Capital City of Gremelda

  Mage’s Council

  Archmage Highbridge stormed through the halls of the Mage’s Council building, working her way to its lowest levels.

  The report clutched in her hand, shaking as she squeezed it, her nails threatening to tear through. It wasn’t just the contents of the report that had her scowling in a way that set even senior mages within the Mage’s Council to turning their gazes and pressing themselves back against the nearest wall in an attempt to avoid her ire.

  No, it was the unmistakable feeling that she’d been played and was only finding out about it after the fact.

  Reaching her destination, Elowen pulsed her Gift. The solid thud, thud, thud of her telekinetic knock echoing down the hall with authority and satisfaction. It dimmed the fire burning within her slightly, a necessity when dealing with this particular member of the Council.

  Nearly a minute passed before the locking mechanism securing the door shut started to rotate. The metallic clack of gears shifting against each other was audible even through the thick wooden door. It swung open on silent hinges a moment later, giving access to a warmly lit room that few dared enter.

  Striding in confidently, Elowen stopped before the large wooden desk and tossed the creased report onto its bare surface. The sensitive documents that once covered it now cleared away.

  “You failed.” Elowen said, her words hanging in the air like an omen.

  “Did I?” Asked the room’s other occupant.

  The slight amusement hidden within their tone tightened the muscles along her back. Her chin rose of its own accord. “The boy’s still alive, isn’t he?”

  “What did you expect?”

  Elowen didn’t need to see their brow behind the white mask to know it’d risen in question.

  “I ordered his end, and what did I get in return? Eight dead mages and a request for investigation from the Mage Core. If the Crown hears about this, it will only be a matter of time before the Office of Inquisition sticks their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  In the privacy of her own office, Reven wasn’t wearing the purple outer robe of a Council Member. It made the shrugging of her shoulders readily apparent.

  “What did you expect?” Said Reven, leaning back in her chair and placing her feet up on the desk as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I told you I needed time to put together the right team. It was you that demanded I send who was available. To—“Get it done before the idiot get’s himself killed by a savage’s lucky arrow”—I believe were your exact words.”

  Elowen stared at the white-masked woman before her. Seething internally, but keeping the emotion out of her expression. While the position of Archmage was a nominated position, even if it did usually reside with the most powerful mage in the realm, the position of Reven was not. The current Reven would choose and train their own successor. The mask passed on from master to protégé.

  It created a murkiness within the realm that helped balance the power between the King and the Archmage—a safeguard against the Archmage overthrowing and replacing the Royal Family. Reven’s duty extended beyond managing the kingdom’s spy network. It ensured that if such an event occurred, the Archmage wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy their new reign.

  “I know about the deal you made with Edmund.”

  The white mask did little to hide the scrunching of the face behind the mask as the woman smiled.

  “Then you know the deal was struck before you ordered his death, and I still did as you asked. Perhaps the stars decided that he needs to live long enough to repay my marker.”

  *****

  Avon River Crossing

  Western Marches

  “Are you sure about this?” Cedric said, watching the diminutive and angry boy following behind Layla as she directed the inn’s stable hands in prepping the group’s horses.

  A soft smile that started at his eyes spread across Quinten's face. “I’m sure. He’s putting up a brave front, but he’s worried that one of us has designs on his sister. She’s all he has, and he’s scared.”

  After lunch the day before, Layla separated from the group to fetch Declan, her younger brother. At fourteen, he already thought of himself as the man of the family and took the news that a bunch of young lords—even if technically, it was only Quinten—had hired his sister as their personal servant, poorly.

  On their return, the pair had stopped a dozen feet away as soon as Quinten and company came into view. His curiosity getting the better of him, he pulled on a passing breeze and directed their conversation toward Lastrel, Ronan, Cedric, and himself.

  “They look like a bunch of perverts.” Declan said, rolling back onto his heels and pulling against his sister’s restraining hand. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Layla’s head whipped up in what Quinten could only guess as a bid to ensure they weren’t close enough to overhear. Leaning down, she said in a low voice, “I told you what happened. Why would they defend me if they had eyes on me?”

  “Don’t be daft. If they get into your good graces, it makes it easier to get into your knickers.”

  Gasping, she demanded, “Declan Stroud, bright stars blind me. Where did you hear such a thing?”

  Quinten watched the boy’s ears turn red, tucking his head down. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t think I won’t remember.” Lowering her head slightly so they were at eye level, she brushed some dirt off of the boy’s cheek and said. “Behave yourself and don’t forget to address them as m’lord.”

  Layla rose to her full height, one hand still holding her brother’s shoulder as she guided him. Stopping before Quinten, she pushed him forward into a slight bow and dipped a curtsy of her own.

  “My lord, this is my brother, Declan.” She said, talking to his feet. When several seconds passed without a response, she looked up to see Quinten looking over the young boy.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He can’t be much older than I was when I went to live with grandfather Ed and grandmother.

  “Declan, hmmm?” Quinten said, scratching his chin. “Good name, that. So, what are you good at?”

  The boy’s face scrunched slightly as he looked hesitantly toward his sister. “What am I good at, my lord?”

  “Yes! What valuable services do you offer? I can’t just hire you out of my good graces, now can I?” Quinten asked, fighting to hold back the grin pulling hard at the corners of his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cedric turn away—having already lost his own battle to keep a straight face.

  A look of horror dawned on the boy’s face as the color drained away. He reflexively took a small step back, bumping into Layla. The tips of whose ears turned red in embarrassment that they’d been overheard, her body tightening as it prepared her for flight.

  It was then that Lastrel punched Quinten's arm in admonishment. “Your giving them a fright, you terror. Can you not see the boy is paler than Ronan’s lily-white ass?” The joke was too much and the three young men burst into laughter. The sound allowed Layla’s shoulders to relax, and she placed a comforting hand on Declan’s arm, letting him know everything was fine.

  Quinten's smile turned into a rueful grin at the memory. Shaking his head, he approached, and Layla brought Star forward. Climbing into the saddle, he nodded at his new servant and led Star out onto the street. After Cedric, Ronan, and Garrick joined him, he clicked his tongue and gave the horse her heading.

  *****

  “There he is!” Roared Henry Ashford, Lord Marshall and commander of the kingdom’s military, as he barreled past his aide-de-campo, nearly knocking the man over in his rush to wrap Quinten in a bearhug.

  Laughing, Quinten returned the embrace, earning a grunt from the older man.

  “Let me get a look at you,” Grandfather demanded as he held Quinten at arm’s length. “You look more and more like your father every day.” He said, a sad smile crossing his face. “Except for those eyes. He’d have killed for your mother’s eyes, would have made all the ladies swoon.”

  Shaking his head, Quinten just smiled, happy to be with family once again.

  His grandfather shook Cedric and Garrick’s hands and, after being introduced to Ronan, shepherded them all into the Army Headquarters building and into his office.

  To call it an office would be misleading. It was a suite of rooms, each designed with different functions in mind. Grandfather led them past several before ushering them into a private dining room. The smell of eggs, bacon, sausage, and more already filled the room as they entered.

  They each took a seat at the table and, at Grandfather’s nod, filled their plates.

  Quinten felt his grandfather’s eyes on him as he ate. Looking up, he met the man’s piercing blue gaze.

  “Tell me, boy. What have you gotten yourself into? Everything I hear out here is a week late and twice removed. I want to hear it straight from the source.”

  And Quinten told him. Starting with the events of the night of the Academy’s mid-year ball, through their time in the palace dungeons, to the assassination attempt in Darrowford, ending with his retelling of his dual the day before. He tried to stick to the key facts, summarizing like a military report, but after Cedric’s third interjection, Ronan joined in. The three each taking turns telling pieces of the tale. By the end, Grandfather and Garrick, much of what he heard being new to his ears, stared at the younger men oddly.

  “If it were anyone else telling me this story, I don’t think I’d believe them.” Quinten's grandfather finally admitted. “I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive after all that. One thing is for certain though, the Archmage wants you dead.”

  Quinten, Cedric, and Ronan exchanged looks. After a moment, Quinten asked. “It was her then? We had our suspicions, but…”

  Grandfather waved off the remark and said. “As sure as a suspicion can be. All the time I spent on the King’s Council with her. Her mind works a certain way and this would fit what I’ve seen. The only time I can remember her getting this worked up is just before her husband’s death.”

  Garrick leaned over, lowering his voice and looking around the corners of the room as if worried she might overhear him. “And his mistress, if you believe the rumors.”

  Quinten's grandfather snorted a laugh behind his napkin, using it to wipe his face. He sat back and sighed. “You’re star-cursed either way, son. Sent to fight and die in the war or survive and deal with her making life in the Capital a terror.”

  Cedric leaned forward, placing both of his elbows on the table, and asked. “Is that it then? Is there nothing we can do?”

  Staring off into the distance, Grandfather tapped his first two fingers in a rhythm against the tabletop, considering the question. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Ronan the longest before nodding as if to himself.

  “It’s complicated… You’re too valuable to just murder in your sleep. Which, mind you, is another reason that I believe the attack in Darrowford wasn’t crown-sanctioned—”

  Quinten cut him off with a question, his voice laced with frustration. “How was it not? You said it yourself, I was sent to fight and die. Starfire, I’m pretty sure the king said much the same thing when we met with him.”

  Once more, Quinten's grandfather waved away the question. “That was the Archmage whispering in his ear and preying on his insecurities. You know he only has three Gifts himself?” The last was said with a raised brow, but he didn’t wait for a response continuing. “And there you stood. Younger, stronger, and having just wiped the floor with one of the kingdom’s most respected dualists.”

  Grandfather shook his head. “She got to him alright, but give it time. The queen will work her own magic and make him see reason. A male mage with four gifts? He needs you making babies more than he does fighting wars or buried in the dirt.”

  Quinten couldn’t hide his blush and laughed along with everyone else.

  “Speaking of the war…” He said, trailing off uncomfortably. “Do you have any influence over our orders in the Mage Core? Any sway?”

  Pursing his lips, Grandfather grimaced. “Not at an individual level. Why? Did they move you out of that cavalry unit?”

  Shaking his head, Quinten looked at Cedric. “Not me. They assigned Cedric to the Skyrunners out of Southbend. Ronan and I are still garrisoned in Northreach…”

  Grandfather’s brows rose at the news before lowering as he squinted at the young man. “Learned to fly, did you? Lucky bastard.” Turning to Quinten with a regretful smile, he said. “Not a chance I can have him moved to Northreach. Other than the Core’s command unit, there isn’t another they micromanage more than the Skyrunners.” Shifting his gaze back to Cedric, he added. “If it’s any consolation, you will be very well protected.”

  Sighing, Quinten nodded. He’d expected as much. “It was worth a try. How are we managing against the Drakovians? It’s been weeks since you sent word.”

  Pushing his chair back with a sigh, Quinten’s grandfather indicated for them to follow. “There hasn’t been much to update in weeks.” He said, leading them into what was clearly the Lord Marshal’s War Room. Stopping before a large map with pins, tags, and markers placed all along the theater of battle. “We’re fighting a defensive war. One in which the enemy has the greater mobility. Whoever this new Warlord is—he’s a crafty one. He keeps their main horde moving just along the border, but sends out war bands of a few hundred to slip past our fortifications and attack the settlements. By the time we are able to respond, they are gone with their spoils and new slaves. If we send out screens of our own, they avoid them or retreat at first sight.”

  He pointed at each of the thirteen fortifications arranged along the Rivennan border. “There used to be only six of these, but with the Mage Core’s help, we were able to construct seven more. It hasn’t been enough. Instead of five to six hours response time we’re down to two and it’s still not quick enough.”

  Pausing to take a drink from the glass he’d brought with him from the dining room, Grandfather leaned heavily against a nearby desk. “There have been a few times we were able to fool the war band leader into attacking or they were too inexperienced to notice our advantage. We won those battles handily, but they are few and far between.” As the older man’s tone shifted into one Quinten recognized—one that signaled a familiar refrain—he leaned in.

  “We need a decisive fight. One where we can truly make use of our mages and their Gifts. These hit-and-run tactics are only nipping at our hindquarters. I expect that will change in the next few months. As the weather begins to cool, I can’t imagine the enemy like the idea of weathering a snowy winter here on the open plains any more than we do.” Grandfather stared into his glass of water, lost in thought, before he shook himself and turned to Quinten with a forced smile.

  “Enough of that.” He said, the stilted smile shifting slightly into an honest smirk. “What’s this I hear about you marrying a Duke’s daughter?”