by Jocelyn Fox
Knight Arian held Finn’s gaze for a long moment, no doubt seeing the flame of excitement kindled by his words. “I know you will not let me down.”
Finn nodded. “I won’t, sir.”
“Knight Arian, I think that perhaps you will be choosing another squire soon,” said the lady on his arm in a mellifluous voice. Her dark eyes swept appraisingly over Finn, and she arched an eyebrow in quiet approval of his lithe frame.
Finn felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his face – Knight Arian’s words had thinned his control of his tranquil expression. The lady smiled slightly at his reaction with the air of a cat that had startled a bird into flight, and then she turned gracefully back to Knight Arian. Finn bowed as the Knight and lady turned to adjourn from the dining hall, grateful for the opportunity to regain control of his composure.
The hall emptied of the courtiers, and the squires sat down to their own meal at the lowest dais. The squires whose masters had not eaten at table tonight brought the food from the kitchens. The pages ate in the kitchens, which was actually a welcome respite from the watchful eyes of the knights and squires. Finn spotted Kieran and headed toward him.
“He’s an enterprising page, at least,” Kieran said, already digging into his plate of simple fare as Finn sat down beside him. “I’d bet he didn’t switch out of the goodness of his heart…or he shouldn’t have.” Kieran shook his head. “Can’t be soft on the weak. They don’t make it for a reason.” He frowned at Finn. “Why do you look like you were just smacked silly with a training blade?”
“Knight Arian said that I’ll be fighting at the Solstice,” Finn said in a dazed voice.
Kieran let out a yell of triumph and raised his fist in the air, clapping Finn on the back. “That’s excellent! I’m sure Lochlan is keeping me on tenterhooks just to teach me patience. But you’ll run the gauntlet and fight at the festival…and no doubt the Queen will say your name!”
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” cautioned Finn, though he couldn’t help his mind from imagining that moment: the moment when his name would pass the lips of Queen Mab, and the Courts would cheer, the Knights and Guards roaring their approval, and he would step forward, finally a Knight. He took a deep breath.
Kieran grinned as he loaded Finn’s plate for him. “I’m not getting too far ahead of myself, I’m merely being logical.” He picked up Finn’s fork and placed it in his friend’s hand. “Eat. We’re going to double down on training.”
Finn smiled slightly at his friend’s exuberance and followed the order, letting himself feel a slight thrill of triumph as he ate his evening meal and thought of the challenge ahead.
Chapter 3
Ramel arrived at the practice grounds before the bell signaling the end of the noon meal had even been rung. He wasn’t about to waste a single moment of the opportunity to train with the squires. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded his kerchief, and his stomach suddenly knotted. He looked at the bread and cheese that he’d smuggled from the kitchens and knew he should eat it, but gods, it felt like his insides were being chewed by a Northwolf and then filled with a thousand slithering snakes. He managed a bite of bread, but it tasted like sawdust, and his mouth was so dry that he had to wash it down with a gulp of water. After another torturous bite, he folded the cloth around the food and replaced it in his pack.
He tugged at the sleeves of his shirt and straightened his quilted training vest unnecessarily. His three roommates teased him good-naturedly about the time he’d spent that morning in front of the bit of polished silver that they used as a mirror. He’d thrown back a few cheerful insults in reply, mostly having to do with their lack of time spent in front of the mirror. But even earlier, his nerves prompted him to check and recheck his appearance, his desire to make a good impression on the squires overriding his distaste at the hint of vanity.
The single toll of the great bell in the Queen’s Tower sounded. One toll for the hour after noon, two tolls for the hour after that, and so on until dusk. Ramel felt the ring of the bell in his bones; every part of his body felt especially sensitive, galvanized by the writhing mass of anxiety in his gut. He ran over Squire Kieran’s words again in his head, trying to quash the doubt that whispered in the back of his mind. Perhaps the squires were only jesting, and they didn’t truly mean to spend any time with a young page. Perhaps they’d just said it to see whether he’d appear in the practice yards prepared. Worst of all, maybe they’d just laugh at him. His stomach dropped at the thought of being a laughingstock for all the squires and the pages who would no doubt line the wall as they did every day.
“They wouldn’t do that,” he said quietly to himself. Squire Kieran and Squire Finnead were the best of their year, and among the best of all the squires no matter what their age. They wouldn’t act dishonorably. But did telling a page that they would spar with him after the noon meal really count as anything that could be held to a Knight’s honor, even a Knight in training?
Attempting to distract himself from his racing thoughts, Ramel rearranged his gear, neatly lining up his copper water cup with his practice shield and his belt-pouch. He picked up his quarterstaff, the worn smoothness of the wood comforting beneath his touch. He stepped into an empty practice ring and began slowly running through the warm-up patterns that all pages learned during their first year. He knew them so well now, after years of being a page, that he could run through them with his eyes closed; and sometimes he did, testing his ability to sense the position of his body and his surroundings without sight. Their staff-master emphasized to them that simple strength or outstanding agility meant nothing when compared against hours of practice and attention to detail. Learning and practicing the movements slowly and smoothly laid the foundation for speed and, after many years of dedication, skill.
The pages trained with quarterstaffs, and only after at least five years of study did the staff-master allow them to pick up a practice shield. The staff-master also gave the older pages permission to add weight to their staffs through strips of silver carefully inlaid into the staff by the pages themselves. Ramel had added two bars of silver to his staff thus far. Each addition of weight meant hours of extra practice in the relative privacy of his barracks room, forcing his muscles to execute the patterns as precisely with the newly heavy staff as they had with a lighter one. It meant a few weeks of waking up with an aching body every morning, yet keeping up with his fellows during the morning run and drills. But Ramel didn’t shirk the additional time, nor did he shy away from the physical discomfort. Some of the pages in his year hadn’t added any weight at all, despite the staff-master’s permission, and Ramel privately thought that they didn’t deserve to be made squires. If they weren’t willing to add weight to their staffs now, how would they become skilled with an actual blade?
A few squires began arriving at the practice grounds for their afternoon sessions. Ramel watched to ensure that he wasn’t taking a practice ring from any of them. A few of them gave him considering looks that bordered on skeptical – the pages practiced in the mornings, and the squires in the afternoons. The Knights and Guards had their own practice grounds inside Darkhill proper, where the Queen and the favored members of her Court could watch them spar, if they so chose. Thankfully, none of the squires bothered to ask why there was a lone page running drills with his staff in the farthest practice ring. They went about their own warm-ups and effortlessly ignored him.
A few of the younger pages filtered into the practice grounds to watch the afternoon training session of the squires. In contrast to the squires, they watched Ramel with interest and murmured to one another, no doubt making bets on the time that would pass before one of the squires would reprimand the lone page. Ramel swallowed down his nerves and schooled his face into a mask of concentration, but after another long quarter hour passed, with more squires arriving and no sign of Finnead or Kieran, he gave in to his desire to block it all out and closed his eyes for his next set of drills. Rather than let the whispers of the pages or the glances of the arri
ving squires rattle him, he concentrated on absorbing all the sensory cues that were made more apparent without his sight: the feel of the noonday sun on his skin, the slight breeze that whispered across the hard-packed dirt, the faint scent of sweat and the smooth wood of his quarterstaff in his hand, warm now from his own body heat.
He concentrated on engaging the proper muscles in his arms and legs as he ran through the drill, keeping his midriff tight and his stance properly balanced. As he swung his staff in a crescent block, he heard the soft scuff of a boot on the dirt, and before he could open his eyes, his staff was nearly wrenched from his hands by a strong grip. Acting purely on the reflex drilled into his body by hours of practice, Ramel sharply twisted his staff and reversed its motion, tracing an opposite crescent and forcing his unknown assailant to release the staff or come away with a badly sprained wrist at the least. With his staff free, Ramel delivered a sharp rap to where he estimated his opponent to be; and then, rewarded by the solid smack of his staff on flesh, he leapt backward to put space between them, only then opening his eyes. The murmuring of the pages along the wall of the practice ground took on an excited tone, his fellows’ voices swirling around him like a flurry of surprised moths.
Squire Kieran stood at the edge of the practice ring, brushing dust from the sleeve of his tunic – dust from his staff, Ramel realized with a dull horror. Squire Finnead stood a pace outside the ring, watching with a slightly arched eyebrow and a small smile.
“Do you know what the punishment is for hitting a squire?” Kieran demanded, his expression thunderous.
Ramel straightened and brought his staff to his side, swallowing hard. For once, he didn’t know what to say, so he settled for, “No, sir.” His voice cracked and shot up into the upper reaches of the soprano range. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the embarrassment washing over him. “I apologize, sir.”
Squire Kiernan seemed to be having trouble containing his rage; his face contorted a bit, and he pressed his mouth together into a thin line. Ramel wondered faintly if squires were allowed to beat pages. He hadn’t ever heard of it being expressly forbidden, and he steeled himself. Then he heard Squire Finnead murmur in a slightly reproving tone, “Kiernan. I thought you were going to teach him a lesson, not scare him half to death.”
Ramel took a breath and squared his chest, raising his chin. His voice came out firmer and didn’t crack this time. “I’m not frightened, sir. I was merely startled when Squire Kiernan…stepped into the ring…during my drills. I apologize if I gave offense.”
“Startled,” repeated Squire Kiernan, raising an eyebrow. He pressed his mouth together again. Squire Finnead shook his head slightly as he looked at the taller squire.
With a slow, sinking feeling, Ramel realized that Squire Kiernan was trying not to laugh at him. In the first instant of crushed hope, he half-expected to feel the sting of childish tears trying to worm their treacherous way into his eyes; but to his surprise, he felt instead the warm blossom of anger in his chest. He drew his shoulders back and inclined his head respectfully, but now his voice hardened. “Sir, I have apologized if I gave offense, but I do not intend to be the subject of your amusement. I will cede you the ring.” He gave a stiff half-bow, gripping his quarterstaff so hard that his knuckles ached.
“No need to bristle, lad,” Kiernan said in a tone that was almost brotherly, holding up a hand. “Just a practical lesson in sharp words, since you are so fond of them.”
Ramel nodded but watched the well-built squire warily. Was he being dismissed? Was that the extent of the ‘lesson’ from Squire Kiernan? The murmuring of the pages swirled up again like dust kicked up by a strong wind. Squire Finnead turned his gaze to the gathered pages along the wall, his sapphire eyes inscrutable.
“If you insist on whispering like a crowd of gossips, I will tell you to leave,” he said firmly. He spoke without raising his voice and yet the pages fell silent instantly. “It is clear to me that a few of you wish to learn from their elders, whereas others only watch hungrily for their failure.”
A few of the pages looked down uncomfortably. Ramel felt a strange little spark of courage at Squire Finnead’s words. Was it possible these two squires, the best of their year and some of the youngest squires in recent history to be put forth at the Solstice, was it possible that they saw promise in him?
“Wishing failure upon your fellows not only displays a lack of chivalry, but a lack of understanding in the basic tenets of knighthood,” continued Squire Finnead, his eyes flashing with a hard, flinty spark. The pages all stood stock-still along the wall, none of them daring to move. Ramel, too, found himself rooted to the spot, transfixed by the power of Squire Finnead’s voice and words. And then an overwhelming conviction rose in Ramel’s chest as he stood in the dusty practice ring: someday, Squire Finnead would be one of Queen Mab’s Three. Ramel didn’t exactly know how he knew – his mother’s sister had the Sight, but he hadn’t ever shown any signs of it. And besides, he didn’t See it. He just felt it, a bone-deep truth that settled into the fabric of his being simultaneously with another: someday he would be Finnead’s squire. He would polish his armor and tend to his mount and serve him at table. If Finnead was ever called to battle, Ramel would ride at his side.
“So be it by the Lady’s grace,” Ramel whispered soundlessly to himself. Squire Kieran saw his lips move, but he recognized the words of the invocation and only looked at Ramel with a considering gaze.
“What are your basic tenets of service to our Queen?” Squire Finnead demanded of the pages.
“Truth, honor and loyalty,” came the full-throated answer in young voices on the cusp of manhood.
“Truth, honor and loyalty,” repeated Squire Finnead with a nod, crossing his arms over his chest. “I will tell you now a truth that some of you clearly have not learned: desiring to see one of your fellows fail is a sign that you have not worked hard enough to succeed. It is only the weak that wish to see their peers fall, so that they may trod on their backs and lift themselves out of their own ineptitude.”
Ramel’s eyes widened slightly at the deliberate sharpness of Squire Finnead’s words. Squire Kieran’s gaze shifted between the pages and his fellow squire as he listened no less intently than the younger Sidhe.
“Your honor is displayed in your actions,” continued Squire Finnead, “and your loyalty is not only to your Queen but to each other – for who do you suppose will save your life in a battle with a mountain troll than one of your fellow Knights? Who do you suppose will bind your wounds and bear you safely from the field? Who do you suppose will stand stalwart by your side as you face the tasks demanded of you to protect the realm of our bright Queen?” Squire Finnead’s questions pressed down on them, layer after layer of meaning wrapping around their young forms. Rather than looking shame-faced, many of the pages now gazed at Squire Finnead with hero-worship shining in their eyes, their young faces aglow with admiration. Ramel realized he would have competition to be chosen as Squire Finnead’s future squire. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He would prove himself beyond a doubt.
“Are you sure you weren’t born to be a Scholar, brother? Or perhaps a poet,” said Squire Kieran into the breathless silence that followed Squire Finnead’s voice. “Your words have ensnared the young ones like little birds in a forest spider’s web.”
Ramel shuddered slightly at the comparison: forest spiders were the stuff of fireside tales, huge creatures that snared whole deer in their webs.
“I don’t want to capture them in a web,” replied Squire Finnead, matching his fellow squire’s light tone. “What use would I have for a dozen chirping little birds?” He raised his eyebrows slightly, half a smile on his lips. “Though now I wager they’ll chirp a bit less.”
“Chirp a bit less and learn to fly a bit more,” offered Murtagh shyly from his place along the wall with the other pages.
Squire Kieran chuckled. “And avoid spider’s webs while you’re flying,” he replied. Murtagh flushed in pl
easure at the acknowledgement. Squire Kieran turned back to Ramel. “Shall we continue with our lesson now, little bird?”
Rather than feel offended, Ramel felt a strange pride in Squire Kieran’s brotherly diminutive. He straightened, tightened his grip on his staff and nodded. Squire Finnead tossed a practice staff to Squire Kieran, who caught it with casual grace. Ramel bowed to the squire, a traditional courtesy extended during training. His heart suddenly surged in his chest and he swallowed down his sudden anxiety, gripping his staff harder to hide the trembling of his hands.
The next hour passed in a strange kind of haze for Ramel. His focus narrowed to Squire Kieran and the staff in his hand. The squire started by running through basic patterns with him, nodding in satisfaction when it became apparent that Ramel displayed proficiency in the fundamental movements. Squire Finnead watched and occasionally commented, most often for the benefit of the now-silent pages gathered along the wall. Squire Kieran’s corrections were blunt but not mean-spirited, and Squire Finnead was careful to speak in generic terms about the skills of swordsmanship, making it apparent that he wasn’t talking about Ramel in particular. The other pages watched breathlessly, and the audience expanded to include a few of the more junior squires as well.
Ramel didn’t have time to feel any self-consciousness at being the center of so much attention; he concentrated all his energy on completing the tasks demanded of him. Sweat beaded on his brow and slid down his back. More than once, he was silently grateful for the leather grip that he’d painstakingly added to his staff. The pace that Squire Kieran set was so fierce that Ramel didn’t even have time to pause and wipe his palms on the hem of his shirt. It became quickly apparent that the older squire possessed much more stamina than he, but Ramel doggedly forced his tiring body into the movements with as much speed as he could muster.
During the last quarter hour, Squire Kieran increased the pace of their drills, though Ramel had believed they were already going at a breakneck pace. Ramel stumbled as the squire delivered a sharply smarting blow to his shoulder, but he turned the stumble into a sweeping uppercut with his staff, almost catching the squire off guard. Squire Kieran smiled a little as he blocked the uppercut.
