Death Sworn(24)

“We always listen carefully.”

Irun, of course. If she had to contend with him all morning, somebody was going to end up dead. Probably her. “Noted,” she said. “Now, you start by forming a mental image of a flame, and then—”

“Absalm said we would learn the spell best by watching him do it.”

Ileni narrowed her eyes. Irun was sitting as upright as everyone else, his face blank, yet somehow he managed to give the impression that he was slouching back and smirking at her. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Absalm.”

“I’ve noticed.” He said it flatly, without expression, but one of the other students snickered. A brief, quickly swallowed sound, but one that rang in the stillness like a bell.

Ileni allowed herself to imagine how Irun would react if she demonstrated by setting his clothes on fire. Suddenly she was too aware of the power next to her, leaking from Bazel’s skin and sizzling against hers. It made her itch with the desire to somehow draw it in and use it, unleash it, be herself again.

She had heard of taking another’s power for your own, methods the imperial sorcerers had perfected—but that was evil magic, and her people had rejected it when they broke from the Rathian Empire centuries ago. Even if she had been tempted, Ileni had no idea how that kind of spell worked.

“If you’re such an expert, why don’t you try it first?” she snapped. No, that was a bad idea. She wished her head felt clearer. “Actually, why don’t you all try it at the same time? Bazel, back to your mat. All of you, do as I say.”

Bazel slunk back. He had not, as far as she could tell, changed expression once. She sneaked a glance at Sorin, not wanting to look at Irun. Sorin hadn’t changed expression either. Of course.

Too late to back out. She cleared her throat. “Start with the following phrase . . .”

After ten minutes of instruction, they were ready. She watched as they spoke and gestured in unison, feeling the power build around her, battering at her, taunting her. Sorin’s face was fierce with concentration. It was a difficult spell.

It wasn’t until the last line of the spell that she realized she had failed to properly explain how to shift the accent mid-phrase. By then, it was too late to stop them. The room echoed with the last triumphant word, and the power let loose. Floating balls of water burst into being over the assassins’ heads, then exploded. Water rained down in the small cavern, sluiced through hair and thin gray tunics, then ran in dozens of rivulets over the stone floor and out the opening that led into the main training area.

Total silence. Then someone snickered, and a second later, all twenty drenched young killers doubled over in hysterical laughter.

“That could have killed you!” Ileni shouted. If they had shifted the accent lower instead of higher, the water would have been boiling. She glared at each of them in turn—and noticed, suddenly, that it was nineteen drenched students. Bazel, though he was laughing as hard as everyone—albeit a bit tentatively, and keeping a wary eye on the others—was completely dry.

Ileni advanced upon Bazel. That cut off the laughter. Even a sudden, startled curse from the direction of the training area—where the assassins sometimes trained barefoot—didn’t restart the snickers, though a few students grinned.

“What happened to you?” Ileni demanded.

Bazel looked blank, as if confused by the question, but he couldn’t keep a hint of smugness from his voice. “Cadrel taught us rain-shields before he died, Teacher.”

Silence. Ileni, glancing around the room, saw that no one was grinning anymore. They must all have mastered the rain-shields—among the Renegai, three-year-olds used rain-shields—but Bazel had been the only one to think of using one.

The grins and easy laughter had turned to dark expressions and glares, all directed at Bazel. Sorin in particular looked thunderous, and Ileni could guess why: he was supposed to be the one who surprised his teachers with clever tricks, who surpassed the others without half-trying.

Ileni looked at Bazel thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should arrange some private lessons for you.”

That caused another snicker—a far nastier, less friendly one. Bazel stared at her as if she had struck him, then lowered his eyes.

Ileni sighed, and turned to face the rest of the class. Nineteen hard faces: cold, resentful, and dripping wet.

It was Irun, of course, who spoke. “Why only Bazel?”

She blinked at him. “What?”