Usually, he would pick one student and torture them for the entire class. If they couldn’t formulate answers to his increasingly hypothetical questions he would pounce on their nearest neighbors. But he would always return to his original victim, gnawing at them, worrying them, until they were little more than a pile of shaking bones and scrambled brains by the end of class.

Last night’s cases had all involved theft and varying forms of theft like conversion. I’d read most of them but, due to my own late night sin of breaking and entering Warenne Building to declare, I hadn’t had time to prepare as fully as I would have liked. I took a fortifying sip of coffee, flipped open my notebook, and uncapped my pen. I nearly choked when Copeland barked out my name.

“Ms. Onyx, please state the case of
Creswell v. Henn
.”

Stating the case meant tell the class who the parties were, what the sin was, and whether the accused was eventually found guilty or innocent. Sometimes it was helpful to state other useful information such as whether either of the parties was a demon, Host, or Hyrke (Hyrke mercy pleas were granted more often than others) and what the consequence of a guilty verdict was. In modern day Halja, consequences
were given for some sins as a means of deterrence, not punishment. But for certain egregious sins, the demons still demanded retribution in the form of suffering. I imagine these consequences were a bloodletting of sorts, a release valve for all the pent up evil in Halja. In any case, knowing the consequence of a particular sin gave you an indication of how serious the demons believed the sin to be.

The case I’d been asked to state was fairly straightforward, although I’d only had time to read through it once. Around the turn of the century, somewhere on the outskirts of New Babylon, a farmer named Henn had leased some land from a man named Creswell. Included in the lease were a house, grounds, meadow, woods, and a cleared area for planting crops. The lease was vague as to how much authority Henn had to implement changes around the farm.

“Creswell was a landlord who leased land to Henn for farming,” I said. “Henn farmed the land successfully for eighteen years but then sinned and was evicted, just prior to winter, and denied his share of the crop.”

“Henn’s sin?” Copeland prodded from the front.

I had to think for a moment, but then I remembered.

“Waste.” It was some obscure sin related to theft.

Copeland looked expectant and then made an impatient gesture with his hand. “And… what is waste?” he asked, enunciating each word to underscore how slow he thought my responses were.

“Waste occurs when one destroys, neglects, spoils, or otherwise wastes the asset one has been entrusted with. Waste can be either voluntary or permissive. Voluntary waste is similar to theft in that it requires an act. Permissive waste can occur simply by not acting—by not taking care of the asset to which one was entrusted. In the Creswell case, Henn’s act of waste was voluntary. The farmer cleared an additional six acres of woods to experiment with a new crop.”

Copeland nodded. “And was he found guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Was the experimental crop a failure?”

“The casebook doesn’t say.”

“What if the crop had been successful? Do you think the landlord would still have evicted him?”

“It’s impossible to say,” I said, wondering where Copeland was going with this line of questioning. “Was the landlord an entrepreneur or an arborist? Did Creswell prefer money to trees?”

“Does any of that matter?”

Well, sure it did, to rational people. But we lived in Halja and were ruled by demons obsessed with rules, not reasons.

“No,” I said. “Henn committed waste when he cleared the additional acres absent Creswell’s permission. The failure—or success—of Henn’s crop experiment is irrelevant. Henn didn’t have the authority to decide how to best use the land he was entrusted with.”

Copeland made a noise, something between noncommittal and murmuring assent. He stared at the ceiling for a moment and I knew the next question would not be about
Creswell v. Henn
. Most students made it to this point without getting too thoroughly trounced. But when Copeland started hypothesizing, only the most erudite students kept up.

“What if, instead of a farmer, the accused had been a musician?” Copeland said, “A virtuoso. What if, at an early age, this musician is given to the family’s hearth demon to be trained as a master pianist?”

I was listening, and following with an academic ear, but part of my brain was sounding an alarm. I had a sinking feeling about where Copeland was going with his waste hypothesis and why he had called on me today.

“What if,” Copeland continued, “the musician doesn’t want to make music? What if he prefers to paint landscapes?”

I remained mute, despite the direct question. I didn’t want to go where Copeland was leading me. Of course, by not answering I left my friends open to attack.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Copeland said, abruptly turning to Fitz. “What if the musician refused to play music?”

Fitz was lost. He shuffled through his notes, seeking inspiration, but finding none. Finally, he asked weakly, “Does the hearth demon like art as much as music?”

Copeland brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “Ms. Jaynes?” he asked, addressing Ivy, who snapped to attention. She cleared her throat.

“What if the musician changes his mind?” she said. “And agrees to go back to playing the piano?”

Copeland frowned. Apparently having the tables turned on him, with students providing more questions than answers, didn’t suit him. He pounced on me again.

“What if, Ms. Onyx, instead of bestowing the gift of a virtuoso, the boy’s parents hid him from the demons? Would that be waste?”

It was classic Copeland. He had boxed me into a corner.
Damned if I answered, damned if I didn’t…

“What if by the time the boy was found and trained it was too late? What if the years of neglected training had reduced his talent to shreds and tatters? Would that be waste?”

I swallowed. I was going to have to say something. Copeland wouldn’t stop asking questions until I did. But while I was dithering about whether my sense of self-preservation was more important than my sense of academic competition, Copeland got to the point.

“What if the boy was no virtuoso, but a future Maegester? What if the boy—
or girl
—was hidden from the demons for so long that her waning magic had atrophied by the time she declared? Would
that
be waste?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Ari’s hand shot up. Copeland looked amused. “Yes, Mr. Carmine?”

“It wouldn’t be the student’s sin, it would be her parents’,” Ari said, turning to look at me briefly before directing his gaze to the rest of the section. I realized what Ari was about to say was as much for them as for Copeland. “And no sin will have been committed if the value of the lost asset can be restored within a reasonable time.” He turned back toward Copeland.

“The farmer’s problem was that he didn’t have access to a Mederi to regrow the woods. And the musician’s problem was that he refused to accept the talent that Luck had given him. But Maegesters are far more valuable assets to Halja
than dirt diggers or entertainers. No Maegester will be accused of waste if she can prove herself, regardless of any act—or omission—that occurred prior to her declaration.”