Ozorne mentioned his younger sisters so rarely that Arram often forgot that he had any. It was his mother he talked about, when her letters arrived, and his father.
“He is a very good friend to us, Your Highness,” Varice replied. “We’re fortunate to have one another.”
There was a flinty glint in the woman’s gaze as she looked at Varice. “Are you still a kitchen witch, girl?”
Remembering that he and Varice were supposed to like one another, Arram stepped close to her and clumsily took her hand, trying to make it seem as if he did not want the princess to see him do it. Varice looked up at him and smiled, squeezed his hand, and let go.
“She is far more than that, Mother, as I have explained,” Ozorne was saying. His voice was tight with irritation, and there was flint in his own eyes as he told his mother, “She is excellent with medicines, herbal magic, and purification magic, as well as hospitality magic.”
Varice laughed, though Arram noticed her cheeks were flushed with anger, or was it hurt? Her lips trembled slightly as she replied, “No, Ozorne, it’s fine. I am a kitchen witch, if you think about it. My own father believes so!” She smiled at the princess. “It is true, Your Highness. But as I have told my honored father, consider how much a well-placed, talented person might do with the meals for warring clans who join to cement a marriage. Or what if a kitchen witch purchases the cooking supplies for a ship or a merchant caravan? Even a middling kitchen witch could turn such things for good or ill, and I am not a middling kitchen witch.”
The princess regarded Varice for a long moment. Neither Ozorne nor Arram dared to move. Arram wondered if the princess understood that when Varice spoke in that pleasant, perky tone, she was actually angry. He wasn’t even certain that Ozorne had figured that out about their friend, even though he’d known Varice longer than Arram had.
At last Princess Mahira gave Varice the thinnest of smiles. “You know your worth, it seems,” she murmured.
Varice bobbed a slight curtsy. “Your Highness, like your son I have entered the Upper Academy at the age of fifteen,” she said. “The university has already informed me of my worth.”
Mahira nodded and turned her regard to Arram. A small frown creased her forehead. “How old are you, boy?”
“Thirteen, Your Highness,” he replied. Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
Mahira sat back in her chair. “Thirteen? You are but a child!” She looked at Ozorne. “You said he is equal to the two of you, starting advanced training as you will this term!”
Ozorne grinned at his mother. “All three of us are advanced students,” he told her. “Arram has five masters teaching him privately—we each have four. Only a quarter of the third-and fourth-year students can boast even one master as an instructor. Most here study in classes until they graduate only with the certificate that places them just above hedgewitches and goodywives.”
Again the lady frowned the careful frown of a woman who did not want to incur too many wrinkles. “But not you, my son. Surely you will do better.”
“Your Highness, all mage students hope to do better,” Varice explained. “Success is very different. Ozorne has Master Chioké in battle magic. Master Chioké is very highly regarded.”
The princess looked past them, as if she saw things outside the private dining room. “My lord husband also told me success is different than what one hopes, not long before he was so foully slain,” she murmured. She looked at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. Silence stretched among them. It had begun to grow uncomfortable when Ozorne rested a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
“Did I tell you what Arram here did right before we met him, Mother?” he asked. “It was the talk of the whole school. He was supposed to raise a little bit of water from a bowl—”
“Ozorne, please, no!” Arram cried. When the princess turned her regard on him, Arram bowed, his hands over his face. “Your Highness, it’s a stupid story.”
“Not to hear our masters tell it,” Varice teased.
“And what happened to interest the masters?” Mahira inquired.
Politely, because good manners were thoroughly taught in the Lower Academy, Arram told the princess what had taken place that day, in Girisunika’s classroom. Ozorne interrupted occasionally to say what he had heard about it in the general university, but Varice kept silent, the picture of a well-behaved maiden.
Mahira raised her eyebrows when Arram finished. “And you were rewarded for such misbehavior, Arram Draper?” she inquired softly. She let Ozorne urge her gently from her chair and lead her to her place at the table. This was a dining room furnished in the Carthaki style, with very low cushioned couches and low tables. Once the princess was seated with Ozorne at her right hand, Arram and Varice were placed on her left.
“Your Highness,” Arram said, “if extra classes and more lessons were a reward, then I was very well blessed.”
The princess smiled and nodded. Apparently the nod was a signal. The slaves began to serve beef cooked with mint, cold chicken with pomegranate juice, and side dishes of salads and vegetables, each with its own unique blend of herbs and spiced vinegars. Arram hid a smile. He could see that as Varice did her best to keep up with the talk, she also tried to work out how each dish was made. Normally the university kitchens were more than able to cater to any guest, but Ozorne had once mentioned that the princess had her own cooks, since her health could be fragile. These dishes were very different from the school’s familiar ones. Arram ate heartily. Any weight he ever put on only went straight up to add to his height.
The lady’s requirements for conversation rested largely on Arram’s studies. He tried to explain that he often made mistakes and he wasn’t even sure that he belonged in the Upper Academy. She chided him for that.
“Your masters know far better than you, young man,” she said gravely. “They are great in learning and magecraft, respected throughout the Southern and Eastern Lands for their wisdom. You must accept their judgment. Work hard to prove worthy of it.” She had that distant look in her eyes again. “My son, you choose your friends well. I approve. Strong mages will be a great asset when you avenge your father’s murder by the Sirajit dogs.”
That struck Arram like a bucket of cold water. “Your Highness, surely…the Sirajit rebels who fought His Late Highness were defeated. We’ve been taught that there is no armed rebellion left.”
“Mother, we talked about this,” Ozorne said. “I am going to be a master mage, remember? I’m not the imperial sort.”