Apprentice (The Black Mage, #2)(8)

If we hit a wreath but the arrow fell, or the arrow did not hit our target at all, then our casting was considered a failed attempt. Our projections needed to be just right to travel the great distance and embed themselves into a target's armor. It wasn't an easy feat.

Most of the second-years, myself included, had only had one or two successful castings since we'd begun the afternoon drill.

As the Commander had mentioned earlier, chariot attacks were Ishir's preferred method for initiating battle. Combat mages would be the first to strike – and even though we would be discharged at the same time as the knights, our castings would give us the ability to reach our targets from a much greater distance, much faster than non-magicked weapons. Long bows were usually limited to four hundred feet, and other ranged weapons even less – but that was without magic.

If a mage mastered the technique for long casting, not only would he or she be able to project arrows further than any knight, but eventually much heavier artillery as well.

It would be a great advantage.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Lynn cast out her arrows. No physical weapon in hand, the entire casting was formed by a projection in her mind. She barely flinched as physical shafts manifested themselves from thin air – pulling back against an invisible force and then racing into the distance, embedding themselves deep in a wreath already brimming with arrows directly across from her.

"Apprentice Ryiah it should not take this long for you to form a casting!"

Snapping out of my thoughts, I hastily cast out three conjured arrows in succession. They fell uncomfortably short of the target. As soon as the missiles hit the ground I let them dissipate, dissolving into empty air. I took a deep breath as I prepared for another casting.

"Don't let him get to you, Ry."

I shot Lynn a grateful smile and then returned to the task at hand. I had let the pain in my arm - and Master Byron - detract from my focus. This time I would not be so careless. I recounted the three-foot arrows and the long, elm bowstave we used in practice. I imagined the horrible, heaving tension from drawing eighty pounds of force against my left side. Then I let the shafts fly, soaring toward the wreath with as much strength as I could summon. The mental exercise was just as exhausting as the physical act.

Halfway into their flight I was building the next projection, concentrating on the mental image with everything I had. The ground beneath my feet trembled and I dug into it with the heels of my boots, holding my stance and casting steady as I released another assault on my target. Master Byron was undoubtedly testing us – seeing if we could hold focus in a chariot's bumpy floor.

My second and third castings met my target with success: each time at least one of the three arrows hit a wreath.

I kept going. Thirty minutes flew by before I realized it. My luck continued – at least half of my castings met with success, and the others were not far off.

After five more minutes my stomach began to turn and a nauseous feeling spread up into my lungs. I tasted something bitter and my vision flickered in and out in a familiar warning. My skin was instantly clammy, and a thick perspiration broke out across my tanned skin that had nothing to do with the stifling heat.

As soon as my legs started to shake I called off my magic and watched as the arrows disappeared mid-flight.

Then I bent low with my head between my knees and waited for the dizziness to end. After a couple minutes I began to feel better. I straightened, taking in the rest of the class.

With a small flash of pride I saw that Priscilla, Ella, a third-year named Bryce, and Ray – the dark-skinned boy I had lost to in the previous year's trials - had already quit. Lynn looked like she was about to follow suit, and Darren and Eve were little better. The older apprentices were fading equally fast… though some had been casting with more advanced artillery than arrows.

During my trial year at the Academy the Combat master had always urged us to cast until we had nothing left to give. It had been the fastest way to build our magic's stamina – but it had always had an unpleasant aftereffect, and more often than not it left us sick, fainting, or even unconscious.

Now that we were apprentices our training had changed. After midwinter we would be actively serving with the local regiment for five months in desert patrols. All of our drills now were preparing us for actual combat. Which meant that stamina was no longer as important as survival.

Testing limits had made sense in our first year when the masters had been trying to build our magic as quickly as possible, but now the focus was strategy. We all had different levels of potential – the point in which our magic would stop developing – and after the trial year its ascension was usually much slower.

No one's power was infinite. The closer we were to our limits, the slower our magic progressed. Even then, most mages' stamina stopped building by the time adolescence was over. A couple might continue on into their early-twenties – but that was not the norm. Once a mage reached his thirties it would begin to decline even if that person was diligent in their daily practice. It was the main reason our Candidacy took place so often: we needed the strongest Council possible, even if that meant changing our Colored Robes every twenty years.

"You are preparing yourself for a true-to-life battle," Byron had declared on our first day of apprenticeship. "If you are approaching your limits you need to turn back and call off your magic. The only time that I ever want to see you fainting is if you are at no risk of danger, or the casting's outcome is worth your life."