Xyrath smiled at everyone, then took Satia’s hands. “We had thought to discuss the outer baronies with you but perhaps—”
“It’s my belly that’s ill, not my brain,” Satia snapped. “What has happened?”
“It’s the Black Hills, majesty,” Lord Tarwain started. “They are in rebellion; the messengers we sent have been found dead at the border. I don’t know if you are aware of the history between the Black Hills and the Crown, but—”
“I am not interested in history,” Queen Satia said sharply. “I am interested in obedience. We must—” she cut herself off, looking around the room. “Ladies, leave us,” she commanded. “Matters of state. Go flirt with the young men of the court, you are all released from your duties for a time. Leave your work and go.”
Halithe rose hastily, dropping her hemming on the chair, and willingly fled the room with the rest. There was only one man she wished to speak to, and it had nothing to do with flirting.
Halithe settled inthe chair in front of Ritathan’s desk and looked at him expectantly. She loved his chambers, with its dark curtains, its massive maze of shelves, filled with scrolls, tomes, and papers. It always smelled faintly of incense and burnt wax.
“Today’s lesson is based in history,” Ritathan started.
Halithe slumped in her chair, staring at the candle sitting on the desk before her. “But I thought—”
“How are you to know what is to come, without knowing what has been?” Ritathan chided her. “What do you know of the history of magic?”
Halithe heaved a sigh.
Ritathan lifted an eyebrow and gave no sign of relenting.
“Fine,” Halithe said, lifting her chin. “There was a time when magic flowed like water. Everyone could use it and everyone did. Great cities were constructed and many wonderful and marvelous things were created with it. Thus the Empire of Xy grew, and in its golden age all the surrounding Kingdoms were absorbed or acknowledged Xy as suzerain and all paid homage to the Heart.
“But then came the Mage Wars, where mage turned on mage. The force that once created was used to lay waste to all that was good and fair. Magic turned on itself and on its users and all that was perfect and lovely was utterly destroyed.”
“I see that you have memorized your lessons,” Ritathan said. “But have you learned from them?”
Halithe let all her frustrations boil over. “I have learned to wait in this drafty old castle for what might happen to me. Wait for the war to resolve, wait for my father to arrange my marriage. I am always waiting for things to happen.” She drew a deep breath. “I want control, I want freedom, and I see it in your chains.”
“Few are those that can muster the will, the drive.” Ritathan said. “Yes, we have power, but it is restrained and constrained.” Ritathan shook his head. “I am not sure you have sufficient mastery of your temper, Halithe. You have one, and a fiery one at that.”
“I want this,” she gestured at the candle. “And if that means reciting history at you for hours on end, so be it.”
To her surprise, Ritathan laughed, his face open for the first time, relaxed and to her surprise, younger. “Well do I remember my frustration with the history, until I became fascinated by it. Very well, then,” he mimicked her gesture at the candle, and the wick sparked and flamed. “Let us begin.”
Halithe leaned forward in her chair.
“We project meaning upon the world,” Ritathan said softly. “It is up to each of us to manipulate the forces, impose our will upon the world. When we do, we create order from the chaos. Concentrate on the candle flame. See it for what it is. Impose your will. Extinguish it.”
Halithe frowned. “How?”
Ritathan raised an eyebrow. “How do you breathe?” he said. “What is the nature of the flame?”
Well, that was not helpful. Halithe stared at the flame, concentrating. Maybe it was like a riddle? Impose her will on it? She could just reach out with her fingers and douse the flame. But that wasn’t magical. Or was it?
The flame danced on the wick, the colors within varied in hue, but the light was bright and constant. Ritathan didn’t move, or even seem to breathe, as if he was content to wait until the crack of doom for her to—
The flame flickered.
Halithe jerked up. “Did I—”
“My wards,” Ritathan pulled the candle nearer. “Someone comes. Hide. There.” He nodded to the shadows that filled a corner, where the darkness in the shelves seemed deepest.
Halithe fled, whisking her skirts close even as the door to the chamber opened.
“Your Majesty,” Ritathan said, chains clinking as he rose from his chair. “You honor me.”
“No, no, just a bit of a friendly visit.” King Xyrath’s voice boomed. “Sit, sit,” he said, and Halithe heard him take her chair, his scabbard rattling against the wood. “Nice chambers, you have. Lots of books, I see.”
