“I hope so,” Isabelle said unexpectedly.
When I gave her a questioning look, she grinned. “I’ve been practicing over the summer and have come back with a whole collection of compositions.”
Both of the other girls nodded.
“My mother had all sorts of visitors all summer long,” Ashlyn said, “including a number of growers. We got some excellent tips.” She and Frida exchanged conspiratorial smiles.
We had arrived at the training yard at this point, and Wardell looked over with a satisfied grin. “My uncle had an enormous family gathering at his estate, and he was full of congratulations for Armand and my excellent selection of discipline. And practical suggestions as well, of course.”
Ashlyn rolled her eyes and turned her back on him. Her mother might be Head of the Wind Workers, but they were closely enough aligned with the growers that Ashlyn would have plenty of access to senior mages in her chosen discipline.
Isabelle beside me began stretching, apparently unperturbed that Wardell and Armand had an uncle who led the creators, and Ashlyn’s mother was Head of the Wind Workers. Once upon a time my attempts to look equally relaxed about the conversation would have been a struggle.
Everything was different now. The others in the group might still think of me as the only one without power, but I knew I was a true mage at last. Instead of internally bemoaning my situation, I found myself wondering what it would be like to take control of one of the compositions they were all boasting about. My year mates were only second years and wouldn’t have as much knowledge as the creator mage who had botched the foundation, but it would likely be an interesting exercise all the same.
Mitchell appeared and led us through warm ups and a series of general exercises before instructing us to pair up and engage in free practice bouts. I barely kept the disgust off my face. We were second years now, but he showed no more interest in actually teaching us than he had last year.
My parents had always insisted that if you wanted to be truly competent at something, then you couldn’t skip putting effort into the basics. It was a lesson they claimed to have learned from their own combat instructor back in their Academy days. Mitchell, however, had no such interest in his students’ well-rounded learning. In the arena he seemed like a true instructor, but in the less interesting sessions in the training yards, he barely seemed present.
I suspected we only saw so much of him outside of our arena days because of the presence of the princes in our year. They warranted the attendance of the senior combat instructor, but I imagined his usual process involved leaving lessons like this to junior instructors while he himself focused on whichever year level was assigned to the arena.
Sparring with Bryony always took up my full concentration, but when I swapped to fighting Tyron, I had the chance to continue my earlier thoughts about my ability. Now I was back at the Academy and surrounded by compositions that had no purpose outside of training, surely I could find a way to practice. There must be some scenario that would allow me to do so unnoticed.
I was so distracted by the question that Tyron actually won one of the bouts. His look of surprise and hurried apologies were almost comical, and I had to assure him that while I might be royalty, I was also friends with Bryony and therefore inured to losing sword fights.
“What has you so distracted?” Bryony asked as we returned to the Academy for lunch.
“I’m trying to work out how I can practice,” I whispered back. “Properly practice, with more than just you.”
“Have you thought of anything?” she asked.
I frowned. “Nothing ideal. There should be more opportunities here, but at the same time, it also feels more dangerous. In the middle of an emergency, no one’s paying close attention, but in class…”
Bryony wrinkled her nose. “I see what you mean. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
Neither of us came up with any flashes of brilliance through lunch or composition class—where Alvin seemed to take the opposite approach to Mitchell and assume that over the summer break we must have forgotten everything we’d learned in first year. With nothing at all to stimulate my mind, it was torturously hard to resist stealing constant glances across the small aisle that was all that stood between Darius and me.
I kept wondering if I had imagined our final intense interaction the night before. There was certainly no sign of anything remotely like fear in his face or bearing as we listened to our composition instructor drone on.
We all separated after that for discipline classes where Amalia greeted us with her customary bad humor. Her manner was so reassuringly familiar, that I beamed back, which only earned me an even darker glower.
“See,” Bryony whispered beside me. “She looks exactly like that senior creator. No wonder that poor boy muddled up his composition.”
I kicked her under the table, as Amalia narrowed her eyes at us.
“I trust you have spent your summers uselessly and frivolously and have returned to me worse than when you left.”
It wasn’t a question, and none of us dared respond.
“Bryony and Tyron, you will now craft an energy composition so I can assess the extent of the damage.”
Part of the problem, I thought, as I watched them, was that I didn’t want to interfere with any of my year mates’ training. If I started hijacking their compositions, both they and our instructors would think the error lay with them.
Unless…I sat straighter in my chair at the sudden thought. Unless I took over their compositions only to instruct them to do something so close to their original directions that no one would notice. There would be no point to such a thing in the real world, but as a training exercise it had merit.
It would give me the chance to experience taking over a range of different types of compositions. And the subtlety required for such an effort would probably help hone my skills better than anything else. If I repeated the exercise enough times, maybe some of the knowledge I momentarily gained while connected to the composition would even stick.
I grinned at the thought, earning another sour look from Amalia. But the smile was already falling off my face on its own. Thinking about all the different sorts of compositions I might sample at the Academy led my thoughts to those I would not have the opportunity to try…Like the unexpected experience of taking energy which had so thrown me off during the attack.
“Excuse me, Senior Instructor.” I dutifully used the title she had demanded, not wanting to annoy her until I had a chance to ask my question.
“Yes, Your Highness.” She also used my correct title, although her voice held no respect.
“Do you keep in contact with your old student? The one you told us about who can take energy?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What business is it of yours?”
I considered my words carefully. “I was just wondering if his duties ever bring him within reach of the Academy. I’m sure we would all appreciate the chance to talk to him and observe his work. It’s rare to have the chance to meet an energy mage who takes energy, and it sounds like he honed his skills to the highest level under your tutelage.” I stopped myself, afraid I’d been too obvious by laying the praise on so thick.
But after a moment she grudgingly answered.
“If he is in the area, he always stops by. I do not expect him this year, but if he does appear, I may consider asking him to attend one of our classes.”
I smiled and thanked her. I wasn’t sure what I had been hoping to hear. The energy mage who had attacked us had been a woman—although it was possible she was a more ordinary type of energy mage and had been using compositions supplied by someone else. But even if he had been involved with the attack, he would hardly have stopped in to see his old teacher on the way to the ambush.
“It must be a strange feeling,” Bryony said. I sent her a warning look, but she continued. “To take someone else’s energy by force and feel it fighting inside you to return. Did he struggle with it?”
/>
“We all have our struggles,” Amalia said. “And one of yours seems to be focus. Since neither you nor I will ever have the chance to experience such a sensation, I recommend you drop the matter from your mind. Your composition is still waiting.”
“It was a strange feeling, though,” Bryony said later in my suite. “And a fairly horrible one, to be honest. I feel sorry for that other trainee. Imagine having to feel that every day.”
“I’ll feel sorry for him as soon as I’m confident he wasn’t involved in that attack,” I said.
Bryony looked thoughtful. “Do you think it’s likely? Doesn’t he work with the healers now?”
“He works with the Armed Forces.” I gave her a significant look. “Who as far as I know are still aligned with the throne…and King Cassius.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d forgotten that. But that woman was definitely an energy mage, and I can’t believe the king would have two of them working for him. We’re rare enough as it is—and even harder to find in Kallorway.”
“I hope you’re right.” I sighed. “The thought that he has even one working for him is disconcerting enough.”
“Darius may be acting awful to you right now,” Bryony said, “but I do believe he’ll find out who was behind that attack. Especially now he’s working with Captain Vincent and not trying to do it on his own.”
I groaned. “I hope you’re right. Because I thought I’d finished with suspecting everyone around me at the end of last year.”
“If we’re lucky,” Bryony added, “he’ll find some evidence to convince him of Jareth’s duplicity. And then you can have your prince back.”
I snorted and smiled, but her words haunted me in bed that night. Because I no longer believed that getting Darius back would be nearly that simple—if I could claim I ever had him in the first place.
Chapter 9
I could barely contain my impatience through combat the next morning, eager to get to composition class. I just hoped Alvin would actually let my year mates compose today instead of lecturing the whole time.
I got my wish, and for once I listened closely to the instructions he gave them. Now that it came to it, a small flutter of nerves had started in my chest, and I preferred to start by knowing what the compositions were supposed to be achieving. I still believed I would be able to understand the purpose for myself when I connected with the composition, but I didn’t want to take any risks with my first experiment.
In composition class, trainees learned a variety of basic compositions, regardless of their chosen discipline. Alvin had announced at the start of class that as second years, we were going to begin learning about compositions that interacted with living things.
He laughed merrily at Frida’s horrified expression. “Do not fear. I’m not going to start you out experimenting on each other. You’re not yet ready for such advanced workings. Today we will be composing a flower.”
He produced a small pot of dirt with a flourish, beckoning Isabelle forward to help him hand out the rest of the pots lined up against the wall behind his desk. Neither Bryony, Tyron, nor I received one, but that didn’t matter. I would be using the pot of one of my year mates for my own private experiment.
I had already chosen my first victim—Royce. Not only was he the least likely to say anything if he thought his composition had gone awry—his pride wouldn’t allow such an admission—but I was also the least pained at the thought of accidentally causing him an unearned reprimand. Part of me would have loved to take Jareth’s composition and twist it out of recognition, but that instinct was exactly why it wasn’t safe to meddle with any working of his. I had already decided I wouldn’t touch any composition of either of the princes.
“Each pot already contains a seed buried in the dirt,” Alvin explained. “If you were working on crops, or even just on a permanent garden bed, we would also need to consider aspects such as providing water and nutrients to the growing plant. But for today, we are not going to worry about such things. Imagine, if you will, that you have spied the object of your affections and wish to present him or her with a token of your esteem.”
He grinned at what he clearly thought a clever sally while Dellion openly rolled her eyes. I certainly couldn’t imagine her ever composing such a lover’s token.
“What sort of flower is it?” asked Wardell.
“Compose it into being, and you’ll find out,” Alvin said with a twinkle in his eye.
Dellion rolled her eyes again, but she turned to the empty parchment in front of her with a determined expression. My other year mates did the same, with varying levels of enthusiasm. My impatience mounted as they scratched out the binding words and began their actual compositions.
Surreptitiously I tried to watch Royce, although both Bryony and Tyron sat between us. I had no hope of reading the exact words he wrote, but he did seem to be writing at a fast pace. He was signed up to study the armed forces discipline, but perhaps he had been practicing in his gardens at home over the summer.
I almost smirked at the thought of Royce producing showy flowers to present to girls in the capital. It would take a lot more than a flower to make Royce an appealing romantic proposition.
“Once you’ve completed your composition, please work it so we can all admire the results!” Alvin called over the quiet sounds of multiple pens moving at once.
I bit my lip, now openly staring toward Royce. I had no idea how long a composition like this would take to work, and I might need to be ready to move fast. When he put down his pen, I tensed, reminding myself not to hold my breath.
As soon as he finished tearing the parchment through, I whispered, “Take control.”
As the rush of power released by his working moved toward the pot, I was already connected with it. I could feel it reaching for the seed and feel its intention to spur new and sudden growth. Relief flooded me. Even if I’d missed every word Alvin said, I would have understood the purpose of the composition.
The power poured into the seed, causing it to split and sprout, unseen beneath the dirt. Within moments, greenery poked up into view. I didn’t have long.
“Grow tall and large,” I whispered, under my breath.
The power burst upward in a stronger, faster rush than before, the stalk growing from the soil at an unnerving rate. A bright purple blossom appeared, at first tightly sheathed and then, within less than a breath, bursting open. The petals unfurled, and the power died away.
I leaned forward so I could get an even better look. It was beautiful.
Every part of me buzzed. I had directed that power. I had created that flower. I had done it with borrowed power, and with the help of the seed, of course, but the sense of euphoria still swept me up. Doing something so purposeful felt surprisingly different from reacting in a moment of danger and urgency.
I took a deep breath and looked around the rest of the room. Everyone except Armand now had a pot in front of them with a purple flower. And I could already see a green sprout rising from his.
I bit my lip. Everyone had the same flower, so they must have all been given the same type of seed. But Royce’s was noticeably the tallest and largest of the blossoms. I might have overdone it a little in my rush. Working out how to channel the power was going to be the most difficult of my tasks. It was hard to make a decision ahead of time, before I felt the shape of the composition, but once I had connected with it, I usually only had seconds to respond.
Alvin walked up and down the desks, stopping in front of Tyron and Royce. He chuckled as he looked over Royce’s flower.
“It’s a fine specimen, Royce, I won’t deny it.”
Royce puffed up slightly, but Alvin continued to talk.
“But beware when it comes to living things such as this. As you know, power cannot create matter. If it is created from nothing, then it will remain only as long as power continues to sustain it. What we have done here is not create a flower but encourage one to grow unnaturally fast. But as I mentioned earlier, w
e have done it at an unsustainable pace, not giving it the proper tools it needs to grow healthy and strong. There’s a reason our growers don’t produce harvests in such a manner.”
“But you said that doesn’t matter here,” Royce said.
“It’s true that I set you all the task to create a flower meant for a short-term purpose only. But this flower has grown to such a size that I suspect it will not last long enough for your intentions to be fulfilled. Look.” He pointed at one of the petals. “It’s starting to wilt already.”
I tried to see what he meant, but it was hard to do from this angle. Glancing around the room, I again compared the other flowers to the one I had created, frowning to myself. I had told it to grow large, but I hadn’t expected it to so outstrip the intention of the composition.
“Whoops,” Bryony muttered quietly, grinning at me.
She didn’t seem to have any compunction at my having brought a lecture down on Royce’s head. But even though he was consistently unpleasant to almost everyone, I felt a few small pangs of guilt.
I tried to relive those few moments of controlling his composition, even as the full understanding of its scope was already slipping out of my mind. The problem, I concluded, was that I had overestimated Royce. The creator back in Corrin had made a terrible mistake in his composition, but he had still understood the fundamentals of what he was crafting. His accidental overlay of the competing instruction had destroyed an otherwise sound composition.
For those few moments I had controlled his foundation, I had only needed to redirect it in the manner he had originally intended. His own knowledge and expertise had ensured that it operated correctly from there. But this composition had been different.
Royce had no expertise in the matter of creating flowers, and the composition had already been flawed on creation. I had thought he was writing quickly, and it looked like I had been right. He would have done better to take a little more time and care over his choice of words. He wasn’t the only one either. Several of the flowers were already wilting by the time the class neared its end.
Crown of Danger (The Hidden Mage Book 2) Page 8