A boy of about twelve years wound through the crowd and stopped in front of her table. “What can I get for you, sir?”
Kevral did not bother to correct the misconception. “What’s dinner?”
“Roasted chicken, starch root, and carrots.”
Kevral heaved a relieved sigh. Her guts would surely appreciate the plainness of the fare, lacking the castle’s gravies, sauces and spices. “A plate of that, please. And some water.”
The boy smiled, grin broad beneath a large nose. Sandy bangs hung into his eyes, rendering them nearly invisible. “You don’t need to settle for water. That man over there said he’d buy your first ale.” He jabbed a finger toward Tyrion.
The mere thought of alcohol reawakened Kevral’s nausea. The water would contain a hint of wine to counteract whatever human waste tainted the supply, but she had grown used to that. “Thank him for me, but please bring me water.”
Brown eyes appeared from beneath the fringe of hair. “Very well. Thank you.” He bustled from the table in obvious confusion. Surely no one had refused ale before.
Kevral studied the fire while she waited, watching flames of yellow, orange, and red caper along the logs. In the heat of battle, with her reserves flagging, she had often conjured images of a great conflagration devouring everything in its path. Often, she had emulated that picture, hewing through enemies with the same fearless unstoppability. The serving boy’s mistake about her gender turned her thoughts to Ra-khir and the day of their meeting. His red-blond hair seemed to match the more subdued portions of the fire, and she missed the solemn green eyes and handsome features. She could still sketch him into her mind’s eye, but the edges of memory blurred. The year had scarcely begun, yet it seemed so long since she had seen him. And she missed him terribly.
A deliberate movement nearby gained Kevral’s attention before her thoughts could turn to Tae. She glanced up to see Tyrion approaching her table. Bracing for trouble, she eased her chair slightly back from the table and let her hands fall to her lap. She waited only until he came within earshot, knowing that to speak first when he expected to do so would gain her the upper hand. “Thank you for your generosity.”
Tyrion continued toward Kevral. “I understand you refused it.”
“Yes,” Kevral admitted. “But that doesn’t make the offer any less generous.”
Tyrion did not stop until he stood at the opposite side of the round table. He rested his fingertips on the surface and glared down at Kevral, emphasizing the size difference between them. “In Pudar, refusing a gift is an insult.”
That had not been Kevral’s experience during the months she lived in Pudar, but she did not quibble. “I wasn’t aware of that. I apologize for insulting you. You can buy my water if you wish.”
Tyrion did not blink. Nearly colorless eyes continued to study her beneath lashes so blond they all but disappeared. “If you wanted to fit in, if you wanted to become one of us—”
Kevral interrupted, not seeing the purpose of such an argument. “What I want is some water.”
“Oh, so we’re not good enough for you?”
“I’m teaching you, aren’t I?”
Tyrion removed his hands from the table and straightened, switching to another tactic. “Now I understand. You won’t drink the ale because you’re a coward.”
Tyrion had used the worst insult Renshai knew. Rage flashed, then immediately died. The accusation had no basis to sting. “What does cowardice have to do with ale?”
Tyrion made a dismissing gesture, as if it should seem obvious. “You’re afraid to drink the ale.”
Kevral snorted, the conversation nonsensical. “First, my decision not to drink ale has nothing to do with fear. Second, there is no cowardice in choosing not to dump liquor into my body. More often, there is cowardice in facing life with its support.” Kevral met the blue eyes squarely. “If you challenged me to battle and I refused, then you might have reason to criticize. Baiting a Renshai warrior is rarely considered wise.”
“Why’s that?” Tyrion asked, though he surely knew the answer.
“Because I could choose to kill you.”
Tyrion nodded. “With your sword, probably.”
Kevral believed she understood Tyrion’s game. If he goaded her into attacking him, he could claim self-defense if the matter came to trial. His only chance for victory lay in a contest that pitted only strength against strength. Likely, he had hoped to ply her with alcohol first, believing it would lower her violence threshold as well as impair competence and judgment. She leaned forward with a cautious smile. “Tyrion,” she said. “I could kill you with your sword.” As she had already proved that once, Kevral saw no reason to enforce her statement. “Go back to your friends and your ale. Show me this kind of exuberance at practice tomorrow. Now that I’ve seen what you’re capable of, I won’t accept less.”
Tyrion lowered his voice, assuring that only the two of them could hear, though Kevral doubted anyone could have previously sorted their conversation from the hubbub. “This isn’t over, Renshai.”
Kevral smiled. “I’d be disappointed if it was.” She waved him away.
Tyrion hesitated a moment, hostility still smoldering in his eyes. Then he turned and walked back to his companions.
On his heels, the serving boy appeared with Kevral’s food. She ate slowly, savoring the plainness of the food. Mediocre, even for common fare, it served her purposes well enough. She guessed the ale was of higher quality and accounted for the popularity of the tavern.
By the time Kevral finished, Tyrion and his companions had departed. She had not noticed them leaving, though she had heard the door slam closed on several occasions. The comings and goings of the Off-duty Tavern did not interest her. Her own thoughts made better company, focusing mostly on coming lessons, anticipating Tyrion’s next move, which would likely come at the next morning’s practice, and consideration of her friends back in Béarn. She wondered how Griff was faring as king and whether or not directing and protecting him had worn Darris to a frazzle. She hoped Tae and his father had fully reconciled.
At length, Kevral stood, stretched, and paid her tab. Unless the king accorded her a monetary allowance of some sort, she could not afford many more of these meals. Offers such as Tyrion’s might seem like godsends. She smiled at the idea and headed from the tavern.
Kevral yawned as she pushed open the door. Recalling her assessment of the bother to the neighbors, she eased the spring-loaded panel closed so that it made only a quiet click. A new group of patrons relaxed on the porch, including General Markanyin.
“Hello, Armsman!” He boomed a friendly welcome.
“Good evening, General,” Kevral returned with warm sincerity. Over the past few hours, she had come to appreciate his attitude. He could have felt threatened by a respected newcomer working with his men, but he chose to see her in terms of her value to Pudar’s soldiers. Kevral made a mental note to compliment the king on his choice of war leader.
“Don’t worry,” Markanyin said, winking to indicate he was not chastising or implying she had come to spy on them. “I’m headed back in a moment. I’ll be fresh, rested, and ready to learn at midday.”
“Good,” Kevral returned in the same spirit. “Maybe you’ll get through it with a minimum of bruises.”
“My aching muscles from today are enough, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Kevral laughed as she bounded down the steps and into the street. General Markanyin’s humor would go a long way toward allowing the men to look at their training, however brutal, as a positive experience.
Buoyed by the simple exchange, Kevral managed to set aside the irritation created by Tyrion’s animosity. She padded through the streets with a new feeling of hopefulness. Teaching a bunch of ganim to use swords might not prove nearly as tedious as she expected. She could hear voices and footfalls echoing through the streets behind her and hoped it meant General Markanyin had meant the words he had spoken mostly in jest.
&nb
sp; Tyrion’s familiar voice wafted from a crossroad. “So sword’s the best weapon, is it?”
Kevral resisted the natural urge to stiffen. She would never reveal that he had caught her off guard. Instead, she turned with a confident air intended to imply she still held the upper hand. “It is.”
Tyrion stood halfway down the alley, a drawn longbow aimed at Kevral. “So, Swordmistress, tell me how you’d use a sword against this.” He let the arrow fly.
Kevral could tell by the trajectory that it would miss her. The shaft flew past her waist, its movement a cool breeze that stirred her tunic. It embedded into a knothole in a rain barrel, clearly its target.
Rage kindled fire in Kevral’s veins. She sprang and drew simultaneously, reaching Tyrion before he could nock a second arrow. Her left-hand sword severed the bow, and her right caught him a clouting blow across the skull. “I don’t need to use a sword against an incompetent who chooses a coward’s weapon.”
Tyrion crashed to the ground with a bellow of anger. An edge of his broken bow slashed his sleeve and arm, and scarlet stained the fabric in a spreading circle.
The urge to slaughter Tyrion and leave his body on the cobbles seized Kevral, but she resisted. She doubted Colbey would murder a student, no matter how irritating.
“I missed you on purpose,” Tyrion muttered, clamping his good hand over his bleeding wrist. “If I’d have aimed for you, you’d be dead.”
Several men rushed to the scene. Kevral recognized most of the guards she had watched on the practice field, though only one other was a student of hers. General Markanyin shoved his way through the others.
Kevral ignored them for the more important purpose of teaching. She sheathed her weapons, glaring down at her wayward student. “Never ever shoot, stab, or swing to miss.”
“I saw the whole thing,” General Markanyin announced. He looked at Kevral. “He attacked you.”
Tyrion groaned, clapping his face into his palms. Clearly, he had chosen the wrong place and time for challenges.
The general finished. “Shall I clap him in irons?”
The entire alleyway awaited Kevral’s pronouncement. Despite all the men present, the wind whistling through the narrow threadway made more noise.
Finally, Kevral said, “As long as he’s out in time for class at daybreak.”
General Markanyin smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
CHAPTER 25
Knight-Testing
There’s no honor in allowing steel to fend an enemy’s blows instead of skill. In personal skill only there is honor.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Ra-khir sat on the floor of his father’s cottage, knees drawn to his chest and arms clasped around his legs. Six knights, including Kedrin, sat on the bench and on chairs near the hearth. Ra-khir kept his fingers laced to control their nervous shaking, and his eyes fixed on whichever of his mentors chose to speak. Soon, he hoped, he would sit as an equal among them. Today’s trials and testing would decide whether he became a Knight of Erythane or ended his training forever.
Armsman Edwin explained the details, his dark eyes fixed on his student and his round head bobbing at the most important words. “Once the testing begins, nothing may interrupt it, Ra-khir. We’re assessing stamina and patience as well as courage and competence, knowledge, intelligence, and honor. Few have the qualities necessary to become a Knight of Erythane, and failure at this is no judgment of your value. You represent the best Erythane has to offer, or we would never have accepted you for training. Knighthood does not suit many good men.”
Ra-khir listened raptly, trying to internalize Edwin’s words. His lips felt cracked, yet he resisted the urge to lick them. His mouth seemed equally parched. In the past, he had never found looking at another human being difficult. Now, staring directly into Edwin’s eyes too long seemed aggressive but avoiding them made him feel shifty. In the end, he compromised by politely studying the armsman’s face. Every expression, each look required a concentration they never had in the past, and he found himself reading the knights just as carefully. For the first time since his training started, he could not imagine himself on a white charger, its mane flowing with gold and blue ribbons, his tabard displaying the colors of Erythane and Béarn, his place between two of the knights he so admired.
Only after a lengthy pause did Ra-khir realize they probably intended for him to speak. Sudden terror struck him at the possible rudeness of his silence, and he sought words in a mind that seemed to have turned to liquid. “Thank all of you, sirs,” he managed, “for the opportunity to achieve the world’s . . .” Words failed him, and he allowed a soundless prayer for what he had accomplished. “. . . highest honor.”
The knights nodded their acceptance of his appreciation in a line, as if they had rehearsed it. Edwin continued, “Gather your practice weapons, armor, and horse and meet me on the practice field as swiftly as you can.”
Ra-khir waited only until the others rose before rushing to his room to fetch his weapons. He had prepared his possessions the previous night and had only to snatch up his heavy pack, haul it to the paddock, and lash it securely to the gray’s back. He saddled the horse and tied the bridle carefully atop his gear. Taking the gelding’s lead rope and a pike, he led the animal up the hill by its halter. As he hurried to the practice ground, he heard his father’s soft call behind him, “Good luck, Ra-khir.”
Ra-khir gave Kedrin a stiff gesture to indicate he would make his father proud. He turned to look, but Kedrin had already withdrawn, and only the cold face of the cottage remained to encourage him. Ra-khir quickened his pace.
Though eager to become a Knight of Erythane, Ra-khir savored his last moments of childhood as he rushed toward the Bellenet Field that had served as the knights’ training area since long before the birth of the oldest ancestor he could trace. He sucked cold air through his nostrils, a chill, refreshing contrast to the nervous sweat forming beneath his tunic. The hopes and dreams of a lifetime rested upon this day, and he felt suddenly wholly unprepared.
As Ra-khir topped the rise, the familiar wood and wire fence came into view and, beyond it, the scaffolding held a ready ring. Whatever else the knights would test, he would, apparently, be given the opportunity to display his skill with pike. This did not surprise Ra-khir; charging had been the favored fighting method for as long as the Knights of Erythane existed. Simply thinking about his preferred maneuver, and that at which he held the most skill helped control the wild beating of his heart.
The armsman met Ra-khir as he drew his horse to its usual grazing spot. Two other knights held a position near the fence, standing gravely at attention as if attending a feast in Béarn Castle. Dressed in formal silks with tabards, they stood motionless, their postures a perfect match. Three young women perched on the upper rung of the fence. None but the knights and Erythane’s king knew when a testing occurred, so these must have come to watch the morning practice, canceled for Ra-khir’s trials. A man leaned against the fence as well. Ra-khir had to glance at him twice to realize he was another of the knights. His slouching, easy position, casual clothing, and uncombed hair rendered him almost unrecognizable. He wore a narrow-bladed sword at his hip, and Ra-khir caught a glimpse of a shield in the grass beside him. A fifth knight, in appropriate dress, stood near the scaffolding.
Armsman Edwin cleared his throat, instantly gaining Ra-khir’s attention. “Prepare for ring joust.”
Ra-khir responded instantly, hauling down his pack. Drawing out his armor and underpadding, he donned them in proper form and sequence, keeping the horse between self and spectators. Although covered at all times, strangers’ eyes watching him dress sent uncomfortable chills coursing through him. He buckled the bridle over the horse’s head. Edwin hefted the pike while Ra-khir prepared, then helped him into the saddle.
“Thank you, sir,” Ra-khir said, taking the weapon from his teacher.
Edwin acknowledged the appreciation with a barely noticeable movement of his head. “You may make y
our first pass when ready.”
Ra-khir rode into position, the hand on his pike growing slick before he reached it, and with a desperate tremor seizing him. This is not good. Ra-khir cursed his nerves. Surely they’ll take the situation into account. He doubted the thought as soon as it arose. Battle is frightening, too; and there’s no reprieve there. Lowering his head, he quieted his nerves by visualizing his own wild ride through Eastern ambushes. Then he had left his friends to find the antidote to a poison killing Kevral. The information he gained, though not a cure, had been too important to lose. Perched on Colbey’s charger, he had rammed through enemies with a makeshift spear, need too great to tolerate delay. He tried to recapture the mind-set of that moment. The trembling left his fingers, and his grip on the pike steadied. He concentrated on the tiny ring held in place by the scaffolding and placed at the level of a mounted enemy’s chest. Smiling at the new measure of control, Ra-khir raised his head and charged the ring.
Ground disappeared under the gray’s hooves, and the ring became a minuscule target dangling amid a world of air. The point of Ra-khir’s pike seemed a mile away, bouncing with every movement of self or horse. Then, suddenly, the scaffolding came upon him. Ra-khir’s steadiness did not betray him. The point of the pike skewered the ring, and it clattered down the pole. He bit back a grin as he overran the scaffolding, and the knight placed another ring into position.
Ra-khir caught a glimpse of Edwin raising his hands, then lowering them back to his sides. Under other circumstances, Ra-khir would have received at least one clap. Now, however, the armsman had turned from teacher to tester and, soon, Ra-khir hoped, to peer. Success on the first pass allayed most of his fear, and he lost all doubt that he would handle at least the ring jousting portion of his examination admirably. For now, he let the realization that he did nothing else as well as this disappear. Confidence would serve him better than self-doubt. Perhaps catching the first ring would prove his ability in this regard well enough. Riding to his teacher, Ra-khir handed over the ring.
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