Hamish repeated himself.
“It is all mostly theoretical,” Darshan muttered, returning to grooming Warrior. “I cannot rightly recall anyone in Udynea trying and, if there was a spellster that strong in imperial lands, I am certain they would have made their presence known to the emperor by now.” He shook his head, now just visible on the other side of the pony. “Like I said earlier, it would take a lot of power and the source is not endless. Could you imagine if it was?”
Hamish quietly sucked on his teeth. He hadn’t had a lot to do with spellsters beyond his younger sister—before she was sent to the cloister at least—but he could picture it well enough. It’d be like a world full of gods. Only without the Goddess’ divine will and wisdom to guide their actions. “And just what is the source of your power?” Spellsters appeared in Tirglas without reason. Some believed it the Goddess’ punishment, whilst others were convinced it was the work of demons.
“Well, it would be easier to explain with my childhood diagrams at hand, but it comes from here.” Hamish barely caught Darshan laying a hand on his chest and tapping with a forefinger.
“Your… heart?” he carefully ventured. He had vague memories of the days before Caitlyn was taken from the castle, of the priests suggesting his sister not force her magic. He didn’t understand why back then. The spellsters in foreign lands had always sounded so powerful and demonic.
The man frowned at Hamish over the pony’s back, his thick brows almost touching the wire frames adorning his face. “No, I mean my being. The energy I use to spark a flame is the same one you draw upon to fire that bow you were carrying earlier.”
“You use your muscles?” He could see that applying to hurling objects or fire, but in the type of healing that was acceptable in the cloisters?
“Like I said,” Darshan muttered. “Easier with diagrams.” He tipped his body, peering at Hamish from beneath Warrior’s neck, his face as eager and open as a puppy. “I could draw up some. I would be more than happy to explain to you in greater detail once we are inside, if you are of a mind?”
Hamish hummed, considering. Whilst he saw no practical use of such knowledge, he wouldn’t have minded spending a little longer in the man’s presence. There was a certain bounciness that came to light every so often, like his face was usually hidden beneath an ill-fitting hood that was always on the verge of slipping off his head. “I’d like that.”
“Really?” The man perked up like a boarhound on a fresh scent. He smiled broadly, the glee on his face sitting on the verge of unnerving. “And here I thought magic was a taboo subject in Tirglas.”
“I wouldnae say taboo. Discouraged, maybe.” Hamish led his horse into his pen, the act mimicked by the ambassador. “But you will nae be able to do much explaining tonight. Dinner’ll be ready.” He indicated the doors of the castle proper with a jerk of his head. “Come on.”
“Of course, the welcoming meal.” Darshan dusted off his hands, frowning at his pale attire and swiping a few dark hairs off the no longer immaculate fabric of the knee-length coat. “I am not really prepared for food right now. Or dressed for it. I do not suppose something could be brought up at a later time?”
Chuckling, Hamish clapped a hand around the man’s shoulders and led the way towards the castle doors. “Nae. First rule of dining around here is: You eat now or go hungry.”
“That is about what I thought.” Darshan sighed. “To be honest, I have not had the pleasure of eating any Tirglasian cuisine and I am unsure what—”
“Cuisine?” Fresh laughter roared out his throat, paralysing him for what felt like an eternity until he was able to regain control over his own body. “There’s your first mistake,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “We’ve food. Grub. Nothing fancy but it’ll fill you up.”
The man’s easy smile had turned a little glassy. “How delightful,” he murmured. “I look forward to it.”
~~~
The dining hall wasn’t as lavish or even as big as Darshan had pictured. Only a few tapestries adorned the otherwise dark grey slabs of stone. Heat roared from twin fireplaces situated on either side of the room and standing between them was a heavy wooden table with another, longer one intersecting lengthways at the far end. Both tables were laden with food and people already sat, enjoying the fare.
A quick, mental headcount of eight was enough to let him know this was close to the entirety of the royal family. They sat in an oddly-familiar placing, Queen Fiona and her husband, Prince Consort Duncan, sharing the heavy table at the head whilst the rest of the family was relegated to the longer one.
What Darshan didn’t see was anything resembling a court. He leant closer to Hamish and whispered, “Should I perhaps be elsewhere?” Back home, evening meals were rarely shared without some nobility present. This seemed a far more intimate affair.
Hamish shook his head. He clapped his hand onto Darshan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
Queen Fiona glanced up as they neared the tables. That sharp, blue gaze latched onto Darshan, burrowing its icicle-like depths into his soul before settling on Hamish. “You’re late.” The crack of a whip couldn’t have snapped any cleaner than her voice.
Hamish took up a seat between his older brother, Gordon, and a sandy-haired woman who Darshan had yet to be introduced to, but guessed was Hamish’s sister. “Well, you see—”
“It is entirely my fault, your majesty,” Darshan interrupted. There was little point in standing by and allowing the blame to fall on Hamish when the man had only done as
