Page 57 of Blood of the Stars

Velden held out a slimy palm and squirted him with water before turning around. “Believe what you want,” he called over his shoulder.

“This first test is almost always right.” Sylmar’s gravelly voice came to Aeliana from the other side of her blindfold. “But we’ll follow it up with a few others to be sure.”

She nodded uncertainly, rubbing her sweaty palms on the trousers she still hadn’t gotten used to. They’d stopped trekking through the woods earlier than usual, well before the Sun’s sleep. Aeliana had been relieved to slide her assigned pack from her back—until Sylmar announced that they’d begin training while the others set up camp.

“There’s something before you,” he continued. “Without touching it, I want you to sense what it is. No matter how concerning it might be, you must leave your blindfold on and try to fix it.” He let out a grunt like he had sat next to her. She imagined his beady eyes studying the object, waiting for her to alter it in whatever way he expected.

“Fix it? I’m not sure?—”

“That’s the only instruction you’ll get.”

She frowned. “I think you’ve forgotten that I didn’t grow up learning the basics of magic. I’ve done everything I can to avoid it. I don’t know how?—”

“It’s easier if you shut your mouth and make some effort.”

Was Sylmar teasing her?

“I never shut my mouth.” Velden’s reassuring voice came from her left. “I still figured it out.”

The smack of flesh on flesh met her ears, but Velden only chuckled.

She bit her lip, too nervous to laugh along with him. Nothing more than the distant sounds of camp assailed her senses. The rock beneath her backside was cool and a little pointier on the left. She wondered if she’d have a bruise by the time they were done.

The starlock warmed against her chest as if reminding her it was willing to help. Velden had strung it through a leather cord and fastened it around her neck. She’d been instructed to keep it hidden beneath her tunic, resting against her heart. The points that had dug into her palm now tickled her skin. The others made it sound like it would be a comfort, but it felt more like a reminder of how her blood and this starlock could be a deadly combination.

She supposed that was the point. They were training her so the combination wouldn’t always be deadly. She took a deep breath and tried again, straining her senses for something, anything.

Laughter reached her ears, mingled with the clanking of dishes and the thump of bedrolls being laid out. Kendalyhn’s voice rang out as she teased Lukai, and for once she sounded happy instead of bitter. Water splashed, and Aeliana imagined Jasperus fishing at the creek. He was almost as good as Velden, when his boisterous laugh didn’t scare the fish away.

She tried to make out Cyrus’ constant chatter, but he was unusually quiet. She frowned, straining her ears. It would be impossible for him to be quiet this long unless someone made him. She turned her attention to Sylmar’s and Velden’s breathing. Sure enough, there was a third intake of breath coming from somewhere between them.

Was Cyrus the object before her? Even if it was him, what would she need to fix? Did he have a loose button? A blister on his heel? She tried to lean into her other senses. Even though he no longer smelled of Della’s apple blossoms, she felt certain it was him. Something about the space before her just felt like him. But how did that help her know what to fix?

She shifted, trying to hide her agitation, knowing Sylmar watched. She blew out a long breath, recalling all the times she’d accidentally used magic. When the daisies had grown, when she learned to shoot the bow and arrow. What had she been doing or feeling in those moments?

Usually anger or fear, but when Cyrus had taught her to take aim, she’d been calm. She’d held her breath and let her body go still, closing her eyes to tune out the rest of the world. In fact, it was eerily similar to the setup Sylmar had created now. Even though the blindfold did its job, she closed her eyes, honing in on the space where she heard extra breaths.

Without warning, an image of Sylmar filled her vision, as if he walked toward her in the giant taro trees and ferns surrounding camp. She felt herself smile at him, her lips spreading wide, until she saw the staff in Sylmar’s hand flare to life with its ominous molten glow. Her smile dropped, and the old man growled, pulling her hand down and bending her wrist back, only it wasn’t her hand or wrist. Freckles spattered her skin, and faint scars lined her arm, the result of Sylmar and Lukai having healed her—having healed Cyrus. She panicked, recognizing that the memory belonged to Cyrus but unable to stop it. Sylmar seared Cyrus’ palm with the heat of his staff. Blood trickled down, and Cyrus screamed.

Aeliana stood, screaming with him, and the vision dissipated, leaving her panting. The starlock burned against her chest, making her wonder if it would leave a mark. She reached for the blindfold but remembered Sylmar’s warning. If she didn’t figure out how to fix Cyrus before taking off the blindfold, would they put him through it all again?

How could they have done such a thing in the first place?

Anger replaced her panic, feeding the energy that burrowed within her. It wanted a release, and she wanted to let it loose. She wished she could give Sylmar the same wounds he’d inflicted on Cyrus, maybe make him regret taking things too far.

The intake of breath from her right gave her pause, made her wonder if Sylmar could read her thoughts. She knew so little of what his magic could do. She was fairly certain he was a destructive somatic—the killing spoke, as she’d come to think of it—but he still had some healing abilities. What else could he do that she didn’t know about?

Had he already healed Cyrus? Or did he expect her to try doing that now?

She sat down, back straight as a rod. Instead of picturing Sylmar wounded, she imagined Cyrus’ wounds closing up and patching themselves, like holes in a sock, and then smoothing over, like Velden’s seaweed bandages. Her starlock burned hotter, tempting her to rip it from her neck.

“What—?” Cyrus hissed from in front of her, but he was hushed by Sylmar.

Still, the little bit she heard from him gave her relief. He was all right. Did that mean she was actually healing him with her thoughts? Hope mixed with dread, leaving her stomach hollow. She didn’t want to learn magic, and yet it was the only way forward. It was the right way, but it didn’t stop her from breaking into a cold sweat.

The balance of right versus wrong left her on edge, but it wasn’t just a matter of whether or not she should be doing magic—it was something else. It was almost like patches of hot and cold surrounded her, the cold trying to infiltrate the heat. It didn’t belong, and she needed to separate the two. As she did, reality unfolded before her mind’s eye, Cyrus sitting across from her, wholly intact, gnawing on his fingernails as he watched her sweat and scream.

“None of it’s real,” she muttered. A stillness settled over her, a rewarding peace even though she’d been tricked.

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