Chapter Text
Caelan Veyr had been rejected from the Royal Academy of Saint Orison for exactly eleven minutes when Crown Prince Lucien Aurelian decided to steal a horse.
It was not, Caelan thought, the worst idea Lucien had ever had. That distinction still belonged to the mechanical frog. It was, however, climbing rapidly through the rankings.
“No,” Caelan said.
He did not raise his voice. He rarely did. Years of knowing Lucien had taught him that shouting only encouraged him.
The prince had already opened the stall. Inside stood a tall gray courser with black stockings and a silver-trimmed bridle, the sort of horse owned by somebody with an ancestral portrait gallery and strong opinions about taxation. Lucien had one hand wrapped around the reins and the other braced against the saddle when Caelan spoke.
He turned slowly, as if surprised to discover he had been observed.
A sprig of ivy had caught in his pale hair sometime during whatever route he had taken through the academy grounds. His shirt was half untucked beneath a green waistcoat, his riding boots were muddy, and the gold signet ring he was forever misplacing hung safely around his neck on a cord.
“No?” Lucien repeated, glancing once at the horse and then back at Caelan.
“No.”
“You don't even know what I'm doing.”
Caelan folded his arms. “You're taking someone else's horse.”
“Temporarily.”
“You don't know whose it is.”
“That only makes returning it more exciting.”
The horse flattened its ears.
Caelan looked from the animal to Lucien. “Even the horse thinks this is a bad idea.”
Lucien glanced over his shoulder. “He's nervous because you've made the atmosphere judgmental.”
“He's nervous because you're stealing him.”
“Borrowing.”
“Stealing.”
“Temporary relocation.”
Caelan stared at him until the corner of Lucien's mouth twitched.
That was usually how it went. Lucien began with absolute confidence, encountered Caelan's patience, and then gradually became more interested in entertaining himself than winning.
Unfortunately, he had acquired an audience.
The Royal Academy's western stable was busy with the remains of entrance examinations. Stablehands moved between stalls carrying buckets and brushes. Several candidates were untacking horses beneath the open arcade. Two academy squires had stopped talking altogether to watch the future king commit what was, at best, a creatively defined property crime.
A broad-backed dwarf in a leather apron had abandoned currying his chestnut mare and was making no attempt whatsoever to disguise his interest.
Caelan lowered his voice. “Put it back.”
Lucien rested one shoulder against the stall door. “You make it sound as though I've put it in my pocket.”
“Lucy.”
The nickname slipped out before Caelan could stop it.
Lucien's eyes narrowed immediately.
Caelan almost smiled.
“Cruel,” Lucien murmured. “You promised.”
“You promised not to steal a horse.”
“I promised no such thing.”
“You promised to behave.”
That gave Lucien pause. “Did I?”
“This morning.”
“Ah.”
“At breakfast.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“You looked your mother directly in the eye.”
Lucien winced. “That was my first mistake.”
The dwarf laughed loudly enough to make both of them look over.
Lucien brightened. “Thank you. It's nice to know somebody appreciates me.”
“Your Highness,” Caelan said softly.
The prince sighed with all the suffering of a martyr and returned the reins to their hook. “There. The beast is liberated from my tyranny.”
The courser immediately pushed its enormous head into Lucien's chest in search of treats.
Lucien looked betrayed.
Before he could begin arguing with it, Caelan caught him lightly by the sleeve. “Come on.”
He expected resistance.
Instead, Lucien allowed himself to be guided from the stall, ducking beneath Caelan's arm with the loose-limbed ease of somebody who had spent most of his childhood climbing over objects specifically designed to keep him out.
The bells above Saint Orison's western tower began ringing the quarter hour.
Their first note rolled through the stable rafters and into Caelan's chest. Saint Orison's bells always sounded deeper than those elsewhere in Veyrhold. Lucien had once told him that some long-dead wizard had enchanted them to frighten students into punctuality.
Caelan had believed him for three years.
He had been nine when he discovered Lucien had invented the entire story.
He still hadn't forgiven him.
They stepped from the cool stable arcade into the lower courtyard, and summer struck them all at once.
The Royal Academy was older than nearly everything surrounding it. Much of upper Veyrhold had been built from pale mountain limestone that gleamed cream-white beneath the noon sun, but Saint Orison's oldest buildings were darker, raised from blocks of iron-gray stone quarried centuries earlier. Arrow slits had been widened into windows. Barracks had become classrooms. The old curtain wall had been opened in three places to accommodate gardens and cloisters, but the western gate still looked capable of surviving a siege.
Generations had softened the fortress without quite taming it.
Copper roofs had weathered green above the courtyards. Wisteria climbed one southern wall in heavy violet curtains. An old watchtower now housed the academy's astronomical observatory, and someone had installed colored glass in what Caelan strongly suspected had once been murder holes.
The lower yard itself had become almost pleasant. Cadets crossed between lessons beneath covered walks. A fountain occupied what had once been the mustering square, its shallow basin littered with copper coins left by hopeful applicants.
At its center stood Saint Orison.
The sculptor had given him heroic shoulders, a tremendous sword, and the serene expression of a man who had never once been subjected to an entrance examination.
Caelan had left a copper piece at the saint's feet before sunrise.
It had apparently been wasted.
He could still feel the folded rejection letter inside his coat.
It weighed almost nothing.
He was painfully aware of it anyway.
Every step seemed to press the parchment more firmly against his ribs.
Lucien's gaze dropped briefly to the hand Caelan had lifted toward his pocket.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
Caelan always noticed slightly.
“What did they actually say?” Lucien asked as they crossed the courtyard.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“Suspiciously vague.”
“They thanked me for applying.”
Lucien nodded gravely. “How gracious.”
“They wished me success in my future endeavors.”
“Monsters.”
Caelan looked sideways at him.
Lucien's mouth curved, but the joke did little to hide the anger underneath.
That worried Caelan more than the horse.
“It was a rejection letter,” he said. “They're all written like that.”
“You've received many?”
“No.”
“Then you're making assumptions.”
“I've seen yours.”
Lucien stopped walking.
Caelan made it another step before glancing back.
The prince looked personally insulted. “I have never been rejected from anything.”
“The Conservatory of Sacred Music.”
“That was political.”
“You played the lute with a spoon.”
“They lacked vision.”
Caelan's mouth betrayed him.
A small laugh escaped before he could smother it.
Lucien immediately pointed at him. “There.”
Caelan arranged his expression into something neutral. “Nothing happened.”
“You laughed.”
“I coughed.”
“That was not a cough.”
“You're imagining things.”
“I know the sound of your laugh.”
The certainty with which Lucien said it made something pull strangely beneath Caelan's ribs.
He looked away first.
Fortunately, the academy provided plenty to look at.
Candidates still crowded the grounds, some celebrating, others wearing the stunned expression of people whose futures had changed in a single morning. A young dragonborn in practice clothes sat beneath an elm winding linen around his knuckles. Two halfling girls compared examination cards beside the fountain. Across the yard, a broad-shouldered orc woman sat patiently on the infirmary steps while a healer held pale blue light against her swollen wrist.
The glow pulsed between the healer's fingers in rhythm with her breathing.
Caelan watched only briefly.
He knew enough introductory spellcraft to recognize structured channeling, though not enough to say which school. Academy healers liked to insist there were nine accepted disciplines of magic. His father's old books insisted there were twelve. Lucien insisted there were as many as people could successfully invent without exploding.
Caelan suspected Lucien's definition had some merit.
He had spent most of that morning trying not to notice who else was present.
More importantly, who wasn't.
He had grown accustomed to being the only person in a room who looked quite like himself.
His mother was human. His father had been drow.
Caelan belonged neatly to neither description, which meant strangers frequently assigned him whichever one suited them at the time.
His father's skin had been darker than Caelan's, with the cool violet cast common among northern drow. His hair had been white. Caelan had inherited neither. His own hair was black, thick, and perpetually escaping whatever ribbon he used to tie it back.
But his eyes were his father's.
Pale lavender.
Drow eyes.
So were his ears, pointed sharply enough that there was little use pretending otherwise.
He had stopped trying to hide them years ago.
Mostly.
The academy examiners had shown remarkable interest in them anyway.
Lucien didn't know about that part yet.
Caelan intended to keep it that way as long as possible.
They passed into one of the covered walks surrounding the lower gardens. Sunlight filtered through narrow colored windows and scattered over the stone floor in pools of amber, crimson, and blue.
Lucien immediately began stepping only on the red sections.
Caelan watched him do it for several paces before asking, “What are you doing?”
“Avoiding curses.”
“There are no curses.”
“That's exactly what someone already cursed would say.”
“Lucien.”
“You stepped on yellow.”
Caelan looked down at the golden pane of light beneath his boot. “So?”
Lucien gave him a look of deep sympathy. “It's been lovely knowing you.”
Caelan deliberately stepped onto another yellow patch.
Lucien gasped.
“Reckless.”
“I've nothing left to lose.”
He intended it as a joke.
It came out wrong.
Lucien stopped.
Caelan immediately wished he hadn't said it.
He continued walking and hoped, foolishly, that Lucien might allow the moment to pass.
Lucien rarely allowed anything to pass.
“Cael.”
“I'm fine.”
“I didn't ask.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say you're being strange.”
“That is worse.”
Lucien hurried two steps to regain his place beside him. Caelan could feel him looking over.
He kept his eyes ahead.
Lucien had dressed badly on purpose. That much was obvious. He had been expected at a royal luncheon with some Bellisari diplomat, which meant Queen Marianne had almost certainly arranged suitable court clothes that morning.
Lucien had apparently escaped them.
His cream shirt was open one button farther than his mother considered acceptable. One side of his green waistcoat had been fastened higher than the other. There was dried mud on one knee.
And the ivy was still in his hair.
Caelan reached up and removed it.
Lucien blinked at him.
“You've had this on your head.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“You didn't tell me?”
“You seemed happy.”
Lucien's expression became wounded. “That may be the cruelest thing you've ever done to me.”
“You'll recover.”
“Unlikely.”
Caelan flicked the ivy into the flowerbed bordering the cloister.
Lucien watched it go before turning back to him.
“You wanted this.”
Caelan's shoulders tightened.
The academy bells finished ringing, leaving behind the rustle of leaves and distant crack of practice swords.
“Yes.”
“You've wanted it for years.”
“Yes.”
“And now you've been rejected after placing seventh.”
Caelan stopped.
Lucien took another step before realizing he was suddenly alone.
He turned.
Caelan stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
A very specific sort of guilt entered Lucien's face.
Not much guilt.
But some.
“I asked.”
“Who?”
“A person.”
“What person?”
“A trustworthy person.”
“You bribed somebody.”
Lucien pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “What an appalling accusation.”
Caelan waited.
Lucien lasted perhaps four seconds.
“Two silver crowns.”
“Lucien.”
“He negotiated.”
“You bribed an academy clerk?”
“In fairness, he appeared morally flexible before I arrived.”
Caelan looked toward the sky.
Two griffons circled high above the academy, broad wings catching the mountain wind as they wheeled toward the royal aerie. At this distance they looked almost graceful.
Caelan knew from personal experience that they were not.
When he and Lucien were eleven, the prince had become convinced that his royal blood entitled his friends to free griffon rides.
Three guards and one furious aerie keeper had been required to settle the matter.
Caelan considered simply walking away now.
Lucien would follow.
He always did.
“You shouldn't have done that,” Caelan said.
“I know.”
“You shouldn't even have access to my scores.”
“I also know that.”
“Then why?”
“Because you wouldn't tell me.”
The answer came without a joke attached.
Caelan looked at him.
“You placed seventh,” Lucien said, quieter now. “Seventh out of nearly two hundred.”
“One hundred eighty-three.”
Lucien's eyes narrowed. “So you knew.”
“They told us how many candidates there were before the written examination.”
“Not the point.”
Caelan started forward again.
Lucien fell into step.
“Forty-one people who scored below you were admitted.”
Caelan said nothing.
“That isn't—”
“I know.”
Lucien stopped himself.
For several moments, their footsteps were the only conversation between them.
Caelan wished there were some way to explain unfairness that Lucien would accept.
That had always been one of the strange things between them.
Lucien had grown up believing that unfairness was a malfunction. Find the person responsible, tell them what they'd done wrong, and fix it.
Caelan had learned much younger that sometimes nothing had malfunctioned at all.
Sometimes the system was doing exactly what it had been built to do.
The western training field opened beyond the cloister.
Cadets sparred beneath the midday sun while instructors circulated between them. Wooden blades cracked against shields. Dust hung over the packed earth. From the nearby infirmary garden came the bitter smell of frostleaf and boiled willowbark.
A girl sat alone on the low wall bordering the field.
Caelan noticed her because she was bleeding.
Not badly.
A narrow cut crossed the bridge of her nose and another had split her lower lip, but she seemed far more annoyed by the broken strap on her leather vambrace than either injury.
She was elven.
Not the fragile sort human artists liked painting into religious manuscripts, all luminous skin and impossible cheekbones. She was sun-browned and long-limbed, with shoulders shaped by years of sword work and dark copper hair braided tightly down her back. Three small iron rings climbed the edge of one pointed ear.
An academy practice sword rested across her knees.
She was muttering at the damaged strap when Lucien angled toward her.
Caelan caught his sleeve.
“No.”
Lucien looked at him. “What?”
“Leave her alone.”
“I was going to help.”
“You've never helped anyone without making it worse first.”
The girl's mouth twitched.
“I heard that,” she said.
Lucien brightened immediately. “See? She likes me.”
“I absolutely did not say that.”
Caelan sighed.
There was no preventing it now.
Lucien dropped onto the wall beside her as though they had arranged to meet days ago. Caelan remained standing, partly because it seemed safer and partly because his body had not yet decided what to do with the restlessness beneath his skin.
Up close, he noticed the silver oak-leaf pin at the girl's collar.
Third-year cadet.
Older than them, then. Sixteen or seventeen, perhaps.
Her eyes were gray-green.
Lucien gestured toward her face. “You've been assaulted.”
She looked at him blandly. “Observant.”
“Who did it?”
“A shield.”
Lucien leaned forward with interest. “A malicious shield?”
“Deeply.”
Caelan exhaled through his nose. “Your Highness.”
The girl's eyes moved to him, then back to Lucien.
Recognition appeared slowly.
Her posture changed.
Not much, but enough.
“Your Highness.”
Lucien grimaced. “See, you've ruined everything.”
Caelan lowered his voice. “She should know who she's insulting.”
“She was doing beautifully.”
The girl stood and offered Lucien the minimum bow required to prevent the interaction from becoming technically treasonous.
“Seraphine Vael,” she said. “Third-year cadet. Western March.”
Lucien smiled. “Are you always this enthusiastic about protocol?”
“Only when princes appear unannounced beside me.”
“Excellent. I'm Lucien.”
“I had gathered.”
Caelan caught the tiny movement at the corner of her mouth.
Lucien gestured toward him next. “This is Caelan.”
Seraphine looked at him.
And Caelan noticed something immediately.
She looked at his face before she looked at his ears.
He liked her a little for that.
“Veyr?” she asked.
Caelan nodded.
“You were in the entrance trials this morning.”
“Yes.”
“The south ring?”
“Yes.”
Her expression sharpened. “You fought Halvern.”
Caelan hesitated. “He fell.”
Lucien's head turned.
“He fell?”
“He tripped.”
Seraphine made a disbelieving noise.
Lucien looked between them. “You told me he tripped.”
“He did.”
“You knocked him over.”
“He tripped after I hit him.”
Lucien's face lit with vindication. “I knew it.”
Caelan looked away.
Seraphine retrieved her practice sword and balanced it against one shoulder. “He deserved it.”
“You know him?” Caelan asked.
“Everyone knows Halvern. He can't enter a room without announcing that his grandfather owns part of it.”
Lucien nodded solemnly. “I've met his grandfather. He does own quite a lot.”
Seraphine's attention returned to Caelan.
“You were good.”
The compliment landed more heavily than it should have.
Caelan shifted his weight. “Thank you.”
“They admit you?”
He saw Lucien's expression change beside him.
Caelan answered quickly.
“No.”
Seraphine frowned.
For a moment, her gaze moved over him.
Not rudely.
Thoughtfully.
Then understanding settled over her face.
“Oh.”
Caelan hated that sound.
More than insults, sometimes.
He straightened slightly. “It doesn't matter.”
Lucien made a frustrated noise.
Seraphine looked between them. “It clearly matters.”
“I'll find something else.”
“What?”
Caelan paused.
He had not thought that far.
Lucien's voice softened beside him. “That's what I've been trying to ask.”
A horn sounded from the upper courtyard.
Lucien closed his eyes.
“Oh, no.”
Caelan looked toward the stairs. “What?”
“Mother.”
“How can you possibly tell?”
A second note answered the first.
Then a third.
Lucien sighed with the resignation of a condemned prisoner. “Three notes. Queen.”
Seraphine looked amused. “You're hiding from the queen?”
“I am not hiding. I'm strategically elsewhere.”
“You were supposed to be at luncheon,” Caelan reminded him.
Lucien looked at him. “This feels judgmental.”
“It is.”
The atmosphere of the entire courtyard shifted.
Cadets straightened coats. Instructors interrupted conversations. Even the squires on the training field lowered their wooden blades.
The royal escort appeared first at the top of the stairs.
The Kingsguard descended in polished half-plate beneath white tabards embroidered with the Aurelian sunburst.
Queen Marianne followed them.
Caelan had known her for most of his life.
That familiarity sometimes made him forget other people found her intimidating.
Marianne Aurelian was beautiful in a way portraits never quite captured because portraits couldn't depict movement. She was tall and fine-boned, with dark golden hair arranged in a braided crown and blue eyes nearly identical to Lucien's.
The resemblance always surprised Caelan when they stood near each other.
It ended there.
Lucien wore every thought on his face.
Marianne could conceal an entire conversation behind one raised eyebrow.
Her gown was summer blue, the sleeves thin enough to stir in the breeze, with small pearls worked into the embroidery at her throat. She wore no crown.
She did not require one.
King Edric walked beside her.
Lucien muttered something.
Caelan glanced at him. “What?”
“They brought Father.”
“You make that sound ominous.”
“It is ominous.”
King Edric IV had none of his son's restless energy.
Lucien was always moving. Hands, shoulders, eyes, mouth. Even when sitting still, he seemed to be preparing to become somebody else's problem.
Edric seemed to conserve motion.
His hair had begun to silver at the temples, and his dark blue coat was plain by royal standards save for the golden sunburst clasp at his throat.
Caelan had seen him laugh.
He had seen him drunk once, though everyone involved had agreed never to discuss the Midwinter Feast again.
He had seen him barefoot, pursuing a six-year-old Lucien through the palace kitchens while both of them shouted accusations concerning a stolen pie.
None of those memories were particularly useful when Edric entered a courtyard full of soldiers.
People became quieter around him.
Queen Marianne found Lucien almost immediately.
Her gaze passed over him, then Caelan, then Seraphine, and returned to Lucien.
She smiled.
Caelan knew that smile.
Lucien clearly did too.
He swallowed.
“Oh,” he murmured. “She's furious.”
“She looks pleased,” Seraphine whispered.
Lucien barely moved his mouth. “She is never more dangerous.”
The queen reached them.
“Lucien.”
“Mother.”
“You missed luncheon.”
“So I've heard.”
“You were sitting beside me when I reminded you about it this morning.”
“Then perhaps you've discovered the flaw in relying on me.”
Marianne stared at him.
Lucien smiled sweetly.
King Edric arrived several steps behind her.
His gaze went first to the dirt on Lucien's boots.
Then the uneven waistcoat.
Then, for reasons Caelan immediately understood and Lucien apparently did not, toward the stable.
“Why,” the king asked, “do I feel compelled to inquire whether anything has been stolen?”
Lucien looked offended. “Nothing.”
Caelan looked away.
The queen noticed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Caelan.”
He straightened. “Your Majesty.”
“Has my son stolen something?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Lucien beamed.
Caelan continued, “He was prevented.”
The smile died.
Seraphine coughed into one hand.
The king's mouth twitched.
“What?”
“A horse,” Caelan admitted.
“Borrowed,” Lucien corrected quickly.
Edric looked toward the stable. “Whose?”
Lucien glanced over his shoulder.
“I neglected to establish that.”
Marianne closed her eyes for a moment.
“You are going to kill me before you inherit.”
“I would never.”
“Not intentionally.”
“Mother.”
She reached up and fixed the crooked collar of his shirt.
The gesture was so familiar and ordinary that, for a moment, Caelan forgot the watching courtyard.
Lucien endured the attention with exaggerated suffering.
Marianne brushed something from his shoulder, then looked at Caelan.
Her expression softened.
“How did it go?”
Caelan's throat tightened.
Lucien answered before he could.
“They rejected him.”
The queen's hand stopped against her son's shoulder.
King Edric looked directly at Caelan.
“Rejected?”
Caelan wished Lucien had let him answer.
Still, he dipped his head.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I understood you performed well.”
“He placed seventh,” Lucien said.
Caelan stepped on his boot.
Lucien flinched but continued speaking.
“Seventh out of one hundred eighty-three candidates, and they've admitted people who placed significantly lower.”
“Lucien,” Caelan murmured.
“No.”
The prince wasn't teasing anymore.
That was usually when Caelan worried most.
Queen Marianne studied her son, then Caelan.
“Why?”
“We weren't given a specific reason,” Caelan said.
“We?” Marianne repeated.
Seraphine shifted beside him.
Caelan had nearly forgotten she remained there.
The king had not.
His gaze fell briefly to the silver oak leaf on her collar.
“Cadet?”
She bowed. “Seraphine Vael, Your Majesty.”
“House Vael of Letharis?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Edric nodded once.
Caelan wondered how many names kings were expected to remember.
Probably all of them.
Marianne returned her attention to him. “Did Master Aster speak with you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Caelan could feel Lucien waiting beside him.
He rubbed his thumb along the seam of one glove.
“He was kind.”
Lucien made a skeptical noise.
Caelan ignored it.
“He said the council had concerns regarding suitability.”
The queen's expression shifted.
Caelan wished he'd used another word.
King Edric seemed to understand it too.
“What concerns?”
Caelan looked toward the academy buildings.
He could have lied.
For Lucien's sake, perhaps he should have.
Before he decided, Seraphine spoke.
“With respect, Your Majesty, I believe I know.”
Caelan turned toward her.
She had gone rigid, the way people did when anger had nowhere polite to go.
Lucien looked at her as well.
“They asked him about his father,” she continued carefully.
Caelan stared. “You heard?”
“The examination rooms aren't soundproof.”
Her jaw tightened.
“They asked whether he'd ever traveled into the Undercities, whether he spoke Drowic, whether his father's relatives maintained contact with any of the old houses.”
Lucien became completely still.
That happened so rarely that Caelan's hand moved before he consciously decided to do anything.
His fingers closed gently around Lucien's wrist.
“It's fine,” Caelan whispered.
Lucien looked at him.
“No.”
“Please.”
“They didn't ask me anything like that.”
“You weren't applying.”
“They wouldn't have.”
“That isn't—”
“They wouldn't have.”
His voice stayed low.
That made it worse.
Queen Marianne was looking at Caelan now with an expression he couldn't quite read.
The king's face had hardened.
Before either could respond, another voice interrupted them.
“Your Majesties.”
Master Corvin Aster crossed the courtyard.
His academy mantle hung perfectly despite the heat. He bowed first to Edric and Marianne, then to Lucien.
His eyes came to rest on Caelan.
“Lord Veyr.”
“Master Aster.”
Corvin looked around at the crowd that had begun paying altogether too much attention to them.
“This may be better discussed privately.”
Lucien answered at once. “Why?”
Caelan tightened his fingers around his wrist.
Lucien looked down.
That tiny contact was enough.
He exhaled.
Master Corvin noticed.
Caelan wondered, suddenly and uncomfortably, how much adults had always noticed about the two of them.
King Edric spoke before Lucien could begin another argument.
“My son asks a fair question.”
Lucien blinked.
He clearly hadn't expected support.
Neither had Caelan.
Edric looked toward the academy tower. “The Royal Academy exists under charter of the Crown. If a candidate's ancestry is being used as an admission criterion, I would like to know when that became policy.”
“It is not policy,” Corvin said.
“Good.”
“The council was concerned with potential complications.”
Lucien made a small disbelieving sound. “Complications.”
Caelan squeezed his wrist once.
Lucien glanced at him.
Caelan gave the slightest shake of his head.
Not here.
Not like this.
Lucien understood.
Eventually, he almost always did.
The king looked at Caelan.
“Why do you want to attend Saint Orison's?”
Caelan's first instinct was to give the answer he'd practiced.
Service.
Honor.
Duty.
Words polished smooth by generations of applicants until they meant whatever the listener wanted.
But Edric was waiting.
So was Marianne.
So was Lucien.
Seraphine too.
Caelan looked across the training yard.
Two young cadets were collecting wooden swords from the dust. One was human. The other had the small horns and reddish complexion common among western tiefling families.
Neither appeared interested in what the other was.
Perhaps that was naïve.
Still.
“My father used to take me to the Founder's Day procession,” Caelan said.
The words came slowly.
“He liked the cavalry.”
Lucien smiled faintly.
He remembered.
Caelan continued. “I liked the knights.”
“Because they had swords?” Marianne asked.
Caelan almost smiled. “That helped.”
A little warmth touched her expression.
“My father used to say armor made everyone look the same.”
Lucien looked at him.
Caelan realized suddenly that he'd never told him this.
“He didn't mean literally,” Caelan added.
“I should hope not,” Edric said dryly.
A laugh escaped Seraphine.
Even Caelan smiled.
Then he looked down at his hands.
“I think he meant that when someone wore it, people saw what they'd chosen to become before they saw where they'd come from.”
The courtyard felt enormous.
Caelan wished he'd given the polished answer.
“I wanted that.”
Something brushed his hand.
Lucien didn't take it.
Not with everyone watching.
Instead his knuckles bumped lightly against Caelan's.
Barely anything.
Enough.
Master Corvin watched them for a moment before looking away.
The king remained quiet.
Finally, he asked, “What was Lord Veyr's final ranking?”
Corvin sighed. “Seventh.”
“And his practical examinations?”
“Excellent.”
“Conduct?”
“Unblemished.”
Lucien opened his mouth.
Caelan looked at him.
Lucien closed it again.
Marianne noticed.
Her expression suggested she was trying not to smile.
Edric turned back to Corvin. “Then reconsider the application.”
The master hesitated. “The council—”
“May reconsider it.”
The king's voice did not change.
It didn't need to.
Corvin bowed.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Lucien's face lit up.
Caelan felt something warm and frightened move through his chest.
“Father—”
Edric held up one finger.
Lucien stopped.
“And before you interpret this as permission to interfere with academy admissions whenever you dislike an outcome, understand that I am asking for the decision to be reviewed, not overturned.”
Lucien considered this.
“Can I be present at the review?”
“No.”
“Can Caelan?”
“No.”
“Can Mother?”
“No.”
Marianne raised one eyebrow.
Edric glanced at her.
“You may.”
Lucien looked delighted. “I knew you were the favorite.”
“I am your wife.”
“Exactly.”
The king ignored him.
Then his gaze drifted over Lucien's shoulder.
His expression changed.
“Why is Saint Orison wearing purple?”
Everyone turned.
Caelan stared at the fountain.
A vivid purple scarf had been tied around the stone saint's neck.
For several seconds, he couldn't think of anything to say.
Then he very slowly looked at Lucien.
Lucien looked completely innocent.
Queen Marianne looked at her son.
“You.”
“What?”
“When did you do that?”
“I have been with Caelan the entire time.”
Caelan stared harder.
Lucien stared back.
There was a warning in his eyes.
A very clear one.
Caelan looked toward the statue again.
Then toward Seraphine.
She had pressed her lips together so tightly they had nearly disappeared.
King Edric sighed.
“Lucien.”
“It suits him.”
“You vandalized a saint.”
“Vandalized is an ugly word.”
“What word would you prefer?”
“Improved.”
Caelan laughed.
He tried not to.
He genuinely did.
But once it escaped, there was no putting it back, particularly when Lucien turned toward him with such profound betrayal that Seraphine broke next.
Then Marianne.
Even Master Corvin's expression cracked.
The king survived several seconds longer than everyone else before shaking his head.
“Take it off.”
Lucien's shoulders dropped. “Fine.”
“And attend your luncheon.”
“It has surely ended.”
“Then apologize.”
“To the ambassador?”
“To several people, I imagine.”
Lucien groaned.
Queen Marianne reached up and caught her son's face between both hands.
“My beautiful disaster.”
He leaned into her palms with exaggerated misery. “You understand me.”
“I understand that I should have sent guards.”
“You did.”
“You escaped them.”
“They lacked conviction.”
“They are Kingsguard.”
“They lacked imagination.”
Marianne kissed his forehead.
Caelan looked away.
Not because the affection embarrassed him.
Sometimes watching Lucien with his parents gave him the peculiar sensation of standing outside a warm house in winter.
It wasn't quite envy.
His own mother loved him fiercely.
His father had too.
That wasn't the same thing as still having both of them.
A shadow moved into the edge of his vision.
Seraphine had stepped closer.
“You all right?” she asked quietly.
Caelan glanced at her.
“Yes.”
Her expression suggested she didn't entirely believe him.
Mercifully, she didn't ask again.
Across the courtyard, Lucien had apparently decided the queen should inspect the scarf before condemning it.
“It brings out his eyes,” he was arguing.
“He has stone eyes.”
“Exactly. Difficult complexion.”
Caelan shook his head.
Beside him, Seraphine followed his gaze.
“He's always like this?”
“Yes.”
“You've known him long?”
“Since we were six.”
Seraphine watched Lucien attempt to convince the King of Valedain that sacred statuary should be permitted seasonal accessories.
Then she said, “I'm sorry.”
Caelan looked at her. “For what?”
“The academy.”
He lowered his gaze briefly. “Thank you.”
“I hope they reverse it.”
“So does he.”
“That much is obvious.”
Caelan smiled faintly.
“He gets worse when he thinks someone's been unfair.”
“This is worse?”
“You haven't seen him with three days to plan.”
Seraphine laughed.
It was an easy sound.
She rested the wooden sword against her shoulder and stepped backward.
“Well, if they let you in, find me.”
Caelan blinked. “Why?”
“I need a sparring partner who knows how to block.”
“That seems like something a third-year student should already have.”
“You'd be surprised.”
She turned away, then stopped.
“Oh, and Veyr?”
“Yes?”
Her grin sharpened.
“Halvern didn't trip.”
Caelan sighed.
Seraphine crossed the training yard before Lucien appeared at his side again.
“Who was that?”
Caelan looked at him.
“You met her.”
“I know who she is. Why was she making you smile?”
Caelan studied his expression.
Lucien looked much too interested in the answer.
“She was being nice.”
“I can be nice.”
“Occasionally.”
“I am famously charming.”
“You attempted to steal a horse less than half an hour ago.”
“Thirteen minutes.”
“That isn't better.”
Lucien reached out and hooked two fingers through the strap of Caelan's satchel.
“Come to lunch.”
“I wasn't invited.”
“You are now.”
“That isn't how royal invitations work.”
“It is literally exactly how they work when I'm royal.”
“Your mother might object.”
Lucien turned his head.
“Mother!”
Caelan grabbed his arm. “No.”
Too late.
Marianne looked over.
“Yes?”
“Can Caelan come to lunch?”
The queen glanced toward him.
“Of course.”
Lucien turned back wearing unbearable satisfaction.
Caelan sighed. “You could try asking me before arranging my life.”
“I did. You said no.”
“You asked after arranging it.”
“Semantics.”
They started toward the upper gate with the king and queen several paces ahead.
Lucien leaned closer.
“If you're admitted, you're going to have to stop being so respectable.”
“No.”
“They'll destroy you.”
“I think discipline is rather encouraged.”
“That's propaganda.”
“You've never attended the academy.”
“I know people.”
“You bribed one clerk.”
“I have a network now.”
Caelan shook his head.
Lucien bumped his shoulder against Caelan's.
Then did it again when Caelan failed to respond.
Caelan nudged him back.
Lucien smiled.
Beyond the academy walls, the Sunspire rose over Veyrhold, its pale towers brilliant against the summer sky. Gilded roofs stepped down the mountainside toward the city, bright among gardens, temple spires, crowded streets, and the distant blue haze of the lower districts.
Everything seemed enormous from here.
The academy.
The city.
The kingdom.
His future.
An hour earlier, it had felt as though all of it had closed in front of him.
Now one door had opened a crack.
Caelan didn't know whether he would be allowed through.
He only knew that Lucien was beside him, talking far too quickly about the Bellisari ambassador and a rumor that the man owned a domesticated basilisk.
“Do you think it would be rude to ask to see it?”
“Yes.”
“But would you like to see it?”
Caelan hesitated.
Lucien grinned.
“That's what I thought.”
“I'm not helping you steal a basilisk.”
“I never said steal.”
“You didn't have to.”
Lucien laughed.
Caelan looked over at him.
Sunlight caught in his blond hair. His face was still softer than the portraits being painted of him now, not quite the face that would one day appear on coins and banners. He was fifteen and impossible and irritatingly certain that every locked door could be opened if he only found the correct window.
For one foolish moment, Caelan found himself believing they would always be like this.
Lucien would run ahead.
Caelan would follow.
Lucien would find trouble.
Caelan would get him out of it.
Someday Caelan would wear the crimson and black of Saint Orison's.
Someday he would kneel beneath the Sunspire with a sword resting against his shoulder.
Someday Lucien would be king.
And Caelan would stand beside him.
At fifteen, forever still seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to expect.
Lucien caught Caelan by the wrist and tugged him toward the palace.
Caelan went willingly.
They had nearly reached the upper arch when Queen Marianne stopped ahead of them.
Caelan almost walked into Lucien's back.
“What—”
Lucien had raised one hand while arguing some point about basilisk ownership.
For the briefest instant, sunlight flashed along the inside of his wrist.
Caelan frowned.
Something there had caught the light oddly.
Gold, perhaps.
Except Lucien wasn't wearing anything beneath his cuff.
His skin looked strange for half a heartbeat, textured where it should have been smooth.
Then Lucien lowered his hand.
Whatever Caelan had seen disappeared.
Ahead of them, Queen Marianne had gone very still.
King Edric turned toward her.
“Marianne?”
Caelan watched the queen's eyes settle on her son.
Something passed across her face too quickly for him to understand.
Then she smiled.
“Nothing.”
Lucien, apparently oblivious, resumed explaining that a domesticated basilisk could not reasonably be called dangerous if one simply avoided looking directly at it.
Caelan glanced once more at the wrist he'd been holding only moments ago.
There was nothing there.
He told himself it had only been the sunlight.
Then he followed Lucien through the gate.