“I don’t think that’s such a—”
I bent my knees and lunged forward with a strike. The young prince just managed to parry my attack and jumped back. I advanced, swinging my sword with a ferocity that made a few observers gasp. They quit their own matches and formed a circle around ours.
My muscles hummed with satisfaction. Action at last.
With every turn and duck, the prince became more unhinged, desperate to save face.
I swung high. He dodged then aimed for my knees. A rookie move. I stepped around him, and his wooden blade missed me by inches. A simple elbow strike to the back of his head had him falling forward onto his stomach.
“Sloppy,” I said, the tip of my sword now at the middle of his back. “Focus on your defense. You can’t attack if you’re dead.”
A few of the girls dropped their shields and clapped enthusiastically, while the boys begrudgingly joined in.
As I stepped forward, legs throbbing, and helped the boy up, my feeling of victory faded quickly. This was not the way to make myself feel better about my Kiss failing. Not in winning against a thirteen-year-old boy. Even though I was only four years older than him, with all my experience in battle, it felt more like fifty. Thirteen was young, but he could be younger still. Our numbers were dwindling against the might of the Forces, and soon we’d have to bring Royals younger than thirteen into battle and on patrol. At fourteen, I saw a troll’s head lopped off its body. I had nightmares for weeks.
But the fact that these boys were going to see battle sooner rather than later would not change, regardless of whether I was using them to vent my own frustrations. They needed to be taught, and I certainly didn’t mind being the one to do it.
I turned to the audience of trainees. Swinging the wooden sword onto my shoulder, I called out, “Who’s next?”
They avoided eye contact, none of them eager to be knocked to the ground.
I pointed my sword at a tan-skinned prince with bronze hair. “How about you?” He seemed old enough.
“M-me?” The boy glanced around then looked back, face reddening. “I’m only an eighth-blood, princess. I just started training a week ago.”
My stomach twisted almost as tightly as when I’d seen Kellian’s sleeping face. Besides bringing in younger Royals, we were also recruiting Royals who barely qualified. Princes and princesses who were even less than a quarter of a Royal bloodline. An eighth-blood. Those with less Royal blood had less magic—simple as that. So what good were they? Mere fodder for the Wicked Queen’s creatures?
I could see a griffin’s talons cutting into their small bodies, and a chimera’s iron jaws ripping into their flesh and crunching the bone. It made me want to dig a hole in this perfect green grass and vomit.
“Princess Ivy! Milady!”
I dropped my sword, recognizing my page’s voice.
Bromley was a skinny fourteen-year-old boy with cropped honey-colored hair. I knew his face better than I knew my own. So when he pushed through the crowd of boys, I could read the anger in his narrowed brown eyes and clenched jaw.
As he came to a stop before me, breathing hard, he glared at the training sword in my hand.
“You’re not in bed.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Astute observation, Brom.”
Like all pure-blood Royals, I’d been assigned an attendant at an early age. Bromley had been given to me when I was eight and he was only five. I’d never really wanted a servant, but I’d wanted a friend.
The edge of Brom’s mouth twitched. “Master Gelloren has called for you.”
The anxiety I’d just worked so hard to chase away came rushing back. Of course Master Gelloren had already heard about Kellian’s fall by the new curse. Of course he’d already heard about my failed Kiss. And of course he’d already want to see me. Because when it rains, the fields flood.
What would Gelloren say? What would he do?
I shoved the sword flat against the chest of its owner, and the recruits parted as I made my way through the small crowd. I could no longer deny the pain in my legs, anyway. Probably wouldn’t have lasted a minute in another fight.
Bromley hurried to catch up. “What happened?”
I focused my gaze on the jerr trees ahead as we walked. The lines of red leaves began to blur, and I swallowed. “Kellian, he…didn’t quite make it. Comatose. Some new curse.”
“I…I’m sorry, milady.” He paused, the distant clattering of wooden swords and wind whistling through leaves filling the silence. “Who administered the revival Kiss? Maybe you could go and—”
His words hit me like a strike to the gut, and I nearly fell.
“Princess!” Brom caught me, but he wasn’t as strong as Ulfia or Roland, so we both stumbled a little, stopping underneath the pleasant shade of the jerr trees.
Brom didn’t know it was my revival Kiss that hadn’t worked, but I couldn’t explain what had happened without lashing out. The wound was still too fresh. “I’m fine. Did Master Gelloren tell you what he wants?”
Brom shook his head. “He didn’t. But maybe it can wait. You need to be resting. Ulfia told me—”
“The only thing I need right now is to get back out there. I’m going on the next patrol, Bromley, with whatever prince they’ll give me.” I straightened and started forward.
He tried to catch my arm. “But—”
I wrenched away, kicking up blades of grass as I picked up my pace. “I’ll use a half prince. A quarter prince. I don’t care! I’ll Kiss whoever can get me back out there. They need me, Brom.”
The Legion did need me—all of Myria did—especially if the young prince I’d just fought and the eighth-blood prince were any indication of how desperate we were. Regardless of whether or not my Kiss had worked against this new super-curse, it was still stronger than any Royal’s here. I wouldn’t let another prince—young, weak, or otherwise—lose his life when I could be there to stop it. I’d protect them when I couldn’t with Kellian.
The wind picked up and tore a few leaves off the jerr trees. They swirled past me as I headed toward the castle, calling me back to their peaceful shade—the only form of shadows and darkness that was good in this world.
Chapter
Three
The Awful Truth
The living and study quarters for the three Master Mages were located in the northeast tower of the castle. Brom left me at its entrance. If Master Gelloren had summoned me, it was a matter he wanted to discuss privately.
I paused in front of his door, taking only a moment to enjoy the sun coming through the stained glass of the western-facing window.
Months ago I would’ve taken pleasure in visiting Master Gelloren’s office. We’d play Basilisk and Mongoose and he’d lead me to believe I’d won, then he’d take all my cards during the last hand. And if we didn’t play cards, we’d spend hours poring over maps and talking strategies about patrols and legion troops. He’d always been so warm to me, but lately our conversations had become short and weary. No cards. Not even a cup of shassa root tea.
He certainly wasn’t to blame. It was just this never-ending war. More and more troops lost. More and more times Gelloren left in the middle of the night to quell blazes in town with his elemental water magic. More and more Council meetings with the other Master Mages on what to do next.
No wonder he didn’t have time for tea or a simple game of cards. Especially with princesses who kept losing partners.
When I knocked, Master Gelloren’s deep voice called, “Come in, Ivy.”
I pushed open the heavy wooden door and let it close behind me.