by Jocelyn Fox
“Will you promise not to go down to the training yards anymore?” he asked quietly.
“I do not promise anything to anyone,” she returned with icy courtesy.
“I am asking to ensure the well-being of the pages and squires entrusted to a fellow Knight,” Finn said, “and also to ensure your safety.”
She softened slightly at that. “I will not disguise myself anymore…but only if you promise to teach me, if you are assigned to be my escort.”
“If I am your escort,” Finn replied, “you may command me as you wish, my lady.”
She nodded. “Then I believe we have come to a satisfactory arrangement.” She beckoned to Rye. “If you will excuse me, I hate to miss my evening conversations in the Courtyard.” Her eyes gleamed as she glanced at him one last time. “They are always so interesting.”
Rye scuffed her boot over one of the flagstones. A rune flared and then died in a little puff of white smoke. She destroyed two more runes and then nodded to the Princess.
“My lady.” Finn nodded to Rye. “Princess Andraste.” He bowed, and when he straightened, she was gone.
Chapter 19
“You’re releasing the axe too late.”
Ramel pulled the blade of the axe free of the earth in front of the target they’d erected in the center of the glade. Knight Finnead had been strangely insistent that they didn’t damage any of the trees in the forest; Rye had explained to Ramel in an undertone that some of the trees – not all, but a good number – contained nymphs. And Ramel had suddenly understood Finnead’s insistence that he scout the locations for their next practice session alone. He’d heard the rumors about his master’s romance with one of the elusive tree spirits from Murtagh, who had apparently heard it from one of the pages who was also testing his aptitude as a Walker.
It had taken a few months, but Knight Finnead had eventually been assigned as the Princess’s personal guard. Some of the Guards grumbled that it was a job better suited for the Queen’s Guards rather than a Knight, but the Queen’s word was the Queen’s word. And if the Princess wanted a certain Knight to serve as her personal guard, well, who could deny the beautiful young woman who was the future of the Court? Some whispered that Queen Mab had no desire to have children, and so the Princess was the Court’s next monarch, should anything ever happen to the Queen.
Ramel hefted the axe in his hand and turned to Rye. Sometimes it was just the Princess and Rye, and sometimes there were a few more ladies who joined them for their rides. But weapons lessons occurred only on the days when it was just Rye and Andraste. The ladies changed into trousers and shirts after they’d ridden into the forest, and Rye placed runes on a few trees along their path and at the perimeter of the glade they most often used for practice. She said they’d alert her if anyone passed, and she always carried a set of paints and a sketchbook in her saddlebags to quickly build a tableau of innocent, boring excursions should the need arise. Ramel had asked how long it would take them to change back into their dresses, since they were so concerned about their plan to avoid discovery. He received a glare in reply.
Rye crossed her arms and watched Ramel pace back to their marked throwing distance. “The axe is built differently than a two-handed battle axe. It’s lighter and has more weight in the bottom of the handle than axes that aren’t for throwing.”
Ramel raised the axe and sighted the target. He kept his upper arm parallel to the ground, as Rye had taught him, tightening his shoulder and stiffening his wrist. He brought the axe back, paused and then threw it, releasing his grip just as his forearm passed the point at which it was vertical to the ground. The axe blade bit into the wood of the target with a loud thunk.
“That might be the most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard,” said Ramel with a grin.
Rye raised an eyebrow. “I could think of a few other more satisfying sounds.”
“Part of me wants to know what you mean by that,” said Ramel as he strode forward to retrieve the axe. “But the courteous, gentlemanly part is urging me to let it be.”
“You have a courteous, gentlemanly part?” Rye grinned at his look of chagrin.
“My lady,” he said, walking back toward the throwing mark. He placed his free hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“If I wanted to wound you, I’d use an axe, not words,” said Rye. She shook her head, her braids darkly lustrous in the dappled sunlight.
“An axe and not a sword?” returned Ramel.
“You are still better than me with a sword, so I would use an axe,” said Rye.
Ramel chuckled as he set up for the next throw. “Remind me never to make you angry. You already have plans for your retribution.”
“I believe in balanced retribution,” said Rye. “The Princess, on the other hand…”
“She favors unbalanced retribution?” guessed Ramel. He threw the axe again and nodded in satisfaction when it stuck fast in the center of the target. “I think I’ve got the general idea of this now.”
Finnead had constructed another smaller practice ring on one side of the glade. During their first sessions, he’d tested exactly how much Andraste had known. Ramel and Rye had mostly watched, having their own conversations but keeping an eye on their master and mistress. Andraste had gleaned basic drills from her time in the practice yards, and Ramel thought that perhaps Finnead should have made her continue to practice those drills for a year or two before progressing to any more advanced movements. But he reminded himself that she was not a page, and her life did not depend on perfecting her skill with a blade. So, he watched quietly as Finnead cobbled together a curriculum of basic drills interspersed with intermediate skill practice. They always ended with a light sparring bout. Ramel thought a bit enviously of his years as a page. They weren’t even allowed to spar each other until they were at least third-years, and even then, they had to demonstrate their drills to Knight Balaron’s satisfaction.
“She is…young,” said Rye quietly when Ramel returned with the axe.
“She isn’t that much younger than we are. Only a few decades, I think.” Ramel cleaned the blade of the axe with a soft cloth.
“Yes, but she is more sheltered than we in many ways,” said Rye, her eyes shifting to watch Andraste drilling with her staff, Knight Finnead watching and making corrections every now and again.
“I’m not quite sure I understand your meaning,” said Ramel. He picked up his wooden training blade and began to run through his own drills. Rye watched him. He knew she was memorizing the drills; at the end of their last foray into the forest, she’d silently picked up Princess Andraste’s staff and performed one drill almost perfectly. She declined his offer to teach her, though she did brighten when he asked her to demonstrate some of the skills she’d learned during her time in the North.
“All I mean,” said Rye quietly, “is that your master should take care not to mislead the Princess.”
Ramel stopped and gave Rye his full attention. He took his duties as a squire very seriously, and that included tactfully diffusing situations that might cause his Knight embarrassment. “Mislead her in what manner, exactly?”
Rye sighed. “Must I spell it out for you?”
“I just want to be sure I’m not assuming anything.”
“You become very solemn when it is a matter concerning Knight Finnead,” she commented.
He nodded. “Probably just as serious as you are when it comes to Princess Andraste.”
They watched their master and mistress in the small practice ring. Andraste carefully stepped through a drill, pausing her movements at a word from Finnead. The Knight stepped closer and adjusted the Princess’s grip on her staff minutely. As Finnead explained the reason behind his correction, Ramel watched a delicate blush creep into the Princess’s cheeks.
“She is not an ordinary young woman who can flirt with young men and perhaps steal a few kisses in the garden while others pretend not to see,” murmured Rye. “Her favor is at once a blessing and, sometimes, a burden.
The Queen is ever mindful of those who would seek to gain power through her sister.”
“If you are suggesting that Knight Finnead is seeking to climb the ranks of the Court through some attachment to the Princess, I recommend that you choose your words wisely,” said Ramel stiffly.
“Lay down your hackles,” said Rye, not unkindly. “I am not suggesting that Knight Finnead is anything other than a gentleman of honor.” She paused and thought for a moment. “I suppose what I’m saying is that in addition to guarding them from sharp tongues, we might also have to guard them from their own emotions.”
Ramel frowned. “And why would it be our place to do that?”
“Well,” replied Rye, “if the attraction is not mutual, then that makes it a delicate matter, does it not?”
“It does,” Ramel allowed cautiously. He could see the logic in Rye’s words. He wondered if Knight Finnead would be terribly angry if his squire asked about his romantic intentions toward the tree nymph. Could such a liaison even have permanence? There were a few legends about nymphs and sprites and sirens taking Sidhe men for their partners, but, being legends, none of them ended particularly happily.
“The Princess hasn’t yet heard anything about Knight Finnead’s affinity for a certain tree spirit,” Rye continued, her voice so low that Ramel had to strain to hear her words. “But I can guess that it would wound her in the way that a girl is wounded when she finds the object of her affection has been seen in the gardens with another young lady.”
Ramel swallowed. If he understood Rye correctly, his master was indeed venturing into dangerous territory – though he didn’t think it was fair to expect Finnead to keep to his squire’s vows because of his service to the Princess. It was a problem that he was oddly grateful he didn’t have to face for a few more years yet.
“What do you suggest we do?” he asked.
“It might be best if Knight Finnead were simply made aware of the possibility that the Princess may be developing certain feelings toward him.” Rye shrugged. “It may fade as girlish infatuations sometimes do, or it may linger and grow into something more.”
The squire sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this conversation.”
Rye chuckled. “Among the ulfdrengr, it is much easier.”
“How do they handle it? Because I’m fairly sure it’s awkward no matter what.” Ramel raised his eyebrows.
“It is only as awkward as we make it,” said Rye. She tilted her head. “To be fair, courtship in the North depends on the occupation of both the man and the woman. If they are both warriors, one would challenge the other to a round of sparring.” She smiled, her eyes distant. “If the challenger wins, he or she usually claims right to a kiss.”
“And if they lose?”
“Sometimes they are still given a kiss.” She grinned. “If that happens, they know the attraction is mutual.”
“What if they aren’t both warriors? What if the woman is, what’s the word, a volta?”
“If the woman is a volta she will probably not be surprised, for one,” replied Rye. “But if a warrior wishes to court a volta…he brings a fresh deer he has killed himself to her home, or finds exotic ingredients for her work that are often dangerous to procure, like siren’s scales or blacksnake eggs.” Rye shrugged again. “My point is that they do not rely on glances and unspoken words.”
“It’s easy to misunderstand when there’s only silence to guide you,” agreed Ramel.
“Or rumors,” countered Rye with a too-bright grin.
“Stars save us,” muttered Ramel.
“I don’t think the stars will help you much, though they sing much more often in the North,” she replied cheerily.
Ramel sighed and watched his master correct the Princess again. No one had told him that being a squire would have as many challenges out of the training yard as in the practice ring with the training masters scrutinizing his every move. Rye picked up her axe and went to practice her own throwing, hurling the axe with dazzling speed into the center of the target every time. Ramel studiously ignored her, telling himself that it was more productive to practice with his wooden blade than to watch her graceful, deadly precision. He also used the time to think about what he would say to Knight Finnead. He knew Finnead trusted him at this point – after five years, if a Knight didn’t trust his squire, the squire most likely wouldn’t be selected for the gauntlet. Every day was another test of their loyalty, another step toward their selection as a Knight.
Late in the afternoon, the Knight and Squire repacked their training gear while the ladies disappeared behind a tree to change back into their riding gowns.
“Are there going to be any patrols tonight?” asked Ramel as they strapped their packs back onto their faehal. He rubbed his faehal’s neck idly while he waited; the sloe-eyed creature turned her head and nosed his chest. As a squire, Ramel rode one of Knight Finnead’s mounts. Finnead usually rode his fine war-charger, the faehal’s blue-black gleam emphasizing the raven’s-wing sheen of the Knight’s own hair; that left Ramel to choose between a capricious young stallion just old enough not to be called a colt, and a steady little mare that was nonetheless fleet of foot when asked. Ramel usually rode the mare, as he had no wish to be dumped unceremoniously on the ground by the antics of the young stallion, especially on a ride with Rye and the Princess.
“I think the better question is to ask if there aren’t going to be any patrols, because that’s the rarer night now,” replied Knight Finnead. He murmured in a low voice to his magnificent faehal.
“Let me rephrase, sir,” amended Ramel. “Are you going on patrol tonight?”
“I will probably go out with Knight Arian and Knight Lochlan.”
“Why are there so many patrols now?” Princess Andraste asked, delicately holding her skirt above the ground as she picked her way over to her mount. She had brushed and braided her hair, pinning it about her head like a crown. Rye wore her typical attire, which looked at first glance like a gown with a differently colored bodice and skirt, but Ramel knew that the skirt was really a pair of her voluminous trousers, pleated and gathered to give the appearance of a gown. The Court wasn’t quite ready for its ladies wearing breeches, she’d explained to Ramel merrily.
“You have not heard of the strange creatures rumored to be in these forests?” asked Knight Finnead.
“No,” replied Andraste. She smiled as she finished buckling her saddlebag onto her beautiful white faehal. “What dire tales has my sister been keeping from me?”
“Well, it quite depends on what you think is a dire tale,” replied Rye with a wink at Ramel. He shook his head slightly at her.
“Squire Ramel, are you attempting to tell Lady Rye that she shouldn’t frighten me with tales of creatures in the woods?” Princess Andraste asked. Finnead held her mount for her and she swung into the saddle, rearranging her voluminous skirts. The ladies of the Court rode astride; the Queen scoffed at the contraption that the mortals had invented so that their women could ride “sidesaddle,” as they called it. So, while trousers were not yet quite accepted, the sight of ladies riding astride their horses and galloping alongside the men wasn’t uncommon, especially during the Queen’s hunts.
“I doubt you would be frightened, my lady,” Ramel replied gallantly. “It’s just that there’s very little reliable information about these creatures.”
“We did kill one the day before last Queensday,” commented Finnead with a casual air.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, then. What kind of creatures are these?” Andraste asked.
Finnead mounted his charger and let the faehal have his head; their mounts were intelligent enough to know that they were headed back to Darkhill. The Knight began to explain to the Princess that they’d killed a creature that looked something like a wolf, but larger and stronger than any wolf they’d ever encountered, with a stench of decay in its mottled pelt and malice in its eyes. Ramel quickly finished packing his own saddlebags and looked at Rye.
“If
you’re about to offer to hold my faehal,” she said with a grin, “don’t.”
Ramel sighed and pulled himself up into the saddle. His mare turned and followed Finnead’s charger without any prompting. Rye leapt up nimbly onto her faehal’s back and quickly caught up to him.
“You’re not helping with your sarcastic comments,” he told her in an undertone.
“What is it they say,” she replied musingly. “Oh yes. Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I think you’re much more comfortable playing with this metaphorical fire than I am,” admitted Ramel.
“But you’ll talk to Finnead.”
“I said I would,” he said.
“Do you think he’ll continue with his…current relationship?”
“I don’t think it can rightly be called a relationship, and I don’t think it’s truly any of our business.” Ramel raised his eyebrows and looked at Rye.
“I’m not some Court gossip digging for a scandal,” Rye reminded him. “I care for the Princess just as you care for your Knight, like I said before.”
“I’ll speak to him, but it’s not my place to tell him what he can and cannot do.”
“Just as it isn’t my place to tell the Princess,” assented Rye.
“Stop agreeing with everything I say. It makes it difficult to be irritated with you,” muttered Ramel.
“I would think my lovely personality would make it difficult to be irritated with me,” replied Rye with a grin, tossing her braids over one shoulder in mockery of the Court ladies who swept their hair over their shoulders when they flirted with the Knights.
Ramel was glad for the shadows darkening the forest as he felt his face heat. He reminded himself of his oath, but that didn’t seem to quiet the sudden bouts of ardor that afflicted him in Rye’s vicinity. She would laugh at you and probably throw an axe in your general direction, he reminded himself severely.
“And you’re much less entertaining when you’re moodily silent,” added Rye.
“Oh, I was just thinking of other tales of strange creatures in the forest that may catch the Princess’s attention,” replied Ramel. “If strange really means nubile, and if creatures also includes Knights.” He glanced about. “I wonder if a squire’s oath includes nymphs. D’you think there are any about I could ask?”
