Thirty-Four
The week of Mathé’s Feast is both a solemn and joyous occasion.
The tradition of the fifth-year Grand Exam coinciding with this week, and culminating on the First Healer’s feast day, is significant and venerated.
Countless qualified healers have survived the ordeal of this week and speak highly of the lesson in discipline it taught them.
In other words: You may get as drunk as you wish the night before your fifth case, but consider very seriously the effect it will have on your performance and on the other members of your exam group, whose passing grade may be ruined by your ill-advised hangover.
—From the Scholar’s Handbook of the Academie Sieuxerr
Jehan was far from the only scholar tiptoeing—or shuffling, or in the spectacular case of Sabastian Lavalle, outright dancing—back to his own room in the small hours, holding his shoes and wearing sloppily refastened feast clothes.
“Mathé’s luck, Jehan,” said Sab. He’d emerged from the room belonging to Paradis Ree, a stern scholar from Ystrathian parents who got excellent marks, was determined to be the next great paediatric specialist, and—Jehan would have thought—had no time for smug dickheads like Sab.
But it was their last day of being scholars. It was the morning after Lantern Night. It was the time for foolish choices and last chances.
Almost-too-late chances. Jehan touched his shoulder, which stung brilliantly where Estiene had scratched him deeply enough to draw blood—and then in the aftermath offered to heal it, and Jehan had refused, and Estiene had commenced a lecture about how reckless Jehan was with his body.
“Jehan?”
“Oh, sure, yes, and to you too,” said Jehan.
He’d gone on to be gloriously reckless with Estiene’s body in return, and Estiene had growled something like, You can’t just do whatever you want anymore, you’re mine, which had been bone-meltingly hot at the time.
Jehan would have liked to believe that he was Estiene’s. He’d have liked to believe Estiene would throw over his ambition and come to Mostau. He’d have liked to spend a week reliving Estiene saying fallen in love, and feel able to believe that as well.
Oh, Estiene hadn’t lied to him. He’d meant what he said.
But coming down the other side of a heady, glorious reconciliation fuck—how long would he manage to mean it for?
Secrecy was a hard habit to shed, and Estiene had spent twenty-three years being a Marcelle in a long line of Marcelles, only five of them knowing Jehan, and only—what, two hours? —knowing how Jehan felt about him.
If Jehan swung himself open like a fool and let Estiene hurt him, again, it would be a hard blow on a barely healed fracture. He’d shatter.
Jehan opened the door to his room. It was stone-dark inside and he couldn’t be bothered with lamps or candles; he was going to collapse fully dressed, let himself dwell in the memory of Estiene’s mouth, and get a few hours of sleep.
The narrow residence hall beds were fine for a fuck but not comfortable for two people to sleep on, in summer, when one of them was as long-limbed as Jehan.
Jehan was sure they were designed that way on purpose.
Besides, this way they both had space to think. To reconsider. To be sure.
He’d taken two steps toward the bed when every hair on his body stood up.
An icy pulse of adrenaline went through him. It wasn’t magic; it was instinct. If he’d not spent two years in Blavot’s ring, honing those instincts to a fine point, he might not have turned in time.
He did.
A shadow had separated from the shadows of his desk and chair, and now moved on near-soundless feet, closing the distance. Jehan jerked out of reach just as a blow swung through the place where his head would have been.
Jehan laughed. He couldn’t help it. All he could think was: They keep warning us we might get abducted or attacked, but do any of us really believe it?
Jehan had been trained to fight for a crowd, and he was very good at it. Alongside that, he’d been trained to fight for his life. It was harder when he couldn’t see properly, but he still managed to twist in the small space and slam the front of his shin out with enough force to do damage.
There was a stifled, professional grunt. Jehan already knew that the man had quickly adjusted and Jehan’s kick had landed on a safe, meaty area instead of the joint. His opponent was also, it seemed, very good. In fact, his opponent had a style that—
“Oh fu—” said Jehan, and that was as far as he got, because the man had surged forward, using sheer body mass to overcome Jehan’s flailing defences, and clapped a sodden rag over Jehan’s mouth and nose.
Jehan grabbed the man’s wrist and tried not to inhale.
His eyes stung from the fumes, his half-open mouth tasted foul, and his lungs were crying out already.
Bend. Twist. Try to shake him off—no—try to claw and break the arm’s hold, the iron-firm hand clamped over his face—no, that wasn’t working either, shit, shit.
Wrist. Jehan, even as his body inhaled despite his best efforts, found himself gathering his magic with the muddled, frantic intent to do harm. What had Moyna said? Magic around the heart—magic of the heart—darkness, the heart, Estiene, you’re reckless with your body, you’re reckless—
Warm curtains closed in and Jehan’s magic, along with his thoughts, faded to nothing.