“It’s not funny!” Ileni pressed her knuckles against her mouth, then let her hand drop. “Do you truly think all the people you kill deserve to die?”

“That would be an easier belief, wouldn’t it?” Sorin’s face was cool and remote. “But no. We are trained to make accurate observations, not to be blinded by lies. If we allowed ourselves to believe that, we would falter when we realized some of our targets are innocent. We face the truth, Sorceress: not that they deserve to die, but that their deaths serve a greater purpose.”

He stood poised on the balls of his feet, every line of his body thrumming with easy power. Ileni shook her head jerkily, her body tight. She knew he was wrong, but she was certain that if they argued, he would win.

Sorin’s mouth twisted cruelly. Suddenly she was afraid of him—which made her realize that she had not, for some time, been afraid of him. Magefire, she was a fool. “Here’s something else you should know about Arkim. Do you want to guess how old the emperor’s brother was, when Arkim killed him?”

Silence.

“He was seven years old.”

Ileni’s throat convulsed.

“He was an imperial noble. Just not a fully developed one. And his death was necessary.”

Nausea roiled up from Ileni’s stomach. “Thank you,” she said in a hiss.

He leaned back. “For what?”

“For reminding me,” Ileni said, “what you are.”

Something flickered deep in his eyes, and his mouth twisted again. “Were you in danger of forgetting?”

“Yes,” Ileni said. “But it won’t happen again.”

She turned and walked away, out the cavern entrance and down the long dark hall, and didn’t once look back to see if he was watching her go.

Ileni was getting used to being up in the middle of the night; it wasn’t as if she was sleeping that well to begin with. So when the knock sounded on her door a few nights later, she was awake almost at once, both feet on the floor and her hands braced behind her on the cot.

“Ileni?” Sorin whispered through the wood, and she got to her feet and crossed the room. She put one hand against the solid wood, then pulled the door open. Sorin stood in the doorway, illuminated by the faint glow of the stones in the wall.

“What?” she breathed, and heard the fear in her voice.

“Nothing like that,” Sorin said, without bothering to explain what that was. He was smiling, a light, easy smile that looked odd on his face. “I’m here to invite you to a celebration.”

“A what?”

“Interested?”

She opened her mouth to do the smart thing and say no. Things had been strained between them since their argument a few days ago, and she knew it was better that way. The young man in front of her now, brimming with excitement and rebellion rather than with zeal and death, was an illusion. A dangerous illusion.

But the very last thing she wanted to do was go back to bed and think about what she might be missing until she fell asleep. Without a word, she went to her clothes chest, pulled on a skirt and shoes, and followed Sorin out into the dark corridor.

Clearly, whatever they were doing was against the rules, and her breath quickened. All her life she had been obedient, following the path laid out before her, asking permission before doing anything that might distract her from her goals. All her life, she had been in pursuit of something too precious to risk by breaking the rules. It was time to adjust to having nothing to lose.

Except her life. Which was not, in her darker moods, that important at all.

“What are we celebrating?” she whispered, but Sorin was already halfway down the corridor. Swearing, she hurried after him.

The route they took was familiar, after two weeks of following Sorin to the training cavern and back. Even so, she stumbled several times while trying to match his pace by the glowstones’ dim light. Too late, Ileni realized that if she’d had her power, she would probably have called up a light. She was still trying to think of an excuse for not doing that—in case Sorin asked—when they emerged into the training cavern, where all the glowstones were bright with white light.

The cavern still stank of sweat, but it mingled with the scent of wine. The combination was, if anything, even more disgusting than usual. But Ileni barely noticed. She stopped short and stared, openmouthed.

The cavern had been transformed. Not by any decoration—it was still sparse and bare—but by the young men who filled it. Gone were the deadly attacks and counterattacks, the focused aggression, the clashes of steel and rope. Instead, the weapons were shoved into piles along the sides of the room, and killers sprawled on the ground around collections of wine jugs and clay mugs, smiling and laughing. She recognized some of them from her classes and from the dining cavern, but not all of them.

Sorin led her down the stairway. Halfway down, a group of boys brushed past them, and one looked over his shoulder at her. She recognized him—he was one of her younger students, curly haired with a triangular face. His name was Esen. He grinned at her and said, “She came!” and the other boys whooped.

Ileni found herself grinning back. Someone else put a clay goblet in her hand, the liquid within sloshing. A dim warning sounded in the back of her mind—but really, if they wanted to kill her, it wouldn’t require this elaborate a ruse. Besides, Sorin had been given a similar goblet and was already draining it. She tilted her head back and drank.

It tasted utterly vile, and she choked. Sorin and Esen both laughed, but their laughter had no edge, and Ileni laughed with them. The wine she hadn’t spat up raced through her blood. She’d never had wine before. It would have interfered with the focus and concentration required to develop her skills, so she and her fellow students had always regarded it with scorn.

She wouldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t. She was so tired, so unutterably tired, of thinking about it. There was still some wine left in the goblet, so she braced herself and lifted it to her lips. It was over in a single grimace.

“It’s not exactly the best quality,” Sorin said. “I can get you something better.”

“That would help.” She giggled, stumbled on the stairs, and grabbed Sorin’s arm to steady herself. Beneath his long-sleeved shirt, his arm was like steel. Not surprising. She didn’t let go, even once she had regained her balance.

Sorin lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t shrug off her hand. “Have you ever had wine before?”

“No.” His expression struck her as funny, and she laughed again. Sorin lifted the other eyebrow and led her the rest of the way down the stairs.

Once they were on the cavern floor, she let go of him and looked around. When she didn’t see Irun, her last edge of fear receded.

Some of the teachers were here, too, but not all of them. Not the dour-looking man who taught poisons, or the short one with the red hair whose class Sorin always refused to discuss. Arkim was absent as well. The students must have selected which teachers they wanted there. And they had selected her.

How much of that choice had been Sorin’s?

A soaring melody pierced the cavern, soon joined by a fast, rhythmic beat. She turned and saw two boys in the corner, one with a flute, the other pounding at a pair of drums. She didn’t recognize them; they were too young to be her students—eleven or twelve years old, maybe? The flute player had fiery red hair and an angelic face.

Did all assassins learn an instrument? Or was he being prepared for a specific mission?

“It’s an Arcaian dance song,” Sorin said, and she turned back to him. He was watching her with the oddest expression on his face—as if it mattered what she thought of this strange party. As if he cared whether, right now, she was happy.

That was delusion. Delusion, and wine. Sorin was a killer.

But he didn’t look like one, right now, as he held his hand out to her.

She decided not to think about it—not thinking about things was feeling wonderful, and the wine and music made it easy. She took his hand.

“Arcaians truly know how to dance,” Sorin said, shouting now over the sound of the music—and of the whoops of the others as they began to leap about on the floor. “Be glad you don’t know the words to this song, though.”

“Who says I don’t?” Ileni retorted. An assassin whirled past them, launching himself off the rock floor and tumbling over twice in midair before landing lightly on his feet.

Sorin rolled his eyes and took her other hand. His hands were fine boned, but rough and callused. He pulled her close with casual strength and grinned down at her.

He was closer to her than he had ever been. His hands moved to her waist, his arms encircling her with unyielding strength. She could feel his breath as he spoke. “Can sorcerers dance?”

She lifted her chin to stare up into his face. “I think you’re about to find out.”

Actually, sorcerers couldn’t dance—not in the athletic, graceful way the assassins could—but it didn’t matter. Sorin held her close and refrained from the complex acrobatics of the other assassins. They whirled around the cave floor, Sorin looking down at her with his lips pressed together but curved upward at the corners. The music worked its way into Ileni’s blood, and she moved to its beat without thinking, the fabric of her skirt brushing rhythmically against her legs. Exhilaration rushed through her, fueled by the music and the movement and the press of Sorin’s hands against her lower back. Every time he pulled her close, it felt like another draught of wine, making her reckless and giddy.

“Does your master know about this?” she asked at one point, when her cheek was inches from Sorin’s.

“Of course,” Sorin said. He pushed her away, twirled her around, pulled her close again. “But don’t worry. He never comes. He knows we need some small freedoms.”

Not true freedom, if he knows about it. But who was she to talk? She had chafed against some of her training restrictions, back in the sorcerers’ compound; she had even bent the rules, from time to time, to be with Tellis. Small freedoms, every one of them, nothing that would have scandalized the Elders had they found out. For all her little rebellions, she had been content to be what she was being molded to be.

And she didn’t want to argue with Sorin now. He grabbed both her hands, and she leaned back. As her hair flew out behind her, she scanned the cavern. She was still looking for Irun, but her eye fell instead on Bazel. The round-faced assassin was not part of the dancing. He stood in a corner, near the piles of weapons, small and furtive. Every once in a while, one of the other assassins would walk up to him, and Bazel would hand him something too small for Ileni to see.

Sorin followed her gaze and grimaced. “Would you prefer to dance with your favorite?”

“Why do you care?” she said archly, and then she caught his expression. It was pure scorn, without a hint of jealousy, and it felt like a slap. Ileni whirled out of his arms, taking him by surprise, and hurt flashed through her again when he released her without a fight. She stumbled, managed not to fall flat on the rock floor, and headed defiantly across the cavern in Bazel’s direction.

Sorin hissed something behind her, but the music was too loud to make it out. She didn’t care what he said, anyhow. He’d have a lot more to say when she did ask Bazel to dance.

She reached Bazel just as another assassin—a tall boy who wasn’t in any of her classes—was saying to him, in a lofty voice, “Being rather generous, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be getting more soon,” Bazel began, then stopped when he saw Ileni. The other assassin gave him a sideways look and glided away.

“Teacher,” Bazel said stiffly.

It occurred to Ileni that if she asked him to dance, he might say no. She could feel Sorin’s gaze, hot on her back, and abruptly changed her plan. “What are you giving out? Can I have a look?”