Testing limits had made sense in our first year when the masters had been trying to build our magic as quickly as possible, but now the focus was strategy. We all had different levels of potential – the point in which our magic would stop developing – and after the trial year its ascension was usually much slower.
No one's power was infinite. The closer we were to our limits, the slower our magic progressed. Even then, most mages' stamina stopped building by the time adolescence was over. A couple might continue on into their early-twenties – but that was not the norm. Once a mage reached his thirties it would begin to decline even if that person was diligent in their daily practice. It was the main reason our Candidacy took place so often: we needed the strongest Council possible, even if that meant changing our Colored Robes every twenty years.
"You are preparing yourself for a true-to-life battle," Byron had declared on our first day of apprenticeship. "If you are approaching your limits you need to turn back and call off your magic. The only time that I ever want to see you fainting is if you are at no risk of danger, or the casting's outcome is worth your life."
In the simulation today we were preparing for chariot attacks. Casting just one more arrow on the enemy's front line – undoubtedly made up of "expendable" foot soldiers - was not worth losing consciousness and falling from a moving chariot. The casting wouldn't kill me, but it would leave me an open target to those who could. The point of the exercise was to attack and retreat – not attack-and-then-fall-out-of-your-chariot-and-be-killed-by-an-angry-mob-of-enemy-soldiers.
The rest of the class finished minutes later. As soon as they had Byron launched himself into a full-blown speech praising Darren and insulting the girls at the same time. It always ended the same way.
Women were weak. We were silly, temperamental, and emotional. We should always follow, never lead. We shouldn't try to overreach in our magic. Men would always be able to cast better. It was simply a part of their disposition as warriors; women had never intended to be seen in such jarring roles and would therefore always be "lacking" in Combat.
While the master occasionally gave Priscilla good remarks I was certain they were only for the prince's benefit. Byron didn't even pretend with the rest of us.
I wondered what Eve thought of the master's bias – but the violet-eyed second-year never spoke up, and I suspected she didn't care. I could sometimes sense Priscilla's irritation, but the highborn was smart enough to keep her temper in check. Ella was just as outspoken as Ian and I – but since the master didn't target her quite as much she tended to spend more time pitying me rather than contradicting the man directly. The older female apprentices were few in number – my year had an uncommon ratio, four girls and two boys - but they seemed to maintain the same strategy as Eve. Stay silent, and the master would ignore you. Unless you were me.
"And Ryiah. Stay focused next time. I will not let that arm be an excuse for your casting to suffer."
Today had been my best castings yet. I'd hit the target more times than most of the second-years. And only that one attempt had failed to reach the fence. I had even outperformed Ella's mentor Loren, and that other third-year, Bryce. But, as usual, the master had failed to notice anything other than my faults.
I let the anger slide off me – albeit very slowly - and started my retreat to the dining commons. Our training took place a mile from the main building that housed our barracks and the rest of the amenities. Normally I resented the long walk after a full day of practice but today I was happy to have some time to clear my head.
My apprenticeship is more important than strangling Master Byron. I repeated the motto over and over again. If I said it enough times it would become true, or so I hoped. Each time it was getting harder and harder not to counter the master's critique. I'd lost my temper a couple of times during that first month – and now three months into our training the tyrant was still punishing me for it.
"Oops, so sorry!" A horrible jolt shot across my bad arm as someone came barreling into it. Biting back a yelp I glowered at Priscilla.
"You did that on purpose!" My pain was making me see all sorts of crazy colors, and I no longer cared if the master had rules about casting during non-lessons. The girl needed to be put in her place – and if today's practice was any indication then I had a good chance of beating her.
"You can't prove it."
"Prove it?" I snarled. I hoped Master Byron was too far away to hear us. "I don't need to prove it. Why don't you challenge me directly instead of acting like the coward you are!"
"Ryiah!" Darren's hand closed around my good arm. His voice was stern. "Don't."
"Why are you stopping her?"
"Why are you stopping me?"
Priscilla's and my questions were instantaneous. The non-heir regarded his betrothed and I coldly. "Because if you duel Ryiah this time, you'll lose."
"She cannot beat me," Priscilla scoffed.
Darren kept his iron grip on my arm. "She can. And if you do anything else to taunt her I won't stop Ryiah from trying."