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.”