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"You think the high lord is moonstruck by me?" Cera asked, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of the statement, even as heat crept up her neck.
Maewyn countered, "You think the high lord makes a habit of wasting his afternoons strolling through the gardens with his concubines? I told you, he intends to make you his consort."
"Because I look like one of his people," Cera said, reminding Maewyn of the reason. She didn't mention her own conversation with Isael, which had gone off course before she'd gotten a clear understanding of his personal motivations for elevating Cera's title.
"He can be pragmatic while also being moonstruck," said Maewyn. "Do not think to congratulate yourself. Leave a bull in a pen with ewes for a few centuries and he'll naturally be smitten with the first heifer he sees."
"You truly are fond of metaphors today. So, in this one, the high lord is a barnyard animal?"
Maewyn blanched. "That is not... Can we please return to your instruction?"
Cera relented, and was glad when Maewyn plunged into an esoteric explanation of the weaves and patterns of existence. It gave her time to reflect on what Maewyn had said of the high lord, and then consider it along with the things he'd said to her in the gardens.
'As much as I'd like to, I cannot be with you all of the time...'
'I thought I might court you first.'
'I want you to become fond of me, as I am becoming of you.'
The things he said had stirred a longing in her that she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge. After the sheltered life she'd lived, the idea of nearly any man saying such things to her made a tender part of her soul ache. But coming from Isael, a man of great esteem, prestige, and allure, a man so beautiful she had to will herself to look at him, the ache was something more akin to pain.
She didn't want to believe that he was interested in her beyond her role as his concubine, because she knew she wasn't enough for a man like him. Just being alone with him was a unique form of torture, because she was growing to relish those moments, even as she waited for him to come to his senses and recognize that she was not worth his attention. He was a famed monarch and a renowned warrior. He'd dueled a god and ripped dragons from the sky. How could Cera, who'd spent most of her short life in a room little bigger than her closet, ever hope to hold his attention or is favor?
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
But what if...
The question wasn't an unfamiliar one. It was the same question that had been her constant and, at times, only companion. It was the question that kept her aloft when the monotony of her life had threatened to drown her.
What if she'd been born a true princess, then what would her life be like? What if she could walk out of her room and no one would recognize her? What if she could go anywhere in the world? What if she could join a traveling dance troupe? What if she could sled down the sand dunes of The Eschali Desert, and then camp with the nomads beneath the stars?
What if I could make the high lord fall in love with me?
"...the high lord asks what I have taught you, what will you tell him?"
Cera glanced up with a start. "What?"
Maewyn slumped, her posture reminiscent of the defeated lord in the tapestry. "I cannot teach you if you will not focus."
She thought to use the same excuse she had with Isael, that she was just tired and overwhelmed from the events of the past few days, but she didn't think Maewyn would much care, so she simply offered an apology.
"I'm sorry. Please, go on."
Rather than immediately responding, Maewyn once more produced her tinder pouch and relit the candle. Cera put on an exaggerated mask of concentration, but was confused when Maewyn passed her the candle holder.
"Focus on the flame and look for the weaves," Maewyn instructed. "Even if you have no affinity for manipulating fire, you should at least be able to see its threads."
Cera thought back to when she'd first begun to change, remembering how her bedsheets had seemed less like a whole thing and more like a collection of threads. But in that case, the threads had been literal, she'd only been seeing them more acutely. And while fabrics certainly did stand out in their intricacies, she'd yet to perceive objects as weaves.
As time ticked by, her mind threatened to sink into a hopeless spiral. If she couldn't handle the fundamentals of magic, then perhaps she'd never be able to learn. Forget the egg, perhaps she hadn't even made the flowers blossom, perhaps that had been another coincidence.
But what if Icoulddo magic?
The question centered her, keeping her steady long enough to remember her first night in the citadel. Isael hadn't needed tinder sticks to light the candle on her table. And while he was known for his command of the wind, he was not limited to a single elemental affinity. The elves of Ishvalier had fae blood. Their magic was not one of manipulation, but of conjuring.
What if I did make the egg hatch?
What if I did make the flowers blossom?
