A Father's Dream (The Dark Prism Book 1) Page 4

  “I do, though I doubt it will be much of a competition,” Asher answered with a lazy grin, running a hand through his shaggy curls to tousle them. “Aleric’s the top in the school right now, in grades and in the challenge arenas, whereas I am considerably lower in the latter.”

  Though his grades are still excellent…

  Despite not showing any serious dedication to his schooling, Asher still managed outstanding marks in every subject he enrolled in. Where Aleric spent an hour on homework, Asher spent fifteen minutes; when it took Aleric two tries to learn a new spell, it took Asher one; he was just naturally good at everything he tried. To someone who had to work relentlessly to earn every hard-won point on exams, this was a particularly sore spot.

  “Of course he is on top,” Cowen Frost answered with a careless wave of the hand, as though this was both trivial and completely expected news. “He is a Frost. I didn’t inquire after your relative rankings, I inquired after your research.”

  I study until I think my brain might explode, just to be dismissed with a wave of the hand…

  He doubted his father’s reaction would be so minimal if he hadn’t received top marks.

  “I do have a project in the works, though you can hardly expect me to speak about it here,” Asher answered easily. “Aleric and I don’t discuss our research, to avoid the temptation of one of us attempting to sabotage the other’s work.”

  “I wasn’t horribly impressed by my son’s topic of focus,” his father admitted tonelessly. “I suppose you’ll be the one earning the rare distinctions when it’s all said and done.”

  Asher looked uncomfortable and Aleric felt his cheeks burn. He wanted to shout at his father that the man knew nothing about magic and especially about prisms, being unable to use either, but that would only buy him a world of trouble.

  “I doubt it,” his friend interjected to save him from acknowledging the barb. “My project isn’t overly ambitious. I’d like to finish up a few more classes before I dive into anything too time-consuming.”

  Asher was always careful to speak highly of Aleric in his family’s presence and to marginalize himself, though Aleric had never asked him to do it. Asher knew how important impressing his family was to him, and didn’t mind the negative comparison.

  “As talented as you clearly are, I have always wondered why you show so poorly in the arena listings,” Aleric’s mother addressed his best friend now. “Do you choke under pressure, or are you trying to make a statement by obtaining consistently low scores?”

  She asked the question without emotion, which was the only thing that kept it from sounding hideously offensive. Aleric was momentarily tempted to defend his friend and point out that Asher was probably the fastest thinker he’d ever known, especially under pressure. Then he remembered who he was talking to and kept his mouth shut.

  “Oh, it isn’t that,” Asher smiled. “The problem is that I refuse to conform to the Masters’ rules and play their petty games. They construct scenarios that a person would never encounter in real life, and then score us on arbitrary factors—including whatever mood they’re in at the time—and expect us to thank them for it and ask for more.”

  Aleric’s father frowned thoughtfully and said, “And it doesn’t bother you, having your name so far down on a list that is posted for the entire school to see?”

  “Why would I care what a piece of paper in the foyer says about me?” Asher replied arrogantly. “I know what I’m capable of, the Masters know what I am capable of, and when I go into the world and look for work, my future employers will quickly learn what I am capable of. The rankings are a way to assert their superiority over us, to make us think that we need to beg for their constant approval or we are somehow less valuable, and I’m not buying what they’re selling.”

  “Ha!” Aleric’s father actually barked out a laugh at that, which was probably the second time in a year that Aleric had seen the man show that much emotion. It was infuriating that it was directed at his friend and not him. “Finally, someone who understands how the game is played,” he nodded to Asher. “If only my son was blessed with the same level of awareness.”

  He spoke of Aleric as though he wasn’t sitting directly to his left, listening to every word he said.

  “A shame you weren’t born to a Great House, or I’d mentor you myself,” Cowen Frost added as an afterthought.

  Asher glanced at Aleric, his discomfort evident. Aleric was fighting the urge to get up and run away screaming and tearing his hair out. Would nothing he did ever please the man?

  I get perfect grades, but Asher’s the good one for being a rebel. I win all our competitions, but Asher is the good one because he doesn’t give a damn about anything except mooning over Maralynn.

  “Aleric,” his mother turned to him, perhaps scenting danger and trying to avoid it. “Take a turn with me around the lawns; I’d like to stretch my legs.”

  “Of course, Mother,” he managed to choke out without sounding constipated, abandoning his half-eaten plate and holding out his arm for her.

  She rested her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to guide her in a wide arc around the area of the lawns where other families were now eating and visiting, keeping them far enough away that it wasn’t feasible for anyone to stop them to chat.

  “You’ll need to return home next weekend,” she informed him, once they were out of earshot of his father and Asher, who Aleric only just realized he had left alone.

  Oh well, if anyone can deal with Father, it’s Asher. The man will probably have adopted him by the time I return.

  Turning his attention back to his mother he asked, “Why is that?”

  “I’ve invited Susanna Kilgore and her parents to dinner.”

  “Oh no, not another of your match-making schemes…” Aleric groaned at the prospect. Susanna was the youngest scion of the Kilgore family, another Great House. She was also the niece of Elias Kilgore, the Master of Elixirs at Mizzenwald, whose older brother administered over the Great House.

  “Wait a minute,” Aleric interrupted before his mother could respond to his lack of enthusiasm. “Isn’t Susanna twelve years old?”

  “She’s the principal heiress to one of the most prominent Great Houses besides our own, and will likely be physically attractive by her majority, since that sort of thing seems to matter particularly to you.”

  “She’s twelve,” Aleric reiterated, thinking that they were skirting over the more relevant issue.

  His mother frowned and said, “She won’t be twelve forever. No one is expecting you to wed her and bed her next weekend,” she added neutrally. “But your father is keen on making the commitment now, so you’ll need to do your part to get to know her and maintain relations until the engagement is announced officially.”

  “WHAT?” Aleric actually stopped in his tracks. He’d been suffering his parents’ attempts at finding him a wife for nearly a year now, but this was the first he was hearing that a decision had actually been made for him. “You already told the Kilgores I would marry her without even asking me? Does my opinion count for nothing in this?”

  “Lower your voice,” his mother scolded. “Shouting is unbecoming in a gentleman.” She glanced around to make sure no one had noticed the outburst. “To answer your question, your opinion does hold some merit, though you’ve refused to exert any serious effort in finding a suitable wife, so your father and I gathered that you were leaving the decision to us.”

  “I’m sixteen,” he argued. “Surely it’s not so essential for me to get engaged right away. It isn’t like Father’s in poor health—is he?” he reconsidered, glancing at his mother.

  “No, Cowen is fine.” She waved away his concern. “Still, he wants the matter settled sooner rather than later, and you only seem interested in women of low birth and status, who will vex him until he’s dead and buried.”

  It was true that Aleric tended to only date commoners, or worse—those with no magical gift in their family at all, but he
didn’t do it to annoy his father. He preferred the company of people who didn’t constantly make him think of his Great House duties, or better yet—those who barely knew or cared what a Great House even was. It was a way to escape, pretending that he had control of his own destiny, rather than being crushed under the oppressive weight of his familial responsibilities. But he knew, even when he was enjoying these blessed moments of freedom, that nothing long-lasting would come of it. He had long ago resigned himself to marrying into another Great House to continue the Frost legacy, whether he was happy about it or not.

  “I barely know her,” he complained, knowing he sounded juvenile and not caring.

  “Which is why I intend to start inviting her over more often.” His mother was watching him with scrutinizing eyes. “You will get to know her in time.”

  Aleric kept his mouth shut because he didn’t trust himself to speak. His mother graciously refrained from pressing the issue, and the two of them completed their sweeping arc around the front lawns without saying another word to each other, which at this point was a relief.

  When they returned to the site of their miserable picnic, it was to find the head of the Frost clan dining alone. Aleric had no idea where Asher had run off to, but didn’t blame him a bit for escaping when he had the chance.

  Just wait until I tell him I’m expected to marry a twelve-year old and become Master Kilgore’s nephew.

  “Now that your friend is gone,” his father began speaking without otherwise acknowledging his return, “tell me more about your progress on this research project of yours. Convince me you are not wasting your additional year here, which I was loathe to grant you in the first place.”

  Aleric suppressed a sigh and lowered himself back onto the grass, preparing to defend himself, yet again, to his father.

  3

  Up in Smoke

  Asher closed his eyes and leaned back even further in his chair, face tilted towards the ceiling as he tried to weave a picture of alignments behind his eyelids, wondering where he was going wrong.

  I know I’m using the right alignments—it has to be something with a green-green-orange, inverted against a yellow-blue, or I’ll need to switch spectrums entirely. Maybe the diffusion is a bigger issue than I thought?

  He’d been working on this project since halfway through his fifth year at school, and whatever he’d told Cowen Frost, it was quite ambitious to attempt to alter alignments by casting through water. Sometimes he wished he had listened to Master Antwar when he’d pitched the concept to him, more than half a year ago now; the Prism Master had tried to tell him that prism-users had been trying to capitalize on the higher refractive index of water while casting for decades, with very few successes. In Asher’s arrogance, he had claimed he would be the first to crack the field of underwater casting, bringing an entirely new field of prism-based research into play.

  At the time, he was certain that he would be able to do what no one else had effectively managed so far, because he firmly believed that he could do anything if the occasion called for it. He had always been good at magic—gifted, even. Surely he could get around the problem of water over-diffusing the bands of color that were so critical to a prism-user’s ability to cast magic.

  Despite his lack of success over the last half-year, he still believed that he could do this—would do this. He just hadn’t stumbled upon the answer yet…

  A knock on the door sent him toppling backwards straight out of his chair, having been balanced precariously on two legs before the interruption. Cursing under his breath, Asher got to his feet and righted the chair before moving to answer the door, lowering his eyepiece into place and automatically casting a series of spells in rapid succession to remove the wards he’d placed around the only entrance to the room.

  Opening the door a crack, he saw Master Antwar waiting for him on the other side.

  “What?” he greeted the Prism Master in mild annoyance, because he didn’t like being disturbed when he was actually working on something important.

  “Have you forgotten that it’s time for our monthly review of your progress?” Antwar asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow.

  Obviously, or I wouldn’t have warded the door against you.

  “Oh, right, come on in.” Asher sighed and opened the door wider, allowing his mentor to enter before shutting it once more. He didn’t replace the wards, knowing that he’d just have to tear them down again when it was time for the Prism Master to leave.

  “Holy arcana, Masters—do you ever clean up in here?” Master Antwar pursed his lips and looked around the room with displeasure.

  Asher had taken over classroom five on the ground floor for his advanced research project, and he was not a tidy person by nature. Most of the desks had been shoved together into groups of eight to form a series of large worktables for him, all of which were presently cluttered with notes and drawings; combined with the stacks of paper littering the floor along the walls and near the border of the tables, it looked a bit like a paper-mill explosion had occurred within the room.

  “I have one of the best minds for magic of all the mastery-level students in the Nine Lands; I have better things to do than clean house,” he said with a dramatic eye-roll.

  “Modesty not being one of your many talents,” Master Antwar muttered, deliberately loud enough for him to hear.

  “Better no modesty at all than false modesty,” Asher countered. “I can’t bear people who put on a show of false humility when they know they’re the best.”

  “If you didn’t favor your father so much in appearance, I’d never believe you were related to him at all,” the Prism Master remarked evenly. “Torin is one of the most level-headed, personable, humble men I know, and yet you’re…”

  “Awesome?” Asher supplied with false innocence, knowing full well that Antwar wasn’t thinking anything nearly so flattering. “Ridiculously attractive? The future hope of magekind?”

  “An irritating, self-ingratiating, obnoxious little snip,” his mentor finished decisively, looking pleased with himself for coming up with the right way to describe just how little he thought of one of his only two apprentices in one sentence.

  Asher felt a pang of displeasure at the insult, though he would never let his hurt feelings show. People always assumed that just because he didn’t put on false airs and feign a humility he didn’t feel, that he had no feelings at all. The truth was, he cared what other people thought of him more than he liked to admit. He stayed awake at night thinking through all the things people said to him—both good and bad—contemplating how to become even smarter, faster, stronger, funnier, and generally more likeable.

  He’d tried being more humble once, several years ago, but the jealous toadies in his classes had taken it for weakness and uncertainty and had tried to make him the target of their bullying. He’d put a stop to that almost immediately, enlisting the help of Aleric to teach those useless boot-kissers a lesson they would never forget.

  “Please, tell me how you really feel,” Asher drawled sarcastically to his mentor. “I might misunderstand if you keep being so vague and sugar-coating your sentiments.”

  Master Antwar sighed and said, “Does nothing get through to you?” Then, apparently deciding that he didn’t require an answer to that question he added, “Clean this place up by the end of the week.”

  “If you can give me one good reason why an untidy workspace will somehow hinder my groundbreaking work, I will.”

  “It’s a fire hazard, for one thing.”

  Asher chuckled and said, “Hire a maid,” with an airy wave of the hand. “Come to think of it, there’s a whole staff here that’s dedicated to keeping the place clean. Have one of them tidy up in here, if it’s so important to you.”

  Losing his patience, Master Antwar snapped out, “It isn’t their job to go cleaning up all your messes, and you damn well know it. Get your arrogant head out of your butt, learn some manners, and do what I tell you to do—or so help me I will drop
you as an apprentice and you can make your merry way through this world alone.”

  Asher’s insides turned glacial at the threat, and at the idea that his own mentor would withdraw his support.

  He wouldn’t dare…

  Just now, that wasn’t a theory he cared to test. What if he called the Prism Master’s bluff and found out he was sincere?

  “Even if you withdrew your sponsorship, I’d hardly be roaming merrily through the world alone,” he said instead. “You can hardly kick me out of Mizzenwald for having a dirty workspace, and I’m excellent in my other classes. I could start anew, working for someone else.”

  “Ha!” Master Antwar laughed, though there was no mirth behind it. “You really think anyone else would take you on except me? You are every bit as brilliant as you think you are, a natural talent the likes of which even Mizzenwald rarely sees, but if you think for a moment that that makes up for your appalling lack of human decency, you are sadly mistaken.”

  Asher scowled, feeling the heat in his face as he said, “We’ll see about that. Perhaps I’ll go around and ask for alternate sponsors.”

  “Save your breath, Asher, I already did. No one wants you but me, and even my patience has its limits.”

  Asher was finally stunned into silence. Could it really be true that none of the other Masters at Mizzenwald—most of whom he had great respect for—wanted anything to do with him, despite his undeniable intellect? He felt like he had swallowed a brick of lead, and it was settling heavily in the pit of his stomach.