Ardi watched the snow fall. Large, fluffy snowflakes danced through the air that crackled with frost. They descended like glistening sparks upon the heads of the passersby, who were bundled tightly in fur coats. How comical and absurd their hats and knitted scarves sometimes looked, especially when they were wound around their faces all the way up to the nose.
They wore mittens and gloves on their hands and thick-soled boots on their feet. Oftentimes, the only noise they made was the occasional yelp when, beneath the fluffy layer of snow carpeting the sidewalks, a lurking strip of ice polished smooth by children the day before caught them unawares.
The Month of Memory was reigning over the capital with its characteristic stillness and near-ceaseless snowfall. It was a calm, stately month—cold and only slightly haughty. The mercury held its post with diligence and even a certain sense of duty at around minus sixteen degrees.
It was cold enough that most automobiles had vanished from the roads, and the trams had transformed into solitary, stately glaciers that seemed to be crawling more than anything—however, it wasn’t yet cold enough to dissuade the city’s residents from venturing outside.
“And so, we may state with a certain degree of confidence that the Paarlax field is a phenomenon unique to our planet, one that does not extend to other planets in our star system, and possibly the entire Celestial Path Galaxy as well.” Professor Tiun Listov, who was in charge of their General Knowledge course, was in the middle of a lecture.
He was seventy years old, had three Stars with three, two, and two rays, and he almost never appeared in public with a staff. And the staff he did possess hadn’t, even after so many years, acquired so much as a single seal upon its surface.
Once, judging by circumstantial evidence, Tiun Listov had possessed an athletic build, but the years had loosened their grip on his waist. And the belt holding back his wide, protruding belly had also joined them. His hair had also seemingly decided to abandon its post, departing the professor’s head and bequeathing him a crown so gleaming that it reflected the light of the handful of Ley-lamps dangling from the lecture hall ceiling.
“The Celestial Path...” The professor repeated in a creaking, slightly cawing voice, and armed himself with some chalk. “If you think about it, our galaxy was named in honor of the first astronomers. Just imagine the sheer hunger for knowledge that the human mind possesses! Scholars of the past, working from simple reflections in puddles, were able to calculate the movements of celestial bodies and predict entire separate phenomena! And they did all of this without complex systems of calculation built upon generations of prior research.”
Professor Listov possessed an entertaining peculiarity—he was extraordinarily easy to sidetrack. Literally any careless question or ill-timed word could set off a chain of irreversible events and lead the professor into such remote thickets and depths of theory that even he himself seemed to get lost among them.
And even without any outside interference, he was perfectly capable of veering off course all on his own and could, in his sprawling ruminations, wander remarkably far from the original topic of the lecture.
Previously, the second group of the second year of the General Knowledge Faculty had been able to count on the pointed questions of Elena Promyslov-Fahtov to steer Professor Listov back on track.
But now...
Ardan turned away from the window and looked at the seat where his friend had always sat—the wife of Lord Boris Fahtov. It now stood empty.
Elena was frequently visiting the Tears of the Martyrs Hospital these days. Her pregnancy was rife with complications, and the young woman was often taken in for observation—for a couple of days at least, and sometimes an entire week. She was on several intravenous drips, going through various procedures, had to adhere to a strict diet, and she also had to take the most diverse array of medications, including Ley-medicines.
“Professor, you were talking about-” Ella Riitova tried to guide him, her hand raised—she was a friend of the Nelvir sisters who had invited the Fahtov couple, and Ard along with them, to a student party several times.
“Yes, yes,” the professor waved his hand. “The Celestial Path. Naturally, our galaxy received its name from how ancient observers and astronomers saw it with the naked eye. To them, it was an enormous, blue trail that ran right across the middle of the sky and was filled with star clusters. Hence the name. And, I would imagine that, in any other galaxy where sentience might arise, the self-designation would be quite similar. On the other hand, if one takes into account the Firstborn...”
Ardan tapped his pencil against the pages of his notebook. The Firstborn had no name for the galaxy. And instead of stars, what they saw in the sky were not distant clumps of compressed gas, but sparks of the past. Their ancestors. The Spirits. The Names that made up the art of the Aean’Hane. It was all things that were meaningful to them and absolutely unimportant to the humans.
“The Paarlax field,” Riitova whispered again, adjusting an elaborate hairstyle beneath which she concealed slightly protruding ears.
“Oh, yes,” the professor nodded. “The Paarlax field. As we know thanks to our colleagues in the non-Star sciences, the Ley-echo... pardon me—the Paarlax field has complex interactions with the planet’s electromagnetic field. In certain regions, it assumes its functions, in others, it replaces them, and sometimes, it even suppresses them. These interactions occur at such a microscopic level that observing them, or experimentally verifying them in any fashion, let alone recreating them, is beyond the capability of modern science.”
Ardi allowed himself a grim smile. Perhaps modern science really was incapable of recreating the Paarlax field... Only, just half a year ago, when Senior Magister Erzans Paarlax and Magister Lea Mortimer had both still been alive, they’d managed not only to recreate the field, but she’d even used it to build a machine that had been monstrous in both its design and its purpose.
“As we already know, the Paarlax field intercepts the functions of the planet’s electromagnetic field, creating not a magnetosphere, but a Ley-sphere, which shields us from the phenomenon known as solar wind,” the professor continued, standing with his back to the lecture hall and monotonously running his chalk across the black graphite board, “which prevents the destruction of the atmosphere and the death of all living organisms. How, then, was proof presented to the Grand Magisters’ Lodge just several years ago that this phenomenon is absent on other celestial bodies? In truth, the proof itself is quite contentious and gives rise to a fresh crop of questions.”
Arming himself with a rag, the professor erased everything he had written on his way back to the beginning of the board, then resumed writing on it.
“Due to the fact that the Ley phenomenon is simultaneously metaphysical and physical, it leaves behind traces that we Star Mages can detect through direct interaction with the field—which, in turn, is essentially what Star Magic is.” Ardi had always marveled at Professor Listov’s ability to speak in one and only one intonation. He was like a record on a gramophone. “It was precisely through this interaction, as well as a complex seal and apparatus whose details we shall not go into since that’s the prerogative of Erik... forgive me, Professor Convel. On the other hand, I recall how Erik just recently-”
“Interaction,” Riitova whispered.
“Hm? Ah... yes... So!” Listov started slightly and resumed his pacing, all the while writing neat letters on the board in a long, unbroken thread. “Thanks to this interaction, a revolutionary discovery was made: after inspecting a chunk of a meteorite that had broken apart above the Ral Mountains, our colleagues in the scholarly circles were unable to detect any traces of the Paarlax field. And yet, on our planet, it permeates and surrounds literally every object, even the most microscopic ones that our equipment can identify. Therefore, the longstanding debate over whether other planets possess a similar field should be considered settled. The answer is negative. But too many questions arise. The most obvious is: perhaps not all planets possess the field, but a portion still do? How and why? To answer these questions, we must understand the nature of the Paarlax field’s origins, which, again, at our current stage of scientific progress is simply beyond our reach, and-”
And the professor’s words were cut short by the trill of the alarm clock he had set, marking the end of the hour-and-a-half lecture. The professor, in his customarily-polite manner, thanked the students for their attention. They, in turn, reciprocated and began gathering their things. They screwed their ink bottles shut, stowed their supplies in their bags, retrieved their staves that were propped against desks, and headed for the exit while sometimes chatting with one another.
Ardan remained in his seat. Before the lecture, Professor Listov had asked him to stay behind at the end and wait for several other students to join them. They were all going to...
Ardi sighed.
Everything was happening exactly as Boris had predicted it would several months ago. They (who precisely “they” were wasn’t entirely clear yet) would be serving as the physical, and possibly even intellectual, labor force in charge of organizing the History of Magic Museum. The museum was going to be situated in the former headquarters of the Mages’ Guild, whose relocation Ardan had witnessed under circumstances that were, to put it mildly, less than pleasant.
Nevertheless, at the moment, Ardi was preoccupied with entirely different concerns.
A full three weeks had passed since he and Bazhen had paid a visit to Mr. Nalail and his wife Marina. According to Bazhen, who maintained closer ties with the Sleepless Street merchant, the couple had indeed rid themselves of the Cold Crone’s presence. They were even close to completing the repairs on their somewhat damaged home.
Nalail had kept his word and supplied the “Eorsky and Egobar” apothecary with an entire lot of Diver whiskers. Their bridge had also been completed on time and functioned well enough, though it looked rather unreliable. For the first few days, the locals had been wary of using it. Ardan hadn’t been able to think of any better solution than to ask Arkar (who still occasionally appeared at “Bruce’s”) to lend him a small truck.
After assuring Bazhen that everything had been thoroughly calculated, tested in every way, and was now incredibly safe (Ardan had harbored certain doubts about that, though he’d been confident that if something went wrong, he could fish Bazhen and even the truck out of the water), Ardi had persuaded the law student to drive across the bridge. It had proved to be wide enough that the wheels hadn’t even slipped off the edges.
By the end of that week, the bridge had become one of the busiest pedestrian arteries connecting the Firstborn Quarter’s island to the rest of the Metropolis’ islands, which numbered more than forty.
Their apothecary, despite sitting almost directly in front of the bridge, wasn’t attracting an especially large clientele. About twenty to thirty visitors trickled in per day. Mostly Firstborn. And some of them, after casting a single appraising glance around the premises, would immediately leave—a fact that was taking a considerable toll on Bazhen’s nerves and somewhat undermining his confidence.
But little by little, day by day, the number of customers had grown. Visitors from the port had come to see them as well—ogres and giants who, thanks to the building’s former life as a warehouse, could comfortably fit beneath the vaulted ceiling, though the latter very nearly grazed it with their heads.
Arkar’s orcs had also placed several orders, allowing the partners to put something into the small chest that served as both their cash register and safe. During the first week, they’d sold almost nothing. During the second, they’d closed the cash-flow gap by forty percent, and during the third, they’d shaved it down by another twenty-five of the remainder.
If their luck held, they could break even by the end of the year and see actual profits around the first quarter of the next fiscal year. Especially since, as Bazhen had rightly observed, colds, coughs, sniffles, and all the other tireless attendants of the winter season were making their rounds through the city.
Their apothecary also sold medicines for nearly a third less than what similar establishments across the city were charging. Despite this, the quality was higher than on Sleepless Street, where one stood an equal chance of being cured by a purchased remedy or poisoned by it.
All in all, business at the apothecary was not going brilliantly, but neither was it dire enough to bury the enterprise prematurely. Everything was within the range of difficulties that they’d foreseen and accounted for in advance.
Which was more than could be said of the Homeless Fae...
“...You will not stop the Harvest, Sssspeaker...”
“...We will come for you, Speaker. For you and the others. No one will stop our Harvest!”
“...I can handle it now, Speaker. I can hide among the humans. I can speak their language... I can do so much. We can do so much. The Harvest is coming soon...”
“...We wait… And there is little waiting left. Soon, our Master will fulfill his grand design. Soon, the Harvest shall come! ”
From the Homeless Fae he’d encountered in the apartment where Alla-Lisa had lived to the not-quite-demon planted inside Lusha’s body, from the Striga that had infiltrated an Manish’s company to the Cold Crone who had decided to hunt beyond the city limits… Over the course of more than a year, every time Ardan had dealt with the Homeless Fae, they had invariably mentioned a certain “Harvest,” a “Master,” and a “Duke.” Were the Master and the Duke a single person?
For some time after the events in the underground temple, Ardan had believed that the Harvest might be related to Edward and his research. After all, the significance of a long-range communication method could scarcely be overstated. The entire world would covet such a thing, not just the Empire.
Milar suspected that there was a connection between the Harvest and the Congress, but after all these recent events and discoveries, that theory didn’t hold up under scrutiny. The Puppeteers had tried too hard to conceal the Homeless Fae, had conducted too many experiments involving the crossbreeding of creatures of flesh and spirit to simply throw them at the Congress.
The global assembly of diplomats and ambassadors happening this winter would be guarded not only by the Second Chancery, the Guard Corps, and the Army, but also by the personal security of the aforementioned diplomats. Of course, the event still carried risks. Even so, Ardan was convinced that half a century of research into a problem that most people had never even contemplated was worth more than a chance to disrupt the Congress.
And besides, what did Tazidahian, high elves, cutting-edge mining equipment, the Ral Mountains, the Dead Lands of Enario, and everything else that didn’t fit into this neat theory have to do with it? Perhaps the Puppeteers really did intend to deploy their agents, including the Homeless Fae, in some play to influence the Congress... if that was even their goal.
But something told Ard that it wasn’t about that. It was too simple a task, comparatively speaking, for more than half a century of work and incredibly complex (and bloody) research.
No.
This was something else entirely. And the Homeless Fae themselves would hardly have been rejoicing about being part of some sort of “Harvest” if just the Congress had been the target of it. The Homeless likely—like the Fae themselves—wouldn’t even be able to comprehend the point of such a gathering of “mortals.” For them, the event was as insignificant as... Ardi couldn’t even find an apt comparison.
He had to mull this over using only known data—constants that required no speculative conjecture or superfluous theorizing.
The Puppeteers had demonstrated an interest in the research of Erzans Paarlax, may the Eternal Angels receive him. The Ley-field had even been renamed in honor of the man who had formulated its fundamental laws and principles of interaction. Beyond that, the Puppeteers had utilized Lea Mortimer’s research on the neuroplasticity of children and the influence of the Paarlax field on the brain, which had subsequently enabled the creation of artificial Stars that killed their bearers quite rapidly. And finally, the Puppeteers were quite evidently attempting to circumvent the law of nature that prevented the Homeless, demons and Fae from remaining in the mortal world for any extended period of time without the use of complex enchantments and separate, walled-off structures.
What emerged from these three arrays of data?
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Ardan exhaled and turned back to the window.
It was too few inputs to even formulate the problem itself, let alone come up with a solution. Of course, there was no doubt that the Puppeteers’ plan was destructive in nature. But what was the motive? Who was the Duke, the Master, and that mysterious doll? And how many of them were there? Three? Two? Just one, with all three terms describing the same entity?
One could speculate endlessly, but as Milar was fond of saying, without reliable evidence or motive, what you’d end up with weren’t even theories, but merely clay for the mind. You could stretch it in any direction, mold it into any shape, but the moment you slapped it with a counterargument, it would flatten into a formless, meaningless lump.
“Why the long face, Mr. Lancer?”
A familiar voice—somewhat carefree, resonant, a deep bass brimming with a zest for life and something simultaneously very warm and calm—pulled Ardi from the depths of his tangled thoughts.
Boris, after propping his enormously-expensive military staff of the highest quality (it was made of the purest Ertalain alloy) against the desk, settled into the neighboring seat. He was wearing a suit of Scaidavin wool (in the past, Ardan had owned one just like it... until he’d sold it at Madam Okladov’s atelier to spite Duchess Anorsky; these days, Ardan may have acted differently), soft-soled shoes of scarlet leather, and had cufflinks set with agates.
To say nothing of the grimoire at his belt—it came from the same small firm as Ard’s, only it had far more intricate craftsmanship. Intricate, and correspondingly expensive.
Lord Fahtov was definitely proving Bazhen right by wearing if not the annual budget of a modest family from the Central District, then certainly two thirds of it.
“Aren’t you tired of this ‘lancer’ business yet?” Ardan sighed despondently.
Boris, scratching his square jaw, pretended to think about it.
“No,” he answered and laughed, and Ardan sighed sadly.
In his duel with Agatha Spree, by employing the teachings of Skusty and exploiting some imprecisions in the wording of the rules, Ardi had managed to lose the bout at a score of 2 to 1 against him. And despite losing, it was precisely that one point that had allowed Ardan to continue to fight for a place in the main tournament bracket.
“Oh, come now, Ardi—it’s not every day that you see a military mage using his staff as a throwing weapon,” Boris continued to cackle harmlessly, making the characteristic throwing motion with his arm. “Maybe you should try out for the non-Star athletic games? Oh wait, sorry—half-bloods and Firstborn compete in a separate division.”
Ardan rubbed his forehead. After the judge had called the match and Agatha Spree had congratulated Ardi on his clever technique (she’d seemed to suspect exactly how Ardi had prevented her from completing her final spell, though she’d voiced no suspicions aloud), Boris had seemingly drowned out every last one of the sparse spectators at the stadium.
“That’s my friend! That’s my friend! Have you ever seen anyone else hurl their staff a hundred meters like that?!”
Or something to that effect. In any case, together with Tess and, later on, Elena, they’d then sat in a restaurant until well past midnight and, as always, they’d talked about nothing and everything under the sun all at once. They’d simply enjoyed one another’s company and the freedom of not having to watch their words, gestures, thoughts, and all the other chaff that fell away in the close company of friends.
But a month and a half had now passed, and Boris still wouldn’t let it go.
“However, that trick won’t work in the main bracket, my friend,” Boris stretched his legs out and leaned his back against the wall. “And without a Blue Star, even with all your tricks and talents, you’ll be out before winter.”
Naturally, Boris meant the winter of next year, since the main bracket had already been formed this season and the tournament was in full swing. This meant that Ardi could only count on making any meaningful money with Magical Boxing at that time.
The next main Sponsored League tournament of the Metropolis’ Magical Boxing would begin in the latter half of summer.
“I don’t intend to rush, Boris,” Ardi glanced at his friend’s epaulettes, which also bore two Stars. He had nine and eight rays respectively. “If I’ve correctly understood your hint.”
“You have,” Lord Fahtov nodded. “Of course, while I don’t know how it works for you... well, you know,” Boris glanced toward Professor Listov, who was fussing with some papers, and swallowed the word “Aean’Hane.” “But for us ordinary mortals, igniting the Blue Star within a year of awakening our Green Star is a one-way trip to the Heroes’ Hospital.”
Ardan understood him perfectly well. Especially after the lectures of Professors Listov and Kovertsky. The danger with kindling Stars lay not only in the fact that nature granted every mage only one attempt per Star, and that if they failed, they would remain stuck at their current number forever. Nor even in the fact that attempting such a thing too early could result in kindling fewer rays than they might have attained had they spent another year, or two, or even more in preparation.
The greatest danger lay in the fact that kindling Stars too rapidly could damage one’s brain tissue. The Heroes’ Hospital could treat such cases successfully in nine out of ten instances, but taking any unnecessary risks in this particular case would be just that—unnecessary.
Ardan didn’t yet feel ready to ignite his Blue Star, and so he wasn’t going to rush. He had more than enough areas that required his attention and could offer him room for growth. Also, according to Professor Convel, Ardi needed to strengthen his foundation before raising any more walls.
And the events at Mr. Nalail’s house had served as the finest illustration of that fact.
“How is Elena?” Ardan decided to change the subject.
Boris waved his hand vaguely in the air.
“When she has the energy, she sits with your notes. She reads them and studies, and meanwhile, she eats fried herring with mayonnaise and pickles, washing it all down with stewed berries. Honestly, the sights and smells make me nauseous.”
“That’s a normal process,” Ardan reminded him. “Hormonal changes.”
“Yes, yes, Ardi, I, too, am studying the healing arts,” Boris grimaced, very nearly echoing Bazhen’s words verbatim. Perhaps Ardan was spending so much time around Arkar and Milar that explaining the obvious had become a habit for him. “But it’s one thing when it’s articles in textbooks and notes in exercise books, and quite another when it’s your own wife. In general, though, everything’s fine, my friend.”
“Have you chosen a name yet?”
“We’re working on it,” Boris rolled his eyes. “You know, I always assumed that the problems would come with the upbringing. Stuff like which tutors to hire. Which cook would be best. A nanny, of course. You know—life’s little details.”
Ardan said nothing and refrained from commenting on his friend’s “little details.” For the vast majority of the Empire’s inhabitants, what Boris had just listed lay well beyond the common child-rearing process.
“On the other hand, Boris, it’s good that she still has some energy after all those medications and procedures,” Ardi hastened to cheer his friend up. “And that the doctors are giving her a good prognosis, after all.”
“That’s true...” Boris bobbed his ginger mane and looked at his companion. “Have you and Tess seen Mr. Enalvisael yet? He’s an excellent specialist. He helped Elena and me tremendously.”
Mr. Enalvisael was an elven healer who worked in the maternity ward of the Tears of the Martyrs Hospital. And he wasn’t merely an “excellent specialist,” but one of the most renowned researchers of the reproductive challenges faced by humans and Firstborn, including mixed marriages.
The only problem was that a consultation with him cost twelve exes. Just the consultation. A single one.
“If nothing works by summer, we’ll see him in autumn,” Ardan answered.
He and Tess had indeed decided that if they didn’t succeed on their own by summer, they would begin seeking help. Both of them, of course, were hoping for the best and trying not to show each other their mounting anxiety, but...
The fact that Ardan’s parents and, for instance, Mr. Nalail and Marina had been lucky meant nothing. A far greater number of mixed couples in the Empire were considerably less fortunate.
“That’s the spirit!” Boris patted his shoulder. “By the way, I heard about this enterprise of yours with Bazhen, and I thought—if you don’t go all stubborn mountain goat of the Alcade on me—I could-”
“Professor Listov! I am delighted to see you in good health!”
Boris and Ardi fell silent and turned toward the lecture hall entrance in unison. Accompanied by his ever-present entourage, none other than Iolai Agrov walked in. Beside him stood Baron Kerimov, leaning on a slightly modernized staff to which a handle had been added so it could serve as his cane. He was still towering, with a square, massive jaw, but considerably thinner than before his half-year stay in a ward at the Tears of the Martyrs Hospital.
Alongside his companion appeared Shestov, with his characteristically average and unremarkable build; the slight Zahatkin with his narrow spectacles and those teeth that were as crooked as ever; and, of course, there was Lady Polina Erkerovsky. She was as blindingly beautiful as always. Her black hair was pinned up in an elaborate hairstyle, and she had slightly dusky skin she’d inherited from her mother (a native of the Lintelar islands), long legs, and a slender figure that even a rather voluminous winter dress with a woolen vest over a soft corset could not conceal. She remained as cold and distant as ever.
Due to their abiding love of irony, Ardi had expected the Sleeping Spirits to send Tina Eveless along with the Great Prince’s retinue, and perhaps even those gentlemen because of whom Ardan had been forced to leave the Grand’s dormitories more than a year ago. But no, that hadn’t happened. Perhaps the Spirits were busy with their elaborate torment of someone else, or perhaps they simply found nothing amusing about this particular occasion.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the professor nodded in greeting. Given the fact that Iolai was a student, and Tiun Listov, while not a powerful noble, wore the mantle of a professor, the latter was not obliged to perform the courtly bows of high society. “We were just waiting for you. Gentlemen Egobar and Fahtov, come join us.”
Ardi and Boris exchanged glances once more.
“Do you think he planned this?” Boris whispered, inconspicuously nodding toward the prince who was so far back in the line of succession for the Imperial throne that he likely needed a spyglass to see it.
Ardan nodded. One would need to either be not particularly perceptive or someone who didn’t personally know Iolai Agrov to believe that this was a mere coincidence rather than a deliberate outcome.
No one who knew him would think that Iolai, following the publication of the interview with the Empress-Consort, Duchess Oktana Anorsky, would concede defeat, or even rest easy. In all likelihood, in Iolai’s mind, things were proceeding in precisely the opposite direction. And with each new misstep, he likely grew more firmly convinced that it was his sacred duty to make Ard Egobar’s life if not a living hell, then at least something approximating that level of existence.
And that was putting it delicately.
Put bluntly, despite all his numerous virtues (the existence of which would be foolish to deny), Great Prince Iolai Agrov was a consummate bastard.
“Professor Listov, with all due respect, perhaps we could simply manage on our own?” Iolai proposed, flashing a snow-white smile that was too even to be natural.
“Oh, how kind of you, Your Grace. You’re looking out for your fellow students and trying to free up their time,” Professor Listov said with genuine warmth.
Though he’d once been—and still was—one of the brightest scholarly minds in the Empire, the professor possessed almost no understanding of people. He treated everyone with an equal measure of courtesy, and even a certain tenderness. Because of this, half the student body guarded him like a piece of fine porcelain, while the other half... let’s just say... regarded him with condescension at best.
“Perhaps it’s we two friends,” Boris placed his hand on Ard’s shoulder, “who should make sure that no exhibits get damaged? Not that I’m insinuating anything, Professor, but it’s possible that His Grace’s tender, delicate hands aren’t suited for real, heavy work.”
Iolai clearly wanted to reply with something snarky, but the warm smile and gentle voice of Professor Listov halted the budding altercation.
“I’m so pleased to see that the next generation of mages is always ready to come to one another’s aid,” the professor beamed while arranging papers on the desk. Despite his deep understanding of the fundamental principles of Star Magic, such mundane things as “sarcasm” and “mockery” lay beyond the horizon of his perception. “But I confess that it is precisely for the sake of that heavy work that I invited Mr. Egobar. His bone density and muscle strength are considerably greater than those of us ordinary humans. Incidentally, if one recalls the work of Senior Magister Ivinov, who researched the biological structure of the Firstborn, one may conclude that, despite having their own screening field—just like every other living organism—the planetary Paarlax field exerts a more pronounced effect upon their bodies. It is as a consequence of this process that-”
“Ahem,” Zahatkin cleared his throat and, with a smirk that was crooked in every respect, was about to make a remark, but Lady Erkerovsky beat him to it.
“Professor, you were going to tell us about the assignment,” Polina reminded him in a tone worthy of the Winter Queen’s finest subjects.
Ardi, after what Boris had told him, now regarded his future “in-law” through entirely different eyes. Before, she had seemed like the most pleasant member of Iolai Agrov’s entourage, yet every bit as haughty and devoid of empathy as the rest of them. But now... she reminded him somewhat of a bird locked in a cage, one that was being asked to do something she could never actually manage.
Just think about it: for the sake of her own freedom, Polina Erkerovsky had not only enrolled, on the Crown’s coin no less, in the Military Faculty of the Imperial Magical University (which meant that she was obliged to serve for several years on the front), endured the company of Iolai Agrov, who used the duke’s daughter as little more than a personal accessory, and...
Ardan listened to his own senses with great surprise. It wasn’t like a scent had changed or his skin had detected some vibration, but simply... that he knew this fact for sure. Just as surely as he could hear the heartbeats of the people standing nearby, he knew that Polina had kindled a Green Star. And, judging by those same sensations, it had the same number of rays as Iolai Agrov’s own.
Outside the window, the snow fell.
Winter had very nearly claimed its rightful throne.
The Cold Crone hadn’t been wrong. Ardi truly was growing stronger with each passing day. His senses—not his physical ones, but the others—were sharpening.
Strangely, he hadn’t noticed anything of the sort the previous winter...
“Yes, yes, of course,” the professor caught himself. “Tonight, several exhibits from the Imperial reserves are going to be delivered to the museum. I think that all of them are being transferred from the Museum of the Empire’s History. You are to load them into the storage of our new museum and catalog them.”
The professor patted his papers and folders before he added: “Gentlemen Kerimov and Egobar will be more than sufficient for the physical work, while the rest of you will need to open and catalog the crates.” The professor extended an entire stack of papers... to Polina Erkerovsky. Well then—perhaps Listov understood people a touch better than some assumed. But no matter. “The opening is very soon, and part of the halls remain empty. So, I trust that you will not object to receiving your practicum credit for a single sleepless night spent away from your beds.”
Beginning with their second year, all Star Mages were required to complete summer practicums. Typically, such “activities” amounted to ancillary work at the Mages’ Guild or the Spell Market. In other words, the state endeavored to squeeze as much utility as possible from the rare Star Mages even before they received their diplomas. From a logical standpoint, this was perfectly justified.
On the other hand, students—especially students of the Grand—tried to dodge these practicums by every means both available and unavailable to them. They did so simply because spending three weeks as a glorified errand runner taught them nothing new and earned them no exes. The professors actively exploited this fact, transforming “practicum credits” into a separate and highly coveted form of currency.
“Of course, Professor Listov,” Iolai saluted. “Everything will be done to the highest standard, despite the fact that two rather sluggish individuals have infiltrated our company.”
“How wonderful that you care so deeply about our homeland’s subjects,” the professor wheezed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—my laboratory awaits, along with some strong tea and some equally-strong sleep. And please, do not delay. They are expecting you at the museum...” The professor pulled back his sleeve and checked a watch made by the “Liniri Irika” firm. He hadn’t purchased it. It had been awarded to him. Ardi was growing ever more certain that this man had earned a Senior Magister’s medallion for rather specific research. “They are expecting you in exactly an hour and a half.”
Smiling once more at everyone present, Professor Listov headed for an inconspicuous door at the back of the lecture hall. Out of all the faculty—and students, for that matter—Listov was the only one who almost never carried a staff with him. And given his meager, nearly nonexistent number of rays and Stars, this habit was not that surprising.
Boris and Ardan hurried out of the lecture hall while Iolai and Polina were silently studying the stack of papers in her hands. Alas, they didn’t manage to reach the staircase before the Great Prince and his retinue caught up to them.
“My dear Boris and...” The arrogant prince glanced at Ardi mockingly. “Arrrrd,” Iolai deliberately “growled.” “Perhaps we can all acknowledge that you two, owing to your utterly meager intellectual faculties, will only hinder the process? I would like to propose a deal. You occupy your evening with whatever gentlemen of your sort typically occupy it with, and we shall manage everything without the risk of you either burning something down or demolishing it.”
Iolai, who was quite pleased with his allusion to the unpleasant events in both of the friends’ pasts, waved his hand dismissively with the expression of a man who had won at least a minor war. His expression basically said: “Off you go now.”
Ardan might very well have accepted the offer... had it come from anyone else. But trusting Iolai Agrov at his word was one of the strangest ways to make one’s own life worse.
“Ard, my friend, don’t you think the Grand ought to look into insulating their windows?” Boris snapped his fingers near his own ear. “I think there’s a draft.”
“You think so?” Ardi asked, understanding where his friend was going with this.
“Oh, absolutely,” Boris nodded. “How else do you explain that noise? It’s like a… mongrel barking?”
Iolai didn’t pale, didn’t redden, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
“Indeed, Mr. Fahtov,” Iolai smirked. “It really is drafty... Perhaps that’s why you’re reminded of your favorite haunts like the back alleys. Or the gutters. Or wherever it is that disowned, bloodline-disgracing, pedigree-less vagabonds dwell. Oh, what would your poor mother say. Surely the Eternal Angels, if they could bear to look upon her, would be greatly moved by her plight.”
Ordinarily, Iolai did not permit himself such unveiled crudeness. In public, he always maintained his image as one of the claimants to the throne. He always sought to portray himself as a well-bred, dignified noble and the son of one of the most celebrated military men of the present day.
However, right now, in this corridor of the uppermost floor of the General Knowledge Faculty building, he didn’t need to keep up the act. And apparently, this fact had not only loosened Iolai’s tongue, but Boris’ fists as well.
His friend clenched his hand and took a resolute step forward, but Ardi managed to place himself between the Great Prince and Boris.
“A brawl?” Iolai waved it off. “How pedestrian. Tedious, even. You should take care of that knee, my lord. How is it, by the way? I’ve heard that joint problems in the lower extremities have an adverse effect on a man’s reproductive capacity. You might look into whether the disgrace your commoner servant is carrying is actually yours, my dear lord.”
Iolai maintained his composure throughout—which could not be said of Boris, who seemed on the verge of shoving Ardan aside and putting his staff to a thoroughly unintended use. Boris Fahtov had never been known for his restraint or prudence.
“What is wrong with you?” Ardan asked, half-turning his head while holding his friend by the shoulders. “Everyone already knows you’ll be a first-rate military mage and that you’re no fool. What more do you need?”
Iolai’s eyes flashed with a malevolent fire, and his brows shifted slightly.
“Do not speak to me, you filthy subhuman, and-”
“I’m quite clean, actually. I bathe regularly,” Ardi sighed with an almost theatrical weariness, and, feeling the tension leave his friend’s shoulders, released the silent Boris. “Would you like me to lose to you in a duel? In public. In whatever fashion you choose? Or do whatever else is going on in your head? Just settle down already.”
“You will lose to me in a duel, you filthy animal, when I deem the time for it to be appropriate,” Iolai hissed, very nearly frothing at the mouth.
Strangely, the Great Prince was unable to contain himself not because of Boris, but because of Ard. Could it all really come down to a single dance with the Grand Princess Anastasia?
Ardan shook his head and closed his eyes.
“Iolai-”
“To you, it is Great Prince Iolai Agrov, bastard,” Iolai hissed quietly. Despite the corridor being devoid of any real witnesses, the arrogant noble was still being cautious. He could not, after all, “lose face.”
“As you wish,” Ardan shrugged. “Honestly, I harbor no negative feelings toward you... Great Prince. And I sincerely apologize if I have provoked you. Please, stop trying to poison my and Boris’ lives. We are adults, after all. And even if we find each other disagreeable, let us simply try to ignore one another. It will spare us all a ton of stress, and save us a lot of energy and time.”
Ardi was speaking sincerely and openly. Despite Iolai’s attempts to harm him, and even after the newspaper articles that had drawn the aristocracy’s attention to his upcoming marriage with Tess… Even after all the idiotic barbs and petty schemes spanning a year and a half—Ardi still felt nothing whatsoever toward Iolai Agrov. The man was simply... irrelevant to him.
Recalling the scene on the airship, he perhaps felt a touch of pity. Pity and weariness. Yes, that last word suited him best. Iolai Agrov exhausted Ardan considerably.
And yet, compared to everything else happening in Ardi’s life, the Great Prince remained just an inconvenient, slightly painful callus—one that, for the most part, caused someone no great discomfort, and yet never quite let them forget it was there.
“Very well, Egobar...”
Ardi had already begun to feel relief at having gotten through to Iolai when the prince continued:
“...if you invite me to your wedding night. You know—that old custom that was abolished a thousand years ago? You are a commoner, after all, and I am an Agrov. It would be an honor for you.”
Before Boris could get around Ardan and finally put his clenched fists to use, before Polina could open her mouth—her eyes blazing with the fury that only an insulted woman can kindle, before the mountain hunter could break free and sink his claws into the odious little boy’s belly, his fangs into the bastard’s pulsing artery…
Before any of that, Ardi took a step forward. A year ago, perhaps he would not have held back, and would have let the hunter deal with this.
But not now.
Not after everything he had endured, seen, heard, and done.
He didn’t even strike Iolai. Quite gently, the way one cuffs a bratty boy who has entirely forgotten himself, Ardi delivered a sharp, quick slap.
Iolai’s head rocked to the side, and a ringing silence hung in the corridor. Even Boris and Polina, it seemed, were stunned.
“Enough with the foolishness, Iolai,” Ardan said in the same weary tone from before. “If your father or Reish Orman had heard that, you’d find yourself holding a shovel, not a staff, somewhere in the soldiers’ stables. Tone it down. Really.”
Ardi stepped back to stand next to Boris, who was clearly restraining himself with all his might to avoid bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
Iolai straightened and regarded Ardan with a gaze so intense that, had his eyes been connected to Ley-cables, they could have served as a welding torch. Despite standing beside his retinue, despite the faint scarlet mark on his cheek, he didn’t move.
Iolai was no fool. He possessed enormous talent in the field of military magic, and more than that, he was brave. But, as Professor Convel had rightly said, however beautiful and sturdy the walls of your house were, without a solid foundation, none of it meant a thing.
Iolai Agrov lacked such a foundation. Perhaps that was the fault of his own father, whom he feared more than anything else in this world. His own father, and the image of him that made him cower.
“I-”
“Challenge me to a bloody duel?” Ardan interrupted. “No, Iolai. I don’t have time for that. And you have no chance of winning one. I also have no desire to read more headlines painting me as some kind of monster.”
Ardan sighed once more, clapped Boris on the shoulder, and nodded toward the staircase. Lord Fahtov, allowing himself a smirk at last, headed for the exit first. Ardan hurried after him, and they were greatly surprised when they heard the clicking of a woman’s heels behind them.
“Polina!”
“I can tolerate a great deal, Iolai, but not boorishness and this kind of vulgarity. An invite to their wedding night? Seriously? Are we women just things to you, or what? Find yourself another trophy for the journalists,” Lady Erkerovsky said, venom in her voice, and, overtaking Ardan and Boris, disappeared down the staircase first.
Ardi, feeling the searing gaze aimed squarely between his shoulder blades, walked calmly forward. Compared to the Homeless Fae, Puppeteers, gangsters, and various other blights, Iolai Agrov truly amounted to nothing more than a persistent splinter. And Ardan had no intention of wasting any more of his time on the Great Prince. It was too precious and rare of a resource to waste on trifles.