Fallen Magic

There are about twenty minutes of the lunch break left by the time we’re done eating. Another one of those awkward chunks of time.

“Don’t you dare go and fetch your notes,” Edward says.

I start guiltily. I had been about to do exactly that. I guess it’s not much of a surprise that he guessed it. “Wasn’t planning on it,” I lie blatantly.

“Of course you weren’t,” he replies in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Tell me about your favourite king.”

It’s a blatant distraction attempt, but I would quite like to be distracted. I don’t even need to think for a second to decide. “Eleanor the Bold,” I say.

“Then I shall be a king, like my father before me?” Edward guesses.

I nod. It’s the quote of hers everyone remembers, but it’s worthy of remembrance. Eleanor was Thomas the Defender’s only daughter and named as his heir, but when he died some of the nobles questioned whether a woman could rule. They said the country would never prosper under a queen.

That line was her response, and it’s why every ruler of Rasin since has been a king, regardless of gender.

“I expected you to go for something more obscure.”

“Just because that quote is well-known doesn’t make it any less awesome.”

“You do know – “

“That why the nobles accepted her has a lot less to do with that line than with the need for a ruler the country could unite against to fight off the Sirgalese raiders? Yup. But it’s a good story.”

“It is,” Edward admits.

“What about you?” I ask. “Favourite king?”

“Family loyalty compels me to say Felix Blackthorn,” he replies.

I blink. It’s easy to forget sometimes just who Edward’s ancestors were and all the extraordinary things they’ve done. “Setting family loyalty aside…”

“Felix caused a decade of suffering for the people of Rasin because he couldn’t set aside his desire for control. My actual favourite would probably have to be Philippa the Bright.”

His sentence-long summary of the Second Civil War is not inaccurate. “Why Philippa?” I ask; it surprises me. I expected him to go for something more obscure.

“Not for the obvious reasons,” he says. “She was never supposed to be king. She had no right to the throne, not really. And yet she saved the country from Lucius and brought it back to prosperity.”

Philippa was far from the walking star she’s often depicted as, but she undeniably saved Rasin. I narrow my eyes; I think I can see where Edward is going with this, and I’m not sure I like it.

“The Blackthorns as a dynasty didn’t exist back then, but there were other old Siaril families. Other dukes and lords. There were probably hundreds of people who were better positioned to put an end to the Usurper’s reign of terror than she was.”

Yeah. That’s what I thought. “Some of them tried,” I say. “Died trying.”

“Not enough,” says Edward. There’s a faint note of a familiar intensity in his voice. “Not enough. It’s not enough to be born with power. You have to be worthy of it. You have to use it for the things that matter.”

“You will be worthy,” I say. “I know you will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I say. “I know you, Edward.”

“This was supposed to be a light, distracting conversation, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean it to get this deep. Sorry. Tell me something I didn’t know about Philippa.”

That is a challenge; Edward knows her story well. I think back to the more obscure parts of it. “Do you know how she persuaded the Duke of Greyford to back her claim?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“The Duke had three daughters,” I say. “By all accounts they were famous beauties. The youngest, Isabella, was only ten, but she had the most gorgeous red hair. Like Philippa.”

Edward narrows his eyes. He doesn’t get it, not yet.

“She pointed out how Lucius was destroying the country. How many people were suffering because of his policies. That didn’t work, because the Duke could point out that civil war would be just as bad and there was no guarantee of victory. So then she said: what happens when Isabella is a few years older?”

Edward breathes in sharply. Yeah. He gets it now. One of the worst things about Lucius was the way he treated women, after all. He had a particular type, and both Philippa and Isabella fitted it perfectly. I’ve read the historically accepted account of that meeting, and she went into rather graphic detail about what could have happened. It probably shouldn’t have been something thirteen-year-old me was able to get her hands on, but then again I guess most history books weren’t written with thirteen-year-olds for an intended audience.

“That’s an excellent example of my point,” he says after a moment, when he realises I’m not going to go on. “It shouldn’t have taken a threat to someone he cared about to make him act.”

I pause to tell him off for failing at being light-hearted and distracting, and then realise that the particular choice of story I made was not exactly that. I laugh.

“What?”

“I don’t think we can do light-hearted small talk, can we?”

We can, apparently, derive amusement from our inability to do light-hearted small talk, though.

It’s Alchemy first thing after lunch. I’m not dreading it in the same way as I was CME or Spells, but it’s still nerve-wracking taking a test where a failing grade might also involve explosions, and we’re expected to know recipes by heart. Robin complains about that, saying it’s not what alchemy should be. She’s taken quite a liking to the subject, and has had more than one debate with Edward about its usefulness and the lamentable state of Rasin’s alchemy compared to Sirgal.

I agree with Robin about memorising recipes, if only because I’m haunted by the thought that if I remember a single number wrong it could have catastrophic consequences.

There are three explosions during the test: Elsie, Hannah and Jake. They’re all allowed to restart once the damage has been assessed and mitigated, but in the latter’s case there just isn’t enough time left in the lesson for him to complete the brew we’re working on.

It’s hard not to let the explosions distract me, which I think is why my brew ends up thicker than it should be. We’re aiming for the consistency of tomato soup, but I end up with something closer to mud. Mary gives it a disapproving glance as she collects our completed work.

The consensus in the class is that it was a ridiculously hard test, though. Only Edward and Robin produced a perfect concoction.

Most of us are exhausted by now, but we still have one more lesson today: Magical Law and Culture. Sam is making us write timed essays, which I am not a fan of; producing the quality of work I want to just isn’t something that can be done in the span of an hour. It’ll be a struggle to not end up halfway through and out of time.

“Five tests in one day,” Elsie complains as we wait outside the classroom. “And this is just the beginning.”

It is the worst day we’ll have to deal with, though, since it’s the one without a free period. And only two of the three lessons for each subject will be devoted to tests.

She gets a general murmur of agreement, though Edward rolls his eyes at me when she’s not looking. I respond with a glare, since it is brutal for people who don’t find the classwork far too easy and do actually care about their results.

He glares back, but before we can turn it into a full-on silent argument Sam opens the door and beckons us in.

There are three possible essay questions. I deliberately don’t choose the one on the changing roles of magicians throughout history, because I know I will not be able to say everything I want to about that in the time I have. Instead I decide to write about laws surrounding the invention of new forms of magic. Edward will be choosing that one too, I suspect, and I’ve picked up enough details between him and lessons that I think I can back up my arguments.

I’m pleased with the essay I hand in an hour later. It is actually finished, the conclusion only a little rushed, and is as good as I can make it within the time constraints.

Hannah and Aisha have arranged for all of us to have a picnic in the gardens to relax and unwind after the tough first day. I wouldn’t mind going, but I see the expression on Edward’s face when they announce it. He doesn’t want to go, and he’s spent enough time around his classmates already today that I don’t think I can change his mind.

Well, I could probably be persuaded to abandon the others if it means reading the True History in his company.

So that’s what I do for the two hours until dinner, with occasional breaks to test Edward’s wards. I can’t understand how he can want to keep working after the day we’ve had. Though I guess he doesn’t feel like any of that except Electra’s test properly challenged him. I know I shouldn’t try to compare myself to Edward, but I can’t help feeling jealous sometimes.

I feel much better by dinnertime. Edward does almost have to physically drag me away from the True History to eat, but that’s to be expected by this point.

We go about half an hour after the dining hall opens. That’s Edward’s idea, and I’m pretty sure it’s a way of avoiding most of our classmates, but it’s half an hour’s extra reading time. We’re not entirely successful in avoiding everyone: Elsie arrives shortly after we do and joins us rather than the larger group.

I’m still not sure whether there’s something wrong after the fortune-teller incident or whether she’s out of sorts due to a combination of Edward’s reaction to that and the tests. It has been a tough day for those of us who aren’t Blackthorns, so I can’t blame her for wanting to eat in companionable silence rather than listening to everyone dissecting their test performances.

Even the distraction of the True History isn’t enough to stop me thinking back over the day, though. I have no idea how I did on Electra’s test, likely by her design, which is unsettling. And while the others went well none of them went perfectly; I keep wondering whether I could have phrased the conclusion of my essay a little better if I’d written faster, or whether I should have been able to chase down the errors in my Magical Theory calculations.

“Are we studying after dinner?” Elsie asks.

“No,” says Edward immediately.

“We should, though,” I say. “There’s Enchantments tomorrow, and Conjurations and Transformations. And I could use more practice for both.”

“Yeah,” says Elsie. “We should.”

That is spoken in the tone of someone who very much does not want to do an hour or two’s casting practice this evening. I feel the same way, but…

Edward rolls his eyes. “Look. I’m not going to stop you if you want to, but I do think it’s a bad idea. Unless you’re my dad, there is a limit to how far you can push yourself before you stop being effective, and you do not want to get in the habit of crossing that limit.”

The me of half a year ago would have definitely done the casting practice. But I was in the habit of crossing that limit, I realise. The number of nights I stayed up late revising for end-of-year exams, the number of days only pure stubbornness was enough to get me out of bed and working before lessons started…

I don’t know if I can do that again.

This is only one evening, though. Just a couple of hours, once.

“Says the person who doesn’t need to revise,” Elsie mutters bitterly.

“The advice isn’t any less valid just because I’m the one giving it. That’s a common logical fallacy, actually – “

I glare at Edward. He’s right, but most people’s minds are not entirely logical. Expecting them to be is probably a fallacy in its own right. They should call it the Blackthorn Fallacy, if it doesn’t already have a name.

He knows that look well enough to glare back but stop talking.

“Let’s ask Elizabeth and Robin when we’re done eating,” I suggest, as much to put a stop to this awkwardness as because it’s a sensible idea. “In the meantime, Edward and I were talking about our favourite kings earlier. Who’s yours?”

Elsie frowns for a second. “It’s too hard to choose.”

“Eleanor the Bold and Philippa the Bright are already taken, if that helps,” I say.

“Not that you’re not allowed to have the same favourite as either of us,” Edward adds. “Just it would make for a more interesting conversation if you choose someone else.”

“I was considering both of those,” Elsie admits. “Fine, I’ll pick another one… I’ve always liked Maria the Seafarer. The rise of the Kingdom’s navy, exploring lands far beyond the sea…” she gazes off into the distance, probably imagining that exploration. “I used to dream of running away to sea,” she confesses.

I didn’t expect that, but I keep my silence and wait for her to go on.

“My life was always so busy and cramped and small,” she says. “The idea of the open water, of leaving behind everything I knew and setting sail for a distant shore… it had a lot of appeal. Still does, to be honest, it’s just not that practical.”

“Mm?”

“I have a distant cousin who’s a sailor. One time he invited me on board his ship, just for a day’s voyage. I was so excited for it… spent the entire trip throwing up over the side of the deck.”

“There are pretty good anti-seasickness spells,” Edward says. “I haven’t tried to learn any of them yet, but I doubt they’d be too hard.”

Elsie laughs bitterly. “I think your definition of too hard and mine may differ a little.”

“They will if you think about it that way. But if you want it enough, if you believe in it enough… I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to go to sea without being sick.”

She stares at him for a long moment, silent. I can’t work out what she’s thinking at all. I don’t think it’s a happy silence, though. “You just don’t understand, do you?” she says finally.

“Don’t understand what?”

“What life is like for normal people. You can do anything you set your mind to, because you have a rich and powerful father and you’re a ridiculously good magician already. Breaking news: that’s not the case for pretty much everyone else in the world.”

Edward flinches. “No,” he says, voice cold. “You don’t understand.”

“Edward – “ I say, knowing this isn’t going to end well if he keeps talking.

“All of that? It has a price. And it’s not a cheap one. Besides, money and power aren’t the real ingredients of success. Talent, self-belief, determination. That’s what matters.”

Spoken like someone who has had money and power all his life and has no understanding of the limitations caused by the lack of it. And if I can see that, knowing Edward and knowing he has the best of intentions, then it’s no surprise to see Elsie flinch right back.

I need to stop this before it escalates any further. “Okay,” I say, making it up as I go along. “This argument isn’t helping anything. You’re both right, and you’re both wrong.”

As is ever the fate of would-be peacemakers, that gets me glares from both sides of the argument. “Elsie, that kind of power Edward’s talking about does have a price. I’ve paid a part of that recently, and I can confirm that it’s not pleasant. And Edward, you have no understanding of what it’s like to not have money and power, and how difficult that can make things.”

Neither of them look particularly appeased by that, but at least their anger is now directed at me rather than each other. That’s progress of a sort.

“You both have perfectly good intentions, it’s just…”

“We have irreconcilable views of the world?” Elsie suggests.

I shake my head. “No. Not irreconcilable. I’m a relatively normal person, or I was a few months ago, and yet I’m still somehow friends with Edward. You two can definitely learn to understand each other.”

I hope desperately neither of them are about to say something stupid that will ruin my attempts to persuade them of that. Neither of them say anything at all for a long moment.

“Tell me more about Maria the Seafarer,” Edward says finally.

That, if I’m not mistaken, is a peace offering.