The prince gazed across the water at a narrow strip of an island. His profile was familiar—it graced every coin of the realm—yet she couldn’t look away. Handsome boys she’d met before. He was more than handsome; he was striking. And there was a nobility to his bearing that had little to do with his bloodline and everything to do with the sense of purpose he radiated.
“I am going to bring down the Bane.”
His quiet words brushed over her and departed on a cold gust. She shivered and waited for him to tell her that it was a joke—since he did have a sense of humor.
He met her eyes squarely, his gaze unwavering.
This was mad. He might as well bring down the Labyrinthine Mountains—it would be easier. The Bane was invincible. Untouchable.
“Why?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Because that is what I am meant to do.”
Despite her incredulity—or perhaps because of it—she found his conviction awe-inspiring.
“How—how do you know that is what you are meant to do?”
“My mother told me so.”
When people talked about Princess Ariadne, it was usually to speculate on the mysterious liaison that had produced the prince. No one could recall another instance in the whole history of the House of Elberon when a ruling prince’s paternity remained unknown.12
“Was your mother a seer?”
“She was.” What was the emotion underlying his reply? Anger, resignation, sadness—or a mix of all three? “At her wish, it was never revealed to the public.”
True seers were few and far between. “What did she prophesy that has come true?”
Without bending down he had a pebble in hand. He weighed it. “Twenty-five years ago, she and my grandfather received a delegation of Atlantean youth. There was a girl of seventeen who was not a delegate, but a mere assistant. My mother pointed out the girl to my grandfather and said that one day the girl would be the most powerful person in the Domain.”
“The Inquisitor?”
He tossed the pebble. It skipped far. “The Inquisitor.”
That was scarily impressive. “What else?”
“She knew the exact date of Baroness Sorren’s funeral, years before the baroness even took up the charge against Atlantis.”
This unnerved Iolanthe. No wonder Princess Ariadne hadn’t wanted it known that she was a seer, if funeral dates were the sort of things she foresaw.
The prince skipped another pebble. “She also said that it was on my balcony that I would first learn of your existence. And so it was.”
A flicker of hope ignited in Iolanthe’s heart. “And she said that you would bring down the Bane?”
He did not answer immediately.
“Did she or did she not?”
“She said that I must be the one to try, to set things into motion.”
“That’s not a guarantee of success, is it?”
“No. But we will never accomplish anything worthwhile in life if we require the guarantee of success at the onset.”
His audacity took her breath away. Compared to him, she had lived on the smallest scale, concerned only with the well-being of herself and Master Haywood. While he, who could have led a life of unimaginable luxury and privilege, was willing to give it all up for the sake of the greater good.
“What is my part in your plan?”
“I need you,” he said simply. “Only with a great elemental mage by my side will I have a prayer of a chance.”
When she’d been a child, enthralled by her reading of The Lives and Deeds of Great Elemental Mages, she’d wondered what it would be like for her own powers to grow to such fearsome immensity, to hold the fate of entire realms in the palm of her hand. Listening to him, she felt a stirring of that old excitement, that electric charge of limitless possibilities.
“Are you really sure I am that great elemental mage?”
The certainty in his eyes was absolute. “Yes.”
If he was convinced, and Atlantis too, and Master Haywood so much so as to give up his memories—she supposed they could not all be wrong. “So . . . how will we bring down the Bane?”
“We will have to pit ourselves against him someday.”
She felt dizzy. Surely they could find some clever way of defeating the Bane from a distance.
“Face-to-face?” Her voice quavered.
“Yes.”
The froth of imagined valor in her heart dissipated, leaving behind only dregs of stark fear.
But the prince thought so highly of her. And risked so much. She’d hate for him be disappointed in her. She’d hate for her to be disappointed in her. In the four Great Adventures and all seven Grand Epics, books she’d cherished as a child, this was the moment the protagonist rose to the occasion and embarked on the legendary journey. No one in the stories ever said, Thank you, but no thank you, this really isn’t for me.
Yet this really wasn’t for her. Thoughts of heroics might stir her soul for a minute, but no more than that. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the Bane, let alone take part in some sort of match to the death.
If she were dead, she’d never become a professor at the Conservatory and live on that beautiful campus again.