Chapter Four
The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, 19th day of Feoh.
Dawn was breaking.
As Suleiman halted at the edge of the forest, he could see the first daylight rising on the distant horizon, the black of night turning to green, and grey, and brown as the yellow light spilled over it.
He smiled. He was in time. The same sun that rose before, far in the east, was also rising over his homeland of Arysia. So it had always done, so it always would do.
Suleiman went down on his right knee, his cloak spilling out around him. His open hands spread to face the rising sun, the tips of his fingers brushing the dew-laden grass. He raised his head, letting the light shine on his face, as he had done on so many mornings, from the day he could speak.
To you I give the morning, the light, and the sky.
To you I give the evening, the night, and the earth.
To you I give artifice, intellect, and feeling.
To you I give an open mind, an open heart, and hand
The prayer was simple, familiar. He had spoken it upon desert sands and windswept plains, upon earth frozen solid, and the hard wood of a ship's deck. It had accompanied him all the days of his life, and those of countless other lives, throughout his distant homeland.
He opened his eyes. The sun was still rising, and his heart rose with it.
From you the gift of wisdom, from you a sacred heritage
From you the light of reason, from you the heart that believes.
He remembered saying it for the first time, and his child's joy at being able to speak to the Prophet. He remembered the smiles of the grown-ups, and the pride in his father's eyes.
With the Moon you watch us, with the stars you guide us
You are the morning and the evening star
With the Sun you came, with the Sun you departed
You are the light of the dawn
A feeling of peace settled upon him as he stood up, and gazed over the newly-lit landscape.
"That was beautiful!"
The voice made him jump almost out of his boots. He spun round, embarrassed and afraid.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" It was Tiffania, her hand flying to her mouth as she flinched from him. "I…I didn't mean to startle you!"
"It's…it's all right." Suleiman was relieved, but he felt his cheeks redden. "It's not something that needs to be hidden. I just…" He massaged the back of his neck. "I just never did it before someone not of my homeland, that's all."
"The words were so beautiful," Tiffania said, smiling. "Is it your custom to recite poetry to the sun?"
"It wasn't a poem," Suleiman replied, a little more testily than was entirely fair. After all, she could not have known anything of his people's beliefs. "It was a prayer to the Prophet Cyras, one we recite in the morning as the sun rises."
"A prayer?" Tiffania looked awkward. "I know what that is, but I've never said anything like that before."
"Never?" Suleiman was taken aback. He had never met anyone who knew literally nothing of religion. Even the crew of the Drinker of the Wind had faith, crudely expressed though it was.
"Never. I was never taught about such things." She smiled, and the irritation he felt at her questioning evaporated like the dew from the grass around them. "You see, I lived in the forest for as long as I could remember. Until Saito and Miss Louise came from me, and Miss Siesta and Miss Agnes too, I knew nothing about the world. I only know a song of Brimir's Familiars, though I can't say where I heard it from."
"A song? You like to sing?"
"Oh yes!" Tiffania's blue eyes sparkled. "I can sing it for you, if you like." She looked away, blushing, and Suleiman saw that she was carrying a small harp. He felt his own cheeks reddening, as he realised how much he wanted to hear her song.
"Oh, but…" The sight of a tree stump spared him further embarrassment. With a flourish he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and swept it over the smooth stump.
"Oh, thank you." Tiffania giggled as she sat down. Suleiman squatted nearby, his eyes on her as she cautiously plucked at her harp. The tone was evidently not to her liking.
"It…doesn't seem quite right," she said, her brow furrowing.
"Please, allow me." Suleiman held out his hands. Tiffania paused a moment, then handed the harp over. Suleiman held the instrument carefully, examining it with experienced eye. Its form was simple and elegant, almost certainly of Elvish make. With deft fingers he adjusted the strings, then handed it back to Tiffania. She plucked at it, smiling at the more pleasing tone.
"Thank you. I never knew exactly how to do it."
"I've been learning music since I was very young," Suleiman explained proudly. "I learnt the sitar mostly, but I've also played harps. Tuning them right is as much intuitive as anything else."
"I see." Tiffania nodded, understanding. "It was my mother's. I…taught myself."
"Then let me hear!" Suleiman almost shouted. Tiffania eased the harp into the crook of her arm and began to play. The melody seemed to whisper in the trees, beautiful and yet somehow haunting.
The left hand of God, Gandalfr
Brave shield of God
The right hand of God, Windalfr
Gentle flute of God
Suleiman was entranced. Her voice seemed to reach into his soul, caressing his heart and tempting his mind.
The mind of God, Miodaitnir
Fragment of God's wisdom
And lastly one more
Whose name is forgotten
I followed the four
We came to this place
Tiffania lowered her harp, a wistful smile on her face.
"It's beautiful, Miss Tiffania," Suleiman breathed. "But…it seems incomplete somehow."
"I thought so too," Tiffania agreed. "It's as if it were written by someone who didn't know the whole story." She paused, and her smile faltered. "Or as if…it was too painful to remember."
Suleiman did not reply. It occurred to him in that moment just how little he knew of Halkeginia, and its history.
An explosion made him jump. His head snapped round, staring back through the trees towards the academy. A column of black smoke was rising from one of the towers.
"Filthy dog!" The cry was distant, but just about audible. "You dare dream of bosoms other than your master's!? Lecherous beast! Water flea!"
"Oh dear," Tiffania commented. "Mister Saito has displeased Miss Louise again."
Alice la Durant was in good spirits.
Ordinarily, being packed off to a magic academy to train a bunch of young knights would have been a chore for a knight of her standing, but she didn't mind it much. After the Albion war, and months of skulduggery in Germania, it seemed like a pleasant distraction.
She brought her horse to a stop just inside the main gate, and stared up at the academy's central tower. She had seen taller and more ornate buildings in her time, but she was content to admit that it was impressive. A gaggle of students were hanging around the main doors talking among themselves, while others strolled in and out. It must have been breakfast time.
Alice grinned a broad, good-humoured grin. She remembered when she had been that age; so young, so full of vim and vigour, ready to take on the world. She remembered her investiture; the weight of her new cloak, her legs turning to jelly as she proceeded alongside her fellow candidates, the glory of the Sainte Chapelle rising up around her. She remembered King Joseph, enthroned in glory, with a smile on his face that only now struck her as somehow…strange. She remembered the joy on the faces of her brothers, the pride in her father's eyes.
It was only a few years, yet it seemed so long ago. Her sixteen-year-old self, newly inducted into the Knights of the Eastern Roses, was very different from her twenty-year-old self, no longer an Eastern Rose, but a Gallian Knight in the service of the Queen of Tristain. Two years in the Eastern Rose had brought her honour, and leading a squadron of knights against Reconquista had brought her fame.
Between them, they had taken her innocence.
Alice shook her head, driving the dark thoughts away. It was as her mother had warned her, yet she had chosen her path regardless. She no longer regretted it, no longer wondered if there could have been a better way. War was war, and death was death. Honour was honour, and Alice la Durant was Alice la Durant.
"Can I help you, Madame?"
Alice looked to see who had spoken. It was a guard, clad in a beret and doublet of the same green as the Queen's Musketeers, a halberd over his shoulder.
"I am Alice, Chevalier la Durant," she introduced herself. "I am here by her Majesty's command, to act as instructor to the Order of the Ondine Knights."
"Yes Madame, you are expected," the guard replied, his face professionally blank.
"Headmaster Osmond asks that you see him in his office on the top floor."
"Very well then. Max!" Alice turned to her squire, sitting on his own horse behind and to her left. "Stable the horses, and stow my baggage in my quarters. Then get yourself something to eat."
"Yes milady! Thank you milady!"
She got down from her horse, and watched Max lead them both away. She didn't mind admitting that she was fond of Maxwell Grey, with his mop of green hair and his bright, eager eyes. She had done well when she found him in Albion, amid the ruin and the destruction.
"Such a beautiful smile." Alice froze at the words, from a voice she knew only too well. "I would see it more often."
"Not for any word or deed of yours, Julio Cesare." Alice turned to face him. There indeed was Julio Cesare, in his white tunic and blue cape, smiling a smile that could charm any woman into his bed if he so desired.
Any woman but her.
"And there was me hoping we could have a pleasant conversation." If Julio was in any way crestfallen or hurt by her words, he showed no sign of it whatsoever. "But what brings you here, Alice? I was not aware you were still in Queen Henrietta's service."
"I could ask the same of you, Julio." Alice willed herself to calm down. Julio could be profoundly irritating, but he wasn't an enemy. "I would've thought you'd be back in Romalia with the Pope by now."
"Funny you should say that," Julio replied airily. "It was his Holiness who sent me here."
"Oh really." Alice concealed her intrigue, keeping her tone casual. "I wonder why?" She glanced meaningfully a gaggle of schoolgirls by the main doorway, all of whom were watching Julio with bright, adoring eyes. Julio followed her gaze, and let out a laugh.
"I know that's what you think of me," he said. "But I'm on a mission from his Holiness."
"A mission from his Holiness." Alice eyed him, searching his face for any hint, any sign. "If the Pope wanted something from the library, or the vault, he would have sent someone less visible. If he wanted someone dead, he wouldn't have it done here. That leaves… watching someone." Julio stared back at her, his eyes entirely unreadable.
"I may as well allow you that," he replied, still smiling. "Since it's what you believe anyway. But if you want any more than that you'll have to pay for it. Perhaps if you beat me, and make our score even?"
Alice allowed her lips to form a thin smile. Twenty-nine times they had duelled; fourteen times she had bested him. And there he was, offering her a chance to even the score.
"I'll hold you to that, Julio."
"Are you all right, Miss Tiffania?"
"Oh…yes! I'm fine!"
Suleiman was not convinced by that. Tiffania was smiling a smile that made his head feel light, but it hadn't been there a moment ago. Something was bothering her, and something told him it wasn't their shared secret; between her hat and his strip of cloth, their incriminating ears were well hidden.
"Miss Tiffania?"
"It's nothing, really!" Tiffania's façade of calm was not holding up well. "I'm just a little...nervous, that's all."
"Nervous?" Suleiman asked, surprised. Why was she nervous about going to the dining hall? "Is there something amiss?"
Tiffania faltered. She stopped, looking down at the floor, fidgeting awkwardly.
"It just gets...difficult, in there," she said.
"Difficult?" Suleiman was bewildered, but earnest. "What can I do to help?"
"Just...stay by my side." She turned her head to look at him, and managed a smile. "I'd feel so much better if you're with me."
"Oh, of course!" Suleiman fell in beside her as they continued along the cloister, wondering what on earth the problem could be.
The cloister was one of four, connecting four of the five towers to the academy's central tower. Tiffania and Suleiman proceeded through the double doors at the end of the cloister, and found themselves in a wide corridor that seemed to follow the curve of the outer wall. There were a few other students, all heading in the same direction as themselves. Suleiman felt their eyes upon him; or on Tiffania, he could not quite tell which. Two girls were watching him with what might have been curiosity, whispering among themselves as they walked by. A boy was gazing on Tiffania with what could only be adoration, while his female companion glared.
Suleiman had a sneaking suspicion as to what was bothering Tiffania. He was starting to feel the same way.
They rounded a corner, reaching a great atrium that seemed to take up most of the ground floor. A pair of staircases led up to the upper floor, between which the atrium narrowed into the dining hall. Three long tables dominated the floor, with another on a dais at the back of the hall; evidently the high table. High-backed chairs lined the tables, most of them already taken, though the high table was still vacant. The students were talking animatedly among themselves, paying little apparent attention to the newcomers.
Then someone saw them. Within moments, all eyes were upon them.
"Miss Tiffania!"
With a screech of chairs and a thunder of footsteps, the horde was upon them. Suleiman gaped in stunned disbelief as a swarm of boys surrounded himself and Tiffania. Their faces were bright with adoration, their arms full of gifts of every shape and size.
"Miss Tiffania, please accept this velvet cape!"
"Miss Tiffania, please accept this token of my utmost devotion!"
"Miss Tiffania! Let me twine this silver pendant about your swan-like throat!"
Tiffania whimpered and wailed under the onslaught of worship. Suleiman gasped as the crowd jostled him, almost knocking him to the ground in their ardour.
"Miss Tiffania, this hat would look so much better on you!" A brown-haired boy pushed forward, an expensive-looking pink hat clutched in his hands. "Please let me place it upon you!" He grabbed at the brim of Tiffania's hat. Tiffania squeaked and grabbed at the hat, trying to hold it in place. But the boy persisted, laughing at her apparent bashfulness.
"Let go!" Suleiman pushed himself between them, trying to prize his hands off the hat. "Let go of Miss Tiffania!" He shoved the boy, sending him staggering back.
"Who are you!?" demanded the youth angrily. The other boys began to back away from Suleiman and Tiffania, the atmosphere suddenly tense. "How dare you attack me!?"
"Leave her alone!" Suleiman blurted out, throwing his arms wide. "You can't treat someone like that!"
"Suleiman!" Tiffania cried.
"Fine words, for a commoner," sneered the youth. "Do you have the guts to back them up?"
Suleiman wanted to retort, to snap that he was a Mirza of Arysia, and that no Mirza would treat the least bandaka the way they were treating him. But his voice caught in his throat, his limbs locked as if frozen solid.
It was the chain. He had not felt it in many months, not since they had left Arysia. But there it was, slowly creeping up from the darkness, tightening itself around his heart. It was cold, chilling his heart, crushing his courage.
"Well?" The youth stepped forward, emboldened. "Nothing to say?" The entire hall was silent. Suleiman could feel their eyes upon him, their presence surrounding him, bearing down on him, just like the chain.
"All right! Break it up!" The angry voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. Saito stormed through the crowd, coming to a halt in front of Suleiman. His face was grim, his eyes dark and threatening. Most of the boys recoiled, evidently intimidated, but the brown-haired youth stood firm, glaring venomously at Saito.
"I said…" Saito growled, turning on the youth. "Break it up!"
"That commoner assaulted me!" the youth snapped back. "Am I to just let it go!?"
"It wasn't like that!" Tiffania pleaded. "He was just trying to protect me!" Suleiman's heart ached with shame, but still he could not speak.
"It wouldn't have happened if you weren't hassling Tiffania!" Saito glared at the youth. "That goes for the rest of you too!" He looked around the crowd, the boys shrinking from his angry gaze. The youth glowered at Saito, his lip twitching as if he wished to speak. But then, at last, his shoulders slumped.
"As you command, Monsieur le Chevalier." He almost spat the title.
"And just you remember it!" Saito retorted. As the boys slunk off, he turned to Tiffania. "Are you all right, Tiffa?"
"Oh, yes, thank you." She smiled, and Suleiman saw the light in her eyes, the light that had warmed his unhappy heart. That light was shining on Saito.
His heart sank.
Beatrice Yvonne, Princess of Guldenhorf, watched the dispersing crowd through narrowed eyes. She wouldn't have much cared, except that she had been at the center of it.
Tiffania Westwood. A complete nobody the Queen had found in a forest somewhere, yet she had all the boys sighing at her feet. Hair like a cascade of sunlight, skin the colour of milk, face like a porcelain doll, bosom like…well, like nothing Beatrice had ever seen. Yet it was obvious she had no noble upbringing or education. No manners, no experience in dealing with amorous young men.
Then what was she? Who was she to be so favoured? To attend the academy at the Queen's expense, attended by a servant, and yet she obviously wasn't a noble.
"Arrogant girl," growled Lizette, her green-haired friend seated to her right. "The boys are always fawning over her."
"And she still hasn't introduced herself to her highness!" added Kitty, seated to her left. Her red hair was much shorter, tied in a pair of short pigtails. "Who does she think she is?"
Beatrice did not reply. Whoever or whatever that infuriating girl was, she knew it was beneath her dignity to rise to her insults; be they intentional or not.
"But what about that boy with her?" mused Constance, her third friend, with dark honey-coloured hair tied in a high ponytail. Her eyes followed the dark-skinned youth as he followed after Tiffania. "Who's he supposed to be?"
"He can't be a student," replied Kitty. "He must be her servant or something."
"What does she mean by bringing a servant?" demanded Lizette. "Only her highness can do that!"
And she was right. Literally no one else at the academy had brought their own servants. Technically Beatrice had not brought any either, for the academy's serving staff were regarded as among the best in the kingdom, and she had certainly found no cause for complaint. Lizette was referring to her bodyguards, her Luftpanzer Ritter.
Beatrice felt a surge of pride as she thought of the twenty dragon knights who had accompanied her on her father's orders. Officially they were only there to augment the academy's defences, and they did indeed perform such duties. But they were her father's knights, Guldenhorf's knights, and their first duty was to her. It made her feel special, important, even though she was only a first-year student, and subject to the same rules as everyone else.
Her lip curled. For a brief time she had been the centre of attention, the darling of the first year students. All had paid court to her, seeking her favour, even if their families didn't owe her father money; and there were plenty who did. But for all that, she had not allowed herself to believe completely in their professions of friendship and devotion. Her mother had warned her against such flattery, and Beatrice had learnt the truth of it the hard way a few months ago, in Vindabona.
She shuddered at the memory. How could she have been so naïve, so blind? How could she have allowed him to deceive her like that? Why did she have to learn the truth, his real name, from her angry and disappointed father?
How could she have let herself feel the way she had?
She gritted her teeth behind her clenched lips, forcing the memory away as she glared at the now-seated Tiffania, and her strange servant standing by her chair. Still all eyes were on her.
Her mother had been right. She could not rely on any of them, nor trust them completely. When that wretched, ridiculously-proportioned girl had shown up, it was as if she, the Princess of Guldenhorf, suddenly no longer existed. Only Lizette, Kitty, and Constance had remained loyal, and she was grateful for it. She enjoyed their company, the opportunity to talk about frivolous things, the way they constantly complimented her and hung on her every word.
But no one, not a single one of them, would ever be her friend. She would not be deceived again, betrayed again.
So why, oh why, couldn't she stop thinking about Tiffania? She knew it was beneath her dignity, but she couldn't get that stupid girl out of her mind! Why?
"She should know her place!" declared Constance, glowering at the oblivious Tiffania.
"Well then," Beatrice said, in a low voice. "We shall have to put her there, shall we not?"
"What do you have in mind, Princess?" Kitty asked, almost bouncing with excitement. Beatrice allowed her thin, delicate mouth to curl into a sneer.
"We'll have a word with her, later."
Maxwell Gray was entranced.
Never, not once in his life, had he seen so many books. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, stacked in shelves as far as his eyes could see. Compendia and codices, manuals and monographs, treatises, tracts, tomes and textbooks; bound in cloth or buckrum, leather, and even vellum.
He loved books. He loved the scent of them, the feel of them, the mere presence of them. They were like old friends, gazing kindly upon him from their high shelves. To flip one open was to enter another world, another life. To see so many around him, to smell the old paper, was to step back in time, to a time and place long gone. They let him go home, if only for a little while.
Maxwell wandered here and there between the shelves, gazing in wonderment upon their contents. The majority were what the undiscerning would call spellbooks, but Maxwell understood far better. Back in the old days, before the founding of the academy, mages learnt their craft at their parents' knees, or else by doing. Most treated it as a mere tool even in the ancient days, much as they might treat a hunting hound or a sword. A rare few saw something more, their minds inspired by the mysteries at which common spells only hinted. It was they who had truly studied magic, who had filled tome after tome with spells, but also musings, hints, pearls of wisdom. Such old books were chaotic affairs, the random scribblings of brilliant and possibly unbalanced minds.
Over the last century a newer, more organised style of learning had spread slowly across Halkeginia. These days the term spellbook referred specifically to a book of spells, of one variety or another, while a textbook contained other useful information. Maxwell could see plenty of both categories on the shelves, covering all four of the known elements and every known discipline and practice of magic, from potion-making to alchemical metallurgy to combat magic. There were many theses too, covering innumerable interpretations of the deeper mysteries of magic. Some even mused on the nature of the Void.
But for all that, Maxwell quite liked the old-style grimoires, as some called them. One could not glean information from them quite so efficiently, but they were more…fun somehow. They were quirky, deep, and infinitely fascinating. Getting his head around them was a challenge in itself.
So entranced was he by all the books, that he almost walked into the wall. Maxwell turned right, his attention on the contents of the shelf running parallel to the wall.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting with her back to the wall, the sunlight streaming in through the open window to illuminate the page of a huge tome open on her knees. Her hair was as blue as the sky, cut short around her chin, framing a face better suited to a porcelain doll, or perhaps a fairy. Blue-green eyes stared down through horn-rimmed spectacles, as a tiny hand deftly turned the page.
Maxwell didn't know why, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. It wasn't that she was beautiful, for he had seen plenty of beautiful girls. It was just…
She turned the page again, and he realised what it was. It was the way she turned them, with the practiced care of one who valued books, yet the ease of one who had done it a thousand times. Never, not since he had last been at home, with his mother and father, had he seen pages turned like that.
A sudden, mad impulse came upon him. He would speak to her. He would say something to this girl. He could see the academy's uniform, and knew that she would scorn him as a mere squire, but such thoughts could barely stay in his head. His only wish, his only thought, was to gaze straight into those turquoise eyes.
A strange gurgling cry rose from the window. Maxwell looked, and saw a pair of enormous green eyes staring down at him. He froze as he saw that the eyes belonged to an arrow-shaped head, considerably larger than his own, covered in blue scales.
Maxwell gulped. He knew a dragon when he saw one, though it didn't belong to any breed he had ever encountered.
"Uh…nice dragon…" he whimpered, trying to back away. The dragon let out a warbling coo, and Maxwell found himself pressed against the shelf behind him as a big, wet, leathery tongue engulfed him from head to foot. He tried to get away, half-screaming, half-laughing, but the tongue ran over him again and again, drenching him in dribble.
"Bad."
The dragon cried out in pain as something bopped it on the head. Maxwell opened his eyes as he felt the tongue withdraw, and saw the blue-haired girl standing nonchalantly by the window. In her tiny hand was a staff taller than herself, with the tip curled over like a shepherd's crook. She was looking at him, her eyes as emotionless as a doll's.
"Ah!" he yelled. "I'm soaked!" He glanced back and forward, panic clouding his mind. How could he attend on his Mistress while drenched in dragon dribble?
"Stand still," the girl said, in the same deadpan tone. She moved her staff in a circular motion. Maxwell cried out in surprise and fear as he felt something sucking at him from all sides, as if he were trapped in the centre of a whirlwind. Why was she attacking him? Had he offended her that much?
"There." And the whirlwind was gone. Maxwell gaped as he saw a blob of what looked like murky water hovering in mid-air between them. He felt his clothes, and realised that they were quite dry. The girl gestured with her staff, and Maxwell looked on in wonderment as the blob levitated out of the window, and fell to the ground with a splash.
"I…" he stammered. "I…thank you so…" But before he could say any more, the girl reached her staff forward, laying its head on his shoulder. Her eyes were blank, but somehow hard.
"A squire should be resolute," she said. "Even in front of dragons."
Maxwell's heart sank, for her eyes told him the meaning of her words. He might be a commoner, with little hope of becoming a knight, but that did not exempt him from a squire's obligations. His Lady was responsible for him, and everything he said and did reflected upon her. He had cowered in the face of potential danger, shamed his Lady in front of another.
"I…I meant no…"
"You want to be a knight?"
The question caught Maxwell off-guard.
"I…"
The doll-like face remained expressionless, but Maxwell still felt awkward. He knew he was making a fool of himself, that a squire should answer plainly and clearly. But his mind was a-whirl, his thoughts running around and around in circles. And the weight of her staff pressing on his shoulder was starting to unnerve him.
"I…I have dreamed of being a Knight, Mademoiselle."
No response. Just more of those blue, blue eyes, that seemed to see right through him. Maxwell sighed.
"I will never be a knight, Mademoiselle," he said. "I am not of noble birth, nor have I any magical ability, nor do I care for fighting."
"Irrelevant."
Maxwell opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. For a moments, he couldn't make sense of her reply.
"Whom do you serve?" the girl suddenly asked. Maxwell finally mastered himself.
"Alice, Chevalier la Durant," he replied, finding a little of his confidence. "I am her squire, Maxwell Grey."
Only then did he remember that she already knew he was a squire, and felt a complete fool. Not that she seemed to care.
"Never falter, never recoil," the girl said softly. "Keep no debt, and hold no grudge."
A distant bell chimed. The girl lifted the staff from his shoulder.
"Lunch," she said. Entranced as he was, it took Maxwell a few moments to notice the hint.
"Oh, uh, yes!" he stammered, backing away. "By your leave, Mademoiselle!" He bowed clumsily, then ran for the door.
"Big sister!" squealed Sylphid, poking her head in through the window. "That boy likes you!"
Tabitha did not reply, but turned and picked up her book; a copy of Godalming's Studies of Nature Magic. The morning had gone quickly, and she wanted to be early for lunch. If there was one thing Tabitha liked more than books, it was food.
"You should marry him!" the dragon went on, lost in her own happy world. "Then I can wear lots of pretty flowers! And you can lay many many eggs!"
"No," Tabitha replied, sliding the book back onto the shelf. She did not find him particularly objectionable, but his Lady was another matter. She knew the names of the Royal Knights of Gallia, well enough to have heard of a certain Alice la Durant, who had resigned from the Order of the Eastern Roses two years ago.
That in itself wasn't particularly suspicious; with the way King Joseph was carrying on, it was barely even surprising. But for her to come visiting the academy while she was there? That was a little too convenient for mere coincidence.
"I know why!" Sylphid giggled. "You'd rather have Saito!"
Tabitha paused, realising that she didn't have a clear answer. It wasn't that she cared about Saito, not really. But nor did she feel nothing for him either. He was a bright, friendly, good-natured soul, so unlike anyone else she'd ever met. She wondered if that was why she had gone to help him that time, when Albion had invaded. Had it been a mere act of benevolence? Had she merely not wanted him to die?
She wondered if he understood what becoming a knight would cost him. Somehow she doubted it.
"Oh come now, ladies! My lady mother could keep this up all day long!"
Alice smiled indulgently as she surveyed her students. There were nine of them, arranged in a well-spaced line on the grass of the Vestri court, performing the drills. The sword drill was simple enough; enough that even those children who called themselves the Ondine Knights could perform it. Thrust, parry, slash, guard; thrust, parry, slash, guard; again, and again, and again. All were red-faced, some of them breathing heavily, while one or two looked as if they were about to collapse.
She regarded them one by one. The black-haired one in the strange blue coat was holding up remarkably well, but that was no surprise. If he was indeed Saito, Chevalier de Hiraga, then the drills were unlikely to bother him much. The only strange thing was that he had chosen not to train with his sword – currently leaning against the wall of the wooden hut the Ondines optimistically called their headquarters – but with a wooden training sword.
Next to him was Guiche de Gramont, youngest son of General de Gramont, and supposedly the order's captain. He certainly looked like a typical Gramont, with his curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and a face that could turn young girls gooey with the slightest smile. Alas, he wasn't performing like a Gramont. For one who had earned a medal in Albion, he was finding a mere sword drill remarkably heavy going, if the sweat dripping off his red brow was anything to go by.
None of the others had any real reputation, though the Queen had been kind enough to provide her with relevant information. Malicorne de Grandple, holding up reasonably well despite his considerable bulk, had done a turn in the Air Fleet, and had been reckoned a useful officer. She recognized Baldwin de Ascalon, with his curly reddish-brown hair, a scion of an old and near-penniless noble family who had won fame as crusaders centuries ago.
There was the bespectacled Reynald de Laval, a clever lad who apparently got all the order's paperwork dumped on him. Next to him was the green-haired Gimli de Montoire, whom Alice suspected was only in it to impress the girls. The two similar-looking boys further along line, one with honey-coloured hair, one in a browner shade, were the brothers Sevrin and Simon de Kassel. Last of all was Robert Joscelyn, a nobody from a rural gentry family who had made something of himself in Albion.
A mildly interesting bunch, all told. Alice liked to think they had potential, but at this rate it was going to take a while.
"All right! Rest!" The exhausted knights ceased their drill. Only Saito still stood up straight, but even he was visibly weary, red-faced and sweating.
"My arms…" groaned Gimli.
"I can't breathe…" croaked Reynald.
"That was…overwhelming…" moaned Guiche. "Mademoiselle la Chevalier, is this the normal order of training in the Griffon Knights?"
"It certainly is!" declared Alice, beaming. "And in the Eastern Roses too!" She turned to Saito. "You're holding up well, Monsieur le Chevalier de Hiraga."
"Didn't anyone tell you?" Saito replied, wheezing slightly. "Agnes de Milan trained me a little while back. You've got nothing on her." He grinned confidently. Alice cocked an eyebrow, but kept up her smile. No one had mentioned that.
"A few moments rest, gentlemen!" she called out, returning her attention to the others. "And then we will work on your technique." A collective groan rang out, and Alice chuckled.
"Perhaps a demonstration might be of help!" Alice looked, and saw Julio Cesare strolling up, his customary smirk on his face. "I did promise you a duel, Mademoiselle la Chevalier."
"Yes, you did." Alice's smile widened. She had been waiting for this for quite some time. "Let's show these children how it's done, Father Cesare."
Julio chuckled at her barb as they strode a little way from the exhausted Ondine Knights. A considerable crowd had gathered, and Alice only then noticed that the sun was falling, and classes must have risen for the day. The crowd were students, most of them female, all of them excited.
"Good luck Julio!"
"Don't lose to her Julio!"
"Do please win, oh Julio!"
Alice sighed inwardly at the girls' calls. She knew Julio Cesare well enough not to be overly surprised by his popularity with them. It was all the more reason to put him in his place.
"Good luck, Mademoiselle le Chevalier!" called a male voice from the crowd. Alice saw a group of male students off to one side. Were they actually calling out to her?
"Win glory, Mademoiselle!" called other.
"Defeat the arrogant priest!"
All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. The girls rounded on the boys, glaring venomously.
"Julio, don't lose to her!" one of them shrieked. The other girls broke it a cacophony of wrathful adoration. Alice glanced at Saito, who was massaging the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Ah, forgive them Mademoiselle," Julio sighed. "They are young, and excitable." Alice did not bother to reply.
Then, just as she was about to turn away, she spotted a more familiar face in the crowd, topped by an equally familiar mop of green hair. It was Maxwell, her beloved squire, come to see her win another duel. The smile on his face warmed her heart, as it always did.
Yet another reason to win.
"En garde, Monsieur," she declared, dropping into a combat stance and raising her sword. Julio smiled, and drew his rapier.
"En garde, Mademoiselle."
For what seemed like an eternity, they stared into each-other's eyes. This was but the first stage of the battle, and Alice knew it well. It was said that when two warriors locked eyes in battle, each might gaze into the other's soul, and fight a duel therein.
Such a duel was taking place in that very moment. Hers was an unconquerable spirit, a lion's heart in a woman's body. So her father and brothers had agreed, much to her mother's frustration. So had all her comrades known, and even King Joseph had acknowledged. Through the portal of her eyes her spirit reached, seeking for its opponent.
But there was nothing to find. Never, not in all their duels, had she been able to see anything behind those mismatched eyes. Either he had no soul, or it was hidden behind defences of a nature she had never encountered elsewhere. What secrets might such a spirit hide? What terrible truths were hidden therein?
With a clink, their crossed blade-tips parted. Alice thrust, aiming for Julio's left shoulder. But the priest moved like water, slipping easily out of reach. She thrust again, but Julio dodged again, that infuriating smile spread across his face. Cries of delight rang out from the girls as he evaded her attacks, darting back with a dancer's grace.
Alice did not allow herself to get angry. She kept her face straight, her free hand firmly on her hip, striking at Julio with quick, staccato jabs. She knew what he was trying to do, and had no intention of falling for commonplace tricks. She kept her eyes firmly on him, watching the way he moved, the way he dodged, waiting for the moment.
Then she saw it.
She kicked, lashing out her leg to trip him. Julio leapt clear, landed lightly, then twirled out of her reach; the girls shrieking at his bravura. Alice fell back to avoid his swinging blade, then dropped back again as he went on the offensive, parrying every thrust as easily as he had parried hers. Frustration bubbled within her, but she managed to restrain it. She couldn't afford to lose control, not now, not against an opponent like him. But how to put him on the back foot?
She was still falling back, getting a little too close to the shed. Obviously he hoped she would back straight into the wall and make a fool of herself.
It gave her an idea.
Alice felt her heel touch the wooden wall. She saw a flash of something in Julio's eyes; a flash of triumph? If she was going to do it, it would have to be now.
So she did it.
She waited, focusing so hard that time seemed to slow down. She could see Julio begin his thrust, almost feel the wind of his rapier as it hissed through the air to prick her chest and mark her the vanquished. She waited, waited, waited…
Alice dropped, the rapier flashing over her head. She broke right, rolling to her feet, and her heart leapt to see Julio still turning, still on the back foot. She thrust for his chest, knowing that she finally had him.
With a clang, his blade knocked hers away. Alice froze, hardly daring to believe it. How could he have blocked her? How could he have been that fast?
Then she saw the anger in his eyes, and remembered the angle of the swing, the frantic force of it.
Not a swing, but a swipe. He had swiped, so desperate was he.
She had him.
Julio came at her again, eyes blazing. Alice saw her chance, and jinked to the left, his blade whistling past her cheek as she slashed at his sword hand. She felt the blade connect, saw his fingers twitch, the rapier falling away. She spun on her heel, darting around, away, and back again. Julio dropped to snatch up his sword, turned to rise…
And there she was, her blade hovering a hair's width from his white coat.
"Monsieur?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. Julio's eyes were bright with rage, and for a moment Alice thought he would try to attack. But then the battle-light was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared, and the smirk was back in place.
"Touché, Mademoiselle la Chevalier." He let his sword fall from his hand. Alice felt her face split in a wide smile, and thrust out a hand. Still smirking, Julio allowed himself to be helped up. The boys were cheering, some of them quite raucously. The girls let out a collective squeal, and crowded around Julio, occasionally glaring daggers at Alice.
"Are you all right, Julio?"
"Are you hurt?"
"Did that vile woman harm you?"
Julio laughed at their attentions, brushing a lock of golden hair from his face. Alice sighed; that one would never change.
"Bravo! Bravo!" It was Guiche, seemingly jumping for joy. "Incomparable, Mademoiselle la Chevalier!" He dropped to one knee, grabbing her free hand and bringing it almost to his lips.
"Ah, but for this tough leather glove," he breathed, wearing a look of soulful sorrow that would have made any young girl go gooey. "I might kiss your fair hand."
"You deserve worse than a leather glove, Guiche!" snapped a female voice. "How about a leather whip!?"
"M-M-M-M-M-Montmorency!" spluttered Guiche, horror and embarrassment flashing across his face. He spun around, still on his knees, as a girl with long, curly blonde hair approached, her face a picture of outrage. "It's not what it looks like!"
"Please excuse this embarrassment, Mademoiselle la Chevalier." The girl named Montmorency pointedly ignored the pleading Guiche. "I was just coming to congratulate you on your victory, but this annoyance insisted on plying his trade."
"Montmorency!" Guiche moaned.
"A congratulation?" Alice was mildly surprised. "You didn't favour Julio?"
"It was a hard choice," replied Montmorency airily. "But I thought a female Chevalier deserved my support. There are far too few of them, in my view!"
"You think so?" Alice eyed the girl. She was quite cute, with a small nose and bright blue eyes, her face only mildly marred by a spread of freckles. But there was a haughtiness about her that set Alice's teeth on edge.
"With your permission, Mademoiselle la Chevalier." Montmorency dropped a curtsey that was about as graceful as could be managed in a short, pleated skirt. "There's a bad smell here!" She turned on her heel and stalked off.
"Montmorency!" wailed Guiche, following her on his knees. "Montmorency my darling! It's a mistake! Please hear me out!" The students laughed at his discomfiture until they were out of sight.
"Ah, young love," Alice mused with a sigh. "Anyway gentlemen, that will be all for today." She turned away from the Ondine knights, and paused as she saw Maxwell standing there, a broad smile on his little face, a cloth in his outstretched hands. Resisting the temptation to kiss him on the forehead, Alice took the cloth and mopped her brow.
"You were excellent out there, my lady," he said, bright-eyed.
"And your timing is impeccable, Max." She smiled down at him. She had done a good thing when she pulled him from the rubble of his home, and nursed him back to health. She was not so naïve as to think too much of the life she had given him. Going from the freeborn son of respectable townsfolk to the servant of a mere knight was a fall by any standard but that of chivalry; and Alice had seen too much of life to put too much stock in it. Still, he seemed happy to serve her, and she was glad of his help, and his company.
A strange, warbling cry rang out. Puzzled, Alice looked up, and froze.
"Ah!" Maxwell cried out in surprise as an enormous blue-scaled dragon lumbered towards them. "It's Mademoiselle's Familiar!" The dragon warbled, craned its long neck down, and starting licking Maxwell.
"Ah! That tickles!" Maxwell laughed aloud as the tongue slopped over him. Alice was frozen stiff, unable even to think.
"Dragon!" With a banshee shriek, Alice leapt back, landing in some unsuspecting person's arms.
"My lady!" Maxwell cried, as the dragon looked up in what might have been surprise.
"Get it away from me!" Alice shrieked, kicking her legs and waving her sword in front of the dragon's nose. "Dragon! Dragon! I hate dragons!"
"My lady!" Maxwell wailed. "Please come down! It's only Mademoiselle's Familiar! She only wants to be your friend!"
The dragon cocked its head, seemingly confused. Then it lowered its head, eyes downcast, letting out a low, mournful moan.
"Oh now look what you've done!" complained Saito. "You've hurt Sylphid's feelings!" He patted the dragon's big head.
"I…I…I can't stand dragons!" snapped Alice, coming back to herself. "Dragons! Salamanders! I can't stand any of them!"
"Oh, my lady!" Maxwell looked hurt. Alice felt a twinge of embarrassment, both for herself and for Maxwell.
Then she realized that she was not on her feet; that someone was carrying her. All was silent as she turned her head, wondering who it was.
Julio smirked back at her, grinning like a cat who'd found the palace dairy unlocked and unguarded.
"PUT ME DOWN!" shrieked Alice, beating him over the head with the flat of her sword. "Put me down this instant!"
The students roared with laughter, some of them doubled over with it. Even the previously taciturn Saito was laughing. The dragon just looked confused.
The sun was falling, and Suleiman was happy.
Soon it would be time for dinner, and with the drama at the Vestri Court concluded, he was glad to accompany Tiffania on a short stroll to the main hall. The cloisters shaded them from the setting sun, and the breeze was pleasantly light. It reminded him of his father's palace on a good day, in happier times.
"That was…very strange," commented Tiffania.
"You think so, Miss Tiffania?" mused Suleiman. "They fought quite ferociously."
"I really don't like fighting," said Tiffania sadly. "I just don't understand Miss Alice."
"You don't?" Suleiman was mildly intrigued.
"She must have fought in so many battles," Tiffania went on. "She wasn't afraid of Julio at all. Yet…she was so frightened of Sylphid; and she's such a gentle dragon."
"If I may say so, Miss Tiffania," replied Suleiman. "Fear is…not a simple thing."
"It isn't?"
"Cyras once told us; even the fearless warrior was once a child, and what child fears he cannot forget, in all the days of his life."
"Oh…" Tiffania fell silent, and seemed to be thinking hard. "He…cannot forget."
"Miss Tiffania?" Suleiman's good humor vanished as he saw her sorrow. "Did I…say something wrong?"
"Oh no! Not at all!" Tiffania's smile could've tamed an angry karkadann. The sight of it made Suleiman's heart leap.
"Would you like me to sing for you, my mistress?" he asked, taking an overly-dramatic bow.
"Oh!" Tiffania half-laughed, half-squeaked. "You don't need to call me that. You can call me…"
"Miss Westwood!"
The pleasant atmosphere suddenly vanished. Tiffania and Suleiman looked to see a quartet of young girls come striding along the cloisters towards them. They wore the academy's uniform, and they looked angry.
"He-hello," Tiffania replied. The girls stopped a few metres away.
"Miss Westwood!" A girl with blonde-running-to-brown hair in a ponytail took the lead, gesturing at a much shorter girl with blonde hair in twin tails. "Do you know who this person is?"
"I…I'm sorry," Tiffania pleaded, embarrassed and unsettled. "I…don't know your name."
"You don't know?!" The brown-haired girl looked suitably shocked. "This is Beatrice Yvonne von Guldenhorf, Princess of Guldenhorf!"
"P…princess?" Tiffania was shaking. "I…I'm so very sorry. I don't know about these things!"
"Is that how you apologise to her highness?!" barked the brown-haired girl. "You've been here for days, yet you haven't even introduced yourself! You call yourself a noble!?"
"But...the thing is..." Tiffania stammered helplessly. "I'm...I'm not a noble..."
"Not a noble?" asked Beatrice, speaking for the first time. "You are attending a magic academy, attended by a servant, and you say you're not a noble?"
"How dare you have a servant!" snapped the girl with red hair in short pigtails. "Only Princess Guldenhorf may bring her own servants!"
"I'm sorry!" Tiffania whimpered. Suleiman yearned to do something, to stand up to those ill-tempered girls. But something held him back, like a chain pulled tight around his insides. He wanted to say something, to do something. But the chain held him fast, crushing his heart as it tried to rise.
Something in their faces, something in their eyes…
"It's looking at her highness!" The brown-haired girl jabbed an accusing finger at Suleiman. "Have it disciplined immediately! Or will you insult her highness again!?"
"I can't!" Tiffania wailed. "Please don't ask me to do that!" Suleiman wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Beatrice looked from one to the other, with the sort of look she might have reserved for something she had found on the sole of her shoe. Then her haughty frown became a vulpine sneer.
"I don't think he's your servant," she said slyly.
"He's her boyfriend!" shrieked the redhead with the pigtails. "How dare you have a boyfriend when Princess Guldenhorf does not have one!?"
There was a long, awkward pause. The redhead deflated, apparently having realised she had said too much. Beatrice stepped forward, her face falling back into that haughty, emotionless mask.
"You are a graceless girl," she said mildly, her blue eyes fixed on Tiffania. "But we are inclined to forgive...if you will remove that dirty hat."
Tiffania gasped, and Suleiman's blood ran cold. Bad enough that they bullied her, but he could tell that their motive was mere jealousy. If they saw the elvish ears beneath her hat, things could only get worse.
"Apologise to her highness!" hissed the redhead, rebounding from her embarrassment. "Take off that hat."
"I can't!" Tiffania pleaded, backing away as Beatrice's minions advanced on her, hands grabbing for the hat. Suleiman flinched, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to protect her, but his body wouldn't let him. He wanted to stand against them, but the chain kept dragging him back. And even if he could, what should he say? What should he do? He didn't know what to do!
"Hey! You girls!"
Suleiman looked, and saw Saito hurrying towards them, eyes bright with anger. He pushed in front of Tiffania; so forcefully that Beatrice's cronies flinched.
"Who do you think you are!?" snapped the redhead. "This is none of your business!"
"You're bullying Tiffania-chan!" retorted Saito. "It is my business!"
The redhead was about to say more, but Beatrice silenced her with a gesture, stepping forward to face Saito. She looked him up and down, and did not seem impressed.
"I saw you earlier," she said, a hard steel behind her soft tone. "You are…" She trailed off, her cold expression faltering. "Saiton Hirigaru?"
There was a long, awkward pause.
"Saiton Hiragagaga?" hazarded Beatrice, visibly struggling with the pronunciation.
"Saitoto Hiragago?" tried the redhead, glancing from one to the other of her friends.
"Saitona Hagaraga?" suggested the green-haired girl awkwardly.
"Sai Toharagigo?"
Saito's eyebrow began to twitch. Suleiman wondered how much more butchering of his name he could endure.
"Saito de Hiraga," he eventually said, very slowly, as if speaking to a particularly slow or stupid child. "Chevalier de Hiraga, Knight of the Water Spirit."
"And what of it?" Beatrice retorted coldly. "A mere knight, and an aventurier at that, has no business meddling in my affairs."
"Who're you calling a…!?"
"Why, if it isn't her highness, Princess Guldenhorf!" Guiche swept in front of Beatrice, knocking Saito to the ground. "What a pleasure it is to see you!"
"Mister Gramont." Beatrice smiled a supercilious smile. "Or should I say, Guiche, Chevalier de Gramont, Knight Captain of the Order of the Water Spirit."
"This is Saito!" proclaimed Guiche, grabbing a dazed Saito and holding him up like a pet cat.
"A barbaric aventurier, only just made a knight! Really your highness, you should not be seen speaking with such a creature!"
"But I…" Beatrice faltered.
"A noble lady never concerns herself with such petty matters," stage-whispered Guiche. "And she never allows herself to be caught off-guard."
Beatrice paused, and seemed to be thinking. Then she turned on her heel.
"Out of respect for our dear Chevalier de Gramont, I'll let this go for today." She walked off, her disconsolate followers falling in behind her. Then she stopped suddenly, and turned to face Tiffania.
"But," she pointed a finger straight at Tiffania, "when next we meet, you will take off that hat! Also," she sent a contemptuous glance Suleiman's way, "you may wish to find yourself a more gallant paramour."
With that she walked away, letting out a shrieking laugh. Her companions did likewise, their bizarre cackling echoing down the cloister.
Suleiman's heart sank. He felt sick, ashamed. Tiffania had needed his help, and he had just stood there, too terrified to speak let alone act.
Why? Why? Why was it always like this? Why could courage never come to him, when it came so easily to others?
Others, like Saito, and Guiche.
He shuddered, and hunched his shoulders, retreating into himself. He…he had tried to be brave, hadn't he? Wasn't that enough? Who were they to judge him? What did they know about him?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
"Suleiman?" Saito asked, turning towards him. "You okay? You've gone pale."
"Zahré mār!" barked Suleiman, falling back into his native tongue.
"Whuh?" Saito sounded confused. Suleiman rounded on him, ready to unleash words his father would have beaten him for saying.
Then he saw the look in Tiffania's eyes, and his fury vanished. He turned on his heel and ran, ignoring them calling after him.
Nothing. He was nothing.