Blayne, for his part, was furious. He didn’t confess what had happened though. When the healer Darren summoned found the older boy, Blayne claimed he had tripped and fallen. Alone. But Darren could see it in the way his brother stalked around court.
For a while, Darren was able to convince himself what he had done was right.
But the next day, Blayne challenged their father in the midst of an important feast. The older boy’s anger sprung out like a whip, and he lashed out. He lashed out, ignoring the rules, and never looked back.
Darren found Blayne later. The boy had to be rushed to the infirmary. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t bruised. Bleeding, bones jutting out of his broken skin, Blayne couldn’t even open his eyes.
It took his brother over two weeks to recover. It took another week before he could show himself in court. That’s how long the bruises and cuts took to disappear.
Darren hated himself. That roiling darkness that had made his brother challenge the king, it was his fault.
Not for the first time, the boy had failed to protect his brother. But this time, he swore it would be the last.
7
He had waited for this day for years, and it was finally here.
It had actually come two days before, everyone else had already departed for the Academy, but obligation kept Darren in court longer than the rest. A round of promotions had gone out among the army and king’s personal regiment, and as a part of the Crown, Darren had to be present for both ceremonies.
Sir Audric was now Commander of the Crown’s Army. Darren couldn’t have been more pleased. If he had to trust someone with his brother’s life, now that Darren was to be a mage instead, there was no one he trusted more than his former knight master.
Blayne wasn’t pleased to be left behind. Darren could read the unspoken wrath in his brother’s frosty gaze. But the crown prince had long since stopped voicing his complaints aloud. Coming of age, Blayne had as many responsibilities as Lucius’s himself. Darren had no doubt his older brother would be too busy to notice his absence much.
In five years, how much would his brother change?
The only other thing Darren would miss was Wolf. Heath had promised to look after the mutt in Darren’s stead, but it wasn’t the same. That dog knew his darkest secrets and fears that the prince never spoke aloud. And in some ways, Wolf was a part of himself, a part that would go missing for five long years.
Now, Darren was on the way to the Academy, and nothing and no one would keep him from an apprenticeship at the year’s end. He was sixteen years of age and the best of the training mages in court. Even Marius had taken to calling Darren his protégé.
And everyone knew, if the Black Mage thought Darren was the best, then he was. It wasn’t arrogance. The boy had suffered more than his share to outshine the rest. If the other students were smart, they would pick another faction.
Because Combat was his, and anyone who thought it was theirs… well, he wasn’t too concerned about that.
Darren and his escort, eight intimidating knights in heavy chainmail and helmets of steel, cut across the central fields of Jerar in no time at all. The King’s Road was almost barren—most of the men and women were out harvesting the last of the late summer crops—and they reached the narrow plains and climbing hills within four days’ time. The final leg of their journey was three days through the forest.
Their party was on the last day before they would reach the seaside town of Sjeka, the location of the Academy itself, when they came across a pair of straggling lowborns on foot.
Darren took in their apparent dress—little more than dirt-stained rags and hand-me-down boots—and scowled. The girl was openly staring at him and made no attempt to look away.
Who did she think she was?
The girl had been staring so hard that the horses almost trampled her in the middle of the road, but at the last second, a boy pulled her back.
Why did lowborns even bother with the Academy? The boy would never understand. They had to know its reputation.
Every highborn in court—with years of study and the best mage tutors their family’s coin could buy—was attending. One lowborn might secure an apprenticeship every five years.
If the girl had any brains, and he suspected she didn’t from her slack-jawed expression, she would turn around and apply at the Cavalry.
Jerar needed soldiers. He doubted she would ever make it as a mage.
It had to be the worst kind of luck that the person who came seconds away from knocking him to the floor was the same lowborn from before.
Darren had been patiently listening to the orientation given by Master Barclae, the head mage of the Academy, when someone collided with his back. The force was enough to jostle him forward so that he tripped on his cloak and nearly ridiculed himself in front of the man he most wanted to impress. Only a swift recovery kept him from face-planting on the floor.
The bumbling oaf was mumbling an apology as Darren turned, condescension written plainly across his face.
And he found himself face to face with that girl from before.
“Sorry.” Her cheeks were flushed, and they darkened when she realized who he was.
Only a fool wouldn’t. The prince was wearing the black hematite stone of his family around his neck, and it was plainly visible over his black cloak and equally intimidating boots.
He had made a point of wearing all black. It was the best way to tell the others exactly which faction he intended to select.
Not only was the lowborn late to their introduction to the Academy—by hours—but she also smelled something foul. Sweat and dirt streaked her face and her scarlet hair looked like a rat had made a nest and decided it wasn’t fit for habitation. Horsehair covered her rags. Did the girl know anything about first impressions? Just because she was lowborn didn’t mean she had to dress like a creature from the swamps.