by Jocelyn Fox
“You think he’s playing with fire when it comes to courting the Princess,” said Murtagh slowly.
“Certainly, that’s what I mean. I’m not talking about literal fire, Murtagh.”
“All right, all right, no need to be prickly.” Murtagh reached for one of the meat pies that he’d brought from the kitchens; the cooks only went to the effort of making the delicacies on Queensday and during the feast seasons, such as the Winter Solstice, May Day, and the Summer Solstice.
“Sorry,” said Ramel. “I’m not trying to be an ass, Murtagh, I’m just worried about him.”
“What is there to be worried about? Love is a beautiful thing. I know, after all,” said Murtagh, saluting Ramel with the meat pie before taking a bite.
“It’s not that I dislike the Princess,” said Ramel slowly. “And I like them together. She makes him relax a bit, takes out some of the stiffness that he has sometimes.” He shook his head. “It’s not the two of them that I worry about, it’s the others who have their eye on them.”
“The Queen,” said Murtagh in a quiet voice.
“Aye, and her Three, and other jealous bastards who want a seat on the high dais,” muttered Ramel.
“Finnead is a Knight,” Murtagh reminded him. “I doubt that he’s unaware of all the possibilities.”
“I’m not saying he’s unaware, I’m just saying that I don’t like it. I can only watch his back when I’m with him, and I’m not with him all the time.”
Murtagh finished chewing his meat pie and thought for a moment. “Do you think there could be treachery?”
“I don’t know,” Ramel said with a sigh. “It sounds outlandish, I know, but honestly, I see some of the looks that they slide his way when he’s focused elsewhere. Their expressions are enough to chill the blood sometimes.”
“I haven’t heard anything from the Walkers or the healers,” said Murtagh.
“That’s encouraging at least,” said Ramel. “It’s just the grasping climbers who’d do anything to rise in the Queen’s favor.”
“D’you think she encourages that?” Murtagh asked speculatively. “The Queen, I mean.”
“I think she enjoys watching the fight sometimes,” replied Ramel.
“As long as it’s for her favor.” Murtagh nodded.
“Rumors still swirling about the lot that want their own choice of loyalty?”
“Nothing more than a few whispers, but I’ve heard that the Queen has employed a few more Glasidhe as spies to ferret out those who talk against her.”
“It’s just talk,” said Ramel, shaking his head. “I understand she finds it unpleasant, and it’s possible they shouldn’t be saying it to begin with, but it seems to be a bit of an overreaction.”
“Combined with the other rumors of trouble in the White City and the creatures appearing more and more frequently in the forest…perhaps she feels it’s necessary.”
“She is the Queen, and I am bound by my oath to her, but I cannot help but think that gripping the Court tighter will only inflame the talk of choice and freedom.”
“Some say it’s not just talk of freedom.” Murtagh lowered his voice. “Some say it’s talk of rebellion.”
“They mean to overthrow the Queen?” asked Ramel in a whisper.
“No, nothing of that sort. Truly, I think they just want the ability to choose their own path.”
“Don’t we all? What is so terrible about that?” Ramel shrugged. “I am loyal to the Queen until my last breath, but I can understand that not all would want to be bound by oath as I am.”
“Some say that we will all have to take an oath,” replied Murtagh. “Perhaps even sworn in blood.”
“My worries about Finnead seem a bit silly compared to all this,” said Ramel.
“Not at all. You’re loyal to a fault, Ramel, and to nobody more than Finnead. He seems to be happy courting the Princess, even I can see that, but we both understand that it also places him in danger.” Murtagh rested his chin on his hands for a moment and then spoke again. “But what would you have him do? Should he leave the Princess on her parapet by her sister, the Queen, able to trust no one and fought over like a trophy by the power-hungry weasels?”
“Weasels have more honor than some of those backstabbers,” growled Ramel.
“True,” allowed Murtagh. “In the end, though, I don’t think Finnead will leave her to face them by herself.”
“She is more than capable,” said Ramel.
“And that is a high compliment, coming from you, but let me tell you…if I was in his place, and Ari were the Princess, I’d stand by her.”
“It’s a noble sentiment, but I hope it’s not going to end badly for him,” said Ramel.
“How do you think it will end badly?”
“Well, what if he does become the Princess’s consort? Will he still be able to fulfill all his duties as a Knight, or will he be too important to risk? Do you think Finnead would really be happy unless he was able to ride on patrol and hunt the creatures in the forest, or administer the gauntlet to the squires at the Solstice?”
“Perhaps he’s already thought of it, and it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make,” said Murtagh softly.
“He shouldn’t have to make a sacrifice!” burst out Ramel. “You and I both know how hard he worked for his Knight’s sword! Tell me, in what world is it fair that he’d have to give that up to be with the woman he loves?”
“The world is sometimes an unfair place,” said Murtagh. “He won’t be giving up his Knight’s sword, just perhaps some of his duties.” He raised his eyebrows. “And he loves her?”
“Without doubt, he loves her,” snapped Ramel. “Anyone who’s seen them together in the past few moons would be able to tell you that!”
“Are you jealous?” asked Murtagh, narrowing his eyes slightly and smiling.
“Yes, I’m jealous,” muttered Ramel, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now I know what it feels like to fall out of favor.”
Murtagh chuckled. Ramel looked at him, affronted.
“I hardly think my troubles are a laughing matter,” the squire said.
“You sound like a jilted maiden,” pointed out Murtagh.
After a moment, Ramel gave an exaggerated sigh. “She is prettier than me, I’ll give her that. And that’s a difficult bar to surpass.” He smiled.
“Ah, there’s the cheeky page I know,” said Murtagh. “Well, let’s speak of different things then. How do you feel about your progress Walking?”
Ramel reached for one of the meat pies. “I feel confident in my ability to Walk to a place that I’ve been before. Taking guidance from another is still hard for me, though.”
“I would never have guessed,” said Murtagh in a low voice.
“Although the progress of the student is often a reflection of the teacher, isn’t it?” Ramel raised an eyebrow at his friend.
Murtagh chuckled. “Fair point. I think it’s just that you must accept the vision of another, the picture of the place they want to give to you, and make it feel as though it’s your own. When you can convince yourself that it’s your own memory, then you’ll feel confident in using it to guide you.”
“Isn’t that dangerous, though? Convincing myself that another’s memory is my own?” Ramel frowned slightly. “It seems as though it would be a…a dilution of the self, in a way.”
“Or an expansion of the self,” countered Murtagh. “That’s why Walking is such a useful skill, don’t you see? A Walker can communicate with another Walker in images, not simply words. True, there are a few rune-workings that can accomplish the same, but they’re a bit complex and take more time.”
“You’re pointing out the advantages of a Walker as a spy,” said Ramel slowly.
“Am I? It’s only one of our many uses,” said Murtagh.
Ramel leaned forward. “Are you saying that you’re being used as a spy?”
“We don’t look at it as spying, we look at it as gathering information that we convey back to th
e Queen,” said Murtagh carefully.
Ramel sat back in his chair, stunned at the sudden turn of the conversation. Murtagh watched him steadily. Was his friend trying to warn him?
“I understand,” said Ramel. “It’s a useful skill.”
Murtagh nodded. “And its use will most likely only increase in the coming times.”
“This conversation suddenly took a turn for the serious,” said Ramel.
“As if discussing the dangers of courting the Princess wasn’t serious?”
“All right, that’s true. Does this mean we can’t continue our lessons?”
“I don’t see why we would have to stop,” said Murtagh. “I’ve been admitted to the guild as a journeyman, and it takes a formal vote to strip me of that status. We’re not forbidden from teaching the fundamentals to those in the Queen’s service.”
“But let me guess, there are guild secrets that I can’t be taught,” said Ramel through a mouthful of meat pie.
“I know you’re trained in etiquette, so speaking with your mouth full is just willful disobedience at this point,” Murtagh pointed out. Ramel took another big bite and smiled at him with bulging cheeks. The Walker sighed. “Some things never change. Anyway, to answer your question, yes, there’s a certain limit to what I can teach you.”
“Such as?”
“To be honest, some of it you don’t have the talent for,” confessed Murtagh.
Ramel chuckled. “Well, if I had the talent for it then I might have made the same decision as you, wouldn’t I?”
“Aye, but I think you would have regretted it. I don’t regret it at all,” said Murtagh.
“What skills are you talking about? Do you have the talent for them?”
Murtagh shifted in his chair. “I really shouldn’t speak of them.”
“Oh, come on,” said Ramel with a grin. “If I don’t have the talent for it, then I won’t be able to even try them!”
“Well, don’t go telling everyone that we train in these things,” his friend cautioned.
“My lips are sealed. Unless Knight Finnead asks. Or the Queen. Then I have to answer.”
“Fair enough.” Murtagh smiled. “To start with, one of the unique talents that made me an attractive candidate for the guild is my ability to remain unseen while Walking.”
“You can stay invisible?” Ramel asked with genuine astonishment.
Murtagh nodded. “It takes much more energy than just Walking, but it can come in handy in certain situations.”
“I can imagine, especially as a spy,” the squire replied.
“Yes,” replied Murtagh, looking away. “Though it’ll probably be at least a century or more before I’m anything but a journeyman.”
Ramel sat up straighter as an idea occurred to him. “Do you think the Queen will dissolve the guilds?”
“What? Why would you even ask that?” demanded Murtagh.
“Well…think about it. The guilds – Scholar, Walker and Healer – are like their own small factions within Court. If the Queen is concerned about rebellion, wouldn’t she want to break apart any groups that could rise up as one?”
“That makes a disturbing amount of sense,” said Murtagh slowly. “But I hope to the stars above and the first snow that the Queen does not dissolve the guilds. It would win her no love from us.”
“I don’t think she much cares if she’s loved,” replied Ramel.
“Listen to us,” murmured Murtagh. “We sound so…mature.”
They stared at each other for a long moment in horror, and then Ramel promptly shoved a whole meat pie into his mouth, eliciting a chuckle from Murtagh. Then the Walker nodded to Ramel, looking over the squire’s shoulder. “Your summoning orb is glowing.”
Ramel glanced over to his desk and sure enough, the taebramh orb synced to the orb in Knight Finnead’s quarters pulsed blue, a summons from his master. He swallowed the rest of his mouthful of meat pie and sighed. “So much for relaxation on Queensday.”
“You got to eat a whole two meat pies, and we’ve been talking for nigh on an hour,” pointed out Murtagh.
“True,” admitted Ramel. “Are you going to stay and study my books?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“So long as you bring food, I never do,” replied Ramel as he opened his wardrobe and carefully pulled his squire’s vest from its peg.
“You know, I’ve never understood why the Scholars let the squires have free reign over their books,” said Murtagh as he walked over to Ramel’s desk.
“Free reign over some of their books,” corrected Ramel as he brushed an invisible speck of dust from the shoulder of his vest and inspected his reflection in the large polished silver mirror hung on the interior door of the wardrobe. It had been Finnead’s gift to him this past Solstice, something practical and yet thoughtful that made Ramel even more fiercely loyal to his Knight-master. “And you know if we even so much as dog-ear a page, they know.”
“As they should,” said Murtagh. “What kind of savage would mutilate a book like that?”
“Well, sometimes when you’re in a rush…” Ramel shrugged and grinned as the expression of disapproval on his friend’s face deepened into a look of horror.
“Ingrate,” Murtagh reprimanded him. “Honestly, do you know how long it takes to produce one of these books, and how much care goes into their maintenance?”
The orb on the desk flashed white and Ramel pointed to it. “Have to go, it’s urgent. Save your indignation and lecture for when I get back. Oh, and at least three of the meat pies, too.”
He left Murtagh at his desk. It sounded like the Walker was addressing each book in turn with a personal apology for their unacceptable rough handling. Ramel grinned and shut the door behind him. He stretched his legs into an easy lope as he traversed the passageways – he’d been Finnead’s squire long enough for the Knight to know the average time it took him to transit between the squire’s barracks and the Knight’s quarters.
Ramel rapped on the door to Finnead’s quarters three times and heard the Knight call for him to enter. He entered the well appointed yet restrained room and found Knight Finnead standing by the fire, one hand on the mantel as he stared into the flames.
“I apologize for my tardiness, sir,” Ramel said. It was better to admit fault outright than wait for Knight Finnead to comment on it.
“You were a few minutes past when I expected you. What happened, sore from yesterday’s training?” Knight Finnead raised his eyebrows.
Ramel grinned. “No sir, I just had Walker Murtagh visiting for Queensday and we had a bit of a disagreement over the proper treatment of the Scholars’ books.”
“I hope you’re not dog-earing any pages or nonsense like that,” said Finnead.
“I would never, sir,” replied Ramel, hoping that he succeeded in keeping the blood from rushing guiltily to his face.
“Maltreatment of scholarly materials aside, how are your studies progressing?” Finnead brushed his dark hair out of his eyes with one hand.
“I would say very well, sir,” Ramel replied, standing with his hands linked respectfully behind his back. “Sir,” he ventured cautiously, “if I may ask, why are you growing your hair so long?”
“You’re going to ask anyway, I don’t know why you try to sound like you’re asking permission,” replied Knight Finnead. His face softened slightly and he smiled in self-deprecation. “Andraste mentioned that she likes my hair longer.” He spread his hands and shrugged slightly.
Ramel swallowed his chuckle and hastily attempted to correct his expression of mischievous delight at his master’s unexpected admission. “Yes, sir.”
“You can laugh at my expense,” said Finnead, shaking his head and smiling. Ramel didn’t let his serious expression waver, and the Knight nodded. “Wise choice.”
“It is never acceptable to laugh at the expense of one’s betters, sir,” said Ramel. He almost restrained himself but added, “At least to their face.”
“Quite right, m
ake sure it happens behind closed doors,” said the Knight gravely, his glimmering eyes betraying his amusement. “But discussion of my hair is not why I called you here, Ramel.”
“Of course not, sir.” Ramel wondered if the Knight would be offended if he let his own hair grow longer as well. The ladies had always loved his copper curls, and he wondered if it would remind Rye of the Northern men.
“Do you feel you’re ready for the gauntlet?” Finnead asked.
Ramel could not have been more surprised if Knight Finnead had stepped over and punched him in the stomach. He felt just as breathless. “I…sir?”
“Take a moment,” said Finnead. “I want you to think hard about it. The gauntlet is no light undertaking, and I will not put your name forward if you are not ready.”
Ramel took a deep breath, tamping down the excitement suddenly fizzing up in his chest. “Sir, I have been studying with dedication and discipline, and I believe I have progressed apace or ahead of the other senior squires. Especially with my lessons in Northern-style fighting and Walking, which I believe set me apart in talent and skill.”
“Remember that talent and skill are two entirely different things,” murmured Finnead.
“Skill, then, sir,” said Ramel. He took another deep breath. “All things considered, sir, I feel that I am as ready as I can be. However, I recognize my own inability to adequately evaluate myself with a completely dispassionate eye, and I trust that you will correct me if you see something different.” He realized that a smile had been growing on Knight Finnead’s lips as he spoke, and he stopped, suddenly unsure. “Have I…said something wrong, sir?”
“No, Ramel, you’ve said exactly the right thing that proves you’re ready,” the Knight said warmly.
Ramel couldn’t restrain the grin that spread across his face. “Truly, sir?”
“It’s a few months away, but you’ll be in the gauntlet this Solstice, and stars willing I’ll be able to embrace you as a brother Knight soon after,” said Knight Finnead.
“There would be nothing I would like better, sir,” Ramel said truthfully. He remembered himself and straightened, regaining his disciplined posture. He felt as though his chest would burst.
