15. Benjin #2
Benjin jumped, glancing over to find Haldric right by his shoulder, peering past him out the window. He shrugged. “I can’t make the words out. Probably the usual fare though: death to the king, curse the nobility, and all that.”
Haldric frowned. “I understand that they’re suffering and wish we could do more. But such violence won’t solve anything.”
The prince flinched when a rotten plum smashed against the side of the carriage, spraying dark purple juices across the wood.
Benjin searched for the source of the hurled fruit and spied a teenage boy standing in the mouth of a nearby alley. He couldn’t have been more than a few years younger than Benjin himself, but when their eyes met, the utter loathing in his hate-filled face made Benjin recoil as if struck.
“That poor boy looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week,” Haldric said softly, following Benjin’s gaze.
The emaciated lad watched them a moment longer, still as a statue, before turning and vanishing into the crowd.
Benjin settled back into the carriage’s plush seat, a sudden weariness threatening to suffocate him. “He probably hasn’t. Many of the people out there are in the same boat. Goddess’ mercy, my mother and I might’ve been right there with them if not for Dexil’s charity.”
“It wasn’t charity.” Haldric gave Benjin a meaningful glance. “You earned your apprenticeship, fair and square.”
Recalling his disastrous interview with Dexil, Benjin wasn’t so sure. Just what had the Grand Magus seen in him?
Haldric sank into his own seat away from the window with a frustrated sigh, reaching up to adjust the silver circlet upon his brow.
“There must be something more I can do to help those people. No one deserves to be treated like that. Perhaps if we talked to them, explained what we’re doing to secure more food from the other provinces—”
“These people are starving, Haldric. Empty words won’t fill their bellies.”
“I understand how they feel,” Haldric said. “But—”
Benjin spun toward him, a quiet fury gripping him. “No. You don’t. You’ll never know what it’s like for the rest of us, scraping and struggling just to get by.”
Haldric flinched. “It’s not my fault I was born a noble! I didn’t ask for any of this. You think I want to be the royal heir?”
Surprise stilled Benjin’s tongue, cooling some of his ire. “You don’t want to be king?”
Haldric gave a humorless snort. “Goddess no! I told you, I wanted to be a mage, or maybe a scholar. It was my sister who was supposed to rule.” He turned away, staring out the window on the opposite end of the carriage.
“Now, Melisie is gone, and Ilthabard’s stuck with me.
You’re right. I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’ll just end up letting everyone down.”
Benjin had caught glimpses before of the man beneath Haldric’s constant armor, but this was the first time Benjin had ever seen him discard it so utterly. Without thinking, he slid closer to the prince, resting his hand on his forearm.
“Forgive me—I let my own frustration get the better of me. What I said isn’t fair. You have the makings of a great king…assuming you ever get your head out of your backside.”
Haldric chuckled, shifting on the bench. Benjin expected him to pull away, but if anything, he seemed to lean into Benjin’s touch. His green eyes were soft and imploring, his voice full of desperate yearning. “Do you really think so?”
Benjin swallowed, his stomach buzzing with some emotion he couldn’t name. “I do.”
The day passed quickly after that. At Haldric’s suggestion, they spent the rest of the afternoon practicing their runes.
The carriage trundled along, leaving Revesole behind and heading out into the sloping countryside.
They passed through one packed town after another, trails of smoke billowing in rising plumes from the many manufactories that dotted the region.
The central province of Hasenbill had long been known for its industry, making use of the stone and ore transported south from Nillis’ mines at the base of the Korvanthan Mountains.
This close to the capital, even the smallest village had a handful of local blacksmiths and stonemasons competing to outproduce one another.
Dim twilight blanketed the countryside when Marshal Fendrel finally called a halt. The marshal had insisted they set up camp rather than risk unwanted attention at an inn. He and the other royal guards soon had the tents assembled, a campfire blazing, and a pot of stew boiling with practiced ease.
“What, no lavish feast for the prince?” Benjin joked as he took a seat by the fire near Haldric. He dipped a spoon into his bowl of stew, then blew on it when it proved too hot to eat.
Haldric raised an eyebrow at Benjin while he stirred his own bowl of stew.
“Sorry to disappoint, but even we royals must make some sacrifices when on the road.” He grimaced, his spoon stilling.
“Besides, I’d wager this is a feast compared to what those people we passed in Revesole are eating tonight. ”
“True.” Benjin stared down at the floating hunks of beef and potatoes in his bowl, his appetite fading. He knew firsthand what it was like to suffer the hollow pangs of hunger and wonder when your next meal would come. He’d do whatever it took to avoid returning to that sorry state.
As if reading Benjin’s troubled thoughts, Haldric ventured, “How about some more practice to pass the time? We could work on the gestures for conjuring and controlling light.”
Benjin groaned and made a show of massaging his wrist. “If I have to write anything else today, my fingers will fall right off.” His gaze trailed to the scabbard Haldric wore. “What’s it like being a spellblade?”
Haldric grinned. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of lessons.” When Benjin didn’t bother to deny it, Haldric shook his head. “All right, fine. I suppose it never hurts to expand your knowledge of runeflame. What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” A flush of excitement washed away Benjin’s earlier melancholy. There were few things in Allaria he loved as much as learning about magic. “How does it work? What sort of spells can you cast? Why did you pick it up?”
Haldric’s fingers trailed to his scabbard.
“It seemed a natural fit for a king of Ilthabard looking to project an image of strength. A lot of it comes down to translating the traditional runes and gestures into swordplay. Rather than channeling a spell through your fingers, you release the runeflame via a precise strike.”
“That’s it?” Benjin felt certain he had to be missing something.
Sure enough, Haldric chuckled. The sound sent a ripple of warmth through Benjin’s core.
“Since when is anything involving runeflame ever that simple? Just like Dexil’s alchemy relies on specific combinations of ingredients prepared certain ways to bolster the magic, spellblades rely on enchantments. Here, watch.”
Haldric set aside his bowl and stood, drawing his sword. Turning it onto its side, he drew a finger awash of runeflame along the flat of the blade, carefully sketching a series of sigils onto the gleaming surface. They sank into the metal, infusing it with an azure glow.
“What did that do?” Benjin asked.
“I primed the blade to make it a better conduit for my magic. In particular, I attuned it to lightning. See?”
Haldric took a few practice swings to warm up before flaring his runeflame and performing a flourishing thrust with his sword.
A surge of electricity erupted from the sword’s tip.
Benjin let out an appreciative whistle at the display, but Haldric wasn’t done yet.
Spinning, the prince performed a sweeping slice that sent a short line of lightning crackling outward to scour the dirt in front of him.
Benjin leaped to his feet and cheered. “By the Goddess, that was magnificent!”
Haldric resheathed his sword and sat back down, an adorable blush coloring his cheeks.
“I’m still far from an expert. I’ve read accounts of spellblades capable of effortlessly fusing their magic with their combat technique, channeling runeflame through their sword like it was an extension of their body.
But that requires mastering both runeflame and your weapon to an extent I can only dream of.
The best I can do right now is apply basic elemental Evocations to my blade and a Protection ward to my armor. ”
“Well, it seemed pretty Void-cursed impressive to me,” Benjin said. “I can barely manage basic Evocations and Conjurations, let alone the other disciplines.”
Haldric frowned. “You held your own during our contest.”
Benjin picked at his stew. “You went easy on me.”
“Oh, come on!” The force of Haldric’s reply caught Benjin by surprise. “Your Evocation gave me a run for my gallants, and your Conjuration beat me fair and square. And that Compulsion of yours was plenty strong.”
Benjin snorted, fixing Haldric with a lopsided smirk he knew would drive the prince insane. “Only because you’re particularly weak-willed.”
“Such impudence!” Haldric gasped, clutching at his breast in exaggerated horror. “How dare you speak to your crown prince in such an uncouth manner!”
Barely holding back laughter, Benjin gave a mock bow. “Apologies. I meant to say, ‘Only because you’re particularly weak-willed, Your Highness.’”
Haldric sniffed, his lips twitching. “Better. Now eat your stew before it gets cold. Your future king demands it.”
“At once, Your Supreme and Most Benevolent Eminence.”
Conversation flowed easily after that, and they spent another hour chatting about nothing in particular before retiring to their separate tents to rest. As Benjin settled down in his sleeping roll with a full belly and equally full spirits, he found himself smiling into the darkness, a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest.
Perhaps this trip away from the palace wouldn’t be so bad after all.