Chapter 41 - Purity

  After the rains, do the skies become lapis and the clouds are broken by the touch of the sun.

  - Verses from the Flower Quarter by Unknown.

  The next few days stretched Seraphina’s patience to its very seams. Only one bright thread gleamed in all of the mess: the Sir Gravens–Eloise–Desdemona adolescent love-and-lust triangle had, by some miracle, knotted itself into a fragile truce. In Seraphina’s private calculations, Eloise possessed all the makings of a dutiful wife, with Desdemona far better suited to the more daring station of mistress. If Gravens had even half a strategist’s mind, he would realise that swapping those roles might serve his ambitions far more handsomely.

  Or, was he, seeing that Eloise was close to the future queen, trying to play the long game? She mused as she waited in the Academy’s Grand Library.

  Seraphina fixed her most pleasant smile upon her face, bracing herself for the formidable Mrs Romfortes’ reply. Dust-heavy sunlight slanted through leaded windows, pooling over shelves that smelled of vellum and whispered secrets. The librarian eyed her over half-moon spectacles.

  “This is most irregular, Miss de Sariens. Renewal requires the physical book. That is our procedure.”

  Seraphina set a hand to her heart in theatrical apology. “Alas, I left The Realm of the Four Gods in my dormitory. My next class looms… and you know how Mélisandre can be.” Her smile was bright, her shrug delicate.

  “That is Instructor de Vallières to you, Miss de Sariens,” Mrs Romfortes replied, rapping the counter with a stern forefinger. A sigh escaped her like air from old bellows. “Very well. I’ll process the renewal, but let this be the last indulgence!”

  The young noblewoman was pleased that a little charm and a lofty Charisma score could work ledger-worthy wonders. Seraphina dipped into a graceful old-court bow. The librarian merely sniffed, yet the tug at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. It would serve her well to make an ally of the old, crusty woman.

  Seraphina’s real goal, however, was the book’s single remaining pulse of sorcery. One more activation, she guessed, before it would fall dormant for decades, drinking in ambient Mana like a winter-bound seed. Handing it to Ibn would speed the boy’s training, assuming that was, if he followed the Trial’s narrative rather than “speed-running” it as she had done. She doubted he could, because for most, the tale was a years-long odyssey. If they finished it at all…

  You’ll manage, Ibn, she thought, brushing aside a minor spike of worry.

  ***

  Travelling back to the dormitory, she favoured passing students with faint inclines of the head and small, polite smiles. Behind her rippled murmurs and fluttering speculation. Yet not all faces answered with warmth. The children of King Elidion’s staunchest allies, who also orbited the rising star Este Lize, returned her courtesy with measured coolness. It did not take an idiot to see that factions were crystallising like frost on glass. For the greater part, the boys, as always, seemed to be oblivious to this fact.

  She swept into her building’s common room, mind abuzz with plots both old and new. It was high time to set another wheel spinning.

  “Milly, how are we after the fires?” she asked, reclining against the plush, velvet-clad sofa and snapping her mother’s fan shut. For a moment, she had an almost irresistible desire to put her feet up on the table.

  “Business-wise… or…?” her maid replied hesitantly.

  “Business-wise, naturally. Do keep up.”

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  Miriam adjusted her spectacles. “Bottlesworth’s Confectioneries now controls more than half of Meridian’s grain concerns, and, per your instructions, has begun acquiring private bakeries as well.”

  A satisfied curl touched Seraphina’s lips. “And the land?”

  “We secured roughly three-quarters of the burned lots, but reconstruction stalls—royal interference, scarce skilled labour…”

  “Milly, my father is drowning in refugees from the Empire,” Seraphina mused. “Idle hands grow restless. Bring those with trades, or at least some gumption, into Meridian to rebuild. Compensation in grain, not gold.”

  “But, milady, might that not be exploitative?” Miriam ventured, teeth worrying her lower lip.

  “Hardly. To common folk, grain outweighs gold. We maximize inventory, and they receive sustenance. Beggars cannot be choosers. They should thank us for such charity.”

  Miriam’s shoulders dipped in reluctant assent. “Of course, milady.”

  “Excellent. Now fetch Ibn,” Seraphina commanded, folding her fan with a decisive click. “Sometimes I really do surprise myself with how generous I am.”

  “Right away, milady.” Relieved to flee, Miriam hurried out. Whatever storm Seraphina was conjuring next, Ibn would stand squarely in its path.

  Seraphina waited for Ibn, sitting poised in a high-backed armchair near one of the windows, the drapes drawn just wide enough for thin ribbons of sunlight to stripe the rugs. The dormitory common room, with its polished mahogany shelves, brass-trimmed lamps, expensive wallpaper, and a small hearth that crackled softly, felt less like a student area and more like the salon of a minor princess. Yet the blonde girl’s thoughts were far removed from the surrounding comfort.

  The Academy is a chessboard, she mused, drumming a gloved finger on the armrest. Every whispered rivalry, every pet project sponsored by a noble, feeds straight into the kingdom’s arteries. Here was a microcosm of the Kingdom of Aranthia at large. She wondered what other moves she could make without stretching her resources too thinly.

  A slow, almost apologetic knock stirred her from her strategizing.

  “Enter,” Seraphina called, her tone honeyed yet carrying the unspoken promise of consequences should the caller delay.

  The door eased open. Ibn edged inside, shoulders squared but gaze lowered, as though he feared to track dirt onto the immaculate carpet. There was a rawness to him, a rugged strength despite his young years now. In his eyes bloomed the unmistakable glimmer of strength: not yet the hardened resolve of a true man, but the first, flickering signs of the Swordmaster he was destined to become.

  “Ibn,” Seraphina greeted, smile softening just enough to reassure, “how are you adjusting to life in the Academy? And how fares your training?”

  “I have been doing well,” he answered, guarded and cautious, glancing left and right as though anticipating an ambush. Bitter experience had taught him that an audience such as this with the Lady Seraphina de Sariens rarely ended without a new obligation.

  Without rising, Seraphina reached to the side table and thumped a book onto it—a veritable slab bound in cracked leather with a jewel at its center. The Realm of the Four Gods landed with a dull, reverberating thud. “Splendid,” she said. “In that case, I have a reward for you.”

  Ibn’s brow furrowed, suspicion battling gratitude. “What is this, my lady?”

  “Oh, this?” Seraphina’s manicured fingers traced the gilt title almost seductively. “This is the key to becoming stronger. This”—she tapped the spine—“is how a boy becomes the man he is meant to be.”

  “I… did not know words in a book could do that,” in a deadpan voice. “Thought that was a woman’s role.”

  Her emerald eyes flashed, equal parts amusement and warning. “If that is truly what you believe, the Knights have been far too lenient with you of late.”

  “My apologies, Lady Seraphina.” He bowed formally.

  “At least you have acquired a certain measure of civility. Hazagadami boys can be taught, after all.” She shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, then leaned forward. “Tell me, has anyone ever spoken to you of Errantry?”

  “I have heard the Knights’ tell their account of it, my lady,” he said slowly, as though choosing each word from a thorny bush.

  “Then you know the heart of it is the quest—a great labor that proves worth. I intend to give you such a quest.”

  Ibn’s gaze flicked to the tome. “Am I to learn something from that book?”

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking. But, in a decidedly less abstract way,” she purred, lips curling into an impish grin. “You, Ibn, are going to enter it.”

  His reply was flat. “I do not think I will fit.”

  “Oh, you will.” She said, smiling dangerously. “The book is a door, Ibn, to a Trial of the Goddess. Pass through it and you will earn the favor of Heaven itself.”