They raised puffs of dirt about their ankles as they scuffed around one of the small, worn practice rings. To Karigan’s surprise, they did not use simple wooden practice swords, but true edged steel blades. She paused to watch, transfixed.
One of the combatants was Arms Master Drent, unmistakable even from this distance. He was a huge hulking man who had something of the look of a groundmite about him, with thick features and hair cropped close to his skull. Mere mention of his name was enough to instill fear in the stoutest of trainees. Even after swordmasters finished training at the academy, they must face Drent if they wished to join the elite ranks of the Weapons. Drent oversaw one of their final cullings.
The arms master fought as fearsomely as he looked, and his size did nothing to slow him down. Blades blurred in a rapid cling clang of blows.
His opponent, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that allowed free movement, did an admirable job of keeping up with Drent. His back was to her, but she could still admire his grace, and the shirt did nothing to conceal broad shoulders strong enough to block Drent’s blows. His footwork was pretty good, too.
Then Drent feinted, and drove his blade so swiftly and at such an angle that the trainee’s sword flew right out of his hand.
“Must I go back to basics with you?” Drent shouted. “How many times must I go over it?”
Karigan grimaced at Drent’s tone. It was severe enough to make anyone want to slink away into a dark corner and hide, yet his trainee didn’t even flinch, not even during the demeaning upbraiding that followed.
“Fastion,” Drent called, “I need your assistance for a moment.”
Karigan was surprised to see the Weapon emerge from the shadow of a nearby maple. Weapons excelled at hiding in shadows. The trainee must be a swordmaster he was mentoring.
Fastion and Drent exchanged some words she couldn’t quite make out, then Drent turned in Karigan’s direction.
“You there, come over here.”
It was like being struck by lightening, having Drent’s attention on her like that. She wanted to shrivel into her boots. When the trainee turned to look, too, she nearly fainted. The man whose physical form she’d been admiring was none other than King Zachary.
“I—”
“Come here now.”
One did not dare disobey a direct order from Drent of all people, unless they wanted a verbal flaying. Karigan’s legs trembled as she approached the practice ring and bowed to the king.
“Fastion’s job is to guard the king,” Drent explained, “and as he rightly pointed out, he can’t put his full attention to that duty if he’s practicing with the king. Therefore,” and Drent’s little eyes stabbed into her, “you shall help illustrate what is being done wrong, and how to correct it.”
Karigan glanced helplessly at Fastion, but the usually stone-faced Weapon gave her a tight smile and a wink—a wink!—before melding back into the shadow of the maple tree. She groaned inwardly.
The king passed her his longsword, his eyes glittering. The sword was hefty, much more so than what she was accustomed to. She adjusted her hold higher up on the grip to make it balance better, but she knew, even though her arm had mended well since the battle at the clearing, it would tire quickly.
“Now here’s what I want you to do,” Drent told Karigan. He wrapped his massive hand around her wrist and directed it in the movement of the feint and angle he had used against the king. Karigan licked her lips in concentration, trying to memorize the feel and motion of the technique.
“Got it?” Drent asked.
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“You don’t think. Yes or no?”
Karigan just wanted to crawl away. “Yes.”
“Let’s try it then. You will attack me using that technique, but we’ll go slowly so the boy can see his mistake.”
Karigan was surprised by Drent’s disrespect, but it didn’t seem to faze the king. She did as instructed and went through the sequence of moves, Drent all the while explaining why the king’s block failed.
“You met the angle all wrong. Your sword was too high. Now let’s see what it looks like done correctly.”
Karigan and Drent went through the entire sequence, again slowly, but this time the arms master demonstrating the correct block.
“Got it?” he asked the king.
“Indeed,” the king said with a wry smile.
“Good. Then you show me. Girl, you will—”
“Rider G’ladheon,” the king corrected.
“Hunh?”
“She is Rider G’ladheon.”
Drent hacked and spat. “Rider G’ladheon, you will attack the boy, full speed.”
“What? I—! But he’s the king!”
Drent rolled his eyes. “Gods have mercy. Of course he’s the king.” He passed his sword over to the king. “Girl, Rider, you will commence the attack.”
The king smiled encouragingly at her. “Don’t worry about me, so long as you are wary of the blade edges.”
Karigan unsuccessfully tried to brush away her apprehension. She had never practiced with edged weapons before, and she feared that a single slip could seriously maim the king.
“Ready yourselves,” Drent said.
Reluctantly Karigan faced the king, the sword feeling like lead in her hand.
“Begin.”
Karigan brought up her sword in reflex, touching off with the king’s. As they commenced the sequence Drent desired, Karigan’s own timid moves were matched by hesitant ones from the king. All the strength and power she had observed in his earlier swordplay was now lacking. With some surprise, she realized he was concerned about hurting her, too.
Drent groaned. “Stop, stop, stop. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful. Girl, you are not doing your sovereign any good by being gentle with him. He won’t learn to defend himself with this pitiful tapping.” Then he turned to the king. “And you shall respond in kind. If you do not, then she will draw blood and I shall have to hang her from a tree. Now. Harder, faster.”
Karigan swallowed, but as ordered, launched into her attack. A spasm of surprise rippled through the king’s expression as he stepped up to catch the blow. If it was her speed or strength that surprised him, it quickly faded from his features, which became angled with concentration.
About halfway through the sequence, the weight of the sword and Karigan’s previous injury took its toll. Her initial speed slackened, and her movements felt jerky. Pain stabbed through her arm from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Grimly she bumbled through the sequence, the king’s swordplay flawless, and his control precise.
Karigan raised her sword to absorb the king’s final blow, but pain like jagged edges of glass grinding in her elbow stole all strength from her arm.
Unable to block the final blow, the last thing she saw was the edge of King Zachary’s blade hurtling at her face with unstoppable momentum.
KING, SWORDMASTER, MAN
Laren didn’t know who to throttle first—Zachary or Drent.
Fastion stood outside the doorway of Karigan’s room and, sensing her mood, stepped aside. Was it her imagination, or did the Weapon look just a bit sheepish? If she found out he had anything to do with this, she’d throttle him, too.
She turned to enter the room, and nearly collided with Master Mender Destarion, who was on his way out. Destarion held his hand up, indicating she should step back into the corridor.
“The room is a bit tight at the moment, Captain,” he said.
She peered over his shoulder and saw Drent’s bulk hogging up most of the space. Zachary was in there, too. The two men blocked her view of Karigan.
“If Drent would—”
“A few words please.” Destarion’s voice was always level and pleasant, his expression mild. He was well trained in the mending arts, and his manner calmed her. A little.
“Your Rider is fine. A little bump on the head. There shall be some bruising and a headache, but I suspect no serious head injury. Just in case, however, I’
d like someone to look in on her periodically through the night.”
“I’ll do it.”
So intent upon finding someone to throttle, Laren hadn’t noted Mara shadowing her. Mara had been the one to bring her the news of the swordplay gone awry.
“Additionally,” Destarion said, “she won’t be able to use her sword arm for a time. Apparently she wrenched muscles and tendons already weakened by an injury received during her recent delegation duty.”
Laren began to feel a headache of her own coming on. “She never told me she had been hurt.” She would definitely add Karigan to her list of throttlings.
Destarion shrugged. “She tells me she felt it had mended on its own, and I suspect it mostly did. It was not healed enough, however, for the activity she engaged in today. Not an uncommon injury, I might add, among swordfighters. I recommend very light duty until I deem the arm sound.”
Very light duty. That meant no message errands. Laren frowned and entered Karigan’s room, leaving Mara to receive the mender’s more detailed instructions.
She pushed between Zachary and Drent to stand over the bed. Karigan lay sprawled across it, boots still on. Her arm was slack across her stomach, and with her good hand, she held a wet compress to her temple.
“I would like an explanation,” Laren said.
Karigan tried to sit up, winced, and laid back down. “I—”
“It was not her fault,” Zachary interrupted. “I am—”
Laren turned to him, glowering. “You mean she isn’t at fault for not informing me of a prior injury?”
A gleam lit in Drent’s eye at the prospect of Karigan receiving all the blame, but he blinked when she transferred her glower to him. When she looked back at Zachary, she noticed he cradled his wrist in a compress.
“What did you do to yourself?”
“He sprained it trying to snap back the blow he landed on the girl,” Drent said. “If he hadn’t, your Rider would be ascending to the heavens with Westrion right now.”
Zachary’s cheeks were ashen, and no doubt the guilt of his part in Karigan’s injury would eat away at him for weeks. Good.
“Practicing with edged blades, were you?”
“Yep.” Drent again. “Teaches precision, adds to the reality of combat.” His smile was gruesome. “Helps teach not to make mistakes. It’s standard practice for swordmasters.”
A little gasp from the bed told Laren that Karigan hadn’t known that the king she served possessed this level of swordsmanship.
“Yes,” Laren said, “standard for swordmasters such as yourselves, but Karigan is not a swordmaster.”
Drent passed his hand over his spiky hair and cast a calculating look at Karigan. “Maybe with a little work . . .”
Oh yes, Drent was going to get throttled, with a black eye thrown into the bargain. This conversation wasn’t going at all the way she intended.
True, her ability told her.
Who asked you? she retorted. Her ability had been passing judgment of its own volition just a bit too freely of late. And now she was talking back to it? She’d have to clamp down on it.
“Not only did you endanger my Rider,” Laren said, “but now the messenger service is more short-handed than ever.”
“I can ride,” Karigan said weakly from her bed.
Laren forced herself not to laugh. The sword blow may have knocked out Karigan’s common sense, but it did nothing to extinguish her spirit. It was spirit that made Karigan such a good Rider, but it was her lapses of common sense that tended to get her in trouble. Maybe it wasn’t just lapses of common sense . . . The girl was a magnet for trouble. Whatever the case, for however long Karigan answered the Rider call, she sensed things would be quite interesting around here.
“Right,” she said. “I can see I won’t get any useful information with the three of you here together, so I shall speak with you individually. Excellency,” she said, then turned on her heel to leave. “Drent, you’re with me—to my office.”
The captain’s swift anger gave Karigan more of a headache than the sword blow. She winced as boots rapped down the corridor.
Drent rolled his eyes. “The five hells have no fury like Captain Laren Mapstone.”
“Drent!” The captain’s shout came like the crack of a whip.
The arms master groaned. “I hope she didn’t hear that.” He bowed stiffly to the king and started to leave. He paused in the doorway and peered back at them. “If no one hears from me in an hour or two, send reinforcements!”
“Drent!”
He grimaced, and like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, headed down the corridor.
The king whistled softly. “I know she’s really upset when she calls me ’excellency’ in private,” he said, “but I’ve never seen Drent intimidated before.”
“I’m sorry,” Karigan said.
“For what?”
“For getting you in trouble with the captain.”
The king raised his eyebrows in disbelief, then hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it over to the bed so he could sit beside her. The room, Karigan thought, was feeling rather close. It was too much—the swordplay, the king helping her back to barracks with soft words of encouragement, and she found herself, despite the pain and embarrassment, finding pleasure in his attention.
I did get whacked on the head, didn’t I?
The king leaned forward. “Karigan, Laren and I go back quite a few years. She’s like an older sister to me.” A smile flickered across his lips. “I’ve been in trouble with that formidable woman more times than I care to remember, and have managed to survive.”
“But I—”
“Rider, your captain happens to be correct. Drent and I should not have involved you in such advanced swordplay. You were doing so well we didn’t think much of it. As a result of our negligence, your captain is short one Rider for an undetermined time, and more importantly, you have been hurt.”
“Your wrist—”
“Will be back to normal in a couple days.” He grinned and she liked the effect it had on his eyes. “I’ve received far worse from bouts with Arms Master Drent.”
He regarded her for many moments, his features now very solemn. “I want you to know that I’d never intend you harm.”
She wanted to reassure him she knew this, but the words caught in her throat when he reached over and touched the back of her hand, just very lightly, with his fingertips. Heat radiated from his touch, and her own heat flooded her cheeks. She wanted to push the compress over her whole face to hide the blush.
She closed her eyes. I am addled. The whack addled my brain.
This was her sovereign, her king. The same man she’d seen as mysterious and commanding a couple years ago before they had entered the tombs of Heroes Avenue. She had seen him cold and terrible as he presided over the executions of traitors. By his own hand he had executed the former lord-governor of Mirwell. Mirwell, at the block; King Zachary tall and his features as stony as the castle walls surrounding him, in his hand a shining blade arcing down . . .
Her sovereign was also a man. She had witnessed his humanity. Tears over the fallen at the Battle of the Lost Lake. Expressing his passion for the land of Sacoridia and its people, even when forced to kneel and submit before his traitorous brother. A walk in the gardens and a chaste kiss on her hand, the glimmer of humor in brown eyes, the warmth of his touch . . .
The man frightened her more than the king.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Only Mara stood there in the doorway, peering at her, then glancing down the corridor with a bemused expression on her face.
FOOTPRINTS
“Put this book on the top shelf.” “This book” was Lint’s Wordage, a compilation of famous quotations. Karigan gazed at the thick tome with dismay, but gamely reached for it with both hands.
“No,” Captain Mapstone said, not even looking up from her papers, “use only your right hand.”
Karigan obeyed. If this was
what it took to prove to the captain her arm was sound, so be it. Immediately the weight of the book pulled on tender joints and muscles. Swallowing back a curse, she walked across the room to the captain’s bookshelves. She raised the book, her arm quivering, while what felt like daggers twisted in her elbow joint. She couldn’t seem to lift the book any higher than her waist. She just hadn’t the strength.
Still she tried, gritting her teeth against the pain. A rivulet of perspiration glided down the side of her face and tears overflowed the edges of her eyes.
Captain Mapstone left her papers and crossed over to Karigan. Gently she removed the volume from her shaking hand. Karigan sobbed with relief, and slipped her strained arm back into its despicable sling.
“When you can shelve this book,” the captain told her, “I’ll take you off light duty. With Master Destarion’s approval, of course.”
Karigan glared at the offending book.
“In the meantime, I’ve some documents for you to carry over to administration.”
Karigan tucked the documents under her arm—her good arm—and set off from officers quarters across the castle grounds.
The welt and bruise had nearly faded from her temple, and Destarion’s cold treatments were working wonders on her elbow. But not enough. She couldn’t even help much at the stable because too much of what was needed to be done required lifting and carrying.
Karigan found light duty all too reminiscent of what her father had her doing before she gave in to the Rider call: going over inventories, ordering supplies, assisting Mara with scheduling, running errands . . .
The irony of the situation was not lost on her.
She glanced at the sky. The change in weather she’d been expecting had held off. The day was bright and lovely.
The records room was located in the bottom level of the administration wing. Karigan didn’t know the area well, for she usually had little reason to venture there. It was usually the Chief Rider who handled administrative duties. The corridors were mazelike, a regular warren. The rough rock-work and the low, arched ceilings indicated she had entered an older part of the castle.
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