Shoestring Theory

FIVE

It turned out the timeframe for Cyril’s new-born scheme presented itself almost immediately. Tigris Margrave announced to palace and people that she would have her wedding dinner (not to be mistaken for an actual wedding) a fortnight after the wake of the late king and queen.

The poor girl barely had time to grieve before courtesans doubtlessly pressed her on her nuptials, begging the future queen to single-handedly lift the fog of mourning that had spread throughout the palace. Cyril would have liked to help, but he was busy keeping a profile so low it was beginning to crack its way into the earth’s core.

He did not think he could evade Eufrates for very long, but he was going to give the man the chase of a lifetime.

Normally it was vulgar, even crude, to use magic frivolously. Messing with the pattern was meant to be reserved for dire, sacred, important circumstances. An over-reliance on weaving cheapened the art, debased it to a mere parlour trick for the amusement of a crowd. The grand mages in Farsala already toed the line between utility and entertainment, with their flamboyant dress and painted faces.

But decorum was the last of Cyril’s concerns. Decorum had, in fact, flown out the tallest window of the tallest tower of the palace as soon as he stuffed a dagger in his breast pocket and clumsily tried to assassinate the prince.

So every time he heard the aforementioned prince’s heavy, distinctive footfall down a hall or up a flight of stairs, every time he heard the squeak of those leather gloves push open a door, Cyril played the weave like a harpsichord, manipulating the air around him so he became completely invisible. One week after Cyril’s grand spell had been cast, they were thoroughly engaged in a game of cat and mouse, if the mouse was able to appear and disappear at will.

The only time they had been forced to interact had been, as promised, at the wake. They were not able to recover the king’s and queen’s bodies from the open ocean, so the funeral was symbolic. Two empty caskets were interred in ancestral ground, in a plot of land between the woods and the palace where all other royals had been buried. Cyril couldn’t help but keep darting his eyes towards an empty spot near the fresh tombs, which would serve as Tigris’s resting place only months later. He was surprised how affected he was by it.

Eufrates approached him once everyone else had left. He had stood beside his sister the whole day; the pair of them in their darkest blacks and kohl smudged over their eyes looked like twin Undertakers. Once thick droplets of rain started to hit headpieces and scalps, the procession moved inside. Cyril saw the prince say something to his sister and she followed the line of courtiers making their way to the dry warmth of the palace. Eufrates, though, made his way towards him.

“So, darling. What is your plan now?”

Cyril snapped his head up to look him in the eye. If Eufrates Margrave had anything in excess, it was nerve .

“We are at a funeral ,” he hissed.

“I’m surprised it bothers you. You were eager enough to see it twice .”

It hit him then that, intentional or not, he had forced Eufrates to live through his parents’ funeral a second time. He despised the man, but he did not wish to be cruel. He examined Eufrates’s eyes for any kind of great sorrow, but before he could pierce through the stony dark brown gaze, the prince decided he had gone too long without an answer.

“Do you still intend to kill me? You will have to catch me unawares. And without me or Tig, who would rule Farsala? Perhaps they’ll find a distant cousin in the court.” He eyed Cyril up and down. “Perhaps the promising young mage, conveniently raised with the royals.”

“What? I – what are you saying ?” Eufrates was accusing him of being power hungry. The world might have spun against its axis.

“You’re right.” Eufrates stepped forward and Cyril hated the gooseflesh he triggered on his skin, even after all this time. “You’d rather work in the shadows. But I won’t let you out of my sight.”

“I thought you’d just kill me and get it over with. Are you waiting to be crowned?”

A flash of something inscrutable lit up his eyes and it was gone in an instant. Eufrates sneered, “Oh, no, my love. I am not a wasteful king. There is use for you yet, at my side.”

Cyril frowned. “You will not be king.”

Eufrates’s brows raised, and for a moment he seemed to want to say something more, but movement caught the corner of his eye, and he pushed past Cyril.

“What are you doing?! I told you to get inside!”

Cyril turned and Tigris was several metres away, standing on a hill cresting the path back to the palace. Her dress, as well as Cyril’s and Eufrates’s clothes by this point, was soaked in rainwater.

She smiled and, whether or not it was feigned levity, she was doing an incredible job at holding herself together. “I thought I might see something nice if I played the spy,” she yelled from her hill.

Eufrates, usually ever indulgent, did not smile back. He stomped his way up to her and withdrew his jacket to cover her head.

“You’ll catch a chill, halfwit,” Cyril heard him say with a flare of genuine frustration in his voice.

He watched them go until he felt the rain soak into his own bones. He sneezed against his sleeve before running into the foyer of the palace to join the rest of the mourning party.

Cyril did not know if Eufrates made good on the promise to not let him out of his sight, because for the next few days, he did his best to avoid him like the black plague. He had become a consummate expert at being a mouse, and all the while, preparations for his new plan were going better than expected.

Back in the cottage, Cyril had limited resources to work with. Half a stick of chalk and some blood. Spit to wet it when the mixture congealed too quickly from the cold. For a month, he was on his knees on a hard rock floor drawing and redrawing patterns until he got it just right. He neglected his fishing duties, so he relied on leftover scraps, barely bitefuls, picking at bones. He slept when necessary, when his body truly couldn’t keep up with his brain any longer, and he drank just enough to stay alive.

But here in his tower, he was a king among wizards. He had all the charting chalk at his disposal, servants brought him fine foods with the ring of a bell, and he could use one of many cushions to prop himself up on the floor so his knees weren’t scraped and raw from the ordeal. And he had the advantage of a spry, twenty- nothing young body to work with. He could hold himself up for hours at a time, picking away at the circles on the ground with barely a crick in his neck. Cyril vowed to himself that, if he managed to live to see Tigris’s successful coronation, he would exercise more. Do the daily stretches he was taught and quickly eschewed at the Academy.

The only thing that remained the same was the heart-thundering anxiety that he had somehow gotten something wrong.

He’d been alone in the cottage by default, but here it was by choice. He couldn’t have anyone coming in and checking his work . Aunt Heléne would know exactly what he was trying to do and question him endlessly with ‘who’s?’ and the ‘why’s?’ and a ‘what rock did you hit your head against, child?’.

Once his draftsmanship was complete, he hid the sigil underneath a heavy ornate rug he found rolled up in one of the lower floors of the tower meant for storage. He also procured a medium-sized cage from a welder in town – just to be safe – which he kept inconspicuously under his desk for when the time was right.

Now all that was left to do was get dressed for Tigris’s fancy little dinner, and hope nobody would notice the hummingbird beat of his heart against his chest.

Formal events were always an ordeal to prepare for, but Cyril would be lying if he didn’t admit that he somewhat relished in the pageantry. Frugality did not agree with him, as had been proven by those many years wasting away on the shores of that beach, in a life so grim that it had quite literally taken his soul from him.

He allowed a trio of valets to dress him, and he noticed he was becoming perhaps concerningly used to being called ‘Young Master Cyril’. In his mind, he knew he was a man of presumably fifty, but the youthfulness of the body and the way he was perceived distorted his own sense of self in a way he didn’t expect. If he didn’t keep himself in check, soon enough he’d truly buy into being a carefree twenty-two year-old again.

There was, among most of the continent that was known to him and especially in the south, a time-honoured tradition for mages to dress as bright, bejewelled creatures. Exotic birds in a menagerie. Even common folk upheld the unspoken rule of, frankly, costume dressing. The mages of Farsala were usually the most flamboyant of them all. He knew that upstairs, his aunt would be donning a mask of a painted face, opulent dress, beads and feathered headdress. For Cyril’s part, he chose his usual fare. Brightly coloured silks, diamond and striped patterns. A chemise light as air, with bouffant sleeves layered under a cropped vest. Pointed-toe shoes that made him resemble an elf in a child’s picture book, and a collar of stiff crinoline forming a halo around his head.

He dismissed the attendants for the face paint. He revelled in doing it himself. Cyril was not vain necessarily, but he doubted there was anyone in the world who did not have their ego bolstered by seeing their eyes, their lips, their cheekbones elevated in a way that was just right. He traced patterns with kohl under his waterline, making sure to get them perfect this time. The two weeks he’d spent back in court had done wonders for steadying his hands.

He would not be accused of sloppy application again.

A butler introduced him when he entered the foyer leading to the main hall and he realised he’d not seen it this full in eons. The funeral had been a private affair, upon the surviving Margraves’ insistence. There were those who had wished to make it into a public day of mourning, with parades down the city streets, but not even the most hot-blooded courtier in Farsala had the nerve to suggest it to a pair of grieving siblings.

He saw all familiar faces. After all, he had been at this exact wedding dinner however many years ago. Some he was happy to see. A baroness he’d made friends with at one of the more boring functions, a lord who had a talent for playing cards, a couple of old classmates from the Academy who had not decided to dedicate themselves to magic having that much wealth at their disposal, instead conjuring up little spells for entertainment, centred on the simpler disciplines like illusion or animation.

Many, however, he could have done without. Cyril had gained a bit of a reputation in court within a few years of his arrival. The Margrave Pet . Not an insignificant faction of nobles in that room thought him coddled and spoiled, a dancing monkey with funny little tricks to amuse the royal family. By name alone, he was dubiously part of the peerage, and he clearly had not yet earned the respect Heléne Laverre had worked years to cultivate.

It became much worse after his wedding. He was, after all, the king’s concubine, useless but to keep a bed warm and legs spread. And he did not even have the decency to be able to deliver an heir.

Cyril had been fairly sure, at the time, that these rumours never reached Eufrates’s ears. He would have been outraged if they did. But thinking back on it, there would be no outrage if it were all true.

He stalked directly to the refreshments table, past a gaggle of nobles already eyeing him for courtly humiliation, and poured himself a glass of wine nearly to the rim. It was going to be a long night. Perhaps he should have considered all this before he chose violets and golds as his colour palette for the evening. The youthfulness his body provided was beginning to be quickly overtaken with the pressing notion that he was far too old for this.

Now that he found his place in one of the more secluded corners of the room, he scanned the crowd again, sipping at his wine. The woman of the hour was not here yet, which was of no concern. No host would ever show up to a party before everyone else, especially not when there were countless staff to take care of the guests.

Just as he was about to thank his lucky stars that Eufrates was also late, the prince’s name was announced, sonorous and clear, right at the top of the double stairs leading from the bedrooms and the royal quarters.

Cyril shrunk into himself, which did nothing as he was spotted immediately. He could hear a maid with a platter of candied fruit titter a few feet away when Eufrates made an immediate beeline to him.

He was, infuriatingly, still the most beautiful man Cyril had ever seen. And of course, he was all smiles.

“May I have this dance, Cyril? Or are you otherwise engaged?” Eufrates made a show of looking from one side to the other, both scaring away any pretenders to Cyril’s hand and making sure there were none.

Cyril bit his lip. What else could he possibly say? “Not at all. Of course, Your Highness.”

Immediately, Eufrates swept him to the very centre of the ballroom, where they were the object of everyone’s attention, but still not a soul in the room would hear their conversation. Cyril found it quite unfair, really, that his waltz was competently rusty at best, but Eufrates danced like he’d never stopped.

And of course, it wasn’t even a question of whose hand was around whose waist, and who was following along. It made Cyril’s heart tighten, being pushed and pulled at the whims of his partner.

Eufrates, for his part, leaned closer than propriety allowed to talk quietly in his ear, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Aha. You’ve noticed.”

“I said I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

“And yet I haven’t laid eyes on you in nearly two weeks. Seems the bard prince is all pretty words.”

Eufrates’s hand snaked around his waist and tightened above his hip so hard Cyril was sure it would bruise. He bit down on his lip so he did not make a sound. The mortification would have been too much.

“I know exactly where you’ve been , dearest. I know how you spend your time, who you see, which servants attend to you.”

“So much trouble to go through for a simple ward.”

Eufrates snarled and spun him just a bit too hard, pulling him to his chest. “I would never make the mistake of underestimating you.”

“Do you think I aim to kill you again, then?”

“No. You are not that daft. But–”

Cyril did not like this line of questioning. He was being interrogated, and Eufrates and his saccharine words had always been a particular weakness of his.

“Do you intend to wed me again?” he said bluntly.

That caught the prince off guard. Eufrates blinked, wondering if he’d misheard.

“Do I…?”

“Well, Your Highness.” Cyril shrugged his shoulders. “You have been taking many liberties, and now you shower me with attention in the middle of your sister’s wedding dinner. People will talk.”

“ What are you–?”

“Though, of course, I am not a suitable match for you. I’m sure no noble around us thinks of marriage . A fling, maybe. The prince’s experimental phase with a plain-faced little courtier.”

The grip on his waist tightened like a corset, and Eufrates drew him close enough to be indecent .

“Do not play the fool.”

Cyril cringed but he said nothing. It was wishful thinking that such obvious taunts would divert him from his questioning. The next thing Eufrates said, though, had his head swimming.

“You act as though you are not the most stunning creature to grace any room you walk into.”

Cyril paled, then coloured. Gods. He could not be serious.

“You’ve come with a mean streak, Your Highness,” he said in a voice weaker than he meant it to be.

“Shut up. Even if we do not wed, we are bound. You made sure of it yourself. So I’ve nothing to worry about.” He seemed to have regained his cool. Which was unfair, because Cyril still felt like the bottom had dropped out from underneath him. “You’re a flighty, empty-headed fool, and the bane of my existence, but I intend to keep you at my side even if I have to fasten a chain around your neck.”

“I’m afraid I’m getting mixed messages–”

Eufrates spun him a bit too hard, and Cyril was sent crashing against him, pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. Eufrates did not make to move away.

“ What are you planning?”

Like at the funeral, his expression was inscrutable again. If Cyril was half the poet his counterpart was, he would try to describe it. Troubled, stormy, dark. All those adjectives came to mind, but it was impossible to gauge what Eufrates was truly thinking. In fact, he was beginning to think he wasn’t the only one who had gone mad towards the end of his life.

Cyril opened his mouth to speak, hoping he could say something clever enough to buy himself some precious time and excuse himself from the dance floor, but just as he was about to intone the first syllable of his improvisation, another voice drowned him out.

“Excuse me. May I cut in?”

Both Cyril and Eufrates turned in unison to find they had been so absorbed in their conversation (if it could even be called that), that they neglected to hear the announcement of Tigris’s arrival.

And with her, of course, was her future husband, King Atticus Wulfsbane, who now stood mere inches from Cyril with his hand outstretched and a pleasant smile etched onto that handsome, freckled face.

Just as Eufrates was about to tell him ‘no’, Cyril practically pried himself from his dance partner and offered the king a genial bow.

“Your Majesty. Of course.”

For a moment, he was afraid Eufrates would not release him from the vice grip he still held on his waist (surely it would bruise), but he finally acquiesced to Atticus with a polite nod of his head.

Atticus, for his part, walked Cyril to a more secluded section of the room, without so many prying eyes. He also let him choose which position he would like in the minuet that was about to begin, which amused Cyril endlessly. He gave Atticus a cavalier shrug and guided his hand to his waist.

“It was very kind of you to ask me to dance,” Cyril said.

Atticus glanced past Cyril’s shoulder, where Eufrates had stalked up to the drinks table. “You seemed to be having trouble.”

“Ah. Tig put you up to it.”

Tigris, for her part, was holding herself up in a very dignified manner for someone who he knew was bouncing off the walls, ready to go interrogate her brother on his little display in her ballroom. She had always been a horrible gossip.

“Actually, she begged me not to intervene. She was convinced you would work it out on your own in a most, er… public way.”

Cyril grimaced. That did sound like Tig. “So you went against the wishes of your wife.”

“My fiancée . I will make it up to her later, but you truly did look like a fox caught in a net.”

“A pity dance. How flattered I am.” He regretted the sarcasm as soon as it escaped his tongue. Here was a gentleman doing him a favour and he might as well have spat at his feet.

But Atticus merely broke into a chuckle, which he stifled with one hand over his mouth (the hand holding Cyril’s, he noticed. It could be mistaken for a kiss). “Tigris was right. You are quite fun.”

“Tig has a habit of making things fun. Don’t give me too much credit, Your Majesty.”

“Please. Atticus is fine. From what Tigris has told me, we are to be practically family.”

Cyril cringed inwardly. He almost felt bad, then, that he was about to delay this man’s nuptials indefinitely.

For what seemed like the first time, Cyril took the measure of him. It was not as though he had never spoken to the King of Cretea before. In fact, he had often been trapped in long, tedious council meetings with him, where he spent the better part of his time feeling thoroughly out of place. But he had been so enthralled with his spouse, he barely paid attention to anyone else in the room.

From what he recalled, Atticus did not speak so prettily as Eufrates, but he had a way with words that was almost soothing. Solid and trustworthy. At the time he regarded him as a wise older figure, though looking back on it, one-and-thirty was hardly the pinnacle of experience.

Atticus was also perfectly good-looking. He had an innocent, boyish charm, like the statue of an old fairy tale hero, thrust into greatness against his will. His hair was a ruddy blonde and he kept it short and neatly styled, parted to one side. His eyes were a pale sage and the skin on each side was beginning to crinkle like layer pastry, a symptom of smiling too freely and too often.

He was pale, as most northerners were, and the famous freckles dotting his face almost complimented a tint of rosacea not even layers of fine creams could soothe. It made him look younger, but not in an unappealing way.

As Cyril studied the king’s features, he noticed he was being regarded in kind. Atticus’s eyes held a glint of barely contained mirth as they darted across his face and his hair and his clothes.

Was he laughing at him?

Cyril’s lips thinned into a pout. “What is it?”

At once, Atticus blinked, refocusing his vision on Cyril’s eyes. “Ah. Forgive me, you’ve caught me staring.”

“And now you owe me an explanation.”

“A more polite dance partner would have let it go.”

“I will make sure you are paired with our most genteel courtier for the next song.”

Atticus stifled a laugh that brought Cyril’s hands close to his lips again. His cheeks tinted.

“Alright. It was my fault for being so obvious. It’s your way of dress.”

“Elaborate,” he deadpanned.

“Gods, you are fun.” Atticus led him in a twirl across the ballroom that made heads turn. Cyril would hear about this in the morrow. “The ruffles, the patterns, the makeup . They dress you up like a little Pierrot, Laverre. I am sure I had a poppet who looked just like you as a child.”

If there was colour in his face before, now it must have been positively aflame. Cyril turned his face away from Atticus and sniffed, affronted, “It’s tradition. Surely even in Cretea, mages distinguish themselves. How does your court dress its mages?”

“Oh, I would not know. What my people do and how they choose to dress, magically inclined or not, is out of my jurisdiction, but in court, well… we do not make a habit of keeping pet mages in Cretea.”

“ Pet – very well. How do you treat your mages, Your Majesty?”

“Well, we for certain do not groom one especially for court. But if we did, I’m sure we would not parade him around in silly clothes.”

“I happen to like my silly clothes.”

“Of course. Again, forgive me. Chalk it up to a cultural disparity.”

“You know, I have quite the sway with Tig. I could have her call off the wedding.”

Atticus raised a brow. “How curious. Tigris told me you were a good friend.”

Again, Cyril flushed and looked down at his feet to recover some semblance of decorum. He did not remember Atticus being this quick-witted. He had been thoroughly bested with a genuine compliment .

“…Tell me more about your court’s mages, then, if you’ll indulge me.”

Atticus’s eyes lit up. “Indulging such a dear friend of my fiancée’s is my greatest wish. When we need a mage, we outsource. If there is a dearth of potions, we call upon an alchemist. If there is need for a specific spell, we find a skilled weaver.”

Cyril nodded. “Sounds… sensible.”

“Being a jack of all trades must be a great burden on such slim shoulders.”

He laughed through his nose. “Ha. You should see my aunt.”

Suddenly, Atticus leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “You know, even the royal family is trained in basic magecraft.”

Cyril’s brows shot up. “Truly?”

He grinned. “Tigris told me that would get your attention. It’s nothing to write home about, but I’ve learned to read the pattern here and there.”

Cyril narrowed his eyes at him. “…You are trying to charm me.”

The grin split into a wider smile, seemingly pleased to have been caught in his schemes. “Has it worked?”

“…Perhaps.”

He did not remember this side of Atticus. In truth, he did not remember ever having this sort of conversation with him, which could be chalked up to the simple fact that he never had.

At Tigris’s wedding dinner and every function that followed, Cyril had spent his time utterly besotted by Eufrates, not letting go of him for a single second, dancing the night away. His chest tightened when he remembered how the prince would sing to him in his brooding gravel, charmingly off-key, making up words to go with whatever waltz they were stepping to. He had been obnoxiously blind to his own feelings to believe what they were sharing at the time was just deep companionship.

Now that he had spent enough time with his husband to see through to his true nature, he could entertain other options. Not that Atticus was one of them. Or that he would actually take courtship seriously at his advanced age.

Even as he thought this, the ring glued to his chest felt like it was boring a hole through his skin. Cyril cringed.

I’m not doing anything, for fuck’s sake.

“It seems I’ve finally bored you.” Cyril realised Atticus was looking at him with some empathy, trying his best to decipher the lull in the conversation.

Cyril shook his head. “I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

Atticus flashed him a reassuring smile. “Still. I’ve stolen more than enough of your time. We’ve taken three full turns around the ballroom at this point.”

He blinked. Had it really been that long?

“Besides, I have other guests I must speak to. I’ve been putting it off for some time, but eventually I’ll have to face the brother-in-law.” Cyril followed Atticus’s gaze to the back of Eufrates’s perfectly coiffed head. He had a glass of dark-coloured liquor in one hand that Cyril had not spotted on the refreshments tables. “Wish me luck. He’s been glaring at me like he wants my head on a pike.”

Cyril had not noticed this at all. “I’m sure he’s protective of his sister.”

Atticus let out a breath of laughter. “His sister! Yes, of course.” Then, he winked . “I shall bid you goodnight, then, Laverre. But I hope to see you again soon.”

Cyril felt the tug of a smile creep up on him even as the ring pulsated hot against his chest. He pointedly ignored it and curtsied. “Likewise, Atticus.”

Once they were parted, Cyril saw Atticus bravely stride across the ballroom to Eufrates, who by then had only half a drink remaining in his grip. He made the rookie mistake of crossing eyes with the prince, and the look he gave him was so chilling he could feel the pinpricks of frost in his bones.

He could not possibly be jealous. If he were jealous, he would have intervened in the dance. If he were jealous, he would not have held Cyril up like a pinned specimen against the bark of a tree. If he were jealous, he would not have let him go .

Cyril turned sharply on his heel away from Eufrates and went about procuring his own drink, a glass of imported white wine, and a handful of hors d’oeuvres to ensure he did not become inebriated. Then, he sat at one of the emptier tables in a secluded corner of the room and let the rest of the party run its course, chewing on finger-sandwiches and fried savoury pastries.

All the while, he watched Tigris Margrave like a hawk. She was a wonder to behold. A natural social butterfly, fluttering from guest to guest with what Cyril knew was an encyclopaedic knowledge of their names, titles and claims to being here tonight. She smiled, she laughed, she curtsied, and everywhere she went the room felt brighter for it. She spent surprisingly little time with her future husband, but when they were together, they were picturesque. He supposed they both thought they would have many years ahead of them to get to know each other.

He wanted more than anything to go to her. Tigris was always such fun at parties. He couldn’t remember the number of times she had gotten him outrageously drunk and made him hurl spells out a window onto unknowing courtiers (he’d turned one into a frog before Heléne intervened), or swept him up in a mockery of a dance that had them both stepping on every foot in the room, despite neither being particularly clumsy. He would even like it if they just sat and talked a while, traded gossip over stolen food and a bottle of sweet spirit. It had been so punishingly long since he’d truly spoken to her.

But if he approached her now, it was a guarantee that she would not seek him out later. And he needed her to find him once the night was over, or all his plotting would have been for naught.

So, whenever he saw her from across the room, getting dangerously close to coming to greet him, he stood up and took a dance partner, then another, then another, keeping himself busy until his feet hurt and the soles of his shoes were worn.

And when the dinner finally wound down, and all the royal retinue had either left or retired for the evening to their respective guest rooms, Cyril started to make his way over to the tower.

And Tigris followed.