Chapter 12
Ibounce on my toes, trying to calm my nerves. The scent of sweat lingers in the training room, and the straw dummies lined up in the corner feel like extra eyes watching me. I wish I knew what the thieves expect from me.
Maeve dusts flour off her clothes as Finnian leans against the stone wall.
He takes a wad of fabric out of his pocket and stabs it with a threaded sewing needle.
I remember the draper telling me that these people extort, blackmail, and fleece.
Yet they’re standing around as if they don’t ruin lives.
At least one bit of good news came out of meeting the thieves’ guild. It’s not too late to reclaim my silver marks. When I see Rune Erickson again, I’ll—
I freeze when I spy the lynx curled up on a pillow. Its ear twitches as it regards me with lazy, half-open eyes.
“That’s Min,” Desmond says. “Min, this is Cyn.”
Min yawns, displaying four very sharp canine teeth. I try not to think about the lynx Dad and I poached during the start of the famine. They’re beautiful animals, silent and lithe.
“So what is she?” I ask them. “A mascot? A pet?”
“An assassin,” Desmond answers.
“She’s more awake at night,” Finnian adds. “And she’s an acolyte, so don’t be surprised if you see her in a robe.”
I snort. “Of what god?”
“Of Aedros,” Maeve answers with a bright smile.
Is this a joke I’m not in on? The god of compassion’s sacred animal is a ram, not a feline. And why would a lynx tolerate a robe?
“Are you ready?” Desmond asks. My weapons are already on the racks. Nog must’ve put them here. He grabs my bow and tosses it to me.
My stomach flips. I levitate the bow midair, stopping it from hitting the floor. “This bow is a family heirloom,” I snap. “Break it, and I’ll break you.”
Desmond raises a brow, clearly amused. “The weight of that threat remains to be seen. At least you’ve trained your reflexes.”
We stare at each other. My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
He throws me my quiver. “Stand at the back wall and aim at the target.”
My mother’s doubt cuts through my mind: You never inherited your father’s aim with a bow, though I suppose that’s to be expected when you didn’t inherit his farsight magic either.
I notch an arrow anyway.
I shoot.
The arrow strikes the outer edge of the target. Heat crawls up my neck.
Desmond clicks his tongue. “At least you have good form. Proper anchor point, backset—Your father taught you well in that regard. Too bad he didn’t teach you good aim.”
I want to argue that he’s taught me other things: how to set traps, quietly move through the forest, and what beasts to watch for. Yet I know none of that will impress these thieves.
“Try it again with your Gift,” Desmond orders.
“What?”
He plucks the arrow from the target and twirls the shaft between his fingers. “I assumed that with such faulty aim, you’d learn to harness your magic as a crutch.”
“And do what with it?”
“Manipulate the arrow midair,” he answers.
I stare at him. The thought had never occurred to me before.
“Let’s try knives,” Desmond says.
I trade my bow for a throwing knife. “You want me to throw it at the target?”
“Or we can stand here and admire it.” He crosses his arms.
“You. . . might want to stand back.”
He laughs. It’s a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Already am.”
I throw. The knife strikes the wall. Mom was right. I can’t aim worth shit. Yet what if I did control the knife’s trajectory with my magic? What then?
“Now use your magic to retrieve it.” Somehow, Desmond glazing over my awful throw feels worse than criticism.
I spin it toward me.
Desmond snatches it. Then he tosses it to me.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that.” A shiver rolls down my spine as he circles me with long, confident strides.
He watches me like a predator discerning prey.
“I see two glaring problems. This first is simple. You’re a liability.
The draugr lurking in King Olin’s tomb will make the ones you’ve fought seem like. . .”
“Like puppies?” Finnian suggests.
“Like puppies,” Desmond repeats.
Indignation burns within me, fueled by the shame. “The last draugr I defeated was a wight who could freeze water. And last time I checked, animals can’t wield axes.”
“Tell that to Min,” Finnian says with a laugh.
Min excitedly mrrps in response.
“As I was saying,” Desmond continues, “you’d be first to go down in a fight, which is a problem considering how low a bar Finnian already sets.” He glances at his friend. “No offense meant.”
Finnian grins. “None taken.”
“The second issue is your magic. You have a weak—”
“A weak Gift? You knew I was an Average when you hired me.” I tighten my grip on the knife so I can’t fling it at the wall in frustration.
My parents’ disappointment when I manifested as a child left a splinter inside my heart.
It dug deeper with each passing year. They were overjoyed that Evie inherited Mom’s water-wielding; she’d be such a help in the fields. I had choked back tears.
Desmond strides close enough that I can smell peppermint tea on his breath. He looms over me, his strong shoulders consuming my vision. “Is that what you think, Cynthia?” he whispers so low that only I can hear, but every word is cold, like ice slipping down my neck. “You’d call your magic weak?”
I’m struggling to breathe, his proximity unnerving me. Yet I meet his gaze. “That’s why there are five classes, right? Not all of us can be Elites.” Like you. I let those unspoken words burn through my glare.
He huffs a laugh. “I expected more from you. To think that the woman who knowingly accosted the Prince of Death to save her dying sister would so readily demean herself before him.”
I draw in a sharp breath. “You have no idea what having the wrong magic is like!”
“I will only say this once.” His face hardens into a mask of marble. “The five classes do not matter. They’re a construct built by a kingdom bent on controlling its people. A Gift is defined by how you use it.”
His emotions leak into me, a deep pool of shame that constricts my chest. It’s not unlike my own. My lips part. How could he have that in common with me?
Then he steps away, and the feeling is gone.
I slacken, relieved by the space now between us. “Then what did you mean by ‘weak’?”
“You have a weak understanding of your Gift, and you don’t know how to wield it beyond the simplest applications,” he answers loud enough that the others can hear.
“Imagine yourself with a dozen knives, all hovering behind you. You could strike a dozen enemies. Or one enemy a dozen times instantaneously. You’ll become a force to be reckoned with if you embrace your Gift. And that’s only the beginning.”
“The beginning?” I echo. How could I aim twelve knives at once when I can’t even manage one?
“What do you call your Gift?”
“Untethering.”
He nods. “It’s an uncommon Gift. Most wielders call it far-reach, but we’ll go with untethering. Your Gift moves inanimate objects, but you may have the potential to move not just objects, but the material within them as separate entities.”
“Untethering isn’t an Elite Gift,” I argue. “That would take power I don’t have.”
Desmond stops. His voice is assured as he says, “Power isn’t born. It’s made.”
The lynx and Finnian trade a too-meaningful glance, something unspoken bouncing between them.
“We haven’t even touched your strength.” Desmond pauses. “Lift me.” When I step toward him, he clarifies, “With your Gift.”
“I can’t.” My fingers curl. “Like you just said, it doesn’t work on living things.”
“What about dead things?” Finnian asks.
“Dead things, I can move.”
“Then lift this.” Desmond kicks the wooden target over and steps atop it. He spreads his feet into a wide, confident stance. Yet it’s his expectant frown that tells me this is why I’m here. This is the ultimate test. But why?
“What trap did you hire me to disarm?” I deserve to know why I’m here.
“That doesn’t matter, as long as you’ll do whatever it takes,” Desmond replies.
“Whatever it takes? I’m not about to go murder a village for you.”
“We’ll see. It would be a good test of mettle,” he replies.
“He’s joking,” Finnian says. “Unless we find a little commune of chickens.”
At this, the lynx’s ears perk, and she licks her lips.
“Good luck,” Maeve says. “I need to attend to the potions I’m brewing.” She smiles, then tromps out of the room. That leaves me with Desmond, Finnian, and the lynx.
I can do it. I breathe in, then out. How hard can it be? I focus my magic, feeling it wrap around the target like a fifth limb. It budges, scooting rather than lifting. Sweat beads on my brow.
Desmond taps his foot. “Is something the matter?”
“Let me concentrate!” Lifting is harder than pushing. Gravity itself fights me, determined to break me. White-hot pressure builds in my head as I lift the board six inches. Eight.
His arms cross. “Higher. Are you going to let a slab of wood best you?”
“I’m trying!” A sharp pain stabs behind my eyes, as if I’m staring at the sun.
Then my mind buckles. The target slams against the stone floor with a crack that jolts through the room. Agony bursts through my skull, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Then my knees hit the floor.
Darkness rushes in at the edges of my vision. I brace one hand against the ground, trying to stay upright, but my arms tremble. Somewhere nearby, Desmond says my name, sharp and commanding, yet it sounds distant, like he’s calling to me from underwater. I collapse before I can answer.
Cold stone presses against my cheek. For one humiliating moment, all I can hear is my own ragged breathing.
Desmond kneels beside me. He’s calm while I lie sprawled at his feet, weak enough to black out from a simple task.
If I can’t do this, will they send me home? I can’t fail. Not when Evie’s health hinges on this tomb raid. I can’t be useless again.
I pant as I sit up. My skull throbs in time with my heartbeat. “Let me try again.”
“Drink,” Desmond orders. “You’re dehydrated.”
There’s a pitcher on a shelf near Finnian. I slowly stand and step toward it.
He clicks his tongue. “With magic.”
The pitcher jerks into the air. Water sloshes as I levitate it to me. I glare at him over the lip as I take slow gulps of the icy water.
“That was sloppy.” Desmond is suddenly too close again. I can hear the flare of his nose. “Next time, consider doing it instead of trying it. Be stronger than the pain.”
I shove him away. This day has been one pitfall after another. Instead of the tomb raiders I wanted to meet, I’m surrounded by Erickson’s thieves, and my new “crewmates” just watched me fail.
“That’s too easy for you to say!” I snap. “Are you really that good with your Gift, or are you lecturing out of your ass?”
“I’m more than good,” Desmond says. His hazel eyes frost over as his lips curl. “I’m devastating.”
“Prove it!”
He stares me down as though I’m nothing more than an obstacle he could dismiss with a wave of his hand. It’s impossible to believe this is the same man who bandaged my shoulder at the market and gave me his bed.
“This is going to be good,” Finnian chortles.