Pennyroyal Academy (6 page)

The pig's wheezing had become quite labored, its squeals more urgent. It was clear the creature was in great distress. Hooves clacked against stone as the pig's body was wracked with violent spasms. A large brown spot on its side began to distend. The screams of the cadets rang through the Infirmary, joining the pig's panicked shrieks.

Finally, it collapsed on its side, bleating as though it were being butchered by an invisible cleaver. The needle-haired body elongated and contracted at once. Joints cracked as the legs violently speared straight. The snout began to mash in toward the rest of the face. The stricken animal squealed uncontrollably as its entire body mutated and contorted.

Evie held her breath as the creature—it could no longer be called a pig—writhed on the floor.

“Someone do something!”

Wertzheim dashed forward and threw a burlap blanket over the suffering creature.

“Move, Cadet! Now!”

Evie scrambled to her feet. The other cadets backed away from her as though she had caused whatever had just happened.

More nurses rushed to help Wertzheim. They held the beast down and spoke in comforting tones. The thing beneath the blanket began to steady, taking huge, heaving gulps of air. The shock of the violent episode lingered like an echo, broken only by the casual honk of a swan. Finally, the nurses helped the creature to sit up.

“Oh . . .” said Wertzheim. “How extraordinary . . .”

The blanket fell. Where there had once been a spotted pig, there now sat a boy. He was muscular and long with short black hair and heavy eyebrows. His muddy brown eyes looked utterly dazed, like he had just somehow survived a fall from the Queen's Tower.

“Where is she?” His voice was a dry squeak, somewhere between pig and human. He ran his squinting eyes through the crowd until they found Evie. He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled. A hacking cough rolled up from the deepest part of his lungs. The nurses helped him to his feet. He held the blanket around his chest like a cloak as he staggered toward her. With each shuffle of his feet, more humanness returned.

“Steady, now, steady,” said one of the nurses.

“It's you . . .”

More cadets backed away, leaving Evie to him. “Hello,” she said with a grimace.
Why can't he just go to someone else?

“I'm back.” He rolled his neck, producing a cascade of cracks. Then he met her eyes again and flashed a wide smile. “I'm back!”

The onlookers murmured in confusion. The tension in the room evaporated as suddenly and unexpectedly as it had come.

“I'm back!” He pulled one of the nurses into an embrace and spun her in an impromptu dance. His delirious laughter bounced off every wall of the Infirmary. He raced after a group of ducks, scattering them with a chorus of irritated quacks. “I'm back, ducklings!” Then he wheeled on Evie, charging across the floor with fresh fire in his eyes. “Where in blazes have you been?” She tried to form words, but found she suddenly didn't know any. His hand enveloped the back of her head and his lips pressed to her own, soft and warm and entirely unexpected. Thoughts exploded in her head, each dying the moment it was born. And then his lips were gone and he spun to face the others, arm raised in triumph. “I'M BACK!”

Evie stood motionless, lips still parted, still warm with the sensation of his.

“All right, young man,” said one of the nurses, placing a hand on his back.

“What's this, a kiss for you as well, my dear?”

“Oh, I should think not,” chuckled the nurse, ushering him away.

As she led him into one of the Infirmary's private chambers, he shouted, “Prince Forbes is back from the sty! Let it be known!”

Evie dragged her hand across her lips and straightened her dress, though there was nothing she could do about the hot red flush in her face. She tried to act as though nothing had happened, but inside her chest, beneath the dragon scale, her heart pounded so resoundingly she thought everyone must be able to hear.

“Incredible,” said Wertzheim, shaking her head in awe. “Absolutely breathtaking. That young man's father brought him to us five years ago and we've never had a bit of luck with his curse. Tell me, Cadet, how is it that you know him?”

Evie grimaced. Just as when she had arrived at Marburg with Remington, all eyes were once again on her. “I've never seen him in my life.”

“Oh, I suspect you have, my dear. The cure for a witch's curse is quite often tied to its inception. Perhaps when your memory returns, you'll find him there.” Her mouth curled into a smile. “I should hope so with a kiss like that.”

Some of the cadets laughed, but amidst the crowd, there was one who didn't. Sage, the girl without humor, the confidante to Malora, stared coldly back. And Evie knew then that this incident wouldn't die in the Infirmary. She was new to the twin hobgoblins of rumor and gossip, yet she understood implicitly that when she sat down at the Ironbone Company table for supper that night, her kiss would be on the lips of many, many others.

E
VIE DRAGGED
her feet across the uneven stone of the courtyard outside Pennyroyal Castle. Her eyes were heavy and her belly was full. With starry black skies above, a tremendous distance traveled, and too many strange occurrences to remember, she could have happily stumbled into the darkness and slept. Instead, a sea of third-class princess cadets swept toward the castle, clumped together by the colors of their company uniforms.

She had been distracted all through supper. The Dining Hall was lit by candles and braziers and roaring fires, warm and sleepy, and the long company tables were piled high with feast atop clean white cloth. Joyous conversation surrounded her, girls slowly transitioning from acquaintances to new friends, but Evie's thoughts were across the hall on the black doublets of Thrushbeard Company. Remington's company. He had been sitting next to the strange pig-boy, Prince Forbes, and it made her uncomfortable for reasons she didn't understand. What were they saying? Did Remington know what had happened in the Infirmary? Why did it bother her if he did?

Now the cadets flowed beneath the spiked teeth of the castle's portcullis and into an immense rotunda. Torches in iron sconces ringed the walls, interspersed with faded oil portraits of great princesses and knights of the past. Twin staircases of polished stone swept up to the castle's higher floors; beneath them, a series of archways led to the Royal Hall. On the domed ceiling above, an elaborate mural depicted women in tattered dresses amid the ruins of ancient places. Near the dark edges of the mural, formless shadows huddled, yellow eyes burning out from the gloom. A chill ran through her. She had seen eyes like those before, but what were they doing in Pennyroyal Castle?

“They've moved on Tarburn's Keep, did you know that?” said Demetra. “My sister's already been deployed.”

She and Maggie and Anisette had been talking nonstop ever since Evie found them in the Dining Hall after her treatment. Maggie had held her a place on the bench, and even dished her a plate of food, but she still hadn't managed to find a way into their conversation. They mostly spoke of places and things she knew nothing about.

“Tarburn's Keep? Bloody hell, that's right across the bay!” said Anisette.

“We haven't had any in Sevigny yet, Fates be praised,” added Maggie.

Evie was still trying to puzzle out why anyone would want to paint witches' eyes on the ceiling when she heard someone making a snorting sound behind her. Malora smirked as she and her friends passed by. Kelbra laughed, and Evie's face went red. She followed the crowd through the archways at the far side of the rotunda, yet still somehow felt completely alone.

There, House Princesses directed the cadets to their assigned benches. The Royal Hall was an enormous rectangle of flint walls and stone dressings. Two immense hearths provided both light and heat. Giant purple banners bearing the Pennyroyal coat of arms rolled from the ceiling beneath sprouted pillars. In the front of the hall stood a raised dais lined with thrones. Behind the dais, a massive painting depicted war-weary princesses mounting the stairs to a ruined castle.

“Why do all the princesses look so . . .
ragged
?” said Evie with a frown as she sat on the wooden bench. But Maggie didn't hear the question. She was deep in conversation with Basil, the boy from the coach, who wore a tunic of Ironbone blue, but with white linen breeches instead of a dress.

The staff entered and sat in the thrones. Evie recognized several of them from earlier in the day, including Rumpledshirtsleeves, who was flanked by two of his miniature assistants. The center throne, the largest and most opulent, remained empty. A footman blasted a fanfare on a bannered trumpet, and there was a great swoosh of fabric as everyone in the hall rose as one.

Evie struggled to see past the girl in front of her, a lanky cadet in the scarlet red of Goosegirl Company. She managed to find a small opening at the girl's shoulder and saw Princess Beatrice sweeping across the dais in a billowing golden gown, a dramatic headpiece flaring from her white hair like the splash at the bottom of a waterfall. Her expression was severe, almost haunted.

Everyone sat, including the staff, leaving Beatrice the only one standing. The silence was remarkable. Even the fires seemed to hiss and pop just a bit more softly. She ran her eyes slowly over her cadets, and with one simple turn of the head, unnerved an entire chamber.

“We are at war.”

Beatrice delivered the words with such finality that no one dared move, not a breath could be heard. Evie suddenly felt so claustrophobic that she had to glance back at the archways to be sure they hadn't been sealed shut.

“With a very dark force indeed. I have just received word that three more kingdoms have fallen to Calivigne and the Sisters. Hundschloss has been reduced to ash.”

Evie's eyes flicked around the hall. She didn't understand what any of this meant, but the grim reaction of the other cadets made the walls seem just a bit closer, the bench a bit more uncomfortable.

“Who's Calivigne?” she whispered to Maggie. “What's she talking about?”

Beatrice continued. “I understand that many of you, and many of your parents, have concerns regarding the Queen's decision to admit cadets without pedigree.” She glared down at them, her expression revealing nothing about her own opinion. “First, if you feel it your place to question the Queen, you may do so from the comfort of your own homes. She is our Supreme Commander, and to question her is a treasonous act. Second, many of you no doubt have false ideas of what it means to be a Princess of the Shield. You came because you were attracted to the majesty and glamour of life with a crown and castle. You intend to serve your three years, then go forth beloved by all.” The clacking of her heels echoed off the walls. “
You
will be the first ones discharged, no matter your blood.”

Evie caught a glimpse of Malora, who shook her head with disgust.

“A Princess of the Shield is courageous. She is compassionate. She is kind, and she is disciplined. Without these four core values, a girl may have all the crowns and castles she wants, but she will no more be a princess than she will a dragon.

“You must prepare for battle as any soldier would, though yours are not the weapons of the soldier. Your weapons are pure hearts and steel spines. Your weapons are already inside you. And the only way to wield them is to
know yourself.
Which is precisely what we will teach you here.”

A wave pulsed through Evie's brain, and she thought for a moment she was about to lose consciousness. Some deeply buried instinct had been triggered. A warning.
She's about to say something I won't be able to un-hear.

“Three more kingdoms fell this day. Three fine and noble kingdoms full of history and culture and innocent citizens.” Beatrice folded her hands behind her back, slowly patrolling the dais. “The forces of evil are on the ascent, of that there can be no doubt. We need you, ladies, to embrace your training and join the fight.
You,
” she said, pausing for emphasis, “are the only thing preventing Calivigne and her army of wicked witches from spreading misery and death across all the land.”

Wicked witches.
Suddenly, the little clues that had been niggling at Evie since she'd first arrived clicked into place. The mural . . . the stray comments of her friends . . . the Pennyroyal coat of arms . . . All of it pointed to one simple fact: to be a princess was to battle witches.

“As the year unfolds, you will notice that our Academy bears many similarities to the training camps of the world's great armies. This is not an accident. Our distinguished founder, Princess Pennyroyal, developed this institution to engender the same precision, honor, and discipline found in any king's army. She had seen countless kings train countless soldiers to battle other countless soldiers trained by other countless kings. She despised the endless parade of death and violence, but respected the integrity those camps infused into their soldiers. It was she who discovered that only a true princess could defeat a witch. It was she who trained the very first Princesses of the Shield. It was she who grew those virtues into an army of decency and kindness. An army of princesses.”

Evie stared at the red linen of the dress in front of her, trying to remain calm. She dabbed sweat from her forehead, though her skin felt cold and clammy to the touch.

“Some ask why, with the superior weaponry, training, and numbers of a king's army, those forces can't simply ride forth and rid the world of witches. There are countless fields of stone soldiers out there ready to provide the answer. We, ladies,
we princesses alone,
possess the weapons required for this fight.” A log dissolved in a hiss of ash. “This fight is bigger than you. It is bigger than me. It is bigger than any princess or knight who has ever graced these hallowed halls. This fight is about them.” She jutted her finger so emphatically that it encompassed every man, woman, and child in the world living in fear. “This fight is about all the innocent people across the land who will suffer without a Princess of the Shield to protect them.”

Her voice reverberated into silence. She walked back to her empty throne, but didn't sit just yet.

“These are consequential times, ladies. And your war draws ever nearer.”

And with that, she took her seat. She looked exhausted, like she had aged ten years during her speech. Soft whispers began to work their way through the third-class cadets.

A hand touched Evie's back, rubbing small circles between her shoulders. “All right, Evie? You look a bit pale.”

“I didn't know we were meant to fight witches, Maggie,” she said, her hands trembling.

“What?” Maggie's forehead creased in confusion. “But what did you think a princess—”

“Quiet, the lot of you!” sneered Liverwort. Silence returned to the hall. Beatrice gave her a slight nod, and she disappeared through the archway at the end of the dais. Evie put her head in her hands and tried to focus on Maggie's rhythmic strokes.

A moment later, Liverwort reappeared to a chorus of horrified gasps. Evie glanced up and found her helping a huddled figure in a tattered cloak onto the dais. Gossamer-thin skin slacked from the sharp bones of her face. Her lips stretched tight over a chilling grin, and time had fused shut her eyes. The fires, roaring only moments before, died to glowing ash. One of Rumpledshirtsleeves's assistants sprang to relight them as the ancient witch hobbled to the center of the dais on a cane of weathered bone.

The black stench of smoke, the pinpricks of gooseflesh . . . Evie was right back in that cottage in the woods. She was trapped. And she was certain she was about to die.

“Girls, please,” said Beatrice with annoyance. “There is nothing to fear from this witch. She is a dissident, a friend of the Academy. A friend to our cause.” The horrified voices muted back to silence, though an electric tension remained. “The intuitive powers of a witch can be quite useful when her motives are pure. She is here to do a reading, nothing more. This allows us to tailor our training and better prepare for the year. The only thing you must do is sit quietly and show a bit of respect.”

The blind witch mouthed a silent incantation. She lifted her cane and ran it slowly from one corner of the hall to the other. Evie flinched when it pointed at her.

“I see . . .” croaked the witch, the skin near the edges of her mouth flapping loosely. “The Queen has done quite well for herself . . .”

CRACK!
Her cane slammed to the floor. The cadets—and some instructors—jumped.

“She is here! The Warrior Princess is here!”

“
What?
” hissed Beatrice as she sprang to her feet. “Are you quite sure?”

Around her, the dais erupted with activity. Several princesses dashed from the hall. Others scanned the cadets with great urgency. Tears welled in Hazelbranch's eyes, though her expression contained more hope than fear. Rumpledshirtsleeves slumped back, his assistants fanning him.

“Indeed. She sits among them!”

“What's she on about?” said Evie.

“It's a fairy's tale,” said Maggie, her face twisted in confusion. “About a highborn girl whose goodness is so powerful she rids the world of witches once and for all. But . . . it's not meant to be true.”

“Heed me!” hissed the witch, training her cane on the staff. “You must instruct this class as any other. This Warrior Princess must succeed of her own merits. Should you allow the unfit to remain at your academy in an attempt to trick the Fates, the power of your Warrior Princess shall vanish, never to return again. Do not trifle with the Fates, for the Fates will trifle back!”

Princess Beatrice slumped into her throne and held her head in her hands. The witch turned her shriveled face back to the cadets with a dry cackle, then shuffled through the archway with Liverwort, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Finally, Beatrice looked up, her face pale, as though she had just seen her own ghost.