“If you were the best,” the king surmised, “the Black Mage would be a better role than Commander Knight.”
It would. They both knew it. A mage of Combat was a knight with magic, the best of both. It was the reason the king sponsored the trial and apprenticeship years in the Academy. Lucius funded all of the war schools, recruiting the best of the best for his armies, but mages received better compensation. Darren didn’t care about the coin, but the chance to study with Eve, and carrying the most prodigious title of all was too tempting to turn away.
“But, Father,” Blayne interrupted, “the Council of Magic forbids the Crown to interfere with matters of magic. No one of royal blood can become a mage—”
“No heir, but they can be of royal blood.”
“But the Colored Robes signed a treaty—”
“I’ll talk them around. The wording is very precise. Darren isn’t my heir. And if I throw more coin toward their Academy, I am certain they will support his study.”
The boy could hardly believe it. His father had agreed. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest.
Darren turned to leave.
“Son.” King Lucius’s voice stopped Darren midstride. “I will get you training with the mage tutors in the palace. Should you prove that your magic is as… capable… as we hope, you will enter the Academy.”
Darren didn’t dare speak.
“If you are not selected as a Combat apprentice, you will take up the rest of your studies at the School of Knighthood the following year, and you will leave this mage business behind.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And Darren, you had better be the best.”
It was a hard thing to forget.
5
The two brutes introduced themselves as brothers.
“Jake,” grunted the first.
“William.”
Darren cocked a brow. He needed no introduction. The prince had seen both of them in the training courts. They were part of the mage lot he and Eve had mocked years before. They were more dedicated than some; he’d seen them training to fight, not just memorizing magic techniques in the library, but they were still clumsy. And they relied on their strength more than brains. That would only get them so far.
Still, their flattery was present, but they were better than most. Darren could only tolerate so much. And the boys had a competitive streak he admired. They were fine sparring partners; their bulk gave the boy a different sort of challenge than Eve. One he was determined to win.
Their group was small. It consisted of the two brothers, Eve, and another three whose magic had yet to arrive. Darren couldn’t comprehend the idiocy of taking up this training without it. But they were all highborn children of privilege, and the ones in his group were the wealthiest in the land.
They had the best tutors gold could buy.
They also had the most riding on their shoulders if they failed.
Magic wasn’t so difficult for him to command.
It was for most. Darren saw the way the rest of his comrades struggled just to bring about a flicker of light, but Darren and Eve had years of discipline, and Sir Audric had always led them through a meditative exercise at the end of their drills.
Projecting all of his senses to cast a flame was child’s play, as simple as flint and steel. Darren’s will struck out at the details built up in his mind, and he had a fire in his hand.
The challenge was building up the harder projections in his head. Combat magic called up weapons from thin air. Darren knew what those weapons were—he had memorized the feel of them in his fist for months on end, but he didn’t always understand the way the casting created a sword.
Their tutor spent a great deal of time directing them to the armory, or visiting with the blacksmith, watching the way metal melded with flame. Training expanded beyond casting itself, and Darren soon realized why the other children had spent so much of their time pouring over scrolls.
There was so much more to casting than will.
Soon Darren was up late every night, studying those same books. He forgot what it meant to sleep. The second his head hit the bed, he was rising with the sun.
There were two other branches of study: Restoration and Alchemy. But they weren’t a part of the prince’s education. The cluster of students Darren was a part of believed in Combat and nothing else. The other two factions were prodigious in their own right, but the highest honor was Combat. They lived in a country infamous for the largest army in the realm. It made sense that the best of the best would go after the calling with the highest prize.
There was no alternative.
A year came and went, and in no time at all, Darren had reached his thirteenth year.
It was only fitting, he supposed, that the day began with a freestanding duel.
Mage Marius had arrived back from the south. Since the man wasn’t currently involved in the rebel investigation, Lucius had wasted no time securing the man’s expertise for the next month’s set of lessons until he went back out to check on another disturbance near the bordering villages up north. The Black Mage didn’t have time to waste on highborns preparing for the Academy… unless the order came from the king.
It was the first chance Darren would have to train with the realm’s most notorious mage. It was a first for all of them.
The students were gathered in the training arena usually reserved for the king’s personal regiment. Everyone was tense. Failing in front of a man with his stature was… not something that would easily be recovered from. The man had been the champion of Combat during Jerar’s last tourney for mages. It was the reason he bore the title and served as one of the three Colored Robes on the Council of Magic.
Marius was also a judge for the Academy’s trials. If they impressed him now, their shot at an apprenticeship was increased tenfold. More than ever, it was important to stand out.
Darren and Eve didn’t waste time going first.
The tutor mage and Marius observed as the boy and girl took their place across from one another in the arena’s center.
The boy shot his friend a cocky grin. Her response was a roll of her eyes.