19. Chapter Nineteen Bahira
Chapter Nineteen: Bahira
M y nails dig into the ancient wooden table in the council room, leaving crescent shapes in the surface, as I anxiously wait for the rest of the members to arrive. The soft light from the chandeliers above reflects on the midnight black stone that lines the floor. The breeze blowing in from the open windows is warmer, a sign that the shifting of the seasons from spring to summer is nearing. The earthy scent of the trees surrounding us permeates the otherwise-stagnant air as the birds flitting between them voice their songs.
Footsteps echo off the stone as the last few mage councilmen enter the room and take their seats. Councilman Kallin, Daje’s father, takes his seat on my father’s left-hand side. Across the table from where I sit, his eyes meet mine briefly, a look of dismissal flashing in them before he turns his attention back to my father. There have been brief moments when I consider marrying Daje just to spite his father. How upset would he be if his son married a magicless girl? Nevermind the fact that I am the fucking princess of this realm. I fight the almost-dominating urge to roll my eyes.
Looking at my father—his hands relaxed on the top knee of his crossed legs—I’m reminded again how lucky I am to have been born to parents who care more about the soul than the magic they might possess. With a flick of his wrist, the doors to the council chamber close quietly. Another has copies of Nox’s latest letter sent by raven floating to each council member from a stack in the middle. I had almost ripped the original one out of my father’s hands to read the newest updates. It turns out that Nox didn’t have much to report, and the silence is deafening as the council reads over the sparse correspondence.
Daje’s father sighs when he gets to the end, letting his copy drop unceremoniously back onto the table. “There is not much of anything to this letter,” he mutters, running a hand over his balding head.
My father nods, ever the regal presence. Even dressed casually as he is now in a plain white long-sleeved tunic and black trousers, there is no denying that King Sadryn was born to rule. His night-black hair is pulled back, his tanned skin taking on a bronzed glow under the golden flame of the chandeliers. Mumbles of how a lack of meaningful information has been common with Nox’s letters lately trickle in around the table. While my father’s face is a mask of pure calm, those who know him best know his frustration manifests in small movements from his fingers. So when Councilman Arav voices his concern that Nox could be compromised, my father’s fingers grip his knee so hard they start to turn white.
“My son loves his kingdom and the people within it more than anything,” he says in a tight voice.
“I do not mean to question the prince’s loyalties, Majesty. I just mean, what if something has happened in which he hasn’t been given a choice?” Councilman Arav replies, a sheen of sweat causing his forehead to shine.
Arav is younger for a councilman, which is especially apparent as he is seated next to Daje’s father. He was chosen because he is from a smaller town on the very outskirts of our kingdom, near the border with the mortal lands, and the people there love him for how he advocates for them to the king. His blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin stand out starkly against most everyone else at this table, but his features represent the mixed-blood population of the town he is from.
“Are you insinuating that the prince may have been found out and captured?” Councilman Hadrik inquires. Hadrik is my parent’s closest family friend and like an uncle to me. Growing up, his presence was a common occurrence around the palace, and he never missed an opportunity to indulge my curious mind in whatever unique or unusual questions I would ask of him. His graying-black hair and kind brown eyes stand out against the silver tunic he’s wearing as he stares at Arav.
“Nox is the most powerful mage born in the last century, possibly even longer. I do not doubt that if trouble had arisen, he would have found a way to get back to our kingdom,” Daje’s father adds.
“Councilman Kallin is correct. Nox would protect himself if need be.” I hear the assurance in my father’s voice—for my benefit, I have no doubt.
“How long do you plan to leave our crown prince in an enemy kingdom?” one of the older councilmen, Osiris, asks from the end of the table.
“We don’t know that they are the enemy, only that we felt a heavy burst of magic there and—”
“And that alone should signify that they are up to something!” he says, interrupting my father. “With every day that passes we are risking our future ruler! Do you not think the—”
“Osirus, that is enough. No one could possibly care more about the future ruler of this kingdom than his own father.” When my eyes bounce to his, I don’t have to look for his tell to know that my father’s anger is building.
“And yet, you keep him there,” Osiris continues, and I begin to wonder if the man has some sort of separate grievance with his king. None of the council members have ever challenged him like this. “You allow him to try to get close to a ruler who may be hiding magic. Why else would they do that if not to use it against us? Perhaps they are even aware of our ability to pass through the Spell without consequence!” Osirus’ pupils widen with each word out of his mouth, an odd sort of panic to his voice.
My father must notice it as well because he leans forward slightly and narrows his eyes at him. “What is it you are more worried about? The fact that something may happen to my son, or the fact that if it does, my daughter will become heir to the throne?”
I stiffen at my mention, but Osirus’ panic makes much more sense if my rule is what he truly fears. Nox is eldest, so he does technically have first claim to the throne. But my father has always made it clear to both of us that, much like how a new ruler was chosen before the war, the position should go to whoever is worthy of it. And he determines that worthiness not by the strength of our magic, or if we have any at all, but by our morals—by how we treat others and show our love for the realm. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that both Nox and I care about our kingdom more than anything. It’s why he’s currently undercover in another realm, and it’s why I’ve dedicated myself to fixing what’s blocking our magic. But as far as I’m concerned, Nox can have the throne. He’s always been the more serious and ruler-minded sibling. Whereas I have no interest in figuring out how to be politically correct, among other things. A fact that is proven when I open my mouth to defend myself.
“Councilman Osirus, surely you have no qualms about a woman leading our kingdom? As you may recall, rulers were exclusively female before my ancestor was named king.” I’m provoking him into speaking out loud what I know he is thinking—what I know a majority of the old men at this table are thinking.
“You are forgetting the very important detail that they also had magic. Void Magic no less. And the fact remains that you have no—”
“Enough, Osirus.” My father cuts him off, but I’ve goaded the old councilman too far, he can’t help but keep going.
“—us to feel comfortable with the fact that if something happens to Nox, we are left with someone who has no magic of her own to protect the kingdom with. Our history dictates that rulers are chosen by the strength of their magi—”
“Osirus,” my father interjects, voice cold and lethal from where he stands, placing his hands on the table. The energy in the room becomes ominous, palpable to every person within it. Nearly all of the men on the council shift uncomfortably in their seats, but the two older female members remain motionless, small smiles curling their lips. “Let’s first start with the fact that you are wrong about previous rulers being chosen by their magic. They were chosen when their souls were deemed worthy. Then the magic shifted to them from the current ruler, who was also chosen because of their worthiness.”
The ancient texts we have on Void Magic rulers dictate that when a descendant of the Void line was found worthy, their flame would turn blue during their ceremony. I’ve always found it odd that the texts left out how that worthiness was determined. The child chosen would have common raw mage magic like everyone else, but when they reached the age of sixteen, the life and death magic of the Void would transfer to them from the current ruler. Together, both would rule, until the next-in-line reached the age of twenty-two and officially took the throne.
“Secondly,” my father continues, “I absolutely can—and will—expect you to bow before Bahira, should she ever be named queen. If that is going to be a problem for you, Osirus, then I will have no choice but to remove you from this council.”
I keep my posture steady, spine straight and head raised, so that—on the outside—I appear calm and collected. On the inside though, my mind is chaotic from my father’s words. He has never, ever threatened anyone on this council before for disagreeing with him. In fact, he’s always chosen people that have varying ideas and opinions—a necessity, he claims, to running a well-balanced kingdom.
“The fact of the matter is that my son, your crown prince and Bahira’s brother, is in a foreign kingdom to figure out why we felt such a strong presence of magic there and why we continue to feel it in waves now,” my father says, pushing back from the table and folding his arms over his chest. His magic, a light purple in color, pulses around him as he looms over everyone else.
“Disregarding everything about your daughter becoming ruler, which is currently a moot point considering Nox is alive,” Councilman Kallin says, eyeing Osirus down the length of the table before looking back at his king, “we still should consider the possibility that we may need allies should Nox find something that could be used against us. We may need to reveal our long-guarded secret.”
My father stares at him for a few seconds before jerking his head in a small nod. “It is something I have been considering already, Councilman Kallin.”
My head swings to look at him, the surprise surely showing on my face. The other members start talking in low voices to each other, but my eyes are locked on to my father’s. Noting my shock, he leans towards me and speaks in a low voice,
“It will depend on what Nox discovers that is emitting such powerful magic that we can feel it even here. It might be something to bring down the Spell or break through it. And with what Nox has reported regarding the size of their army…” He trails off, shaking his head. “We would not have enough magic to protect us, should they try to attack.”
I lean back against my chair soundly, my self-composure crumbling under the weight of what’s just been revealed. We are talking about war. A war between realms that shouldn’t even be possible. The pressure to figure out what is blocking our magic doubles in an instant.
After the revelation that war might be a real possibility, I need to get my mind off of everything. I worry daily about Nox being so far from home and surrounded by people who might kill him if they find out who—or what —he is. I worry about finding a fix for the declining magic that is our people’s very soul. I also selfishly worry about who I will be if I never find my missing magic at all—if I never become whole. But now is not the time for those thoughts.
No, as I climb up the hill that leads to our training grounds, the only thing my mind is focused on is Gosston. The late afternoon sun shines on the open landscape dotted with hills and small ponds. In the distance, younger mages practice wielding their magic. Tree branches and rocks lift into the air, glowing lightly in a variety of colors. Water gleams a muted red as it spins like a cyclone above a pond, a mage nearby standing with his eyes closed and hand extended out. When I crest the top of the hill, the land flattens back out and I see a group of men and women sparring together. Standing off to the side—his muscled torso gleaming with sweat—is Gosston. He’s only a little taller than I am, but he’s much wider, his arms and shoulders thick with strength. He already looks fatigued, most likely from sparring most of the day. Pity for him. My steps are sure, my grip on my spear tight, as I stalk to Gosston like a forest tiger hunting a gazelle.
“Hey, Bahira, do you want to spar?” I hear Daje ask a little too loudly as he begins to walk towards me.
“Sorry, Daje,” I respond, my voice low. “I already have a sparring partner in mind.” Daje comes to my side, matching my steps as he follows my line of sight.
“Bahira, don’t do this,” he warns as his hand stretches out to grip my arm, but I quickly step out of his reach. Ignoring his protests, I continue walking until I’m just a few feet in front of Gosston.
“Hello, Gosston.” I twirl my spear until it’s in front me, the tip pointing directly at his heart. “Let’s spar.”
He gives me an incredulous look before stepping back and releasing a scoff. “I think I’ll pass, Bahira,” he chides, moving to get around me.
My spear snaps out, the side of it stopping a hair’s breadth in front of him. The air crackles with anticipation, like an impending maelstrom of violence while I smirk bitterly at him. “What’s the matter? Afraid that I’ll beat you in front of all your friends?”
He laughs, though the sound is shaky. “I’m not going to spar with you.”
“No, you’ll just run your mouth and expect me to not do anything about it,” I say, dropping my weapon slowly to my side as I step in front of him. His eyes narrow in my direction, his muscles beginning to tense. “Pick up your sword.”
“I’m not sparring with you,” he repeats, frustration causing tight lines to form at the corner of his mouth.
“Pick up,” I growl the words this time through my teeth, “your sword.” More people start gathering around us, forming a semi-circle in the grass. I know I should probably care about creating a spectacle, about how it will look politically, but everything around me fades to a blurry haze except for Gosston, whose annoying face is the center of my building fury. He folds his arms over his chest, making no move to unsheathe his weapon.
“Bahira, there are other ways we can let out your frustration,” he jeers, licking his lips as he eyes me over with zero regard. “Let me take care of you. You already know it’s—”
“Quick?” I interrupt, my eyes and smile daring him to act. “I know it’s quick—and terribly unsatisfying. Just like how this little sparring match will be.”
He scowls, a blush beginning to stain his cheeks. “Fine,” he snarls, bending over to unsheathe his sword from where it lays. “I’ll spar with you. But just remember, it was your crazy ass that asked for this.”
Someone—perhaps Haylee—starts cursing under her breath. I have been called many things, but crazy is one that perhaps bothers me the most. That one word changes everyone’s perception of me and demeans and discredits everything I am working for. It’s a cheap way for those who lack the intelligence to see beyond what’s right in front of them to try and bring me down. I inhale deeply, honing in on my surroundings to help me focus. I feel the warmth of the sun above and the tickling of the pillow grass beneath my feet.
Challenging someone to fight isn’t the mage way of handling disagreements, but when was the last time any of them treated me as mage anyway? I’ve had to navigate my role in this kingdom as the only one of my kind. No, violence certainly isn’t the mage way, but it is absolutely my way.
Gosston lifts his sword as we begin to circle one another, his face contorting into a confused snarl. “You have to know I was just joking when I said you cry about being magicless. It’s not like it is a sensitive subject or anything.”
A shot of rage-fueled adrenaline goes through me with his words. Of course he would say it’s a joke. That’s all it is to him and everyone else who thinks that I’m less than because I am different. They are cruel until they are called out on it. Then suddenly, I’m being overly sensitive and dramatic.
“You might want to shut up and focus. I’ll even give you an advantage and tell you I’m going to attack first.”
His eyes narrow, his anger flaring like I hoped it would. Dilan always told us that letting our emotions get the best of us during a fight would only lead to injury and loss. It doesn’t matter how much stronger or taller you are than an opponent, all it takes is one misstep, one break in concentration, to have a sword jabbed into your side. Or a spear. Of course I won’t kill him, despite my baser urges to, but I will revel in beating him in front of his friends.
Gosston takes the same measured steps that I do while he taunts me. “You know, I’ve always felt bad for you. You have all the prestige of a princess born to one of the strongest mage couples in the kingdom. You have a brother whose flame sparked higher than any other in well over a century.” He stops, dropping his arms to his side in an attempt to lower my own defenses. “Yet you were born magicless. And all your dedication and tinkering ,” he says with a mocking sneer, “has yielded nothing. The very thing that you’ve made your life’s work has been for nothing. That must be so hard for you. It must be hard knowing that no matter what you do, your fate is to be nothing more than a magicless wife.”
The world seems to slow, a loaded pause building in the air, as I stare Gosston directly in the eyes. I inject every ounce of rage that has boiled over into that stare before I lift my lips in a smile that is mostly a baring of teeth. Then I swing. My spear comes down hard and fast, Gosston barely having enough time to lift his sword and block. His eyes widen as he looks at me, almost like he can’t believe I’d do what I said I would. Idiot. I lift my spear again, before arching it down and to the side. He doesn’t have time to block this strike, the force of my swing causing his breath to rush out with a loud grunt from the contact.
“You bitch,” he seethes as he lifts his sword and starts to advance towards me. His swings are powerful as he counters, moving left to right and jabbing forward. The clashing of our weapons echoes out into the air, the people around us silent while they watch us go back and forth. I parry every time he comes at me, my agility helping me counter his advances without taking the brunt of his power. When he presses forward again only to have me block and twirl away from him, his eyes flare briefly with panic. “Let’s do this without the weapons,” he says, chucking his sword to the side.
“You want this to be even more humiliating for you?” I taunt as I watch him shake out his hands.
“You’ve got a pretty face, Princess , are you sure you want it ruined?” My eyes roll in response.
“Bahira, come on. You’ve proven your point; there’s no need to keep fighting,” Daje pleads loudly, and though his voice is calm, it has the opposite effect on me.
“Thank you for your input, Daje, it’s duly noted,” I respond before tossing my spear to the side and stepping closer to Gosston with raised fists. Low murmurs sound around us as we begin to circle each other again. I breathe in deeply, relaxing my shoulders and tuning out anything that isn’t the sound of my fast-beating heart.
Gosston moves first, leaning in to snap his fist towards my jaw. I dodge the movement, using his own momentum to tug on his wrist and pull him right into my oncoming fist. His head snaps back, his guard rising before I jab with my other hand. He blocks my fist, but it was nothing more than a distraction. With his arms lifted and his focus so heavily on my hands, it leaves his sides exposed, an opportunity I greedily take advantage of by bringing my knee up forcefully. He bellows at the contact before gritting his teeth and staring at me with an unhinged gleam in his eyes. I move to retreat a step and block his attempt to hit my face. He counters quickly with a hard jab to my ribs, causing me to drop down onto one knee while my breath whooshes out of me.
I can hear a voice in the background hissing my name, but I’m too lost in the blinding anger within me. I will never let someone else determine my own worth. I will never let someone treat me as nothing more than a metaphorical or literal punching bag for their cheap jokes. Only I decide what hurts me. Only I decide what can be used as a weapon against me.
I jump back up to my feet, swinging my leg out and kicking directly onto the side of his knee. My fist closes the distance between us in an uppercut to his jaw, making his head jerk up. His face flushes with irritation, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Gosston’s fatigue begins to show as his next attempt to hit me is weak.
Holding my guard up, I bounce on my toes, planning my next hit when a sudden flash of orange light blinds me. Before I can react, I’m thrown back hard against the ground. The bastard used his magic against me. My ears ring and my head aches as I try to blink through the dazed fog. I move to get up, but Gosston stands at my feet, the orange glow also emitting from his raised hand. He squints with concentration, using nearly all his effort to hold me down with his magic. Orange rings wrap around my wrists and push them above my head, more glowing around my torso to hold me in place. I start to struggle out of his magical grasp on instinct, but I know I can’t get out without magic of my own. The best thing I can do is wait until he’s too weak to hold me down anymore.
“All your talk and now look at you. This is your reality, Princess, ” he says, his teeth showing like a rabid dog. Sweat beads down his temple and his hand begins to shake. It won’t be much longer until he’ll be too weak to hold me down fully.
“Let her go, Gosston.” Daje’s voice pierces the violent tension in the air. I watch him step forward, holding his sword in one hand while the other is in a tight fist at his side. The mask of lethal fury on his face is illuminated by the soft yellow glare of his magic surrounding his entire body, like a stunning cloak of sunlight.
“Stop, Daje,” I say, wiggling and finding there is a little less resistance holding me down.
“Bahira, I won’t stand by and watch this. This asshole—”
“I don’t need your help,” I grunt, clenching my jaw as I try to roll onto my side.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” he seethes—actually seethes —back at me. Daje has never spoken to me like that, and he briefly draws my concentration away from trying to get to my knees. He walks to Gosston, raising the hand not holding his sword. His yellow magic grows even brighter where it gathers in his palm.
“Daje, stop ,” I breathe, pushing my body harder to free myself.
“Yes, Bahira, let Daje rescue you. He’s been doing it since we were kids anyway.”
“Shut up, Gosston,” Daje growls back.
“Daje,” I repeat, but the hardened lines of his face tell me he’s not listening to anything I’m saying anymore. Gosston’s hand falters, the light of his orange magic beginning to flicker.
“Daje! Look at me!” I shout, finally getting to my knees, the magical bindings now loose enough for me to move more easily. Daje’s gaze flicks to where I’m kneeling and my eyes bore into his as I command quietly, “Do not hit him with your magic.”
Gosston’s magic starts to fade from his palm, the intense orange now dimmer, barely there. I can feel it lessen its hold on me, and my body becomes my own again. Finally able to stand, I move towards Gosston, but as I am mid-step, Daje lifts the hand holding his yellow magic up.
“No!” I shout, but Gosston is already grunting from Daje’s hit. The orange glow from his hand winks out instantly while Daje takes a step forward. Gosston drops to a knee, the people around us either cheering or snickering from where they stand before yellow bindings appear around him and anchor him to the ground. I turn to Daje and shove him— hard . He looks at me, eyes wide and full of shock.
“What are you doing?” he shouts, splaying his arms out in frustration. “Gods, are you so afraid of appearing weak that you won’t even take protection when it’s clearly needed?”
My head snaps back like I’ve been slapped, my brows rising high on my forehead. I’m rendered speechless, my gaze locked on my best friend. He’s slow to hide his shock, as if he’s just realized what he’s said. His mouth opens to say something, but Gosston interjects.
“She’s not worth it, man,” he slurs from where he’s still kneeling in the grass, “her pussy isn’t even that great.” My body turns rigid, the crowd around us falling completely silent. Even the trees pause their rustling in the breeze, like they too are waiting to see what happens next. “She’s nothing but a fragile, magicless whore.”
Before my mind even registers what I’m doing, my feet eat up the space between us.
“Call your magic off!” I yell to Daje, who is still staring in shock at me. “Now, Daje!” Standing in front of Gosston, I watch the yellow bindings holding him down disappear. I wait until his head slowly lifts and his eyes meet mine in a vengeful glare. My voice is low, so that he is the only one who can hear me, when I say, “I may be magicless, but only one of us is weak.”
His lips lift in a snarl as I wind my arm back. And when my bloody hand connects with his temple for the final time, his body keeling over into the grass, I remind myself that I may be a princess, but I am nobody’s fucking damsel. Turning, I pick up my spear—ignoring Daje’s attempts to talk with me—and walk away from the whispering voices on the training grounds.