Oracle (Book I)

Flawed Ends

As usual at this in the day, a small knot of students from the Roost gathered in the great hall, eating, finishing assignments, and catching up on readings before their next lessons.

Bossa laced her fingers behind her head and leaned back in her chair, balancing weightlessly.

"So the snot who would be Lord of Whitehare Manor someday," she said curiously with her mouth turned in distaste. "He's the last thing I want to talk about but did you know he was Twy, Preece? I'm curious to know that much."

More interested in deciphering the English words on the page in front of her, Caprice shook her head. She'd rather not spend a second in her day talking about that but she answered absently anyway.

"Of course not. Twy aren't exactly people the Whitehares associate with pure blood. All I know is that a long time ago, there was much fighting among wizards from their homelands. Somehow Twy got tossed in with 'dirty' blood and some of the families of their land got to calling themselves purebloods."

Everyone looked at Nezzle.

"The Twy are the last of the original European magical communities", Nezzle explained. "They have amicable ties to other magical races all over the world. They are the last unbroken Covenant of Whitehare's ilk."

"Covenant?" Caprice said curiously.

"Yes. A Covenant made in trust with the oldest and deepest magic. The Essence. A certain set of rules and...guidelines, shall we say, comes with it. Most of Whitehare's kind have broken all of these rules. Have since continued regularly practicing breaking them. For instance, enslaving other magical beings. They broke that one and never looked back. The Twy, on the other hand, are quite possibly the only ones that Bohs can't spit the word oathbreaker at."

The Covenant. The Essence. It sounded and felt so familiar. Yet another piece of her people that was lost to them over time.

"A shameful thing, that," Bossa shook her head. "If only the rest had followed the ways of the Twy. No one and no people are perfect, but there are some who are much more faithful to The Covenant. Digging their feet in to uphold and abide by it. So, when I think of that, I don't feel too sympathetic towards those who go about snapping and trampling and walking all over it, feel me."

Milton Sahil, a boy with thick black eyebrows wearing freshly pressed school robes, tsked and said, "But for all the flaws of his people, Headmaster Merlin has generously created this marvelous institution."

"The means justify the ends, do they," Nezzle said. To herself she muttered, "And what exactly are the means and what exactly is the end anyway?"

"Yeah," Bossa said. "If that's what you think, Sahil, then you're no better than those pasty oathbreakers."

At just that moment, Professor Earithean strode past their table. Black robes flashing brilliant chartreuse lining, she skirted around Caprice's chair with a raised eyebrow.

"Pupil Sahil, I do hope you read Oracle, An Unabridged History before engaging in this conversation," she said.

Nezzle threw up her hands.

"Professor, about that book, I—"

Seeming not to hear her, Earithean swept down the dining hall and disappeared out the Grand Hall doors.

"She must be in a hurry."

"Or she didn't hear," Bossa muttered, staring after the teacher. "I've never seen her ignore a model student like Nez before." She squeezed Caprice's arm and said, "Don't let them steal your joy."

Nezzle smirked at her friend. "You're surprisingly sage today for someone who's usually finishing the fights."

"I have my days," Bossa replied.

Sahil was still talking, arguing at her in that disgusting calm, let's-all-be-reasonable, and matter-of-fact tone.

"What have you contributed? What have your people done for the world?" Sahil pressed.

Caprice's hands curl into fists. Someone said her name softly and the hand on her forearm squeezed again.

"What the hell do you know! My people probably built this place. And there would be nothing generous or marvelous about it to witness and admire, were it not for slave labor, now would there!"

"There is always a price for progress," Sahil said. "Who precisely is to say that their way is wrong—"

The scars on her arms and back burned. Eyes flashing angrily, Caprice stood, chair flying back and pulling out of Bossa's grasp.

"I say!" The air around her thrummed suddenly. The hall quieted. Some students even traced the sensation back to Caprice and eyed her warily from their tables.

Sahil looked a little surprised at her outburst but didn't back down. He opened his mouth again but Nezzle stopped him.

"Be silent, Sahil," she warned. "Right now."

Caprice fumed. How could he sit there and say that everything that brought her here...everything that happened to her family...her brothers. Her mother and father. Her grandmother and all the enslaved in the village. How could people like him say all of that was necessary and just for its end? How was it just or necessary to willfully build anything good and beautiful on the suffering of others? The mere suggestion turned her stomach so violently Caprice felt bile rise in her throat.

"Preece...?" Bossa reached out to her again.

A painful cloud of anger and sorrow roiled inside of Caprice. Unsure of what she'd do if someone touched her or said another word, she grabbed her books and papers and stormed out of the hall. She didn't stop until she was back in her room in the Dragon's Roost. She tossed everything onto her bed then paced back and forth around their cauldron until her rage faded and the intense pain behind it subsided enough to breathe. She collapsed to the floor between Bossa's hammock and the bed, arms wrapped tight around herself.

She didn't know how much time had passed. She didn't hear the door open. Her roommates' careful, soft voices sounded far away.

"Caprice," Nezzle said.

"Don't listen to that ass Sahil," Bossa said. "We know he's wrong. You know he's wrong."

Bossa's boots appeared in her line of sight.

Caprice curled in tighter on herself. She remembered Alastair Whitehare's tantrum. Remembered the All-Hallow's Eve feast. Felt the magic inside her thrumming in time to her heartbeat and raring to be unleashed with her emotions. She didn't want to loose control like that. In the past, losing control under the Whitehares had also always come with a violent price, for as long as she could remember. But what was inside her wouldn't be denied.

"Don't come near me. I'm not sure what I'll do."

Bossa paused a second. Then started walking toward her a little more slowly.

"You won't hurt me," she said. "You won't hurt us, Caprice."

Caprice rocked, shaking her head. Beside her now, Bossa got down and enveloped her in that familiar warmth, holding her. Nezzle scooted in and covered her other side, arms around her waist. Hot tears leaking free from her eyes, Caprice leaned on her friends, letting some of the pain go with the tears.

Nezzle stroked her back in comforting passes. "Whatever you need. We're here," she said in the quiet.

They pulled away from each other, staying close on the floor a few moments longer.

"Is it all right... Can I be alone for a little bit?" Caprice said when she could speak, sniffling.

Bossa shook her head. "I wouldn't want to be—"

"We'll be back." Nezzle got up. "Let's go, Bohs."

Hesitantly, she heard Bossa concede, "Yeah. Take all the time you need."

When she was alone again, the tears she didn't wipe away eventually dried.

All of that was over. She was tired of being helpless. Tired of being hurt. Sick of watching others hurt. She wanted to fight back. She wanted to win.

Or die trying.

Rising, she sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and listened. She listened though she wasn't sure what for.

"Ester," Caprice whispered, "are you there?"