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I don’t know what illusion it forms. All I see is one guard lurching toward the other.
No, no, not like this. I hug my other arm around my gut, desperately scrambling to rein my magic in without giving away what I’m grappling with.
The ground bucks under me. I can’t tell if that’s scourge sorcery or the backlash of my own power, but it knocks me to my knees.
My magic flails out of me in one last attempt to carry out my will, whether I like it or not.
The guards stumble again—and one of them smacks into the low crenelation along the top of the wall with so much force she flips right over it.
The thud of her body hitting the ground carries through the night straight to my ears.
I gulp for air and shove my power down as far as I can go, fighting to keep my horror off my face so the conspirators won’t see my distress. My unwounded hand braces against the damp earth to steady me.
My magic tries to lash out again, but I clamp it tight. Its frustration reverberates through my bones.
I grit my teeth against it. No more.
Gods above, what did I do to her? Has she even survived the fall?
I never meant to—
The black-robed figure crouches in front of me. A voice rings out with obvious satisfaction from the woods beyond us. “An impressive performance. The gods look kindly on you. You don’t have to worry. For your service, we’ll see you made whole again.”
I don’t understand. I’m too scattered to even realize what’s happening until the figure who wielded the knife presses the finger they chopped off against the bleeding stump, and a hot tingling spreads through my flesh.
She has a healing gift. She’s melding my hand back together.
It shouldn’t surprise me. How would the conspirators expect me to explain away the sudden loss of my finger once I returned to school?
Healing me is for their benefit at least as much as my own.
But as the sinews and bones bind back together, my gaze returns to the wall. To the guard shouting for help from where he’s still poised at the top, peering down at his fallen companion.
The scourge sorcerers didn’t realize the true source of my magic or how little I wanted to let it loose. But I know.
I lost control, just for a matter of seconds, and this is what I’ve done.
Maybe Stavros has been right all along. Maybe I can’t be anything other than a monster.
Twenty-Three
Ivy
The whole city is draped in red.
Scarlet banners hang above storefronts and stretch high across the streets. Crimson streamers dangle from windows. Ruby ribbons festoon every cart and carriage.
And the people only add to the cacophony of red. Every noble and inner-warder milling around the courtyard outside the Temple of the Crown wears silk, satin, or finely woven wool dyed in some shade of that hue.
Even in the outer wards, where few can afford full outfits in every divine color, people will be tying red sashes and scarves around their bodies to join in the celebration.
Casimir didn’t fail me in his self-assigned role as my official costumer. Airy silk wraps across my chest and tumbles over my legs in a deep wine-red that somehow makes my sallow complexion look creamy rather than sickly.
The assault of color that meets my eyes everywhere I look makes mefeela little sick, though. At the edge of the square where Stavros and I have halted to survey the festivities, I shift my weight and reach to adjust the lace that shades my eyes.
Along with Sabrelle’s color, everyone in the inner ward has donned helmet-inspired headdresses to honor the godlen of war. For women, that means a light metal cap with silver-toned filigree meant to mimic chainmail, which flows over my hair and down my face to the tip of my nose.
Nobles do love an excuse to be semi-anonymous while they revel.
