Fascinated, I pressed deeper, wanting to get more of a sense of him. If only the duke had written his shield as an open composition like my recent attacker. Not that the duke would be likely to do something so foolhardy. But I remembered the tantalizing feel of the way it had connected the power to my attacker’s own energy.
Even as I thought it, the energy of the duke seemed to burn more brightly than the other balls of energy in the room. The composition had a taste of the duke himself—there was no other way to adequately describe it—and I realized now that his energy felt the same way. They were connected after all, if not quite in the same way that an open composition would have connected them. All I needed to do was connect with it.
I barely noticed myself murmuring the word, “Connect,” aloud.
But I did notice when my whole awareness dove into the duke’s pool of energy. For a moment I couldn’t think or move or feel. Everything was chaos and whirling knowledge beyond my understanding. And then it coalesced into a single, clear composition. It glimmered before me, clear as anything I had ever seen worked by one of my year mates, although it was infinitely more complex. None of it made sense to me, and yet it all made perfect sense.
Duke Gilbert was thinking of a composition that would seal the room against eavesdroppers and interference of any kind. I could discern no actual thoughts, just the knowledge needed to create the working. From the discomfort in his face and bearing as he watched Cassius, I suspected the duke was wishing he had composed and worked one in advance. I could imagine the king’s unexpected arrival would have brought such protections forcibly to mind.
I was suddenly reminded of one of the rules that bound the Ardannian Council—no members were permitted to work a composition during an active meeting. Normally they met in their council room at the palace where permanent protections rendered the sort of composition filling Duke Gilbert’s mind unnecessary. And the same was likely true of the Kallorwegian Council.
Given the focus of the duke’s energy and the expression on his face, my earlier thinking hardened into certainty. He had been reminded that this room lacked the normal protections of a proper council room. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
But I could act for him.
The thought came unbidden, clear as anything, although some part of my brain tried to assert that it made no sense whatsoever. My hands were already moving, however.
I could write the composition on the duke’s behalf, using his expertise and his energy and his ability. It would be easy.
I pulled a folded sheet of parchment and a pen from inside my robe where I always kept them, ready to take notes in class. Placing the parchment on my knee, I carefully wrote out the binding words, feeling the building power already struggling to break free. It calmed as soon as I finished them, the pressure no longer growing. Now I could relax and write more slowly. I traced out the words, layering them with the necessary meaning, the power flowing through Duke Gilbert’s energy.
When I finally wrote, End binding, I wasted no time ripping the parchment in two. Enormous power rushed out from my working, enveloping both the room and my hiding hole. I had made only a single adjustment to the composition the duke had been picturing—expanding it to include me. I nodded with satisfaction. Now no one would be able to interfere with the meeting in physical form or with any sort of composition.
“End,” I whispered, slamming back into my chair as my connection to the duke cut off abruptly.
I breathed deep, ragged breaths, trying to clear my mind. Already the knowledge that had allowed me to write the composition was fading, disappearing far faster than I could grasp hold of it. I drew out another piece of parchment and rapidly scrawled the beginning of a composition. Nothing happened.
What had I just done? I trembled all over, but it wasn’t from exhaustion. My energy felt no more depleted than when I sat down, despite the power of the strange working I had just achieved. Tentatively I let my senses stretch to the room beyond the wall. The duke’s energy levels were noticeably lower than they had been earlier. In the dreamlike state of the moment I had been convinced I was using his energy to compose, and it must have been true. Yet another impossibility.
I didn’t have the luxury to ponder it, however. The chairs had arrived, and the servants departed. Darius began to speak.
“You have all heard my father promise that he will give me the throne,” he said.
“When you’re ready,” Cassius snarled.
Darius ignored him. “And you have all seen him bend over backward to prevent me reaching full and recognized mastery of my powers. But I am now nearly halfway through my training, despite his best efforts to hold me back. And I was content to let things rest until I had graduated. But my father’s actions lately have compelled me to act.”
“You mean the lure of a crown has done so,” his father sneered.
Darius regarded him coldly. “I have no interest in the crown beyond how I might use it to serve my kingdom. Naturally such a concept is foreign to you.”
He turned back to the Council.
“My father has allowed his emotions to so color his decision making that he places our entire kingdom in peril. He has let his hatred of Prince Lucas and Princess Elena of Ardann grow beyond reason, and he has sought, multiple times now, to assassinate their daughter, Princess Verene of Ardann.”
A murmur passed around the seated Council members.
“Yes, you take a keen interest in the young princess,” Cassius said with disgust.
“I take an interest in anything that affects the well-being of Kallorway,” snapped Darius. “And Kallorway cannot afford for a princess of Ardann to be murdered in our Academy while under our care and protection.”
He met the eyes of the various heads, one by one. “Ever since the war, Ardann has grown strong while Kallorway has grown weak. And it is entirely through our own fault. We cannot now risk the wrath of Queen Lucienne. Instead we must seek an alliance—one we are fortunate she wishes to extend. And yet my father blocks that alliance for no reason beyond his personal hatred.”
Duchess Ashten stirred, exchanging glances with the Head of the Growers.
“I could give you example after example of the ways in which my father is slowly destroying this kingdom, but I don’t believe I need to do so. You have all seen it with your own eyes. And you have all heard his own mouth promising that he will step aside for me, his son and heir.”
“One day,” Cassius growled. “But it is not this day.”
“I seek to unite Kallorway,” Darius said. “I seek to make us strong, as we once were—equal, and greater even, than Ardann. And I seek to do so not so we can wage war on our neighbors and spill our own blood in the process. I would see us grow strong for the good of our people. I do not believe such a future is possible under the rule of my father, and I do not believe he will ever willingly give up his crown. It is you, the Mage Council, who must hold him to his promised word. I am his rightful heir. I call on you to give me the crown.”
As Darius spoke, Cassius grew increasingly restless, casting frequent glances at the door. And yet I couldn’t imagine he wished to flee the meeting. Was he expecting some sort of external aid? Someone to work a composition strong enough to disrupt and delay any vote? It made sense. After all, someone at the Academy had alerted him to the gathering of the Council.