Chapter 22
I turn page after page of brittle, yellowing paper. Vitalian Mythologies of the Golden Age . It was buried deep in a dusty corner of the library, pages fused together from neglect. Yet, some of these ancient case studies, detailing magical remedies for forgotten plagues, form the foundation of spells still practised today.
I set the book aside and glance around the now-quiet library. The once-bustling space is deserted, with only the moonlight casting soft shadows over the garden pavilions. A small movement catches my eye—Taffy, her once-white fur now grey and dusted with cobwebs, trots towards me. I gently brush the webs away as she curls up on my lap, purring softly. “No claws on these new clothes,” I murmur.
She looks up as Skriniaris Evander appears, settling into the chair opposite me. He glances at my stack of books with a knowing smile. “Taking a break from studying, I see.”
I gesture to the lantern flickering beside us. “Was that your doing?”
“Can’t let you ruin your eyes,” he replies with a grin. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. All night, if necessary.”
I smile, feeling a warmth akin to that from my grandfather.
“I was hoping to catch you alone,” the skriniaris says. He strokes his white beard thoughtfully. “One of the judges for the examinations is getting married during the lovelight festival. I’ve been asked to fill in for him.”
“You’ll be on the panel?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, along with four others,” he confirms. “I received the itinerary today. I wanted to share it with you.”
I pull my chair back, startling Taffy from my lap. “Please, I don’t want any unfair advantage.”
“The scholars you’re up against already have personal tutors and all the details. I can give you a general overview, too.”
I let out a breath of relief. “I know the first day is the toughest.”
“Yes,” Skriniaris Evander replies. “Fifty scholars, thirty case-study questions, only twenty will advance. Each question presents a patient with symptoms. Your task is to diagnose and prescribe the best treatment. One scholar is eliminated with each question.”
I swallow, my throat tightening.
“On the second day, you’ll present your vitalian innovation and answer the examiners’ questions. If you succeed, you’ll earn three stamps on your soldad, granting you the rank of medius.”
“And the third day?”
“To rank the top ten scholars. Each will face a patient with a real ailment. You’ll have half an hour to cure them before a seal activates, blocking all vitalian magic. The better your cure, the higher your rank.”
“That sounds—”
“There’s a twist,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
I laugh nervously. “Of course.”
“If the seal activates before you’ve completed the cure, you must find a way to heal without magic.”
I nod slowly. “Anything else?”
“Most of those who make it to day three fail,” he says with a comforting smile. “But don’t worry, just getting there is success enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, milk and cookies await.”
I tut and wag a finger at him. “You know what I say about sweets.”
Skriniaris Evander grins, eyes twinkling. “Old age, can’t hear you.”
* * *
Later that night, I bring Akilah her cake and collapse into bed, still dressed. The soft fur of my hood cushions my fall. Quin’s voice lingers in my mind, tight and taunting. Prove it. I hear it over and over, like the biggest challenge between us yet.
Irritating as he is—as much as I want to avoid him—I also can’t let that failed gift be our last interaction. I refuse to ultimately be judged a fool.
I wince and turn a groan into my pillow, then sit up. I’ll try again. Give him a gift to erase that shameful miscalculation.
I leap up with inspiration. Prince Nicostratus, my saviour once again. I pull out a long, flat box from under my bed. In it are the treasures I’ve collected over the years, and one of those treasures is a piece of ancient violet oak, taken straight from the tree and given to me by Nicostratus after our night in its hollowed trunk—the night we saved one another. “ The wood absorbs vast amounts of magic. Past kings carried talismans made from this wood. They gave them extra magic when they needed it in war .”
The wood comes alive under my hands and knife. It’s ancient grain hums with potential. I’ll carve two gifts: an armband for Nicostratus in honour of his protection. And for Quin... I grimace as I imagine him raising a brow. What, for me?
Something to keep your mouth shut.
Weeks fly by.
Between tending to winter patients and studying late into the night, I’ve barely had time to breathe. Father has been distant, sending more patients each day, but I keep working. Tonight, I finish enchanting Quin’s gift and test it. It radiates warmth.
As I seal the last spell, Father’s voice cuts through the silence. “What’s that?”
I spin around, nearly knocking a jar from the table. Father picks it up and motions toward Quin’s gift. “May I see it?”
Hesitant, I hand it over.
“You made this?” he asks, examining the intricate carvings.
“It’s a gift,” I say, my voice trembling.
“Ah. It’s for a woman.”
I shake my head furiously. “For someone who saved my life.”
He looks at me over the gift. “When did your life need saving?”
I’m quiet, but Father is insistent and soon I’m forcing the truth out. He spends most of my story squinting at Quin’s gift, jaw twitching. At the end, he lifts the carved wood with one hand and fiery magic plumes from his other—
I leap for the gift and he throws me a look that dares me to move.
“Don’t destroy it.”
Father’s expression softens. “I want to add power to it. The least I can do for saving my son’s life.”
My heart skips. “No. It’s my gift.”
He snaps his fingers and the plume fizzles. The gift falls into my palm.
“I’ll leave you then.”
He turns—
“Wait.”
He pauses, a large silhouette in the doorframe, moonlit purple sky framing him.
I swallow. “I don’t... understand. I have a legitimate chance to become a vitalian, and you’re unhappy. Angry, even.” I step towards him, squeezing Quin’s gift, and croak, “Why can’t you feel proud of me?”
He turns, and as he steps forward, I catch a tragic glint in his eye. His voice rumbles. “I’m ashamed.” He lets out an anguished breath. “When you strode back home, right to your mother’s side and healed her without a second’s hesitation... I wished that could have been me.”
Softly, I say, “It can be.”
His fists ball at his sides and loosen. “You think I’m cruel. Perhaps I am, but I want you all to live .”
“I understand—”
“You don’t!”
I stagger back as he takes a long breath.
“Do you remember the summer you ran away from Hinsard and came back here? You came into the household drowning under the weight of your grandfather’s books.”
I swallow. “You stayed behind with him, made us leave for Hinsard earlier than other years. I only figured out he was sick when I was with Veronica. I brought books from his cabin in case he needed me to treat him. I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Those books would not have helped.”
“They might have.”
“He wasn’t sick.”
“He was gone by the time I got here. If I’d been faster—”
“He was executed.”
I suck in a tight breath. “ What?”
“For performing complex spells. I sent you away, but... I was made to watch.”
My heart races. “What? You told me he died in his sleep.”
“You were only nine. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Y-you could have told me later.”
“Every time I think of... I couldn’t. You have such fond memories of him.” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t. ”
“Father...”
“You want so badly to be like him. And I’m afraid your fate will be the same.”
“Father, I have royal permission now,” I say softly. “You don’t have to fear for me.”
He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you’re set on this path... I want to help.”
I blink, unsure I’ve heard him right.
He clears his throat. “The way you pace yourself matters. Ten simplex spells can save more lives than one complex spell. Use your energy wisely.”
As he tells me things, the weight of what goes unspoken settles between us. I feel his mixture of sadness and resolve, and I hold Quin’s gift close as tenderness washes through me. Before Father leaves, I say quietly, “Could you show me Grandfather’s spells? The one he died for?”
He nods.
* * *
Akilah’s hug lingers, her warmth holding me steady as she steps back from the scholar prefecture’s towering gates. “You’ll do well,” she whispers, though her eyes flicker with worry.
Ahead, a snowy lawn stretches out, dissected by cleared walks and a canal winding its way beneath an ornate archway. It’s a smaller branch of the main waterway leading to the palace, though no less grand. Scholars bustle across the quad, some rowing through ice-kissed water with practised ease, others arriving in animated clusters, their breath puffing in laughter. The crunch of boots on snow, the sound of their familiarity. This is their world. Their domain.
A winter breeze tugs at my cloak. I pull up my hood.
Day one.
If I fail, there’s no second chance. No safety net.
I glance at the crowd gathering on the steps of the examination hall. Clutching my soldad—the gift of a chance to chase my dreams—I force myself to stride forward, though my stomach twists with nerves.
A voice, too close, drifts past.
“My brother has a par-linea friend. Apparently, they’re all lined up outside, hoping this half-blood interloper passes. Maybe one day they’ll get a chance.”
I’m not half-blooded. Not even a quarter. Just a mere one-eighth. Par-par-par-linea.
I wonder what they’d say if they knew.
Florentius stands at the top of the steps, his phoenix-red robe immaculate, as though winter dared not touch him. His presence is always eye-catchingly precise, his movements practised to perfection. He never mingles, rarely speaks, but when his gaze finds mine, his lips curl ever so slightly—a silent, grimacing acknowledgment. Then, with a flick of his chin, he gestures to the doors as they creak open.
Inside, the hall gleams. Polished wood floors, tall windows. Portraits of revered men gaze down from high walls. Tables and chairs are arranged in precise rows, a stark contrast to the chaotic snow outside. From a raised platform, five judges observe the entrants, their matching cloaks marking their authority. Redcloaks move among us, directing scholars to their desks.
Feet shuffle. Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the hall, the occasional chair squeaking as people settle in. For others, this might be routine. For me, this is stepping onto a battlefield.
From the judges’ table, Skriniaris Evander’s warm smile offers brief reassurance. But it’s fleeting, smothered by the impassive stares of the others. Behind them, on tiered seating, sit the scrutinising tutors. Chiron is among them, his sharp gaze unyielding, right in my line of sight. Whoever ranks first on day three will earn the chance to work under him in the palace.
I grip the wooden stylus pre-set on my desk as if it’s a lifeline. Its smooth surface feels foreign in my hand.
A snicker from my left cuts through my focus.
“He has no chance,” someone mutters, just loud enough to sting.
I don’t look up. They’re not wrong. Their years of specialised tutoring stand against me.
The centremost judge rises, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as the room falls silent. His voice, crisp and unyielding, fills the space.
“Each desk is assigned a unique signature. Channel magic through the pen provided and write directly onto the surface. Your handwriting will be standardised, and your answers will come to us for assessment. This ensures anonymity and avoids bias.”
His words echo like a challenge.
The judge sits, and the weight of the hall descends.
Around me, scholars lift their pens, magical sparks instantly glowing from the tips.
My pen is unresponsive in my fist, not a single spark no matter how hard I squeeze.
I have to tap into my shaky mystical root for this. Not an issue for pure linea.
Another snicker to my side. How can someone with such weak grounding become a mage, hold a position of trust?
My hands tremble around the stylus, my hitched breaths threatening to give my panic away. Then they’ll have their proof how out of place I am here. This simple task—use a pen. No one but me has to wrench magic out of the wood.
I close my eyes, hearing Quin’s voice: Control and discipline are crucial. Don’t blow us up .
I steady my breathing and sense the faint tick of energy in the wood. Saved by Quin. Again.
From the line of judges up front, Skriniaris Evander stands. “The examination begins now. Patient one...”
Heads bow as we scribble down our diagnoses, and the air grows tense as we wait for the judges’ assessments. Skriniaris Evander rises again. “If the signature on your table glows, you have been eliminated.” The hall collectively holds its breath.
My stylus feels heavy in my grip. Is my answer enough? Is the spell the best choice?
A flicker of light catches my eye. I hold my breath, heart thumping as an uproar erupts from a man three rows ahead. “My answer was correct!”
Skriniaris Evander inclines his head. “It wasn’t incorrect, but your choice of cure used such rare herbs that only the royal family could benefit.”
Footsteps clap soundly over the hall; the scholar rises stiffly, face pinched tight. “This is outrageous—”
The judges don’t flinch, and neither do the redcloaks. They grab him by the arms and escort him out. The scholar’s shouts fade into the background as murmurs ripple among the scholars.
Murmurs that they’d expected it to be the par-linea. That’d he’d be next, surely.
I defy their expectations, but the cases are growing more difficult with each round.
I steady my breathing, focusing on the flow of magic through my pen. Sweat beads on my temples, and the scholar beside me glances over, mistaking it for a sign of trouble. He snickers loudly.
Florentius, seated at the front of the hall, shoots a sharp look back. “Quiet.”
Patient twenty-eight. A stonemason with chronic, debilitating headaches, nausea and tingling in his arm. The pain is worst in the mornings but eases when lying down. No spells taken. No family history of illness.
I study the details carefully. It could be a rare brain growth or a muscle injury affecting nerves. His heavy lifting and lack of recovery time might have worsened an old injury. The tingling arm suggests a secondary issue, possibly a nutrient deficiency. One spell...
Father’s voice echoes in my mind: Look at the bigger picture. What must be sacrificed for the best overall outcome?
I scrawl my answer and prescription, bracing for the judges’ decision.
A glow appears on the desk of the scholar in front of me. He jerks his chair back, slamming it into my desk.
“Why?”
“We assess how you view the patient holistically. Your spell addressed the main symptom well but ignored other aspects.”
His indignation echoes as he’s escorted out.
Twenty-nine.
It’s an intriguing case study. Two patients, two sets of symptoms. One is lying. Identify which one, provide a diagnosis, and recommend a spell.
I quickly discern which patient is truthful. The genuine symptoms indicate exhaustion, with sleep as the remedy. The faker shows signs of anxiety, needing a spell to balance hormones.
My pen sputters weakly in my grip, the faintest glimmer of gold dribbling out as I wrestle with my limited magic. Around me, pens glide effortlessly—bright and fluid streams of power. My heart hammers, and I force myself to focus, to steady my trembling. Again, from deep in my mind comes Quin’s voice, sharp and coaxing. Keep going.
My hands grow numb as I force out every last dredge of magic. One faltering stroke and my hopes will be lost.
I submit my answer.
The final patient is announced.
Delusional, experiencing hallucinations. My grip tightens on the pen, its energy fading fast, but I force myself to focus. Quickly, I scribble my diagnosis: gradual spell intervention, one month of monitoring, followed by biannual checkups.
My magic gives out. I’m a few words short of a caution about sugar.
I submit my work and sink into my seat. I think of my forefathers, Akilah pacing by the canal, the hopeful par-linea. I hope what I wrote is enough.
My heart pounds as the judges assess the submissions. Finally, they announce their decision. I open my eyes slowly—
My stomach drops. The signature on my desk is glowing.
I stare at the symbol until tears blur my vision. Redcloaks approach my desk, and I hear murmurs: “Finally.” “A miracle he made it this far.” “Luck, surely.”
I rise, my knees weak under the heavy heat pouring in through my cheeks. There, for all to see. A failure. As expected.
I think of Akilah’s last hug and her conviction I’d make it. I think of those par-linea lined up outside, hopeful. I think of River’s wish to learn.
Skriniaris Evander offers a silent sympathetic smile, but my chin sinks to my chest. There’s no one to blame. I just wasn’t enough.
The lump in my throat aches. I don’t want to see anyone—especially not Quin with his bet on me, with his goading, with his Prove it!
A redcloak nudges me to keep moving. The arched doorway looms ahead. What awaits beyond it?
“Wait.”
The voice is sharp and authoritative; it stops me swallowing over the lump in my throat. I halt, waiting for what will be said next, not daring to look over.
Florentius continues, “I suspect the scholar beside me is cheating.”
The accused leaps up in outrage. “How dare you! What proof do you have?”
“His cloak glowed intermittently, and he kept coughing into it. Please investigate.”
The redcloaks step forward and inspect the scholar’s cloak, confirming Florentius’s claim. Someone has been feeding him answers.
The room erupts into chaos. Some defend the accused, while others demand justice for the integrity of the process. In the midst of the commotion, my gaze meets Florentius’s. He looks away quickly, his expression unreadable.
As the cheating scholar is escorted out, Skriniaris Evander rises to speak. “Caelus Amuletos, you’re the twentieth scholar to pass day one of the mage examinations.”
The redcloaks step aside and I sag against the wall, overwhelmed.
I get another chance tomorrow.
The judges make announcements I barely hear over my relief. The remaining scholars celebrate and congratulate each other; I’m swept along with them through the grounds, out the gates—to cheers from the crowd and Akilah, half-eaten cake in hand.
She hugs me tightly and whispers, “Proud of you. No disguise this time.” She winks. “You’ll have to go without me. Have fun.”
I smile and let myself be carried along with the other scholars to the academy.
One of the tutors hands me a drink, and I gladly answer his questions about my education rather than be alone in the crowd. He’s soon beckoned away, and I’m left nursing my wine. I feel like the outcast they think I am. Conversations drift my way. A group of scholars nearby, admiring the festival dancers.
“One more drink before we meet our girls?”
“You’re dreaming if you think she’ll give you her lovelight.”
“What?!”
“Will you give her yours?”
A shiver races down my spine. The festival. It’s been hard to focus on the excitement of that with the examinations, but... it’s happening. I’m meeting Nicostratus—tonight, at Bell Bridge. I could go there, now. I let out a shaky breath—
When I look up, that little group of scholars has drawn close—surrounded me, in fact. “So. You passed.”
“So I did.”
Heads cock. “Ready for tomorrow?”
I instinctively feel for the pouch containing my Poison Halting Miracle, and meet their gazes. “We’ll see.”
I smile politely and back up a few steps, bumping into a fellow guest as I go. I murmur an apology and turn, but whoever I trod on has been swallowed by a fresh crowd of arrivals.
The bells are chiming six o’clock in the distance when I squeeze my way outside. I’m late.
I race down the darkening street. Roll my ankle jumping over an icy ditch. I try to spell it—fail. That one drink mocks my magic. I hobble down the snowy length of the canal, past the busy thoroughfares to a quieter, antique bridge at the edge of town.
A hooded figure paces the crest, breezes ruffling his cloak behind him, glorious and mysterious in the burgeoning moonlight.
I smile at the sight and climb the bridge, out of breath.
Nicostratus whips around, relieved. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“I just... I passed the first day. We all had a drink.”
He moves to the railing and stares down at the half-frozen water. “I understand.” But he adds softly, “It’s difficult for me to find time for us.”
I tug on his sleeve. “Sorry.”
He pulls me in and sighs against my forehead. “You’re here, that’s what matters.”
His lips linger, tickling my skin. He pulls back slowly, but only an inch. My breath catches, and his eyes drop to my lips. I rock back on my heels, breaking the connection, unsure of his expectations. Further down the canal, dozens of couples are holding hands along the bank. He steps closer, tucking his mouth against my ear. “I don’t expect anything. Don’t be nervous.”
A deep breath leaves me.
I grab at the pouch on my belt, draw out the armband I carved for him and slip it over his wrist. “This is for you.”
He angles his arm against the moonlight and slowly twists the wood around. “You made this yourself?”
“With the wood you gave me. The first time we met.”
He furrows his brow as he inspects the carving. He twists it around once more, resting his elbows on the bridge railing, and glances at me softly.
I lean against the railing and pause a moment as I gaze down at the cold river. Is this what it should feel like?
A flash of a memory—Maskios and that year—has me gripping the rail. The escape into the boat. Landing on his lap. Lovelights speckling the sky above us.
I shake off the shivers and yank my head determinedly to Nicostratus.
He smiles, but it soon fades. “I’m moving back into the palace.”
I frown. “Isn’t that the most dangerous place you can be?”
“Sometimes the most dangerous place is the safest. I’m under threat no matter where I am, much to my brother’s exasperation. He wants me closer, to protect me better. If I hand in my military seal and weaken myself visibly in front of the court, my uncle might just keep a watchful eye on me instead of trying to eliminate me. It’s only a little over a year before Constantinos can announce his son as heir to the throne.”
“Will it be better for you after that?”
“Better for me.” His lips twist downwards. “Worse for Constantinos.”
“Why?”
“My uncle hates me now because if Constantinos passes, I would take the throne and I have military support to enforce it. But Constantinos has always known that after he announces his son as heir, he’ll become the next target.”
“He will?”
“It’s far more appealing to be regent and control a five-year-old than to extort an adult.”
Extort?
“If he can see my every move... if I can act unthreatening... He can’t overtly attack me in the palace. He’d have to be extremely cunning or Constantinos will finally have a chance to be rid of him. I’ll be safe enough. For a while.”
A rush of movement and the clop of hooves up the bridge has us spinning around. Nicostratus pulls me by the wrist behind him. A palace aklo slows his horse to a halt, another trailing, saddled, behind him.
“What is it?” Nicostratus asks, voice deep and commanding.
The aklo’s face is expressionless. He holds out a badge. “The king requests your presence.”
The grip on my wrist loosens. Nicostratus twists to me. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“When will we...”
“It may be more difficult in the coming year. I’ll send word.” He unhooks the beads at his belt and tucks them into my hand, pressing my fingers tight.
I squeeze them as he leaps astride the spare horse and looks at me one last time before he turns towards the palace.
Absentmindedly, I fasten the beads onto my belt and limp my way around narrow streets towards town, glimpsing the boats on the canals, lit with lanterns. In the distance, fireworks boom. Are we both captivated by them as he hurries towards his responsibilities? Is he thinking of me too?
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
He’s returning to the palace, to live. Will he be my next Veronica? Will I hope to hear from him and eventually give up, knowing we’ll forever be stuck on opposite sides of those giant stone walls? The beads at my belt feel heavier, their weight a silent reminder not to merely dream but to take action. If I don’t want this separation, I must earn a place in the palace.
The final examination is my chance.
Again, hooves clatter. It’s the wrong direction; it can’t possibly be—but...
I hold my breath.
The horse is first a shadow along cobbled stone, and then—
I throw a laugh towards the heavens. “Of course.”