Death Sworn(25)

“Absalm gave extra lessons to everyone who had great power. Perhaps you should do the same.”

She folded her arms. “I suppose you were one of them?”

“Me. Arkai. Elum. Efram.” He pointed to each student as he said their name, then added, with a sneer, “and Bazel.”

She followed his pointing finger, blinking. Sorin, watching her closely, spoke up. “You disagree with his assessments, Teacher?”

“No,” Ileni said, too stunned to lie. She didn’t disagree at all. Irun had correctly identified the five students in her class with the most raw power.

But correctly identifying them was not the tutors’ purpose. The Elders had been clear on that: the treaty required them to train the assassins, but they were to do it as ineffectively as possible without raising suspicion. Non-sorcerers couldn’t sense magical potential, so all the teachers were to single out the least-powerful students for the most training. Creating superior killers was the very last thing they wanted to do.

What were you up to, Absalm?

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally. They all watched her, their faces still unfriendly, and she took a deep breath. “In the meantime, let’s try this spell again.”





Chapter 7

“You’re making a mistake,” Sorin said as he walked her into the dining cavern for the midday meal.

Ileni ignored him, heading for her table. She was wrapped in her own thoughts, and Sorin walked in complete silence, so she didn’t notice at first that he was following her. Only when he walked around to the other side of the table did she realize this wasn’t going to be another solitary meal.

The food for the meal was laid out in the center of the table—enough for only one person. Ileni reached for the stew and dumped half of it into her bowl, then tore off a chunk of the bread and dipped it in, not looking at Sorin.

Sorin settled himself on the bench across from her with his typical predatory grace. He made no move toward the food, even though he had obviously spent much of the morning in vigorous training. Sweat still glistened on his forehead and upper arms. “You’re not helping Bazel by singling him out. You’re making things more difficult for him.”

Ileni swallowed a spicy mouthful of stew—someone in these caves knew how to cook, which was one small mercy—and said, “I’m going to train him to use his magic. Why would that make things more difficult for him? Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“You’re here to help us use magic on our missions,” Sorin said. “You shouldn’t waste your time on Bazel. He probably won’t survive long enough to be sent on his first mission.”

Ileni tore off another chunk of bread. “Why? What will happen to him?”

“A fatal accident during a weapons training session, I would imagine.”

Ileni wasn’t sure if he was joking. Sorin leaned back on the bench, regarding her with his head tilted to the side. “Shocked that we’re capable of murder, Sorceress?”

She thought carefully before answering. “Of one of your own? Yes.”

“Ah, you begin to understand us.” It might have sounded like a compliment, but he said it too flatly. “But I said an accident. Bazel’s fighting skills are . . . not up to our standards. And so people are a little less careful when sparring with him. The better to push him to improve, you understand. And the farther behind he falls, the higher the risk.” He twitched his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s simply the way things work.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say and couldn’t hide the disgust on her face. He straightened. “What do you Renegai do, to people born with inadequate magical ability?”

Ileni choked on her bread, but kept her eyes on her food. He couldn’t have guessed how sharp that would cut. “We don’t kill them! Among the Renegai, ordinary people are allowed to live.”

“Ordinary.” He mimicked her pronunciation of the word, and this time she did flinch at the nonchalant contempt in his voice. An exact echo of hers. “How nice for them, if they’re willing to live with that. None of us would accept it.”

Ileni pretended to be deeply involved in removing the mushrooms from her stew, not trusting herself to speak. She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head, but could think of no way to deflect him.

Finally he said, “Death doesn’t mean to us what it does to you. We prefer it to a life of shame.”