Page 41 of Ruby & Onyx

This side of the palace is completely new to me. It’s intimidating knowing that I only occupy one teeny, tiny segment of this monstrous place. Will I ever be able to navigate these grounds with the same confidence and ease that I found in Carcera?

The garden splits into two halves with a long cobblestone path cut through the center. Flowers line the immediate path in a row of blooming colors. Beyond it, the land appears to be divided by utility. Rows of fruit trees – apples and oranges, lemons and mangoes – sprout from the earth on the left side while towering bean stalks and climbing tomatoes span the right. There doesn’t seem to be a single weed in sight. A stone wall stretches across the far side, and I can’t see where it ends. It seems to run on and on, extending far beyond the length of the palace.

Liliana tugs at my elbow as I take it all in. “Have you seen much outside of the palace since you arrived?”

I haven’t. There hasn’t been time. Or, have I not made time?

Either way, it’s another deficiency to add to the list. Another reason that I am not fit to be the Queen of Mendacia.

“I went down to the beach once,” I say, even though it changes nothing.

How long have I been here, anyway? Ten days, I think. But if I’ve been here for ten days, then that means only twenty days remain until I’m forced to accept or deny the arrangement. My chest flutters at the thought.

“I will have to be an excellent tour guide, then.” She leads me to a carriage pulled by a restless bunch of horses. It’s a bright red contraption with wheels that are half as tall as me. Clearly, being inconspicuous is not on Liliana’s agenda.

I follow her inside the traveling gourd, careful not to hit my head on the golden trim. Before I can situate myself, gravel beings to crunch as the carriage shakes to life. I stumble into the seat opposite Liliana and try to hide my embarrassment.

“Does the palace have any protective enchantments on it like the one in Carcera?” I ask behind blushing cheeks.

With a knowing smirk, she leans against the door and points her gloved finger to a woman standing atop one of the many towers lining the perimeter. “See those sentries?” She wears the same navy uniform as the guards stationed out front, but unlike the guards who wear their weapons emblazoned on their bodies, she appears empty-handed. A ruby red sash drapes across her chest in place of a baldric. “She’s a praecian warrior. Her magic is more lethal than any weapon or enchantment. Nobody stands a chance of slipping past the praecians.”

I’ve never heard of a praecian warrior. We have no such defenses in Carcera, though I suppose that’s why we require a barrier. But if the most lethal and threatening force comes from these praecians, are there other villages out there with that protection? Could that have been an alternative to the barrier all along? And if we have such great power in our defensive forces, is it possible that our enemy holds the same?

“Are there any praecian warriors fighting for Umbra?” I hold my breath while her mouth wrinkles in consideration.

Finally, she says, “No, not exactly. The term praecian applies more to their training than their innate being. Young girls with exceptional magical ability, athleticism, and intelligence are sent to the praecian academy for training. They dedicate fifteen years to honing their skills. And even then, only the best receive their station here.”

“What do they get in exchange?” Fifteen years is a long time to spend in training.

“They, as well as their families, are handsomely rewarded,” she emphasizes the word handsomely like it’s an unfathomable amount.

“Are they all women?” I scan the towers in search of an answer and confirm that only women appear in sight.

“Yes, this particular strength of power only appears in women.”

The idea of anyone possessing any sort of magic is still quite foreign to me. I’m still struggling to comprehend my own ability to throw carrots across the room. But if only praecians are capable of a specific strength of power, does that mean there are different tiers of magic?

I ask, “Do different people have different powers? In Carcera, I knew only of Lord Myles and Lady Lora’s magic. Though, who knows how many might be capable if it weren’t for the enchantments on the barrier.”

“To think of Lord Myles as the pinnacle of magical ability is an abomination.” She lets out a hearty scoff, which makes me wonder if there’s some animosity between the two of them. “But, to answer your question, not all are born with magic. Not all are born with powerful magic. Some are capable of no more than an occasional fizzle of air.”

“But Lord Myles created the barrier, right? Do you not consider that to be powerful magic?” I witnessed the barrier’s strength with my own eyes. I saw it decimate a man in a matter of seconds.

She bursts into a howling laugh that rolls through her like a tremor. “No, no, my dear. Lord Myles did not create the barrier. That is strictly the result of praecian power.”

“I didn’t know.” I retreat into my mind and begin turning over each misinformed memory one by one.

“There’s no better time to learn than now,” she says with a calm reassurance. “There are levels to magical abilities. Some of the most powerful, like the praecians, can kill with the blink of an eye or summon darkness with the snap of a finger. On the other hand, the less capable, like Lord Myles, are bound to spell books and incantations. They lack both the natural ability and the creativity to produce any magic without those aids. Speaking of abilities, how are your lessons going?”

“I can move objects across the room and conjure flames, though I have yet to successfully extinguish them.” As I admit this truly unremarkable progress, a chilling thought rakes over my bones. If everyone is born with some degree of magic, then what makes me special at all?

She reaches across the carriage and places a hand on my knee. “The natural elements are difficult to master. If you’re able to conjure flames so soon into your studies, then that is impressive.”

I try to smile, but the corners of my lips act in defiance, flickering more toward a frown. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “And what of your magic? What are you capable of?”

She cups her hands together in front of her chest and then leans over to blow gently into them. A minute passes, and then she reveals a rosebud resting in her palms. The white petals begin to peel open, forming a perfect bloom. “Take it,” she says.

I lift the rose to my nose and take in its delicious scent. It’s more intense than a garden rose but every bit just as lifelike. The petals are soft and delicate. The leaves curled around the bud have flecks of brown dotting the edges. How is that possible?

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