Page 92 of The Deadliest Candidate

On her first try, Fern got as far as the holding incantation. Finding the source of the fire and calling it forth had been easier than she imagined, but the moment she felt the flames enter her, the pain was so immediate, so shocking that Fern’s incantation died in ascream. She fell to her knees.

She sucked in a breath. The pain inside her was just that. Pain receptors triggered by something alien, sending an electric signal up the nerve fibres and to the spinal cord, neurotransmitters passing the message on to the brain, where the message was relayed to the somatosensory cortex, the limbic system and the frontal cortex.

A message passed on from one part of her body to the other, designed only to keep her safe. And in this case, pain was only a message, a warning. The danger wasn’t real; Fern would not be harmed. She was strong enough to control the fire without letting it harm her.

Fern began the incantation again from the start. Finding the fire, calling it forth, holding it. The pain was immediate and searing, but she knew she could not give in to it. She was stronger than the power she was trying to wield.

She forced herself to breathe, forcing unsatisfying air into tight lungs. The pain, she reminded herself, was only a false message, her brain’s needless warning. She wasn’t being harmed. She was alright.

She bit out the incantation for holding, feeling the flames fill her, lapping at her insides, charring her bones. Sweat broke over her brow, her body shook, and the rungs of her ribcage seemed to crack under some invisible force. An illusion. She gasped, withholding, keeping the flames trapped within her.

Drawing deep from her well of energy, she began the recitation for the channelling.

The channelling came more easily, her body eager to expulse the flames like ridding itself of a parasite. Throwing both arms forward, muscles straining with force, she sent out curling ribbons of flames. Theyseared her fingertips, and faded as soon as they appeared, and disappeared in a burst of embers before they could even cross the space between Fern and the door.

Fern, her breath a rattle, keeled back, her entire body going limp, her lips beaded with sweat. Her face was drenched, but her skin felt dry and scorched, as though she had just crossed the arid expanse of a desert. Even her lungs felt charred; if she took too deep a breath, she feared the structure would collapse into ashes.

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her face, hands shaking. Her fingertips ached, and her head was spinning. A wave of panic slammed over her, but she stood against it. The panic, like the pain, wasn’t real, it was just her nervous system reacting to unnatural stimuli. Her body begged her to stop—her mind urged her to keep going.

How long would she need to practise the spell before she could master it well enough for the assignment? Probably years. But she didn’t have years. She only hadnow.

When using magic with a depleted source of energy, there were only ever two options. The first was to borrow from one’s source of energy. This was always a risky undertaking: one could borrow too much and leave no energy for the coming days, weeks, sometimes months, or even years. In the worst cases, one could draw too much and use up their entire reserves, leaving themselves neutered of powers.

The other option, of course, was to use Wild Magic, but as Fern had once discussed with Lautric, this was a volatile source of power, unknown and almostimpossible to control. She swallowed, tasting iron and sweat, and her legs buckled beneath her.

Most who had tried to bend Wild Magic to their will had failed.

Fern straightened her spine, pulling herself together. If Lautric knew how to channel Wild Magic, it was no help to her. She knew better than to ever go to him for help, no matter how tender his entreaties to do so had sounded.

And since she trusted herself more than she would ever trust Wild Magic, and Wild Magic more than she would ever trust Lautric again, then it would be from her own reserves she must draw power.

The thought was almost paralysing. Borrowing from one’s own powers was like borrowing coins from a purse one could neither see nor touch. You might borrow a handful out of a sackful, or you might be borrowing the last remaining coins. You wouldn’t know until it was too late. Some people spent years rebuilding their reserves—others never recovered theirs. Fern was no great mage, but she knew not what a life without magic would feel like. She did not want to find out either.

She steeled herself. Her back was to a wall, cowering would not change her situation. She wiped the sweat from her face and smoothed her hair and straightened the pins that secured the sweat-soaked strands. She moistened her lips and opened her mouth and took deep breaths, counting, holding, exhaling, forcing her frightened heartbeat to calm itself.

She gathered her energy and cast the spell once more.

Chapter forty-five

The Alchemist

The week passed ina blur, and Fern was certain only of two things. One, that pyromancy was the most difficult magic she had ever tried to wield. Two, that whoever had made the ward, they had designed it to be as close to indestructible as possible.

But with every attempt she made at the spell, and every failed attempt at destroying the ward, Fern’s resolve grew. The day of the assignment was fast approaching now, and Fern would do everything she could to ensure she was one of the shortlisted candidates, and if possible, to boot Lautric out of the candidacy and as far away from her as she could keep him.

With him gone, she was certain, everything would be simpler. Everything would besafer.

She spent her days learning her incantations and preparing her presentation, and in the nights, practising her spells. The magic was taking its toll on her energy, and she was torn between the knowledge that she needed to practise, her desire to gain entry into theAstronomy Tower, and the instinct to exercise caution and withhold her energy.

But this was the final assignment; there would be plenty of time for caution later.

All she could do in the meantime was eat and rest as much as she could, to help her body build its reserves back up after each exhausting day of practice. The dining room was often deserted these days—most candidates seemed to keep different hours, and Fern had a feeling everyone was keen to avoid one another now that they were all drawing so close to the end of the assignments.

Two nights before the assignment, though, Fern walked into the dining room to find Dr Essouadi, Vasili Drei and Raphaël Baudet all sitting at the long table.

It was a strange ensemble. Although Fern had seen Srivastav a handful of times since finding Lautric at his desk, the pyromancer seemed preoccupied, perhaps even unwell, and had been avoiding the dining room. In his absence, Dr Essouadi and Vasili Drei seemed to be engaged in a light conversation about the mix of spices in tonight’s stew. Baudet, in a suit of azure velvet bereft of its customary adornments, pushed food around his plate with the end of his fork, chin propped on one fist, eyes unfocused.

Fern watched him with a mixture of pity and curiosity. How much did he know? Vittoria’s disappearance had deeply affected him—but was it true emotion at the root of his despondency, or the dismay of having lost a valuable ally?

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