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“You did?”
“Something magical. Rare. Special. Useful.”
Garrett draped the scarf over one hand, played with it, became friends with fabric. “Being a prince wasn’t enough?”
Alex laughed, though the sound contained well-hidden spikes. “Not with seven older brothers. Father’s always told us we have to earn our place—that we don’t deserve anything from him, if we don’t contribute, if we aren’t good enough. Charles and Frederick are better at, well, producing heirs and spares, Geoffrey’s the next Lord Martial in training, Louis writes music for the opera, Alaric’s studying with the royal physicians, Robert’s designing bridges, and Florent’s just had a painting accepted at the artists’ salon in Lyonne. I can fence passably well and compose thoroughly derivative love sonnets, though at least I’ve got excellent penmanship. I always thought that might be helpful, you know, if a grand heroic quest required formal handwritten invitations.”
“It’s a skill most epic heroes probably haven’t thought much about.”
“Maybe one of them could use a secretary.”
“Their quests might’ve gone better. You’re here, though.”
“Yes.”
“I mean…” He had the end of his scarf in one hand; he held up all the color in the world. “Youarehere. With cheese. And a goatherd. Solving problems.” Even if, he thought. Even if you’re here because your father gave you a task, a quest. Be on good terms with the magicians. Make them your allies. Be useful.
Alex shrugged again, a tiny shoulder-gesture; and hopped up from the bench. “I can put the rest of the cheese in your ice-house. If you’re done.”
“We can. On the way. And we can check on Connor. But I haven’t thanked you.”
“You don’t need to.”
Garrett glanced around, found no loose pebbles, touched the marble of their bench. Nudged, gently; let the rock recall how it felt to be liquid, to move, to stir to life. It spilled a drop of white stone, obligingly; he pictured what he wanted, ran intangible fingers across it in swirls.
He held out a tiny marble quill-pen, fingertip-sized, a sculpture: the best he could do, not being an artist.
Alex’s mouth opened soundlessly; he shut it, tried again. “You made that. Just now. You just asked. And it happened.”
“It’s very small.”
Alex took it with reverence. “The individual feathers…”
“Are uneven. I know. I did it fast.”
“Magic,” Alex said, looking up. “Can I…is this for me?”
Garrett felt his eyebrows fly upward. “Did you think it wasn’t?”
“I don’t know. I’m still learning about magicians. I can’t assume. Pretend I said thank you, because I meant to.” He held the tiny quill in the palm of his hand, touched it again. Sunlight fluttered through his hair, over the luxury of his sleeve.
Garrett tossed his scarf around his neck, loosely tied, looping colors. “Come join us. Learn about us. For today, at least. You’ll have to sit on grass.”
Alex grinned at him, and put the marble quill carefully into a pocket, secure. “I don’t mind grass.”
