“Highborn Swine. Anyone who lives at court.”
“Oh… how charming.” I bit my lip. A prejudice that was undoubtedly inspired by the tragedies the Caltothians created. The Crown was attempting to save for war, yet by doing so it had shirked its duties to the people up north. Border villages of friends—maybe even families—had been attacked, and they’d been left to fend for themselves. No wonder they had come up with such a hateful rhyme.
Commander Nyx and her regiment were attempting to help their people through patrols, but they could only do so much.
I needed to get that purse.
Derrick put a big arm around my neck, misunderstanding my silence. “Come, now, not everyone is going to like my big sister.”
“Don’t you even think about joining them.”
Derrick grinned and pulled a simple leather cord out of his shirt to show me the copper ring I had given him years ago dangling at its end.
It made me smile to see he was still wearing it even in his soldier’s garb.
“Never. Besides unlike our dear, sweet brother I actually like the fact that you are marrying a prince. I met Darren last year in the infirmary, remember? He’s a good sort, Ry. You will always have my support.”
I felt the tension leave my limbs. “Thank you.”
He ruined the moment by picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder.
“Derrick!” I swatted at the back of his head. “Put me down.”
“Hmm.” The boy pretended not to hear my squeals. “That was too easy. You’ve got to work on your guard, Ry.”
I lowered my hands and punched the side of his ribs. He set me down with a laugh.
“I don’t need a guard around you. You aren’t my enemy, Derrick.”
My brother grinned. “That’s the thing about enemies. You never know who they could end up being.”
****
A week before I was to depart half the regiment was seeing to chores around camp, and the rest of us sat trading jokes or serving watch around the perimeter. I knew I should be helping out, but I was unwilling to leave until Lief finished his latest tale from the past Candidacy. Most of the regiment mages stuck around as well; Lief was a great storyteller and most of us were not old enough to remember the last Candidacy—I hadn’t even been born.
All of us listened in rapture as Lief recounted the final duel between Marius and his final opponent, Mara. The Restoration and Alchemy sessions had been brutal, but nothing could compare to the head mage’s recount of Combat. I am certain most of us forgot to breathe during his telling. How in the name of the gods had Mara survived?
Lief raised a brow as if hearing our unspoken question. “It took ten healers to save her life.”
For a moment there was quiet and then Ian finally spoke: “And yet we are all mad enough to attempt the same ourselves.” His raspy joke was met with more silence.
Several of the Restoration mages’ faces were as white as a sheet; my nails were bitten to the quick. True, nothing Lief was saying was new. We had all heard similar stories during our youth, but hearing it now when our turn was less than a year away? It was an entirely different experience.
“A mage died in the last Candidacy.” Ruth addressed Combat’s head mage. “Didn’t he?”
Lief prodded the fire with a stick. “The boy was seventeen, young for his faction and too young to be participating in the first place. One of those highborn mages that joined the academy at the tender age of twelve.” His face filled with contempt. “The rules dictate very clearly that a mage must cease casting the moment his opponent surrenders. The boy never surrendered; he was overconfident and a fool. It was during the melee, he never should have made the mistake in the first place.”
“I must be mad to think I have a chance at winning,” I muttered to Ray and Ian as we started our evening drills. They chuckled.
The three of us took turns casting great bolts of lightning into the sky. We were a day’s ride from the keep so there was no need for conservative casting. Not with so many nearby patrols.
“That might be true.” Lief stopped observing to interrupt. “But what you mustn’t forget, Ryiah, is how little of us there are to begin with. Only five Combat mages ascend each year, and by the time a man reaches his late fifties he has no magic left.” He paused. “The youngest mage would be seventeen at the time of their ascension if they started at twelve. That leaves a little over forty years and five of us each year… Two hundred, but that number is infinitely smaller when you consider potential. Any mage past thirty is not going to consider entry—his stamina will have already begun to decline.”