Jakin knocked on Garrin’s door ten minutes after Lliane left and found the prince still standing in the middle of his room. At first he seemed confused, but when his quick eyes picked out the bruise on Garrin’s side, he surged into the room with a gasp. “Your Highness! What happened?”

Embarrassed—why hadn’t he thought to put on a shirt?—Garrin made his way to his wardrobe and opened the doors wide. “Nothing,” he grunted, searching for a change of clothes. “Just an accident. I’m fine.”

The manservant rushed to join him and took over the search. “Of course, sire, but—but if you’d like me to fetch a healer, I can—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Garrin said. “I’ve already been given some salve. It’s just a bruise, really.”

Though Jakin didn’t look convinced, he gave up the argument and pulled a new shirt and pair of trousers out of the wardrobe. “As you say, Your Highness. Would you like me to cancel your classes for this afternoon?”

Yes... but that would only convince everyone that his injury was serious. “I’ll continue my lessons as normal,” Garrin said, hoping he sounded cheerful instead of resigned.

Jakin helped him dress, and within a few minutes Garrin was out the door, wrapped in a clean, warm jacket as he made his way to the tower where his lessons took place. He’d gone less frequently in the past year, but the king insisted Garrin continue some form of study until his coronation. Mostly he just met with Sage Dellon for a brief discussion of his last reading, then was left to his own devices while Dellon completed his own work.

It was tedious, but not demanding. And it would take Garrin’s mind off that morning’s events, which he was eager to do.

The tower room where Garrin usually met with his tutors was empty, so he pulled a book off a shelf and took a seat at the single desk in the center of the small study. Dellon was often late for their meetings, but it didn’t bother Garrin. He rarely got the chance to read in peace.

When he was half-way through a chapter on the importance of the fishing trade in Fyrestian history, Sage Dellon entered the room and smiled pleasantly at Garrin. “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” he said in his deep, soft voice. “I’m sorry I’m late. I lost track of time.”

Garrin returned the smile and held up his book. “I had to finish my reading, anyway.”

“Ah yes,” Dellon said. “And what did you think?”

“Mostly what I’ve thought of the last few readings,” Garrin said.

“It’s important to view a topic from multiple sources,” Dellon said.

Garrin closed his book. “I don’t disagree with that. But we’ve spent the last year talking about the seafood industry. Surely there’s more to learn than that?”

“Your curriculum clearly states—”

“I’d like to see my curriculum,” Garrin interrupted.

Dellon hesitated. Garrin had never questioned the topics of his learning before—at least, not out loud—and the Sage plainly didn’t know how to respond. “Perhaps we can move on to the next lesson,” he said at last, even more softly than usual.

“I think we should,” Garrin said.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The Sage moved to the bookcase on the back wall and ran his large fingers over the collection. Dellon was built more like a soldier than a Sage, with wide shoulders and thick muscles and a frame so tall his robes had to be custom made. But he was soft-spoken and extremely bright, if a little absent-minded, and Garrin usually enjoyed his company. His adventure that morning, however, had caused a question to turn over and over in his mind, and it bothered him that he didn’t have an answer.

What had he really learned about governing? About being a good king?

“Have you heard of Anarya Ellysen?” Garrin asked impulsively.

Dellon paused and looked over his shoulder. “I don’t believe so, Your Highness. But I’m afraid I don’t have a memory for the names at court.”

“She isn’t a noble,” Garrin said. “She was an Architect. One of the first, I think.”

The Sage frowned thoughtfully. “Ellysen? No, I’m sure I’ve never heard the name. Are you certain she was an Architect? I’ve read extensively about them, and I don’t recall ever hearing about a woman in their ranks.”

If a Sage had never heard of her, it wasn’t likely Arya would be able to find any information. Dellon had read every book in this room, and likely those in the castle library as well. Where else was there to look?

Garrin stood and moved across the room to replace his book on the shelf. “The curriculum?” he prompted.

“I don’t have it with me,” Dellon said.

“Then please bring it to our next lesson. Until then, I have other matters to attend to.”

“Your Highness—”

“That will be all. Thank you.” Garrin left before Dellon could argue—though he doubted the Sage would put up much of a fight—and sped down the spiral stairs to the main level of the castle. His mind was a tumble of questions with no immediate answers, and he was used to immediate answers. He didn’t like the feeling of not knowing something and not knowing how to find it out. It was new and unpleasant and not at all something he wanted to get used to.

So he had to find answers. And the only place he could think to look was back where they’d found the first clue: in Gillesport.

The bigger problem was whether he should take Arya with him.

Garrin reached the main floor and marched down the hall without pause, though he wasn’t sure where he was going. His lesson was supposed to last for another hour and a half, so he was guaranteed that time without interruption. Was it enough time to walk to town and back? He wasn’t sure he was up to making the journey again that afternoon. Maybe he could spend some time exploring the older sections of the library in case there was a mention of the first Architects. Or maybe he could speak to the Architects directly? Maybe—

A hand shot out of the doorway he was passing and closed around his arm. Startled, Garrin spun to break the grip, snapping up his other arm to push the assailant away.

Senjay stepped into the hall, shaking his hand as if it stung. “Not bad. I always thought you had slow reflexes.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Garrin snapped.

“Just testing,” Senjay said, rolling his shoulder. “They say you’re soft here in Fyrest. I wanted to see for myself.”

Garrin stared at him. “Are you insane? You can’t just go around attacking—”

Senjay swung a fist at Garrin’s face, forcing him to fall back to avoid it. He stumbled into the wall, but Senjay kept coming—another fist, which Garrin knocked away, and then a kick that buckled his knee.

What was left of his patience fled as he caught himself against the wall. With a growl that was anything but prince-like, Garrin pushed off of the cold stone and slammed his shoulder into Senjay’s chest. His momentum sent both of them to the ground, where Garrin enjoyed a moment of triumph as he pinned Senjay to the floor.

Senjay threw one leg up, twisting, and flipped Garrin to the side before leaning his full weight on Garrin’s chest. Pain burst through his anger, ripping a gasp out of his lungs before he could catch it.

“Do you yield?” Senjay grinned.

Garrin clamped his lips over his ragged breath and gave a half-hearted squirm, but the Thiyaan prince moved with him and kept him flat on his back. “Fine,” Garrin wheezed. “Get off of me.”

“Is that any way to talk to your teacher?” Senjay asked.

Garrin stilled. “What?”

“Your princess talked to me,” Senjay said. “She said you wanted to learn to fight, and from someone who wouldn’t handle you like a fragile vase. So? Is this rough enough?”

Garrin shoved, and Senjay let himself be pushed away. So Arya had spoken to both Lliane and Senjay on his behalf. He wasn’t sure if he should feel thankful or annoyed. “A little warning would have been nice,” he grumbled.

“Your opponent isn’t always going to warn you before he attacks,” Senjay pointed out.

“A good teacher lets his student know before the lesson begins,” Garrin counter.

Senjay laughed. “Maybe I am not a good teacher. Maybe you are not a good student. I guess we’ll have to see.”