Daughter of the Disgraced King (10 page)

The emperor crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me get
this straight. You three went to Jathan’s student ball? After I’d told you not
to interfere with his training in any way?”

Arrigo shrugged. “We just wanted to make sure Princess Ailsa
had a good time.”

Jathan snorted. “Yeah. Such a good time she almost left the
ball early after your little stunt.”

Artair’s brows furrowed. “Why would she do that? I mean, all
we did was dance with her. Most of the other girls there would have been
thrilled.”

Jathan shrugged off Artair’s hands from his shoulders and
took a step toward Arrigo. “Ailsa’s shy. She doesn’t like being put in the
spotlight like that. You might have figured that out from the way she bolted
into her grandmother’s house after you insisted on escorting her home with a
full bodyguard. But you didn’t bother to stop to ask what she’d prefer, did
you?”

Artair looked over at Arrigo, too. “I thought you said we
should go to welcome her to Terranion.”

Rishiart stared at the wall behind Artair’s left ear for a
moment. “She did seem a little stiff when I danced with her. I just thought she
wasn’t a very good dancer.”

Jathan shook his head. “She dances very well, at least when
she’s allowed to choose her own partners.”

The emperor fixed Arrigo and Jathan with his eyes. “Enough. We’ve
mostly left you two to sort things out for yourselves—except when you try to
kill each other, anyway—in the hopes that you’d finally reach a point where you
could at least coexist peacefully. You’re both old enough to stop this constant
competition. It’s not like you’re in each other’s company all the time, like
you were when you were younger. You both have your own spheres, now. Arrigo,
you have the army, which seems to suit you. Jathan has the Institute, which is
his place to shine. There’s no reason you, Arrigo, or either of you two either,”
pointing at Artair and Rishiart, “need to interfere with him in any way. From
now on, I expect all of you to keep clear of the Institute. Completely.”

The emperor turned his glare on the older two princes. “I
also expect both of you to begin to think more critically. Surely you’ve had
enough experience to be skeptical whenever Arrigo proposes something that even
tangentially involves Jathan. Or the reverse.”

Artair and Rishiart both glowered at Arrigo for getting them
into trouble.

The emperor sighed. “Also, I’ll be sure to make an
opportunity for you to apologize in person to Princess Ailsa. Nothing—nothing—excuses
any discourtesy to visiting royalty. Most especially the daughter of my old
friend. She is
not
a pawn in your competition.”

Ailsa opened the door to let Jathan in with a certain amount
of nervousness. “Something’s up. Grandmama has been out in the garden since
breakfast.”

Jathan grinned. “Maybe we’re finally going to get an
official chance to try out our green magic.”

Ailsa swallowed. “That’s what I think, too.”

Jathan’s grin softened. “Relax. This won’t be anything like
old Barth forcing you to make a whirlwind in front of the whole class.”

Ailsa winced at the reminder. Her nerves had gotten the
better of her. At first she couldn’t make her whirlwind at all, with everyone
watching her. Then, when she finally did manage it, the thing had gotten
completely out of control. She was sure she’d been the worst in the whole
class.

Jathan reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “Hey.
It’s only your grandmother and me, here. No one’s going to laugh at you,
whatever happens.”

Ailsa drew in a deep breath and nodded at him, grateful for
his reassurance.

The kitchen door banged as Grandmama came back inside. “Ah.
There you are, Jathan. Right on time. Good. Today, I think it’s time to find
out what you can do. Follow me into the garden.”

Jathan grinned again and strode forward.

Ailsa tried again to swallow her nerves down and went last
through the kitchen door. She turned to face the house, just as Jathan and
Grandmama were. A workbench stood up against the length of the outside of the
kitchen wall, with three flat, soil-filled trays spaced out along its length.

Grandmama stood before the tray on the right end. “All
right. Today we’ll just try to set a baseline and establish the lower bounds of
your magic. This will not determine your ultimate capability or set your
permanent level. We’re only using radish seeds today, so the maximum score is level
seven.” She held her hands over the tray and Ailsa felt the prickling sense of
building magic. Green shoots poked through the ground, opening into a pair of
heart-shaped leaves which waved gently as they continued to grow. When the
seedlings were about an inch tall, another pair of leaves, very different from
the first, began to show between the two seed leaves. Then Grandmama removed
her hands. “For reference, that represents level five. Now, you two show me
what you can do.”

Ailsa rubbed her sweaty palms against her robes as she
stepped up to the middle tray. She drew a deep breath and held her hands out
above it before reaching for her magic. She let the magic fill her and flow
through her. The feeling was very different than the exercises she’d done—or
tried to do—in Practical Basics of Magic. It was like being lifted to the
tallest mountain peak, like dancing with Jathan all night, and like kissing Sav—all
at once. She closed her eyes briefly, just enjoying the intoxication of the
magic filling her. When she opened them, the second set of leaves was already
opening.

Ailsa grinned. To her left, Jathan glanced over at her tray
and grunted. Her seedlings continued to grow. When she saw a hint of red at the
soil line, she reluctantly drew her magic back and pulled her hands down to her
sides. Any further and the roots would be damaged by being forced to grow too
fast.

Jathan stood over his tray a little longer before stepping
back. There was a wide band of red at the soil level of his tray. Grandmama stepped
forward to examine their efforts. She measured Ailsa’s seedlings and smiled. “Level
seven. Very good for a first effort.”

Level seven!
That was very powerful for a green mage.
And she hadn’t frozen up or made a mistake. Ailsa grinned again, feeling almost
as exhilarated as when the magic filled her.

Grandmama stepped over to Jathan’s tray. “Also a level
seven. But you need to learn a bit of restraint. You’ve pushed the seeds too
far. Your radishes will hardly be worth harvesting.” She smiled to take the
sting out of her words. “Your parents will be proud, both of you.”

~

Jathan smiled as he watched Ailsa dance down the path. They
were on their way to their shared Magical Ethics class, passing through one of
the many gardens that dotted the campus of the Institute.

“That was amazing this morning. I’ve never felt anything
like that.” Ailsa smiled broadly. She was as close to giddy as he’d ever seen
her.  

“There’s no thrill like working your true magic, is there?” Jathan
said.

Ailsa touched the bud of a rose which burst into flower.

Jathan smiled and plucked the rose, then wove the stem into
the top of her braid. Her hair was silky and soft and it smelled like vanilla.
He had to force himself to pull his hand away. “There. That suits you. You
should wear flowers all the time.”

She reached back to feel the flower. “But it’ll wilt.”

“It doesn’t have to. You’re a green mage. You can keep it
fresh if you want. You could even make it sprout roots and grow . . . Although,
that might not be such a good idea, come to think of it.”

Ailsa giggled. “It would certainly make it harder to wash my
hair.”

Jathan clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still.
“Yes. And other things.” He spotted an empty bench by the path ahead and veered
toward it. “We’re early. Why don’t we sit here for a moment? Better than
waiting in that stuffy classroom.”

Ailsa sat down on one end of the bench. “Yes. It’s a
beautiful day. It’s almost summer and still not too hot to be out in the middle
of the day.”

“Does it get
that
hot in Far Terra?” Jathan sat down
on the other end of the small bench and turned so he could see her face. Safer
to sit where he couldn’t quite touch her. Or smell her hair.

“Far Terra is in the middle of the desert, after all. People
mostly just stay inside during the middle of the day from late spring until
well into the autumn. Winter is nice and it almost always cools off in the
evenings even in summer.”

But it was winter when Father—my real father crossed the
desert. And they said he drowned. “So . . . there’s not much standing water—lakes
and ponds—I guess.”

“Oh, nothing like that lake up in the mountains. Scattered
oases, like the ones along the Imperial Highway. Some of the ones farther out
are not much more than mud holes. There are supposed to be a few small lakes nearer
the mountains.”

“Do the oases fill up when it rains?”

Ailsa shrugged. “It doesn’t rain. Or not very often. The
desert is at its most dangerous when it does.”

Jathan blinked. “How so?”

“If you live in the desert, you expect the heat. You know
how to deal with it. But when it rains, the runoff can cause a flash flood. And
it may not even be raining very close to where you are, which makes it hard to
predict. That’s why my parents delayed my coming to the Institute until later
in the spring.”

Jathan pictured the flooding rivers he’d seen from time to
time and shuddered.
That would do it, all right.

Ailsa squinted at him. “You’ve never seen the desert, have
you?”

“No. I’ve never been farther than the Ring Mountains.
Once, I climbed a peak where we could look out across the desert, though. Far
Terra was sort of a green blur on the horizon.” Jathan looked out across the
garden. He didn’t want to think about that on this fair summer day. Maybe it
was time to change the subject. “Hey, we’d better get a move on or we’ll be
late to Magical Ethics.”

~

Savyon circled the floor of the great hall, staying away
from both the dais and the dance floor. It had become his habit at these
increasingly regular balls. In his usual place on the dais, he’d have to listen
to the king pointing out an endless array of eligible baron’s daughters. Apparently,
Father hadn’t been convinced by Savyon’s arguments in favor of Ailsa. Not yet,
at least.

On the dance floor, he’d have been faced with an endless
procession of simpering dance partners. By circulating among the barons, he
avoided both. Even better, his father couldn’t even criticize him for it. It
was, after all, part of his job as the heir to be acquainted with all of the
barons and to make it his business to know their strengths, weaknesses, and
problems on his father’s behalf as well as for his own future.

He smiled as his circuit brought him around to ex-King
Sandor and his wife, Ailsa’s parents. He genuinely liked Sandor and, besides, they
might have the answer to a question that had been bothering him for some time,
now. It had been more than a month and Ailsa still hadn’t written to tell him
what her field of magic was, not even in code. She had to know by now and the
silence was making him nervous. “Good evening, sir. You look especially happy
tonight.”

Sandor raised his glass of wine to Savyon. “We’re
celebrating.”

“Oh?”

“We had a letter from the master of the Institute
of Magical Arts today about Ailsa’s early testing,” Sandor said. “Like her
grandmother before her, Ailsa is a green mage. And her first testing sets her
lower limit at level seven.”

“Even my mother in her prime was only a level eight,” Ailsa’s
mother added. “The master thinks Ailsa will outdo her.”

A chill went down Savyon’s back and settled in his belly. No
wonder Ailsa hasn’t told me what her magic is. It’s all over. No chance she’ll
give up that kind of magic for me. Savyon took a step back, sagging against the
wall.

“Are you all right, Prince?” Sandor asked.

Savyon raised his head. “What? Oh, yes. I’m fine. I was just
. . .” He forced a smile and raised his wine glass. “Here’s to Ailsa.” He
drained the goblet in one gulp. “Excuse me. I need to refill this. Please
convey my congratulations when you write to Ailsa.”

~

Savyon paced across his bed chamber, kicking the wads of
paper scattered across the floor as he went. He’d tried to sit down and write
to Ailsa, but it was impossible. There was no way to put any of the things he
wanted to say in writing, not even with the help of a whole library full of
poetry. It either sounded self-pitying or begging or false or just hollow—which
was pretty much the way he felt. What he needed was to talk to her face to
face. It probably wouldn’t change anything, but at least he’d feel that he’d
tried.

His head came up. Face to face. That might just be possible.
Ever since Ailsa left, he’d been thinking about asking his father to send him
to Terranion, too. He could study at the Academy for a year and possibly even
make some useful imperial contacts. Maybe, just maybe, he could convince his
father of that.

He whirled toward the door, before remembering that it was
well after midnight. He couldn’t go to his father right now. He’d have to wait
until morning. He pounded his right fist into his left palm. Well, then, he’d
just make sure that he was well prepared. Savyon could already hear the
arguments his father would make against him. He needed to have a good
counterargument for each of them.

~

Savyon strode down the corridor with the rolled up parchment
in his hand. It was his ace in the hole. He raised his other hand to tap on the
door to his father’s office. No need to start out by aggravating Father. That
would be counterproductive to his goal.

“Enter,” Father called from inside.

Savyon squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before
opening the door and stepping through.

Father put down his pen. “Well, what do you want now?”

“I was thinking . . .”

“Yes?”

Savyon cleared his throat. “I was thinking that it’s about
time I went to the imperial capital to study for a year or two.”

Father’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Chasing after your little
friend? I’m not going to change my mind about her. I think I made a mistake in
having her educated along with you and Cergio by the royal tutors. It
encouraged an undesirable friendship.”

Savyon bit his lip. He wasn’t here to argue with his father.
He had to keep this on a different level or he’d push Father in the opposite
direction. “No, Father. Besides what I’d learn at the Academy, I’d make
connections in the Imperial Court that’ll be valuable later. It’s traditional.
Even ex-King Sandor went before he took the throne. “

“Yes. And look how well that turned out. No, I have no
intention of making that mistake.”

“But, Father—”

The king waved his hand in dismissal and lowered his head to
the papers in front of him. “No. I won’t have you being exposed to all those
mages. The Imperial Court is rife with them. Even the empress is a mage. Now,
Cergio . . . if I thought there was a chance he’d pay attention—or even go—to his
classes, I might send him. But you stay here.”

“You’ll have to send both of us, sooner or later, separately
or together.”

The king looked up to meet Savyon’s eyes. “And why is that?”

Savyon unrolled the scroll he’d been clutching and pointed
to a paragraph near the end. “It’s in the treaty that reintegrated Far Terra
with the Empire. Every potential heir must be sent to the Academy and be
presented to the Imperial Court before reaching the age of twenty-one or be
considered ineligible for the throne.”