Page 7 of This Monster of Mine

Her pulse pounded in her ears. “Anyone you find becomes a Candidate? No training or payment necessary?”

“The Tetrarchy decreed it. But why—”

“I’m a Candidate.” Her hands trembled as the wordsfinallyleft.

Telmar squinted. “You’re what now?”

“You came to find someone who can Examine, Probe, and Materialize, yes? You’ve got one.”

He nearly spat out his wine. “Drink’s gone to your head, barmaid.”

In two strides, she rounded the table. “Assess me. You’ll know if I’m lying.”

“You don’t even have an armilla!” He indicated her bare wrist. “Will you draw runes in blood? Blame all the grease on this table when they don’t work?”

In response, she dug out the bracelet and slapped it down, positioningnihumbaway from his line of sight.

Telmar blinked, then shoved his cup aside. “That’s of Edessan make.”

“I was at the capital. Four years ago.”

He peered through a fog of drink like he was seeing her for the first time. “Why leave?”

Because I was thrown off a tower at the Academiae, and I have no memory of who did it.

“Does it matter?” She reopened the cut she’d made earlier.

Telmar’s brows rose when she pressed the blood overzosta, the rune for “Examination” and the simplest of what was known as the Petitor’s Trio. No one fully understood the merging of magical bloodlines that produced a Candidate, but only they could usezosta, herar, andastomand, and after the night that had ruined her life and ended her career as a healer, she’d mastered the Trio out of rage.

Blood filledzosta’s deep grooves, and silver blazed within, power flooding her in a heady rush not unlike adrenaline. Telmar’s eyes widened.

Sarai took a steadying breath. “Try me.”

Eyes on the gleaming rune, he didn’t move for a moment. “I, Magus Telmar, born in Edessa, graduated from the four hundred and seventy-third class of the Academiae,” he began slowly. “It’s my sixth year coming to this frozen hell you call a village.”

She closed her eyes, evaluating the cadence of each syllable as they thrummed through her. Some of it rang clear, true. “This is your sixth year as an assessor here. The rest is all true.” Her eyes flew open. “But you aren’t originally from Edessa.”

Alertness pushed past Telmar’s wine-induced languor. “Let’s see you Probe.”

She pressed a dot of blood intoherar, the rune for “Probing.” Another silver glow joined the two on her wrist. At his short nod, she placed her fingertips on either side of his head. Between one heartbeat and the next, she plunged into his mind.

Probing was technically a punishment, a violation of the mind in retaliation for prisoners going tight-lipped. But it was only as unpleasant an experience as the Petitor or Candidate made it. Every mind unconsciouslyreflected its owner’s temperament. Some, like Cisuré, had their memories in pristine bookshelves. The sotted tavern patrons she’d tested her skills on—only after they’d been nasty first—had arranged their lives as tapestries, wine casks, or harp strings.

Telmar’s mind was a hall of paintings. The recent ones were thin sketches, precariously insubstantial. Only some would remain after tonight, alcohol returning them to blank canvases. The intricate works of depth and color were memories he revisited often. His hometown had to be among them. She reached for a painting of a field and let go upon glimpsing the first time he rode a horse. She went deeper into the hallway before finding her answer in a scene of the Kaycakh Mountains.

She dropped her hands from his head and opened her eyes. “You’re from Kirtule.”

Telmar gaped. “Why in the Elsar’s names have you been rotting away here?”

“Couldn’t afford the Academiae’s tuition.” Darting behind the counter, Sarai retrieved her satchel. “Well? Am I worthy of being sent to Edessa?”

“Wisdom alive, it isn’t a matter of beingworthy. You’re riding off into death.”

Wouldn’t be the first time.“And?”

“You’ll be bound to aTetrarch.” He shook his head. “Your peers have gone through years of training in diplomacy and politics. You haven’t.”

“What happened to the job teaching me everything?”

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