Chapter 11
Larliesl worked the Bellator relentlessly. No one doubted why the Dueling Master was there. Those who attended Vaukore had only seen a fraction of his knowledge. Larliesl instructed them with fire in his heart and a true conviction that she’d never seen from him at school.
Weeks into his command of the Bellator, he introduced a technique of Magic that left everyone with wide eyes.
“At Vaukore I had a professor of Offensive Magic, died years ago, poor old chap, but he swore he’d known a Magical that could breathe Magic.”
Fawley's eyes widened. “Like a dragon breathes fire?”
“Exactly like that,” replied Larliesl with a grin. “Our fingers are beautiful, wonderful conductors of Magic, but it flows through the whole body. Who is to say you cannot use more than your fingers to expel Magic?” Larliesl placed his hands behind his back. “Anyone already experienced such a technique?”
There were a few murmurs through the crowd. The older, more trained Magical Militia spoke up, announcing their success with such advanced fighting. The green and inexperienced recruits listened eagerly.
“You may not have even realized it,” continued Larliesl. “But your Magic is yours to bend. Yours to manipulate.”
The way Maeve’s Magic had burst through her knuckles as she pummeled that boy unconscious.
“Mr. Hendrix?” Larliesl asked, gesturing towards him.
Fawley stepped up at once.
Larliesl gave him a nod and slid one foot across the stone towards him. Magic swirled across the ground.
Fawley shifted back, sliding on his heels. He quickly caught his balance and looked up at the Dueling Master.
Larliesl flicked up two fingers, levitating a stone from the courtyard. He dropped the large, smooth rock in both his hands. Without hesitation, he slammed his forehead into the stone. With a pulse of Magic, it shattered into dozens of pieces at his feet.
“These are highly advanced Magical Combat skills. But you will all be expected to perfect them,” he said.
Larliesl placed the experienced Magicals with one another to spar and duel, and sent the recruits to meditate and begin to understand the pathways of Magic within their bodies. They left the training courtyard with gloomy expressions as they realized they wouldn’t get to jump into the fight.
Larliesl observed, corrected and demonstrated for the entire morning and into midday.
When he dismissed them, he turned to Maeve.
“Mr. Peur–” began Larliesl. He laughed with pride and corrected himself. “The Prince has asked that I train you privately,” he said, with a smile. “It seems you can’t get out of training so easily.”
“Did he?” Asked Maeve softly.
Larliesl nodded. “I’ve noticed his efforts lie outside of these castle walls, as they should, truth be told. He fears he does not have time to train you.”
Maeve swallowed the lie and didn’t argue.
She hadn’t seen Mal in weeks. She didn’t know when he’d arrive back at Castle Morana. Or if she’d even know when he did.
The castle was dark and quiet when she roamed its corridors late at night. Though the endless twilight of The Dread Lands made for no day or night. It was one long, green haze of time.
Mal was right. Time was different in these lands.
And it played tricks on her mind.
She pressed past her daze of thought and nodded at Larliesl.
Minutes later, his two fingers landed on her temple. “You aren’t even trying.”
Larliesl dropped his fingers at once. “It is difficult to fight without causing serious injury.”
Larliesl nodded and walked back towards his shoulder bag. “These were a gift when I graduated from Vaukore.” He pulled out two silver bracelets and slid them along his wrists.
He clicked them together and a wave of Magic passed over his body, creating a shield.
“Those are quite a rarity,” said Maeve. “Elven steel. Passed down in your family?”
Larliesl was, after all, part Elven.
Larliesl turned back towards her and shook his head. The Magic was familiar. And she realized.
“My father gave you those.”
Larliesl halted. “Actually, your grandfather did,” he said gently.
“Why?” She asked.
Larliesl smiled softly. His pale, graying hair dropped over his eyes as he looked down at his wrists. “I was the best. Guaranteed Optimum and top of the Bellator before I even left Vaukore. Much like yourself.”
“No one gave me any trinkets,” she muttered.
“You, much to my dismay, opted not to finish your studies,” he replied lightheartedly. “Though I’ve never seen a Supreme with such academic inclinations take to combat so well.”
Maeve accepted the compliment.
“Let’s continue, shall we?” Proposed Larliesl. His face grew serious. “Aim to wound, Miss Sinclair. Do not hold back.”
Maeve sat and listened to each Sacred Seventeen family voice their opinions and concerns over the revitalization of The Towers and The Beryl City.
None of them had hesitated to take their place in The Dreads Lands. They were all eager to slip out from beneath the Double O and the Committee of the Sacred’s grip. But as some of their concerns revolved around who would rightfully receive what land and the opinion that human born Magicals shouldn’t reside in The Towers, she found it difficult to sympathize.
She and Abraxas sat on Mal’s throne in his absence. Literally.
The oversized chair fit them both with room to spare.
“House Sinclair is no more,” said Roswyn’s father, Wyndyl.
Acid rose through Maeve’s stomach. Her bones ached at the words.
Wyndyl continued. “Human born Magicals residing there is a disgrace to the legacy of the Sacred.”
Maeve shifted her gaze to him. He avoided hers.
“The Tower on Avondell should go to a new family, one that can continue bloodlines,” he continued.
“The Avondell, which belonged to the Sinclairs, should be ours,” said Lillian Davenport. “It borders the land my ancestors claimed.”
“Precisely,” said Wyndyl. “A half-blooded Magical residing there? It would be a disgrace. Only those with Pureblood should occupy a place of such rich Magic.”
“Then what of my blood?” Asked Maeve, speaking at last.
The room fell quiet.
Wyndyl’s eyes moved slowly to her. “An exception to be made.”
“Why?” She fired quickly.
Wyndyl looked down. “You are of greater Magical standards than the rest.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because our Prince has deemed it so.”
“Ah,” said Maeve boredly. “So the others? The Magicals not of Pureblood? Where do you propose they live?”
“In the Beryl City.”
Abraxas opened his mouth to speak, but Maeve was quick to overstep. “The Beryl City has not been restored.”
Wyndyl forced a smile and looked at Abraxas.
“The Dread Prince’s second speaks truly,” said Abraxas, with some reservation in his voice.
Roswyn’s father continued. “We have also discussed the Human-born Magicals residing on Earth, and only coming here when their duties as Bellator are needed.”
Maeve laughed. Abraxas sighed.
“Are you unaware what the Bellator spend their afternoons doing?” Asked Maeve, not expecting an answer. “Belvadora. To name one. A Bellator that fights for you. Who risks her life in the Dread Land’s unpredictable darkness in order to restore those mansions you so deeply desire to claim. She is born of two humans. A product of the desperation of our Magic. A product of perseverance. Her very existence defies the laws of Magic and yet you would have her remain on Earth. While you, with your prestigious blood, are too weak to even cross beyond the Barrier.”
The Barrier was an impenetrable line of Mal’s Magic that protected Castle Morana and the parts of their new world where the air remained toxic and remnants of Dark Magic brewed. Only he and the Bellator working to restore The Beryl City and the Greywood Forest passed beyond the Barrier, and only with Mal’s Magic assisting them.
“The Dread Prince has left these matters to us,” Wyndyl replied.
“He has left them to me, actually,” interjected Abraxas, “if either of you would let me speak.”
“Apologies to the Hand,” said Wyndyl reverently.
Maeve looked over at Abraxas and whispered, “Sorry, Brax.”
He spoke with authority. “The Tower of Avondell is Maeve’s and Arianna’s by birthright. Truly, it’s Agatha Sinclair’s most of all as matriarchy of the family. See how nicely she sits and doesn’t yap? If they see fit to use it for housing Bellator, then so be it. The Magic there is no one’s to tamper with but their own. That said, there isn’t enough space for the entire rank in The Avondell. So they remain at Castle Morana until the Beryl City has been restored.”
“Human-borns residing in this holy Castle?” Asked Wyndyl incredulously.
“I don’t recall stuttering,” said Abraxas plainly.
He stared at Roswyn’s father and then popped a smile.
“If I may?”
All heads turned towards Mr. Mavros.
Abraxas looked over at Alphard and Astrea’s father and nodded.
“Not everyone here shares the same sentiment as the Roswyn family. I have no qualms living amongst those who willingly fight for future generations of Magic to flourish.”
Wyndyl scoffed subtly as many families agreed with Mr. Mavros.
“The Prince himself admitted he is concerned about Human-borns living here!” Wyndyl exclaimed to Mr. Mavros.
“I have heard your concerns,” said Abraxas. “Many times. However, the Prince is not concerned with human borns living in The Dread Lands. He is concerned for their safety here.”
“And where is he?” Fired Wyndyl hotly, real zing as the words slipped from him that his aggression was out of turn and quite out of line. His cheeks flushed red.
“That doesn’t concern you,” said Abraxas plainly.
“Of course,” said Wyndyl, bowing slightly at the waist.
“Is that all you have for the Crown today?” Abraxas asked.
No one spoke. Roswyn’s father turned and left the hall before any of the rest, a trail of bickering hot on his heels. Once the hall cleared, Abraxas propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed his eyes.
“You listen to this garbage every day?” Asked Maeve.
“Yes,” groaned Abraxas. “And you were no help either.”
Maeve huffed. “Well, you’re the one who invited me here.”
“Because I thought if you were here that they’d shut up about it,” said Abraxas dryly. “This Artemis Tower, The Crescent Tower, on and on, as if I don’t have relations with four other realms to concern my time with.”
Maeve sighed. After a moment, she spoke. “Where is Mal?”
Abraxas shot up with a single brow raised. “Why? Do you miss him?”
Maeve ran the tips of her fingers down the arm of Mal’s throne. The lack of his Magic told her he rarely sat there, if at all.
Maeve looked over at her cousin sadly and changed the subject. “Your wedding is soon.”
Abraxas stood and didn’t press her on the topic of Mal and further. “That reminds me, I need your help with a few invitations.”