The Cadet of Tildor

  “I see you’ve grown a bit, lad.” Verin’s voice was composed despite its owner’s sprawl. He climbed to his feet, leaning more on the proffered arm than Savoy had expected.

  Savoy’s head pounded still. If the headmaster wished to see him, courtesy demanded a summons or, at the least, a knock. He was no longer Verin’s foster to be subject to random intrusions. His gaze weighed the other man. Verin was still taller, of course—Savoy had outgrown his adolescent runtiness but still stood nearly a hand shorter than the other man—but Savoy out-massed Verin now and had the edge of recent battle on his side. He braced his hands on his hips. “You should not startle me so.”

  “Ah, my mistake then.” Verin pulled down on his tunic, settling it back into place. His forehead creased. “I had been under the impression that I raised a self-controlled military officer and not a wild animal. I thank you for correcting the misconception.”

  Heat rose to Savoy’s face and he turned away for a moment to let it settle. Behind him, chair legs scraped against the floor. He turned to find his former teacher and guardian seated in the room’s sole chair.

  “I’ve known several people who chose to leave their quarters unlocked,” Verin said conversationally. “But you are the first to have removed the locking mechanism completely.”

  Savoy glanced at the door, where his handiwork had left several holes from the extracted screws. Locks had a way of trapping you in as fast as keeping others out. He shrugged. “A good sword bests a good latch, sir.” Verin had taught him to fight, even if it had been decades since the now Servant High Constable was junior enough to wield a sword on the battlefield himself.

  “Mmm. Indeed.” Verin smiled, crossing his legs. “Especially when someone else has another set of keys, eh?” A metallic jingle sounded when he patted his pocket and a bushy eyebrow rose in gentle amusement. “Were you afraid I’d lock you in?”

  Savoy picked up a shirt and shrugged into it, letting the hem hang down over the battered britches in which he had slept. He started to pull himself up to perch atop his desk but changed his mind and walked back to the bed instead. With a few motions he tugged the woolen blanket tight and tucked the corners under the mattress. “Would you?”

  The older man chuckled. “No. If I wished you to stay in your quarters, I believe I would have but to ask.” He tented his fingers under his chin. “That is something that differentiates a man from a boy, don’t you think? That he fulfills his obligation and follows his orders because they are obligation and orders, and not because he’s forced into obedience.” He cleared his throat to indicate a change of topic and inclined his head toward the bed. “Sit. Since I seem to have intruded on your sleep at midday, may I presume your night was otherwise occupied?”

  Midday. Savoy glanced out the window for confirmation. “I drilled the Seventh until dawn, then herded cadets around the salle.” The words held an unintended ring of excuse that he didn’t care for. He scrubbed his hand over his face. The headmaster did not make social calls, so something was amiss. If previous experience was anything to judge by, the longer Savoy took to realize what that bloody something was, the worse the outcome. He sighed, remembering. The instructors’ conference to discuss the midyear exams a few weeks off had passed without the pleasure of his company. He squared his shoulders. “My apologies for the ill planning, sir.”

  Verin nodded slowly before speaking. “I believe it was more a matter of priorities than plans. The needs of your men versus those of your students?”

  It was a trap, but Savoy failed to see how he could avoid the bait. “A misstep for my fighters will get them killed. A misstep for my cadets will get them sent home to their parents.”

  “Your dedication to your men is commendable.” Verin’s fingertips tapped each other. “Your disobedience to my orders, less so. I seem to recall holding a similar conversation with you upon your arrival, but perhaps my memory is in error.” His brows narrowed and he leaned forward. His smile faded, replaced by a steel-gray gaze that laid a heated rod along Savoy’s spine. “Let me thus revert to more primitive methods: You will keep your commitments to this Academy, Servant Savoy, or you will find your team’s behavior under a level of scrutiny they will not enjoy. Am I clear?”

  The older man rose, waited until Savoy stood and bowed, and then headed for the door. He paused with his hand resting on the handle. “I know my words raked you, lad. That marks you a good officer. See that you are a good teacher as well.”

  Savoy stared at the door long after it closed, wondering how Verin had turned being a “good officer” into a liability.

  The conversation still weighed on his mind when he met his sergeants, Cory and Davis, a few hours later for a surprise inspection of the Seventh’s mounts. The men had drilled with the Palace Guard a few days ago, but until a specific mission arose, the team had little to do in Atham but patrol the city and the palace grounds, watching for misbehaving Vipers. The reserve status chafed his soldiers. And chafed soldiers found trouble. As glad as Savoy was for his men’s company, he was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of the precautionary recall.

  “How are the boys handling the tether?” Savoy asked.

  The stable’s lantern light glinted off of Davis’s bald head. “We have enough mending, supplying, and training to do to keep them trotting a while longer, but once that ends . . . ” He opened his palms. “I can’t keep a sword sharp for you if I have nothing to sharpen it on, sir.”

  “Understood.” Savoy drummed his fingers against a stall gate. The occupant poked her black nose over the railing and sniffed curiously until a crash of the stable door startled her into a rear. “Whoa, girl.” Savoy grabbed her halter, restraining the filly lest she harm herself. He twisted to see the source of the racket and found a man who should know better standing a few paces away. “Easy near the horses, Connor.”

  “Get your hooligans under control,” said Seaborn.

  Cory and Davis stepped forward, hands hovering over sword hilts.

  “Gentlemen.” Savoy kept his voice low. “Give us a minute.” He watched his men retreat, then stared at Seaborn.

  “Either the back pasture grew a barrel of mead, or your men cannot tell a school from a taproom. I found two cadets stumbling around the barracks, losing their dinners.”

  “Mead any good?” Savoy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told them to stay away from the cheap brew.”

  Connor planted his palm against the wall near Savoy’s head and leaned close. His voice, coming quiet from behind clenched teeth, was a growl. “Get your gang on a leash, or get them gone.”

  Savoy crossed his arms. He permitted Connor much, but disrespect toward the Seventh was beyond those bounds. While the Academy slept in the peace of high walls and pretty guardsmen, his men spent most nights with death guarding their dreams. “Put a damn leash on your cadets. Or teach them to drink. I don’t care which.”

  “You are the guests here, not the kids. Behave or get out.”

  “You think I want to be here?”

  “I don’t care. The Academy exists for the cadets, not for you.” Connor’s voice dropped, sending a shiver through Savoy. “Break up the party or I will call Guardsman Fisker to do it. I’m certain he would make the trip from the palace for the pleasure.”

  The door slammed behind Seaborn, upsetting the horses again. Breath caught in Savoy’s lungs, as if someone punched his stomach. When he forced himself to turn away, he found Cory and Davis leaning against the stable wall, their eyes boring into him.

  “Move the hooligans and their mead into my quarters,” he told them, and started toward the door.

  “Where are you going, sir?”

  Savoy paused, but did not turn around, not wishing his face to show. “To find a way to get you released from this dungeon.”

  * * *

  “Am I still welcome?” Alec hovered at the threshol
d of Renee’s quarters. They had not spoken in the two days since Alec had stood the world on its ears—two days that had left Renee’s nails bitten to the quick and no memory of Alec unstudied. He put his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

  “You are.” She chewed her lip. One friend should not have to ask such things of another. “Gods, of course you are.”

  He closed the door behind him and lingered there for a few moments before sitting on Sasha’s empty bed. He braced his elbows on his knees and interlaced his fingers, his head bent. “I’m sorry that you know.” He spoke toward the floor. “But I’m glad too. And I’m sorry for being glad.”

  Renee’s finger traced the rough texture of the bedcover. Two days earlier she would have sworn that a true friendship had no room for secrets. But secrets, it turned out, carried burdens. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Gran may suspect.” Alec took a breath. “She raised two mage daughters, she knows what to look for.”

  Renee fidgeted. Alec had never mentioned that before either.

  “I didn’t lie to you,” he said quickly, as if reading her thoughts. “My mother”—Alec spat the word—“she tossed me to Gran and took off, like I’ve told you.” He drew a breath. “Aunt Cayle . . . I never told you about her, but she taught me a bit. We didn’t know whether I would Control yet, but she’d call me over and explain things—how Control works, mage history, some stories. The fundamental skills are the same for all mages, and Aunt Cayle specialized in Healing atop that, learning bits and pieces as best she could in secret. She Healed my dog when he burned his paw. I didn’t know it then, but she was trusting me with her life by doing it.”

  And now he was trusting her. Renee scooted to the edge of her bed, closer to him. She remembered his grandfather passing on a few years back and knew he little cared to speak of his mother, who had left long before that. That was all. Renee and Alec had been each other’s family for years now, and rarely talked of other relatives. Now she knew why. “Your aunt isn’t registered, then?”

  “She wasn’t. The guard hanged her eight years ago.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a leather square the size of a gold crown. The attached thong marked it a necklace, although Renee had never seen Alec wear it. He turned it over to show a small diamond stud worked into the center. An amulet. “She gave it to me when I feared the dark. I could touch it to make it glow.”

  Renee reached out and brushed her finger over the smooth stone. Nothing happened.

  “It can’t store the energy long. Giving me a candle would have been cheaper and much more practical. But . . .” He raised his shoulders and let the rest go unsaid.

  “Why don’t you recharge it? I don’t think she’d mind.”

  He snorted. “Why don’t you best Savoy with a sword?” His thumb rubbed the leather. “Healer Grovener probably could, but it would seem strange to ask.”

  She bowed her head in apology. Amulets were rare and expensive, but Renee had always assumed that the cost was due to the diamonds and regulation fees. It was easy to dismiss the skill and training involved in unfamiliar vocations. “Is your mother hiding?” That would explain why Alec spoke so little of her. Unwise to draw attention—to his mother and his own bloodlines, both. “Is that why she left?”

  “No.” He chuckled without humor. “No, she registered and went to a Crown’s school. Not the Academy, but nicer than anything we’d have been able to afford. Registered mages have status and money, you know. At the expense of freedom.” He snorted. “I was an accident that delayed my mother’s graduation. When she finally received orders, well, I don’t know if she couldn’t take me or chose not to, but I have a guess.” He spread his palms. “The Mage Council has her developing army tools somewhere. She sends Gran coin.”

  “At least you know she’s alive.” With a sigh, Renee leaned back on outstretched arms and studied the cracks in the ceiling. She recalled little of her own mother, but the memories she had were warm. “So, your mother is registered, your bloodlines are mage-filled, and you Control . . . And instead of skulking in the shadows of your village, you got yourself to Atham, defying registration under the Crown’s—and Mage Council’s—very noses. You’re hiding in plain sight.”

  His jaw tightened. “But I’m not hiding. I’m making a choice to be a fighter Servant instead of yielding to a mage’s impulse. You do the same, choosing to train instead of surrendering to your size or your father’s decrees. Anyone can conscript as a common soldier or purchase an officer’s commission, but becoming a Servant—that proves something.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “All Servants have their reasons.” A hint of a smile twitched across his face. “Even Savoy, I’m sure.”

  She smiled back. Alec was right. The Servants’ code inspired her, but different yearnings drove different people—whether for opportunity, or challenge, or to uphold a family tradition. They all had potential to be good officers.

  Alec shook his head like a dog and leaned back. “Where is the Seventh this fine day? You like running with them over training with Savoy alone?”

  A knock at the door halted her growing blush. She missed the regular morning sparring, but Savoy still found an hour for her now and again. “Enter,” she called instead of answering Alec.

  A small girl in a page’s uniform appeared long enough to say that Headmaster Verin wished Renee to attend him in his office immediately.

  Alec’s face was carefully neutral. He looked out the window.

  Renee waited until the girl’s footsteps receded. “I didn’t say anything,” she told him, her mouth dry.

  His shoulders relaxed. “I didn’t think you would, but . . . ” He frowned. “Diam? I like him, but he’s eight.”

  “I’ll give you warning if they know.” Renee leaned her forehead against the doorframe before stepping out. “It may be something else altogether.” She headed out before he could ask what.

  The late afternoon sky was still crisp and clear. The administrative building towered above Renee, casting its shadow over the Academy grounds. Its white marble steps, thick columns, and strict, smooth walls radiated grandeur and intimidation. No one, except perhaps for those who entered it daily, could walk inside without feeling the significance of her own existence dwarfed by the immensity of the institution.

  Holding her breath, Renee pulled open one of the doors, so heavy that for the first few years as a cadet she couldn’t open it by herself. Not that she had much practice. Mischief that sucked most of the boys into trouble and a headmaster’s summons had politely avoided her. Until now. The door closed behind her with a puff of cold air, shutting out the courtyard noise and leaving her to climb the stairs in dooming silence.

  From the top stairway window, she saw Savoy approach the building and forced herself to maintain composure. He’d expect that of her. He was near the entrance now and seemed unaware of Seaborn rounding the corner. Without warning, Seaborn grabbed Savoy and spun him around. A suicidal move. Renee held her breath.

  Savoy stiffened, but allowed himself to be shoved.

  Seaborn’s finger jabbed Savoy’s chest until the latter turned away and entered the building.

  “Make no mistake about it, Korish.” Seaborn’s voice echoed up the stairs. “We both know who’s responsible.”

  “Yes,” Savoy answered.

  Renee stepped farther away from the landing, as getting caught eavesdropping was unlikely to improve her situation. Her thoughts raced as quickly as her heart. The exchange below shed little light on which of her recent misdeeds put her here. It was possible that Diam had told his brother the truth, and Verin now planned to force her into bearing witness against her friend. Or that Seaborn had realized the essay she turned in was not of her writing. Or . . . she clasped her hands behind her back to still them.

  Savoy crested the stairs, looking as pale as Renee felt. Whatever had happened, he was unhappy
about it. That made two of them. She forced a ghost of a smile to her face to encourage them both.

  “Face the wall, cadet,” he said.

  It was as though he’d doused her with freezing water. Renee turned toward the wall, too humiliated to meet either his eyes or Seaborn’s. Footsteps sounded behind her as the two men walked past, toward Verin’s office.

  “What about her?” Seaborn asked as the door started to creak closed.

  “She stays outside,” said Savoy. There was a click, and conversation became too muffled to discern.

  Renee’s palms were slippery with sweat by the time they came out an hour later, Savoy in the lead. He walked toward her, stone-faced, while Verin watched from a few paces back. “With me.” Savoy tapped her writing journal against his leg and shoved her toward the steps. Seaborn and Verin followed.

  CHAPTER 18

  Renee stumbled as Savoy thrust her into the training salle. She slid on the sandy floor, catching sight of Seaborn and Verin taking posts at the wall while she regained her balance. Seaborn’s slumped shoulders sank farther. Seaborn. The essay. At least she knew what it was about now. Her heart sped. “I’m sorry,” she whispered toward him, but it wasn’t Seaborn who rounded on her with disappointment, and something else, flaring in his eyes. It was Savoy.

  He opened her journal, ripped out a fistful of pages, and threw the bundle at her. Paper separated in mid-flight and glided to the ground, fluttering in and out of the squares of late-day light that fell from the windows onto the sand.

  “What in the Seven Hells possessed you?”

  Blood drained from her face. She glanced back at Seaborn, but found herself unable to meet his eyes. Savoy towered over her. Swallowing, she bent to pick up the pieces of her essay. No, not her essay, just the one she handed in.

  “I—I didn’t have time,” she stammered, containing herself to the task of collecting the rubbish. She wished the ground could open and let her disappear into oblivion.