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“No.” Fern sat back, her mind reeling. If it were true, such an ability would revolutionise the arcane world. “That’s just unheard of. If it was possible, why has it not beenstudied? Why is it not taught in arcane institutions?”

“Because Wild Magic is free.” Lautric’s tone was bleak and earnest. “Why should it be studied—who would fund such studies when anybody can access and use it? It can’t be controlled, regulated or monopolised.”

“You’re saying Wild Magic could be easily accessible, so long as everybody learned to channel it?”

“Wild Magiciseasily accessible.”

“It kills most of those who use it.”

Lautric sighed. “Yes, because using it from the source gives you no control over the flow. That’s why you need a conduit.”

“But you’re saying anybody could be a conduit.”

“In a sense. Yes, potentially, only—not so simply.” Lautric hesitated. “Being a conduit isn’t easy.”

Fern did not doubt it.

“And the cost?” she asked.

Lautric’s gaze slid out from under hers, became lost and faraway. His mouth opened but nothing came out. His thoughts seemed to swim darkly behind the limpid brown of his eyes, and Fern remembered his words during their argument.

I have no desire to lie to you, Fern, so I will simply have to withhold thetruth for now.

She had assumed he was manipulating her then. But now Fern’s mind spun with questions. If Lautric could channel Wild Magic, who had taught him? What was the true cost? Did all Lautrics channel, and could that be the key to the power of their house? Had Lautric just told her something he should not have?

The dinnertime bell rang, and Lautric’s eyes snapped back to Fern’s.

“If you need energy for the incantation, I’ll help you,” he said. “In the meantime, we’d better focus on our research. As you said, that’s the most important part of the assignment.”

Fern nodded, and watched Lautric as he gathered his papers into their brown folder. He left with a distracted wave, and Fern didn’t see him again until the evening before the assignment.

Chapter thirty-four

The Weak

The evening before thesecond assignment, Fern returned to the Mage Tower. She intended to stay up late to polish her notes and practise her incantation, and since the assignment would be quite demanding, she would need to be well-rested and well-fed.

Outside, an autumnal storm was breaking out, the violent wind tearing through the trees, rattling the windows and wailing through the chimneys. The ocean rose in colossal waves to slam into the cliffs below Carthane with such force that it shook the building. Rain slashed endlessly down from dark, distended clouds.

But the dining room, when Fern arrived there, was quiet, its blues and silvers dimmed and subdued. The cheer of the party a mere week ago had long faded.

Edmund Ferrow was filling his sister’s plate with food, cutting her meat for her and handing her his cup of wine so that she could take reluctant little sips. Emmeline, normally so indolent and careless, seemed withdrawn and sullen; her brother’s concern was palpable, infecting the rest of the room.

Dr Essouadi, in plain white robes with her hair loose on her shoulders, was sitting in conversation with Ravi Srivastav, their backs to the door, piles of books between them. They were working hard on this assignment, and Fern could not even look in their direction without her heart sinking to think of all their aggregated knowledge and talent.

Vasili Drei, Vittoria Orsini and Baudet were all absent, but Lautric sat spooning food into his mouth with the joyless energy of steam-powered machinery.

His eyes rose to meet Fern’s when she entered, and their gaze met for a second. His hair was pushed hastily back from his forehead, his sleeves were rolled up, and ink stained his long fingers. The bruising on his face was nothing more than a greenish smear around his eyes now, and the cut on his mouth was raised and pink, as though a thread of satin had been stitched across his lips.

Lautric said nothing. He dropped his gaze and resumed eating, and Fern’s stomach twisted. Part of her was glad that he made no attempt to draw her into conversation. But he was clearly avoiding her, and a heavy melancholy washed over her, the sensation that she was losing something she did not realise she had in the first place.

She swallowed the emotion back, filled her plate and sat down as far from Lautric as possible to eat as fast as she could. The food, if nothing else, was good, and Fern helped herself to generous helpings of gravy and buttered bread with her meal.

Her appetite was not shared by all at the table.

“You’ll never manage our spell if you don’t eat,” Edmund was murmuring to his sister.

“You do it, then,” Emmeline said with the acrimony of a spoiled adolescent. “I don’t care for spells. I’m an alchemist, not some circus conjurer. What art is there in reciting lines from old books to make pretty things appear then disappear?”