First Apprentice

Chapter 25 Part 1

Foreign magic jabbed against me like a fisherman spearing a fish. Hackles raised, I nudged it aside — a careful deflection, not the harsh mental slapped my instincts screamed I should do. I couldn't.

One spike — one single moment where my magic escaped its shackles and lashed out as it wished — and they would need a priest instead of a healer.

A hacking cough echoed through my study. Cruju wasn't a cure. If Helen didn't find us a competent healer within the next twelve hours, I would spend tomorrow night building funeral pyres. I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nose, shoving the memories of Cook coughing herself to death aside. If I succumbed to my fears now, I might not see another dawn.

Shoulders relaxed and back straight as a poplar tree, I turned my attention back to the last of the thirty swords Stefan dropped on my kitchen table two hours ago.

Rawhide patches, sewn to the original sheath with sinew and blackened with soot, stood out against the old leather like spots on a cow. It was just another threadbare sheath like the sort I'd seen in Grandfather's armory with one major difference. Grandfather's shabby sheaths were carefully crafted deceptions. Supposedly, he used them when he needed to blend in with cutpurses and criminals or wanted people to think he wasn't that Mitchel. For the hundredth time in the last two hours, I wished theirs were just stage props, part of an elaborate play they put on so their enemies would underestimate them.

They weren't.

I hefted the sword in my hand — too heavy. Unless its owner lined the sheath with lead, it was no different from the last twenty-nine.

Schooling my face into a neutral expression, I unsheathed the sword. Silent, good. At least, the sheath's fur lining was in working order. My nostrils flared. Rancid camelia oil, the same scent carried by all their other swords. I tilted it toward the nearest glow, watching how the light bounced off the edge. No noticeable cracks and recently sharpened. Feeling a dozen pairs of eyes watching my inspection, I forced a tiny smile and a nod.

This sword's owner had earned that much. It wasn't their fault their impeccably maintained swords wouldn't last ten minutes around a damaged gate or me when I lost control of my magic. That fault lay with the Seven.

Gritting my teeth, I teased the smallest strand of magic I could muster off my fingertips, sunk it into the blade, and waited for the answering ping of a bonded sentirus blade.

Nothing, as expected.

Respect the blade, respect the owner. I bowed my head over the sword, resheathed it, and gently laid it back on the pile. The pleasantly neutral expression I adopted when I realized the first sword didn't contain any sentirus, let alone the thirty percent sentirus content mandated by the Seven for candidate weapons, never slipped.

"Thank you," I said. "Stefan, please return these to their owners."

Stefan's magic flared. Violet and orange eddies swirled together into a human-shaped whirlpool before his sky blue base reasserted itself and shoved the colored eddies back apart. Nerves and disappointment? Possibly embarrassment? I filed his reaction away for later.

Always later. If I stopped and thought about the situation Terry allowed...Not now.

Footsteps sounded. A percussive heel strike followed by a staccato toe as if the individual wanted to warn me of their approach. A periwinkle hand covered in brown flames touched the table in front of my eyes. No unwanted magical probes or loud words, just a hand.

Tylar.

"How's Dev?" I asked.

"May we speak outside?"

I raised my head and stared at the white ring surrounding his aura. Crimson flames danced over his heart, making me wonder if I should trust the brown, which spoke of wisdom for all that no one in my family possessed a single brown smudge. I heard his unspoken answer.

Dying. Like Melantha. Like the dozen people they carted into my testing chamber. Like the Ivers did. All dying or dead. All things I didn't dare voice out loud. They needed hope, not reality.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded. Toes raised so my claws didn't scrape against the floor and wake the few who preferred sleep to watching me as if I would combust at any given moment, I padded toward the exit and stopped beside a laundry bag.

Bless Helen's sticky fingers. The six laundry bags filled with clean blankets she acquired from the "Healer Corps-Main Hall", according to the stencil, were a blessing from the gods. Provided, no one connected us with the missing blankets. If they did, we might have an issue.

Since my cloaks were in the testing chamber serving as makeshift bedding, I yanked out two blankets, passed one to Tylar, and wrapped the other around my shoulders. Then I stuffed my feet into my shoes and slipped outside into the frigid night.

Heat raced through my veins as I unleashed my magic. A ball of orange flames rose from my palm. Shadows danced along the cavern walls as I poured my rage into that ball. It doubled in size. Once. Twice. Three times until it was roughly the same size as Cook's favorite mixing bowl.

Tylar emerged a second later. He glanced at the flames then cocked his head. "What's your PM?"

The flames spit as I eyed him warily. There was only one reason to ask about my magic levels. My right hand brushed against my bracelet. This close, I doubted I could draw before he closed in. Worth a try though before I used him to heal Selim and ran.

"Don't know," I said, edging closer to the cave's mouth. Putting some distance between us might lower the risks. Maybe. Probably not.

"You're maturing," he said.

I flinched.

"It's written in your magic. The slight bobbles when you were making cruju, the way you constantly cycle through breathing exercises, and even how your magic flared during that summon. If you know what to look for, it's obvious."

"What of it?"

"Dev is unresponsive. His aura indicates magical exhaustion. I need you to listen, Alannah-dae, and not panic. Just listen. I do not need to know your exact PM number because Dev measures two-hundred-forty-nine. His is public record. Magical exhaustion from a joint casting like tonight's cruju means you possess at least two times the magic Dev does. Magic doubles at maturity. Ferepris dae begin at five-hundred-one and end at one thousand. In other words, your magic after maturity will measure at least nine-hundred-ninety-six — twenty-four points higher than Endellion, the strongest ever recorded. Five measly little points, Ancient One."

Author's Note: Attached below is not proof of life. It's proof of editing (in progress)...and copious amounts of coffee. I'd ask for a coffee IV, but I honestly like the taste.