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“You know we’re not running from oblivion. We’re running toward
hope.”
“Credit me or anyone else for your success. As it is, other people will try to credit me in order to tear you down. Be cold, be hard, and don’t give them an inch, you understand? No matter what they say of you.”
“Kwen who can’t work a job—whatever the job—don’t get to live.” “My!” Sciona laughed. “It’s true what they say about you people being melodramatic.” Thomil broke eye contact, and Sciona felt oddly as though she had lost hold of something—bright energy eluding her fingers on the keys. “Sorry, ma’am. Forget I said anything. I’ll just listen.”
A wary shadow crossed Thomil’s expression. “If I’ve spoken out of turn, ma’am, I apologize.” “No, no. You’re not out of…” Well, they were both speaking out of turn by speaking ill of Faene’s teachings. “They’re good questions,” she amended. The type she usually had to sit around asking herself for hours until her brain stripped its gears from running in circles. The run was easier with someone at her side. “Your questions are always good.” “May I ask another, then?” “Please.”
“But if you had a good, weighty reason to break one of his laws?” Thomil prompted. “You could do it and still be right with your god?” “I could…” Thomil’s smile was faintly conspiratorial as he set a steaming cup of tea before Sciona. “I won’t tell, Highmage.” Sciona let out a half-hearted laugh. “Well…” Her index finger roved back and forth along the hydrangea and rhododendron pattern on the edge of the saucer. “We do only have a week left to get this right.”
She should have been annoyed, infuriated, but oddly, she wasn’t. She wanted more of this new Thomil with the lightning in his eyes and the steel edge in his voice.
It’s not enough to have meant to do good; if you don’t do good, most gods—those of the rivers, the sky, and the fields—don’t care for your motivations. Why should they?”
It’s much easier to tell yourself you’re a good person than it is to actually be one.” Sciona slammed a palm down on the desk. “That’s out of line!” The way Thomil twitched back drove an unbalancing stab of emotion through Sciona’s chest. There was that slight rush. Power. Realizing she could knock the fight out of someone physically bigger than herself. It was the intoxicating hum of the spellograph whirring into motion at her command—but tainted with something else. Because Thomil wasn’t a spellograph.
Have him imprisoned, possibly even killed, with one lie about his conduct. The mage spoke a thing and it was so, truth be damned. Neither of them acknowledged the power difference while they worked, but it was always there. And Sciona had used it to win their argument…which wasn’t really winning at all, was it? Truth over delusion. That was the first rule of magical study, of the University, of Sciona’s entire value system. If she couldn’t live by it here in her own laboratory, how could she claim the superiority of Tiranish ideals? How could she call herself a mage? She took a slow breath.
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She turned to face her perfect, infuriating assistant.
“But thank goodness Archmage Leon took the meidrae’s texts and forced them off this land to found his superior civilization, right?” A jagged shadow clung to Thomil’s smile. “I’m sure he knew better than they did.”
The only god to answer was the roaring maw of Tiran. Thomil
opened his eyes and knew for certain in his broken heart: This was how the Caldonnae truly died. In pain too great for two small souls to bear without corruption.
Only the power. If I just think of this problem like an energy siphoner, I don’t need to stop feeling this way. I just need to take control of the energy the feeling has created inside me. Then it won’t matter what’s in my heart.” She put a hand to her chest with passion where before there had been only pain, fingers clutching the front of her nightgown as she finally drew a deep breath. “What I’m experiencing—this evil feeling—doesn’t have to matter if I can just do tangible good with it. Maybe Heaven isn’t out of reach.” “That is not how God measures goodness, Highmage.” “Not the god of
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The question isn’t: How do I stop feeling this way? That’s stupid. I can’t. The question is: What can I do with this feeling?
Without knowing when they had started, Sciona found herself blinking back tears. “I don’t think I could have asked for a father in all of Tiran to replace you two. I wanted to say that.” Aunt Winny, who had never in Sciona’s memory accepted a compliment, shifted in her skirts like a bird fluffing its feathers, plainly pleased but unwilling to acknowledge it. “Ridiculous girl. Off to bed you go—and take your noisy machine with you.” “Yes, Auntie.” Sciona smiled and reached for the spellograph. But before she got there, Alba caught her up in a hug—so tight, Sciona’s eyes bugged out a little, and
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