I glared at her. She knew very well there was nothing going on between Darren and I. Maybe there had been at one point – but it was long gone. His betrothal to Priscilla of Langli, one of the wealthiest young women in the kingdom – and my personal nemesis, had made that perfectly evident.
Ian's eyes met mine. "That's right, Ry. You and Darren are actually friends." He pronounced the last word with mock distaste, grinning. "So how did you do it? What makes the cold-hearted princeling mortal like the rest of us?"
I fidgeted in my seat. The last thing I wanted was for the others to find out about last year's transgression. Especially Ian. I suspected my feelings for the curly-haired third-year weren't strictly platonic - and I didn't want him to think that I was, as Priscilla put it, "pining" for Darren. Because I wasn't.
Ella giggled. "Oh I don't think it's something you would want to attempt yourself, Ian."
"Why?" Ian raised a brow. "What did she do that I can't?" He turned to me and gave me his most disarming smile. "Ry, just tell me whatever you said to convince him to make him give up that ridiculous pretense."
"It's not an act." I kept my eyes averted as I said: "Darren just has a really hard time opening up to people he thinks are beneath him…"
Ian gave a fake gasp.
"…But I'm sure after a couple months he'll realize you are trying."
Ian stole a handful of grapes off my plate. "That, my dear, is the worst explanation I have ever heard." He added half-serious, "If I didn't know better I would say you were defending him."
"I'm not," I said quickly. Too quickly.
"Did something happen between the two of you?" Ian leaned across the table to look at me.
I flushed. "No."
Ella coughed loudly.
Ian withdrew, grinning. "So that Priscilla girl was right. You are a terrible liar, Ry."
I wished I were anywhere other than the commons. My humiliation could not get any worse.
"Don't worry," Ella added wickedly, "No one cares that you kissed the prince."
I was wrong.
CHAPTER TWO
The second half of my day didn't get much better.
I was on my way to the fourth floor to begin a lesson on desert castings when I ran into Darren.
"So I heard that you wanted me to carry you to the infirmary."
I gave the prince what I hoped was my most disdainful expression. "I don't know what you are talking about."
A corner of the non-heir's lips twitched, and I had the distinct impression he was on the brink of laughter. "Don't worry," Darren said, "I have a hard time imagining you'd let anyone help you."
I held my stance – praying that my friends were taking their time to catch up. "You know me well." Apparently, he hadn't made the connection to his mentor's earlier absence – but I wasn't about to tell him. Ian had joined me because he wanted to – not because I was some inept apprentice in need of rescuing.
"Even if you had asked, I wouldn't have carried you."
This was the person I had spent half a year 'pining' over? I must have been mad.
"I'm not saying it to be mean, Ryiah. You don't need to give me that look."
I continued to glare at him.
"Byron is good for you."
I put my hands on my hips. "I don't need another 'adversity builds character' speech, Darren. That man is a chauvinistic pig. Where's your adversity?"
Darren raised a brow. "I'm looking at it."
I gave an exasperated huff and went to go find a seat in the back of the room. I was so distracted I didn't notice when Ian slid into the bench next to me.
"Lover's quarrel?"
I glared at the third-year. Ella, Lynn, and Loren were chuckling. "I hate all of you," I told them.
None of my friends paid the threat any heed. Grumbling, I resigned myself to two hours with fools.
****
"You heard those Combat mages earlier. Distance is everything. You do not want to get close to the enemy – a mage's life is far too valuable to be wasted this early in battle! If the Crown wanted to send in someone expendable they would be using soldiers, not mages!"
Grimacing, I set to projecting my next attack. Thank the gods the local infantry isn't with us to hear him today.
Three hundred yards in front of me was a long wooden fence, six feet high and dotted with dangling wreaths. Normally the backside of the regiment's horse pasture, today the horses had been stabled – as per the last three weeks of practice. Now, the fence served as an imaginary enemy line – and the target? Sloppily woven wreaths that represented the weak spots in the opposing forces' defense: the armpit, the eyes, and the plate armor nearest the chest. The goal of the exercise was to hit a wreath with casted arrows – a type of long-range magic similar to the longbow exercises we had been drilling on every morning for weeks now.
If we hit a wreath but the arrow fell, or the arrow did not hit our target at all, then our casting was considered a failed attempt. Our projections needed to be just right to travel the great distance and embed themselves into a target's armor. It wasn't an easy feat.