Of Caverns and Casters ✓ [TLRQ #1]

Chapter 7 - Aster

The Lady's ensemble seems to be what they're ridiculing. It appears as if she attempted to morph into a peacock; feather earrings dangle from her ears, feathered clips jut from her hair, and her bodice is bedecked in blue, green, and brown beads. Honestly, if it had been done with a little more grace and a little less pompous enthusiasm, it would look rather stately. As it is, she looks more like a peacock-costumed goose amidst glittering doves.

Mother could have pulled it off.

Her already swan-like neck would be the perfect dais for the large, cock-colored stones the woman is wearing, her dark-blonde hair the ideal bed for the clips. Her large brown eyes would be a flawless match for the dress' beads, and her honeyed skin optimal for the sweeps of blue and green shadow beneath the woman's brow.

The country adores her, their dear Queen Díane Jacqueline. They know her as benevolent and sweet but still firm and powerful. They never see her careful manipulation or how the kindness is merely a mask and the doting a charade. They never see her as the woman incapable of loving even her own husband.

Across the table, light catches on Sela's elegant silver choker. She chuckles softly at something Ren must have said.

Four years older than me, Sela looks remarkably like Mother and only vaguely like our father. After all, his face is all angles, strong and sharp, rather than the curving grace of Sela and the Queen.

"Good evening, Aster," Sela says, catching my gaze.

I smile politely, a pang in my chest. So formal. "Evening, Princesse."

Her lips turn up in kind, but her heart clearly isn't in it. While perhaps passable to most, I know that smile is nothing like the genuine, mischievous grins she used to flash me. "How are you?"

Only a handful of years ago, you would already know. We'd have been around each other all day.

"I'm good, thank you. And you?" I remember a dinner similar to this back when I was ten, her fourteen. Like this time, our conversation had started because I saw her chuckling at Ren. Like this time, she turned to me to speak. There the similarities end. Because, then, she relayed the witticism Ren had imparted on her, about how some piece of food on her plate looked exactly like Agraund. We'd laughed hard, enjoying ourselves much more in that moment than either of us likely will throughout this entire conversation.

I doubt there will be much, if any, genuine laughter tonight, at least from me. This kind of event is always long and dry, full of posturing and double-speak.

"Wonderful," she says. "How has your instruction been going?"

"Good, thank you. Yours?" Despite the words rolling smoothly off my tongue, I feel awkward, like this is a perversion of how our conversation should really be going.

I'm rescued from what once would have been the best conversation of the night by the peacock woman calling to Sela. "What's your opinion, Princesse?"

She turns to answer, our exchange forgotten.

An elbow almost knocks my plate; I follow it up to see my uncle's second sitting beside me. His lank, yellowing hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He sits erect with his face pinched, as if he has a stick for a spine, leaving him both ramrod and uncomfortable. "I thought Agraund would have taught you better, Prince."

My gaze snaps up to his face. He still faces forward, fork raised lightly to his lips.

"Taught me better than what, High Mage Solus?"

"Than to stare."

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I'm grateful my almond skin covers it. "I was only admiring your comportment. No one holds themselves as you, sir."

He grunts but gives a self-satisfied smile.

Relieved at avoiding a confrontation there, I return to my own food. Hopefully no one else will bother me. Dread rises in me at the idea of having to talk to any more of them; I'd rather not be repeatedly and creatively condescended, mocked, and manipulated. I'd rather not engage in any more hidden verbal sparring tonight.

I would much prefer to spend the coming hours locked away in my training room, pushing my body and mind to their limits, fighting for every inch of improvement I can get.

I have another option, I remember, than wearing myself away with practice.

The note.

It's from an academy in Draó, at least a month's travel north, that specializes in instructing magicians. They've offered me a chance to study there, and though I can't seem to keep it off my mind for long, I know my family would never agree to let me go. I want to become a more talented caster, but my place is here, not gallivanting about in foreign countries.

Mother lifts her glass. "To Morineaux!" The cheer comes back to her, but as everyone's glass lowers and the smiling and laughing and drinking continues, I sit quietly. To Morineaux, absolutely. My love, my life, my skin and blood to Morineaux.

So am I really willing to abandon my Morineaux to become the caster she needs?