And, at least at first, it seems to be. Classes aren’t too bad. Noggle, our instructor, is a kind but odd old Fir Darrig from up north, with huge eyebrows, a long beard into which he occasionally shoves pens or scraps of paper, and a tendency to maunder on about meteor storms and their meanings. As afternoon turns to evening, he has us counting falling stars, which is a dull but relaxing task. I lie back on my blanket and stare up at the night sky.
The only downside is that it is hard for me to note down numbers in the dark. Usually, glowing orbs hang from the trees or large concentrations of fireflies light our lessons. I carry extra stubs of candles for when even that is too dim, since human eyesight isn’t nearly as keen as theirs, but I’m not allowed to light them when we study the stars. I try to write legibly and not get ink all over my fingers.
“Remember,” Noggle says, “unusual celestial events often presage important political changes, so with a new king on the horizon, it’s important for us to observe the signs carefully.”
Some giggling rises out of the darkness.
“Nicasia,” our instructor says. “Is there some difficulty?”
Her haughty voice is unrepentant. “None at all.”
“Now, what can you tell me about falling stars? What would be the meaning of a shower of them in the last hour of a night?”
“A dozen births,” Nicasia says, which is wrong enough to make me wince.
“Deaths,” I say under my breath.
Noggle hears me, unfortunately. “Very good, Jude. I am glad someone has been paying attention. Now, who would like to tell me when those deaths are most likely to occur?”
There is no point in my holding back, not when I made a declaration that I was going to shame Cardan with my greatness. I better start being great. “It depends on which of the constellations they passed through and in which direction the stars fell,” I say. Halfway through answering, I feel like my throat is going to close up. I am suddenly glad of the dark, so I don’t have to see Cardan’s expression. Or Nicasia’s.
“Excellent,” Noggle says. “Which is why our notes must be thorough. Continue!”
“This is dull,” I hear Valerian drawl. “Prophecy is for hags and small folk. We should be learning things of a more noble mien. If I am going to pass a night on my back, then I’d wish to be lessoned in love.”
Some of the others laugh.
“Very well,” said Noggle. “Tell me what event might portend success in love?”
“A girl taking off her dress,” he says to more laughter.
“Elga?” Noggle calls on a girl with silver hair and a laugh like shattering glass. “Can you answer for him? Perhaps he’s had such little success in love that he truly doesn’t know.”
She begins to stammer. I suspect she knows the answer but doesn’t want to court Valerian’s ire.
“Shall I ask Jude again?” Noggle asks tartly. “Or perhaps Cardan. Why don’t you tell us?”
“No,” he says.
“What was that?” Noggle asks.
When Cardan speaks, his voice rings with sinister authority. “It is as Valerian says. This lesson is boring. You will light the lamps and begin another, more worthy one.”
Noggle pauses for a long moment. “Yes, my prince,” he says finally, and all the globes around us flare to life. I blink several times as my eyes try to adjust. I wonder if Cardan has ever had to do anything he didn’t want to. I guess it is no surprise that he drowses during lectures. No surprise that he once, drunk as anything, rode a horse across the grass while we were having classes, trampling blankets and books and sending everyone scrambling to get out of his way. He can change our curriculum on a whim. How can anything matter to someone like that?
“Her eyesight is so poor,” Nicasia says, and I realize she’s standing over me. She has my notebook and waves it around so everyone can see my scrawls. “Poor, poor, Jude. It’s so hard to overcome so many disadvantages.”
There’s ink all over my fingers and on the golden cuffs of my dress.
Across the grove, Cardan is talking with Valerian. Only Locke is watching us, his expression troubled. Noggle is flipping through a stack of thick, dusty books, probably trying to come up with a lesson that Cardan will like.
“Sorry if you can’t read my handwriting,” I say, grabbing the notebook. The page tears, leaving most of my night’s work shredded. “But that’s not exactly my disadvantage.”
Nicasia slaps me in the face. I stumble, shocked, suddenly down on one knee, barely catching myself before I go sprawling. My cheek is hot, stinging. My head rings.
“You can’t do that,” I say to her nonsensically.
I thought I understood how this game worked. I thought wrong.
“I may do whatever I wish,” she informs me, still haughty.
Our classmates stare. Elga has one delicate hand over her mouth. Cardan looks over, and I can tell from his expression that she has failed to please him. Embarrassment starts to creep over Nicasia’s face.
For as long as I have been among them, there were lines they didn’t cross. When they shoved us into the river, no one witnessed it. For better or worse, I am part of the general’s household and under Madoc’s protection. Cardan might dare to cross him, but I thought the others would at least strike in secret.
I seem to have angered Nicasia past caring about any of that.
I brush myself off. “Are you calling me out? Because then it’s my right to choose the time and the weapon.” How I would love to knock her down.
She realizes that my question actually demands a response. I might be lower than the ground, but that doesn’t absolve her from obligations to her own honor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cardan coming toward us. Jittery anticipation commingles with dread. On my other side, Valerian bumps my shoulder. I take a step away from him, but not fast enough to avoid being assailed with the smell of overripe fruit.
Above us, in the black dome of night, seven stars fall, streaking gloriously across the sky before guttering out. I look up automatically, too late to have seen their precise path.
“Did anyone note that down?” Noggle begins shouting, fumbling in his beard for a pen. “This is the celestial event we’ve been waiting for! Someone must have seen the exact origin point. Quickly! Set down everything you can remember.”
Just then, as I am looking at the stars, Valerian shoves something soft against my mouth. An apple, sweet and rotten at the same time, honeyed juice running over my tongue, tasting of sunlight and pure heady, stupid joy. Faerie fruit, which muddles the mind, which makes humans crave it enough to starve themselves for another taste, which makes us pliant and suggestible and ridiculous.
Dain’s geas protected me from enchantment, from anyone’s control, but faerie fruit puts you out of even your own control.
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
I spit it out. The apple rolls in the dirt, but I can already feel it working on me.
Salt, I think, fumbling for my basket. Salt is what I need. Salt is the antidote. It will clear the fog in my head.
Nicasia sees what I am going for and snatches up my basket, dancing out of the way, while Valerian pushes me to the ground. I try to crawl away from him, but he pins me, shoving the filthy apple back into my face.
“Let me sweeten that sour tongue of yours,” he says, pressing it down. Pulp is in my mouth and up my nose.