“Sleep well?” He set the mug and paper bag down on the chest.

She flexed her fingers, wincing. “Not really.”

“Tough. Your training starts today. Eat, drink, and get dressed. I’ll be waiting in the map room.” Unlike Lena, he looked entirely the opposite of disheveled—his regular uniform neatly pressed. Sheveled, Lena thought blearily.

She set aside the coffee, which tasted like poison, but ate the sweet roll in two big bites, finding herself ravenously hungry. Afterward, she stripped off her gray robes and pulled on the new clothes, which consisted of baggy trews and a long-sleeved tunic. The tunic was of rough-spun cotton, a huge sickle moon emblazoned in white on the front. She tied back her shoulder-length black hair with one of her bootlaces.

When she stepped out, Emris set down his newspaper and led Lena through the maze of corridors—passing hardly anyone at this early hour—to a large, plain room in a different part of the temple. “A practice room,” he said. The floor was sprung wood, the windows very high up, and the walls cracked and punched, as if someone had been at them with a hammer.

“Today we’re going to try some basic attacks,” he said. “Practicing this kind of thing should give you a better hold over your powers.”

“Attacks?” Lena raised an eyebrow. “You’re already teaching me to fight?”

“It’ll be on your test. Plus, it’s a good place to start—simple, for the most part. Like pulling a punch.” He was digging around in a cupboard in the corner. “Some people are better at it than others, but everyone is taught the basics. Other stuff is … well, a bit trickier.” He chucked a few heavy punching bags from the cupboard onto the floor. “You’ve seen the godspeed charm, when I made the carriage fly—how complicated and delicate it is. That kind of control takes years to master fully. This … this is just aim and fire.” He grinned at her. “Think you can manage that?”

He ran her through some breathing exercises and hoisted the bags on a couple of pulleys supplied for the purpose. She sat cross-legged, breathing deeply and feeling like an idiot. How is breathing supposed to help, anyway?

“All right. Ready?”

She stood up. “What do I do?”

“Watch this.” Emris stood to one side and held out his hand, his palm facing a punching bag target. “Stand like I am, feet hip-width apart, your front foot at right angles to the heel of your back foot.”

Lena tried out the position. “Which foot should be in front?”