“Which one should I bloodwerk on?”
“Whichever one you want, that shouldn’t be the hard bit really.”
She tried to laugh with the class. When they stopped, she picked up the blue block and slotted in her stylus. With shaking hands, she drew the rune Gi in Gorn’s blood.
“Gi, pull negative.” The blue block was directly pointing at the red one. It took a couple of trembling steps toward the blue block then slammed against it with a click.
She looked at Master Nuhan, and he raised a gray eyebrow indicating she should go on.
Pulling apart the blocks was easy as the rune she had drawn contained her blood. She wiped away the rune with the rag on the side and began again.
“Ba, pull positive.”
She positioned the rune to point at a red block. The block bucked in her hand instantly, and as she let go the blue block skated backward on the table, attracted to the red block by the rune.
“Now, Ru.” Master Nuhan looked bored like the rest of the class. Some were experimenting with their blood on their desks. They too had hoped she’d fail the basics.
She performed Ru with no trouble, pushing the red block away. Kha should have been just as easy, but when the blue block she had drawn on didn’t move backward, her heart sank. Master Nuhan instantly perked up.
“Ah, a fault.” His voice was as sharp as an eru’s tooth. “In the foundational basics.”
He peered at the rune, his nose crinkling in distaste as he looked at her blood. Gorn’s blood.
She knew it was technically perfect, it always was, but using secondhand blood meant her bloodwerk was temperamental. The blood’s power always deteriorated as time passed, something about being away from the host’s body. It was all speculation, really. Anoor had never found any research on the process, and there was no way the wardens wanted anyone knowing using someone else’s blood was possible.
When she’d first discovered this conundrum in her bloodwerk, she’d tried to track down the man who’d made her inkwell to see if he had a solution. It was then that she’d discovered he’d died suddenly the day after making her present. Heart failure, they’d said.
Her mother was careful.
“Ah I see it, you missed a line on the top of the rune.” He wiped the evidence away with the rag. “Using charcoal only, I want you to draw out the foundational runes five hundred times for three days’ time.”
It was a ridiculous task, it would take her strikes, days even. She opened her mouth to protest.
“Class dismissed. I’m letting you go early, as I know some of you are wanting to enter yourself into the Aktibar. They’re taking last names now in the courtyard.”
At least five of the older kids leaped from their seats. Anoor was the last to leave. Gorn was awake and waiting for her by the door.
“Anoor?” Master Nuhan called her over.
“Yes, Master?”
“I just wanted to check, well, you know.” He coughed. “About the Aktibar, I assume you are not entering yourself.” Anoor flushed with shame, then anger. White coal anger.
“Why do you ask that, Master?” Her voice was contained, tight.
“Well, I’d advise against it, that’s all. You’re not terribly strong.” He coughed. “In bloodwerk or I assume in fitness.” He widened his eyes as if his stare wasn’t big enough to take her in. “Don’t want you to bring shame on your family with some foolish notion of following your heritage.”
It was her mother. Without a doubt she had put the master up to this. Anoor had no intention of entering the trials.
She had enough going on with the stranger she’d hidden in her wardrobe.
“Master, I have no intention of entering.”
Relief washed over him, and Anoor recognized the smell of it.
“Send my regards to my mother,” Anoor said to the master. She missed his affronted expression, but she knew she’d pay for it tomorrow.
By the blood she hated him. Maybe hate was too strong a word. She hated her mother. No, hate wasn’t strong enough.
Tears dashed down her cheeks as she strode away from the classroom. Gorn gave her the space to grieve her pride.
If only she had the strength to stand up to him, to her. Be as confident and as frightening as the stranger in her room. She was tired of being the victim in the story.
The seeds of a plan began to germinate in her mind. The roots twisted over themselves, creating an impossible pattern that she could barely follow, let alone pull off.
Or could she?