I repeat their names in my head: Lockland Ventra. Bastian Mercier. Anthony Falco. Young Ironborn wizards who are close to the High Priest and the University's most influential masters. Ezebel would never sanction this kind of mission. It's too dangerous, too much of a risk. But I've had enough of spying on corrupt old men only out for themselves. Who cares what their association is with the church, who's pockets they're lining, what lies they say to the council? They're all the same. Powerless and weak. If we want change, we have to target those truly in control, not a bunch of pathetic sycophants. Or, if the true leaders are out of reach, their beloved students, sons, and nephews. Lockland Ventra. Bastian Mercier. Anthony Falco. The three are friends, recent graduates who still haven't found the line between flaunting their well-earned position and behaving like spoiled children.
I glance up at the runes engraved into the stone walls as I use my shoulder to push open the door. University buildings are all protected against the fae, but so far I've felt nothing but a slight twinge in the pit of my stomach as I pass their wards. My human parents gave me more than they realized.
The corridors of this building are wide and full of light. Students bustle about in their robes, iron bracelets tinkling. I am careful not to let a drop of the wine spill over the edge of the full pitcher I carry. I move up the first staircase I see. When I reach the quiet of the top floor, I look around once again for wards before lowering my eyes carefully to the polished tile at my feet, the posture of a proper servant.
"Excuse me, Master," I say to an older man with links of iron sewn into his robe. "I was told to bring this to Lockland Ventra, but I have forgotten which room and…"
The man looks up, blinking. He doesn't question my presence, despite only now noticing it. I remember when I used to struggle with that transition, remember yelling at soldiers who couldn't hear me, who were convinced I didn't exist. Years of practice has made these things easy, now. Control your power.
"I'm not a master," the man says, smiling gently. "Just a lowly professor. You're looking for Lockland?" He looks at the pitcher in my hands, the three goblets dangling upside-down from my fingers. A knowing nod, eyebrows raised slightly to show he doesn't quite approve. "I believe he's in the East Parlor with the other boys. Just keep down this corridor; it's the last door on the left."
I enter the room and wait for a moment by the door, taking in my surroundings. This is not like the parlors at the palace. The University uses the word to describe rooms more like studies or small libraries. There are shelves of books in rows at the right side, two long tables in front of the large windows straight ahead. To my left there is a fireplace and a handful of comfortable chairs and chaises. Plush pillows are tucked into little reading corners. Every remaining surface is decorated with elaborate rugs and tapestries.
I recognize the boys from the descriptions I've been told. Lockland Ventra is the son of Morton Ventra, the University's Master Enchanter and the man responsible for perfecting spells that control the minds of others by inflicting excruciating mental pain. From what I've heard, the lanky dark haired boy was not the most brilliant student. He is known to be lazy and entitled, preferring to take advantage of his father's status than prove his own merit. Even the way he wears his expensive robes is sloppy and indifferent, falling off one shoulder and open at the chest. He isn't even wearing shoes.
Bastian Mercier, on the other hand, excelled in many areas of study before he graduated. He has the short-cropped hair and posture of a soldier paired with a weary expression of boredom. I've been told he's the kind of person who wants to take everything apart in order to understand its function. Supposedly, he has a particular fascination for the workings of the human body. The girls at the city brothels are terrified to be alone with him.
