After a great deal of hesitation, Isabella opened the window slightly for the bird once more.

  “I apologize for startling you, and for any impropriety that may come with approaching a lady in the dead of night, but circumstances demanded that I approach you in an unorthodox way,” the bird said to her.

  Isabella listened to the voice closely, then asked, “Arthur?”

  She looked at what she wore—it was winter, so her nightgown was sufficiently concealing for conversation.

  “Indeed,” the bird confirmed. “I sent my familiar.”

  Isabella’s excitement soared somewhat by a display of magic that interested her a great deal, and the fatigue that had been postponed by the temporary shock was entirely shelved. She opened the window, and the bird did three little hops to enter her room. She looked outside briefly before pulling tight the curtains.

  The woodpecker stayed on her floor solemnly, its manner a little reminiscent of Arthur himself. She walked back to her bed and sat down, studying its figure closely. It had brown feathers and green eyes, rather like the wizard from which it had been born.

  “I believe I can guess why you’re here like this,” Isabella said, sitting back down on the bed. “The Archwizard must’ve forbid you from speaking to me again.”

  “…indeed,” the bird said. “I’m surprised that you predicted that.”

  “I understand the office’s commitment to neutrality,” Isabella said.

  The bird looked at her with Arthur’s typical solemn mannerisms. They looked quite cute on a bird. “Under ordinary circumstances, that would be the end of it. But given what my actions spurred, I didn’t want Her Highness to be further isolated without explanation.” It shook its little head, sharp beak waving about. “I wanted to inform you that Count Faust’s death is on my hands.”

  Isabella stared at the small bird. “No, it isn’t.”

  “It is. Her Highness is blameless,” Arthur insisted. “I wished to apologize for causing such an incident.”

  Arthur spoke with his typical formal tones, but it was hard not to feel the sincerity and kindness when it came from the body of a small bird in the dead of night. The Arthur that she’d known wouldn’t have done such a thing. Perhaps he had changed as much as she did in the eight years of her prior life.

  “The fault is the king’s alone,” Isabella said. “Don’t be eager to name yourself a killer. Blood is difficult to wash from your hands.”

  “Perhaps I worried unduly.” The bird stroked its head with a foot in what almost seemed an expression of embarrassment. “But in case Her Highness is putting on a brave front, I felt those words needed to be said.” It flapped its wings. “Onto other manners.” It looked at her squarely. “The mana lock.”

  “As far as I know, it would be impossible to help me through the bird,” Isabella said dryly.

  “Correct. My master has forbidden me from speaking to you again, at threat of stripping me of my position.” The bird spread out its wings grandly. “Nevertheless… I’m willing to keep my word.”

  Isabella leaned her head back, thinking. It didn’t take long for an answer to come to her. “That seems unwise. Could you perhaps send someone else that you trust?”

  “Someone else,” the bird repeated. “Are you certain? I’m willing to do it myself.”

  Isabella shook her head. “I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

  “I see.” The bird paused for a while. “I believe I know someone that’s sufficiently discreet and skilled.”

  “Really?” Isabella’s face brightened in surprise. She was honestly thinking that she’d just have to wait a while longer. “That’s excellent.”

  “It’s my mother,” Arthur continued. “She’ll assist you. You’ll receive a letter from ‘Elaine of Asturia.’ Hold the back of the letter to a candle flame or some other such heat, and it’ll reveal text that instructs you how to contact her.”

  Isabella blinked for a bit, and then blurted out despite herself, “You have a mother?”

  The bird turned its head until only one of its eyes looked at her, annoyed. “Did you think I blossomed from a tree like a fruit?”

  Isabella flushed with embarrassment at her stupid question—she had simply never heard of the fact that Arthur had a mother, let alone one that was a sufficiently skilled spellcaster to help her form a mana lock.

  “I meant… your mother knows magic?” Isabella asked, trying to salvage her dignity.

  “She taught me everything that she knows,” Arthur replied. “In truth, her presence in my life made me somewhat sympathetic to your request. I understand all too well the stupidity of the restrictions here in Dovhain.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Isabella put her hands before her. “I feel as if what I did was too meager for how far you’ve gone out of your way for me.” She lowered her head in a partial bow. “Thank you for this. Sincerely.”

  “A man should keep his word,” Arthur said. “But… that is that. This may be the last time that we speak. I’m afraid I’ve yet to come up with an answer as to the disease that you spoke of.”

  Isabella smiled at the bird. “Even if I fail at forming my mana lock… I’ll be thankful for what you’ve done, forever.”

  The bird seemed to preen, somewhat, and looked from side to side expressing some unknown emotion. It hopped back to the windowsill.

  “Good luck, Isabella,” Arthur said, looking back. “Even if we may not speak again, I’ll keep the promise I made in the carriage.”

  Before she could respond, the bird flew out. Isabella shut the window after it, and then collapsed back into her bed.

  …magic.

  Magic.

  Magic!

  Isabella smiled, feeling like a little girl again. This had been her dream for so long. She knew that it would be challenging, but she wanted nothing more than the opportunity to pursue it. If she managed to do it… no matter how this life ended, she would think it’d all been worth it.

  ***

  Arthur’s familiar returned to his arm, and the green light faded from its eyes as his consciousness returned to his own body. He brought it over to its perch, and then it stepped off from his arm onto the spot elegantly.

  “You’re a twit,” the Archwizard said.

  “I know.” Arthur looked back, then nodded. “Thank you for letting me do that, Archwizard.”

  “You’ve never begged me for anything,” the old man said. “What was I supposed to do, say no? You’d just do it on your own. Despite how I speak, I do like you, somewhat. You’re a good successor. At least this way, I ensured that it was done right.”

  Arthur pushed up his glasses, enduring in quietude.

  “Can you promise me that this is put to bed?” the Archwizard demanded.

  “Yes,” Arthur said resolutely. “That was more than enough closure for me, master.”

  If Isabella had somehow tried to extend their connection, he would’ve been certain she was manipulating him. But she had been the one to suggest an alternate teacher. Provided she pushed this no further, he was glad to know that Isabella had been as she seemed.

  “Good. Because you’re going to be in-house for three months,” he declared. “Not a peep from you, nary a whisper. The royal court has a short memory, and they’ll have forgotten about your little misadventure by then.”

  Arthur accepted his words with a measured nod. This was a fitting price to pay, he felt. It wouldn’t quite put the mistake that he made right, but it would get him back on the track to where he needed to be. Arthur was magic alone. There wasn’t any room in his life for anything or anyone else.

  That was enough, surely.

  ***

  “Randolph,” someone said, drawing him from his reading. He’d come to the small library in the Court of Condottieri for some quiet. One tended to read fewer books when they started swinging swords about, and so the library was often quieter than his room.

  Randolph looked toward the voice—Cesare. The lithe condottiere had brown hair, eyes as white as bone, and an annoyingly handsome face. He was certainly of nobler stock than Randolph was. His father was apparently some big churchman, and fittingly, the man knew how to make friends. He’d been gathering together a small company of mercenaries, and had asked Randolph to sign up several times.

  “Heard you got a client,” Cesare said, leaning against a bookshelf.

  “Congratulations,” Randolph said. “Your ears work.”

  “Heard it was some aristocrat,” Cesare continued. “What did she look like again? Blonde hair, red eyes?” he said—just wrong enough to try and prompt correction. A clever little psychological trick.

  Damned weasel, Randolph thought. That woman’s drawn his interest. He’s trouble for her. Feel it in my guts.

  “Oh, yes. She had hair like golden wheat ready for harvest, and eyes as red as a ruby,” Randolph said grandly. “If you wanted the job, I’m afraid she was looking for a bodyguard, not a gigolo.”

  Cesare laughed—it sounded fake. “How long are you going to work for people like that for meager pay? I’ve always told you there’s a place in my company for you.”

  Every time Cesare had offered, Randolph had felt instinctually that it spelled nothing but trouble for him. Despite Randolph’s refusal, Cesare kept advancing without stopping. He continued to gain a larger and larger reputation. Randolph almost wondered if his instincts were failing him.

  “What do you say?” Cesare continued. “I’ll give you twenty gold. Come with me and my boys tomorrow.”

  “Cesare… How can I put this delicately?” Randolph adjusted his book. “Piss off. I’m reading.”

  Cesare narrowed his eyes, then turned around and walked away silently. Once he’d gone, Randolph tried to resume reading his book once more, but felt some nagging sensation in his gut. He eventually put his leather sash into the book to mark his spot and stood, walking toward another section of the library.

  The information for every condottiere listed in this organization was publicly available knowledge that any client or condottiere could access. It was for the benefit of the client that any and all information related to the condottieri was easily-accessible, and the vast majority of those documents were here. He scanned through the section, eventually finding the place that would have Cesare’s profile. He found it quickly, pulled it out, and read through it. His eyes narrowed when he read a particular note.

  Illegitimate son of Archbishop Pius

  The archbishop was the direct theological attendant to the crown, and the highest-ranking clergyman excluding the king, who was technically the head of the faith. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together. He’d known that lady was unusual. Randolph came to a grim conclusion.

  I was underpaid, he thought depressingly.