Death Sworn(58)

“Magic?”

Bazel glanced down at the half-drawn chalk pattern. “Well, only once. That I heard. I was too busy bartering to pay attention, usually, and it was all above my head anyhow. He was asking Karyn about the method for transferring power.”

Ileni stared at him for so long that Bazel stood, still clutching his chalk. “That means something to you?”

“Transferring power is black magic,” Ileni said blankly. “All people have power in them, even if most can’t turn it into magic. And when a person dies, he can pass it on to a sorcerer, if the sorcerer knows how to take it. That’s why the Rathian Empire is so powerful. That’s why they’ve always been unbeatable.”

“Because they kill people for their power?”

He didn’t sound at all horrified. Well, he wouldn’t be.

“Worse than that,” Ileni said. “The power can’t just be taken. It has to be given, voluntarily, by the person who is dying.”

Bazel nodded.

“There are many things you can do to a person,” Ileni said, “to make him beg for death. To give anything you want in exchange for ending the pain.”

Four hundred years ago, their leader, Ciara, had been subjected to those things, and had managed to escape. She had written it down, every excruciating detail, before she died—in agony, but with her soul intact. The Elders recited Ciara’s Lament in the square every year, at midnight on the anniversary of her death. Ileni still wept every time.

She supposed she would never hear Ciara’s Lament again. Maybe she would recite it on her own, as much as she could remember, on the next anniversary. . . .

And then she realized. The anniversary had passed two weeks ago.

She hadn’t even noticed.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she fought them down. Bazel started toward her, but she turned away. She didn’t want his sympathy or his mockery, whichever it was going to be. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be home.

She took a deep breath. “The rock. You have it now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll want to come with you again, next time you go meet them.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve changed my mind,” Ileni said. “I want to send a message to my village after all.”

He nodded, and only then did she realize she wasn’t lying. She should have sent that message. Not to Tellis, necessarily, but to the Elders, or her mother, or one of the other novices . . . just to let them know she hadn’t forgotten them.

If she had, maybe she would be getting a message back now, to let her know they hadn’t forgotten her.



The knife thudded into the target, directly in the center, a killing throw. Sorin stepped back and gestured at Ileni.

“Your turn,” he said.

Ileni hefted her own knife, focusing on the target. A sharp line of pain shot through her upper arm, and she cheated just a bit with a tiny healing spell. She could hit this. She knew she could.

She stepped back and threw. As soon as the knife left her hand, she knew it would fly true. When it pierced the target, she laughed out loud.

Sorin lifted his eyebrows at her. “Have you been practicing on your own?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s impressive, then.”

She tried not to be too pleased. Over the past three weeks of knife-throwing lessons, Ileni had surprised herself by turning out to have a knack for blades. Not that she had anything approaching Sorin’s level of skill, but if anyone tried to attack her while she happened to be holding a perfectly weighted knife, gave her plenty of time to adjust her grip, and stood in one place long enough for her to aim, she would be more than able to defend herself.

Sorin nodded. “Step back.”

“What?”

He handed her the knife. “Take two short steps back, then throw again.”

She scowled at him, but obeyed. Her heart sped up as she gauged the new distance. She could hit it from here, too. And Sorin wouldn’t look impressed, but he would be.

She lunged and threw. The knife spun through the air, missed the target entirely, and hit the stone wall hilt-first. It landed on the ground with a crash that made Sorin wince.

Ileni swore, which turned his wince into a raised eyebrow. He met her glare for a moment, clearly amused, then loped over to the wall. Even just scooping up the knife, he was all smooth strength and swift movements, precise and deadly. She was starting to envy that instead of fearing it.