So she didn’t lie about everything.
The rest of the practice followed the same turn as their initial drill. It was pleasant, even.
But that only made it worse. Darren wanted his friend back. He didn’t want this… imposter, even if she really was as good as she claimed. And she was good, but every moment they had a bit of respite, she was sidling up next to him, trying to win him over with compliments. When that didn’t work, she used blatant flirtation.
She might fight like Eve, but she wasn’t his friend. She was just like the others, a part of the endless circle of courtiers masquerading as gentry, and Darren wanted something else. There were enough wolves roaming the halls as it was.
“I don’t know why you are complaining.” Blayne gave Darren a raised brow. Months had passed since his new sparring partner had been announced. “Priscilla all but throws herself at you. She’s miles above that knight’s daughter you were always practicing with. If Father wasn’t so set on the Langli girl for you, I’d bed her myself.”
The younger prince didn’t reply. Darren didn’t share in his brother’s conquests. As a prince of Jerar, he was presented with more than enough opportunity—women twice his age, girls fresh from the convent, it made no difference. All they wanted were favors, and false flattery did not impress him. Darren cared about making a name for himself as a knight, and the only girl he could even stand to be near preferred the same gender as herself.
He wasn’t upset that Eve had another she preferred to kiss. Darren had never once been compelled to try; she merely felt like an extension of himself, and one that he missed. Even if he had, Eve might have been born highborn, but her father was not, and that was another well-established rule: a prince could only enter into relationships with those of standing, old blood, and prestige… girls like Priscilla.
And while Darren might find girls like Priscilla attractive, it wasn’t enough to compel him to courtship. Well, he had kissed her once—because it was expected after months in her company, and partly because of Blayne’s endless mockery—but that had been a mistake. It had only encouraged her.
Anyone else might have compelled him to feel shame, but Darren knew the girl secretly shared his same sentiment. There was more than one occasion where he had lashed out at her endless string of compliments only to see a flash of irritation in return. She quelled it better than he ever could, but it was there. Disinterest too. Her words were rehearsed, and her gestures too overt.
Once the prince saw anger, but that was directed at the baron when he prompted her to steal Darren for another dance during the last feast. He had caught the way her eyes lingered on another young man. Priscilla resented their situation just as much as he, only she seemed determined to serve out her father’s wish, even if it went against her own.
The longer they kept company, the easier their show for court became. Priscilla had long since dismissed Eve as a threat, but any other female in close proximity, and the girl would attack. Perhaps Darren should have stopped her, but one girl was far preferable to the masses. And there was no one worth fighting for.
“Our definition,” Darren said, finally returning to his brother’s earlier comment, “of ‘miles above’ is miles apart. Eve is worth twice what Priscilla would ever be.” Eve told the truth, and she didn’t fake attraction to garner his favor.
“You are a lowborn sympathizer.” Disgust dripped from the older boy’s tone.
“Eve isn’t lowborn.” Darren’s hands fisted at his sides. “Sir Audric earned his new status when he was knighted.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Blayne snorted. “That girl is no different than the others. She’s a lowborn whelp and she’d spread her legs soon enough for a chance at a prince. They always do—”
Darren slammed his brother against the wall. The nearby courtiers scattered like ants as the crown prince hit stone with a hard thwack. Darren wasn’t as tall as his brother, but none of that mattered as his hands locked around Blayne’s throat.
“Speak ill of my friend again,” Darren snarled, “and I’ll make sure you walk around with scars.”
The crown prince just laughed, his rasp a bit strained thanks to the fingers clamped around his neck. “Perhaps,” he wheezed, “she p-prefers the company of o-other girls because you a-aren’t man enough to b-bed her y-yourself.”
Darren lost control of his fist. One moment he was in control, the next his knuckles were flying at his brother’s face. Blayne’s head snapped to the side as blood trickled down his nose, turning his pale skin to red.
The next second, Darren was staggering back. His brother had matched him fist for fist. Darren’s lip was split; he tasted copper and salt.
Darren might have been a better fighter—Blayne only practiced one hour a day in the training courts—but three years still gave Blayne an advantage in size.
The crown prince threw another punch; Darren used his forearm to block the fist and then lunged, throwing his weight into the attack.
Blayne ducked out of the way and then tackled his brother against the wall.
Darren’s face collided with stone and pain roared up inside of him, a hundred hot-tipped daggers in the back of his shoulders and head. Something seared the inside of his lungs, and then there was an airy feeling, like wings beating off against his chest.
“You’re still my little brother,” the older boy said. “It’s time you—”
Something rushed through Darren’s veins, and then there was a roar. The whole room seemed to shatter as his mind exploded in pain.
Darren heard his brother cry out, and then the pressure was gone as he stumbled blindly around.
The hallway was swathed in light. For a moment, the boy couldn’t see anything; it was too bright.
When his eyes adjusted, he found Blayne clutching a large shard of glass that was embedded in his arm. Crimson blood dripped onto the marble tile below.
Darren watched the rivulets of blood. They met with bits of glass scattered around his feet. All sorts of colors blended together, red and violet and green, even a royal blue. The stained glass window just across the hall was gone. In its space was an open view.
The afternoon sun was blinding. The rays beat down like rays of gold, hot on his skin.
For a moment, all he could hear was his pulse.
Darren wasn’t a fool. Blayne hadn’t stabbed himself. The glass window hadn’t suddenly shattered on its own.
Magic.
Like Eve, he hadn’t expected a thing. He wasn’t even sure what it meant. All he knew was the gods had given him a gift.
And he was going to use it.
The red robes came and went. The glass wasn’t embedded deep, but that didn’t wipe the glower from his brother’s face, even after he was healed.
Darren didn’t pay Blayne any heed. His focus was on his father across the table.
“Make me a mage,” he repeated. “I have magic. I can train for Combat like Eve.”
“You are meant to be the Commander of the Crown’s Army, not a black mage.”
“I could be the Black Mage. Like Marius.”
“Potential isn’t something you can control. For all we know, you are like most of the others, a bit of magic but nothing special.”
“Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m the best.”
The king stroked his trimmed beard as he studied his youngest. Darren folded his arms, back erect.
“If you were the best,” the king surmised, “the Black Mage would be a better role than Commander Knight.”
It would. They both knew it. A mage of Combat was a knight with magic, the best of both. It was the reason the king sponsored the trial and apprenticeship years in the Academy. Lucius funded all of the war schools, recruiting the best of the best for his armies, but mages received better compensation. Darren didn’t care about the coin, but the chance to study with Eve, and carrying the most prodigious title of all was too tempting to turn away.
“But, Father,” Blayne interrupted, “the Council of Magi
c forbids the Crown to interfere with matters of magic. No one of royal blood can become a mage—”
“No heir, but they can be of royal blood.”
“But the Colored Robes signed a treaty—”
“I’ll talk them around. The wording is very precise. Darren isn’t my heir. And if I throw more coin toward their Academy, I am certain they will support his study.”
The boy could hardly believe it. His father had agreed. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest.
Darren turned to leave.
“Son.” King Lucius’s voice stopped Darren midstride. “I will get you training with the mage tutors in the palace. Should you prove that your magic is as… capable… as we hope, you will enter the Academy.”
Darren didn’t dare speak.
“If you are not selected as a Combat apprentice, you will take up the rest of your studies at the School of Knighthood the following year, and you will leave this mage business behind.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And Darren, you had better be the best.”
It was a hard thing to forget.
5
The two brutes introduced themselves as brothers.
“Jake,” grunted the first.
“William.”
Darren cocked a brow. He needed no introduction. The prince had seen both of them in the training courts. They were part of the mage lot he and Eve had mocked years before. They were more dedicated than some; he’d seen them training to fight, not just memorizing magic techniques in the library, but they were still clumsy. And they relied on their strength more than brains. That would only get them so far.
Still, their flattery was present, but they were better than most. Darren could only tolerate so much. And the boys had a competitive streak he admired. They were fine sparring partners; their bulk gave the boy a different sort of challenge than Eve. One he was determined to win.
Their group was small. It consisted of the two brothers, Eve, and another three whose magic had yet to arrive. Darren couldn’t comprehend the idiocy of taking up this training without it. But they were all highborn children of privilege, and the ones in his group were the wealthiest in the land.
They had the best tutors gold could buy.
They also had the most riding on their shoulders if they failed.
Magic wasn’t so difficult for him to command.
It was for most. Darren saw the way the rest of his comrades struggled just to bring about a flicker of light, but Darren and Eve had years of discipline, and Sir Audric had always led them through a meditative exercise at the end of their drills.
Projecting all of his senses to cast a flame was child’s play, as simple as flint and steel. Darren’s will struck out at the details built up in his mind, and he had a fire in his hand.
The challenge was building up the harder projections in his head. Combat magic called up weapons from thin air. Darren knew what those weapons were—he had memorized the feel of them in his fist for months on end, but he didn’t always understand the way the casting created a sword.
Their tutor spent a great deal of time directing them to the armory, or visiting with the blacksmith, watching the way metal melded with flame. Training expanded beyond casting itself, and Darren soon realized why the other children had spent so much of their time pouring over scrolls.
There was so much more to casting than will.
Soon Darren was up late every night, studying those same books. He forgot what it meant to sleep. The second his head hit the bed, he was rising with the sun.
There were two other branches of study: Restoration and Alchemy. But they weren’t a part of the prince’s education. The cluster of students Darren was a part of believed in Combat and nothing else. The other two factions were prodigious in their own right, but the highest honor was Combat. They lived in a country infamous for the largest army in the realm. It made sense that the best of the best would go after the calling with the highest prize.
There was no alternative.
A year came and went, and in no time at all, Darren had reached his thirteenth year.
It was only fitting, he supposed, that the day began with a freestanding duel.
Mage Marius had arrived back from the south. Since the man wasn’t currently involved in the rebel investigation, Lucius had wasted no time securing the man’s expertise for the next month’s set of lessons until he went back out to check on another disturbance near the bordering villages up north. The Black Mage didn’t have time to waste on highborns preparing for the Academy… unless the order came from the king.
It was the first chance Darren would have to train with the realm’s most notorious mage. It was a first for all of them.
The students were gathered in the training arena usually reserved for the king’s personal regiment. Everyone was tense. Failing in front of a man with his stature was… not something that would easily be recovered from. The man had been the champion of Combat during Jerar’s last tourney for mages. It was the reason he bore the title and served as one of the three Colored Robes on the Council of Magic.
Marius was also a judge for the Academy’s trials. If they impressed him now, their shot at an apprenticeship was increased tenfold. More than ever, it was important to stand out.
Darren and Eve didn’t waste time going first.
The tutor mage and Marius observed as the boy and girl took their place across from one another in the arena’s center.
The boy shot his friend a cocky grin. Her response was a roll of her eyes.
“And begin.”
Darren’s magic shot out first. A great gust of air kicked up dirt as it sprung across the dais. The wind spun inside his mind; he could feel it whipping round and round, faster and faster as he ground down with his teeth.
Bam. The casting collided with a shield across Eve’s arm. She had thrown up her projection just in time.
Eve’s stance was perfect—two legs braced, one forward, one back, with a slight tilt to the angle of her shield, slightly up and to the right.
The prince’s magic went hurtling to the left, harmlessly colliding with the fence instead. It was an easy deflection instead of taking the brunt of his casting head on.
The boy had his second casting ready as a staff appeared in his fist. Wood was easy. Darren had yet to master the melding of metal in projection, and he wasn’t going to try now. He didn’t trust a sword or axe casting to hold.
The girl shared his same mind. Eve drew closer with a staff of her own.
And then they were a shoulder’s width apart.
Darren, again, was the first to strike. The boy didn’t believe in dragging out an attack.
The girl parried and swung left. Darren’s boots crunched the ground as he stepped to the side and blocked.
The two swung and took turns trading blows. The longer the exchange lasted, the more advantage he had. A lot of one’s fight came from the force of their footwork, and Darren had added strength in his arms from all those months practicing with the axe.
Sweat started to pool just under his bangs; he fought to keep from blinking in its sting under the hot summer heat. Eve was breathing hard, and he could feel her arms trembling each time their staffs collided.
It wouldn’t take much longer.
Her weapon vanished, and Darren swore, dropping his staff as flames licked out at his hands.
Eve had cast fire.
The girl was always better at finding an advantage.
Darren leaped back as she came at him with a gust of wind. Darren didn’t have time for a shield; he threw out a force of his own.
There was a loud clap as both their magicks collided and collapsed.
Darren ducked low, his hand finding the earth just as Eve lobbed an arrow inches from where he had stood. The ground crumbled and quaked.
Then, like a serpent burrowing into the earth, his magic lit up a trail that ended at her feet. The casting exploded, and she fell back onto the dirt, her shoulders connecti
ng with the ground in a harsh thwack.
Eve struggled to rise, her fingernails clawing at the grass as she fought to stand.
Darren lunged forward to cast an invisible grip at her neck, just enough to invoke a surrender, and then he was flying back against the fence.
Eve stood easily with a smirk.
The girl had feigned injury just to capitalize on the confidence she knew he had.
Very well. The prince still had one more trick up his sleeve as the girl advanced. She played with a casted dagger in her grip, knowing full well Darren couldn’t master steel if he tried.
The boy’s left wrist throbbed where it had hit the bordering post. He could vaguely hear the cheers of his comrades just behind him. He might be arrogant, but he wasn’t vain; he wanted to win.
The boy ripped one of the wooden planks from the post and slammed it against his fractured wrist.
Pain tore up his arm as the magic came roaring awake. With a spark of violet, the force erupted from his hand. The casting shot across the arena to knock the girl to the ground.
Eve collapsed. She didn’t try to stand. One faltering hand raised in surrender and one of the healers, who were always present during exercises such as these, came rushing onto the field.
Then the clapping and shouting began. Darren turned and saw the other five students, his tutor, and Marius outside the perimeter fence.
They weren’t alone.
There was also a cluster of regiment warriors joining in for the applause. Darren hadn’t realized it at the time, but a quarter of the castle’s staff had gathered outside to watch. Soldiers, knights, mages, and even some of the servants… they had all heard rumors the prince wanted to be the next Marius, and they had come to see him perform.
Darren was used to an audience, but that didn’t stop the pride from swelling in his chest. He and Eve had performed well, and it wasn’t something the court would soon forget.
“Well, the reports certainly weren’t exaggerated.” The throaty chuckle came from the Black Mage as he pulled Darren to the side long after all the other students had been dismissed for the day.
Non-Heir: The Black Mage Prequel Novella Page 6
