Page 59 of House of Marionne

NINETEEN

Let me go, I try to yell, but the hand across my face muffles my screams. I claw, scratching at the arms wrapped around my limbs.

“Primus, relax.” Their voice lilts with mischievousness, not malice, and the thump in my chest slows. I can hear the Tavern’s revelry faintly in the distance. A door creaks, and I land on my feet. Something hits the back of my knees, and I fall into a chair. I blink, but the dimness is thicker than the velvet robes hanging on the bodies encircling me. A flame erupts near my shoe and my grip tightens on my chair. It flickers, dancing as if on the tip of a candle. A robed figure works his magic over the flame and it stretches into a thread of fire, tracing the edges of a sun carved into the floor around me. I draw my knees to my chest as the flames encircle me, my mind and heart racing, trying to make some sense of what is happening.

Heat wafts against my skin from the fiery barrier now between me and twelve faces glowing beneath their hoods in the flames. Daggers hang from their belts. Some wood-handled, others leather, or bone, and a few in shiny metals embedded with jewels. Firelight dances on their razor-sharp edges.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Primus, what is your charge?”

“Honing one’s dagger. Arduous is the work of the laborer.”

“Aye.” A chorus of table-beating ruckus follows my answer but there are no tables in sight. One robed figure steps over the flame, and I blink in horror, waiting for his robe to catch fire, but it doesn’t. He hands me a shard of metal and a block of wood.

“What someone is given, they may never again find,” he says. “What they earn, they will have a lifetime. Areya Paru, Mother of Magic, Journal of Inscriptions, volume one.”

If they intended to hurt me, they would have done that by now. I take the items tentatively.

“You must prove you can make the dagger you will hone for Second Rite.” The hooded figure gestures at the table. “Mereri.”

Wood for a handle, metal for the blade. I suddenly understand: I have to transfigure it into a dagger here in front of everyone. My throat closes at the thought of demonstrating my magic in front of someone. So many someones. I grab the wood and the flat piece of metal, turning them in my hands. The shifting I’ve tried so far has worked for the most part. Please, magic, behave. Don’t fail me now.

I rotate the block of wood over the flames, imagining it changing. Heat swells in my gut as my proper magic answers with the fury of a sandstorm. I shift at its intensity, holding firmly in place, rotating the metal steadily over the kor. For several moments the only sound in the room is the thud of my heart knocking against my ribs. Suddenly the silver flat of metal shifts, elongating. It stretches, thinning. I slide closer to the flames, salivating with anticipation at my magic working swiftly and properly. The blade stretches to a point until it forms a sharp dagger tip.

The faces around me are still, stone expressions. Now, to attach its handle. I rotate the blade, careful to keep my fingers away from its sharp edge, and press it to the wood, letting the kor engulf it on every side. The flames lick my hands, and the dusty magic inside blows about violently. I hold it there.

“Come on.”

My magic obeys and the wooden block shifts, molding to the curve of my palm, into the shape of a handle as it affixes itself to the blade. The wood softens against my skin, shifting to a different material. Leather, by the feel of it. I tighten it in my fist, overcome with a smile I can’t push away.

I hold the dagger up for everyone to see. It’s plain but correct, and I’m jostled with rumbling applause. The lights lift and I can see, finally, everyone around me. They pull back their hoods and the kor flickering around the room disappears.

“Catch,” a robed figure with long locs says. “Put it on.”

A bundle flies toward me. “What is—” But it unfurls in my hands. It’s a dusty pink cloak like the rest of them are wearing. I throw it over my head, and they surround me in ceremonial precision. Hands set on my shoulders, one after another, like a link of chains, pushing me down to my knees. I kneel and turn my palms up. I’m not sure how I know I should, I just do.

“May Sola Sfenti forever illuminate your path,” the one with locs says before nudging me. “The prayer.”

“May I prove to be a proper steward. May I prove worthy.”

“Pray that twelve times, every night.” He helps me up. “Welcome, you’re nearly there. Supra alios.”

“Supra alios,” the room chants.

The crowd takes turns offering me handshakes.

“I missed your name,” I say to the one with locs.

“Casey, seventh of my blood, Retentor candidate. I’m social chair this Season, responsible for transitioning all the noobs after First Rite.” He hands me a short stack of books. Latin Primer; Declensions for Beginners; Journal of Inscriptions, vol. 1. “You’ll need these to get you started. There’ll be more later.” He sets a small box with a ribbon on top. “And this is a little something from all of us.”

Inside a speckled, milky stone glimmers.

“It’s a Reactor Enhancer. Extremely rare.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say, realizing I’m still smiling embarrassingly large.

Casey takes my dagger, examining it. “You shifted it nicely, the handle’s even changed materials. Not bad. You’ll need to push your magic into it to pass Second Rite exam . . . among other things, but your mentor will guide you on all that.” He glances at my diadem.