The girl looked away, cheeks red.
“It’s perfectly all right if you don’t. Many in the villages do not.” I guided Gertrude to the front of the class and sat her on the front desk, and then I turned to the rest of the class. “The first thing you must understand about Kissing is that it works only between two Royals. Royal Magic exists in every Royal, but it lies dormant. A Kiss is what unlocks the magic in the Royal and allows one or the other to use that power.”
Every girl in the room stared at me with rapt attention. I remembered my own eagerness when I was their age. My desperation to prove myself…to one person in particular.
“It acts as a catalyst that unleashes the magic,” I continued, “but a kiss alone does not make it a Royal Kiss. You must learn the spells to make them either battle Kisses, healing Kisses, counter-curse Kisses, and so on. Does that make sense?”
They all nodded.
“Now, remember, only princesses can actually cast the spells, so we get the delightful task of memorizing them all while the boys get to play with wooden sticks.” I flitted my hand toward the window, where the training grounds expanded below. “While it’s true that we may not have to learn swordsmanship, we must help our princes as best we can—which is why I urge all of you to learn more than how to shoot an arrow. You never know when your life, or the life of your partner, will depend on close-range combat.
“But putting that aside”—I turned back to Gertrude—“let’s see a demonstration. One of the basic Kisses a princess first learns is how to heal her prince. The words are Illye Menda.” I brushed back Gertrude’s hair and Kissed her cheek, my lips brushing the tender spot of her bruise, while my mind spoke the spell words.
I felt Gertrude’s magic, soft and fluttering like a baby bird, rise up to meet mine, fierce and powerful like a dragon. Using just a tiny sliver of my magic, I healed the bruise. Eyes wide, Gertrude pressed her fingertips below her eye where the bruise had been.
The other girls all oohed as Gertrude hurried back to her chair.
“All right, moving on. Let’s try—”
My words were cut off by the sound of the door opening at the back of the classroom. It was Tulia, her dress wrinkled and her short brown hair disheveled, with Bromley at her heels. She walked briskly down the classroom aisle to meet me, her cloak flying behind her.
Yawning, she said, “I have to teach after all. Your page was sent to wake me up and take you to meet Master Gelloren.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is it that urgent?”
“Apparently so. Get going, then.”
Grabbing my cloak, I waved to the girls and followed Bromley out. Just as the door was closing I heard Tulia say, “Get out your books,” and the girls responded with moans.
“Sorry, Tulia,” I murmured with a small smile.
When I turned toward the Tower of Mages, Bromley grabbed my elbow. “Master Gelloren is with the Council.”
My heart skipped. Surely it had to be about Zach. But why would they need me? Thanks to my pure ancestry, I had little choice in partners. Not like half princesses, or even Minnow and Tulia, who got much more of a say in choosing their princes than I ever had. The Council had never hesitated to assign me a partner without my opinion before.
Then again, we’d never had a Royal quite like this legendary swordsman in Myria before, either.
Chapter
Six
The Council’s Debate
The Council met in a large circular room located almost directly behind the Hall of Ancestors. Tapestries of past Royals decorated the walls, and above a round table with cushioned mahogany chairs was a large stained-glass window that filtered red, gold, green, and blue sunlight.
Out of the three Master Mages who resided in Myria’s castle, Gelloren was the oldest and wisest, and therefore had high standing with the Council. He had taught almost all the current Council members, so there was no one they trusted more.
I entered through the large brucel doors, the wood carved into images of faceless Royals and fierce dragons. Conversation halted at my entrance, and all gazes turned to me.
“Princess Ivy, come in,” Master Gelloren said.
The table was not full. At least four members were missing. The Royal Council was made of princes and princesses who had been appointed by the Master Mages to a seat in their kingdom’s Council. Once a member of the Council, their titles changed to king or queen. While each kingdom had its own Council, it was always a symbol of great prestige to be a part of the Myrian Council, since it was the founder of the Legion.
“Princess,” said King Randalph as he stood, his wooden chair squeaking on the marble floor, “our condolences on losing Prince Kellian.”
Instinctively, I clasped my right hand, the hand that still bore Kellian’s fading mark. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Your severing ritual is scheduled this afternoon, is it not?” Queen Jocelyn asked.
I ignored the sharp stab of pain. So soon. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“So you will be prepared to accept the mark of another in a few days’ time?”
My pulse quickened. “Of course, my Queen.”
“Then what are your thoughts on Prince Zachariah?” King Randalph asked.
I licked my lips. “It’s hard for me to say, Your Majesty. I have yet to see what he can do with my own eyes.”
The Council members exchanged looks, and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Such gravity could not just be because they’d heard my potential partner was a little uncouth.
Queen Jocelyn leaned forward. “We must be wary of prejudice, Randalph. We must think of what is best for the Legion…the whole Kingdom.”
“I am well aware, Jocelyn. But his bloodline…”
I approached the table, gripping the back of an empty chair. “If I may ask, Council, what about his bloodline? I was told by Prince Weldan that he’s half. He may not be a pure Royal, but if his skills are as good as they say, then it shouldn’t matter.”
King Randalph waved away my words. “And what of the other half of his bloodline?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“His father was Prince Abram from the House of Jindor, and his mother, well, we’re not quite sure of her name.”
“How could you not know her name?”
King Randalph lowered into his chair and folded his arms. “She was not recognized by the Royal Council of Saevall, and they forbade Prince Abram from ever seeing her again.”
“But…why?”
“She was a Romantica.”
My hands slipped off the chair I had been leaning on, and I almost fell forward. Embarrassed, I caught myself and eased into the chair in front of me. “A Romantica…” I spoke the word carefully. As if it was some sort of evil curse I shouldn’t utter.
In a way, it was like a curse. Romantica claimed that our ancestors Myriana, Saevalla, and Raed were nothing special, that they were not the first of a new superior race with the unique power to vanquish darkness. Instead, they believed their Kiss was born from True Love, a magic in itself—a preposterous idea. I certainly was not “in love” with anyone, and yet my Kisses were the most powerful in Myria.
Romantica also practiced primitive traditions like marriage and courting. They even claimed sex was more than just a release or a way to continue the bloodline. Instead, they claimed it was the ultimate act of Love, when in reality it was nothing more than the manifestation of Lust.
Lust was a powerful force that was necessary to continue Royal bloodlines, and something much easier to understand than the Romantica’s Love. Lust was a physical human reaction, a real, tangible thing that could not be denied. Romantica simply mistook Lust for Love.
The truth was this: Love was nothing more than an illusion.
Utter nonsense.
I twisted my hands in my lap. “Are you certain he’s truly…?”