Eventually, I catch some ‘C’ names being called, which means my turn’s approaching. My stomach twists as I head to the entrance, dreading the moment my name’s announced. I’ll have been anonymous for barely a bell before everyone decides they know exactly who I am and set their expectations.
Just get through placements. I can worry about what everyone thinks of me after.
I close my eyes, focusing on my inhales and exhales. The murmur of the crowd fades away.
Professor Mallory’s voice cuts through the air. I pay no mind to the names she says, but the last one breaks through.
“Eloise Detura.”
My eyes open. The crowd quiets around me, save for whispers of my father’s name and title slithering against my eardrums. I take a deep breath and carry myself forward.
The Great Hall is a cavernous space of gray wood that could easily hold three times the number of people teeming outside. Today, they’ve divided it into six spacious sections with waist-high panels, with a desk and pedestal standing at the center of each area. The other students in my group follow their proctors to the desks, one for each of them, their voices and footsteps echoing through the chamber. The stillness calms my heart, a respite from the chaos we left behind.
“The examination consists of twelve individual tests,” says my proctor, a short woman with glasses and frizzy brown hair that she valiantly attempted to tame with a braid, but it refused to cooperate. “There are three tests of increasing difficulty for each element. Upon completion of each, I will determine whether we continue with the higher difficulties or move on to the next element. Don’t worry if you find yourself struggling—the average first-year only completes the four basic tests.”
Is it possible she wasn’t paying attention to my name?Or perhaps it’s simply the same speech for everyone. Either way, my shoulders relax.
She leads me to the last remaining desk, stopping on the side opposite me. Reaching beneath the desktop, she brings out a candle and centers it on the pedestal. Then she rummages through her pocket until she reveals a red quartz crystal.
“This is a fire focus,” she says, handing it to me. “Your goal is to light the candle.” She pulls two sheets of paper out of her folio and slides them onto the desk in front of me.
“This”—she pushes the one with a familiar circular pattern toward me—“is called a focal. And this”—she moves the other sheet closer so I can see it—“is the incantation. You’ll place the focus at the center of the focal and trace the pattern with your finger while reading the incantation. Upon success, you’ll have lit the candle. You have three minutes.”
I set the quartz on the desk. It’s the least important part of incanting: a crutch for those who haven’t learned to draw from the world around them. Even with how much has been drained from the Academy and its surroundings, there’s still plenty to pull from deeper underground.
Looking at the candle, I visualize the pattern my father had me memorize when I was six and go through an abridged version of the incantation in my mind; half a second later, a flame ignites on the wick.
The proctor stares at the blaze, then looks at me, the candle, and back again.
Perhaps I should have done it how she’d asked?
“Success,” she says, her voice breathier than before. She shakes her head quickly as if waking herself from a daze, then scribbles something in her folio. After blowing out the candle, she replaces it with a small, charred log.
“The second test is to ignite this wood.” She flicks through the pages in her folio, then hesitates, looking at me.
The log bursts into flames at my silent command. I can’t help the smile tugging free as the proctor jumps back, startled, almost dropping her papers.
“S-s-success!” More scribbles, then she lifts her face back to me. “The final fire test is to lift the flames off the log, then extinguish them.”
Two consecutive incantations?I can appreciate why that’s the ultimate test. You have to be quick enough to get through the second one before the first falls apart.
“Would you like the focal tracings?” she asks.
“No, thank you.”
Hand gestures are entirely unnecessary with incanting, but I find it more enjoyable to do them. I flick my wrist upward as I visualize the lifting incantation, then squeeze my fingers into a fist for the extinguishing one.
“Success.” Her voice wavers, and it takes a moment for her to remember to write the results. Despite my swelling pride at having so obviously impressed her, a twinge of apprehension itches beneath it.
How much of an advantage has my upbringing given me?
Five minutes later, I’ve completed all twelve tests, and my proctor excitedly hands me off to a young woman whose eyes widen as she reads my results. She leads me out the doors and into a wide gray and white hallway that leads to the rest of the building. A couple of rooms have their doors propped open, and I peek into one as we pass. Several students lounge idly within, some speaking with each other while others stare out a window or at the decorative molding. Alexis, mostly identifiable by her braids, has her face buried in her arms on one of the desks, asleep.
“This way,” my guide says, so I hurry after her. Up the stairs, down another hallway, to a door withGenevieve Malloryetched on a plaque next to it. She gestures me into the office and instructs me to wait there.
Two bells pass and I’ve already perused all the books on the shelves, most of which we have in our library at home, and have moved on to counting the minuscule tiles decorating the floor and ceiling. Unless I miscounted, they’re evenly split amongst the various shades of gray, with the darkest hue having one extra due to a mistake in one corner.
My boredom has me weighing the risks of peeking through Mallory’s desk when the doorknob clicks. My guide from earlier holds it open for a young man who thanks her before plopping into the seat next to me, wincing as he hits the stiff cushions.
