First Test

  "I can’t believe you gave up learning to be a healer," Kel said when Neal released her foot. "I can’t believe you’re happier as a page. An old page, at that!"

  Neal made a face. "I can name three who were older when they started."

  "Please don’t," Kel said hurriedly. Once Neal started to give lists of things, even a three-person list, he would not be content until he also mentioned what books he’d learned their names from, who wrote them, and who disagreed with the writers of the original books. It was far easier not to let him get started. She said, "And don’t tell me you did all this to be one of the oldest first-year pages in the realm."

  Neal sighed, surveying his long-fingered hands. "On the Great Roll of Knights in the Hall of Crowns, twelve Queenscove knights are listed— only the Naxens have more. In The Scroll of Salute, King Jonathan the First wrote that four houses were the shield of Tortall: Legann, Naxen, ha Minch, and Queenscove. My brothers thought knighthood was the greatest service they could give."

  "But it isn’t the only service you can give," protested Kel. "You’ve got brains. You’ve got the magical Gift. Why are you bashing about here?"

  "Keeping you out of trouble," Neal said cheerfully. "Try resting your weight on that." As Kel stood and walked under his gaze, he continued, "As to that ill-tempered nag of yours, I have an idea."

  She was no scholar, but she knew when a subject was closed. "He’s not a nag, and I won’t take another horse."

  "I know that," said Neal, exaggeratedly patient. "But perhaps we can have someone talk to him on your behalf. Come on."

  He led her at a brisk walk through the classroom floor to a broad stair, up two stories, and down a hall. "The academics’ rooms are on this floor and the one below," he explained. "Some of our teachers—the ones who aren’t priests—live here. You won’t get these two until later this year in magic class."

  Neal strode to a door decorated with a bronze nameplate. Numair Salmalin was engraved in the metal. Below it, in letters more recently added, was the name Veralidaine Sarrasri. He rapped hard, then waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Why is he nervous, all of a sudden? wondered Kel.

  The door opened a crack and a young woman peered out. Brown curls tumbled around a face lit by blue-gray eyes. Her mouth was soft, her chin roundly stubborn. "Neal, hello," she whispered with a smile. "Did you want Numair? He’s sleeping. He was up all last night and half today on a working."

  "Actually, Daine, I wanted to ask a favor of you," Neal replied, keeping his own voice to a whisper. He was even more nervous than he’d been a moment ago. "It’s for my friend Kel, here. And her horse."

  He likes her, Kel realized with amusement. A lot. She’d had experience with crushes—none of her own, of course, but her older sisters Adalia and Oranie were very prone to them.

  Daine walked into the hall, closing the door gently behind her. "A horse?"

  "He’s contrary and mean," explained Neal, "and Kel here won’t give him up. Keladry of Mindelan, this is Veralidaine Sarrasri. Daine, Kel."

  Kel bowed.

  "You’re the one Bonedancer likes," Daine told her with a nod. "Lindhall says he’s taken to you. And Neal doesn’t like your horse."

  Kel shrugged. She hardly knew what to say. She’d heard so many odd stories about this woman since her family had returned from the Yamani Islands.

  "We were thinking—I was thinking—you might take a look," explained Neal. "He’s got a mouth like stone—can it be fixed? And he’s mean clear through."

  "Let me see him," Daine replied. "What’s his name?" Her eyes focused on Kel’s, as if she could see into the girl’s heart.

  "Peachblossom," Kel said.

  It wasn’t until Daine smiled that Kel could look away from those blue-gray eyes. "Peachblossom? Not one I know, but then, I have little to do with the nobles’ horses," she explained. "Let’s have a look at him."

  Neal did the talking as they walked down to Peachblossom’s stable. He asked Daine a great many questions about people Kel did not know. She followed them, feeling out of place.

  When they entered the stable, all of the horses came to the front of their stalls to greet Daine. Shyly Kel pointed her gelding out. Daine went to Peachblossom and stood nose to nose with him, her hands cupped under the horse’s chin. Peachblossom’s ears were pricked forward with interest. He was more relaxed with Daine than Kel had ever seen him.

  Neal made the mistake of trying to stroke him. Back went the gelding’s ears; up went his head. Neal snatched away his hand. "Excuse me," he muttered.

  Ignoring him, Daine ran her hands over the horse, inspecting every inch. Kel watched the examination. Peachblossom seemed to like Daine’s touch. When she was finished, he rested his nose against her gown, which was now covered with horsehair.

  "What do you want of him?" Daine asked Kel. "I can soften his mouth, but if you’re forever dragging at the rein, it’ll just get hard again. Stefan’s done wonders with these scars, though Peachblossom says they still pain him some. I can mend those, but if you make him fight and you spur him as some do their mounts, he’ll be scarred again. And I can’t change his nature for you. Peachblossom is who he is; no one has the right to take that away."

  "I wouldn’t ask it," Kel replied firmly. "We get on all right." Neal snorted. Kel ignored him, telling Daine, "If he didn’t hurt from his scars, that might help, and softening his mouth would be a blessing. I’m not one for using the rein hard."

  "That’s what he says. He also says that if you promise never to use spurs, he’ll mind his manners a bit more."

  "She has to have spurs when we get to riding in armor," Neal pointed out. "The St—Lord Wyldon makes all the third- and fourth-years wear them."

  "There are spurs that don’t cut the horse," said Daine quietly. "Peachblossom will settle for those. You really want to keep him?"

  Kel shrugged. "It’s drawing carts or death if I don’t."

  "I’ll buy him," Daine offered. "I think I have enough. I’d take him off your hands and find you a better mount."

  Peachblossom turned his head away from Daine to look at Kel. She felt a pang at the thought of losing him. She admired the big gelding’s independence, the way he didn’t seem to care if people liked him or not. She wished she could be more like that. Peachblossom would be happier with someone who could talk to him, though. Daine would be good to him.

  Peachblossom put two hooves back, then two more. Another step, and he could turn away from Daine to face Kel. His ears twitched forward. When Kel, unbelieving, held out her open hand— as Neal winced—Peachblossom lowered his head and softly lipped her palm.

  "That’s that," remarked Daine. "He says you need looking after."

  "I never thought I’d end up agreeing with a horse," murmured Neal.

  Peachblossom’s ears went flat. He blew a wad of spit onto Neal’s shirt.

  "He also says because he will let Kel ride him doesn’t mean he has to be nice to everyone," Daine remarked, her eyes twinkling. "Come to me, Peachblossom. We’ve still your hurts to mend." To Kel she added, "I’ll teach him spoken commands for when you need him to go faster. You won’t need spurs with those."

  Neal walked Daine back to her rooms. Kel returned to the page’s wing alone, feeling very much in the way and thinking of the classwork on her desk. On the way she stopped at the mess hall kitchen. She helped herself to an apple and begged two rolls for her sparrows from a cook.

  She was near her room when voices drew her attention. They came from the hall ahead. "Pages are supposed to be graceful, not clumsy." Kel knew Joren’s mocking tones well. She froze.

  "Clumsy?" She also knew Merric’s voice.

  Something clattered and crashed; a boy yelped. Kel turned into the hall to see what was going on.

  Three older pages stood over Merric, who had fallen. Apparently he’d been carrying a heavy pitcher and cups on a tray. Now milk had splashed everywhere and the dishes lay in pieces.

  "Don’t just grovel there," jeered Vinson,
one of Joren’s friends. "Stand and mop it up."

  "Fetch us another pitcher of milk, and fresh cups," added Joren. "How can we study if we are thirsty?"

  Kel clenched her fists. It was the custom that Anders had described, the one in which older pages made first-years do errands to earn their right to be considered true pages. Kel had done such errands herself for the prince. Most senior pages understood that first-years had little time for their work and gave them tasks that were small and quickly done. But she’d heard whispers that Joren liked the custom a bit too much, and liked to add a bit of pain to his errands.

  Merric stood, dripping milk, his pale face crimson with shame. "I’ll need cloths," he said.

  Joren planted his hand on the smaller boy’s back and shoved. Merric’s feet slipped; he flew forward, landing on his face again. "Use what you’re wearing for cloths," Joren said merrily. "They’re doing well enough so far!"

  "And shut up while you’re at it," added Vinson.

  The third member of their trio, Zahir, caught sight of Kel. He elbowed Joren and pointed to her.

  "Get mopping," Joren ordered Merric. "Every drop, mind." He turned to Kel. "What’s the matter with you, probationer?" he demanded coldly.

  Kel clenched her fists. "This is servants’ work," she said. "It has nothing to do with being a page and fetching and carrying for people. It isn’t what’s meant by earning our way."

  Joren took a step forward. "This is none of your affair—unless you want what he’s getting."

  Merric looked at Kel, then away. Kel remained where she was, frozen with indecision. They were older, taller, and faster, with every muscle trained hard by Lord Wyldon. These student warriors would outrank her in the Yamani Islands. There she would owe them her obedience.

  In Yaman, picking on a younger warrior would be considered a waste of the time owed to your overlord, she thought numbly.

  If I interfere, I might give Lord Wyldon an excuse to get rid of me, she realized.

  Joren’s face went even harder. He came down the hall, fists raised.

  For the first time in her life, Keladry of Mindelan ran from a fight with a bully. Reaching the safety of her room, she locked the door behind her. Even there, she thought she could still hear the laughter that had followed her escape.

  Somehow she managed a little classwork before the bell rang for bed. She got into her nightdress and crawled under the covers, shivering. Over and over she saw the scene in her mind, with poor Merric outnumbered and unable to fight back. He’d been right to be afraid, she told herself repeatedly. She’d been right to be afraid. Giving way to superior force was how their world worked. Someday she and Merric both would show Joren and his crew how it felt to be humiliated and afraid.

  Someday they would fear her.

  So, if she thought they would fear her, why didn’t she feel better? She’d done the wise thing. Hadn’t she?

  You could tell on them, a voice whispered in her heart. You know they tripped Merric deliberately. No one is supposed to take the eaming-your-way custom that far.

  She flinched at the thought. Pages were not tattletales. They dealt with problems or suffered in silence. Everyone would despise her for breaking that unwritten law. Wyldon would despise her. Her brothers would shake their heads in shame. She would be sent home.

  You saw a bad thing done and you didn’t raise a hand or speak out, argued her better self. Could you swear a knight’s oath, knowing that you once let bullies get away with it?

  If I get in fights, won’t Lord Wyldon use that as an excuse to be rid of me?

  Perhaps not. She’d heard Anders’s stories. Pages were expected to fight, win or lose, and take the punishments doled out. Alanna the Lioness was in fights as a page. She got punished for them all. She took her punishment and never gave up the names of those she’d fought with. That was how things were done.

  Of course none of them had been on probation. Only Keladry of Mindelan was served that bowl of sour soup.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself! she scolded, trying to find a spot in her bed that wasn’t hot from her thrashing around. We don’t argue with custom; we obey it. Wiser people than us started such things, it’s as simple as that.

  But what if custom is wrong? demanded the part of her that believed in the code of chivalry. A knight must set things right.

  I’m not a knight yet, she told herself, punching a pillow that seemed determined to smother her. I’m not even a real page. I’ll worry about things like that when I am.

  Shouldn’t I worry about them all along? If I don’t worry about them as a page or a squire, why should I care when I am a knight?

  At last she slept.

  The first thing she noticed that was not part of her unhappy night was the prickle of tiny claws on her hand. She opened her eyes and looked down. A sparrow—the female with the spot on her head that Kel had named Crown—stood on her hand, looking at her. Crown turned her head this way and that, as if trying to decide what to do with this great lazy girl who lay abed when the sun was about to rise.

  Kel looked at her windows, certain she had not opened the lower set of shutters the night before. She was right. Only the small upper shutters were open. Crown had flown in through those, seeing well enough in the pre-dawn glow to land safely on Kel.

  It seemed the bird had exhausted her supply of patience. She jumped onto Kel’s chin and pecked her gently on the nose.

  "All right," Kel croaked. At the first movement of her chin, the bird hopped back to her chest. "Tell your friends I’m coming."

  Crown flew up and out of the open shutters, for all the world as if she had understood.

  Neal said the animals around here are strange, Kel thought, tossing her blankets aside. I guess he’s right.

  Lurching to the windows, she opened the lower shutters. The sparrow flock, brown and tan females and black-collared males alike, sat on the sill in a line, watching her.

  "I hope you had a better night than I did," Kel told them, getting her rolls and seed.

  In the mess hall, Neal squinted at her as she toyed with her breakfast. "You look as bad as I feel," he croaked. "Where’s the sunny smile? The ’Hello, Neal, isn’t it a wonderful day to be alive in the royal palace?’ pain-in-the-bum greeting I usually get?"

  Kel considered shoving her porridge into his face and decided against it. "I don’t know," she said at last. "Why don’t you go look for it?"

  Neal sat up. "Ouch. It bites."

  "What’s that supposed to mean?" she demanded sharply, tired of hiding the way she felt. "That I’ll say ’yes’ and ’so mote’ to anything, smile and go along no matter what? Never argue, never complain?"

  Neal looked more awake with every word. He ran his fingers through his hair. "What’s gotten into you? Did somebody put hot peppers in your wash water?"

  "Nothing." Kel slammed her bowl onto her tray and carried it to the servants.

  Neal stopped her at the mess door. "Did anything happen last night after you left?"

  "Nothing," she said, biting off the words. "Not one gods-blest thing." She left him to finish breakfast and went back to her room for her practice jacket.

  She was halfway there when Cleon stopped her. He was a third-year page, a joker who still sported a tan from days spent in his father’s fields, bringing in the harvest.

  "Page, I need my archer’s glove," he told her with a grin. "Run to my room and fetch it." When Kel frowned at him, not wanting to be bothered just then, he flapped his hands. "Run along, now. Don’t take all day. You don’t want punishment duty for being late."

  As far as she knew, Cleon wasn’t one of Joren’s friends. He was just being a pain; the broad grin on his face told her that much.

  What if I refused? she wondered, even as her feet started down the hall, carrying the rest of her with them. What could he do to me?

  But she didn’t refuse. If I’m to be a coward when I think someone goes too far with the custom, I might as well be one all the time, she thought bitter
ly. She ran to do as she was bid.

  She caught up to Cleon as the pages were filing into their first practice of the day, and thrust his archery glove into his face. "Very good," he said, taking it. "You know, we all thought you wouldn’t last this long."

  Kel stared at him, thinking, What an odd thing to say! "Last this long today, or last this long for five weeks?" she asked.

  "In training. You know." He spread his arms, taking in their surroundings. "Everyone had bets on that you’d run home before a week was up." He shook his head, smiling. "You might want to run now, while you still have the strength. Lord Wyldon will never let you stay."

  "He might surprise you," Kel retorted, keeping her face Yamani-smooth.

  Cleon smiled oddly. "He never surprises anyone." He sauntered into the yard.

  Maybe he doesn’t know Lord Wyldon as well as he thinks he does, Kel thought grimly as she followed him through the gate. I have to believe that.

  six

  THE LANCE

  Later that morning, when the pages arrived at the stable, new equipment had been placed beside their normal gear. The most important item, a saddle, boasted a high, padded front and back.

  Extra hands had come to show the first-years how to handle the new items: saddle, reins, double girths, and breast collars. Kel was glad to see that the man in Peachblossom’s stall was the hostler Stefan. He was no common stablehand, yet he didn’t seem to mind teaching her. Once he’d put the new saddle on her gelding and fastened every strap, he removed it and told Kel to try. Peachblossom sighed and shifted on his feet, just as Kel did when she was tired of dress fittings.

  "Peachblossom says you didn’t want Daine changing him," Stefan remarked, eyes following Kel as she positioned the saddle.

  "She wouldn’t do it," wheezed Kel. The new gear was heavy.