Dedicated to Sue Awad for her insightful help
with our Of Caverns and Casters' Wattys entry

Her golden skin is sickly pale. Her face is devoid of makeup, her unstyled hair tucked beneath her head. She looks like a stranger. Stars know Mother would rather have her name erased from the records than ever be seen like this.

A maid dabs her forehead with a washcloth, and Sela sits beside the large, canopied bed, holding Mother's hand. The matching silver marks on the back of their hands suddenly take on an ominous tone. Before, the images of the Tree always spoke of assurance: this is the Jacquelinian heir, the chosen one for the throne. Now, it burns that no one receives their inheritance before their predecessor's passing.

"Look who finally decided to turn up," Ren says as we enter.

Sela looks up and drops Mother's hand. "Aster! How are you here? How did you get—is there a breach in the wall?" She starts to move around the bed as if scrambling to fix the situation.

"Sela." I hold up a hand. "Sela, it's fine. Calm; all is well. No one could have come the way I did."

She pauses, bewilderment still claiming her expression, but she closes her eyes, drawing a deep breath. When she opens them, she says, "I'm glad that you somehow made it here so quickly. You'll need to tell me how you—"

"What do you mean, 'quickly'?" Ren accuses. "Have you been in communication with him?"

"Not exactly." I glance at him. "As a side effect of a spell, she was able to briefly relay to me the Kadranians' attack, but we've not conversed other than that." I turn back to Sela. "I have a prisoner in our dungeons."

Surprise fills her face once more. "Who?"

"Amarris Veradeaux. She was working with the Kadranians and may have information on their plans."

She nods slowly. "Good." She turns to our brother. "Reyan, we need as much as we can get from her. I would prefer you spoke with her yourself."

Reyan? Is that not his— I barely manage to restrain from stating what, to them, is obvious: Ren has already been officially coronated and dubbed with his regnal name. It's disconcerting to think of him as, technically, a higher station than either Sela or me.

"Surely this doesn't simply cancel Aster's neglect of his duties," Ren—Reyan—objects.

"We don't have time to worry about it now. What's done is done and will be rectified after we push these northern savages out of our country."

His nostrils flare, but he nods. "Of course." He leaves.

A moment of silence passes. Sela seems to have something on her mind, but then she turns away and moves back to Mother. I approach the bed's opposite side.

"How is she?" I murmur. I'm afraid I already know the answer but hope that what Reyan implied isn't true.

Sela looks up at me, sorrow hanging in her eyes. "She's dying, Aster."

A knife drives itself into my chest with her words. All my family is dying. The thought infects my mind like worms a corpse. The Voices of the Book sacrificed Agraund for me in the Meadow; Kadranian scum murdered Father. Now a trivial sickness threatens to take Mother.

Who's next? a cynical voice whispers. Me? Ren? Sela?

I run a hand through my hair, fingers knotting themselves into it, and look once more at Mother's pale face. In my mind's eye, her skin greys, then is lit with the orange reflection of a pyre, and finally darkens to ash in the wind.

Mother will be dead, and as always, I am useless. My hand drops.

Her greying skin reminds me of the deathly pallor Monsuer Bukki's face held. My head snaps up. "Why haven't the healers tried to help her?"

She frowns. "You know only a Second Son is allowed to cast such spells on royalty."

"Yes, for fear they intend deception. Why should such a law stand in our way here?"

She gestures at Mother. "Only the Queen can change the law."

"But—"

"And what if the paltry wounds-healer only makes the illness worse?" She holds my gaze.

That's not really how healing magic works—instead, the caster takes on the full weight of the illness or injury all at once, instead of spread out, removing it from the sick person. But she doesn't understand, and I won't trade one of my subjects' lives for Mother's, either.

My jaw tightens. "Let me do it then."

She bites the inside of her lip, glancing at Mother.

"I won't make it worse. I've cast the spell before." I should have died from it, though, and would have if not for Leavi. And Leavi's not here to save me now.

"You're sure you can do it?"

"I can." Unease tightens my throat. Uncertain how to explain that this is likely a one-for-one trade, I simply pull the blankets back. Sela steps away from the bed, and I pull out my blackwood bowl. "You should send her maid away."

"Aster, that's Maera, my maid. Mother's..."

So many dead. "Oh."

She sends the girl out. I look away, the pad of my finger hesitantly tapping the bowl in my hand. "I need her upper half revealed in order to cast the spell."

"What?"

I repeat myself. Sela hesitates, and I say, "As soon as the casting is done, you can return here to this state, but I can't cast it without."

Her lips press together, but she nods and situates Mother, using blankets to retain as much of her modesty as possible. The skin over her heart is mottled and dark, like death is sucking the light from her.

I turn to my materials. Whatever the Voices of my spellbook said about me as they chose my life over my uncle's, it will be better for Morineaux to have an experienced, well-established person leading this country than to have me performing magic tricks in the corner.

I begin to incant, mixing the paste together and preparing to spread it over Mother in the proper manner. The force of the magic wells within me, tears at my insides, beautiful and powerful and terrifying. I dip my fingers into the paste, ready to apply it.

The magic snaps, and I jerk back as if struck, blood trickling from both nostrils. Darkness edges my vision, but confused, I try to blink it away. I readied the spell correctly. I know I did.

My thoughts are fuzzy, though, and the black in my sight closes in. I force my hand up to clean my lip with a handkerchief. Sela's face fills my view, her lips moving. Her words sound like they're coming through water. She repeats something multiple times and sets her hand on my arm.

"Aster," I finally hear. "Aster, are you alright?"

I blink at her, swallowing. "Sela."

"Yes?"

"Sela."

"What, Aster?"

Dread swims within me. "The only reason the spell would have failed—" I swallow, mind spinning. "It only would have failed if this isn't a natural illness."

Her brows draw together, and she guides me to the chair she'd been using. "What do you mean?"

"The only possibility," I say, gripping the silver arm, "is that she's been poisoned."

"Maera's the only one that's given her anything. Maera and Illesiarr, and stars know neither of them would ever—" She stares at me.

I force my focus to Sela's face. "It must be Maera."

"Not any more than it's reasonable to be Illesiarr." She turns, beginning to put Mother back together. I look to my lap. "You're close to the physician, I know, but that doesn't make Maera a traitor."

"All I know is that Mother's been poisoned."

"You couldn't finish the spell, Aster. It is what it is."

My head snaps up. "If I couldn't have completed it, it would have killed me, not backlashed."

She pulls the blanket back over Mother, glancing over her shoulder at me. "Then by all means, investigate the matter. There might be some Kadranian sympathizer—a cook, the maid bringing the tray, a magician. If you think we can't trust our own people, then the whole castle is suspect. But leave Maera out of it. She hates this as much as we do."

Incredulous, I stare at her. "Your servant hates our mother dying as much as we do?"

Sela turns, arms crossed. "Mother's servant was her aunt, and Mother was always good to Maera. Yes, she hates that her aunt died and that her kind queen is at death's door." Her voice trembles, and she bites her lip, looking away.

Her comment about my relationship with Illesiarr clicks. Maera has worked for Sela since they were eleven. My sister cannot bear to think the girl a traitor.

"It will be looked into."

She turns and rings the bell on the bedside table. "You need to meet with Solus." Maera hurries back in.

"I wanted to see you all before I went to the Wizard Corps."

"You've seen us."

"I need debriefed, and you wanted to know what happened while I was gone."

She comes toward her chair, nodding at it. "Are you well enough now?"

I stand for her. I still feel shaky, but I know I'm not trembling.

She sits, taking Mother's hand again. "We should wait until Reyan finishes questioning your prisoner, so we're all together."

I look to the ceiling. "Must we? Don't you think it would be simpler if it were just you and me?"

She looks at me. "You may not get along with him, but I would rather not have to repeat your story."

"You don't need him for you to tell me what has happened, though."

"He'll explain it better. Please, Aster, go see the wizards."

My hand pushes through my hair. She went from glad I'm back to sour much more quickly than I had anticipated. I drop my hand. "Of course." I turn and leave. Talking to the wizards is going to be difficult without knowing the details of what has happened. I head for the Mage Room, where the first-tier wizards do most of their work.

Going to be difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. I will do a good job here.

I turn onto the hallway of the Room. The wizard stationed at the door jumps and fumbles with the key in her hand. "Prince Aster!"

"Hello, Malloryn." A lower-tier wizard, Malloryn has been the morning guard here for the past year and a half.

"Are you back for good, my lord?"

My smile is small. "With Jacqueline's favor." I gesture at the door. "May I?"

She hurries to unlock it, and I enter. Stone desks protrude from the walls of the circular room, and various casting materials—bottled liquids, bagged powders, boxed chalks—lie scattered across the surfaces. In the middle of the room, a blackwood basin for scrying sits on a mobile pedestal. Normally, this room is busy with our fourteen High Mages practicing, experimenting, and studying.

Four wizards inhabit it. Our greatest diviner, High Mage Averí, leans over the basin, describing what she sees to a lower-tier wizard, who furiously scribbles everything down. High Mage Liraena sits in the corner with heavy tomes and a notebook. And Agraund's right hand, High Mage Solus...

He stands in Agraund's office, leaned over my uncle's desk. For a moment, resentment reigns. This man that condescended to me my entire life, that played the sycophant to my uncle, that refused to help Agraund teach me dimensionalism, his own discipline, on the excuse it would be too difficult for me—this man is not the Mage of the Court, and that office is not his. What happened to respect for the dead and for the title?

Before I can think any more on the subject, his head rises, and our eyes lock. His widen with shock, but strangely, his shoulders relax. He steps into the doorway of the office.

"Prince Aster Jacques!" At his words, everyone but Averí looks up at me. Startled by his surely affected relief, I stare wordlessly around the room for a moment as they stare back at me.

Then I force a relieved smile. "It is beyond good to be home." I step farther into the room, sobering. "Take heart—whatever evils the barbarians throw our way shall be overcome. They did not succeed in keeping me their prisoner. They shall not succeed in capturing N'veauvia." The lines feel wasted on such a small group, but I know they aren't. My words will find their way to the ears of the other High Mages and lower rank wizards.

By this time, Averí's helper has gotten her attention. Having ended the spell, the diviner now watches me as intently as she had the basin.

Liraena, lacking Averí's awkwardness, grins as she stands and curtsies. "I hope you gave them Antium, sire. We're glad to have you back."

I blink at her, touched. Liraena never seemed to pay much attention to me before, and the curtsy was an unexpected reverence since I'm not crowned. "Thank you."

She also successfully dispelled the strange tension, and Solus says, "Come in here, and I'll catch you up."

And there's the normal Solus again, ordering me around and neglecting titles. At the same time... my resentment fades into caution. I have been gone, and Solus was Agraund's second-in-command. My uncle—my uncle isn't here anymore. Someone had to lead the wizards in the week between his death and my arrival. That week dragged on like torture. They're just doing what they can, as I am. I cross the room to go into the office. Memories like casting knives on skin dig into me, but I force them away and focus. Solus is already talking.

He draws a diagram of the castle wall, explaining the current stations and assignments of the wizards. The majority of the telekinetics are already on the wall, with the remainder of them in the castle as a reserve should another group of the enemy break in. The other battle casters—low-tier arrow lighters, a couple powerful elementalists, some illusionists, and an empath—are currently split between here and there as well.

When he finishes explaining the current distribution, I say, "What about the siege defenses? You haven't said anything about them yet."

He looks away from the map and down his hawklike nose at me. "You mean the wall defenses that only the Second Son of the Court's staff can enact?"

"Did my uncle not set them up?"

"The attack on the castle was sudden. We did not realize that a group of them had gotten past the walls until they were already in the castle. Prince Agraund—" His gaze turns back down to the papers, and he straightens them. More softly, he says, "Your uncle did not have time to set them up."

I swallow, looking away as well. "I need to be coronated, then, as soon as possible. Only then will I be able to use the staff."

"Ahm—of course." His voice is smooth like the scales of a snake. "I'll mention it to the Princesse for you."

I regard him. "I can manage, thank you. I have a meeting with her and Prince Reyan later today."

His head inclines. "As you wish."

This behavior reinforces my instincts that his earlier relief was feigned—he must have thought, given enough time of my absence, that he would have been crowned regent. It's the closest anyone without Jacquelinian blood or the Queen's hand in marriage can come to a throne.

"I think we should send more telekinetics to the wall. If the wall falls, then the reserve casters here will be meaningless."

Now he regards me. "Do you not also think that that option has already been discussed and dismissed? We need them here to guard rooms and move the doors."

The advantage he takes of my phrasing stings. "There are not as many rooms to guard as you said there are wizards kept back."

"Do you propose that there be no shifts?" His gaze is imperious.

"I propose that we reduce the number of shifts and send as many telekinetics to the wall as is feasible, so that there may be more shifts there."

"One of our wizards is worth the weight of ten soldiers; the force we have on the wall can handle things. Or do you insult the ability of your own casters, boy?"

My gaze turns to ice. Only Agraund called me boy. I lock eyes with him. "High Mage." His expression keeps level. "You may have more experience than I do, but I am not your understudy, and if I am not now"—I raise my brow—"then I shall shortly be your sire." My voice drops. "I request you treat me as such."

He smiles. "I will do my best to grant you that request, sire."

Ignoring his double-sided tongue, I give a clipped nod. "Well, then. I think I'll visit the wall before I run my ideas by the Princesse."

His gaze narrows. "That could be very dangerous, sire."

"Is my job to serve Morineaux to the best of my ability—unless it potentially endangers me?"

His lips tighten as he watches me. Then he sweeps his hand toward the door. "Jacqueline's favor, sire."

My smile is small and forced, but I incline my head and leave. It could have been worse. He could have not even tried to pretend he respects me.