12. Irina

Chapter twelve

Irina

" T ake a seat, Irina." Rist's formal tone caught me off guard. It had been months since I'd heard him so serious. He was often stern with his other apprentices, but rarely so with me since my magic emerged.

I sat and folded my hands in my lap.

Rist paced before me, his own hands gripped behind his back.

He looks nervous , I thought. What could possibly have the man so agitated? My magic would sense anything wrong with his health, and I hadn't heard of anything happening in the Medica to warrant him being so tense.

Had I done something to upset him? I raced through every patient I'd seen in the past week, searching for some oversight or misstep. We hadn't lost anyone since I began using magic, and I doubted any of the cases I had treated recently were serious enough to threaten death.

He looked so pale, and sweat was soaking into his collar. I couldn't remember ever seeing the Master so out of sorts.

Then another thought struck: Had one of the Mages returned? They frightened me. Even to anyone without magic, they strode through a room with the gentleness of a storm at sea.

"Irina, I—" He looked at me, then away. With a haggard sigh, he started a second time, "I've been a physiker my whole life. It's—this is—what I'm trying to say—"

I'd seen my Master face the most extreme emergencies, with patients dying on his table with desperation in their eyes. He was a rock, steady and true. Nothing shook him. In that moment, he looked like a boy about to ask a girl for his first kiss. I couldn't decide whether I was more amused or terrified.

He ran a weathered hand over his balding pate and turned to face me. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to say it. I've informed the King that I wish to retire as Crown Healer. The Medica and apprentices need my full attention, and I can't give either the time they deserve if I spend half my days running between here and the Palace."

I wasn't surprised. More than once, Master Rist had confided in me how torn he'd felt between his duty to the King and to the Medica, his infirmary. What puzzled me was why he was so flummoxed telling me about stepping down. Was that what had upset him so? I studied his face. Color hadn't returned, and, if anything, he seemed to fidget even more than before.

A knot twisted in my gut. "Master, this is wonderful, isn't it? We could use more of your time each day. I know the other apprentices will be glad for it."

"You don't know the rest." His barely audible mumble reached my magically enhanced ears, and the trickle of unease racing through me grew into a raging river.

"Save your praise." He sighed and his shoulders drooped. "The King asked me to nominate my replacement, and I . . . I named you."

"Me? Master, I . . ." I blinked a few times, desperate for my mind to catch up to my mouth. "I don't even have my Blues."

His laugh wasn't the merry rumble I'd come to adore. In its place, a strained quiver broke his smile. "Child, you are so beyond needing a smock of any color. Truth be told, the King should fashion you one of gold."

I gasped. Gold was only worn by the King or Queen . . . or Mages.

"Master, that's ridiculous." I laughed, a nervous echo of his. "I would never—"

"Irina, you are a Mage, the first to be born in . . . I don't even know how many years. And you are a Healer. A Spirits-blessed, Phoenix-guided Healer with magic. The other Mages care little for us, but you . . . you love helping people. There is no one in the Kingdom—Spirits, in the entire world—who deserves this more."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had years of studies left in my apprenticeship. I was nowhere near ready to stand on my own, let alone care for the royal household.

As if reading my thoughts, Rist said, "You will continue your studies. There is still much for you to learn. However, the Crown will call upon your services when needed, and you will be the King's official advisor on matters of medicine."

"Master . . . I'm not ready . . . I'm only sixteen—"

"Hush, child. You will be called upon when the Prince skins his knee or has a runny nose. Anything more than that, you bring me with you. I will help you walk before you run far ahead of me, which you will, mark my words," he rumbled, returning to himself and his good humor, then reached into his smock and removed a parchment. He handed me the note.

A crown hovering above the jagged mountain peaks of the Spires was embossed in the golden wax, the King's personal emblem. I stared down with widened eyes for a long moment before snapping the seal and reading the missive's contents.

Apprentice Irina Santender, His Majesty Melric Vance, First of his Name and King of the Spires, summons you to the Palace for an audience on the morrow at the second hour past noon.

Spirits welcome you into his royal presence.