The Great Ruse

Chapter 23

Schol wears a green bowtie on a Vault Day.

This isn't the first instance he's worn his green bow tie, but including that first time six or so weeks ago I can count on one hand how many times he has made time for me. A busy man, indeed.

The Prince, who is objectively a busier man, has made more time for me than him.

It's not the lessons with Schol that I dread. Staying in the forest until nearly dawn learning how to control my powers at the expense of Sava has actually been the highlight of my time in Lothar Castle. I have reached the point in my magical lifetime where I know enough to pretend I knew what I was doing; I finally understand. I finally know myself.

No, the issue here is that today is Sunday.

I stand where the hallway splits after dinner. Left leads to the staff exit, where I can easily escape, and right leads to the Vaults, where Rein's probably lighting lanterns at this very moment. If he's even there today—he's skipped enough, attending emergency meetings with his Father, that I have no way of knowing. On days that the King has dragged his son away, I eavesdrop on the other side of the door, listening to the rapid development of a plan to hunt down every Wordsmith in their Kingdom and exterminate magic once and for all. Rein always protests the logistics—I hate that his defense is finding the manpower and making enough of these devices, and not the inhumane way the King wants to round his people up like sheep and scan them for a trait they themselves might not know about.

Today, it's different. It's never been me who had to pick between love and duty before.

I branch to the left, fading into nothingness and slipping from the back castle door like smoke.

Schol is waiting with Sava. I see their glowing white outlines faintly. The late Summer air is warm on my skin, the last lights of dusk not reaching the dark shadows between the tall forest trees.

I feel the prickle on my temples when I get near Schol. Another benefit to training, I know what I'm looking for. By the time I exhale, I'm at the beach. Staring out into the ocean and listening to that rhythmic in and out of the tide, matching the in and out of my breathing. Schol nods as I approach, satisfied.

Matching his ruthlessness, I enter Sava's mind—Gods' know I'm not good enough to take over Schol. Hey, kid. Fancy seeing you here in my head. If you gave me a warning I would have at least cleaned up a bit.

Good evening to you, too, Sava.

Look at you getting down the mind-speak. There's hope for you yet, young protégé.

How is it that even your thoughts are sarcastic?

It's my fourth Talent, of course. It's not all fire and speed and weather control. And of course my fifth Talent is my devilishly good looks.

Schol chuckles, that fucking eavesdropper, and throws a set of clothes at me. Men's clothes, I already know. I've been able to extrapolate that he finds my dresses utterly absurd; repulsive even, though I don't particularly see why. They're always rich boy clothes that he gives me—nice silks or sturdy cottons in cuts of the latest fashion—that I take joy in hoarding in the back of my armoire.

I disrobe down to my drawers, only a little uncomfortable with the audience. Sava's looking over at Schol and I'm sure they're having some silent conversation. I'm not bold enough to peek into their conversations like Schol does.

I'm tying my hair up with a leather strap when I notice Schol is looking off to the side. I follow his eyes, tensing unconsciously as if something is about to attack me. Schol is a very hands-on learning kind of guy, but his tactics normally leave me with a headache or some bruises the next day.