On my way, I pass a blacksmith hammering away in his forge, each clang an accompanying note to the distant hails from the marketplace and shouts from the builders fixing a roof at the end of the street. Carpenters’ sawdust floats in the air, earthy and woody, mixing with the sweetness of the freshly baked bread and clean linen hanging on lines strung between buildings. A hurried messenger, arms stuffed with scrolls of parchment, dodges the two women walking ahead of me, both carrying empty wooden buckets, probably heading to the nearest well for water.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop. They wouldn’t talk so freely if they knew I was right behind them.
“I would be outraged if I was Simon’s family,” one of the women says. “I know King Garland is a man of few words, but to not even bother making an appearance at the memorial—well!”
“I heard from one of the maids that his sickness has him bedbound for days at a time. His condition ismuchworse than they’ve let on.”
“Really? The last announcement from the castle only mentioned that the king would occasionally be absent from holding court, not that he’s at death’s door! Imagine if he’s not able to attend the prince’s wedding either!”
“I wonder if it’s the northern sickness. It’s no wonder the queen is so—”
One of the women catches sight of me and grabs her friend’s arm. Their faces pale as mine reddens, and I quicken my pace to pass them in silence. When I’m far enough away, their whispers will surely be wondering if I’ll be repeating their words when I next see the queen. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve unwillingly snitched on my fellow citizens.
Before I can worry too much, the familiar voice of my best friend’s fiancé shakes me out of my thoughts. The crown prince is riled up and ranting, which means one thing. There’s only one person that can shatter Bastion’s trained composure.
Willoh Vane must be in town again.
At the gate, the road out of the citadel is to my right, but to my left, with the castle looming in the distance, townsfolk cluster cautiously at the edges of the street with guards stationed at intervals for protection. Cardamine’s fiancé, Prince Bastion, stands in the center of it all, slicked-back black hair and leather armor aglow under the sun. A brown hand clenches the handle of the sword sheathed at his waist as he faces the person he likes least in this world.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve encountered a similar scene—Bash flushed red, face screwed up, voice raised, and Willoh, hands in pockets, casual and collected. Despite being of a similar height and age—nineteen, one year older than Card and me—they could not be more different, and their encounters vex the prince like nothing else. They used to be inseparable, but five years ago, after the incident in the northern forest, rumors started circulating that Willoh Vane’s magic was the reason for the corruption, and any shredof friendship between them was destroyed. I wasn’t there to witness the details, thank the gods. Their fallout was just before the queen’s paranoia reached such a degree that she started summoning me to the castle to tell her the truth, and before Card met his fiancé, so neither Card nor I were there to see what actually happened.
From what I’ve gathered, I suspect it’s Willoh’s gift for magic and Bash’s complete inability to summon even the smallest of spells that really agitates the prince. I’d call it jealousy, but I know better than to open my mouth. Magic is supposed to run strong in the royal line and Bash is the only exception, much to his mother’s distress.
“How many times do I have to tell you to get lost?” Bastion says through gritted teeth. “No one wants you here.”
Willoh’s expression doesn’t budge from its fixed smirk. He’s in a maroon leather jacket, with a brown satchel slung over a shoulder. Underneath chestnut waves of hair, colored earrings on warm golden skin wink in the sunlight.
“My almighty princeling, you know it pains me to go too long without seeing your grouchy face,” he drawls.
“Shut up and get out,” Bash growls. His tone is not very effective at intimidating the sorcerer.
“How polite,” Willoh says. “Anyway, I literally need to buyone thingfrom the tailor’s, so if you don’t mind—”
“Buy it somewhere else,” Bash snaps back.
“Somewhere else?” Willoh says, a sharpness to his voice. “Where do you suggest? Or have you forgotten—?”
“Get lost.”
There’s usually two ways the conflict goes from here. Sometimes Willoh grins, delighting in Bash’s agitation. Sometimes he’s irritable, which usually results in it escalating until something in the citadel gets destroyed by a blast of Willoh’s magic. Hence why the guards are quick to sprint toward the sound of Bash’s shouts.
During one particularly bad fight a few months back, the prince had to be hauled away by Howell, one of the most experienced Guards of Alrick. Bash had screamed and sworn the whole way backto the castle, blood raining down his cheek from a shard of glass that had cut him when Willoh had exploded a nearby window with a powerful gust of wind. After which Card and I spent a sleepless night in Bash’s chambers comforting him as he sat, head in his hands, trying to gather himself. He was more embarrassed than angry by that point, especially because the king had reprimanded him for brawling in public like a commoner.
“You gave him a chance to withdraw,” Card had said, hand on Bash’s shoulder. “You’re not to blame.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” Bash mumbled into his hands. “How are the people supposed to trust me to protect them? Against sorcery—against Will—I’museless.”
Card paused. He always knows how to crack Bash’s sorrow, how to get him to laugh when he’s weighed down. So he said, “It was kind of funny, though. Did you see how the wind blew Howell’s cape over his head? He turned on the spot about five times before he could untangle himself! Is that really the best your guards have to offer, my love?”
Bastion tackled him.
Willoh hadn’t come back for months after that, which, luckily for us, gave the prince some time to cool off.
Personally, I prefer to imagine that the sorcerer doesn’t exist. Just another reason to turn my feet around to avoid witnessing something that puts my curse at risk of being exploited. Not because I don’t support Bash, but because the queen will squeeze every detail from me. I’d rather not know. If I don’t know, then I can’t give her the truth she desires. If I don’t see it happening, then I don’t have anything to tell her. It’s a small defiance to walk away and turn a blind eye, but it’s my choice, something I have control over, which is the most freedom my curse allows me.
Before I can find out if the conversation before me will dissolve into conflict, I turn right and march away, passing Godfrey at his post by the citadel gates. He’s the first defense of Alrick, the retiredcaptain of the guard who loves to have a good natter with anyone who passes.
“At it again, are they?” he asks, his wrinkled skin gathered in concern. It’s no surprise he can hear Bash’s voice from here.
