The third was the slimmest and largely in bulky Tirglasian writing. Like the first time he’d seen the language written down, Darshan was instantly drawn to the similarity between Tirglasian and the Ancient Domian script. Admittedly, there lacked a fluidity to the former’s writing, but that could’ve easily been the fault of the writer. What drew his eye were the additions. All sorts of dots and flicks above the letters that the writer couldn’t quite seem to be unified on which way they went.
Where else could he find what he needed? Who else could he seek assistance from? Nora? She seemed pretty close to her mother. Could he trust her that far? Too risky.
What of Hamish’s brother? If his lover trusted Gordon enough to have him privy to their relationship, then maybe the man might also know a way around this law of keeping the royal line close to home.
He flicked the book shut, extinguished the lantern with a click of his fingers and strode out of the library. Finding Gordon would be a simple matter as the man oversaw the guards and their training. Getting him alone long enough to converse might be trickier, but doable.
He passed several servants on the way to the courtyard. Unlike his first foray beyond the guest quarters, they all eyed him with a cold wariness. That he could handle well enough. It wasn’t the first time, after all. Being the vris Mhanek carried a certain reputation he’d been expected to uphold since his early childhood years.
That a few felt brave enough to sneer in his wake was commendable, although back home it would’ve meant the mines if not a beheadal. One, grey-haired man even spat on the floor under the pretence of cleaning away a stubborn stain—at least, he hoped it was a pretence and they didn’t regularly employ such a method.
Still, none seemed brazen enough to outright ignore him when he spoke, nor did they shirk from divulging Gordon’s whereabouts. Not the training grounds as he had assumed, but found within the courtyard nevertheless. He knew the way.
Rather than exit via the large main entrance, Darshan opted for the modest door that backed onto the archery range and led to the stables. His attention slid over the empty range and glided by the stables, which appeared devoid of people save for a few young men tending to the stalls. Even the courtyard was relatively quiet for a—
“Got him!” a small voice cried.
The buzz of danger on his periphery tingled through Darshan’s skin. He jerked back, a clear shield flashing to life around him before momentum had finished with him.
Something bulbous smacked into the gossamer barrier, dispensing a great cloud of blue powder.
Darshan stared at the patch of dust still clinging to the faint static emanating from the shield’s surface. What had been the intention? The voice had sounded young, but children had been used as assassins before. He peered around the blotch, hesitant to release his hold on the shield just yet.
Three small figures rushed his way, their bows held at the fore and waving arrows tipped with what looked remarkably like balls of coloured cloth. Rather than have them run straight into his shield and risk breaking a nose or an arm, Darshan stepped back into the doorway.
A swarm of tiny shocks shuddered through Darshan’s body. He swayed back and bumped into what was most definitely a person.
“Whoops,” a familiar deep voice behind him chuckled. Sure hands clasped Darshan’s shoulders, steadying the both of them.
Regaining both composure and balance, Darshan turned to face the man he’d unfeasibly collided with. Gordon? Impossible. Nothing should’ve been able to pass through his shield. Not here. Unless…
Nulled Ones could, being the antithesis to spellster abilities. But their presence required the same thing as those with magical gifts: A spellster heritage. There were no records of their kind in Tirglas, not even a whisper of the occasional weak spellster cropping up within the royal bloodline.
Gordon turned his attention to the three children, seemingly unaware a shield surrounded him. “Come on, lads, show a little more decorum and watch where you’re aiming.”
All three of Nora’s children slid to a halt and swung about to hang their heads like berated hounds.
“Congratulations, you idiot,” snarked the eldest—Bruce? The name seemed like it should’ve been familiar—his baleful gaze settling on the youngest boy as he gave his brother a nudge. “You just dusted the Udynean ambassador.”
The smallest of the trio attempted shrinking even further into his tunic, those big brown eyes wide with fear.
Darshan’s stomach flipped at the sight. Even back home, where people knew who he was and what theoretical horrors he could rain upon them, the children never looked so terrified. Not even the slaves. “No harm done.” He let the shield drop and the fine blue dust drifted off on the breeze.
“See there, Macco-boy?” Gordon gave Darshan a hearty pat on the back. “Our resident spellster is in one piece. Now, why dinnae you three run off and see if you cannae find your missing quarry? Remember, lads, you’ve only got until the noon bell sounds. Or do you want him to win again?”
Casting each other meaningful looks, the boys dashed off across the grounds.
Darshan picked up the arrow that had struck his shield. The head was wrapped in linen and discharged dust in a garish shade of blue. “What is this?”
“That would be one of Mac’s. The lads use them for hunting practice. They’re nae tipped and the dust temporarily marks their clothes.” He chuckled. “Good thing that shield of yours came up so fast. Works on instinct, I hear.”
“You heard correct.” He waited for some offhand mention of the man passing through it and was met with
