Chapter 15
Iturn 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.