When the pirates were dead, Kel’s mother turned and reached a hand down to her. “Let’s go find your father,” she said quietly.
Kel grasped the hand, and let her mother pull her to her feet. Then Kel gathered up the golden swords that had been trusted to them.
When they faced their rescuers, the guards knelt as one. They bowed low to the woman and the girl, touching their heads to the bloody floor.
Kel woke, breathing fast, her eyes shining. Her heart raced; she trembled all over. The dream was not scary; it was exciting. She loved it. She loved that it had all been real.
I want to be like that, she told herself as she always did. I want to protect people. And I will. I will. I’ll be a hero one day, just like Mama. Just like the Lioness.
Nobody will kill two kittens in front of me then.
two
NOT SO WELCOME
Wyldon of Cavall nodded to Baron Piers, but his eyes were on Kel. He looked her over from top to toe, taking in every wrinkle and spot in her tunic and breeches and the fading bruise around her eye.
Kel met his gaze squarely. The training master was handsome, for all that he was completely bald on top. He wore what was left of his light brown hair cropped very short. A scar—so red and puffy, it had to be recent—ran from the corner of his eye across his right temple to dig a track through his hair to his ear. His right arm rested in a sling. His eyes were brown, his mouth wide; his chin was square with a hint of a cleft in it. His big hands were marked with scars. He dressed simply, in a pale blue tunic, a white shirt, and dark blue hose. She couldn’t see his feet behind the big desk, but she suspected that his shoes were as sensible as the rest of him.
Even the Yamanis would say he’s got too much stone in him, she thought, looking at the scuffed toes of her boots. He needs water to balance his nature. Peering through her lashes at the training master, she added, Lots of water. A century or two of it, maybe.
Wyldon drummed his fingers on his desktop. At last he smiled tightly. “Be seated, please, both of you.”
Kel and her father obeyed.
Wyldon took his own seat. “Well. Keladry, is it?” She nodded. “You understand that you are here on sufferance. You have a year in which to prove that you can keep up with the boys. If you do not satisfy me on that count, you will go home.”
He’s never said that to any boy, Kel thought, glad that her face would not show her resentment. He shouldn’t be saying it to me. She kept her voice polite as she answered, “Yes, my lord.”
“You will get no special privileges or treatment, despite your sex.” Wyldon’s eyes were stony. “I will not tolerate flirtations. If there is a boy in your room, the door must be open. The same is true if you are in a boy’s room. Should you disobey, you will be sent home immediately.”
Kel met his eyes. “Yes, sir.” She was talkative enough with her family, but not with outsiders. The chill that rose from Wyldon made her even quieter.
Piers shifted in his seat. “My daughter is only ten, Lord Wyldon. She’s a bit young for that kind of thing.”
“My experience with females is that they begin early,” the training master said flatly. He ran a blunt-tipped finger down a piece of paper.
“It says here that you claim no magical Gift,” stated Lord Wyldon. “Is that so?”
Kel nodded.
Lord Wyldon put down the paper and leaned forward, clasping his hands on his neatly ordered desk. “In your father’s day, the royal household always dined in the banquet hall. Now our royal family dines privately for the most part. On great holidays and on special occasions, feasts are held with the sovereigns, nobles, and guests in attendance. The pages are required to serve at such banquets. Also, you are required to run errands for any lord or lady who asks.
“Has she a servant with her?” he asked Kel’s father.
“No,” Piers replied.
“Very well. Palace staff will tend her rooms. Have you any questions?” Wyldon asked Kel.
Yes, she wanted to say. Why won’t you treat me like you treat the boys? Why can’t you be fair ?
She kept it to herself. Growing up in a diplomat’s house, she had learned how to read people. A good look at Wyldon’s square, stubborn face with its hard jaw had told Kel that words would mean nothing to this man. She would have to prove to him that she was as good as any boy. And she would.
“No questions, my lord,” she told him quietly.
“There is a chamber across the hall for your farewells,” Wyldon told Piers. “Salma will come for Keladry and guide her to her assigned room. No doubt her baggage already is there.” He looked at Kel. “Unpack your things neatly. When the supper bell rings, stand in the hall with the new boys. Sponsors—older pages who show the new ones how things are done—must be chosen before we go down to the mess.”
After Kel said goodbye to her father, she found Salma waiting for her in the hall. The woman was short and thin, with frizzy brown hair and large, dark eyes. She wore the palace uniform for women servants, a dark skirt and a white blouse. A large ring laden with keys hung from her belt. As she took Kel to her new room, Salma asked if Kel had brought a personal servant.
When the girl replied that she hadn’t, Salma told her, “In that case, I’ll assign a servant to you. We bring you hot water for washup and get your fire going in the morning. We also do your laundry and mending, make beds, sweep, and so on. And if you play any tricks on the servants, you’ll do your laundry and bed-making for the rest of the year. It’s not our job to look after weapons, equipment, or armor, mind. That’s what you’re here to learn.”
She briskly led the way through one long hall as she talked. Now they passed a row of doors. Each bore a piece of slate with a name written in chalk. “That’s my room,” Salma explained, pointing. “The ground floor here is the pages’ wing. Squires are the next floor up. If you need supplies, or special cleaning and sewing, or if you are ill, come to me.”
Kel looked at her curiously. “My brothers didn’t mention you.”
“Timon Greendale, our headman, reorganized service here six years ago,” Salma replied. “I was brought in five years back—just in time to meet your brother Conal. Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”
Kel smiled wryly. Conal had that effect on people.
Salma halted in front of the last door in the hall. There was no name written on the slate. “This is your room,” she remarked. “I told the men to put your things here.” She brushed the slate with her fingertips. “Your name has been washed off. I have to get my chalk. You may as well unpack.”
“Thank you,” Kel said.
“No need to thank me” was Salma’s calm reply. “I do what they pay me to.” She hesitated, then added, “If you need anything, even if it’s just a sympathetic ear, tell me.” She rested a warm hand on Kel’s shoulder for a moment, then walked away.
Entering her room, Kel shut the door. When she turned, a gasp escaped before she locked her lips.
She surveyed the damage. The narrow bed was overturned. Mattress, sheets, and blankets were strewn everywhere. The drapes lay on the floor and the shutters hung open. Two chairs, a bookcase, a pair of night tables, and an oak clothespress were also upended. The desk must have been too heavy for such treatment, but its drawers had been dumped onto the floor. Her packs were opened and their contents tumbled out. Someone had used her practice glaive to slash and pull down the wall hangings. On the plaster wall she saw written: No Girls! Go Home! You Won’t Last!
Kel took deep breaths until the storm of hurt and anger that filled her was under control. Once that was done, she began to clean up. The first thing she checked was the small wooden box containing her collection of Yamani porcelain lucky cats. She had a dozen or so, each a different size and color, each sitting with one paw upraised. The box itself was dented on one corner, but its contents were safe. Her mother had packed each cat in a handkerchief to keep it from breaking.
That’s something, at least, Kel thought. But what abo
ut next time? Maybe she ought to ship them home.
As she gathered up her clothes, she heard a knock. She opened her door a crack. It was Salma. The minute the woman saw her face, she knew something was wrong. “Open,” she commanded.
Kel let her in and shut the door.
“You were warned this kind of thing might happen?” Salma asked finally.
Kel nodded. “I’m cleaning up.”
“I told you, it’s your job to perform a warrior’s tasks. We do this kind of work,” Salma replied. “Leave this to me. By the time you come back from supper it will be as good as new. Are you going to change clothes?”
Kel nodded.
“Why don’t you do that? It’s nearly time for you to wait outside. I’ll need your key once you’re done in here.”
Kel scooped up the things she needed and walked into the next room. Small and bare, it served as a dressing room and bathroom. The privy was behind a door set in the wall. There was little in here to destroy, but the mirror and the privy seat were soaped.
Kel shut the door. Before she had seen her room, she had planned to wear tunic and breeches as she had for the journey. She’d thought that if she was to train as a boy, she ought to dress like one. They were also more comfortable. Now she felt differently. She was a girl; she had nothing to be ashamed of, and they had better learn that first thing. The best way to remind them was to dress at least part of the time as a girl.
Stripping off her travel-stained clothes, she pulled on a yellow linen shift and topped it with her second-best dress, a fawn-brown cotton that looked well against the yellow. She removed her boots and put on white stockings and brown leather slippers.
Cleaning the mirror, she looked at herself. The gown was creased from being packed, but that could not be helped. She still had a black eye. There was nothing she could do with her mouse-brown hair: she’d had it cropped to her earlobes before she’d left home. Next trip to market, maybe I’ll get some ribbons, she thought grimly, running a comb through her hair. Some nice, bright ribbons.
She grinned at her own folly. Hadn’t she learned by now that the first thing a boy grabbed in a fight was hair? She’d lose chunks of it or get half choked if she wore ornaments and ribbons.
Overhead a bell clanged three times. She winced: the sound was loud.
“Time,” Salma called.
If she thought anything of the change in Kel’s appearance, she kept it to herself. Instead she pointed to yet another piece of writing: Girls Can’t Fight! Salma’s mouth twisted wryly. “What do they think their mothers do, when the lords are at war and a raiding party strikes? Stay in their solars and tat lace?”
That made Kel smile. “My aunt lit barrels of lard and had them catapulted onto Scanran ships this summer.”
“As would any delicately reared noblewoman.” Salma opened the door. Once they had walked into the hall, she took the key from Kel and went about her business, nodding to the boys as they emerged from their rooms.
Kel stood in front of her door and clasped her hands so no one could see they shook. Suddenly she wanted to turn tail and run until she reached home.
Wyldon was coming down the hall. Boys joined him as he passed, talking quietly. One of them was a boy with white-blond hair and blue eyes, set in a face as rosy-cheeked as a girl’s. Kel, seeing the crispness of his movements and a stubbornness around his mouth, guessed that anybody silly enough to mistake that one for a girl would be quickly taught his mistake. A big, cheerful-looking redheaded boy walked on Wyldon’s left, joking with a very tall, lanky youth.
A step behind the blond page and Wyldon came a tall boy who walked with a lion’s arrogance. He was brown-skinned and black-eyed, his nose proudly arched. A Bazhir tribesman from the southern desert, Kel guessed. She noticed several other Bazhir among the pages, but none looked as kingly as this one.
When the training master halted, there were only five people left in front of doors on both sides of him: four boys and Kel. Her next-door neighbor, a brown-haired boy liberally sprinkled with freckles, bowed to Wyldon. Kel and the others did the same; then Kel wondered if she ought to have curtsied. She let it go. To do so now, after bowing, would just make her look silly.
Wyldon looked at each of them in turn, his eyes resting the longest on Kel. “Don’t think you’ll have an easy time this year. You will work hard. You’ll work when you’re tired, when you’re ill, and when you think you can’t possibly work anymore. You have one more day to laze. Your sponsor will show you around this palace and collect those things which the crown supplies to you. The day after that, we begin.”
“You.” He pointed to a boy with the reddest, straightest hair Kel had ever seen. “Your name and the holding of your family.”
The boy stammered, “Merric, sir—my lord. Merric of Hollyrose.” He had pale blue eyes and a long, broad nose; his skin had only the barest summer tan.
The training master looked at the pages around him. “Which of you older pages will sponsor Merric and teach him our ways?”
“Please, Lord Wyldon?” Kel wasn’t able to see the owner of the voice in the knot of boys who stood at Wyldon’s back. “We’re kinsmen, Merric and I.”
“And kinsmen should stick together. Well said, Faleron of King’s Reach.” A handsome, dark-haired boy came to stand with Merric, smiling at the redhead. Wyldon pointed to the freckled lad, Esmond of Nicoline, who was taken into the charge of Cleon of Kennan, the big redhead. Blond, impish Quinden of Marti’s Hill was sponsored by the regal-looking Bazhir, Zahir ibn Alhaz. The next pairing was the most notable: Crown Prince Roald, the twelve-year-old heir to the throne, chose to show Seaver of Tasride around. Seaver, whose dark complexion and coal-black eyes and hair suggested Bazhir ancestors, stared at Roald nervously, but relaxed when the prince rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Only Kel remained. Wyldon demanded, “Your name and your fief?”
She gulped. “Keladry of Mindelan.”
“Who will sponsor her?” asked Wyldon.
The handsome Zahir looked at her and sniffed. “Girls have no business in the affairs of men. This one should go home.” He glared at Kel, who met his eyes calmly.
Lord Wyldon shook his head. “We are not among the Bazhir tribes, Zahir ibn Alhaz. Moreover, I requested a sponsor, not an opinion.” He looked at the other boys. “Will no one offer?” he asked. “No beginner may go unsponsored.”
“Look at her,” Kel heard a boy murmur. “She stands there like—like a lump.”
The blond youth at Wyldon’s side raised a hand. “May I, my lord?” he asked.
Lord Wyldon stared at him. “You, Joren of Stone Mountain?”
The youth bowed. “I would be pleased to teach the girl all she needs to know of life in the pages’ wing.”
Kel eyed him, suspicious. From the way a few older pages giggled, she suspected Joren might plan to chase her away, not show her around. She looked at the training master, expecting him to agree with the blond page.
Instead Lord Wyldon frowned. “I had hoped for another sponsor,” he commented stiffly. “You should employ your spare hours in the improvement of your classwork and your riding skills.”
“I thought Joren hated—” someone whispered.
“Shut up!” another boy hissed.
Kel looked at the flagstones under her feet. Now she was fighting to hide her embarrassment, but she knew she was failing. Any Yamani would see her shame on her features. She clasped her hands before her and schooled her features to smoothness. I’m a rock, she thought. I am stone.
“I believe I can perfect my studies and sponsor the girl,” Joren said respectfully. “And since I am the only volunteer—”
“I suppose I’m being rash and peculiar, again,” someone remarked in a drawling voice, “but if it means helping my friend Joren improve his studies, well, I’ll just have to sacrifice myself. There’s nothing I won’t do to further the cause of book learning among my peers.”
Everyone turned toward the speaker, who stood a
t the back of the group. Seeing him clearly, Kel thought that he was too old to be a page. He was tall, fair-skinned, and lean, with emerald eyes and light brown hair that swept back from a widow’s peak.
Lord Wyldon absently rubbed the arm he kept tucked in a sling. “You volunteer, Nealan of Queenscove?”
The youth bowed jerkily. “That I do, your worship, sir.” There was the barest hint of a taunt in Nealan’s educated voice.
“A sponsor should be a page in his second year at least,” Wyldon informed Nealan. ’’And you will mind your tongue.”
“I know I only joined this little band in April, your lordship,” the youth Nealan remarked cheerily, “but I have lived at court almost all of my fifteen years. I know the palace and its ways. And unlike Joren, I need not worry about my academics.”
Kel stared at the youth. Had he always been mad, or did a few months under Wyldon do this to him? She had just arrived, and she knew better than to bait the training master.
Wyldon’s eyebrows snapped together. “You have been told to mind your manners, Page Nealan. I will have an apology for your insolence.”
Nealan bowed deeply. “An apology for general insolence, your lordship, or some particular offense?”
“One week scrubbing pots,” ordered Lord Wyldon. “Be silent.”
Nealan threw out an arm like a player making a dramatic statement. “How can I be silent and yet apologize?”
“Two weeks.” Keladry was forgotten as Wyldon concentrated on the green-eyed youth. “The first duty for anyone in service to the crown is obedience.”
“And I am a terrible obeyer,” retorted Nealan. “All these inconvenient arguments spring to my mind, and I just have to make them.”
“Three,” Wyldon said tightly.
“Neal, shut it!” someone whispered.
Protector of the Small Quartet Page 3
