Squire

  Kel nodded. “It’s a weight off my mind, or it will be. You get used to anything—” She looked at Daine, still a human head on an eagle’s body. “Well, maybe you don’t.”

  Daine chuckled and shaped herself entirely eagle, then took flight. Kel gathered up the bathing things and the griffins’ gift. “That’s that,” she told Jump. “The sparrows will be pleased.”

  She didn’t open the griffins’ bag until she reached her tent. It held a fortune in brindled gold and copper griffin feathers. The creatures had said their thanks in an easy way, gathering the results of their last molts. Kel tucked the baby griffin’s feathers into the bag with them—she had saved them all, half-thinking his parents might want them—then packed the bag away. For the first time in over a year she could travel light, without platforms, dishes, drying cloths, jerky, and fishing gear. She didn’t have to worry about his meals or keeping him away from other human beings.

  When she’d rid herself of all the griffin-care baggage, she collapsed onto her cot and put her hands behind her head. “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” she told Jump and the sparrows.

  The progress moved on. At each new tournament location, Kel was offered a match with someone. Once she learned that a refusal meant someone would disrupt time with her friends to slap her with a glove and challenge her, she accepted the matches when proposed. They were safer: padding was worn instead of armor, and lances were padded and tipped with a coromanel to blunt the shock of impact. Matches were supposed to be less a fight than an exhibition of skill. There were fewer injuries and no deaths. Also, unlike a challenge, there was no penalty in equipment or coin paid when she lost. And she did lose from time to time.

  Most of Kel’s opponents were knights. A handful were squires—Joren was never one of them. Raoul pointed out that those Kel faced were nearly all conservatives. “They want to prove you’re not as good as the lads,” he explained. “When you show you’re equal to most knights, you make those whose brains haven’t turned to stone think. They might even remember that once there were female knights throughout the Eastern Lands, in dark times when every sword was needed. It was only a century ago.”

  She won two out of three matches. She hated to lose, but knew that if she won every time, people would whisper that someone used magic on her behalf. After one loss Kel was massaging her hand—it was numb after three shattered lances in a row—when her opponent rode up. Removing his gauntlet, he offered his hand to shake. Kel removed her own glove and took it, not sure what the man intended.

  “I owe you an apology, squire,” he said. “I heard things—well, they were untrue. I apologize. I wish you well.” He backed his mount to the center of the tilting field and bowed to her, hand over his heart.

  The leaves turned color, then fell. It got cold. The progress crossed the Olorun just east of Corus. A tournament was set up outside Fief Blythdin, the festivities brightened by the scarlet-and-gold uniforms of the pages. Lord Wyldon had granted them a holiday of sorts. They got to observe a tournament, and the squires were freed from banquet service as pages did the work.

  On the second night of the tournament, Kel and Cleon stopped so she could read the board that listed the next day’s proposed matches. If someone wanted out of the match, he had until midnight to change the listings.

  “I’m on again,” Kel murmured. It was hard to read the board. She borrowed a torch from the lane and held it up so she could see.

  “What a surprise,” Cleon joked, tugging a stick out of Jump’s mouth.

  Kel’s mouth popped open when she read her opponent’s name. “You’d better see the coffin maker and order me a box,” she told Cleon as he threw the stick for Jump to chase.

  He straightened, confused, and read the name she pointed to: Wyldon of Cavall.

  “Gods protect me, you’re going to die a virgin,” he whispered. “What say we find a nice private haystack and take care of that?”

  Kel elbowed him. She didn’t think she was ready to share his bed, though she certainly liked kissing him. She wondered why he joked about making love to her but never tried to do so. Squires tumbled girls of the lower classes all the time; they were infamous for it. Kel feared both possible explanations for his refusal to press her. Either her large, muscular body was ugly to him, which seemed unlikely when they kissed; or he meant to marry her as people of their station married, with the bride a virgin.

  “Never mind the haystack, just visit the coffin maker,” she told him, and sighed. “I’d best turn in early,” she said, resting a hand on his arm. They were in a shadowy pocket with few passersby; they were safe enough for a discreet touch. “I’ll need all the rest I can get before he pounds me into the mud.”

  “He can’t still dislike you,” Cleon said.

  “I don’t think he does,” Kel replied. “But that won’t stop him from pounding me into the mud.”

  “Maybe you’ll win?” Cleon offered. “You’re pretty good. You’ve beaten knights.”

  Kel just gave him a look, her brows raised.

  Cleon hung his head. “I know, I know, but I thought I should mention it. I ought to get credit for the compliment.”

  Kel smiled at him and put the torch back. “Good night, silly.” She walked on down the lane.

  He caught her and tugged her into a dark niche by the stands, where he kissed her warmly. Kel matched his warmth with hers: she liked the taste of him. “Good night, sunrise,” he whispered, and let her go.

  As if the weather gods overheard Kel’s mud remarks, rain during the night left a sloppy tilting field in its wake. Peachblossom grumbled, Jump rolled in the stuff, and the sparrows ignored it.

  Waiting to take the field, Kel looked down its length at her training master. He and his mount waited alone, hearing the chief herald’s instructions. His wife sat in the stands, someone had said; his conservative friends sat with her. Kel knew, though, that Wyldon must like that moment of quiet before he mounted up, just as she did.

  Now the herald rode to Kel’s side of the field. She accepted her helmet from a monitor and put it on, then took up her lance and urged Peachblossom to their starting point. Gobbets of mud were thrown up by the herald’s trotting mount. Kel grimaced. She hated sloppy ground; it took days to get the grit out of her gear.

  “I don’t know why I came over,” the herald remarked when he was within earshot. “By now you know the rules as well as I. Lord Raoul asked me to tell you that if you get yourself killed, he will never speak to you again.”

  “So helpful,” Kel replied.

  The herald saluted her with a raised hand and rode off the field. Kel and Wyldon took their places in the lanes. When the trumpet blew, they charged and came together in a grinding crash; both lances shattered. Kel rode to her end of the field, gasping for air. Lord Wyldon didn’t have Raoul’s height and weight, but her side was numb from his impact all the same. She waited until she could feel her arm and hand properly, thinking, Lucky for us tournament lances are so easily made. A strong young sapling, a man who’s shaped wood all his life, and I’m ready to be pounded again. She accepted a fresh lance and turned Peachblossom for their second run.

  The trumpet sounded. On came Wyldon as Kel’s focus narrowed to his shield. She barely felt Peachblossom under her, barely noticed Wyldon or his mount, just his shield as she rose, balanced, and hit. Again a splintering crash: Kel’s lance went to pieces; a third of Wyldon’s snapped off. They returned to their start points for new lances.

  I’m doomed, Kel thought. I should have bedded Cleon before I died.

  The trumpet blared. Peachblossom flew down the track, an avalanche of a horse. She set herself and realized too late she was wrong; her weight was now in the worst possible spot if she wanted to stay in the saddle. Her lance hit the rim of Wyldon’s shield; his struck just under the boss on hers. Kel’s bottom rose from the saddle, her boots popped from the stirrups. She went flying.

  She set her body for the fall, and landed in a clatter of metal and a splat of mud. She sa
t up, ears ringing. Removing her helmet improved matters. Her ears didn’t stop ringing, but now it wasn’t so loud.

  Lord Wyldon approached on his horse, helmet tucked under his arm. His clean-shaven face was handsome in a cold way, marked with dark eyes and a scar that went from one eyelid into the cropped hair over his temple. His bald crown gleamed in the sun. “Coming along nicely, Mindelan,” he said, his voice as cool and crisp as ever. “I wouldn’t have let you joust until your third year, but Lord Raoul was right to let you try. Keep your shield higher by an inch or so. Need a hand up?”

  “No, sir, I thank you.” Peachblossom had come to urge her to her feet. Kel hauled herself upright by grabbing her saddle.

  “Has Joren given you further trouble?”

  She was surprised that he’d asked. “No, sir, I don’t believe he has.”

  Lord Wyldon raised dark brows. “You don’t believe so? I taught you to report more precisely, Mindelan.”

  Kel stood straighter in response to the reprimand in the training master’s voice. “He spends time walking about with knights who later challenge me. Of course, his is a very well known family. That might account for it.”

  “No doubt.” For a moment Wyldon looked away, shaking his head. Then he met her eyes again. “Remember what I said about your shield. Hold steady, Keladry.” He rode off the field.

  “Steady isn’t the problem just now,” Kel told Peachblossom. “Clean is the problem.”

  Raoul waited for her at the end of the field. “I haven’t seen you do that in a while,” he remarked cheerfully.

  “I thought I was getting better,” she grumbled. She hated to lose.

  Raoul grinned. “The day you can best Wyldon is the day they put up a statue to you in front of the palace. He’s strong, he’s fast, he’s got powerful horses, and he always knows exactly where to hit,” he said. “The last fall I got from any man was from him, ten years ago.”

  “You’ve beaten him since?” Kel asked, thinking he might share his secret.

  “Mithros, no—I just don’t joust with him anymore. I have my pride,” Raoul said.

  thirteen

  THE IRON DOOR

  Three days before Midwinter’s start, the progress returned to the palace. Prince Roald was scheduled to take his Ordeal over the holiday; his parents wanted to be on hand.

  Kel visited the Chapel of the Ordeal as soon as she’d unpacked Raoul’s gear. No one had entered it to clean for the Midwinter rites yet. A film of dust lay everywhere.

  She went directly to the door, determined to do this and get it over with. She had no idea what drove her to keep testing herself against the Chamber, only that she had to do it.

  Gingerly she brushed a finger over the cold, dark surface. No dust, she realized. Dust probably doesn’t have the nerve to settle here. She wiped her hands on her breeches, bracing herself to put her hands on the iron.

  It was a tilting accident, or rather, a joust she had lost, that had crippled her for good. She remembered that loss often as she struggled to learn to walk with a crutch. Her shoulder, broken in the same joust, healed sloppily.

  She never got a satisfactory answer as to how a novice healer who specialized in childbirth would be the only one available for a squire who’d taken lances in a shoulder and a hip. Now Kel lived with a shoulder that was so much lumpy meat, and a leg that was too weak to take her weight.

  She was limping down a village street with a basket on her back when she heard shouting. Men, armed and mounted on horses, galloped down the street, coming straight at her. One leaned down, longsword in hand. “We don’t need no cripples, dearie!” he cried as she fought to shed the basket. Her bad leg collapsed; she toppled as the man’s sword bit deep into her good shoulder. She lay on her side in the dust, blood pooling under her, unable to move or close her eyes.

  Armed men killed two small children, then grabbed their mother and a teenaged girl and slung them over their saddles. A local man came out waving a rusted old broadaxe. He was shot through the throat by a raider bowman. The temple was on fire: she heard the screams of those trapped inside. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t get up. She couldn’t put a stop to it. She was helpless and dying in some dusty street.

  When the door freed her, she raced outside the chapel. She reached a small, snow-covered garden just in time, and threw up till she had nothing more in her belly.

  Lies, she told herself grimly. All lies, to make me lose my nerve. And I won’t. I won’t ever lose my nerve.

  Kel scrubbed her face with snow, ate a handful to clean her mouth, and shoved more over her mess. Then slowly, holding her shoulder and limping, she walked to her rooms.

  Cleon’s was the first name drawn of the squires who faced the Ordeal. He would take the ritual bath at sunset on the first night of Midwinter, with two knights there to instruct him in the laws of chivalry. Next would come his solitary vigil in the chapel throughout the night with only his thoughts for company. At dawn he would enter the Chamber. Though he didn’t mention Cleon, Raoul gave Kel the first day of the holiday to herself.

  That morning she put on a pale pink shift, pink wool stockings, and a fine wool gown in a delicate brown Lalasa called “fawn.” Over her clothes she wore a hooded wine-colored coat with the look of a kimono. Lalasa had assured her it was the newest fashion. Kel chose dress boots to walk in. Ladies wore wooden pattens outdoors in winter, to lift their feet clear of the slush, but whenever Kel put them on, she turned an ankle. Boots were safer.

  Seeing herself in the mirror, Kel thought she’d made herself into the girl she would have been had she not tried for her shield. The feeling was odd, more good than bad. Maybe I’m the same whatever I wear, she thought. It’s just easier to fight in breeches.

  She saw Cleon before he saw her. He stood at the foot of King Jasson’s statue, where the Palace Way met Gold Street. He missed her as he scanned the crowds coming down from the palace. Kel slid back her hood and smiled when he finally looked at her.

  “A dress?” he asked, grinning. Kel opened her coat. “You look beautiful,” he said, taking her hand.

  “It’s not me, silly, it’s the gown,” Kel told him. “Lalasa can make anyone look good.”

  Cleon pulled her into a nook in the base of the statue and kissed her warmly. “It is you, silly.” He kissed her again, then held her tight. “I love tall women. Pearl of squires, have I mentioned how lovely it is not to have to bend in two to kiss you?”

  “Only a hundred times,” she replied.

  They let go of each other reluctantly. Cleon looked to see if anyone they knew was about. Finding no one, he signaled “all safe.” Kel walked out to join him, covering her hair again.

  They had lunch at a quiet eating house, where they could hold hands as they talked. Then they visited Raven Armory to covet the displayed weapons. “One of those swords would cost Mother a year’s income,” Cleon said. “But I can dream. Maybe I’ll do something heroic, and the king will reward me. He does that, with knights who serve the Crown.”

  “I know,” Kel replied. “Conal, Inness, and Anders all got purses for things they did.” As Inness’s squire Cleon knew her older brothers.

  On they walked through the crowds. If Cleon was nervous about his Ordeal, he said nothing. His grip on her fingers got tighter, the stops in alleys and corners for kisses more frequent, as the afternoon wore on. When a shopkeeper placed lit torches on either side of his door, they knew their day was over. They found one last doorway. Wrapping their arms around each other, they kissed long and hard. Kel felt Cleon’s heart beating against his ribs. She clung to him with all her strength as he clung back.

  A street boy saw them and chanted obscene rhymes until they separated. Cleon shook his fist at the boy, then drew Kel’s hood up.

  “Who’s instructing you in the bath?” she asked, straightening his stubborn red curls with fingers that shook. “Inness, and . . .?”

  “It’s a very great honor,” Cleon told her, cupping her cheek in one lar
ge hand. “Lord Raoul.”

  Kel shook her head. “He didn’t say a word.”

  “You know those big fellows—sneaky.” He kissed her softly one more time. “Midwinter luck, Kel,” he told her with a smile.

  She kissed him. “Midwinter luck, Cleon.”

  “Y’goan t’start again?” The street boy was unimpressed by their farewell. Cleon sighed, flipped a coin to the boy for luck, and began the long walk back to the palace.

  She lingered briefly to savor the warmth that filled her veins when he kissed her. Then, whistling, she took the street to the Temple District to say Midwinter prayers.

  Even the monarchs were tired of entertaining. They chose not to hold large parties this year, though Kel would have liked to have something to do. She settled down to read the night away, but with Jump and the birds asleep, the silence was too big, the time between the Watchmen’s calls too long. When Raoul came in after his part in Cleon’s vigil was done, he and Kel played chess. Kel nearly had him boxed in when someone knocked.

  It was Prince Roald, Princess Shinkokami, Inness of Mindelan, Buri, Neal, Yuki, Jerel of Nenan, and Owen. All had cakes, fruit, jugs of cider, and other things to eat and drink. Raoul and Kel welcomed them with relief.

  They talked, played games, and traded songs, Tortallan for Yamani and K’miri. The night was well along by the time everyone left. Kel slept without dreaming.

  Despite her late bedtime she woke before dawn, as usual. Together with the sparrows and Jump, Kel went to the Chapel of the Ordeal. Cleon was inside the Chamber by the time they arrived. They waited.

  Kel bit down a feeling of panic at the sight of the iron door, suddenly afraid it would send her a vision. It can’t reach to the back of the room, surely, she told herself as the sparrows huddled in her lap. She covered them with her hands and tried to ignore the Chamber door. Instead her mind presented her with a roll call of those who had failed their Ordeal. Kel squelched that fear, too. Counting the failures since the time her oldest brother became a page, she had less than a handful. Cleon would be fine.