Page 8 of Prince of Flowers
From my understanding, intruders would need to deal with the sounding of a horribly obnoxious alarm, which would then summon enforcers to the premises. Which was a curious concept, sure, but one that I always thought would be enhanced if tripping the alarms also magically animated some nearby trees to rip the interlopers limb from limb.
But that was humans for you, bloodthirsty and violent and fascinated with death, except, of course, when they weren’t. I found it so interesting how rapidly modern human technology had advanced, far enough that it was threatening to catch up with the effects of magic in so many ways. And yet here we were in the Wispwood with a form of security that still outmatched anything that humans could create.
Nothing against regular, nonmagical humans, naturally. Again, I loved video games myself. Couldn’t live without them. A fantastic innovation, in my humble opinion. I was only a firm believer in selecting the right tools for the job. Part and parcel of my own path as a summoner. The cleverest among us knew to call in the right eidolon for the right situation. And in this situation, instead of panels and keycards, we had our sentinels.
I traced my fingers in a series of memorized patterns over the smooth, silvery bark of a particular tree. Its true purpose was to serve as one of the primary gateways into the Wispwood, a pair of sentinels stationed at every entrance. And yes — under the right circumstances, their branches could be awakened and mobilized to tear intruders into tiny little pieces. See? I wasn’t just talking nonsense.
Yet these slender, almost metallic trees blended in with their surroundings, just common plants to the untrained eye. And to Sylvain as well, apparently. I watched out of the corner of my eye as I completed the gestures necessary to access the academy, an array of glyphs lighting up along the bark. Sylvain’s mouth had fallen open in fascination. I tried and failed to repress a smirk.
“Still think that this is unimpressive?” I asked.
His lips snapped shut, his eyes hardening like he’d just remembered that he was supposed to be an asshole.
“Just carry on, then,” he grumbled. His lips twisted, refusing to give in and admit defeat.
“If you say so,” I said, my voice slightly singsong, the laughter embedded in my throat. “If the sentinels don’t impress you, perhaps the school itself will.”
I took a step forward, then noticed that he hadn’t matched my pace. He was hesitating. My forehead furrowed as I studied him, wondering what was holding him back. The droop in his shoulders, the tight line of his lips, the creases in the corners of his eyes. Was that apprehension, and maybe even a littlefear?
Whatever. I grabbed his hand. Sylvain, as impertinent as ever, sputtered and resisted, possibly even offended by my audacity. Imagine, me, a human commoner, laying my filthy peasant hands on his precious person. His mouth opened like he was about to say something sharp and cruel, but his lips closed again, his cheeks flushing.
From embarrassment, I told myself, and from nothing else, fighting to ignore the strength of his hand as his fingers laced through mine, the roughness of his palm. Prince or no prince, Sylvain was clearly used to a bit of hard labor. Then again, a man didn’t end up built like him on accident.
“Come on, then,” I said, tugging him toward the invisible gateway, past the threshold.
The familiar sensation of the Wispwood’s magic tingled along the fine hairs on my skin as we passed through the veil between the mist-shrouded forest and the academy proper. Our steps no longer crunched over forest floor, over grass and twigs. This time, each of our footfalls pounded out echoing steps, on ancient stone, on noble ground.
I released Sylvain’s hand. He was too busy gawking to shoot me an insulted glare, too enraptured by the sight of the place that was at once my school and my home. I smiled as I took in his expression. The snobbish, hard-to-please prince could no longer contain his wonder and excitement.
His huge eyes reflected the spectral blue light of the sacred well in the courtyard, his mouth so open that one of the ghostly wisps hovering above it could have flown past his lips and down his throat. Again it struck me how innocent and beautiful Sylvain looked when his features weren’t etched with anger or arrogance. I made a low bow — mocking, teasing, perhaps — but I couldn’t help myself.
“Welcome, oh great prince, to the hallowed halls of the Wispwood.”
4
Sylvain turned in a slow circle,jaw lax as he marveled at the stonework, the courtyard, the trees and vines.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he breathed.
An appropriate reaction. I loved watching first-timers absorb the Wispwood for themselves. That was the best way to take in the sights of the academy’s great courtyard, after all, getting a full, gorgeous view from the ground floor.
The stone walls of the interiors stood around the central Wispwell, making the entrance courtyard an oddly soothing combination of natural and manmade structures. The rest of the academy radiated from the well, its glow bathing the courtyard in its soft, ghostly light.
Was it an ancient stone fortress overrun by nature, or the castle of a long-dead mage lord left for the trees? Both things, actually.
Students sat under great oaks and willows that grew straight out of the rock. Those using the stairs to the higher levels ran their hands along bannisters sculpted out of branches and twisting vines. Grass poked up from between the cobblestones, tendrils and saplings sticking out of the gaps in the walls, curious little visitors.
Nature wasn’t merely allowed to run rampant here. It was encouraged to do so.
“Is it drinkable?” Sylvain asked, motioning toward the Wispwell.
The question was so earnest that I almost laughed. But he was serious, staring hard at the water.
The Wispwell was a large pond that glowed with its own eerie blue light. Tiny motes of magic floated up from its surface to drift across the plaza, or to hover up to the upper floors and the high ceiling.
And it ran deep, but how deep, exactly, nobody knew. The only living things that benefited from its waters were the flora that thrived throughout the castle despite the improbable conditions. I encircled Sylvain’s wrist with my fingers and guided him away from the edge.
“Theoretically, the water should be safe. But drinking it isn’t advisable. The Wispwell is sacred, the oldest part of an already ancient institution. It was here before the castle even existed. We don’t really use its waters for anything. If you’re that thirsty, I can maybe find you something to drink?”
