The Faisan family line went further back than Caldora itself. During the bloody division of Maesia, among the first and strongest soldiers to fight for Caldoran magic were a man and a woman with only three stones between them - inercium and forcate on her side, encaline on his. No matter who married into their bloodline across the generations to come, no other stones were ever mastered by their children. It was dubbed "the curse of the Faisans," though curse was something of a misnomer. Their lineage moved mountains.

Caldoran code demanded that all mages in control of at least four stones served the kingdom. In the fine print, an exception: if called upon, specified three-stone wielders could also be levied. No names appeared anywhere in the law, but it was universally and tacitly known that this stipulation had been devised to keep one particular family tethered.

It worked for hundreds of years, until the lineage bore a tameless spirit who scorned her predetermined life of obligation. She faked her family's death in a mansion sent up in flames and fled to the frontier with her husband, her son, and her daughter in law, and so ended the Faisan name.

That woman was Malik Faisan's grandmother.

The last direct notch in a legendary family line, Malik passed his days tending to his garden and rereading the archive of books left behind for him. They were factual but entertaining, mostly chronicles by Faisans who had witnessed the history firsthand. It was a peaceful life, if not the most exciting for a young man in his prime.

Or, it had been, until a stranger crash-landed in his gardenias.

Their cloak was filthy. That was all Malik had time to note before the Mingles descended.

They flocked the stranger with talons and fangs, batlike wings swarming into a stormcloud over Malik's garden. The stranger's hands lashed out from beneath the cloak. Malik knew at once he was Interran - he'd be stupid not to. The bands around his arms were not subtle. Neither was the jewlery dangling from his ears when his hood fell away in the struggle. Not just any Interran, then. Noble birth. A strong fighter, probably, but the river was too far to do him any good, and the rocks he flung skyward with the mossy gem on his wrist were too slow for the nimble brutes.

Malik did not step outside to help him. He had learned wariness before he learned kindness; if somebody was to appear on his doorstep, he was to bury their body. This was the only way to protect his freedom. The Mingles would make his life easier.

Huge black eyes caught Malik's through the window. The stranger must have seen on Malik's face that he planned to watch him die, because he did not bother pleading. He narrowed his eyes, accusing, determined, and sprung back into his hapless fight.

Malik felt himself freeze from the inside. Then he felt himself run through the door.

When the battle was over, and the Mingles hung limp from stone stakes jutting from the flowerbed - his poor masterworts - the Interran said, How did you do that? He was looking at Malik's rings. At least he was not stupid, either.

Malik dressed Adrian's cuts with salve he made himself and fed him from the garden. When Adrian asked for a bed to lie in, Malik gave him the second room. And that night, when regret and hard-taught fear got the better of him, he knelt at Adrian's bedside with a knife pointed at his chest.

Adrain caught his wrist mid-strike and fixed him with that same narrowed look. He did not move to leave the next day, and Malik did not make him, though his stilted hospitality came at a price. In exchange for a room in his home and food off his table, he demanded labor.

If you knew who I was, Adrian bristled. He disliked like this man and his tone. He was not a servant to be driven.

Are you going to tell me? asked Malik, to which there was no response. It matters not. Whoever you think you are, whoever you might have once been, to me you are nobody. I am the king of this land. A man who runs from his title has no right to wield it as a weapon.

They weren't friends. It was a delicate peace, only one week old and yet to open its eyes. Nicholas was a sledgehammer.

"Eavesdropper," Malik said. When he closed his fist around the buckle, the black encaline on his little finger glowed yellow. "It would take a skilled mage to place such a robust charm on so unassuming an item. Somebody high up the Caldoran food chain has been listening to your every word."

Adrian grayed. Nicholas clambered onto his knees.

"I had no idea," he swore. "It was probably the king-"

"The king?" Malik and Adrian said at once.

"I am going to leave your body for the birds," said Adrian, leering over him.

"Not inside," said Malik.

"Let me explain," pleaded Nicholas.

The stones cuffed around Adrian's arms began to glow. "You have thirty seconds."

It was the best thing he could have said. It calmed Nicholas down. He had spent his life packaging his thoughts into digestible pill capsules. With practiced, almost instinctual ease, he reigned them in with a ball and chain and forced them into bite-sized pieces.

That didn't make them easy to swallow. "Do you honestly expect us to believe our lives began a week ago?" said Malik.

"Or that Rayan would let you go out of- what, the kindness of his heart?" scoffed Adrian.

"I have twenty-three years of memories that beg to differ."

"That man's idea of mercy is a speedy execution."

"Care to explain my collection of history books?"

"He would mount your head on his wall."

"Magic doesn't work on me." That gave them pause. "You saw earlier. The vines. For some reason, your magic just- nullifies when it touches my skin."

Without warning, Malik sent the buckle flying for the space between Nicholas' eyes. He barely got his hands up in time. The impact stung a little, but the buckle dropped instantly. The stones on Adrian's upper arms, one orange and one yellow, flickered as a stringy plant on the windowsill wound toward Nicholas, elongating rapidly from the stalk. When it was right in front of his face, Nicholas poked the black flower at its tip, and the growth stopped.

"Ta-da?"

"I don't see any zem," Malik said dubiously.

"Should we make him strip?"

"I'd rather not."

Nicholas lifted the bottom of his shirt.

"Are you deaf as well as mad?"

"Something burned me when I crossed over," he said. "I still don't know what. But your gemstones- uh, zem? They burn when I touch them, too."

"Kova zem," said Adrian. "Blessed stones. You really don't know?"

"Do not play into his tricks," hissed Malik.

"My story. It's accurate, isn't it?" Nicholas held up his journal, but Adrian quickly snatched it away.

"We've already established that you're a stalker."

"There's more, stuff that hasn't even happened. A stalker can't tell the future."

"No," Adrian said darkly, curling his fists, "but perhaps a witch can."

"Nobody can," said Malik. "There is no foresight, even in the most powerful witchcraft."

"I don't even know what witchcraft is," Nicholas maybe whined, a little. "How about this: you two hold onto the book, hide it if you want to. It's more important to me than anything right now, so you have leverage, or whatever. If something happens that's written in there, you'll know I'm telling the truth."

"How about this?" echoed Malik. Another object flew at Nicholas' forehead. Adrian caught the kitchen knife by the hilt before it could lobotomize him, arm taut against the pull until Malik released his magic with an aggreived sigh. "You can't seriously believe him."

"I don't! I don't. But you can't just kill him."

"You've grown comfortable," Malik growled. "You will not give me orders in my home."

"I will when you behave like an unsocialized animal."

The ebony side table slammed into Adrian's chest. He careened back into the wall, coughing for breath, bracketed between its fluted legs. Just as quickly, the stringy plant surged in size. Soil showered the rugs as it burst from its pot, fat tendrils winding around Malik's ankles, wrists, and the braid hanging down his back.

"Don't you dare," said Malik. The plant forced his chin high. "I gave you that power."

Nicholas, who was still seeing the residual frames of his life flashing before his eyes (it was a pretty depressing montage), watched this all unfold from the floor.

"You didn't give me jack. You opened my eyes, and I am trying to return the favor. Regardless of how many lies he's told, if there is any possibility that my future lies in his book-"

"Then we'll kill the boy and keep the book."

"I will watch him," said Adrian. "Day and night. "If it comes to it, I will kill him. You have my word."

"What good will your word do me?"

"I swear on my country."

They looked at each other for a long time.

"I'm taking the book," said Malik.

Adrian's cheeks puffed like he was physically holding back an argument. "Just. You shouldn't look at it. It may influence your actions. We won't know if it truly predicted anything."

"Fine," Malik spat. He beckoned, and the journal soared into his hand from the floor. The plant unraveled. The table drifted back into place.

"Share the room. Do not let him out of your sight." Malik swept toward the kitchen, taking the journal and Nicholas' bag with him. "And you- change, you're filthy. If you cut my clothes, I will cut off your hand."

He glared at the frayed hemlines of Adrian's ensemble. Adrian smirked, tugging at the ends of linen shorts that had very clearly once been pants. "It isn't my fault you're as thick as a prairie cat."

Malik slammed the door. Adrian sagged against the wall, and in the waning daylight, Nicholas noticed the way his cheeks seemed to sag, too. He looked exhausted. 

"Reckon it's too early for bed?" he asked.

The sun had only halfway set. "Not at all."

Nicholas should have considered before agreeing that bed really meant bed. As in, bed, singular.

"Don't be an old maid," Adrian taunted. "It's spacious."

Nicholas changed into clothes that hung past his heels and wrists. Adrian did not do him the decency of turning away. Nicholas heard him shuffle closer and yelped, hurriedly pulling the pants over his ass.

"What's this?"

Nicholas spun. Adrian was sliding what was left of his phone from the pocket of his discarded pants. No amount of dry cleaning would fix those grass stains.

"Proof," said Nicholas. "Technology from Earth."

"It looks like a chunk of metal and shattered glass."

There was no fixing that, either. If only he could trade in Cairo's cash for USD when he got home. If he got home. "Yeah, it does now."

"Tell me your name."

"Nicholas."

"I swore on my country, Nicholas. You understand the weight of that."

"Yes. Your Majesty."

"So do not give me a reason to kill you."

"I won't."

Adrian sat heavily on the side of the bed closest to the window. "I didn't quite make it to 'Majesty.' I'm not anybody, anymore. What I mean to say...Adrian is fine. In front of the Caldoran, you don't know me as anything else. Is that clear?"

"Super."

"Do you plan to sleep standing? That might make me distrust you more than anything."

Nicholas perched on the very edge of the bed. Adrian chuckled. "What, never slept with a prince before? Joking! Don't look so sickly, you'll offend me." He laid a pillow down to bisect the bed. "There. Strict sides. No crossover."

Nicholas sat against the headboard stiff as a log while Adrian crossed his arms behind his head and stretched out his legs, looking every bit like he'd been spun from golden thread as the sunset shifted over his skin. It clung to the high points of his cheeks, trickled into the dips along his arms, his legs, his midriff, then gradually gave way to shadow. Somehow the lines of him were even more pronounced in the dark. Nicholas looked away.

"I will not believe that every choice in my life was made for me. Would you?"

Nicholas admitted, "I might." He wouldn't mind having someone to blame.

"I shudder to think you know everything inside my head."

"Not everything."

Adrian shifted onto his side. "What must I do to coax more than three words out of you?"

"Invasive brain surgery, probably," mumbled Nicholas.

"Four! And they were funny." Adrian rested his cheek in his palm. He had the kind of smile that made Nicholas feel red in the face. "I'll confess, it's a worthy shame that you are almost definitely out of your mind. Or a stalker."

Nicholas turned his back, tucking himself up to his cheeks. "Goodnight."

"Sleep beautifully, Nicholas."

He didn't sleep much at all, no matter how ruefully his body called for rest. He kept waiting for Malik to appear at his bedside with a knife, or for Adrian to roll over the pillow between them and choke him. Rest came in short sprints. He only knew he'd been drifting off when the paranoia won out and he checked over his shoulder, and Adrian's strict side was empty.

♛ ♛ ♛

On Adrian's first day in the Faisan home, he was told to tend the garden. It was careful work. With the crescia stone on his right arm, he urged seeds to germinate and unraveled flower buds into full-bloom. Too much, and they would wilt.

On his third day, Malik asked him to grow a tomato the size of a pumpkin.

That's not possible, said Adrian.

A small pumpkin.

That's not possible.

Crescia, the growth stone, did not defy nature. It sped up natural processes, but it couldn't reshape them. Interran magic seldom sought to alter a target at its essence; such work was perverted, sacrilegious. It was the work of Caldoran mages. It was the death of Maesia.

There was one exception, a power that could splice together shredded skin and seal fractured bones. Such a talent, the gift of healing, would never be scorned by a people who so celebrated life. But of the nine minerals wielded between the two kingdoms, a baby born with vidia was the rarest. And even among those blessed few, it was not a stone easily controlled.

How are you so certain? said Malik. He knelt, pressing a palm to the grass, and three stone spires coiled out of the ground, sloughing dirt from their tips. Is it also impossible for a Caldoran to command the earth?

It should be. Yet here you are, again.

A smile, the first one. Here I am.

If vidia was the power to rewrite, and crescia was the power to grow, then together they were reconstruction.

But Adrian was stubborn. It doesn't work like that.

Have you tried?

It's...unnatural.

Right, right. To your people, distortion defies the land. Mine would say the same about tapping into it for your own advantage. They were the same people once, don't forget, with the same gifts. Until they became so entrenched in their principles that they willingly gave up their own power, and now it's been too long and that power is lost, and isn't that a shame. What was taken for granted cannot be regained. But we are not as limited as we think.

The secret to the Faisan family strength was this: long after the dust had settled over the chasm between their nations, they still thought like Interrans.

What is the difference between a stone inlaid in a wall - Malik stroked the house's foundation and pulled from it a small stone arrowhead - and one buried beneath the soil?

The latter is connected to the land. Your magic cannot touch it.

Cannot, cannot, cannot, Malik mused as he touched the ground again. Stop leaning over me, he said, seconds before an identical arrowhead shot from the ground and through the air, into the belly of a sparrow passing overhead. It is all unnatural. Hungry?

♛ ♛ ♛

Nicholas heard footsteps through the wall, soft and lightweight. Malik. It was still dark outside. The front door opened and closed, and Nicholas crept into the main room. He would be the only one there for some time. This was routine.

Malik's voice hummed through the wall, "...not to let him out of your sight."

"He is sleeping," said Adrian. "And seemingly rather weak."

"I read the book."

This was not routine. These early hours between them were supposed to pass quietly.

There was a slam that rattled the door. Nicholas flinched away. "What is wrong with you?"

"Calm yourself, bull brain, I lied," Malik said, slightly choked. "Still clueless as a lamb, just as you like me."

"I tire of your games."

"I don't like that the two of you know something I don't."

"You hardly know anything at all, hermit."

"Who is the man you are so desperate to bury."

"What does it matter to you? You told me he was nobody, and then you put him to work. So let me work."

"You blundered onto my land hardly able to stand on your own two feet and tried, from your knees, to command me. Do you know who behaves that way? A toddler."

"As if you've ever seen a toddler."

"There it is! That arrogance of a child. I did you a favor."

"By stripping me of my station?"

"That, you did that yourself. I am trying to understand why."

"You will never understand," Adrian seethed. The door juddered once more.

"Was it exile? Is that why you're here?"

"Do not disgrace me."

"Then perhaps you are right. I cannot wrap my mind around why any man would willingly submerge himself in such blatant misery."

Here, Adrian was quiet.

"I instructed you to work dawn til dusk, and yet you toil before morning every morning. I asked for large fruits and you have given me flowers that sever the clouds. You look as though a mudflat swallowed you whole, realized how foul you taste, and spat you back out. Why are you working yourself ragged?"

Nicholas nearly knocked his head in his haste to press his ear against the door.

"I am not strong enough."

He had to strain to hear it, but he was certain. He knew those words.

"Does that mean you plan to return when you are?"

"I...cannot."

"Why? Why force yourself away from a people you love so hopelessly you'd build a monument out of petals for them?"

"Because I don't know how to protect them!" The context wasn't exactly as Nicholas had imagined, but the picture was the same. He could see it through the wall: Malik's back pressed to the door, Adrian's arm shoved against his chest, a frown like a corkscrew.

"They are hunted by evil and they don't even realize. Nobody realizes except for me, nobody is willing to realize, and if I cannot reach them I have no right to- grace, even now I can feel it stalking, and I am ashamed. I will not return without the means to tear out its claws. And I won't accept criticism from a man who wouldn't understand duty if it slithered down his throat. You don't know the first thing about serving your people."

It was frantic bait. Malik let it sink into the water, ignored. "Then why aren't you chasing this evil? Hunt the hunter, do something."

"If I knew what to do it would be done!"

"Do something about that, too! Or do you plan to punish yourself here forever?" Malik waited, then went on, smug. "It is depressing, watching you wallow in your shame. It ruins my view. Do you know what's truly shameful? The only person you're saving from out here is yourself."

Another line straight off the page. Nicholas felt himself smile, knowing what came next.

"...Not to alarm you, but you're starting to sound worried."

Malik would be scowling now, a hint of a pout on his bottom lip. "My only concern is having my house back to myself as soon as possible."

"So what you're saying is, you want to help me?"

"Thank you. I nearly forgot I was speaking to a bull."

"Oh ye great sage, thou old hermit, do impart thy wisdom."

There was another thud. Nicholas wanted to run outside, to see Adrian grinning up from the ground and cry, open the book! Open it right now and believe me.

But if he inserted himself into the scene, would he change it? He was not a part of this story. A few words made fickle proof; what came next mattered more. There would be no denying him then. He had to be careful not to interfere.

"There is," Malik said, "or, there was- a seer. A witch in the walls of the old school, allowed to live comfortably so long as she devoted her life to Halcifer. She was bound to the castle by a powerful oath. And when the fighting broke out..."

Nicholas mouthed along to Adrian's words. "She was trapped."

"She lost her life, but I believe...well, from what I've read...I have a theory. That a shackled soul cannot be free even in death."

"A seer. You said foresight was impossible."

"It is. But there are other things to look for."

"To rely on witchcraft would be..."

"Unnatural? Look around you, Touro."