Book 3, Chapter 7: The Destruction of Corks
I got back to my apartments just in time to catch Morry for dinner. Noon dinner, not evening dinner, which is called supper here.
“Princess, fulfilling meetings?”
“Not really.” I sat down, “It’s more difficult than I imagined, improving weapon technology.” I almost said ‘modernizing,’ but we weren’t exactly building tanks.
“I think all the easy advances were already taken.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.
“The soldiers say we’re screwing.”
I spit out my tea. “What was that?”
“The rumors of us.”
“Me and you?”
“You and the men you have stationed in this room.”
“What, I’m doing you all? Taking turns?”
“Princess, it’s time to bring back your ladies in waiting and Brin.”
“No.”
“A young girl, a princess, needs other girls around her.”
I stood up, “No. It’s not happening. I don’t care what the rumors are.” I wanted to run off to my enormous room to be alone, but I somehow managed to calm the teenager emotions coursing through my little girl body and sat back down. Then I stood up, deciding a little pacing might be in order. A good idea, pacing.
“Be reasonable. You don’t want these rumors spreading. The commoners, they see the armor and the soldier in you, but not the royalty.”
“This, Morry,” I ran my hands up and down the chain, “is the image I want to present to the men. Our soldiers. That I am one of them, for them, on their side.”
“It’s not the men I’m worried about. They know you fight, Princess, they’re still talking about the battle at the river crossing. Lots of stories of you galloping into a bunch of mages. Getting bigger all the time. Now, you’re jumping off the horse, spear raised high over your head-”
I waved him down from the story, “I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s the townspeople. The non-combatants in our army. You don’t want these rumors to hurt your reputation. Their support is important. And you need strong relationships with the nobles.”
“Oh my god. You’re thinking I should start taking suitors! You’ve been talking with Brin!”
“You have to at least meet the nobility. You don’t have to marry them, but you have to start rebuilding the kingdom.”
“God damnit, I’ll build the kingdom my way. On my terms.”
“You’re almost fifteen. It’s time to start planning-”
“No. This is why. Morry, this is why Brin doesn’t sleep here anymore.”
“And why you take baths alone?”
“That’s it. I’m eating in my room. Alone!” Some part of me was embarrassed. The adult in me, wherever it was, that part. Cringing hard. But I grabbed a plate of food and went for my bedroom regardless. Shut the door, tried really hard not to slam it, but I might have slammed it anyways, walked into the room, dropped my food off on the table, picked up the wooden plank, dropped it into metal holders to bar the damn thing, then rested my back against the door.
The size of my rooms never ceased to amaze me. Calling the space, ‘rooms’ was underselling it. It was supposed to be mine and my ladies in waiting, but since I’d booted them out of my life, it was entirely mine. Large open room, its own hallway with many side rooms, my own guardroom that functioned, as best it could, as a hole perched high above the ground. Fortunately, it was enclosed the entire way down.
I calmed down, counted to five, walked over to the window, opened it, back to the center of the room, took off my armor. Blue lightning coursed up and down my body, around my torso, down my arms. I pointed my right hand out the window, firing lightning out into the sky. Hopefully in daylight no one would see it. I fired another bolt off with my left.
After I’d gotten rid of the excess energy, I set about my training. Blasting little wine corks I set up across the room. Zap, zap, zap! They exploded. It was cathartic, almost meditative. Then I practiced moving their remains with my mind. Small shards of cork scattered around the floor, little eddies swirled them up, spinning around in the vortices, then up a bit and into the fire.
I could manage that much. A few other tricks. I could control it with concentration and had been practicing with it as best I could, without a teacher or any hint of understanding how magic worked.
The energy constantly built up inside me. The perseidian armor locked it down, but when I took it off, the energy flared up. Like shaking a soda can and pulling the tab quickly. If I let Brin back into these rooms, she’d once again take it upon herself, and my ladies, to primp and dress me. So, there’d be no hiding these powers from her and them. Then what would I do?
The grand magister had never returned from our last argument. He’d taken the magical knife that had carved these scars into me, given me these powers, and gone somewhere. I wondered at his departure. Worried for his return. What could a trained wizard do with that knife?
I was debating about whether I could talk to Etienne. He wasn’t an awful person. Nice at times, if aloof and arrogant. But the grand magister’s warning yet resonated. There were no magic-using royalty because the mages didn’t allow them to survive. Etienne was a wizard, ergo it wouldn’t go well for me.
Or probably for anyone who knew my secret. So, I couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t risk them getting into trouble with me, were the mages to find out. Yet the whole situation was stressful and lonely. It would be so nice to have someone to confide in, someone to give me advice.
I blasted more corks.
***
I had one last portrait session. Since the grand magister had told me the duke’s cutting on my back was a symbol, I wanted it drawn for me. Photographed would be better, but, well, not something I could invent immediately. So, I had to make do.
Three portrait artists were making paintings of my back. Well, one painting and the others doing charcoal. I wanted them for comparisons. If I found the right book on magical inscriptions, I could learn what the scars on my back were for.
To that end, I’d invited Etienne to the sessions, though I hadn’t told him what the grand magister had said. I wanted a second opinion, independent of the first. Perhaps he could tell me something new. Anything, I hoped, other than what the grand magister had told me.
Sitting near the fireplace on a stool, my naked back to them, an apron covering my front, armor across my waist, I pretended to be comfortable. I clutched at the chainmail, worried my naked arms would flare up with magic. Pulling it off my body left me uneasy, even if it was draped across my lap.
A large mirror against the front wall, ostensibly so I could watch the painters work. In practice, it heightened my discomfort, since I, this girl’s body, stared back at me, foremost and center in the reflection. No blue flames danced up and down my arms, yet my fists tightened on the armor.
Sitting there, slightly cold despite the fire roaring away, wishing I had a smart phone to distract me, maybe read the latest news, wondering how I was going to explain to someone how to sculpt a saddle out of wood, worried about what to do with the painters if my magic burst forth, when Etienne finally showed up.
“Your Highness, I would say you look lovely, but you’re half naked and that might be suggestive.”
“Wizard Etienne, excuse me if I don’t stand. But, please, be my guest.” I gestured at my back. He liked to stare at it. A strange kink, to be sure. He walked past me on my left and I switched to watching him in the mirror. Hand to his cheek in contemplation, his gaze cemented on my backside.
“And that is it, Your Highness,” said one of the artists, using charcoal, a lady, “I am finished.”
“Brilliant!” I shivered. “Thank you for the picture. Please see to Tread. The, uh, chamberlain. He’ll pay you for your efforts.”
“My lady.” She curtsied, focused her eyes on the floor as she walked out of the room.
Looking at the wizard in the mirror, but unable to catch his eyes, “You can take that one, Etienne.”
“Perhaps when it dries.”
“Right, yes. Charcoal must dry?” I blinked in confusion, but he just smiled. “Well . . . have you come up with anything?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s an interesting pattern, certainly. But we don’t know what the completed pattern would have been. And this is so much more complex than any spell I’d ever woven. I believe it’s several smaller runes woven into a larger meaning. Like a sentence or perhaps a tapestry.”
“I hate tapestries.” My first memory of them, Bechalle explaining the meaning of various images depicted as we walked along that hallway. I shuddered at sharing a conversation with that man. Something should have tipped me off. His voice, manner, his movement. But nothing did. And I wasn’t wearing my armor that day.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Yes, it’s complex. How wonderful. You must have some idea by now. Nothing in the books?”
“Not these books. I’d have to travel to Distone Conclave to check their tomes, to see if anything about this was written down.”
“I take it that’s the wizard headquarters, this conclave?
“More like our college.”
“Is it far from here?”
“Hmm, on the other side of Castle Barclay by several days.”
“Ah.” I let my posture worsen a bit then heard an intake of breath from one of the remaining painters and, annoyed, straightened back up. Painters! Ordering a princess around without even a word. I decided just to tell Etienne what I hadn’t before. “The grand magister thought it was a rune for, uh, capturing the power of a deity.”
The sound of brush strokes, charcoal scraping paper, stopped. Someone coughed. Etienne’s head tilted slightly.
“Etienne? No comment?” The brush strokes resumed.
“Were those his exact words?”
“Yes. Before he left.” I thought the better of giving him all the information, but in for a penny, in for a pound, “He also took the knife that was used to . . . inscribe this on my body.”
“Knife? Can you describe it?”
My shoulders shook a little. Bechalle holding the knife up in front of me, tied up, naked and beaten, him describing its magical properties while waving it about. He was truly animated then, like he had been after the battle at the river crossing. No, that was my imagination – his fellow soldiers were excited, describing how well he was at killing the enemy.
“Princess Cayce?”
“What? Oh, sorry!” I tried to be mechanical in my description. Cognitive, distant. “Yes. Small blade, very small. The handle is made from a unicorn horn, a dryad’s bones and some sort of water spirit. I apologize, can’t recall the name. Mainly because I didn’t believe in these things before this.”
“A nereid?”
“That sounds right.” I was suddenly cold, and squeezed the chainmail a little harder, pulling it up my lap a little further. Perhaps the only time Bechalle had been happy, holding that blade, cutting people. Well, I was happy with his defenestration. To my right, the flames danced low on nearly spent wood in the stonework fireplace.
“They are all very rare creatures.”
“Etienne, why did he take the knife?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, my lady. But I do not like the implications.” He came around to my front, to face me. I instinctively held the armor a little higher, despite the apron. “If I hadn’t known that he left, and took the knife with him, I would have guessed these the scribbles – excuse me for saying this so crudely – of a madman.”
I looked into his eyes, the same color as mine, trying to be careful, “Since the grand magister is taking this seriously, and doesn’t seem to be sharing his information with me, I would appreciate it if you could perhaps assume Bechalle knew what he was doing. Despite his clear insanity.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all? Perhaps Bechalle left a journal around or some sort of book to guide his, ah, rune work?” He leaned forward, staring deep into my eyes, “Any changes you’ve become aware of?”
“No,” I looked away, a little too soon, “we couldn’t find anything. I had his libraries searched and others questioned, but we couldn’t find any information of value. I’m sorry, Etienne, I’m cold. Could you put a little more wood on the fire?”
He moved around to my other side, picked up some firewood, knelt in front of the fireplace, saying, “It’s too bad, in a sense, that your general tossed Bechalle out that window.”
“In a sense.”
He stood back up to face me. “I mean no disrespect. It’s just making this more difficult to figure out.”
I sighed and put my hands in my face, the armor sliding down my lap a touch, “It’s just a god damned rune! Surely you have a dictionary or something.” He straightened, looking at me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the memory of it.”
“I understand, Princess Cayce.” He said, backing up, “I’ll do my best to uncover what the rune was intended for. Or runes if they’re linked.”
“One last question, if I may.”
“Certainly.”
“You said most, uh, students of magic don’t survive. How do they fail?”
“All manner of ways. Magic is a hard beast to tame. If you draw too much power, it’s difficult on your body. Too little and you borrow from your body.”
“Where do you draw this power from?”
His eyes narrowed, “Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Princess?”
“No. With mages being integral to my army, their experience is something I want to understand.”
He held my eyes for a time, until sparks broke off from the new wood, “Without a reference point, it’s difficult to describe how students fail to learn magic.”
“I see. Forgive my ignorance. And thank you for investigating this matter. I appreciate it.”
“Your Highness.” He slightly nodded, the mage version of a bow, and left.
Despite the chill, I sat up straight for the painters.
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