The Forever Blaze [3]

C H A P T E R - 1 4

"You're late," Bronte informed her, and his gleeful smile made it clear he'd used the extra time to imagine all kinds of miserable punishments.

Before he could deliver any of them, a familiar red-haired figure stepped out of the shadows. "I'm sure she has a good excuse," Councillor Kenric told him. "And I'm sorry if I startled you, Sophie. Councillor Bronte apparently does not believe in providing his prodigies with light."

"Inflicting feeds on darkness," Bronte snapped back. "The fact that I have to explain that shows you have no place in this session."

"My place," Kenric corrected, "is to ensure Sophie's safety—since you have proven that you will not always act with her best interests at heart."

That was putting it mildly. When Bronte wanted to prove that Sophie's abilities were broken, he'd basically used the session to torture her.

Still, she'd thought things between her and Bronte were getting better. He'd seemed genuinely interested in working with her after he'd discovered she could inflict positive emotions as well as negative—something he'd thought was impossible before then. But if Kenric felt he needed to chaperone . . .

"Regardless of what my weak-hearted assistant may claim," Bronte said, jolting her back to attention, "this tower has strict rules about tardiness—as I'm sure you're well aware."

"I am," Sophie agreed, pulling out the blue square Master Leto had given her. "That's why I was told to show you this."

Bronte's jaw fell so fast, she was surprised it didn't hit the floor.

"What could you have possibly done to deserve an amnesty?" he asked, lunging from his chair and snatching it from her hand. "When I attended here, these were reserved for extreme emergencies."

"Well, maybe things have changed since the dark ages," Sophie mumbled, earning a snicker from Kenric.

"The elves never had a dark ages," Bronte snapped. "And I graduated long before the time period you're referring to."

"Really?" She knew Bronte was one of the Ancients—and he did have the pointiest ears she'd ever seen. But with his cropped brown hair and wrinkle-free skin it was so hard to imagine him being thousands of years old.

"Yes," he said, shoving the amnesty into the pocket of his jewel-encrusted cape before he pointed to his throne. "Now take a seat. We have wasted enough time."

"But . . . that's your chair."

"Thank you for that waste of words. Now sit."

Sophie glanced at Kenric and he nodded, so she reluctantly made her way to the chair, half expecting to spot a bucket of boiling acid dangling above it. The sharp edge cut into her legs, and the cold, rigid back pressed into her shoulders like ice. It felt like Bronte had custom ordered The Most Uncomfortable Chair Ever Invented—and the designer had exceeded his expectations.

"As you know, my fellow Councillors have ordered you to conduct a healing in two days," Bronte said to her, glancing sidelong at Kenric. "And they have asked me to ensure you're prepared. Now personally, I don't believe a twelve-year-old will ever be ready to handle such a task—"

"I'm thirteen," Sophie corrected.

"Oh, that's much better, then. Everyone knows teenagers are so full of wisdom and experience."

"Hey, you guys are the ones ordering me to do this, and Mer's with me," she reminded him.

"Actually, you can thank the other Councillors for that. I was—once again—outvoted."