While Lory still wondered what that was supposed to mean, Brycon shook his head.
“It’s only happened once or twice, and I don’t know if I can do it again.” There, the same doubt Lory felt crossed Brycon’s features, and he flipped his long braid over his shoulder, glancing at Thal, then Frost, and even Lory for help.
Something tight and anxious coiled in Lory’s stomach at the sight of Dunveil shoving the book at him. “Try it.” Not a suggestion.
Fingers trembling, Brycon placed his palm on top of the book and closed his eyes. It was over in a heartbeat, no spectacular sparks of light or humming air. When Brycon opened his eyes again, he was smiling.
“Seventeen chicken hop in a pond.”
“Excuse me?” Thal prompted, eyeing Brycon as if he’d lost his mind.
Dunveil shot him a look that stopped any more gibberish by the young man.
Sitting up straighter in her chair, Lory tried to figure out what just happened, and when she cut a glance toward Falcrest, he had his familiar cold expression pasted on, not one hint of surprise or wonder.
“Very nice, Ashling Seine. You may leave.” Dunveil dismissed Brycon with a flick of his hand, and Brycon handed back the book and rushed from the room like someone was about to set him on fire.
Lory had no idea how what Brycon had just said connected to the ability to magically absorb information, but she was certainly not going to embarrass herself by asking.
“Ashling Heener, you’re next.” While Dunveil waited for Thal to come to the front of the room, Falcrest prowled along the side, all the way to the back, where he stood, hands casually at his sides as if he was readying for any possible scenario where he’d need to defend himself with his blades.
For a moment, Lory marveled at the artfully curved sabers, trying not to notice the defined muscles along Falcrest’s powerful thighs, the way he stood, overseeing the room like there was no one and nothing that could get past him if he so chose. A shudder ran down Lory’s back, skin heating with awareness as Falcrest caught her staring. Mouth tilting up at one side, he shook his head in a silent reprimand.
She should be focusing on whatever incredible ability Thal had manifested. Instead, she was struggling yet again with finding anything other than the cruel captain fascinating.
As Lory whipped her gaze to the front of the room, she could feel Falcrest’s eyes lingering on her back, and she’d have been lying had she said it didn’t bother her that she didn’t know what was going on behind those cold gray eyes. Perhaps he was plotting her death, already convinced a mistake had been made by bringing her to Ashthorn. Or he was wondering how many mornings it would take for her to be the one locked out of the mess hall and stabbed by one of her fellow students.
“No signs of magic other than a spark here and there so far, sir,” Thal admitted with the most serious expression Lory had seen on him yet.
Dunveil didn’t seem convinced. “Your father could sense water,” he mused. “A very useful ability on a continentdominated by deserts. Have you ever felt a prickle of something when close to large bodies of water? The river Dun, perhaps? Or when you visited the sea?”
Thal lowered his head. “Not that I remember. But my father developed his ability when he was twenty-four, so I have four more years to go before I can write it off.” His smile was slowly returning when he lifted his chin once more.
“Your father joined Ashthorn when he was twenty-four, Ashling Heener. He started training his magic the first week at this academy, as do all ashlings. You want to follow in his footsteps, you’d better dig deep and figure out what type of magic your body is hiding from you.” He didn’t need to remind them all of the speech Nefetari Brunn had given the first morning. That they’d leave the academy either as ashmarked or dead. And judging by Dunveil’s tone, he believed Thal might end up with the second option. “Now get out of here.”
Thal didn’t hesitate as he scrambled past the rows of chairs, almost knocking one of them over. A pang of sympathy ran through Lory’s stomach, but she didn’t have a moment to wonder what would happen to her if she couldn’t produce magic. Frost was being called to the front of the room, his tattoo standing out stark against his palish skin and his boots unusually loud on the floor as if to emphasize he was built from mostly muscle.
Much to Lory’s surprise, Falcrest followed him, his steps the opposite of Frost’s, light and noiseless. His build was more lithe than Frost’s, more athletic than bulky, but obvious strength resonated in every movement, each step theepitome of control. If Lory had ever seen a human weapon, Falcrest was it, and she hadn’t even seen him fight yet.
“We already know your power, Ashling Bellmont,” Dunveil said, gesturing at the glass of water. “But I’m sure Captain Falcrest will appreciate a demonstration.”
Falcrest merely inclined his head at the Knowledge Hand before turning to Frost. “Don’t hold back.”
Frost wiped his hands on the front of his shirt before lifting one of them toward the glass still sitting on the desk.
A crack split the air, accompanied by the high-pitched noise of shattering glass as the water inside turned to ice.
Lory’s heart kicked into a gallop at the sight of a million crystal-like pieces scattered across the wooden desk and the stone floor.
No wonder they called him Frost.
Frost didn’t return Dunveil’s half-smile. “Very good, Ashling Bellmont. You’re dismissed.”
Lory hadn’t caught her breath when she noticed both Dunveil and Falcrest turning their attention on her as Frost left the room without a glance back.
“Ashling Vednis.” Dunveil motioned for her to come to the front of the room, an expectant expression on his face, while Falcrest merely studied her like she was a particularly interesting experiment.
Lory’s pulse leaped into her throat, and the leftovers of the bruise on her temple ached as she calculated her chances of getting out of there alive.
