***
Two days later, Senna sat inside a tree house shaped like a bulging onion. Her stitches itched like mad. To distract herself, she stared westward out a window with peaked tops and bottoms and a swelling center, like a bubble trying to escape from a seed pod.
She was haunted by her attack of a few nights ago, by the land and people dying in Tarten, and by the sweet licorice smell of a dying man.
Her whole body ached with the need to do something—find her attacker, release the curse on Tarten. Something. But after only a day, the Heads had insisted all the Apprentices and Witchlings go back to their regular classes, while they continued the search alone.
So Senna studied the trees of Haven. They never ceased to amaze her, especially their variety. For instance, some doors opened right onto the white gravel path. Others sat above curving steps made of woven roots or expanses of living wood. All the windows and doors were peaked and bubbled outward, though they varied in size.
Arianis took down a map from the wall and placed it on an easel. “We begin studying a new nation today. Can anyone tell me what country this is?”
Silence echoed through the room.
“Senna, care to enlighten us?”
She suppressed a groan. The Heads had insisted she take some Witchling classes to fill in her somewhat-spotty education. Unfortunately, some of those classes were taught by Apprentices. This one was taught by Arianis, who had been trained from infancy to defeat the Dark Witch, and whose exceptionally powerful song had ensured a clear path to the highest level of Haven’s hierarchy.
And then Senna had come along. She’d defeated the Dark Witch. And there were whispers among the Keepers of her strength—whispers that Senna’s song was even stronger than the Dark Witch’s.
No one spoke of the astonishing strength of Arianis’ song anymore.
Senna tore her gaze from the window and glanced at the map before turning back to her vigil. “It’s Harshen.”
Arianis crossed her arms. “And what can you tell us of Harshen?”
Senna sighed. Sometimes Arianis gave up at this point. Apparently, today wasn’t one of those days. “It’s far to the south—a land of deserts and scrubby mountains. The people live in large pavilions and have dark skin. Rivers run high and furious once a year, before dwindling to barren puddles by midsummer. Harshen is isolated by deserts in the interior and horrible storms along the coast.”
Arianis grunted. “Almost word for word from Desert Countries, by Jennalee Odd. Do you have any original ideas in your head?” Senna didn’t respond. It was clear Arianis hadn’t really expected her to. “And what do the Harshens think of Witches?”
“They blame us for their country’s lack of water,” said Nilly, an Apprentice with enormous ears and pretty brown eyes.
“They hate us. The whole world hates us. By destroying Tarten, the Heads only make that perception worse.” The words darted from Senna’s mouth like a flock of startled birds.
Arianis gaped at Senna. “This is a geography class, not a political debate.”
Senna didn’t regret what she’d said. After all, it was true. “You asked what the Harshens think of us. I told you.”
Arianis answered, her voice dripping with scorn, but Senna had stopped listening. Outside, someone was calling her name.
“Senna! Senna!”
She knew that voice. She shot from her chair.
Arianis startled. “Sit down. Class isn’t dismissed yet.”
“Senna!” the shout came again.
Senna lifted her skirt and ran from the tree house. In the sharp sunlight of midday, she caught her first sight of Joshen in two months. His brown hair hung over his forehead in waves. His gray eyes—the color of snow in the shade—stood out on his tanned face. The skin around his eyes was creased, as if he never stopped smiling long enough for the lines to smooth out. With an involuntary shriek, she launched herself into his arms.
He caught her and swung her around. She molded her body to his. This was where she fit. It was where she would always fit. Joshen released her and ran his fingers lightly over the bump on the back of her head, his body tense. “Are you all right?”
She winced. “I’ll be fine. When did you arrive?” He’d been in their home country, Nefalie, on a recruiting assignment to find more Guardians.
He inspected her bandaged hand with a frown. “A few hours ago. We had to meet with the Heads first.”
“Do you know why someone would attack you?” Senna started at Reden’s Tarten accent. She hadn’t even noticed him coming up the path behind Joshen.
The Leader of the Guardians wasn’t a tall man, but he was well built. His eyes and hair were nearly black, his skin a creamy brown. His face had a certain ageless quality. He could be anywhere from twenty to forty, but Senna had learned over the last few months he was only twenty-four. He’d become Leader of all Tarten’s armies at sixteen. His brilliance as a soldier and a tactician had assured his rise to the Leader of the Guardians mere days after he’d rebelled from Tarten, leading the Witches safely away from the armies he’d once commanded.