Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)(2)
The silver gates pulled open and the carriage rolled onto the lush royal grounds. Ahead, the palace sat at the center of a sprawling lake. Its domes, each a patchwork of colored glass, caught gleams of moonlight, reflecting rays of scarlet, azure, and jade.
There was no strip of land to connect the palace to the surrounding grounds. At least not a permanent one. As the coach reached the water’s edge, the stone carvers stationed before the lake raised their arms in unison and a path of stone rose out of the water. As a child, Alfie would stick his head out the window and watch the stone bridge descend back into the lake as the carriage rolled forward. Now he just stared straight ahead.
The driver pulled the horses to a halt before the palace and Alfie stepped out, feeling small before his towering home. A servant stationed at the bottom of the stone stairs bowed as Alfie approached.
“Welcome home, Your Highness,” he said. “The king and queen have requested—”
“—that I wait for them in the library,” Alfie said, finishing the servant’s sentence. It was where his parents always went when there was something important to talk about. The servant nodded at him. “I’ll go straightaway. Gracias.”
Alfie trudged up the stairs, his half cape flowing behind him in the night breeze. As he approached the doors they swung inward and he was hit with the familiar scent of home—the cinnamon incense his mother loved to burn and the smell of freshly washed linen. His shoes clattered against the hand-painted tiles of the palace floor, the sound echoing through the halls. Swaths of richly colored fabric were draped across the ceiling, bringing a touch of warmth to the looming corridors. The walls were tiled just as the floor was, forming mosaics of bright color—swirls of burnt orange, rosy red, and summer yellows. As he walked, servants stopped their work to bow, and Alfie inclined his head, his discomfort growing with each look of deference he received.
Alfie hurried on to the library. If he and his parents were going to talk, he needed to get it over with quickly. Tonight, he had a game to attend and win.
He turned into a sweeping corridor where a servant no older than twelve meticulously dusted the portraits of past kings and queens that lined the walls in their gilded frames. With a word of magic, the boy floated his feather duster up to clean a gargantuan painting of Alfie’s great-grandfather. The servants were taught simple forms of spoken magic, as necessary for their jobs—spellwork to clean and organize. Alfie didn’t recognize the boy; he must’ve been new. He could see the glint of a silver earring in the boy’s right lobe. He certainly was new if the head of staff hadn’t caught him wearing that. Alfie made to hurry past him unnoticed, but the boy spotted him, his eyes wide. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish on a hook.
“Prince Alfehr!” He turned away from the wall of paintings and dropped into a low bow. With his concentration broken, the duster came careening down.
Alfie outstretched his hand. “Parar!” With a word of magic the duster froze, hanging suspended just above the boy’s head.
A flush crept up the boy’s face as he sheepishly plucked it from the air.
Alfie hurried on, leaving the boy to stare after him. He looked at him with too much hope, just like the people at the port.
Alfie dashed down the hall and darted through the dark wood doors of the library. He let the silence of the room swaddle him. The library was cavernous, with a domed ceiling of colored glass. Wheeled ladders leaned against the shelves upon shelves of books that lined the walls. The sweeping room was outfitted with desks and plush armchairs to sink into with a good book. No matter how many talks of legacy and responsibility he’d endured here, there would always be something soothing about the library.
Alfie walked to the nearest bookshelf, where a ladder scarcely taller than he was stood. He looked up. The rows of books stretched all the way to the ceiling. Above, painted on the domed, stained glass ceiling was a mural of the history of the Castallan Kingdom rendered in a starburst of color.
Alfie stepped onto the first rung of the ladder.
“Alargar,” he said. The ladder stretched upward until it reached the top shelves. His shadow squirmed uncomfortably where it clung to the bookshelves before him. He must have been at least twenty men high. But he wasn’t much afraid. Any bruxo worth his salt knew the magic to slow a fall, soften a landing. And being up this high was infinitely better than waiting on the ground to be lectured for turning his back on his responsibilities for three months.
Alfie pushed away those thoughts and ran his hand over the books’ leather spines. He stood surrounded by tomes on all types of magic. Books on elemental magic, an art grounded in the inborn ability to manipulate one of the four elements via physical movement and instinct; books of written and spoken spellwork, both based on the careful study of the language of magic; there were even books on the least common branch of magic, propio—personal magical abilities that were unique to each bruxo. Those born with propio were considered blessed with a greater connection to the art of magic. Each form drew upon an energy within the bruxos who called upon it, the principle of balance and exchange between man and magic—man providing his body and energy to house and power the magic, and magic offering its wonders to man.
But no matter how much he read on the subject, no book could describe how it felt to use magic, to interact with a living force so powerful that it overwhelmed and humbled you all at once. Magic could not speak, yet interacting with it felt like a conversation, a dance, a story shared with a friend with the ending left up to interpretation. To Alfie, magic was a bit like a stray dog. If you advanced on it with arrogance, it would snap at you. If you approached it too desperately, it would skitter away. But if you came to it with an open heart and respect, it might let you stroke its fur and scratch behind its ears.