“I don’t understand,” Solène said. “What’s ‘burnout’?”
“We use the Fount to power our magic. As I told you before, it’s anywhere that life is. It is life. It’s within us, and is, as I and a number of others believe, what gives us our vital spark. However, when our internal reservoir of the Fount is drawn on too heavily, it affects us. A little will make you tired, a lot can cause you to lose consciousness, and even die.
“Part of what we train our novices to do is to draw on the Fount surrounding us, rather than the Fount within us. It’s as though we use our own Fount as the spark to light the greater fire, but it at least means fatigue is the worst we have to worry about.”
“So I drew on too much of my internal Fount?”
“Yes, I believe that to be the case.”
“I had no idea that could happen,” Solène said.
“You’ve probably never had to tax your magic so strenuously before, so it’s never been an issue.”
“I can remember being tired after using it a few times,” Solène said, recalling how she had fallen asleep after her encounter with Arnoul.
“I should have brought it up earlier, but things have moved so quickly. I didn’t think it would be important for some time yet.” Dal Drezony drew a breath and smiled. “The Prince Bishop insists that you be initiated into the Order at once. On the one hand, he’s right. There’s no one else here even nearly as powerful as you. On the other, as long as you’re untrained in managing your energy, you’re as likely to kill yourself as achieve any of the feats he sees in your future.”
Solène said nothing, still trying to understand.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” dal Drezony said. “I argued against his decision as strenuously as I could, but at the end of the day, he is the Master of the Order, and his command has to be followed. I did convince him that you need more training, so you will attend on me daily to continue your education. Other than that, you will be given duties as an initiated Sister of the Order.”
“What does that involve?” She was genuinely curious.
Dal Drezony smiled sadly. “Whatever the Prince Bishop says it does.”
Solène stood silently in the Priory’s chapel. This was the not the first time she had felt life running faster than she could keep up with. Fleeing her village had terrified her—venturing out into the unknown, alone for the first time in her life. She wondered about her family often. They had been good, kind people who had loved her. They had reacted to her magic out of fear, and she found it difficult to blame them no matter how much it pained her.
A few weeks ago, she had been an apprentice baker who dreamed of opening her own bakery. Now she was dressed in magnificent cream robes with gold stitching, and the motif of the Order of the Golden Spur embroidered in heavy gold and silver wire on her chest. The Prince Bishop officiated the ceremony, and something about the way he looked at her made her uncomfortable. It was different than anything she had experienced before. Arnoul’s glare had combined lust and hate; she had known what to expect from that, known she could deal with it.
That the Prince Bishop wanted something from her was obvious. He bore the expression of a hungry man staring at someone else’s dinner—as if she had something he desperately wanted and he was trying to work out how to get it from her. As unnerving as that was, she wasn’t so foolish as to not see the potential opportunity it brought. Considering her talent, she knew her life options were to live on the run and in fear, or remain at the Order. If she could work out what the Prince Bishop wanted, and how to give it to him at as little personal cost as possible, she could thrive there.
This was a dangerous option, however. If she could not deliver on whatever he expected from her, she was sure there would be consequences. The Order was not the simple, safe haven she had hoped it might be.
The Priory’s chapel was the location for all of the Order’s initiation ceremonies. Despite being headed by the Prince Bishop, dal Drezony had made it clear to Solène that the Order was not a religious organisation. Thus, Solène had not visited the chapel before. It was austere—cold stone, dark wood—a remnant of the Priory’s earlier purpose. So rapidly did her mind race that she barely heard what the Prince Bishop said. Every so often he would pause for her response, which she gave with a nod of her head, as she had been instructed.
What if he wanted her to be a weapon? She’d had good reason to kill Arnoul for what he had tried to do to her, yet she had done something temporary to him that did little more than injure his dignity. She didn’t think she had it in her to kill, and wouldn’t be used as a weapon. What was her alternative, though? To run again?
“You are now an initiated Sister of the Order of the Golden Spur, and bear both the burdens and the benefits of that office,” the Prince Bishop said, drawing her from her worries. “Go now, always mindful of your duties, and humble in the power you possess.”
She nodded again, doing her best to avoid meeting his eyes, then walked from the chapel with dal Drezony at her side.
“How do you feel?” dal Drezony said when they reached daylight.
“No different than when I walked in,” Solène said.
Dal Drezony laughed. “That sounds about right, but you’re part of us now, and safe here. I can’t tell you how much of a relief it was for me when I finally found my way here. My father used to not let me out of the house for fear I’d cast a spell on someone and end up on a pyre. Here, we can be who we are, explore it, and not fear what others may think. You don’t have to worry about the Intelligenciers ever again. You’re home.”
Solène forced a smile. Until she knew what the Prince Bishop expected of her, she intended to reserve judgement.
Alpheratz lay in his cave, resting from the fight. He had expected his actions would eventually draw a response, so he was not entirely surprised by the encounter. Aside from the wound under his wing, it had been more of a learning experience than anything else. The humans who had woken him were taken unaware and were not powerful warriors. A group that had tracked him to his cave and attacked him should have been—but they were far weaker than he had expected. With the exception of the female at the end, who had strong magic and stronger courage, they were pathetic. The only wound he had taken was one of misfortune. Had the man who made the cut not had a Telastrian blade, Alpheratz knew he would have survived the encounter without even a scratch.
In one respect, it was disappointing. There had been glory in defeating the human warriors of old—“chevaliers” they had called themselves, although dragonkind had known them as “slayers.” This battle had been little more than slaughter, and slaughter was something Alpheratz held a deep discomfort for. Each time he lay down to sleep, he saw the woman with the defiant eyes, and her offspring hiding behind her. Every time he thought of it, he felt shame. Shame that tore at the fibres of his heart. He thought of Nashira, and how she must have behaved when their hatchlings were attacked. The song of their souls had been the same—protect that which they loved. This wasn’t the act of vermin.
What had he done? What was he doing? He was an enlightened dragon—a creature of magic and reason. This behaviour was beneath him. Beneath contempt. He banged his head against the cavern wall and let out an anguished cry. He had lost everything he knew, everything he loved, and his reaction had been to descend to unenlightened savagery. He cried out again. What was he supposed to do? How should he have reacted? Mankind had taken all from him. Where was the justice for that? The justice for Nashira and their hatchlings?