by Jocelyn Fox
“Finally!” crowed Ramel, punching his fist in the air victoriously and then immediately regretting the movement. “You and Ari have been dancing around for so long…I’m proud of you.” He smiled, leaned back in the chair and waited for his bruised ribs to stop aching so fiercely. “Now tell me everything.”
“First of all, we took our time, and there’s nothing wrong with that,” said Murtagh. “And secondly, I’m not going to tell you everything.”
“Something, then,” Ramel said. “Please don’t make me beg. I’ve been told I’m irresistible. Impossible to refuse.” He made as though he was going to slide from the chair onto his knees.
“Don’t bother,” said Murtagh. “If anything, I’ve definitely confirmed that my taste is solely for women.”
Ramel chuckled in surprise. “I wasn’t really implying that…not that there’s anything wrong with it, but…” He shrugged. “Not really my style.”
“You’ve known since our first year as pages that your taste was for women,” said Murtagh with a smile. He crossed the room and retrieved the kettle from over the fire.
“True. And it’s cruel irony that you have experienced all the pleasures of a woman before me,” sighed Ramel.
“I’m sure we didn’t quite cover all the pleasures. Though we tried,” added the Walker apprentice with a grin.
“You’re such a tease,” grumbled Ramel. “And I would say it’s unfair that squires are the only ones who must take an oath of celibacy, but complaining about it doesn’t change it much.”
“Let me put this poultice on while it’s hot, and then I’ll tell you some things,” said Murtagh as he deftly spread the steaming herb paste onto a length of linen. He eyed Ramel critically. “Your ribs are the worst, yes?”
“Yes,” affirmed Ramel.
“I’ll leave the recipe so you can make more for your shoulder if you’d like,” Murtagh said. “Stand.”
Ramel stood and raised his arms as Murtagh wrapped the poultice around his ribs. He winced. “Stars above, think you could make it any hotter?”
“Not without burning you,” replied Murtagh. “Take a breath and hold it.”
Ramel couldn’t help the grunt that escaped him as Murtagh tightened the wrapping, but when his friend stepped away, he let out his breath and breathed in again experimentally. The intense heat of the poultice seeped into his bones. “Well. I hope you weren’t that rough with Ari.”
Murtagh smacked him lightly on the arm. “If you’re going to be crude, I won’t tell you anything.” He raised an eyebrow. “And who’s to say some ladies don’t like some…interesting things?”
Ramel frowned and then his eyes widened as he worked through the implications. “I’ve thought of that before but…well, aren’t ladies supposed to be…delicate?”
Murtagh laughed. “Do you know how much strength it takes to be a healer? Setting broken bones and putting joints back into place isn’t work for a squeamish, delicate flower. Besides, I’ve heard that Lady Rye has taken an interest in you, and she’s certainly not delicate.”
“Don’t change the subject,” replied Ramel, though he did take a certain satisfaction in the comment.
“Don’t be an ass,” countered Murtagh mildly.
“Fine,” sighed Ramel. He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes slide closed, relishing the feel of the poultice against his tender ribs. “What did you say was in this again? Feels like there might be some lady’s veil and…hmmm…arrow root…yellow florian, maybe…” He frowned. “Though there’s a bit in there I can’t tell.”
“Redthread leaves,” said Murtagh.
“Ah.” Ramel nodded. “Break up the clotting of the bruises and help them heal.”
“Exactly.”
“I feel like you’ve successfully avoided my prying questions,” murmured Ramel. He hadn’t noticed how tired he was until the poultice had taken away the ache of his bruises. Now his body felt heavy and he felt his eyelids drooping.
“I’m sure you’ll ask them again,” replied Murtagh with a chuckle. “If you want to go to sleep, I’ll wake you in an hour. I was meaning to ask you if I could study your history books.”
“Of course,” said Ramel, motioning to his desk and the haphazard piles of books. “Just put them back where you found them.”
“What if I can’t remember where I found them?” asked the apprentice Walker.
“Then you’ve a shoddy memory. I have a system,” insisted Ramel sleepily.
“A system only you can understand,” retorted Murtagh fondly. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that I was the one who organized our room every Queensday.”
“You have an unnecessary penchant for tidiness.” Ramel stood and walked over to his bed.
“I’ll wake you at the bell before dinner,” said Murtagh.
“Don’t have to serve tonight,” Ramel replied, his words already sleep-slurred.
“I thought not, otherwise you’d already be getting ready. Do you still want me to wake you?”
“Mmmhm,” Ramel managed, nodding. The warm poultice felt so good around his ribs, and his bed felt more comfortable than usual, as it always did after he’d pushed the limits of his body. He fell asleep to the sound of Murtagh sorting through the books on his desk, and he dreamed that instead of Murtagh it was Rye who had come to his room and wrapped the hot poultice around his ribs, the brush of her bare skin against his bruises a pleasurable pain. Too soon, a hand on his shoulder shook him gently awake. He blinked and sighed when he realized that it had been a dream.
“Well,” said Murtagh as Ramel splashed water on his face, “since it’s only a matter of time before you ask again, I’ll just tell you a few things now.” He gestured. “I’ll reheat the poultice for you, if you sit.”
Ramel shook his head. “It’ll just put me to sleep again. I’ll do it before I finish up studying for the night.”
“At least let me take it off,” said Murtagh.
Ramel silently raised his arms and let his friend untie the tight wrap. He sighed and went to find a clean shirt.
“As I was saying, I’ll tell you a few things. First…it’s not as you might think.”
“How so?” Ramel stifled a yawn.
“Am I boring you?” Murtagh arched an eyebrow.
“No.” Ramel waved his hand. “I’m just getting the wheels spinning again. What do you mean, not as you might think?”
“Just like anything, it takes a bit of practice. It might not be stars singing the first time around.”
“Stands to reason.” Ramel nodded. “Had to practice with a staff before a sword and all that.”
“But, especially if you actually like your partner…it’s fun. More fun than I’ve ever had outside of Walking.” Murtagh grinned.
“What a resounding endorsement,” replied Ramel with a smile. His stomach growled and he hunted through his saddlebags until he found the remnants of the lunch they’d packed for the afternoon.
“I told you I wasn’t going to tell you everything. I don’t think I could do it justice anyway.” Murtagh shrugged. “I’ve heard that some partners barely know each other, and I’m sure it’s still fun for them in the physical sense, but I like the fact that I learned with Ari. Or…I’m learning.” He smiled.
“You’re in love with her,” said Ramel, grinning at his friend’s expression.
“I think I am.” Murtagh began packing his satchel. “And you know what? It’s not half as stifling as we thought it might be when we were pages.”
“Only half?” chuckled Ramel.
“In truth, I don’t find it stifling at all,” admitted Murtagh. “We both still have to focus on our studies, but there’s a certain excitement in knowing that someone else is thinking of you fondly.”
“I can understand that.” Ramel finished setting out his ascetic meal and stretched with a wince. Then he looked at his friend contemplatively. “D’you think you could teach me to Walk? As part of my studies.”
Murtagh paused and looked at hi
m. “I thought you had no interest in Walking.”
“I just didn’t want to get caught up in its siren song like you,” replied Ramel teasingly as he constructed a rough sandwich out of his bread, meat and cheese.
“My first true love,” agreed Murtagh without rancor. “When?”
“You’re the teacher, so whenever would be best for you…though comparatively I think your schedule is a bit easier than mine.”
“You forget, my friend, that I have a lady to please now,” replied Murtagh. “I can’t constantly be gallivanting off to teach squires how to Walk.”
“You’re absolutely right, you must save all of your gallivanting for her,” said Ramel seriously.
“Night before next Queensday?” suggested Murtagh with a grin, pulling the strap of his satchel over his head.
“I’ll endeavor to make you proud,” said Ramel with a nod.
Murtagh shook his head and grinned as he walked toward the door. “Thanks for the books.” He turned at the threshold. “Poultice measurements are recorded in your notebook.”
Ramel saluted him with two fingers. “Fantastic. Go gallivant.”
Murtagh grinned and shut the door behind him.
After finishing his meal, Ramel turned his attention to studying. He enjoyed history and language; less scintillating was etiquette and protocol, so he forced himself to start with that. After an hour, he let himself move on to geography, studying the maps of the Unseelie lands, memorizing the different tributaries of the Darinwel, the different routes to the White City and the locations of the patrol bases in the forests. Every Knight had their strengths and weaknesses, but they were all expected to study hard as squires and build on the foundation of the studies they had started as pages. As his ribs started to ache again, he marked his place in the history textbook and stretched his stiff body. His thoughts drifted, and he found himself contemplating Knight Finnead again.
Ramel understood that his master’s relationship with Shaleh had been more friendship than anything else, though he knew that there was a physical component as well. He walked over to the fire and stirred the embers with a silver-tipped poker. What he couldn’t understand was the Queen’s sudden interest in Knight Finnead’s personal life. He put the kettle on for tea and pulled one of the chairs closer to the fire, sitting gingerly.
Ramel hadn’t ever forgotten the certainty that had suddenly visited him as a page, when he’d decided he would be Finnead’s squire, and he’d known that one day Finnead would be one of Mab’s Three. He didn’t know when it would happen – one of the Three was replaced only when one of the current Three died, and he felt it would be a few different shades of disloyal to hope for one of the Three to be killed. It would most likely be decades or even centuries before his premonition came to pass. Finnead was still a very young Knight…though he was a young Knight shown favor by the Princess Andraste.
Ramel followed the thread of his thoughts, letting logic guide him as his instructors had taught him as a page. Queen Mab had never taken a consort nor shown any interest in bearing a child; the Court did not know whether this was by choice or as a product of the power that had placed the Queen upon her throne. Of course, it was not a question one could merely ask the beautiful, powerful Queen. So, regardless of the reason, Mab would not produce an heir. Her presumptive heir was the Princess Andraste, but there were only decades between their ages, and while the Sidhe lived for centuries, millennia even, there was always the chance of disease or misfortune. They did not fall prey to the vagaries of age as mortals did, but they were not immortal. They were not immune to the ravages of chance and fate.
Ramel watched an ember slowly eating into a fresh log, a small flame finally springing up from the blackened wood. So, if the Princess was the Queen’s heir, then it stood to reason that the Queen would want to see her sister settled with a consort…and perhaps bear a child one day. Ramel felt as though he was trespassing with his thoughts as he followed his line of logic. The Queen displayed such an interest in Finnead’s relationship with the nymph because she wanted to direct his interest to the Princess. He swallowed. The Queen would not want a conniving politician as the Princess’s consort; what better choice than a young, handsome Knight with no remarkable family name or blood allegiances – no allegiances, in fact, other than to her.
Perhaps the Queen already knew of Knight Finnead’s sessions with the Princess teaching her the fundamentals of fighting. Perhaps she already knew, and she tolerated it because the two younger Sidhe were still playing nicely into her plan. Ramel sighed. Should he say something to Finnead? He felt torn. His loyalty was to his master, but he was certain that Finnead wouldn’t willingly enter a relationship with the Princess simply for the benefit of drawing closer to power in the Court. If anything, Finnead despised political maneuverings and would only entertain the thought of being with Andraste if it were a true love match. And for the Princess, was it really such a bad thing to be wed to a young, handsome Knight whom she adored? Ramel realized that if they did fall in love, even if it was according to Queen Mab’s wishes, it would really be to the benefit of everyone.
“So, I’ll just watch, and say nothing,” he mused aloud as the fire crackled and the kettle began to spit steam. He thought of the day’s events and wondered if there was even a chance that Knight Finnead would fall in love with the Princess. Once his anger at being forced away from the wood nymph faded, Ramel thought, he would probably see more clearly the charms of the Princess.
“Watch and say nothing,” the squire sighed, listening to the water within the kettle bubble and the flames crackle on the logs. No one had ever warned him that being a squire would require him to hold his tongue so often, but he supposed it was a small price to pay to be squire to Knight Finnead. He lifted the kettle from the fire and began to measure the ingredients for another poultice, turning his thoughts to the lesson in Walking he’d receive in a few days’ time. The fire whirled and crackled in the hearth, throwing long shadows over the room, and Ramel let his worries dissipate like smoke, drifting up the chimney into the cold crisp night sky overhead.
Chapter 24
Princess Andraste took a deep breath, bracing the muscles in her midsection as she brought up her bow and smoothly nocked an arrow. She drew the arrow back, the feathers of its fletching brushing her cheek as she sighted down the length of the arrow to the target. Holding her body perfectly still, she released the arrow with a small motion, simply straightening the first two fingers of her right hand. The small movement of those two fingers released the taut string and thus the arrow. She watched its flight through the air and made a small sound of disappointment when it struck the painted target a hand’s breadth from the center.
“It was not a bad shot,” said Finn, arching an eyebrow slightly.
“But it was not as accurate as it should have been,” said Andraste, adjusting the archer’s arm brace on her forearm. Rye had crafted the Princess’s leather armguard herself after the red marks on the Princess’s forearm from her bowstring had garnered a few curious looks one night at evening meal. Finn had reprimanded himself for not thinking of it sooner. For a page or squire, a few lashes from a bowstring were commonplace and not remarked upon; for the Princess, any sign of physical injury was looked upon with horror.
“Well then, what must you do to improve the accuracy?” Finn asked. It had been nearly a year since the fateful night when the Queen had forbidden him from seeing Shaleh, and now he was able to look back on his time with the wood nymph fondly rather than with grief. In the months following, his anger at Andraste, however unjust it had been, receded as she proved herself a capable and curious student, eager to learn whatever he had to teach her. Sometimes he had Ramel instruct her and he observed them both, testing the depth of his squire’s knowledge and composure as well as Andraste’s ability to adapt to a different teaching style. They both acquitted themselves admirably, and Andraste’s talent with a bow grew by leaps and bounds.
She looked at the target s
tanding at fifty paces’ distance and tilted her head as she thought. Finn watched her silently, admiring the way the light caressed the curve of her cheek and illuminated her gray eyes. His fondness for her had grown from cautious friendship into something else he didn’t dare to name yet.
A breeze lifted a tendril of her dark hair. She tucked it behind her ear in annoyance, but then paused, a slight smile curving her lips. When she turned back to Finn, the delight of solving a problem brightened her face. “The breeze. I didn’t think much of it, since it’s so slight and sporadic, but at such a distance it will still catch my arrow.”
“And how would you correct for that?” asked Finn, feeling a smile curve his own mouth at Andraste’s delight at discovering the answer.
She closed her eyes slightly and he knew she was feeling the breeze on her skin. Closing her eyes to better listen to her other senses was a habit that Finn found inexplicably arousing – he’d wondered more than once if she would let her eyes slide shut if he traced his fingers down her bare shoulders, to better feel the touch of his skin on hers…
Finn firmly cut off his thoughts as Andraste opened her eyes and drew another arrow from her quiver. She braced, raised her bow and nocked the arrow, aiming slightly to the left of the target’s center. The arrow struck the outer edge of the bull’s-eye.
“I correct for it by aiming to compensate for the effect of the breeze on my arrow,” she said with a delighted grin.
“Exactly. But just keep in mind that the amount of compensation will vary with each arrow and each bow,” Finn said. “A heavier arrow means less effect from the breeze, but possibly a shorter range, and if you change bows or even strings you’ll have to retest your ranges.”
Andraste nodded. “That all stands to reason.”
Finn glanced up at the sun and down at their shadows, gauging the time. “You’ve been practicing for well over two hours. It might be time to shift to some blade work.”
“Let me finish this quiver?” Andraste asked.
“You have over a dozen arrows in there,” said Finn with a smile.
