“I expect you will achieve that, and sooner than any of us might have hoped. It’s exciting to have you here. I think I’m going to learn as much from you as you do from us. We’ve studied so much of theory, but none of us have developed enough power to properly apply it. Exciting times lie ahead, Solène. For both of us. But enough about work—that will begin in the morning. I’ll be calling on you after breakfast to get the day started, but for now I’ve kept you from your supper for too long!”
* * *
Solène was a suspicious person. Having magical talent in a land where magic was illegal had made her so. It wasn’t an enjoyable way to live, but her attitude had kept her alive. It made her question everything, and it was why she woke the next morning with a twist of nausea in her gut.
Everyone she had met the previous night had been welcoming and friendly, although she agreed with Seneschal dal Drezony that the bannerets were more self-assured than perhaps they should be. Nonetheless, they had given her the same welcome as everyone else, even if they did clearly think themselves the elite.
Food, comfort, friendliness—something inside her screamed that it was all too good to be true. She had spent too long trying to see the danger in everything to accept that she might have finally found her place in the world, and the fact that she had let her guard down the previous evening after so short a time there frightened her.
She had spoken to several novices who had been denounced for witchcraft, only to be secreted away to the Order for a new life. None had nearly the talent that she did, but their stories were much the same as her own. That didn’t mean she was safe, though. No one gave so much without wanting something in return. That the Prince Bishop hoped to develop and capitalise on her ability was clear, but what that would mean in practise she did not know. The uncertainty made her feel sick.
With her stomach in knots, she had woken before dawn, but had skipped breakfast, choosing instead to sit on the edge of her bed, wondering what was to happen next. Would someone come for her? Should she be somewhere that she was unaware of? A knock on the door suggested the former. She opened it to Seneschal dal Drezony.
“Now for the bad news,” the other woman said.
Solène’s heart dropped.
“We have to go running with the bannerets,” dal Drezony said. “Three mornings a week. No way out of it, sadly. Believe me, I hate running and I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
Solène took a deep breath and relaxed. “You gave me a bit of a fright.”
“Oh, be afraid. You haven’t seen the pace we’ll have to keep up with,” dal Drezony said, smiling. “Uniform Number Four is the uniform for running. Get changed and meet me outside. Suffering shared is suffering halved. Or so I’m told.”
Solène went to the trunk containing the uniforms the quartermaster had issued her. Each one came in its own linen bag with a large number on it. Dal Drezony’s comment—“Number Four”—answered one of Solène’s questions; it seemed the Order numbered its uniforms for different uses. She delved through the bags, realising she had two Number Twos, which she took to be the uniform for regular daily use, then found the one she was looking for.
Solène spilled the contents of Number Four onto her bed—light britches and vest, knee socks, and a light pair of white leather shoes. She changed, then met dal Drezony in the arcaded laneway. They walked in silence toward the front gate, where a large group of similarly attired people waited.
“It’ll be nothing but pain at first,” dal Drezony said, “but you’ll get used to it quickly enough. I don’t think I’d run more than a couple of steps in my life before I got here. Now it feels like I’ve run from one end of the kingdom to the other, but it’s all part of the Prince Bishop’s master plan—a strong, healthy body means a strong, healthy mind. I don’t think he’s wrong in that, but it’s damned hard work.”
Solène had run before, but not much, and only when trying to get away from something. It seemed they were the last two to arrive, as the group set off at a brisk pace as soon as they got there.
Dal Drezony stayed beside Solène as they ran—laps of the Priory around the inside of the walls—but thankfully didn’t try to engage her in conversation. She began gasping for breath after only a short distance. It was both flattering and worrying that dal Drezony paid her such constant attention. Was she really that special? Would she really be able to do things no one else there could?
The burn in her legs and chest made it difficult to think, pushing her anxieties aside. Dal Drezony breathed hard but seemed comfortable with the pace. Several of the men, who had introduced themselves as bannerets the night before, were chatting and joking as they ran, as though it took no more effort than falling out of bed.
“How? Far?” Solène gasped, beginning to fear she would not be able to continue.
“There’re still a few laps to go,” dal Drezony said.
“I. Have. To. Walk,” Solène said, reckoning death was more attractive than having to take one more stride.
“That’s all right,” dal Drezony said, slowing to a walk. “Don’t want to kill you on your first day.”
Solène stopped and doubled over, sucking in great breaths as the others continued on their way. “It gets easier?”
Dal Drezony laughed. “It does, I promise. Now, come on. If you stop for too long, it will be hard to start again. If we take the direct route back you’ll have time to rest before lunch. You’ll need to rest whenever you can, and keep the fuel coming in, or you won’t have the energy to keep up with everything. The days are long here at the Priory, especially when you aren’t used to them.”
* * *
“Everything you do is dependent on the Fount,” dal Drezony said.
Solène was walking with dal Drezony through one of the Priory’s many courtyard gardens. She wore Uniform Number Two, as did most of the people around her: britches, boots, shirt, tunic, and robe. She had never worn britches before and they felt strange. Her legs were stiff and sore from the morning run, but walking seemed to help loosen them. It had taken her awhile to realise this was a lesson, not a casual stroll to ease aching legs.
“It’s the energy of the world, and it can be found almost everywhere. In us, around us, wherever there is life. Certain things block it—thick stone, water. If you swim underwater, for instance, you won’t be able to draw on the Fount. We don’t know why that happens. Ordinarily, with a new novice, I’d have to spend quite some time teaching them to open their minds to the Fount. Happily, that isn’t something I have to do with you—your connection to it already seems to be very strong.”
“What does it look like?” she said.
“You mean you haven’t seen it?” dal Drezony said.
Solène shrugged. She had no idea what the Fount was, nor had she ever felt it. She could simply do the things she could do.
“That comes as a surprise. Usually a novice needs to be able to see the Fount’s manifestation before they can accept, and reach for it. Getting them to see it’s the hard part.”
“So what does it look like?”
Dal Drezony smiled. “A blue glow, covering everything. It’s really quite beautiful. In order to draw on it, we must reach for it. To reach for it, we must see it. At least that’s what we thought before you. I was right when I said we’d learn as much from you as you from us,” dal Drezony said. “I can’t shape magic unless I see the glow. Only when my mind is open to its existence, can I use it. It’s too great a leap otherwise. For me, at least. And everyone else here. It requires quite a bit of concentration, so if you’ve got a better way, I want to learn.”
Solène blushed. She didn’t know why she could do the things she could do. “I don’t know if I can teach you. I just want to do something, and it happens. Or it doesn’t. It depends on what it is that I’m trying to do.” After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Is this how it will always be? Walks and conversations?”
“No, but for magic this is how we usually start. It helps the novice rel
ax and slowly build up an understanding of, and familiarity with, the concepts they need to absorb. This in the afternoon, for now, and physical training—running, fencing, gymnastics—in the mornings.
“For you, this process will be faster, though. You already have a potent skill, so what we have to do is temper it. After that, your afternoons will be academic study, practise, and experimentation, and hopefully we will be able to develop your ability to its full potential. That’s what we’re all here to do, to keep pushing our boundaries and explore what is possible. If you hear any explosions over the course of the day, that’s usually the reason. We’ve not had any serious accidents though, so don’t worry.”
CHAPTER
25
Solène was relieved that she didn’t have to run the next morning, and felt settled enough to join her new comrades for breakfast. Her first fencing lesson was scheduled immediately afterward, and as instructed, she reported to the fencing salon, located in a long building lined with large bay windows too high from the ground for outsiders to see through. She had no idea what was about to happen, and felt uneasy as a result. Her light cream fencing clothes—Uniform Number Three—felt odd, tighter than any other clothing she’d ever worn, but the material had enough stretch to allow easy movement.
It felt peculiar at first. Without a robe, Solène felt oddly naked in her britches, but by the time she walked from the refectory to the training hall she had grown to like them. They certainly felt more practical than the long skirts she usually wore, and no one paid her the slightest attention, making it clear she did not stand out to anyone at the Priory.
The room that greeted her was impressive: an entire building dedicated to swordplay, with the beams and apex roof high above. The floor was of light-coloured wood, so well polished she could almost see her reflection in it. Several pairs of swordsmen and women fenced one another, clad in the same uniform Solène wore. They moved back and forth, their shoes thumping and squeaking on the floor as their blades clattered against one another. Fencing looked like it might be fun, and she felt her trepidation ease.
“Bastelle?”
It took Solène a moment to realise that the shout was directed at her. She looked over at a wiry man no taller than she was. His greying black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that gave him an intense look.
“Yes, I’m Solène from Bastelle. Brother Foulques?”
“Banneret Foulques,” he said. “In my fencing salon, we use proper titles, so while you are within these walls, you call me Maestro. If you’ve got a title, tell me, and I’ll use it. Otherwise, you’re Novice Bastelle.”
“You can call me Solène,” she said.
“Did you run yesterday, Novice Bastelle?”
Solène nodded.
“What?”
“Yes I did, Maestro Foulques.”
“Good. Now, the run. How’re your legs?”
“Sore.”
“Thought as much. It’ll ease once you’re warmed up.” Selecting a sword from a rack on the wall, he walked over to her. “I presume you’ve never used one of these?”
Solène shook her head, then thought better of it. “No, Maestro.”
“At least there won’t be any bad habits to unlearn.” He flipped the sword in his hand and presented it to her, handle first. “This is the lightest blade we have. It takes years of training to build the strength and stamina to use a heavier blade. We’re not looking to make a banneret out of you, just to give you enough skill to use it if you really need to.” He waved the handle at her, saying, “It’s not going to bite. Not that end, anyway.”
Hesitantly, Solène took the sword. The blade was long and slender, with a small, flat button at its tip. It looked flimsy, and she didn’t like that he had chosen the lightest blade for her.
“We’re not going to be having you running anyone through today,” he said, noticing her staring at the blunt tip. “We start easy. Swordplay is all about movement. Footwork is of vital importance.” Foulques turned and walked back to the sword rack, where he chose a more substantial blade for himself. “We’re going to start with what we call ‘the positions.’ Just a few to start off with, focussing on your feet and posture. In time, you’ll be doing them in your sleep. For now, we just want to get them into your head. And feet! Now, take your guard. Like this.”
Solène watched as he adopted a balanced stance, with his knees flexed, and did her best to mimic him. She felt awkward as she tried to move her body into the Maestro’s demonstrated position. No sooner had she managed the stance than he moved, taking three short steps forward, his feet ending up at the same angle as they had been at the beginning. No other part of him had moved and the tip of his sword had remained perfectly still. Solène’s three steps forward were each different and she had to adjust her posture at the end, her sword waving about wildly all the time. She had barely finished moving when Foulques took three steps back, ending up where he had started, his movements looking like his body and legs were entirely separate.
She copied him again, giving up on trying to keep her sword still and eyes dead ahead, watching her feet and where they ended up compared to where she wanted them to be.
“Eyes up!” Foulques said. “Footwork is important, but you can’t move your feet if you’re dead. Always watch your opponent, or where he would be if you had one.”
Solène started to nod—“Yes, Maestro.”
“Ten times, back and forward,” he said. “Slow. Precise. Train the movement into your body.”
Solène started the set, feeling her already tired legs start to protest. Her arm and hand were also beginning to feel the strain of the unfamiliar position and weight. Now she was glad he had given her the light sword. She hadn’t even swung the thing yet and already felt like it would pull her arm off. By the time she was halfway through the repetitions, beads of perspiration coated her forehead and her thighs burned. Swordplay, when she had seen it, looked fast and exciting, but this was tedious and slow and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The moment she finished, she straightened up and lowered the sword; the release of tension in her shoulder was such a relief that she let out a sigh.
Foulques watched her with his arms akimbo. “Not too bad,” he said. “You have natural athleticism, which gives you a head start, but you’ve let it lie fallow up until today, which means there is a lot of hard work to be done. Now, again!”
She had thought running would be the toughest part of life at the Priory, but it seemed she was wrong.
* * *
Solène sat in dal Drezony’s office after lunch, waiting for the other woman to arrive to begin their lesson. It was a relief to think a gentle stroll through the Priory’s gardens was the most taxing thing left between her, supper, and bed. Her legs ached with a dull burn that made it uncomfortable to sit still for too long, and she did her best not to think of tomorrow’s morning run.
The office was a bright, airy room decorated in light and subtle shades. It very much spoke to dal Drezony’s personality as Solène knew it. There was a perfect view of one of the peaceful courtyard gardens, with a stunning marble fountain at its centre. It was certainly the perfect place for quiet contemplation—something they seemed to do an awful lot of in the Order. So far, other than her encounter with Maestro Foulques, everything about the Order felt vague and directionless, as though people with talent were sent there in the hope that their magic would manifest and develop all by itself. She had to admit that it might not only be the Order causing her confusion. This was the first time in her adult life that she had not known what she was working toward; more than that, it was the first time her mind was not occupied with having to constantly look over her shoulder.
There were some papers on dal Drezony’s desk, and Solène could not help but take a peek at the top sheet as she waited. The title caught her imagination instantly—“The Five Tests of Magical Competence.” The page was upside down from her perspective, and she was just trying to decipher the first of the tests whe
n dal Drezony entered the room.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, but one of our talent scouts got picked up by the Intelligenciers late last night, and I had to get him released before they started interrogating him. Their methods can be severe, so I needed to get him out fast.”
“I’ve seen them,” Solène said. “And I’ve heard all about what they do.”
“For people with our peculiar gifts, they’re quite terrifying, but hopefully their days of witch hunting are limited. Once the Order is strong enough, the regulation and policing of magic use will fall to us and they will be able to focus on the spying, espionage, and assassination that they’re more suited to. I’m assured that day is not far in coming. But back to more relevant things—how did you enjoy your session with Maestro Foulques?”
“It was … not like anything I’ve experienced before, but I enjoyed it. I can see why men are so drawn to it.”
“Foulques can seem harsh, but I’ve grown very fond of him, and the skills he gives us may well save our lives one day. Our ability to draw on the Fount is not unlimited. The time might come when you have to rely on steel to save yourself.”
Unable to either read the paper or contain her curiosity any longer, Solène pointed to the page on the table. “What are the Five Tests of Magical Competence?”
Dal Drezony frowned, then looked at her desk. “Ah, yes. I’m sorry, it hadn’t occurred to me that you can read. It was something I thought we’d have to address.”
Solène nodded. “I taught myself.”
“Well, that puts us even farther ahead than I hoped. I worried that would be the thing that held you back the most. The Five Tests of Magical Competence—it’s not the most inspiring title, but it’s the best I could come up with, and it fits, so…” She shrugged. “It’s something of a work in progress. Foulques has a pretty well-established set of criteria for judging ability with a sword, and academic tests are equally simple—either you know what you need to know, or you don’t.
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