To: Isha
Message: I couldn’t wait - I had to get this out as quickly as possible. I would apologize for the length, but that’s probably not happening. It needed to be this long.
From: Title: Variants - Ideal
Rating: PG
Word Count: 14,316
Wishlist Item: (Kel/Wyldon/Zahir/Jon/Joren) or any combination thereof - but which one?
Summary: A death that was not, is, and a child tries to do what is right.
Kel’s heart was beating so hard, she could feel the heat pulsing in her ears. Still, courage was the hallmark of knights, she told herself as she knocked firmly on the imposing wooden door in front of her.
There was a moment of silence, and then a muffled, “Enter.”
Kel took a deep breath to steady her frayed nerves, put on her best Yamani mask, and entered the chambers of Lord Wyldon.
She glanced around unobtrusively, for she doubted there would ever be another such opportunity, and was unsurprised by the bare, functional furniture and general lack of decoration, though she did note with interest that the bookcases were full.
“Mindelan?” The voice came from the shadows of a deep chair. Kel couldn’t see the speaker, but there was no mistaking the voice. “Mindelan, you’d better have an adequate reason for being here, else it’s punishment work for disturbing me.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Wyldon,” Kel said quickly but quietly, though her voice rang out in the silent room as if she had shouted. “Lady Vivenne was a wonderful person. Tortall is less without her.”
“And what did you know of my wife, probationer?” The voice was cutting, and Kel nearly winced. She was almost certain that this might be the excuse he would give for denying her another year of training, but it was the right thing to do. No matter what.
“She used to visit Mindelan, my lord, when I was younger and just before I left in the fall. I believe she and my mother were old friends, and she always treated me with kindness.” Kel smiled slightly at the remembrance of the fuzzy memories of a child. “I even told her about my dream of becoming a knight, back when I was only four, and then again a few months ago. She told me how it would be the most difficult thing I could ever do, to learn how to put aside personal desires and needs for the benefit of the realm, for duty.” Kel noticed the shadow in the chair shift suddenly, but she plunged on. “And my lord, she also said how it was the most noble of goals, and the most rewarding. I remember her still, and I mourn her.”
There was silence then, nothing to hear but the shallow breaths of a young girl expecting the worst.
“I believe that is the most I have heard you say at one time, probationer.”
Kel flinched. “As you say, my lord.”
Wyldon sighed slightly. “Thank you for your kind words, Mindelan. Too often in our noble search for a knightly ordeal, we forget compassion.”
Again, the room filled with silence as a girl struggled for words and a man had too many buried inside. Finally, he let a few of them go.
“You may go now, Mindelan. Work on your right lower sword blocks. You were hesitant this morning, and I don’t want to see that again. Hesitation costs lives.”
“Yes, my lord, thank you.” Kel bowed and left quickly, her heart slowly easing from its rapid chase of her common sense.
*
"His lordship runs this whole wall, both ways, every morning before dawn."
For some reason, Seaver’s blithe statement, meant as a downtrodden explanation of their shared plight that morning, kept running through Kel’s mind. It was without a clear goal that she asked Salma when Lord Wyldon ran in the mornings - for if anyone would know, it would be the servants - and when the answer came back, it was painful, but not unexpected.
Still, Kel was not certain how she found herself on the wall at a bell before sunrise, dressed against the chilly air. She knew the mechanics of it, the bleary awakening and throwing on of practice clothes half-asleep, but when the training master came trotting up to her with a frown on his stiff face, Kel had no explanation to give.
“I just thought I’d like to run, my lord.”
Wyldon raised a sardonic eyebrow, but did not send her back to her warm comfortable bed. Kel couldn’t decide if this was good or bad, or which she’d prefer. “Very well, probationer. Keep up, for I will not wait for you.”
As the day before, Kel had to focus on lengthening her stride and breathing deeply, but even at her fastest, Lord Wyldon quickly moved ahead. She shook her head, and counted the dull thuds of her footsteps against the stone.
Before she reached the end of the wall, Lord Wyldon was already returning. Mercifully, he made no comment about her slower pace, and by the time she finished her first lap, Kel was too far out of breath to care. She walked around with her hands above her head in an attempt to draw in air, and was still lingering by the time Wyldon returned from his second circuit.
He’s hardly out of breath, Kel thought mutinously.
“Done already, probationer?” said the training master, not a hint of sarcasm tinging his voice.
Kel managed to respond in an even voice. “Yes my lord. For today.”
His face didn’t move, but his eyes smirked just enough to make Kel want to grind her teeth. He was having far too much amusement at her expense. “What a pity. I find these runs refreshing, so much that I repeat them just before sunset.”
Kel stared at him. He ignored it, but instead turned his back on her to watch the process of the sun as it peeked over the horizon.
He was throwing down a challenge for her, Kel knew. She just wasn’t sure how yet to respond.
The beauty of the sky stopped her unchivalrous thoughts about her training master. The sun threw spears of golden light over the Royal Forest, and the clouds lit up with purples and reddish hues in a breathtaking panorama. To her surprise, Kel heard a quiet sigh coming from Lord Wyldon. She shook her head slightly. The man certainly had hidden depths; Neal would never believe it even if she were willing to break this unspoken camaraderie and tell him.
When the sun finally emerged completely, Lord Wyldon glanced back at her. “Yes, probationer?”
Kel swallowed, knowing that she would regret the next words out of her mouth. “The bell after dinner, my lord?”
*
It was the first day back in her second year of page training, and already Kel expected punishment work. Gomer’s plea for Lalasa’s service ensured it, though Kel considered the inconvenience quite worth it. Still, she sighed, and wondered if Lord Wyldon regretted allowing her to stay.
She bowed in polite acceptance when he assigned her to the stable-lofts, even though she threatened to break out in a cold sweat at the thought of the heights.
“One more thing, Mindelan. I require your attendance in my office, directly after dinner.”
Her Yamani mask secured, Kel bowed again, though she wondered what was so important that Lord Wyldon would risk being late for their evening run, or what couldn’t wait until afterwards.
Over the last months of her probationary year, Kel had worked up to a full two circuits of the curtain wall. To her surprise and delight, by the end she even was able to keep up with Lord Wyldon. Surely he knew her enough to suspect that she had every intention of continuing their tradition.
Still, she followed him into his office, impotent questions on the tip of her tongue. He moved swiftly to an organized bookshelf next to his desk and retrieved two volumes, both of which he placed in her hands. One was red leather-bound slim book, unnamed, and the other was a thinner black book that seemed almost a pamphlet. Its title -
The Gentle Mother - was in fancy calligraphy.
When Lord Wyldon started speaking, Kel’s eyes rose from the books. “Since you have not come to your senses over the summer, Mindelan,” Wyldon began, “You might as well follow the misguided paths of those who came before you. The red volume is a diary of a Lady Knight from 200 years ago, Lady Sabine of Macayhill.”
Kel took in a sharp breath.. He didn’t mention the purpose of the other book, but Kel figured that if he gave it to her, it was equally important, even if all she wanted to do at the moment was devour Lady Sabine’s memoirs.
“Let me know when you have read these and considered what lies inside.” Wyldon’s eyes bore in on hers. “Not a second before.”
“Yes my lord. Thank you!”
He nodded sharply. “You’d better hurry if you want to make it to the wall before sunset. I will not wait up for you.”
Kel gave him a wry grin as she clutched the books tightly. “I’m aware, my lord.”
With a giant sigh, Kel let
The Gentle Mother fall close with a quiet snap. She would have preferred to chuck it against the wall or into a fireplace, but it wasn’t hers, she didn’t fancy punishment work for a year for defacing the training master’s property. For all she knew, he believed every word of that humiliating propaganda.
Women were only good for breeding the next generation? Needlework? Tears?
Kel ground her teeth. She
knew that was the attitude now, but seeing it in stark black and white in a book made it somehow more real, more formidable of an opponent. Especially since the book was so old; the mindset had been real for so long.
At least Lady Sabine’s diary had been fascinating. Although her other three sisters had all led quiet married lives, Sabine had been determined to be a knight from childhood. Admittedly, the diary began with the knight in her late 20s, some unspecified time after the kidnapping of a royal, and Sabine had only begun the diary at the urging of her friend, Beka. Still, at least the knight gave a brief background of herself, enough for Kel to know that, even though there was prejudice against female knights 200 years ago, they were still accepted. They were equal partners in serving the Crown with male knights.
Towards the end of the diary, the writer did talk with concern about the rise of some cult, but the memoirs stopped abruptly after one entry, without warning.
Kel pondered what lessons she was supposed to draw from such different books. They contradicted each other; Lady Knight Sabine was incapable of existing from the standards of
The Gentle Mother.Kel wrestled with the questions all day, through her morning classes and afternoon exercises. She would have brought it up with Lord Wyldon during their morning run, but the man wasn’t the most receptive so early in the day. Besides, she needed to give it more thought.
After their evening run, Kel followed him back to his office. He glanced at her, arms crossed against his chest. She placed
The Gentle Mother on his desk, but held Sabine’s memoirs loosely in a hand.
Wyldon did not sit behind his desk, but leaned against it, his long legs out-stretched. “Hopefully you have had sufficient time, Mindelan. Instruct me on what truths you may have gleaned.”
“If I may ask a question first, my lord?”
“You may.”
“If Lady Knights were traditional, as the diary seemed to suggest,” began Kel slowly, “When did tradition change? What made it change?”
Wyldon shook his head. “I am no scholar, Mindelan. I suggest you ask a Mithran Priest for details, but I can answer in generalities. Part of the cause was the abolishment of slavery, which had always encouraged a rough social element and required more knights to counteract. Another was a time of unprecedented peace, and a third reason was the rise of the Gentle Mother Cult.”
Kel’s eyes shot to his. “The Gentle Mother Cult gained power at the same time as Lady Knight Sabine?”
“Women were no longer needed as warriors. It became socially unacceptable to be associated with a female knight, until no mothers or fathers were willing to let one daughter take up the shield to the detriment of the rest of the family.”
That wasn’t fair at all. Kel burned with righteous anger.
“And do you understand the significance of this?”
She took a deep breath to force her anger down. She was cool, still water, unperturbed by idiotic people and their misogyny. With her best efforts at Yamani calm, Kel managed to answer in an even voice.
“This is the opinion held by many people even now. Sir.”
“Come now, Mindelan. At least be honest with yourself; do not delude yourself into believing that the majority of the court does not fervently wish for you to fail. These beliefs of the Gentle Mother are widespread and entrenched.”
“Including by you?” Kel blurted out. She turned beet-red and immediately slapped her hands over her traitorous mouth, but it was far too late.
Lord Wyldon frowned heavily, but answered, “That is a personal question. Be thankful that I choose to answer and not assign more punishment work for you. Yes, I hold these beliefs to some extent. Girls are not suited to the life of a knight. They are naturally weaker than boys, less suited to the life of decisive leadership necessary. Oh stop bristling, Mindelan, I am not saying that it is impossible. The account of the knight you are clutching like a talisman proves otherwise, but you must battle your unfortunate gender more than the opinion of the Court.”
Kel nodded slightly, her mouth tight and her eyes blazing. “Sir.”
Wyldon sighed. “I can see that you’re determined to be stubborn. This is the way of the world, Mindelan. If you dislike it, change it. Dismissed.”
Kel bowed stiffly, but in turning to go, discovered the book still in her hands. She lifted it in the training master’s direction. “Sir?”
He waved his hand. “Keep it. No doubt it will provide you with weeks of inspiration.”
Glancing down at the leather binding, Kel cracked a small grin. “Months, my lord. Any less, and I’d be disappointed in myself.”
“Off you go. I am certain I shall be forced to endure your company once again in a few scant bells.” The slight smile on Wyldon’s face made him seem younger, made the stiff lines on his face soften, and made Kel start in surprise at the realization that he was not an unhandsome man.
She stammered an audible reply, bowed, and fled the office of the most confusing and surprising man she knew.
*
Neal and Kel exchanged a significant glance when the voice of their training master came echoing through the thick wooden door. Merric blinked, still woozy from blood-loss, Owen flinched, and Faleron stared stone-faced at the opposite wall.
Neal leaned over to Kel and whispered, “I’m almost sorry for the district commander.”
She rolled her eyes. After the debacle with the bandits, already being called the Battle of the Cliff by the pages, Kel had no sympathy whatsoever for the man who had shirked his responsibilities. “Knowing my luck, he’ll probably call me first to report,” she whispered back. “When he’s hopping mad.”
The wooden door banged open unexpectedly; they all jumped and sneaked glances at the green-faced man who fled his own office.
“Mindelan, enter!”
Neal pantomimed a hanging with his hands; Owen gave a mocking salute that matched the grin on his face. The rest of the pages nodded luck to her and ferociously hoped that she would calm down the training master before they had to speak to him.
Keladry smiled at them and shook her head at their antics, though her face smoothed as soon as she came into the room and saw Lord Wyldon behind the district commander’s desk. He leaned back, stared at her with an emotionless face, and barked one word.
“Report.”
And so the entire battle spilled out of her lips in a liquid flow. Kel was careful not to make it seem like she took command, that the group came to a quick consensus, but she doubted that she fooled the wily knight.
Lord Wyldon never looked away, and even though his expression never changed, Kel had the impression that he knew everything.
“Interesting that the entire lot of you managed to decide promptly. Were there no arguments? Conflicting ideas?”
Kel looked away guiltily, just for a second, and cursed herself for giving away her lies of omission.
“Page Keladry.” She’d never seem him look so grave and disappointed. “Who gave the orders to use magic? Who found and led the group to the cave?”
Finally, she sighed and met his searching gaze. “I did, my lord Wyldon.”
He nodded, just once. “Misleading in a report is worse than failing to give it, Mindelan. I require an assignment from you, expected by the end of camp. An essay, detailing what you did correctly, how you failed, and what would you change next time in order to avoid a similar conflict. The Mithran priests assure me that you have a brain, so use it. Dismissed.”
Caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal, Kel sketched a hasty bow and fled with just more composure than the district commander. She vowed never to lie again to her training master, even by omission. Somehow, he would know, and she never wanted to see that look from him again.
*
After her awkward recitation of the Battle of the Cliff to the king - using a slightly edited version, but Kel crossed her fingers that since Lord Wyldon knew the truth, he wouldn’t bring up her greater involvement - Wyldon requested a few minutes of her time in his office.
As she could hardly refuse, even she would have much preferred to be back in the relative safety of the other pages, Kel followed the training master. However, she didn’t get a stern lecture - or a disappointed glare - for lying.
“The king was very impressed with you, Mindelan,” Wyldon began. “He wished for me to relay his personal satisfaction and his hopes that you continue to thrive and prosper, I believe were his words.” He looked rather disgruntled at being reduced to a messenger boy.
Kel was confused, though relieved that she was apparently still in the training master’s good graces. “Why does he care, sir? I mean, I’m just a page. Why couldn’t he simply tell me that a few minutes ago?”
“Likely, he wishes there to be no enmity between you both, but he cannot risk being too openly in favor of you, given your controversial status. Regardless, the king does not want to be at odds with one of his future commanders.”
Kel ignored everything but the last few words. Or rather, everything paled in comparison to the last. “Me? A commander, sir?”
“You have shown flashes, that mess with the bandits, and even your probationary year with the spidrens. The realm has precious few with your natural ability to impede your progress, even with your gender. However, your natural ability must be broadened. If only...”
Uncharacteristically, Lord Wyldon trailed off and looked slightly pensive. Kel couldn’t help herself; she had to prompt him. She’d never seen or heard the training master as anything but confident and certain.
“If only what, sir?”
He glanced at her steady eyes and earnest face, and began to explain. “I haven’t taken on a squire in years, but I do believe that you and I would get along well. You would learn a great deal, but I cannot consider it. My position at court would make it impossible, and no, the reasons are not important for you to know, not now.”
Kel wanted to argue. She had every possible reasoning for being Lord Wyldon’s squire on the tip of her lips - because she was certain now that she desperately needed to be his squire, and why hadn’t she even thought of it before? - but Kel swallowed them down. Either she trusted his judgment and accepted that there were legitimate reasons, or she argued and showed her lack of faith. So instead of the hot words that wanted to spill out and the vehement debate she wanted to start, Kel merely nodded and said quietly, “I would be honored to be your squire, if at all possible, my lord. You are the kind of knight that I want to be.”
Lord Wyldon snorted softly. “That is a falsehood, Keladry. I am an old, prejudiced man. There are many better paragons of knighthood for you to emulate.”
“You stand firm with your principles, even when commanded otherwise,” Kel pointed out quietly, though her insides fluttered at hearing her name spoken as if she were an equal. “And if I may be so bold, my lord, you are not old.”
He flicked his fingers at her. “Away with you, impertinent girl. I suggest you acquire new friends, for Queenscove has taught you all too well.”
Kel bowed, a grin playing on her lips. She loved to find the man behind the stiff exterior - to an extent, Neal was right to call him Stump, even if it was terribly disrespectful - and every glimpse of Wyldon instead of the training master made her respect him even more. As she became more aware of Wyldon as a human, Kel became more aware of him as a man, a startling realization that she recognized as foolish and therefore attempted to bury in training.
She also trained for another reason. More than anything, she wanted to be worthy of being Lord Wyldon’s squire.
Kel’s ill-considered crush on Neal died shortly after that, being somewhat eclipsed by an even more ill-considered crush; her self-imposed training schedule left her too tired for anything unrelated to page training, and the new strategy exercises left her mind too occupied to dwell on any inappropriate feelings, either for her fellow page or for her training master.
Really, she was just enamored by his rare moments of teasing and the smiles that were even more rare, in addition to having an utterly impeccable upright character. And he truly cared for the pages, even though he held that under tight surveillance and never let anyone see, but Kel had seen through his fury with the district commander and recognized the source. Lord Wyldon was truly a real man, honorable and wise. Of course, the fact that he did fill out his no-nonsense practical-looking tunics quite nicely indeed didn’t help, either.
Oh, drat.
*
The evening after her weighted lance had shattered, Kel stretched and ran with Lord Wyldon like every other day. Most times, they ran silently, but on a few memorable occasions, the training master broke the silence rather uncharacteristically.
“Weights, Keladry?”
Kel glanced swiftly at him, but his stiff immobile face gave nothing away. “Yes, my lord,” she answered blandly. If he was determined to get a rise out of her, he’d have to work for it.
“None of the boys use weighted weapons.” Again, his words could go either way, censuring or improving, but Kel had no way to know.
“I am aware of that, sir.”
“You do know what else the palace blacksmiths supply?”
Growing quickly suspicious, Kel answered warily, “What?”
“Weights for those harnesses that you and your fellow pages adore so much.”
Kel nearly missed a step, and caught up to the knight just in time to catch the disappearing smirk from his face.
As they parted that night, Lord Wyldon gave one last parting shot. “Be sure also to add a few ounces to your weapons when you visit the blacksmith tomorrow.”
That time, Kel managed not to lose her footing, but it was a close thing. She merely bowed, muttering in discontent at how well the training master knew her.
*
Months came and went with remarkable little change. Good friends and bad became squires and left, and Kel viewed Cleon’s advances with more confusion than anything. Even into her 4th and final year as a page, she still fought her crush on Lord Wyldon. Every time she thought she’d conquered it, he’d reveal a bit more of himself, or say something that required her to reevaluate his character and fall more in admiration.
One night, as they ran their afternoon run on the curtain wall, he asked her why she thought he’d picked these specific times to run.
“I don’t know, sir,” she responded slowly, breath coming evenly even as they covered the ground quickly. “I never thought about it.”
Wyldon sighed lightly. “Youth is wasted on the young, Mindelan. For you, each day is something to be gotten through, to be endured. The old wish for each day to linger. That is why I greet each day, and give thanks and respect to the god of the sun at the close.”
“You’re not old, sir.”
His lips twitched. “I believe you’ve told me that before.”
“And I still believe it,” Kel responded, surprising herself with her boldness, though Lord Wyldon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed pleased. And so her crush continued and grew.
*
At the quite-familiar voice, Kel woke up with cotton in her head and dreams flitting by. She frowned in confusion at seeing Wyldon’s face in front of her eyes; she could have sworn they had just been outside, sitting, talking, that he had just raised a hand towards her...
“Sir?”
“Kel?” That was her mother, and Kel listened woozily as Ilane of Mindelan and Lord Wyldon had a brief repartee in front of her. Slowly, she came back to herself, and washed up when directed.
Joining Lord Wyldon in front of her rooms, Kel felt her normal self, though the crushing disappointment of missing her big examinations finally sunk in. Even if it was impossible to do otherwise, even if she didn’t regret a moment, the prospect of another four years of page training seemed incredibly dreary.
Kel insisted dully that she had no explanation when he pressed her, and admitted that she was prepared to retake her training. “It’s the penalty.”
She stared at Lord Wyldon when he laughed and wished aloud that she’d been born a boy. Kel vehemently disagreed, not only because she rather enjoying being a girl, but because then it would make her ill-conceived crush (that she’d not yet succeeded in removing) even moreso.
He glanced down the empty hallways, then leaned closer to Kel until she could smell his light soap and aftershave. Her heart jumped; her breath caught.
“Do you still have the harebrained desire to be my squire?” he asked quietly.
“Wh-what?”
“You heard me correctly, Keladry.”
She shook her head in confusion. “But sir, I missed the big exams. I have four more years to become a squire, and how do you know I would even pass them?”
To add to the shock clouding her brain, Wyldon rolled his eyes in a rather Neal-like fashion. “Mithros, girl. I will personally fight for you to take them, and if you fail, I will apologize to Queenscove before I impale myself on my own sword.”
Kel stared blankly, mouth agape, and the knight extended one strong finger to her chin to close it. “I don’t suggest you give up your dreams and become a fly-catcher, Keladry. I rather believe you would be atrocious at it.”
Then, to top it all off, Wyldon threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. Kel stared in amazement, both at the sound and the spectacle. She almost missed it when his guffaws died down into chuckles, and then when the only lasting sign of his amusement was a cheery - for him - smile.
“So, is that a no, Keladry?”
“Wait, what? Sir? Your squire? I would be beyond honored!” Kel babbled, face tomato red, until she finally shut her mouth out of embarrassment and bowed until she could force out words without stuttering. “Thank you, sir!”
*
“You? You and the Stump? Have you gone mad?” Neal squawked his displeasure. “I can’t believe it, that you’ve abandoned me like this! You couldn’t chose anyone worse!”
Kel couldn’t stop the grin that formed. Neal was certainly her best friend, even if they disagreed on this salient point, but even when they argued, he was really very entertaining. “Besides the fact that you hate the man, why is this such a terrible idea?”
“The rumor mill will have you sleeping together by the end of the month!”
“I thought that was how I passed my examinations,” she said dryly. “And they’d say the same thing about anyone who became my knight master. Let them talk; they’re never going to stop, anyway.”
Neal’s mouth open and closed soundlessly, then he shook his head. “I’ll never understand you,” he muttered. “I thought you wanted to be the squire of a real knight? The Stump stays at the palace nearly all year.”
“Nope,” she chirped happily. “We’re staying for only one year, and if my Lord hadn’t wanted to leave without securing a replacement, he’d have already resigned. Also, that way we hope to quell the rumors - yes, those rumors - by a year in the public eye. After that, it’s the Progress, and we’ll go to Cavall for a while, patrol that part of Tortall. I’ll definitely get my fill of being squire to a ‘real’ knight.”
Neal snorted. “Better you than me. Enjoy your time with the Stump, and send him my special greetings.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
Kel rolled her eyes, grinning. “I will love every minute of it, more than you could ever imagine.”
“You always were the crazy one of all of us.”
*
In many ways, being Lord Wyldon’s squire at the palace was much the same as being a page in the same place. Kel still rose before dawn to greet the sun, she attended breakfast, though her seat had been moved to the squires table, and accompanied by the bleary-eyed pages and palace squires, Kel trooped out to the training yards. Here was one great difference, for instead of joining the ragged line and trading blows with a partner, Kel was now one of the stony-faced instructors who paced up and down the line barking out instructions and corrections.
To her surprise and a tiny bit of pleasure, the pages jumped at her orders and redoubled their tired efforts when she neared. Warren and Idric, the pages whom she had tutored in the staff the past few years, were the sole exceptions since they kept winking at her, until she asked them politely what they had in their eyes and if they thought a nice long run around the yard would wash it out.
Not surprisingly, they quickly assured, ‘Squire Keladry,’ that such a thing was unnecessary and that they were sure that, ‘whatever it was, it’s gone now.’
They were the first to challenge her authority, but not the last. Hardly a week went by when Kel didn’t have to assign someone punishment work for ignoring her, or for muttering insults behind her back. She sought it out, though, by patrolling the palace halls. Except now, she wasn’t forced to get into brawls, or even to bring larger friends with her to avoid them. There was little she relished more than assigning truly deserved punishment to the few bullies left.
The other times that Kel truly enjoyed herself were the afternoons, when she and her knight master shared the training yards with whatever knights were at the palace and the squires who had slept in too late for morning practices. Lord Wyldon taught her advanced sword techniques, his second-best weapon after the lance, riding tricks - he did train the best horses in Tortall, after all - and hand-to-hand combat, and devised even more infuriating targets for her to hit at tilt.
Not that it exactly silenced the tingling warmth in her stomach to feel his body against hers, and one moment when they had been locked together in a complicated body-to-body move, Kel’s face had been inches from his. Overcome with the sudden dangerous urge to close the last little space between them, or at least to sink into his arms, she missed the swift sweep of his leg against hers that knocked her flat on her back and windless. It was times like these that she thanked every god in the sky for her childhood in the Yamani Islands, for without her blank expressionless mask, Kel was certain that her inappropriate feelings would be all too obvious.
Wyldon did, at least, grudgingly allow her to use her glaive instead of a more traditional polearm, after a demonstration with her live weapon to test its sharpness and mobility. When the Yamani delegation arrived in the early summer and Kel was able to exhibit against a practiced warrior, even the tradition knight had to admit that it was an effective weapon, “When used correctly,” he had modified severely.
At night, Kel poured over books and texts of strategy and leadership. Wyldon taught her how to calculate necessary supplies for campaigns of differing lengths - Kel learned how to determine the amount of bowstrings the palace used in an entire year, and grimaced at the waste - and as he had ran simulations with models her last years, he did the same with her now. Kel often fell into bed with her head stuffed full of battle scenarios and dancing numbers, in addition to her aching body.
By the middle of fall, several months as a squire had passed, and Kel felt more comfortable than ever with her duties and with Wyldon. He was as hard a taskmaster as when she was a page, and as scarce with praise, but that made the satisfaction even greater when she coaxed a single, “Not bad, squire,” from his lips.
It was a chilly morning in the fall when Wyldon turned to her and abruptly announced, “Armor today, Keladry. You’re going to learn how to actually joust, not just wave at wooden rings.”
He must have noticed her face pale and eyes widen, for he smirked and remarked, “I won’t kill you, girl. Not yet, at least.”
Kel thought that was not comforting at all and it wasn’t the cold that made her fingers fumble on the armor clasps. Neal had told her once, matter-of-factly, that Wyldon was the best tilter at court. She was going to make a fool of herself in front of him, and there was nothing she could do about it.
So when they sighted each other down the long path after a few quick instructions, only a thin fence dividing the two lanes, Kel glanced at the crowd of spectators around them. Some were pages disregarding their own training, but most were squires and knights, her peers and her betters.
She thought grimly of her hard-built reputation, and could see it slip through her fingertips.
All of her training on the rings and that blasted black dot went out of her conscious mind as Peachblossom charged. For one, not even the willow ring surged up and down Wyldon did, and the lance coming towards her seemed incredibly close far too quickly. Kel thought that she hit the shield, for there was a slight numbness in her right hand, but when Wyldon’s sledgehammer hit her shield, Kel nearly dropped it when she couldn’t feel up to her shoulder.
“Not bad, Mindelan,” Wyldon called as he trotted back to his squire. “I am surprised you stayed horsed, that you held on to your lance, and that you actually hit my shield. Most new squires end up impaling their knight-master. It would have been a perfect opportunity, you realize, one many of your peers would yearn for, no doubt.”
Kel planted her practice lance into the ground as she shook out her arm. “I would never dream of such a thing, my lord,” she said dryly. “Nor can I think of any who would.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Wyldon led his horse back across the field, and called over his shoulder, “Ready for another round, Mindelan? Don’t tell me that you’ve given up already.”
“Of course not, my lord. I believe there is still a part of my body that doesn’t ache, yet.”
Wyldon laughed. The pages gaped and even the squires shuffled uneasily at the foreign sound. “I’m sure I can fix that for you, squire. Now stop your dawdling, and raise your shield a few inches this time.”
*
The rest of the Kel’s first year as a squire passed quickly, a whirlwind of training, being trained, and a growing relationship between her knightmaster and herself. They worked together easily, intuiting the other’s mind, for they were of a similar bent. Kel, who had a bit more levity than the training master, softened him over the course of the year, and he in turn provided Kel a consistent model to work towards in both knightly ideals and physical capabilities.
Unfortunately in Kel’s mind, that niggling warmth of feelings - for she refused now to label it as a ‘crush’ or a ‘fancy,’ - remained stubborn. As much as she told herself that it was inappropriate, nothing could be done but to ignore the rush of heat to her stomach when he touched her, and every word of praise or subtle joke of his gave her a thrill.
Kel hated the feeling, yet welcomed it at the same time.
*
As her fifteenth birthday passed, Wyldon announced that they’d be travelling to Cavall before joining up with the Progress. Their journey was short, and they both were eager to be out of the palace, and Wyldon to be returning home.
Cavall, being on the eastern edge of Tortall and near a former-stronghold against Tusaine, was not a remarkably pretty fief, unless one admired thick stone walls, twisting passageways, and murder holes, but Wyldon called it home, and that was good enough for Kel. The kennels were surprisingly quiet considering its inhabitants, but Kel attributed that to their good breeding and training. Fief Cavall was known for its war and hunting dogs.
And their horses. After gathering treats, just in case she met another Peachblossom who could be tamed best through his stomach, Kel stepped into the stables and fell immediately in a halt, struck by the magnificent horseflesh. Wyldon had taught the pages how to judge the quality of a horse, very important for warriors who relied on their steeds, and without exception, each of the horses were practically flawless.
Wyldon chuckled at his squire. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, leading her by the arm. They turned around a corner, and Kel fell in love.
“What’s his name?” Kel held out her hand for the completely white destrier to lip. He ignored it and went straight to nudging her pocket; she pulled out the hidden carrot and carefully offered it to the insistent beast, laughing softly when he daintily plucked it from her hand with his lips and it disappeared in a few quick crunches. The horse snorted into her face, spraying her with bits of orange, and butted her in the chest to demand she give a thorough scratch.
Wyldon said nothing for a while, and Kel glanced up to find him looking at her with an odd expression. “Sir?”
“Anam,” he answered quietly. The horse swung his head towards the knight, who scratched him on his cheek. “It’s from Old Tortallan, meaning ‘soul.’ He is yours, now.”
Kel gasped, shaking her head. “No, sir, I can’t. He’s a Cavall horse, he’s far too valuable for me.” At the same time, she had never seen a more magnificent steed; Anam was strong and solid, heavier than Peachblossom but bred for endurance, and perhaps even as intelligent as the wily gelding.
“I insist, Keladry.” Wyldon held up a hand to forestall her further protests. “I bred and had him trained here, yes, therefore he is mine if I choose to give him away to my squire. Besides, I never would have offered if he hadn’t taken a liking to you.”
Kel hid her face behind Anam’s long neck. “Thank you, sir,” she said, muffled so he would not hear the tears in her voice. Sometimes, she was far too girly for her own liking. “I will take the best care of him.”
She could hear the smile in his voice when he answered, “I know.”
Anam snuffled and checked Kel’s pockets for more tasty snacks.
*
The five of them, Wyldon and Cavall’s Heart, Kel, Peachblossom, and Anam, took a leisurely ride to the Grand Progress, where Kel took on the traditional duties of a squire by arming her knightmaster for his jousts. He put his name on the lists only occasionally, usually when he saw a particular knight whom he thought needed a thorough trouncing.
It was an experience every time Wyldon took to the field, and there were always people eager to test the knight, to see if he had lost his edge after years uncontested at the palace, or if the gods had withdrawn their favor after his unexpected selection of Keladry. The former were mostly progressives, testing their old enemy, while the latter were conservatives, many of whom were Wyldon’s former friends. Choosing the girl as a squire had not come without social consequences. Kel wondered if he regretted it, but she never asked and he would never tell her. Regardless, it didn’t matter on the field; he never lost.
Kel watched him, in awe at how few of his opponents remained horsed after three rounds. She had tilted so much against Wyldon that by now she usually avoided flight, unless he decided that she was getting too confident, in which case he’d use the opportunity to teach her a new trick and she would reaquaint herself with the clouds. If it were anyone but Wyldon, Kel would have suspected that he was holding back on her. Now, she wondered how good she truly was, how she’d do against squires and maybe even knights.
Eventually, he did allow her to joust against others, and to her surprise, she won more often than she lost. One time immediately after a rather impressive win against a fifth-year knight, Kel spotted the large Raoul of Goldenlake smirking as another knight grudgingly placed gold into his hands.
Wyldon didn’t keep them with the Progress for long, but nor did they stay away long. Tensions with Scanra and the new warlord were mounting, and he was heavily involved in the planning of initial defenses. When they were away, they patrolled the area around Cavall and to the north, ensuring the relative absence of bandits - and that the district commanders were doing their jobs - and that the villages were fairly stable. If they needed help to get through the winter, Wyldon urged them to apply to the steward at Cavall. By ensuring their safety now, he later explained to Kel, when Scanra began encroaching, they’d be more able to resist and to flee for safety. Kel rather thought that there were altruistic reasons as well, but she merely nodded.
At Midwinter, they returned to the palace for the Ordeals of Knighthood.
When Vinson of Genlith stumbled out, half-mad and brokenly confessing, Wyldon and Kel both stalked away to the practice courts. They carried their own guilt, though it took the better part of a bell before they realized the other was there for the same reason. With their moment of understanding, they each began to accept their own role in Vinson’s actions, and began to heal.
That wound was abruptly torn open the next night when the Chamber doors opened onto the corpse of Joren of Stone Mountain.
Pale and tight-lipped, Wyldon gave brusque condolences to the family and fled. Kel, caught up in her own guilty thoughts about her terrible relief that he was truly gone, only just noticed him leaving. Due to the night before, she knew where to find him.
As expected, Kel found him in the training yard, under-dressed for the weather yet already sweating as he drove a practice sword into a training dummy. She said nothing, only picked up a sword and assumed a defensive position. Without a word, Wyldon leaped at her, and they lost themselves in the struggle. For once, his proximity could not stir Kel’s feelings; she was far too preoccupied in defending herself, for Wyldon could not restrain himself that night.
Theirs was a bittersweet communion, perfectly in sync in thought and action as they parried and stepped nimbly around the snow-packed yard, but goaded into it by the death of one of their own.
Eventually, finally, as their breaths came in gasps and wheezes, they stepped back as one.
“I killed him.” Wyldon looked almost startled, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.
“So did I,” Kel responded as she leaned on her sword and clutched a stitch in her side.
“And I contributed to Vinson’s failure.”
Kel nodded slowly. “As did I,” she repeated. “I always seemed to bring out the worse in them both.”
He waved the padded sword at her. “Don’t attempt to alleviate the debt I now carry. His life is on my honor, not yours. I always pushed you lot to be stronger, more competitive, to strive to be the best.”
“If that was the case, then Joren ought to have practice more instead of shirking training,” Kel said bluntly. “He was naturally talented and didn’t have to work to succeed, so he didn’t. You allowed hazing as a way to encourage the weakest the become stronger, to survive. It wasn’t your fault that Joren chose to hate someone who stood up to him, rather than push himself to be better. If he had, maybe he would have grown some humility, instead of harboring resentment.
“He never once admitted the possibility that he could be wrong about anything, not even when half the pages aligned against him or when his friends deserted him. That type of bullheaded priggishness falls not on you, my lord, at least not entirely. That was his upbringing at Stone Mountain.” She fell silent, for Kel hadn’t meant to speak for so long, but he couldn’t take the entire blame upon himself.
Wyldon hadn’t moved for Kel’s entire passionate speech. He stared at her as if he couldn’t make her out, fingers tapping absently on the hilt of his sword. “You have a few points, Keladry,” he said slowly, each word considered and weighed before being spoken. “They come from the perspective of a young, naiive, highly biased, squire. I was responsible for Joren; it was entrusted to me to ensure that he would pass his Ordeal. Two failures in one year?” He shook his head. “I am glad to have left before I did any more damage.”
“Perhaps that is too great a task for any man,” Kel said thoughtfully. “I would like to think that knights have to develop personal responsibility, and a moral code of ethics. For whatever reasons, some of which both of us have a hand in, neither Vinson nor Joren could do that. As for me, I would not be the person I am now if not for you.”
Wyldon sighed deeply, and brought up hand up to his face. “Thank you, Keladry. I believe I needed to hear that, even though I do not yet believe you.”
“I will say it every day, my lord, if that’s what is necessary to have you believe it. You are the knight that I want to be.”
He clapped one large hand on her shoulder. “I am not, but that you believe so is an honor.”
*
Soon after the last successful Ordeal, the pair rode back to Cavall, where Kel learned some of the basics of horse and dog breeding, and about every aspect of Scanra as possible. The reports were growing more worrisome, and Wyldon wanted his squire to have a thorough understanding of the current situation and of past conflicts. Knowledge was the path to victory, he lectured.
After their winter ensconced in Cavall, they rode to the Grand Progess - finally beginning to end - before leaving for Fort Northwatch on the Scanran border.
“Why are we here again, my lord?” Kel asked as they watched two inept squires tilt at each other and come together in a crash of metal and splintering wood. “Shouldn’t you be in meetings about Scanra?” It almost seemed that he had come to the Progress to burn away some secret frustration, for uncharacteristically, he placed his name on the lists and accepted every possible challenge. Kel wondered what he wasn’t telling her; they had become close in the recent months since Midwinter.
“And just where are the head strategic commanders, squire?” Wyldon answered idly. He had that habit lately, of answering a question with a question. He claimed it was to make her think. Keladry thought it was to annoy her.
In this case, however, she could admit to herself that it had been a silly question. “They are here, but for General Vanget.”
“And he rode in late last night,” Wyldon added. “There are many reasons for this blasted Progress, some of them practical, others fictional, but one of the benefits is that there is a convenient excuse for the gathering of commanders vital for the upcoming war. One of them has a squire that’s a friend of yours. Jesslaw.”
Kel brightened; she hadn’t seen her old friend for years. “Owen?”
“Lord Raoul’s squire. I believe he appreciated the hellion’s ‘jolly’ nature,” he said with a slight sneer, and Kel laughed softly. Those were certainly Lord Raoul’s words, not Wyldon’s.
“Anyway, you’ll likely get a chance to see him later, after you tilt with Goldenlake.” Wyldon made a disgruntled face. “Actually, Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak. I believe he killed another giant and the king elevated him again.”
“Sir?” Kel stared at him; even the resounding clash of metal that sounded the next joust didn’t break her surprise. Raoul was well-known as one of the best jousters in the realm. He hadn’t been defeated in ten years. Had she even been on the lists?
“He requested it,” Wyldon said blandly, “No doubt as a way to see for himself if I am properly training you.”
Kel laughed again. “At least there’s no doubt of that,” she said with a grin.
“Now, Goldenlake is a very powerful tilter, but he lacks flexibility. He relies too heavily on his own considerable strength. Doubtless he has improved over the last years, but it’s difficult to improve overmuch when you aren’t challenged. Here’s how you may take advantage of that.”
Kel listened closely and eagerly.
That afternoon, Wyldon suited up Kel in a routine now familiar to them both. She rode Anam, more suited to tilting than Peachblossom, to her side of the tilting yard, and breathed deeply. Kel absently noted that Lord Raoul also preferred to spend the last few minutes alone as she did, not surrounded by well-wishers and friends. She closed her eyes, summoned forth her Yamani calm to silence the butterflies in her stomach, and prepared to joust.
The first round was even, each testing the other’s strengths. Kel understood what Wyldon had meant by power; her arm was numb, if not as much as when she jousted her knight master. As Anam trotted back to the start, she exchanged her lance for a fresh one, and readied herself.
On the charge, everything was perfect. Her seat, her grip, the connection between her and her mount, and her thrust perfectly placed directly under the shield’s boss.
Lord Raoul rocked back in his saddle, his lance merely glancing off her shield, and if it weren’t for his skilled mount who reared and danced backwards, the large man would have been knocked heads over heels. As it was, he remained in his saddle, though the murmurs of the crowd increased to a dull roar as people wondered over the spectacle of the greatest jouster being nearly beaten by a third-year squire. And the girl, at that.
They trotted back to their sides, and Kel massaged her sore arm for just a moment. It ached, but not nearly the same as when she went a round with Wyldon. For one, she still had feeling in it. Kel scowled under her helmet; she was certain she had the knight! To come so close, well, she resolved to unhorse him this round.
This charge, as perfect as the last had been, was exactly the opposite. Anam stumbled slightly on a hidden hole, Kel felt inexplicably uneasy in her saddle, misplaced her grip, and barely felt her lance connect with Raoul’s shield before she felt herself fly in a familiar fashion.
Well used to her new adventures in flight, Kel managed to hit the ground and roll in a rather ungainly clatter of metal. Face-up, she sighed heavily as her head kept ringing. With unsteady hands, she undid the clasp of her helmet and saw a large gauntlet extended towards her. With a touch of chagrin, Kel allowed Raoul to help her up, and she bowed towards the knight. “Thank you, sir.”
Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak shook his head, a grin of delight playing on his lips. “Gods, Mindelan, very good indeed! I haven’t come so close to being unseated in a decade. I believe that if I hadn’t unhorsed you, the judges would have given you the decision. I am amazed at how far you’ve come under old Wyldon’s tutelage. Quite impressive!
“You know, I was disappointed when Wyldon snapped you up for his squire so quickly. I was going to make you an offer myself.”
Kel turned pink with pleasure. “Thank you, sir. That’s an honor.”
He shrugged. “As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think I could have done as well as he has. And if he’s spared this much time to tilting, I am certain that you are equally as taught in the other fields you need to know.”
The apologetic faces of the approaching field monitors caught their attention. “Time to get off the field, Keladry.” Raoul shook her hand. “I shall never joust with you again,” he announced. “I am too afraid that I might lose!”
Already thrilled with Lord Raoul’s praise, the best moment came when her knight master met her in the tent and applauded. “Excellent, Keladry, quite excellent. And as for that last round, don’t worry too much. Consistency comes with practice, and you’ll learn how to overcome a bad start to a charge.”
As much as she had enjoyed Raoul’s words, they paled in comparison to the few simple ones uttered by Wyldon.
Kel didn’t even have the motivation or ability to squash down the warmth inside of her.
*
Soon after her joust with Raoul, the pair rode to Corus to join up with a contingent of the army, and then to Fort Northwatch. Third Company followed a few weeks later, and set up a camp to the west. Kel learned more than every about running and preparing for a war, since Wyldon insisted on her presence at strategy meetings and debriefings. The amount of planning made her head swim, from battle plans to mapping supply routes, possible refugee camps if the conflict went long enough, from discussions of the stockpile of arrows to queries regarding the proper amount of time for squads to rest in the nearest large town, Riversedge..
As the summer wore on, she celebreated her seventeenth birthday, and the glamor of the secret meetings wore off, to her shame, Kel found herself almost wishing for the Scanrans to show their nasty little blonde heads. Anything to break up the monotony would be welcome, for even Wyldon seemed preoccupied and devoted less time to training with her. Driven by boredom, Kel had won the respect of the fort’s soldiers after she dueled the fort champion to a duel with swords, and thoroughly trounced him with the glaive. The soldiers quickly learned that she wasn’t a noble to sit on her laurels or order around commoners, for she whiled away her empty time in the training yard, teaching soldiers fighting techniques as well as learning a few tricks herself. They called her the ‘Girl Squire,’ but unlike her page years, it was affectionately meant, for they knew she might save their lives one day, and they might save hers. Even the threat of battle drew them close and forged bonds of camaraderie.
In June, they received news that Third Company had encountered a squad of Scanrans. News of a Tortallan death sobered Kel. At least she was alive to be bored; the end of lazy days meant death for someone, and maybe her next time.
Prisoners and wounded came to Northwatch for questioning. Kel went to the meetings, but learned little. The Scanrans refused to talk, other than vague satisfied rumblings that something special was brewing up north, and were quickly sent to the spymaster’s more skilled hands. The wounded had little to say; the war parties so far acted more like bandits than an organized army.
As June slowly wore into July, Kel begged for and received permission from Wyldon to patrol with a squad. The beefy soldiers welcomed her, and she kept her mouth shut and her ears open. After a few small skirmishes with raiders, any remaining mutters about the female in their midst were soundly silenced.
Then, on a hot sticky August day like every other, it happened. The Kraken came to visit.
It was an army, a real organized swarm of men that fought somewhat together. They tested the archer-filled walls of the fortress as the Tortallan infantry and cavalry waited impatiently for their release. With a slight break in the Scanran line, General Vanget haMinch sent out the infantry to engage and the cavalry to flank.
Kel remained on the walls with a pacing Wyldon as he barked orders at the archers and organized the near-chaos inside the fortress. haMinch controlled the movements of the army with a mage’s spell from the tallest tower with the best view, but the Fortress was Wyldon’s command, and he ruled it firmly.
When there was a break in the flow of necessary orders, he commentated the liquid battle outside the walls, pointing out the fluctuating formations. For the first time, Kel saw with her eyes what had only ever been on paper or as a scaled-down model, and it fascinated and scared her. To be in charge of all these lives, to know that a wrong decision might lead to their deaths, that was sobering.
Just as the battle seemed nearly over, there were cries from the opposite wall of the fortress, and terrible screeches of metal on stone. Kel and Wyldon raced to the commotion, and both stopped dead when razors as long as swords dug into the stone at the top of the wall. Neither paused for more than a breath, and Wyldon bellowed for ropes as Kel drew her sword and leaped to block an attack aimed for a thunderstruck archer.
“Move!” she roared, muscles straining as she deflected the sword-like hands just enough to save his life and hers.
The soldier scrambled away, though an archer on the other side was not so lucky as the other hand sliced through his skin. Kel tried not to see, not yet, and balanced herself on her toes to face the metal head, sword held in guard position. The sightless eyes focused on her, and the machine tried an experimental swipe. Kel dodged it easily, though she almost missed the daggered tail that swept over the wall. She moved aside at the last second, but heard the screech of metal as it clawed her breastplate.
The machine opened its mouth, as if it was laughing at her.
Kel spied movement to its other side and saw soldiers arriving with rope. She lunged at the machine’s head to distract it, and cheered inwardly when the opposite arm was lassoed and pulled tight. Next came the other arm, though she had to deflect another attack before the rope slipped over the hand.
Wyldon shouted from behind, and some brave soul dodged the dagger-like teeth to slip the rope around its neck. With that pulled tight, and the rest of the body still below the crenellations, it was rendered temporarily immobile. He shouted again, and this time Kel heard him. She followed his instructions and struck at the head of the machine, where the metal seemed the most weak.
The sword edge slid off. Kel paused, picked up a nearby fallen mace, and whipped it around to the metal as hard as he could. It dented this time, so she swung again, and again, all the while the hands began to slide towards her and the teeth inched open. One last time, Kel raised the mace over her head and finally it pierced the metal. A thin cloud of smoke with the voice of a child issued forth, and the body of the machine slumped.
Kel leaned back against a wall, shaking, as the adrenaline began to wear off. She had been that close to death, inches or seconds either way and she’d have joined the poor men with bits of themselves sliced off. Those were the lucky ones, since the machines killed men like men swatted flies.
That wasn’t a terrible name for them, killing machines. It was apt, at least.
She glanced around and found the battle nearly over. There had been just the one killing machine. Kel took off her helmet and rested her head against the wall.
“Keladry.”
Used to obeying that voice, Kel opened eyelids that hadn’t known they were closed. Wyldon’s face slowly swam into view, and Kel blinked a few times.
“You’ve done a knight’s work today,” he said quietly. “Now take a knight’s rest. Return to your chambers and sleep; there is nothing else to be done here.”
Kel didn’t remember the walk back, nor how she managed to remove her armor and drop it in a pile before she collapsed into her bed.
*