“I would never,” Daziel said disdainfully, despite having literally just said he would. “It isso tedious.”
Aunt Tirtzah stood, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you in a fortnight.”
Twelve
At the end of thenext week, I nervously presented my revised spell to the other cryptography students. I couldn’t imagine they’d want to spend an entire afternoon working on my spell, an honor only Yael had received since I’d been here. Their expressions ranged from bored to murderous as I passed out copies. “We can read it over and get to work,” I said. “Unless anyone has questions about the spell itself?”
“Why’s it written fancy?” Stefan rubbed his abs, the jeweled bangles on his wrists clanging together—in Aolong, they wore spelled bracelets instead of amulets. He touched his muscles often, as though to make sure they were still there. “You trying to be a poet? Transferring to the literature department?”
“No,” I said, flustered, hands going to my braids to loosen them instinctively, before reminding myself that would make my hair look terrible. I locked my hands behind my back. “I wanted to try something new.”
“It’s…poetic. Elemental,” Yael said, studying the text. “Shedim work with the elements, don’t they? That’s why they live in cliffs carved by wind and rivers.”
Gidon stared at Yael. “Isn’t that just a rumor?”
The three of them looked at me. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Gidon looked surprised. “You don’t know where your betrothed lives?”
This would have been embarrassing had Daziel really been my betrothed. I was embarrassed a little, anyway. I knew so many small, intimate details about Daziel—how he looked when he first woke up; that his favorite scent was the low-lying shrub garrigue; he was bizarrely averse to kidney beans; he twisted his signet ring when nervous; sometimes he hummed to Paz when he thought they were alone. But the larger facts of his life—many of those I didn’t know.
“It’s an interesting tactic,” Yael said, still studying the spell. “Different.”
Professor Altschuler tapped his podium. “I’ll meet you in the scroll room at seven. I expect the materials to be prepared by then.” He swept out.
“Atseven,” Gidon groaned. Three hours from now, if we didn’t pause to eat.
“You better not be wasting our time, Bat Yardena,” Stefan said.
“Leave her alone,” Yael said dismissively. “You’re just jealous Professor Altschuler hasn’t tried any of your spells.”
“Course I am. She’s afirst-year. How can she know anything?”
I bristled. At home, people considered me competent, the person to look up to. I hated being the newest and untrusted. I lifted my chin in Stefan’s direction. “Do you not like the spell? Because I think it’s worth trying.”
He heaved a sigh and turned toward the door. “Yeah, it’s a pretty good idea,” he said, so easily I wondered if maybe he didn’t think I was an idiot after all.
We pulled plywood from the storage closet. Then we dividedthe spell into quarters and set to work penciling the charaktêres in charcoal before chiseling them.
Plywood wasn’t hard to carve, especially with our sharp metal stylos, but it still took over two hours to space the charaktêres correctly and carve them. By the end, our hands ached. While everyone else did wrist exercises, Gidon unscrewed a jar of neshem oil, the liquid the color of moonlight on water. The four of us dipped in our brushes and painted the spell.
We finished preparing three minutes before seven, our dinner the almonds and carrots Gidon always had on him. Despite our growling stomachs, we straightened as Professor Altschuler swept in.
“Evening,” he said. Stefan started choking on an almond; we all ignored him. “Is everything prepared?”
“Yes, sir,” Yael said, and I felt a little salty. It was my spell. I wanted the credit.
Still, I felt nervous when Professor Altschuler turned to me. “Miss Bat Yardena. If you’ll do the honors?”
I nodded and took a deep breath. More voices were always better—each strengthened the spell—but one person always led. They set the pace, and everyone looked to them. If it were a song, they would be the one carrying the melody.
I’d led a million simple spells with my sisters, but I’d never led one at school.Just pretend it’s me, Adina, Michal, and Selah, I told myself. I pictured them: Adina, always quick-tongued and irritated with me; Michal, dreamy and earnest; Selah, serious and solid. I began.
“ ‘Remember when you were a young thing,’ ” I read. The other four—Professor Altschuler included—joined in. “ ‘When you had hooves and horns and you ran through the grasses.’ ”
First iterations of new spells rarely worked. Most spells wererewritten a hundred times until the most effective word order had been found to channel magic. First attempts at a complicated spell got tangled, the magic knotted. It would stop moving, and the spellwriters would take another crack at ironing the words out.
Sometimes, if a spell was only a tad rough, you could use more neshem. The sheer force of power would scrape the magic through, like extra water forcing a mill to turn. But most people didn’t have endless neshem to spend. Even with extra trills added to strengthen the magic—multiple voices, refrains, melodies, dancing—words were the most important part of a spell.
