Page 43

Vaduin Thornbrow, head professor of wielding, strolls down the center of his classroom. His hands are gathered at the small of his back. His mere presence commands silence. And his eyes, sharper than a rapier’s edge, slice across theroom.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. We sit around him in a ring, no desks; I’m more relaxed in my chair than the rest. I allow him his survey and remain unflinching in the wake of his assessment.

In a way, he reminds me of Bristara. I overheard the other students talking about how this is only his second year at the academy.

So I wonder if this imposing display is compensating for people thinking he hasn’t yet earned—or isn’t worthy of—his position.

This is my fourth class with him, and today is the first day he seems ready for us to move on from the mere theory of wielding.

It’s surreal to think two weeks have slipped by already.

There’s a monotony to the flow of classes that I’ve found myself drawn into.

Acting like a normal initiate to keep my cover has resulted in me feeling very much like nothing more than that.

“Wielding is not just about skill, but about your connection to the cards,” he begins, voice resonant and deep. “You summon the cards you need from your deck with nothing but your senses—by your power calling to that which has been imbued in the paper.

“To ink cards is to channel the primal forces of nature on ink and paper.

“To read cards is to surrender to the fates that guide your hand.

“To wield cards is to make the true power of the undercurrents of this world unquestioningly your own.”

It seems Kaelis isn’t the only one who has a taste for the dramatic in this academy.

“I saw each of you attempt wielding at the Fire Festival, and I must say, you are all lacking.” He turns about the room, leaving no one out of the assessment.

Myself included—which I take mild offense to.

“All Coins Day will be here before you know it. It’s possible you will manage to earn a coin or two from a house without skill in wielding, depending on how you approach the day.

You can present a good showing with inking or reading alone.

But there is no escaping the Three of Swords Trials.

One of those trials will be a duel. Initiates will be paired against each other, so it is only possible for half of all initiates to pass the wielding portion of the trials. ”

Eza’s eyes dart to me at the mention of duels.

I don’t shy away from his stare, and I run my fingers over the short stack of cards in my lap, which had been waiting on each of our chairs when we entered—the Ace, Two, and Three of each Minor Arcana.

I knew what the cards were instantly by touching the small deck.

“We shall begin by practicing summoning from the deck,” Vaduin continues. Eza is the first to look back at him, and I do as well only when Eza’s eyes are off me. “Hold the cards before you.”

Obediently, all the initiates balance the short stack on their open palm, myself included.

“Ace of Cups,” Vaduin declares.

As students begin concentrating, they murmur and furrow their brows. Many look as though their stomachs are in knots. Some have their mouths twisted in what one could misinterpret as pain.

I lift my right hand, and with a little wave of my fingers, the Ace rises from the deck, hovering in midair.

“Redwin.” Vaduin’s eyes rest solely on me. “Without movement.”

“Pardon?” I relax my focus and allow the Ace to settle back on the deck.

Vaduin approaches slowly, looking down at me. “Summon the card without movement. Two of Swords.”

“What does it matter if I use movement or not?” I ask as the rest of the students are already focusing on their decks. Or pretending to. My question has them looking at me through bangs and lashes.

“Excuse me?” A frown quirks Vaduin’s lips.

“What does it matter if I summon the cards with movement or not, as long as they’re summoned?”

He straightens slightly, looking down his nose at me.

“Two of Swords,” he repeats coldly. Pursing my lips, I raise my right hand again, determined not to let him get the better of me.

His hand moves faster than a viper. Cold fingers wrap around my wrist as he leans over and pierces me with his emerald eyes. “Two of Swords.”

Fighting a frown of my own, I stare at the deck, willing the card to move. It quivers, nearly sliding out. The cards part and—

Tumble to the floor, scattering. Paper sliding against stone has never been so loud, or so mortifying. Never have the cards been rebellious toward me.

“ That is why.” Vaduin releases me. “Wielding is about connecting your raw essence with your deck. If you rely on movement, then you’re not fully allowing yourself to find that connection. Moreover, you’ll give your enemies an easy way to incapacitate you.”

Like Eza, Cael, and Nidus… Damn it. I hate that he’s right. Cael and Nidus must have taken notes on how I was wielding during the Fire Festival and reported back to Eza as they hatched their plan. I try to stop my eyes from darting back to Eza and fail. He’s grinning like a fool.

The sick, sinking feeling overtaking me is made worse when Vaduin adds, “Besides, movements like that make you look like an illegal Arcanist running from enforcers on the street. Those with proper training, as someone of your status should have, would never.” The way he holds my gaze.

The sharpness in the words leaves nothing but silence in their wake.

It’s broken when another initiate, Marlon, mutters something to a man at his side about how “The prince’s whore is probably as messy in the bedroom as she is with her tarot.”

My fist closes around the half of the deck still in my palm to the point that it shakes. I bite back a retort. A lady wouldn’t lower herself to acknowledging the jab. But, by the Twenty, I wish I could just let out that illegal Arcanist in me that Vaduin is so ready to insult.

“Again, Redwin. But this time without your embellishments.” Vaduin acts like he didn’t hear Marlon, even though there’s no way he didn’t. “Three of Wands,” he calls to the class.

I quickly collect the cards that scattered across the floor.

The deck is heavy in my hand now. The ease, the thrill, and any joy I might have felt at wielding is gone.

I wedge the fingertips of my hand not holding the deck under my thigh and give the cards all my focus.

The Three of Wands trembles. Hesitates. Sweat beads on my forehead. Rise, damn you.

Shuddering, slowly, almost begrudgingly, it does. Never has a victory felt so small or empty.

It’s like I walk through the academy with one arm tied behind my back and every day is more frustrating than the last because of it.

I can’t ink or wield any cards higher than the fifth—as it isn’t something first years should be able to do.

It’s outright banned for first years to even attempt to try more advanced cards, to lower the risk of a card reversing from someone reaching for magic more powerful than they can handle.

My level of skills would raise too many questions.

The cards I do have access to are like strangers to me. The lines I’m required to draw on them look nothing like the shapes Mother helped me master. The way Vaduin teaches wielding has my mind, magic, and body moving—or not moving—in ways they never have before.

And reading? Four suits, that was always more Arina’s thing than mine…

Everything about this place is foreign and uncomfortable.

When the second and third years can spare us initiates even a glance, their eyes dissect us with a scrutiny that picks us clean.

There’s little relief to be found among my peers.

Cliques have begun to form, but I don’t quite belong to any faction.

I’m not “noble enough” to sit among those from the clans, despite Kaelis’s lie and my attempts to present myself as a long-lost heiress.

However, that same lie also keeps me from the common-born groups.

They don’t see me as one of them, either.

Haunting me throughout it all are the occasional whispers that I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try.

“Have you heard about the escapee from Halazar?” “Didn’t the person die in the river?

” “The enforcers said no body was retrieved.” “How frightening.” On and on they go…

I refrain from saying a word about the rumors.

Even when, one night in the common area, I hear Eza mention it in passing: “It happened right before the Fire Festival. You don’t think one of us initiates could be the escapee, do you?

” No one seems to pay it any heed, but I swear the gossip gets worse after.

My only reprieve is the unexpected camaraderie with Sorza, Dristin, Luren, and even Kel that I find at mealtimes and in the afternoons.

But, come nightfall, I always split apart from them to slip into the quieter halls of the academy—into those unlit and shadowed passages I once found oppressive but that now feel like sanctuary.

Away from everyone’s prying eyes, I work on strengthening my body.

I run laps, up three flights of stairs, down three, past four rooms—more and more—until I am dizzy, stumbling, throwing up.

I push a desk underneath a window and use a well-wrought curtain rod to hang from and then try to pull my chin over its top edge.

I lift and lower fallen statues, returning them to their place, then back to the floor, and then back to their place once more.

I move my body until my legs and arms quiver and the rooms spin.

But the second I manage to catch my breath, I do it all again.

It hurts. Everything hurts. But the ache is sweeter than the honeyed breakfast that follows every morning.

It’s as if I can expunge those cursed passages of Halazar as sweat through my pores.

As if I can ensure none of the rumors are cast my way if I physically change myself enough from the woman I was when I left the prison.

I intentionally avoid the Sanctum of the Majors, instead making my own areas for study and practice. Facing Eza, Nidus, or Cael again before I’ve recovered more of my strength isn’t worth it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t run into the other Majors.

Like Silas…who I nearly literally run into one night.

I’m mid-run through a corridor that rings the outer edge of the fortress—one of my favorite places to lap—when I hear, “Out for a stroll?”

I come nearly stumbling to a halt.

Silas looks as guilty as a kid filching cookies from the corner of a street cart. “It’s just me, no one to worry about.”

“You might be a lot to worry about,” I say

He relaxes with a slight smile. “I was taking a walk myself.”

A walk? This is a lot more than that. Sweat is pouring from me.

“Trying to not feel so…pathetic,” I admit to myself and him.

“You’re anything but.”

“You’re sweet. And a liar.” I grin.

He gives me a look that suggests he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. “Someone ‘pathetic’ doesn’t escape Halazar. Nor hike through Eclipse City when they’re skin and bones.”

“I do what I must.” The compliments are sincere, which makes them mildly uncomfortable.

“What has made you feel pathetic?”

We start walking side by side while I catch my breath and tell him of my struggles with the academy’s style of magic. How it’s the first time I’ve ever felt inadequate when it comes to tarot. He has some good pointers for me to try to incorporate both in and out of the classroom.

Silas is surprisingly easy to talk to, so I find I don’t mind when he shows up the next night. Or the one after.

I can see what made Arina speak so fondly of him.

The routine becomes a rhythm. One day and then the next, my sole focus is on getting stronger.

I can’t do anything if I remain as weak as Halazar left me.

Finding the truth of Arina and Mother. Escaping the academy.

Helping the club. Stealing the World from under Kaelis’s nose.

None of it will happen until I’m back to my old self.

My focus is so singular, so intense, that I don’t realize it’s been nearly six weeks since I last heard Kaelis’s voice or saw his shadow-clung form slinking through the halls around me.

Morning classes; afternoon study in the library with some combination of Luren, Kel, Sorza, and Dristin, or them all; evenings to myself, or training with Silas’s help.

But the monotony of my routine is unexpectedly shattered one afternoon—by a box that materializes in my wardrobe. It’s so unassuming, a simple slate-gray package with a black silk ribbon tied in a bow.

And a card, with a date, time, and address that I recognize as the regent’s manor in Eclipse City, but with no signature.

When I open the box, my stomach sinks. I hook a single finger through a cord of leather strung with a lace so fine it might have been spun from spider-silk.

“Oh, Twenty Majors, no.”