Dawn of Ash by Rebecca Ethington Page B

himself, how much perfection he expected. He refused to move on to another task until he had perfected it, and he would get quite upset with himself if things weren’t honed in record time. It was a lot for a boy of nearly nine to take on.
    That insatiable quest for perfection, while valiant, was sometimes fruitless, which was what he was stuck in now—a search for perfection that was focused on a wrist flick not required for the task I had set him.
    I recognized what he was trying to do. That particular movement was one I had done since I was ten when my father had broken my wrist in a fight and demanded I heal it, breaking it repeatedly until I mastered healing every mutilation of the bone he could think of.
    And you whined like a baby the whole time.
    I should have broken both your wrists just to teach you a lesson.
    How I could have been stuck with such a—
    I cut the voices out with a cringe, something that wasn’t easy to do considering the strength of the memory. It was hard to forget the full year of constant bone breakage and pain he had inflicted on me. I guessed it was a good way to teach a task if you were a sadistic monster, which my father was.
    What is your guide for sadism, son?
    How do you know you aren’t exactly like me?
    I’m not.
    You are more like me than you think.

    In the end, I did master healing. I was also left with a few ticks within my magic, something that was bound to happen when you performed magic with nothing more than splinters of bone and tendons instead of a working hand.
    You could always break his wrist. Then he would be able to master it.
    Then he could be like you.
    And you like me.
    “That movement isn’t required, Jaromir.”
    “What do you mean it isn’t required?” the little boy asked, the greasy mop of dirty brown hair quivering a bit as he shook his head. “That’s how you do it.”
    “Yes.” I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it leaked out, anyway. Jaromir wrinkled his bulbous nose in response. “But that’s because it’s how I was trained.”
    Jaromir narrowed his eyes at me in defiance, and I fought the need to roll mine. I wasn’t going to tell him all of what my father was capable of, not yet. Right now, magic was still new and amazing to him, and I didn’t want to be the one to destroy that.
    It was like Santa Claus—no one wanted to be the one to ruin the secret.
    Then let me.

    “So train me that way.” He was insistent, defiant even, and this time, I couldn’t help laughing, the reaction affecting him as deeply as a smack in the face.
    Let me ruin the magic.
    Let me train him.
    “Not going to happen, kid.”
    You can’t stop it, son.
    You know it is the best way.
    “What do you mean ‘it’s not going to happen ’ ? It’s how you were trained, and I want to be trained like you. I want to be as good as you.”
    Even he knows what you are capable of, what you were made for.
    He sees it, and he wants it for himself.
    No.
    “You will be as good as me,” I said with a laugh, the forced sound resounding back to me with the same awkward ripple the barrier always gave. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do everything exactly like me.”
    Why not, Ryland?

    “But I want to,” he said, half-shocked, half annoyed, his little eyes squinting together as he wrinkled his nose.
    I once again found myself fighting the need to smile, to laugh.
    It was an odd feeling to be looked at by someone that way, like I was Santa Claus instead of the magic.
    An unfamiliar knot formed in my gut with the realization I could be that to someone. With scars all over my body and a brain that was addled and frightening, I was baffled anyone could look at me and still want to be like me.
    Jaromir still looked at me like that: eager, waiting, his eyes full of so much life it was infectious.
    I really didn’t want to deflate that magic from him, deflate the fantasy into a twisted and frightening reality.
    But it was more than that.
    Jaromir was a