Page 59 of Sharpest Court

“I never said I was confining it.” When he gave me a look that implied I wasn’t fooling anyone, I admitted, “Since I was seven.”

“So for over a decade, you’ve been Wielding only a fraction of your power. Which means you’ve only learned to control a fraction of your power. The rest is immature.”

I bristled, eyes narrowed. “Immature?”

“Despite what you think of me,” Goren said blandly, “I’m not being cruel. Spectral immaturity is a term used when a portion of power is still too deeply entwined with a Wielder’s emotions and impulses.”

“Doesn’t that describe the very nature of spectral power?”

“Yes and no. How often have you stopped your specter from acting on your desires?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “In my life or in a day?”

Surprisingly, Goren huffed a laugh. “Exactly. As we grow, we naturally learn to manage our impulses. To use our specters to our advantage rather than let them rule us. The problem is: You’ve only been doing that with a portion of your power. A greater portion has been building inside you without ever having been shaped to your conscious will.”

I glanced to the power shimmering over my arms—the power I knew represented only a small fraction of the whole. Because in Daradon, I’d briefly examined the shape of my power and found that it was made up of countless layers I’d never explored.

“Imagine the power you’ve always Wielded as a river,” Goren continued. “It would flow where you wanted it to go, at a speed you could control. But when you released the rest of your power all at once, it was like breaking a dam. That river is now flooded, its current unmanageable. That might not be such a big problem with other Wielders, but because of the sheer volume of your power, the outbursts can be catastrophic. Which means you need to learn how to direct the current once again.”

I swallowed hard, realizing I must have made the initial crack in the dam on the night of my father’s death—when the first layers of that vast power had flooded out, compromising my ability to Wield for the rest of Rose Season.

“How do I redirect it?” I asked.

Goren circled the punching bags, his boots dimpling the mat. “First, you’re going to tell me which of the Hunters gave you that wound on your arm.”

My specter jolted, almost brushing the bag to my right. “How did you—?”

“If the king enjoyed drawing your blood while you were imprisoned, you would bear many wounds. Which means that wound was inflicted by someone else. And I’m willing to bet it was a family member. So which one?”

“Does it matter?” I said, temper rising.

“Clearly. Or else you would tell me who.”

I tried to glare at him between the bags, but he was moving faster now, a predator toying with his prey.

“This is personal,” I said roughly.

“Then it’s good we have no audience after all.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Do you hear me laughing?” His voice had moved farther back, as though he was widening his circle. “Tell me how the Hunter hurt you.”

I inhaled slowly, reminding myself that I needed to learn how to manage my specter. Not only for my task at Banarrat, which I now had only nine days to prepare for, but because if I didn’t, the Hunters could very well hurt me again. “She struck me with an arrow.”

“So you couldn’t fight her because . . . you were too busy crying about a little blood on your shirt?”

My specter lurched out farther, and one of the bags swayed at the impact.

“Don’t let it touch the bags,” Goren ordered. Before I could snap back at him, he asked, “What happened after she struck you? Did she remind you that you were a worthless Wielder, unfit to take up space on the family tree?”

“Would you like it if she had?” I demanded.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” My skin was heating now, blood rushing through my ears. “Because this certainly feels like your way of paying me back for striking you all those weeks ago.”

Goren laughed darkly. “This Hunter must have hurt you with a lot more than an arrow. So what did she do to you, really?”