The Cadet of Tildor (3 page)

The eyes of an advisor standing by the dais widened as the king put down his notes and drew a breath.

“A decade ago, we fought off a Devmani invasion. The Servants and others rallied to my father’s call, buying our victory with their blood. Many fell. Too many.” He paused and Renee could see his jaw tighten before he drew breath to speak again. “After our victory, too few swords remained to protect Tildor from its own disease. Now Vipers steal men and children from the streets and cut women’s throats for pleasure and boast. The Family robs the purses of our merchants and nobles while fattening its own with sale of veesi
leaf. Today, I wager that there is not one of you who stands before me who has not lost a friend to the violence of a Viper, or coin to the corruption the Family spreads.”

Renee’s fist clenched, fingernails digging into her scarred palm.

Lysian raised his chin. “My armies guard our borders, and my soldiers strain to keep our roads safe for commerce. Some of you will join and lead those troops. But it is the disease of crime on which my reign opens. I will fight it. And you are the champions who will fight beside me.” He paused. “Please, study. Please, train. The Crown needs your Service.”

Trumpets hurried to catch up with the king, who had turned and left without waiting on applause.

The crowd of cadets twitched, necks straining to watch the royal departure and catch the eyes of nearby friends. “What did you make of his words?” one cadet whispered to another while instructors ascended the dais to read schedules of classes and exams.

“What did you make of his words?” the question came around again.

I pray I’m here long enough to give my pledge,
thought Renee, and closed her eyes, wondering how she would survive the coming year.

CHAPTER 3

S
ervant Commander Korish Savoy tilted his face to relish the pouring rain. It streamed down his cheeks and neck, washing away dust, sweat, and blood. The horse beneath him pawed the mud and whinnied into the damp morning air. Savoy petted the stallion’s quivering shoulder before nudging him under the shelter of the sprawling trees.

“A victory worthy of minstrels’ songs, would ye not say, sir?” Cory, a young sergeant, trotted up on his bay, his grin untroubled by the bandage binding his brow.

Savoy leveled him with his eyes. “If I hear it, I’ll know whom to hold responsible.” The latest string of victories was boosting the Seventh’s confidence to dangerous levels. Pride was one thing. Invincibility was another. “Anything useful to report?”

The boy’s grin, of course, didn’t falter. “Aye, sir. Half the bandits had Viper tattoos, plus several thousand gold crowns’ worth of veesi leaf between them. Someone’s head will fall for this.”

Savoy nodded. The Vipers’ Madam was not known for mercy—rumor held that she had executed her son’s father for producing an offspring who fell short of her standards. Whichever Viper lord was in charge of the operation the Seventh had just uprooted was unlikely to survive the week. And neither would the lord’s family.

But seeing Vipers this deep into the countryside, and with veesi to boot, bothered Savoy for other reasons. “Vipers on the Family’s turf?”

Cory scratched his horse’s ear. “Maybe the bastards will kill each other off. I’ll nay cry if they do.”

“Or they use us to do it for them.” Savoy ran a hand through his hair. The information of the hoard’s location came from a birdie, not the Crown’s own scouts, and snitches had their own agendas. “What else?”

Cory pushed his soggy bandage behind his ears and pulled a folded square of parchment from his coat. “Messenger returned from Fort Ellis. I dinna know if they’re more grateful or embarrassed for our help, but they’ll be sending men to collect the prisoners. And a personal message for ye from the capital.”

Savoy rubbed his temple. Good news from Atham was as likely as raccoons talking. “We’ll rest a day here, then move out to drill in the mountains.” He slid a dagger blade under the envelope’s seal. “The boys still have most of their blood inside them?”

“Aye.” Cory frowned, then added with some reluctance, “Mag’s hoping you won’t notice his limp, but that’s all.”

“Should I notice his limp?”

Cory shrugged.

“Fort Ellis has a mage Healer. You and Mag will volunteer to help take the prisoners there.” He held up a hand to ward off protest. “And I will continue thinking that bloody bandages around sergeants’ foreheads are a fashion to attract women.” Letting Cory blush in relative privacy, Savoy unfolded the message.

A wave of nausea gripped him as he read and reread the text. When the words didn’t change, he stared at the neat handwriting, watching the raindrops smudge the ink. Someone played a jest. Savoy had created the Seventh, handpicking and training each man in it. It had to be a jest.

“Sir?”

Savoy schooled his face and voice. “Belay my previous orders, Sergeant. The Seventh will go up to Ellis as a group. And stay there.” He refolded his orders before slipping them inside his jacket.

“How long, sir?” Cory’s voice was carefully flat.

“Until you get other orders.” He looked up to meet the young sergeant’s wide eyes and hardened his own. “I’ve been reassigned.”

* * *

Four days later, Savoy guided his mount past Atham’s city walls, into an ambush of scurrying pedestrians and bellowing merchants. “Fish! Fresh fish!” a woman shouted into his ear. He could taste the rot from the stench alone. The closest fishing pier was a three-day ride west. He managed to get past the fish lady only to have a small girl block his path.

Her bare feet toed the ground inches from his horse’s metal-shod hooves. “Can I pet your horse?”

A warhorse. She wanted to pet his warhorse. Savoy rubbed his temple and pulled Kye to a halt to avoid trampling the future cavalrywoman. “He’s trained to kill people.”

“Oh . . . ” She rubbed the sole of her right foot against her left calf. “Do you kill people too?”

“Of course he does,” said a boy’s voice. “He’s got a sword.”

Other voices joined in with their opinions. Behind the buzz of the children’s speculation brewed a wave of adults’ quiet comments.

“Is that him?”

“No, Savoy isn’t coming.”

“The Crown ordered him.”

Stopping had been a mistake. Someone reached a hand toward Kye’s flank and the stallion snapped his teeth.

“Get your animal under control, Commander,” said a familiar voice. Its owner, leaner and more gray-haired than Savoy remembered, guided his own horse through the crowd. He sat tall in his saddle and his eyes scrutinized Savoy from head to toe, as if he were a boy caught after the curfew bell. “The mount oft reflects the mood of his rider.”

Savoy swallowed his thoughts and bowed to Verin, Servant High Constable of the Crown’s army, the Academy headmaster, and for several years, Savoy’s foster father. “Hello, sir.”

“Supply problems at Fort Ellis?” Verin asked mildly.

“Sir?”

“I presume your lack of uniform reflects poor efforts of the quartermaster. My apologies for the inconvenience.” Verin narrowed his eyes, glaring at the onlookers and arousing a flurry of activity. No one wanted to upset a Servant of the Crown. Verin’s voice softened. “The cadets look to their teachers for example, lad.”

Cadets
. Savoy’s hands tightened so hard on the reins that Kye tossed his head, earning a sideways glance from Verin.
Cadets
. He was being made to trade the Seventh for a gaggle of children. Savoy forced his fingers open and continued the journey in silence. The familiar sights of the Academy’s stone-walled barracks, trimmed-grass courtyards, and imposing buildings welcomed him with the hospitality that shackles greet a prisoner.

“I arranged a corner stall for Kye, on the chance he is as intense as other warhorses I’ve had the pleasure of knowing,” Verin said as they reached the stable where two handlers awaited.

Savoy nodded. Kye hated stalls.

“I will see you in my study. You spent enough time there to remember the way, I believe?” Verin’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile as he walked away.

The stable hand reached for Savoy’s reins. “Sir?”

“Don’t go near Kye.” Savoy unsaddled the stallion himself and bent to clear rubble and sewage bits from the horse’s hooves. This assignment wasn’t just ridiculous, it wasn’t right.

A half hour later, Savoy, in full uniform, came to attention in front of Verin’s desk. The office had changed little since Savoy’s cadet years, when he and his friend had stood in this spot too often. A few more lines creased the old leather chair, a few more volumes filled the oak bookcase. Even the smell was the same—sealing wax, old books, and jasmine tea. He tensed despite himself.

“Sit, lad.” Verin waved toward a chair. “For once, you are not here for a reprimand.” Crow’s-feet wrinkles accented the corners of his eyes when he smiled. That was new too.

Savoy stayed standing. “Why am I here, sir?”

“To teach.” Verin’s weathered hand took an iron teakettle off the tray and filled two cups.

“I’m a fighter, sir, and the Seventh is a combat unit. I know as little of children as my replacement knows of my men.”

Verin’s face hardened. “You are a Servant of the Crown, sworn, if memory serves me, to obey said Crown’s wishes.”

And if King Lysian even knows of my assignment, I’ll eat a goat intestine raw.
Savoy caught himself in time to guard his words. It was not beyond Verin to take him up on the suggestion. “Is this an exercise in administrative policy, sir?”

“It is an exercise in fortifying our Servant officer cadre. The Academy believes that a year of teaching cadets is an investment worth making.” Verin pulled up his brows. “It is a compliment to your skills, lad. One that I am proud to support.”

“It is a farce, sir. I fight in real battles, with real swords, and real consequences. I will happily demonstrate all that to whichever puppeteer arranged this ludicrousness. I—”

Verin’s palm slammed the table. The resulting din reverberated off the walls and rippled the surface of the jasmine tea. “You are twenty-three and behave like a sullen child.”

Savoy swallowed.

“The Academy is a living institution. We all carry out duties beyond these walls.” Verin leaned forward and the High Constable pips on his collar caught the light. His tone took a familiar note of steel. “You may reclaim your command and re-sharpen the Seventh after dispatching your current obligations. I am not suggesting that task to be simple; I am saying it is one you will address at a later date. For the time being, your responsibilities are to your students, Commander Savoy. You are in the service of the Crown and are called to serve here.”

Savoy said nothing for a few moments. Ridiculous orders or not, if not for fostering with Verin, he’d be a guest in a prison instead of an officer in the Crown’s champion troop. “What do you expect me to teach them, sir?”

“They are the upcoming officer elites. Teach them what you think they need.”

“Experience.”

The headmaster bored his gaze into him.

Savoy strained to keep the discontent from his voice. “Yes, sir.”

Leaning back in his chair, Verin allowed the silence to linger. Finally, he sighed. “You may go.”

Savoy bowed and braced to attention once more before starting for the door. His hand was already on the handle when he turned back and asked softly, “Why am I here, sir?”

Verin sipped his tea, silent.

As Savoy walked away, he could not help but wonder how he would survive the coming year.

CHAPTER 4

T
o an outsider, the practice courts might look like the bastard children of the spotless Academy. Tucked at the far west end, away from the main courtyard, past even the stables, the handful of wood-fenced corrals circled a barn-size building called a salle, a large room with a sand floor. To Renee and the other fighters, this was the Academy’s soul. Rules carved into a wooden plaque hung above the door. She couldn’t recall anyone ever reading them, but they belonged here. Just as she did.

The morning sun flowed through the salle’s windows, lighting the Academy of Tildor crest, which was painted at chest height on the opposite wall. Its sword and scroll shimmered in the rays full of swirling dust motes. The blue mage flame, a remainder from the days when mages ran the school, proudly held its ground. It was an old drawing, one that nobody seemed to notice any longer on the wall.

When she was little, like all children, Renee wanted Control. She had seen mages walk in shrouds of respect and glamour, Healing wounds with a touch of their blue flame, and answering summonses to work on secret projects for the Crown himself. She wanted it most upon turning thirteen, when the Academy dismissed many of the girls and weaker boys in her class. Even the smallest, scrawniest mage could contribute to a battle, she told herself at night when she imagined waking up one morning to discover herself a mage and suddenly able to sense the Keraldi Barrier. What must it be like, she wondered, to reach toward a friend and feel the invisible shell holding his life energy as surely as if she were touching real skin.

“The mage’s ability to feel and Control life energy manifests when the body matures,” Headmaster Verin had told her upon finding her in the chapel. “You cannot make yourself a mage any more than you can make yourself taller. But, to each strength is a cost.” He had sat down beside her, looking straight ahead, as she did. “Do you know why we have no mage Servants?”

Renee had shaken her head, and he’d glanced at her then.

“The Servant’s oath. It must be given freely. A mage has no choice, either in who she is or what specialization the Crown’s mage council selects for her. And, since she already belongs to Tildor, there is no oath to give.” He had smiled. “Plus, mages only support armies; they do not lead soldiers or wield weapons themselves.”

Renee had crossed her arms. “Tildor has battle mages, they wield weapons.”

“They do not. They
are
weapons. Dangerous weapons that someone else wields.” Headmaster Verin’s voice softened. “Very few mages have both the strength and the training to make a meaningful difference in battle. Even if you were one, at most, you might use mage energy to strike a target someone else selected while a team of fighters tries to protect you from the enemy’s arrows. Is that where your heart lies?”

Renee did not want to be a mage after that.

Now she traced the painted sword’s edge with her finger. This was her choice. “What do you think Commander Savoy’s like?” she asked, feeling a presence behind her and turning to glance at Alec.

“Ruthless.” Alec leaned his back against the wood-planked wall, arms crossed over his wide chest and gaze fixed on the door. The other students, fewer than twenty left in the senior class now, milled about, speaking in hushed voices and rechecking gear. They were early. A smart thing to be on the instructor’s first day.

Renee shook her muscles loose. The tension in the room was growing, feeding on itself, and she sought comfort in the familiar sights. The large, rectangular hall smelled of sweaty leather and old sand. Spare gear, dusty and ill-fitting, spilled from the bins in the corner. Outside the window . . . She blinked as a pair of curious green eyes on the other side of the glass met hers. The eyes widened and disappeared, replaced by a dog’s white muzzle.

She chuckled, earning annoyed glances from the boys.

Alec sighed. “Try and keep your head down, for once. You don’t need Savoy riding hard on you any more than he will anyway.”

“Where’s your strategic mind?” Renee raised her brows. “The more attention he gives me, the less he gives you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m certain the commanding officer of the Seventh is able to make only one person miserable at a time.”

“Scared?”

“Sane.”

The door swung open before she could retort, and everyone raced into formation.

Korish Savoy was not, as Renee imagined, big as a blacksmith. He was average height, and his lean muscles underscored agility, not bulk.

Renee’s heart beat in her ears.

“Pads. Practice swords. Now,” said Savoy.

So much for an introduction. They scrambled.

Savoy swung a bag off his shoulder and began strapping on worn leather pads. He moved like a cat, the gear pliant in his hands and conforming to the familiar shape of his muscles. Renee admired the economy of his motions until she realized he was ready and waiting. Cheeks hot, she sprinted through the rest of her buckles and laces.

Alec held her weapon out to her. “What’s holding you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re warmed up?” Savoy drew a practice sword from his bag and moved toward the center of the salle.

The cadets exchanged glances. No one spoke.

Savoy ran a hand over his hair. He pointed his blade, singling out Alec. “Answer.”

Alec shuffled his feet.

Renee hid a wince. The last time Alec looked that miserable in front of an instructor was at age twelve, when he was summoned to explain the contents of his pockets to Headmaster Verin. Granted, he hadn’t sat too well after that, and he never again earned so much as extra work duty.

“No, sir. The class . . . ” Alec drew a breath. “The class just began now, sir.”

Savoy massaged his temple. He was but half a hand taller than Alec, and not as broad—but seemed bigger. “Was that a surprise? Did the gods miraculously summon you all here, at the same time, with bags full of gear, and without any idea of what we might be doing?”

He caught the eyes of each student in turn. Renee tensed when his gaze met hers. How could anyone know what he expected before he told them?
He raises standards,
she told herself.
Certainly the Seventh warms up on its own
.

Withholding further comment, Savoy separated the students into pairs. He joined the cadets’ lines instead of ordering them about from the sidelines like their past instructors had. Alec, who now faced Savoy, had the grim look of someone preparing for the gallows.

They started with a single attack-parry drill. Instructors always started with boring moves. Renee made herself focus, determined to make a good impression. She adjusted her stance. Parry left. Reset. Keep back straight. Push off the back foot hard when lunging. Attack left. Parry right. Relaxing, her body fell into the drill’s rhythmic motions, punctuated by the even clacks of the wooden blades.

“Rotate!” The order brought Renee to a new partner. In her peripheral vision, she watched Savoy face off with Tanil, a thin blond boy who darted to and fro, trying to stay ahead of the instructor’s blade. In contrast, Savoy’s movements looked leisurely to the point of boredom.

Rotate. The drill changed to single combination attack.

Rotate. Alec.

“You’re the only one not breathing hard,” he said, adjusting his grip on the sword.

She shot a glance at Savoy. “Not the only one.”

Alec shook his head in warning.

Rotate.

Renee looked into Savoy’s eyes and smiled.

He did not smile back. He attacked, sword sailing at her head. When she blocked, the vibrations from the impact ran through her body. The blow hadn’t looked that forceful. They reset, and she lunged to attack left. His blade materialized in her way. Renee blocked the next blow and attacked again, their swords beating a comfortable cadence.

Savoy looked bored to tears. She shared the sentiment. Gathering her courage, Renee reset a little quicker, attacked a little harder and faster. No rebuke came. He met her blow for blow, always hitting the perfect center of her blade, always parrying with the center of his. Hot blood urged her on. High block. Left parry. The clacking wood sounded like a drum roll.

She caught his eyes and, seeing a twinge of interest, pushed the speed further. The reset pause disappeared, the drill’s rules a memory.
Clack-clack-clack
. Her body danced. Low block. Attack. Right parry. Attack. Parry again. In a flash of inspiration, Renee added a feint before her next advance. Savoy blocked, unfazed by the ruse. He countered and she hurried to block his high attack.

Except, he did not do a high attack. She watched him change the strike in mid-motion, while her blade continued up to block an assault that no longer headed that way. Savoy’s face said he saw it too.

He did not pull the blow. The blade struck Renee’s right forearm so hard that the thud of wood hitting padded leather made all heads turn toward them. Air caught in her lungs and pain seared through her arm, spreading into her side. Burning, then numbness, shot down to the small fingers of her hand. Her grip failed. The wooden blade slipped, thumping against the sand-covered floor.

Swallowing, she forced herself to straighten in silence. Her eyes met Savoy’s just in time to see the calm on his face while his blade rose again. It landed on the same spot.

She cried out. The world swayed. Cradling her arm, she knelt to the floor. Looking up, Renee saw Savoy swing his blade for a third time and grimly braced herself. The blow stopped an inch short of her neck.

“You are dead,” he told her before pitching his voice over the salle. “That will be the last time anyone here lets go of a weapon.” He looked down at Renee. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, drowning in disgrace.

He extended his hand and pulled her to her feet.

The rest of the period passed in silence. Alec abandoned his partner for Renee, all the while fixing Savoy with a look of promised vengeance. The glare failed to make an impact, so far as she could tell, but Savoy didn’t separate the pair. For the first time in her life, Renee couldn’t wait to leave the salle.

* * *

Savoy stripped off his pads while his fearless followers silently escaped the salle. After the last cadet vanished, a fat middle-aged man squeezed through the doorway. An annoying, if not unexpected, visit.

“Lord Palan,” Savoy said without glancing up. “My training is not a show.”

The man puffed, either from indignation or else from the exertion of hauling his own bodyweight, and opened the top clasp of his shirt collar.

“You have stood by the side window for the past quarter hour.” Savoy straightened and looked into the man’s little eyes. Nothing had changed in seven years. Palan’s dark, intelligent gaze still tirelessly weighted everything it touched, making Savoy feel as if he held fire beside straw. “Let me save you the trouble,” Savoy offered. “My sword is still not for sale. I serve the Crown.”
Unlike you.

Lord Palan cleared his throat and gestured toward the Servant’s crest on Savoy’s tunic. The jeweled rings clamped around Palan’s sausage fingers caught the light and shimmered. “Yes, Commander, I’m quite aware that tempting Verin’s foster son lies outside my omnipotence.” He chuckled, a smooth, bitter sound. The graying hair around his temples curled in droplets of sweat. “You were but a lad then, and a troubled one at that. I offered you employment and fair pay. Was such a proposal unjust?”

Savoy twirled his practice blade before placing it in his bag.

“I hear the gods blessed your parents with a second child?” Palan continued, undeterred.

“Eight years past.”

“Expensive to raise children nowadays. If ever—”

“You employ little boys now, Lord Palan?”

“How dare . . . ” Lord Palan’s nostrils flared. He took a step toward Savoy, but stopped himself, his face transforming into a mask of nonchalance. “My apologies, Commander. You misunderstand. I had only stopped by to check up on my nephew’s progress.”

Savoy raised an eyebrow, admiring the flawless transition from failed negotiation to plausible fiction.

“Tanil. The thin blond youth?” Palan adjusted an expensive ring. “Don’t distress. People’s ignorance of my family members is common. Tanil assured me that he kept up practice all through the summer.”