2. Irina

Chapter two

Irina

M aster Rist never looked back as he led me through a series of winding hallways. The sound of chatter drifted from behind many of the doors, but we didn't pass a single person as we ventured through the building that proved much longer than I'd thought possible while staring at it from the front. Rist stopped before an unremarkable wooden door.

"Irina, the first thing any physiker does when confronted with a patient is assess. We look, sniff, poke, prod, and a hundred other things. We do the same with new apprentices." The Master's wispy brows fluttered as air breathed through the crack between the door and its frame. "Today, you are my patient, and I will be assessing your mind."

He smiled and threw open the door, then stood aside and motioned for me to enter before him. I'm not sure what I expected. His grand gesture had me conjuring images of examination tables, shelves lined with shimmering vials, or chairs for working teeth. What greeted me was a lone rickety school desk and an even less sturdy chair. The window set into the far wall stood open, allowing a pleasant breeze to drift through the room.

"Take your seat, please," the Master said as he drifted around to the only other furniture in the empty chamber, a large leather chair and a small side table. Atop the table, two oil lamps burned brightly. "You can read and write, yes?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent." He reached into his smock and retrieved a scroll bound by a simple strand of leather. "We will start with some basic arithmetic. From the moment you remove the binding, you have until the sand runs out to complete the exercise."

He handed me the scroll, then reached to the table and passed me a lamp. A small hourglass sat hidden behind. He raised the timepiece and waited.

I looked down at the scroll, at how it shook in my hand. I wanted to become a physiker more than anything, but no one had told me about a test on my first day. What if I failed? Would there be another chance? Would my parents still be proud if I returned home before even sitting for my first lesson?

Questions battered my mind as I struggled to keep my heart from beating out of my chest.

"Irina, whenever you're ready, just remove the leather," Rist prodded.

I glanced up. His eyes remained kind, yet firm.

I sucked in a deep breath and slipped the leather free.

The thud of the hourglass hitting the table startled me.

"Go on, then. Time waits for no one," Rist said, settling into his chair with his eyes glued to me like some predator waiting to pounce.

There were only ten questions on the parchment. Each involved a real-world scenario in which formulae required calculation or compounds needed to be mixed in precise amounts. As I stared at the page, reading each question before beginning my work, I was grateful for the endless hours my parents had drilled me on mathematics and its application to the healing arts.

How did others who did not grow up in the home of physikers pass these tests?

With half the sand remaining in the upper bowl, I startled Master Rist awake with a poke of the rerolled scroll.

"Sir?"

"What? Is everything—?" He jolted upright. "Ah, yes, Irina. Forgive me. I must have drifted off."

He glanced at the hourglass. His eyes, distorted by his lenses, widened to comedic proportions.

"Are you sure you want to hand that in? You still have ten minutes."

My bony shoulders raised. "I'm done. It wasn't very hard."

Strands of hair drifted in every direction as his brows rose, then he took the scroll. Unfurling it, he scanned one question after the next.

"My dear, this is excellent. Truly excellent," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

He rolled the scroll, tapped it on the hourglass, then peered up at me. "What was the name of the farmer in the fourth question?"

"Sir?"

"You heard me. In question four, what was the farmer's name?"

"Cedric, sir. What does—?"

"And the name of the potter in question nine?"

I blinked. "Anders, sir."

His brows bunched but still drifted on the breeze. "And what ailment would cause the symptoms described in question two?"

I tilted my head to the side. The question had only stated the patient's symptoms, height, and approximate weight. It required me to calculate the amounts of each ingredient listed. There was no mention of the underlying illness. But I had spent so many days watching Mother and Father as they tended sick and injured, ticking through a list of symptoms felt familiar, comfortable even.

"Well, sir"—I stared into the emptiness of the far wall—"the patient suffered from aches in his stomach, cramping, and an inability to pass waste. There was no mention of fevers or sweating, no note about dilation of the pupils or changes in the skin. The ingredients suggested for the cure were chamomile, lavender or sage, garlic, and water."

I thought a moment.

"I believe the patient suffered from constipation and some form of mild stomach upset, perhaps caused by consumption of sour milk or other ruined food. The physiker likely added the garlic as a precaution, not necessarily to treat what the patient presented."

"Is that all?" Rist scratched his chin and stared.

The Master was goading me. It was good-natured, for sure, and I didn't think he expected an answer. I gave him one anyway. "I would suggest adding elderberry. In addition to being another preventative, should the patient suffer from some germ-related ailment, this might also make the potion taste better for the patient. The original combination would be quite foul going down."

Rist's rumbling laugh startled me.

"That it would." He rose, struggling to unwedge his girth from the narrow chair. "Irina, you answered every question correctly, but what amazes me is how you recalled everything with such clarity. How old are you, child?"

"Twelve, sir," I answered, my swelling pride from his praise warring with a perpetual fear of judgement.

"Twelve." He shook his head, repeating the number more to himself than to me. "All right. You did well in your first test. Follow me, and we'll see how you fare in more practical exams."

I followed the Master into the hallway, where he led me back toward the front of the building before entering what looked like an empty patient examination room. A long metal table stretched at the center of the room. On the wall nearest the door, several rows of shelves held bottles and jars with neat lettering pointing outward. Below the shelves was a countertop on which physikers' equipment lay spread and ready for use.

"Have a seat." Master Rist motioned to the two wooden chairs whose backs were pressed against the far wall.

The Master spent the next hour pulling one bottle after another off the shelves, hiding the labels, and asking me to identify the contents by look and smell. He occasionally lifted a metal instrument and asked its name or use.

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine the pudgy man to be my mother, as she often played the same game before opening her doors to patients. By the time I was seven or eight summers old, I could name every unction and ointment in her care.

By the time the Master had exhausted the final bottle, any nervousness I'd felt earlier in the day had drifted away. His tests were easy compared to the daily drilling I received at home.

Then Rist asked a question that left my mouth agape.

"How would you use magic to assist in healing?" He adjusted his spectacles and waited .

"I, uh, I wouldn't . . . sir."

He lifted his brows. "And why not?"

"Well, Master, I don't have any magic."

He glared so long I began to fidget beneath his gaze. Then he stepped forward and held out his meaty palm. "Give me your hand."

The jumble of nerves I thought long settled decided to dance a jig in my chest as my slender fingers fell against his.

He laid his other hand atop mine and closed his eyes.

If he'd had a golden collar, I might have thought he was using magic to search for something. It looked like what I had seen Mages do when they visited the capital seeking the rare few who might have been born with magical abilities.

In all the times we had watched them test in public, never once had a Mage discovered another of their own.

Master Rist was not one of them.

His eyes opened, and he gave me a fatherly smile. "I feel nothing, child—not that I expected to. Spirits, I am not even sure what I thought I might feel, having no magic myself."

"Then why try to find it in me?"

He chuckled, sounding more like the rumbling of a blacksmith's bellows waking from a winter's slumber. "Because I am a foolish old man."

He patted my hand and stepped back.

"Right, then, no magic. Such a shame, especially for one with your gift of intellect."

My head lowered, as though I'd just failed one of his tests.

Rist's voice softened as he asked, "Why do you want to study healing?"

I looked up and studied his eyes. Of all the questions he asked that day, that was the one that surprised me. It seemed so simple, so obvious; and yet, asked aloud, it loomed overhead like a specter threatening to envelop and consume.

"Because . . . I want to help people . . . like my parents."

He nodded. "And how would you like to help people?"

"Healers make people feel better. They take away aches and pains. They give people happiness. No one makes people smile like Father. I want to give them that, to give people their smiles back."

He stared for another eternity, then his lips curled and he nodded, as if deciding something. Then the old man turned and stepped toward the door. As his hand found the handle, he looked back and said, "If you study and apply yourself, you will be the best of us, Irina Santender. You mark my words."