Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (23 page)

There was nothing there. And Adria was afraid.

Beside her, Hafgrim shivered, and in fact it seemed as if there were a draft, though the flame of the oil lamp and sconces did not flicker.

“It’s... cold,” Hafgrim said, though she knew he shivered from more than this.

Still, she nodded once, and whispered, “Yes…” even as her own legs began to tremble. “I feel it too.”

Neither of them moved for some time, and Adria tried even not to blink. She stared forward, convinced beyond reason that there was something she should be seeing, something there, as if just at the limits of her vision.

Crows
... she thought. 
Crows and paper leaves
.

She tried to look aside, to see how her brother fared, but was unable. She felt certain that if she looked away, something terrible would happen, or if she took another step forward.

Slowly, as if it were the bravest thing she had ever done, she moved her hand out from her side, and found Hafgrim’s, and they shivered together.

“The walls are damp,” Hafgrim whispered, between chattering teeth.

“It’s very late,” she said, as loudly as she could. “Perhaps we should go back.”

Hafgrim did not question her bravery, as was usually his wont, and he did not disagree. One step at a time, they backed slowly away, around the corner, and then found themselves in a dead run, up the first stairwell and on to familiar halls, unable for some time even to look back.

This proved the end of their exploration, and neither of them spoke of it again. Adria came to think of it like a dream, though she knew herself to have been awake. And, in time, the childhood memory slowly made itself a part of her half-remembered dreams and fantasies.

Adria had always been dimly aware that she was older than Hafgrim, and Hafgrim understood this to be true, as well, though neither of them had ever been told an exact date of birth. She knew her age, and set his a year less, and that was all. It had never seemed that important.

Nonetheless, a year’s difference, even if only a difference in her mind, made Adria feel a little protective of her younger sibling. His changes of mood, so like that of their father, and her awareness that he was not truly well liked by the other noble children with whom they were partially raised, had made her feel sorry for him somewhat.

Unlike Adria, he was schooled alongside the other boys, and had to keep some measure of peace with them. And besides the children of the servants, such as Twyla, or the occasional daughter of a briefly visiting lord, not one child among the household was female.

In retrospect, Adria assumed this had caused her to grow more accustomed to the sport of war than she might have otherwise. Although she was not raised exactly alongside her brother and the various second and third sons of the earls and barons of Heiland, neither had she been completely prohibited from their company.

After their holiday, the household returned to normal, and Adria and Hafgrim were again schooled mostly apart. Occasionally, she could draw him into teaching her more of what he was learning, but mostly he resented her asking.

She soon realized that, with the other noble sons and courtiers returned, Hafgrim’s association with his sister would seem a weakness of character, and he would be lessened in their esteem.

When the boys schooled, they often schooled at war. And though her own education had never included this, the boys also played at war. At first, Adria could not help but learn a little — and later, after her holiday with Hafgrim, she took up much of their sport with real fervor. It was a way to relate to them and to her brother, and more… Adria sensed it was the only way to earn real respect among her peers, for the nobles were themselves born and bred to war.

At first she watched from a distance, and then taught herself what no one else would, even if it was mostly only acted out without the benefit of even a training sword, and certainly without a sparring partner.

Adria watched one afternoon from a gallery above the training hall as her brother and Eward, second son of Baron Praetorius, squared off with long staffs meant to represent halberds or long axes.

The prince was small for his age, and had no immunity from the harm of his peers, regardless of his status. And perhaps because he was the king’s son, more was expected of him — at least this somehow gave even the smallest of his mistakes the air of tragedy.

After three rounds, Hafgrim’s knuckles were bloody on both hands, and his face was red and wet with tears of pain and frustration. But he would not yield to Eward, nor give in to the taunts of the other boys, and Brother Sergeant Rodham, the trainer for the day, would not call off the fight.

“Again...” Sir Rodham shouted, and a flurry of blows, hesitant parries, and quick pain followed. Then laughter from the boys as Hafgrim was knocked out of the circle.

And “again...” and “again....”

Adria’s anger grew steadily throughout this display, until at last it knotted into courage, and she finally stormed down the stairs at the end of the gallery to break through the tangle of young boys. Once they saw who she was, they mostly quieted, and then hastily showed some sign of respect. Ewan and Hafgrim slowed their fight to a stop, and Brother Rodham himself inclined his head.

“Milady.” He was half-smiling, which might have been a sign of condescension, good humor, or mere politeness. Adria did not know him well enough to determine which, and now, suddenly nervous but still fuming, she barely had the sense to address him.

“Sir Rodham.”

Her breathing grew shallow, her anger cooled, and Adria realized that she had simply thought to march down and stop the fight, but had not considered what to do afterward.

Hafgrim’s face had paled, and he had used her distraction to dry his eyes, but it was easy to see that he would anger at her interruption if she was not careful. She cursed herself for allowing such a display of her anger, no matter how just it might have seemed.

“Sir Rodham,” she repeated, in a louder tone. She was grateful that she knew his name, but then hesitated to think of something to say in following.

“Yes, Milady,” he responded, and he seemed to be on the verge of smiling wider.

He thinks of me as a jest
, she realized. 
I have no place here, and he knows it, and he is waiting for me to make myself look foolish.

But she was determined not to look foolish, and more, she had to make Hafgrim not seem more foolish, in his sister having attempted a rescue. Her thoughts raced with her blood, and she hoped fervently that she wasn’t blushing.

“I… am of course uneducated in matters of combat, as you likely know.” Her words sounded steadier in her ears than she had expected. “I take my education among the Sisters, and it is not put upon me to take up arms in my schooling.”

A couple of the boys were trying not to laugh at the thought of this, but Brother Rodham only nodded his head in acknowledgment.

“However,” she continued, in imitation of Taber’s formality, she was beginning to realize uncomfortably. “It has been my understanding that simple repetition of any exercise is not always sufficient to teach a proper response. Do you not agree?”

Adria realized she should not have asked a question. Whenever Taber asked a question, she always knew exactly what answer would be given. But Adria did not yet have this benefit over the Brother Knight.

Like chess
, Adria thought.
Always look one move ahead.

“Milady, sometimes the repetition of an exercise, particularly a physical one, can serve to teach a pupil his mistakes, which can be the first step toward learning a proper response.” And again he inclined his head in respect. Still, some of the boys were obviously on the verge of mocking her. Hafgrim glanced about nervously, but waited to see what she would say.

“I see…” Adria said, searching for some way to back out of the circle gracefully. “It is interesting to watch these exercises of yours, and to add to my education things which would normally be outside the covenant of the Sisterhood.” She nodded sagely. “My brother has spoken often of his practices, and indeed has tried to impart some of his learning to me, at least in theory, though of course it is unlikely to serve me as it will him.”

Adria reached beside her to one of the watching boys, one she knew to be slight in will as well as years, and she gripped the haft of the staff in his hands. She gave him a slight smile and a nod, and hoped he had the sense to let go of it, for she did not wish the embarrassment of prying it from his grasp.

Wide eyed, and out of surprise or respect, he relinquished it.

“Lord Praetorius,” she bowed slightly, then raised the staff between them. “Please do me the honor of continuing my education.”

Ewan Praetorius watched her uncertainly, but did not raise his staff, and so Adria lunged at him, confident he had the instinct to respond, and entrusted the rest to the violence of boys.

But the blow did not land. Sir Rodham stopped her staff in mid-arc, his hand catching it just above hers. She lost her grip, stumbled, and fell sideways upon her elbow amidst her skirts.

The boys laughed, even Hafgrim, and Ewan was shaking his head with a grin. Only Sir Rodham did not, instead offering his hand.

“All apologies, Your Highness,” he said, in a tone which silenced most of the laughter and chattering. “But there are some rules that cannot so easily be broken, even by a royal will.”

Her face burned, her arm throbbed, and she was determined not to be helped. She rose of her own accord, thankfully not tripping upon her dress.

Sir Rodham nodded his head a little, and he smiled without any mockery.

“Princess Idonea teaches us a good lesson today,” the Knight instructor said, sweeping the circle with his gaze as he returned Adria’s borrowed staff to its owner. “Never give yourself fully to a strike. It reveals your intention to your opponent, it wears your limbs and your weapons, and it leaves you undefended when the blow fails.”

Some of the boys muttered, while others nodded. Hafgrim ignored her, but walked back into the circle again, his jaw set and his bloodied fists upon his staff, determined to face Ewan once more.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Sir Rodham inclined his head.

Adria nodded, and managed a small smile despite her flush of embarrassment, then exited the circle with all the grace she could manage.

Sir Rodham crossed his arms and turned away to the instruction of the boys.

“Again.”

“Why did you think you should fight?” Hafgrim asked as they made their way back to their towers.

“I…” Adria wanted to be careful not to embarrass her brother. “I just wanted to feel like I could. I tire of watching. Tire of the rules of Sisters and Knights and royals and peasants.”

“And do you think you
could
fight? As… a girl?” Hafgrim was on the verge of mocking, but not quite. It was something a little more, or a little less.

“It’s much like chess,” Adria shrugged, her arms cross. “Space, strength, and mobility. Being fast or clever is often better than being strong. These are things a girl may understand as much as a boy. A queen as much as a king…”