I looked up at the speaker and said, “Huh?”

    Lamer put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me into her taller, leaner frame. “Picture it,” she said. “The dark night sky, the torches, the drums. Brought here from our academy in carriages with the windows covered we stand in the Matching Circle, finally Shields, dressed in our best whites and our brand new braids.” She plucked at the tightly sewn knots in the left shoulder of my robe. “Knowing you have to compete with fourteen of your peers to be Chosen by one of – is it six, this Match? – Sources. Who are out there somewhere, waiting in their best blacks, for the chance to look us over like a herd of cattle.”

    I snickered.

    “The excitement. The anticipation. The fear. Doesn’t it make you feel like ... dancing?”

    “Dancing? Are you crazy?”

    “Don’t try to kid me, Mallorough. I heard about that night after the First Landers’ play.”

    “Ah.” That explained everything. “So have I. Don’t I wish it had been that interesting.” Alas, never had I ever, under the influence of either alcohol or music, danced on a table.

    How did these rumors start?

    Lamer suddenly sighed with impatience. “What’s taking so long?”

    McAllistair, standing on my other side, snorted in amusement. “Karish, I’ll wager,” he said. “Maybe there’s a mirror back there.”

    “Hm.” That seemed to pacify Lamer somewhat. “Can’t rush perfection, I guess.”

    I didn’t roll my eyes. I was proud of myself.

    Karish was one of the Sources. We would be meeting six that night, and six of us might end up bonded to one of them as a result.

    Lord Shintaro Karish was a name I’d heard most of my life, and he was the Source all the Shields wanted. He was, according to rumor and his records, talented, gorgeous, and charming. He was called the Darling of the Triple S because he could feel natural events – earthquakes, cyclones, anything - long before they happened, and he could channel enormous amounts of power, eliminating the events before most people even realized there was any danger. He was called the Stallion of the Triple S for talents that had nothing to do with being a Source.

    Katherine Devereaux was also an excellent Source who had proven herself while training in the field, but she had avoided the need to make an icon of herself. Reputed to be a steady, sedate woman, she was more my style than any of the other Sources I would be meeting that day. I had high hopes for her. She and I would work well together.

    Thomas Black was a solid, reliable Source, no dramatic rescues in his history but no major screw-ups, either. A little too proud for some, but no one could expect humility in a Source. If his portrait were any indication he wasn’t bad looking, either. Not that such things mattered, but I had no objection to looking at a pretty face.

    The fear of not being Chosen was the first reason the Shields were so tense. A Shield who was never Chosen might end up a professor in the academy, or part of its maintenance staff, or sent out hunting for new young Shields and Sources, all occupations far inferior to that of being a properly bonded Shield.

    Stevan Creol was the second reason. He was an adequate Source but was said to be odd, even cruel. Reputed to have tormented younger years as a student, he carried rumors of assault and rape as an adult. Nothing that anyone was prepared to submit to the law, but I’d yet to meet or read from a person who’d worked with him who had anything good to say about him. Some said he was crazy. Others claimed he was just evil. All anyone could say for sure was that he seemed unable to Choose a Shield. He was forty and still hadn’t managed it.

    Then there were the twins, one man, one woman. Therefore not identical but looking so much alike they might as well have been. They were, to all reports, extremely weak and would probably never be sent anywhere dangerous. Viola and Sebastian Bradford were said to recognize their limitations cheerfully and were rumored to be two of the kindest, friendliest people a person could ever hope to meet.

    My first choice was Devereaux, then Black, then either of the twins. If I didn’t get Chosen by one of them, I didn’t want to get Chosen that Match at all. I wanted someone calm, steady, and reliable. As calm, steady, and reliable as a Source could be, anyway.

    But I didn’t get to choose. Neither did the Sources, not in the true sense of the word. When Source met Shield for the first time, if they were meant to work together they knew it the moment they looked at each other. Kind of like love at first sight only permanent, and it had nothing to do with physical attraction or emotional compatibility.

    The bond, everyone thought, matched skill to skill and created a stronger partnership than what could be found in an unbonded Pair. It enabled a Shield to feel when his or her Source’s mental protections were lowered or raised. Sources needed mental Shields to protect their minds from the various forces swirling about the world, the forces that made the sun rise and set and the winds blow and the tides flow and ebb. Otherwise the minds of the Sources would be overrun and destroyed by those forces, a vulnerability unique to their kind.

    Those mental barriers needed to be lowered when the Sources channeled, leaving their minds vulnerable. It was the unique talent of the Shields to shape secondary barriers for the Sources, protecting them while still allowing them the freedom necessary to work.

    Any Shield could protect any Source, but bonded Shields and Sources worked better together. And only a bonded Shield could feel the Source’s protections lowering without being told, which was a necessary ability when the partners were not in physical proximity.

    Poetry, songs and plays written by regulars added all sorts of other attributes to the bond. Things like the partners being able to read each others’ minds, or see through each others’ eyes and hear through each others’ ears. They made entertaining reading and none of them were true. All the bond did was facilitate Shielding.

    There were, however, other effects of the bond. Some Pairs experienced a sort of physical harmony. It had been described to me as an added comfort level when the two partners were in close contact, and even some relief of pain when they touched. It was a rare phenomenon, thank Zaire. It seemed rather intrusive to me.

    Other effects were even less positive. The bond seemed to search out inherent emotional characteristics of the partners, drawing them out and amplifying them, and the wrong combination of such characteristics could be disastrous. Some partners hated each other, and this could be a serious problem, for once the bond was formed it was permanent. There was no separating, no working with anyone else. And the death of one meant the death of the other, the bond was that powerful.

    Without training and emotional preparation the bond could be destructive, resulting in obsessive love or hatred between the partners, drawing them into each other and rendering them incapable of dealing with the rest of the world in a rational manner. So young unPaired Sources and Shields were segregated from the rest of society and each other until they were Chosen, the best that could be done to prevent spontaneous pairings. It was impossible to eliminate all instantaneous pairings, for some Sources and Shields remained undiscovered for years, and not all such Pairs were afflicted with emotional instability, but everyone felt the separate academies were the best way to keep such unfortunate Choices to a minimum.

    I had been sent away to one of the Shield academies when I was four years old, and had remained there for the following seventeen years of my life. It was the only home I could remember.

    And so I stood in the Matching Circle with most of the members of my class and a handful of older Shields who had not yet been Chosen. We stood in a single long line, side by side, waiting. We were watched by friends, family, and former instructors. We had been placed in alphabetical order according to our family names.

    I was Dunleavy Mallorough. I was somewhere near the middle.

    A door creaked as it opened. Heads whipped around. I felt the Shields around me stiffening, standing straighter, standing prouder. The Sources had arrived.

    They filed into the Matching Circle silently, and I had to admit they looked a little eerie, black figures floating over the white floor. Most of them didn’t look at all nervous, which I found irritating. This night was as important to them as it was to us, and they had no more control over the results than we did. They should have been as apprehensive as we were. More so. They were Sources, after all. They were supposed to overreact to everything.

    I was not nervous. To be nervous was to waste one’s strength on a fruitless emotional reaction. I was calm. I was always calm.

    Really.

    I would not wipe my palms against my trousers. I would not shift my feet. I would not flick my hair off my shoulder. I would be calm, I would be serene, in success or failure.

    But I wouldn’t fail. I would be Chosen. This was a certainty. That I was standing with fourteen others who were just as firmly convinced of their success was irrelevant, because I was right. I was always right.

    Damn it, I couldn’t feel the floor against my bare feet. That wasn’t good.

    All Shields were rather insensitive to physical sensation – to better enable us to concentrate solely on our Sources, it was said – but I’d always been particularly insensitive. Which was an endless source of humor for my classmates. I had been taught to feel things, of course, as all Shields were. It was just that sometimes I sort of forgot.

    The floor was wood. Sanded so smooth it felt like cloth. Cool and almost soft against the skin, as incongruous a thought as that seemed.

    The door was closed behind the last Source. I looked them over discretely, noting the differences between the portraits we’d been shown and the people standing before me. We waited.

    Another, smaller door opened in a dark corner of the room. An elderly man, wearing the black braid of a Source, stepped in, followed by an elderly woman wearing the white braid of a Shield. Source Ivan McCrae and Shield Cloudminder, Emil, the Presiding Pair of the Match. They walked between the row of the Shields and the row of the Sources, ascending onto the low dais at the other end of the room.

    Cloudminder cleared her throat. “We would like to welcome you all to this, the third Match of the 573rd year of recording.” Her voice was clear and surprisingly strong for a woman of her age and stature.

    Silence greeted her words.

    “It is perhaps best, at this time, to acknowledge our origins,” the Shield continued. “To remember that nearly seven centuries past, our ancestors arrived here from another world, brought here in huge ships that flew between the stars. And in this world they saw beauty and wealth, and they thought to settle here.”

    I had been warned to expect this, the recital of our history. As though we didn’t already know it. Waste of time.

    “We are told that they brought with them great tools. Tools for speaking to each other over great distances. Tools for traveling with rapidity and without effort. Tools for raising buildings and tilling soil. Even, it was written, tools that controlled the sun and the sky.”

    This was where the story always lost me. I believed in the tools, in their existence. A professor at the academy had shown me articles made of strange, light metals, the use for which no one could guess. But controlling the sun and the sky? That couldn’t be possible.

    “Yet for all the wonder and power of these tools, this world was stronger still. The tools lost their power here. This world resisted their use, with earthquakes of such ferocity, with cyclones of such destructive force, with volcanoes of such frequency and reach, that these tools were largely destroyed and swept away from all hands.

    “The destruction did not end there. The great cities of the ancestors were leveled. Their crops, stretching wide, were laid waste. Their high dams were swallowed whole.

    “Our ancestors decided they could not shape this world as they wished. Those who were weak left our world, returning to their own.” And the Shield made a dismissive gesture with one trembling hand. “The strong remained to build a new life, one more suited to this world. But that life was hard. One might almost feel that the world was angry, that our ancestors dared to use such tools against it. Cities built with nothing more than human hands were quickly torn down again. Our modest crops were destroyed by draughts and floods. Many, many died. People fell into despair, and became certain that the planet would kill them all. Yet they strove to survive. They rebuilt. They sewed new crops. They had children.

    “One of these children was a boy named Bora Zaire. A very odd young man, who spoke nonsense, and was prone to tears and fits of rage. An idiot, many thought. And one day, a cyclone approached his settlement. While others fled in fear, this young man stood in the strengthening winds, staring as though in challenge. And the cyclone faded, in strength and size, until it disappeared.

    “And Bora Zaire died.

    “He was only the first to die in this way. The same happened in other settlements. An event would threaten, and some young man or woman – always one who was considered strange and odd – would stare the event down. The event would disappear, and the young person would die. No one could understand why.

    “We know now that these young people were Sources. We now know that these were people with a special talent, an ability to feel the approach of an event, to reach into that event with their minds. They could draw the forces of the events into their very bodies, draining the events of all their power until they simply disappeared. The forces of these events could be directed away, harmlessly.

    “This, we call channeling, and we now know channeling the forces is fatally hard on the body. The heart beats too fast. The mind tears itself apart. The forces are displaced in a manner most unnatural, and they curve back on the Source to crush that fragile human shell.

    “We know this now, because this is what Shields tell us.

    “Nirah Kadaf is the first Shield we have in the history books. A quiet, serious young woman who couldn’t like another young woman in her settlement, a strange girl named Mandir Olsworth. When their settlement was threatened by a tidal wave, and Mandir felt compelled to stand out in it, Nirah stood beside her. The tidal wave sank harmlessly into the soil. And neither woman died.

    “For while Sources can reach into the heart of an event, Shields can reach into the minds of Sources. They can slow the heartbeat of a channeling Source, calm the mind, and erect their own barriers around a Source, to protect that Source from the curling forces.

    “Stories of this pair of women spread wide, and reached the ear of Sylva Westphal, a holder of the north. She sent men out to collect these two women, and others to search for more of their kind, to bring them to her hold. And once they were there, she hired healers and people of learning to study these young people, and determine what they were.

    “Years of study revealed little. There was no one physical or mental characteristic shared by all. The talent did not appear to be inherited. Nor could it be learned by others. It was something inborn, and completely unpredictable.

    “What was learned, however, was that Sources and Shields, when they were brought together, bonded. And bonded Sources and Shields worked better together, than those who were not bonded. And the bonding was as unpredictable as the talent itself.

    “Holder Westphal continued to search for people of these talents. She housed them, fed them, and then charged for their services. Those with the money to pay the fee could have their homes and settlements protected from the natural events of this world. Those who could not, were destroyed.

    “Many protested of this to the Empress, for all perceived the talents of the Sources and Shields to be vital to the survival and prosperity of the whole world. So the Empress demanded that all Sources and Shields be turned over to her.

    “Holder Westphal refused.

    “The Empress called on her Imperial Guard.

    “Holder Westphal assembled an army of mercenaries.

    “The Sources and Shields, foreseeing a lifetime of servitude to either the Holder or the Empress, declared they would hide themselves in some deserted place and let the world shake itself to pieces.

    “And so a compromise was reached.

    “The holder would be pardoned from all charges of treason, and be permitted to keep her lands and tenants, in exchange for releasing her claim on the Sources and Shields in perpetuity.

    “The Empress would fund the education of all Sources in Shields, in perpetuity, with the vow that no monarch would attempt to control them.

    “The Sources and Shields would be self-regulating, with the understanding that they were obligated to protect all who needed it, with no payment.

    “All others were obligated to house, feed and clothe all Sources and Shields as it was demanded of them, without payment.

    “And thus was born the Source and Shield Service.

    “Those before us are embarking on the most honorable of tasks, high in privilege and equally high in responsibility. Many can claim to hold the future prosperity of this world in their hands. Only we can say so with literal intent. Without us, cities fall, oceans will swallow the fields, and this world will be laid waste.

    “And because of this, we are held high in the esteem of others, and we are freed from the day to day burdens others carry. Some feel that our higher responsibilities also free us from the laws others must follow, from the notions of duty and honor which bind others.” I could have sworn she looked right at Creol then. “This is a fallacy. On the contrary, we have higher expectations placed upon us, not less. The honor of the Source and Shield Service rests on all of your as you take your places in the world beyond the academies. Remember this.”

    There was a moment of silence. I wondered if I would feel irked, were I a regular, to be so thoroughly chided when I hadn’t even done anything wrong.

    “Sources,” said Cloudminder, “Choose your Shields.”

    Finally.

    Source Black stood in front of the first Shield, Patrick Addington. They looked at each other. One exchange of glances was all it took. If nothing happened then, nothing was going to happen, ever.

    Nothing happened. Though Addington was no doubt disappointed, no one would know it by looking at him. Good man. Black took one step down to face the next Shield. Source Bradford, Sebastian, stood before Addington.

    I hoped, desperately, that Creol would not Choose me. For some reason a part of me was certain that he would. The fear had been lurking under my skull for months, ever since I learned that he hadn’t Chosen anyone at the last Match. I repressed a shiver. Refusing a bond was not only physically impossible, it simply wasn’t allowed. Sources and Shields were pretty much owned by the Triple S, and once a Pair had bonded they worked together, no exceptions.

    Unless they were titled. An aristocrat with a title was considered even more valuable than a Source or a Shield, though not nearly as useful. Unfortunately, I was strictly merchant class, and Creol, he was too crazy to be granted a title. If he Chose me, I was stuck.

    There was a cry of delight from the beginning of the line. Bradford, Sebastian, had found his match in Liam Everette, an excellent Shield. Almost as good as me. A bit of a ponce for a Shield, too, so I had thought he would be the most obvious Choice for Karish, but these things couldn’t be predicted. Everette and Bradford left the line and moved to one side of the Matching Circle, out of everyone’s way, talking animatedly. And the Match went on.

    Black stood in front of me and looked me in the eye. A nice strong, solid look. I was surprised to find myself holding my breath. One moment slid by, and then another.

    How long was it supposed to take, anyway? Surely it took more than a fleeting glance. Maybe we were supposed to wait a little bit, make sure nothing was going to take hold. It couldn’t be exactly the same for every Pair.

    But Black seemed fairly confident nothing was going to happen. He moved to the Shield on my right and I smothered my disappointment. Two of my preferences were down.

    Another exclamation of delight. Damn it. I glanced down to the beginning of the line. Source Devereaux had made her match. And it wasn’t me.

    I took a deep breath. And then another. Stay calm, damn it.

    There had been no guarantee that Devereaux would Choose me. Absolutely none at all. To become upset that the results had not been what I hoped would be childish and unproductive.

    Bradford, Viola, stood before me. We looked at each other. Nothing happened. Big surprise.

    Sources Creol and Karish were left. Wonderful selection. I carefully clenched my teeth together.

    I watched the two remaining Sources work their way down the line. I watched the Shields react to them, despite their best efforts to appear stoic. When Creol approached, one could perceive the slightest stiffening of neck and shoulders as the Shields did their best not to lower their gaze and avoid the Choice. When Creol left, one could detect the relaxing of the posture as the Shields breathed deeply in relief.

    Karish, on the other hand, brought quickened breath and brightened eyes. There was a subtle shifting of balance to the ball of the foot, as though each Shield were ready to leap into a run at the Source’s word. And when Karish moved on, the slight drooping of the shoulders screamed disappointment.

    And then he was before me. Creol. Staring down at me with horribly piercing, yellowish brown eyes. I steeled my spine and glared right back, daring him to Choose me. He was not going to know I was a quivering coward.

    And nothing happened. For an endless moment I waited, not even breathing. I still wasn’t sure how long it could take, and with the luck I had already experienced that night it seemed certain that Creol must Choose me. But time drained by, and there was no pull or shock or anything else I’d been told to expect, and Creol was already looking beyond me to his next victim. I figured he had to know what he was doing, he had done this so many times before.

    The sharp relief I felt at not being Chosen by that man was a nice cool shock. It almost made up for the earlier disappointments. So Devereaux and Black and neither of the Bradfords had Chosen me. Neither had Creol. Life was wonderful.

    My brothers would never let me forget it, that I was left all alone and pathetic in the Circle. There were worse things.

    Karish stood before me. He had gone through half the line without Choosing. I wondered if he was getting worried. I wondered why I was even there. I looked up at him.

    Light slapped into my eyes, blinding me and setting my ears to ringing. It almost hurt. Lightning raced through my veins and burst through my skin, I could feel it. My lungs threatened to collapse in my chest. I couldn’t breathe and I thought about panicking.

    Just as abruptly, the light vanished. I could see, I could hear, I could breathe, and I was standing on my own two feet. I looked up into gleaming dark eyes, and I thought about panicking.

    Karish. The Stallion of the Triple S. My Source. I was chained to a legend. An infamous legend. Stories of drunkenness, whoring, and general recklessness filled my head. Oh. My. God. I must have been evil in a former life.

    This was it. The person I would work with the rest of my life. Moving with him as we were transferred from post to post. Learning how he moved and felt and thought. Most importantly, learning how he channeled. Because from that instant on, my most important task was protecting this man while he worked, making sure the forces he manipulated while calming tsunami and cyclones and other natural events didn’t end up killing him.

    I would die with this man. He’d catch some sexual disease, or some enraged spouse would kill him, and the bond would drag me down with him. He was that sort, the sort that shone too bright and burnt out fast.

    Hell.

    He grinned, and of course my brain immediately froze solid. He took my hand and kissed the back of it, which was odd enough behavior to keep me silent. I let him pull me out of the line because I really couldn’t believe what had just happened. “I’m Shintaro Karish,” he said, as if there were any chance I didn’t already know who he was. “My friends call me Taro. I am very pleased to finally meet you.”

    Finally. Like he had been aware of my existence for more than half a moment and had been desperately anticipating our introduction. Very good. And he had a tenor born for the stage. I’d always been soft for a good male voice. But what was that accent? Sources and Shields were raised in different academies but we all ended up with the same bland accent. His drawl, with its rolling ‘r’s, was definitely aristocratic, and the pretension disgusted me.

    He was beautiful. I usually preferred blonds, but even I had to admit that he was visually stunning. The slightly longish black hair, the black eyes with just a touch of an enticing slant, the finely drawn nose, cheekbones and jaw. Good teeth, well-shaped mouth, warmly bronzed skin. A gold ring glinted in his left lobe in defiance of the rules and tradition of the Match. He wasn’t too tall but he was lean, with elegant hands and an excellent stance.

    Was that my mouth watering? Of course not.

    But he slept with a different partner every night. Or so they said. And I’d never been one to follow a crowd.

    On the other hand, we were Paired. For life. No matter how impossible that seemed at the moment. I couldn’t ignore him as I would like, and being rude to him would only make things difficult for me. So I smiled politely. “Dunleavy Mallorough.” I remembered to withdraw my hand. “It will be an honor to serve.”

    He raised an ebony brow in obvious amusement. “I see,” he murmured.

    I was immediately suspicious. Just what did he think he saw?

    Another shout distracted me. Black had found his match in Jamin Tan.

    “Are your family here?” Karish asked.

    Oh, Zaire. My family. Wouldn’t they just be thrilled? Especially my father, his little girl bonded to the Stallion. For of course they had heard of the Stallion, even though they weren’t part of the Triple S. Everyone had heard of the Stallion.

    Aye, they were there. “Are yours?” I asked him, because I had to say something.

    He smiled again, but this time it was a rather twisted effort. “Of course not.”

    Oh. Well. Now what? I had no questions to ask him. I already knew all about his life. I looked back at the line.

    The Match was over. Sources Creol and Viola Bradford hadn’t Chosen. I wondered if they were as disappointed as all the Shields who had suffered the same fate. I doubted it.

    No one was directing at Karish the poisonous glares I was receiving from some of my former classmates.

    You want him? Please, take him. I would be forever in your debt.

    Idiot. For all his flaws, Karish was reputed to be an excellent Source. I could have done far worse. Just because he wasn’t the one I wanted didn’t mean we couldn’t work well together. And being Chosen by him was better than not being Chosen at all. Really, it was.

    Really.

    The spectators had left their seats and were making their way into the Circle. I could see my family heading towards me. My parents, my older sister, my two younger brothers. They looked happy and proud. That helped me relax, a little.

    Mother hugged me first, a tight squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “We’re so proud of you, honey,” she whispered fiercely. Though, really, there was nothing to be proud of. It wasn’t as though I had actually accomplished anything, or won something through merit. Getting Chosen was merely the luck of the draw.

    Father cupped my face with a long hand and kissed me lightly. “Good work, little one,” he said gruffly.

    Big sister Kaaren and little brothers Dias and Mika, both of whom towered over me, crushed me in a series of embraces. Mika was the only one who had something to say about my Source. “Lucky girl,” he muttered, running an admiring gaze over Karish’s form.

    I ruffled his hair because I knew he hated it.

    There were introductions to make. “Lord Shintaro Karish, I would like to present my parents, Trader William Mallorough and Holder Teshia Mallorough, my sister Holder Kaaren Mallorough, my brothers Dias and Mika Mallorough.”

    With each name, he bowed slightly, and then looked the person right in the eye, a heavy intense gaze accompanied by a melting smile. If I didn’t know better, I would say he was silently flirting with each and every member of my family. Including my father.

    My father cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You’re the Duke of Westsea’s brother, aren’t you?”

    “Aye,” Lord Karish said, smoothly enough, but his smile suddenly seemed fixed.

    My father glanced about the crowd. “Where is he?”

    “Taking the tip off the blade, I imagine.”

    I almost sighed. Sources were known for expressing themselves oddly, it was something to do with the way their minds worked. I’d harbored the secret hope that my Source would be an exception.

    Karish gave me a smile that put me on immediate alert. “Shall we head on over to the Horse’s Head?” he asked.

    Oh, lord. That was right. Tradition declared the newly bonded Pairs were to celebrate at that ancient drinking establishment and trade life stories. It was something everyone looked forward to practically from the moment they understood what drinking themselves senseless meant. I had been looking forward to it. It not only meant that one had been Chosen, it was also the first time Shields and Sources were allowed to be out of their academies without official supervision. It was the big send-off before leaving the only home most of us really remembered and heading out into the real world. It was the one time we could act like idiots without anyone thinking less of us. It was a thousand little signals and symbols rolled into one major event, and I had fully planned on enjoying it.

    But not with Karish.

    I’d been hearing about Karish for years. I’d gossiped about him just as much as everyone else, admiring the stunts that obviously required a lot of skill and snickering at the high jinks that just as obviously required as much moxy and no discretion at all. Like everyone else I’d known where he’d come from and who his family was. But I’d never felt anything about him, any more than I felt anything about a character in a story. He was just a piece of local color that had nothing to do with my life. Even once I understood he’d be one of the Sources at my Match, I’d only felt pity for the person who would be bonded to him. He could have nothing to do with me. And so I’d felt nothing about him.

    Only now he had everything to do with me. I had to work with him every single day of my life. I had to go where he was sent, explain his behavior to offended regulars, try to convey important information to him. His reputation would shape mine. His conduct would determine where I lived and for how long. And every time he channeled I would have to listen to his blood and calm his heart and crawl inside his brain.

    I pulled in a deep breath. I was a Shield. This was my task. That it was so incredibly disappointing – well, there was no point in whining about it. Might as well begin as I meant to go on and get used to him as soon as possible.

    I cocked my head to one side and said in assent, “Of course.” I turned back to my family.

    Mother sighed. “I’d hoped we’d have a bit more time,” she murmured, embracing me. “Be careful out there. The real world is different from the academy.”

    I imagined so. I hoped so. I’d enjoyed the academy, of course, but the number of rules had been stifling. “Aye, Mother.” I exchanged quick hugs with the others, wishing, too, that we would have had time for a proper conversation. It had been expected, however.

    When I turned back to Karish, he held out an arm to me, obviously expecting me to take it.

    Chivalry. No doubt another remnant of his aristocratic background. I was a Shield with a serious task to perform, not a sickly maiden. What need I for chivalry?

    I’d deal with it. I had to. He was my Source and I was stuck with him and his quirks for the rest of my life. If he took his work seriously – and according to his reputation he did – then I could ignore the rest.

    I took his arm.

    And felt the muscles along the back of my neck and shoulders ease and loosen.

    Ah, hell.