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My power heaves through my chest, determined to whisk all the statues back into their proper forms and places so no divine figures can get angry. I only manage to suppress it by throwing myself down as if I’ve lost my balance.
I smack into the floor, and the external pain sharpens my mind. I hug myself, holding in my magic.
And the backlash wrenches through me like I’m swallowing several shards of broken marble.
At my gasp, Esmae ducks down beside me. “Ivy! Great God help me. I should get a medic.”
“I’ll be okay,” I rasp out. “Just… just want to get back to my room.”
Possibly I should be thanking Anya, or Romild, for giving me an excuse for this sudden fit. Esmae thinks it’s just part of the drug’s effect.
But as she helps me back to my feet through the spiraling ache, one thought peals through my scattered mind.
I can’t go on like this.
Eighteen
The student feints and then throws a quick punch that my arm whips up to block. I smile at him in what I hope is an encouraging expression, though I’m mainly attempting to encourage myself.
Or more specifically, to encourage my hidden power not to see this sparring session as a legitimate threat.
Just a little friendly exchange of blows for learning purposes. No mortal danger here.
No reason to start thrashing me from the inside out.
Stavros clicks his tongue approvingly and adjusts his student’s stance slightly to the left. “You want to leave as little of your body open to attack as possible. You’re getting some good power with your strikes, though. You never know when you might lose your weapon in a melee and need to rely on your fists.”
The younger man lifts his chin toward me. “And I’d imagine I’d be up against opponents a little more formidable than that.”
The derision in his tone only makes me grit my teeth for a moment. I’m getting used to letting noble snobbery and posturing roll off my back.
But Stavros’s jaw ticks, and a chill enters his drawl that reminds me of when he held me at sword-point the second time we met. “You’d do best not to underestimate an enemy based on appearances. Or to insult my choice of assistants while I’m standing right here.”
The student blanches and draws up a step. He bobs his head toward both of us. “My apologies. Thank you for your help.”
I suspect the apology is mainly directed at his professor rather than me, but I can take a little satisfaction from it all the same. And from the fact that despite said professor’s doubts, I have managed not to resort to the sort of dirty street tactics that might have shifted opinion about my formidableness in any of today’s mock fights.
Stavros glances at the students arrayed across the field and then nods to me. “I’m taking them back to the classroom now for a brief strategy discussion. You can tidy up here and then take your leisure.”
I give a little curtsy in my training leathers just because I think it’ll irritate him. “Thank you, sir.”
It’s not much leisure. By the time I’ve put away the equipment we were using, I can’t imagine I’ve got more than a half hour before the bell that’ll mean I need to get to today’s secret meeting.
And I have a task I’ve been wanting to attend to since yesterday. With Stavros otherwise occupied, it’s perfect timing.
Alek’s book didn’t include detailed instructions on how the prospective kings of old took their pipe fleece. Examining the dried leaves in the packet the shopkeeper gave me, I decided tea was the safest bet.
I swing by the dining hall to request a cup of hot water from the kitchen staff and hustle up to Stavros’s quarters. They’re empty, just as I hoped.
I retrieve a couple of the leaves I bought and crumble them over the water. The purple-green bits swirl on the surface, and a thin, slightly sour scent makes me wrinkle my nose.
Maybe I should have asked for some honey too. Oh, well.
Why are you trying the jazfern on yourself?Julita asks.
I figured she’d wonder, so I already have an answer ready. “I’d rather not risk poisoning the whole student body—or going to great lengths to administer this stuff to them all if it does nothing. So I’m going to take a weak dose and see if it has any effect on me or my magic.”
She doesn’t need to know exactly what that magic is. If my ghostly passenger has wondered why she’s never seen me overtly making use of my supposed talents, she doesn’t comment now.
