by Morgan Rice
Kyra marched beside her father down the stone corridors of Fort Volis, a rambling fort the size of a small castle, with smooth stone walls, tapered ceilings, thick, ornate wood doors, an ancient redoubt that had served to house the Keepers of The Flames and protect Escalon for centuries. It was a crucial fort for their Kingdom, she knew, and yet it was also home to her, the only home she’d ever known. She would often fall asleep to the sound of warriors, feasting down the halls, dogs snarling as they fought over scraps, fireplaces hissing with dying embers and drafts of wind finding their way through the cracks. With all its quirks, she loved every corner of it.
As Kyra struggled to keep pace, she wondered what was troubling her father. They walked quickly, silently, Leo beside them, late for the feast, turning down corridors, soldiers and attendants stiffening as they went. Her father walked more quickly than usual, and though they were late, this, she knew, was unlike him. Usually he walked side-by-side with her, had a big smile ready to flash behind his beard, clasped an arm around her shoulder, sometimes told her jokes, recounted his day’s events.
But now he walked somberly, his face set, several steps ahead of her, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of disapproval, one she had rarely seen him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she assumed it could only be from the day’s events, her brothers reckless hunting, the Lord’s Men snatching their boar—and perhaps even because she, Kyra, had been sparring. At first she had assumed he was just preoccupied with the feast—holiday feasts were always burdensome for him, having to host so many warriors and visitors well past midnight, as was ancient tradition. When her mother had been alive and hosting these events, Kyra had been told, it had been much easier on him. He was not a social creature, and he struggled to keep up with social graces.
But as their silence thickened, Kyra started to wonder if it was something else entirely. Most likely, she figured, it had something to do with her training with his men. Her relationship with her father, which used to be so simple, had become increasingly complicated as she grew up. He seemed to have a great ambivalence over what to do with her, over what kind of daughter he expected her to be. On the one hand, he often taught her of the principles of a warrior, of how a knight should think, should conduct herself. They had endless conversations about valor, honor, courage, and he oft stayed up late into the night recounting tales of their ancestor’s battles, tales that she lived for, and the only tales she wanted to hear.
Yet at the same time, Kyra noticed him catching himself now when he discussed such things, silencing himself abruptly, as if he’d realized he shouldn’t be speaking of it, as if he realized that he had fostered something within her and wanted to take it back. Talking about battle and valor was second nature to him, but now that Kyra was no longer a girl, now that she was becoming a woman, and a budding warrior herself, there was a part of him that seemed surprised by it, as if he had never expected her to grow up. He seemed to not quite know how to relate to a growing daughter, especially one who craved to be a warrior, as if he did not know which path to encourage her on. He did not know what to do with her, she realized, and a part of him even felt uncomfortable around her. Yet he was secretly proud, she sensed, at the same time. He just couldn’t allow himself to show it.
Kyra could not stand his silence anymore—she had to get to the bottom of it.
“Do you worry for the feast?” she asked.
“Why should I worry?” he countered, not looking at her, a sure sign he was upset. “All is prepared. In fact, we are late. If I had not come to Fighter’s Gate to find you, I would be at the head of my own table by now,” he concluded resentfully.
So that was it, she realized: her sparring. The fact that he was angry made her angry, too. After all, she had beaten his men and she deserved his approval. Instead, he was acting as if nothing had happened, and if anything, was disapproving.
She demanded the truth and, annoyed, she decided to provoke him.
“Did you not see me beat your men?” she said, wanting to shame him, demanding the approval that he refused to give.
She watched his face redden, ever so subtly, but he held his tongue as they walked—which only increased her anger.
They continued to march, past the Hall of Heroes, past the Chamber of Wisdom, and were nearly at the Great Hall when she could stand it no more.
“What is it, Father?” she demanded. “If you disapprove of me, just say it.”
He finally stopped right before the arched doors to the feasting hall, turned and looked at her, stone-faced. His look pained her. Her father, the one person she loved more than anyone in the world, who always had nothing but a smile for her, now looked at her as if she were a stranger. She could not understand it.
“I don’t want you on those grounds again,” he said, a cold anger in his voice.
The tone of his voice hurt her even more than his words, and she felt a shiver of betrayal rush through her. Coming from anyone else it would hardly have bothered her—but from him, this man she loved and looked up to so much, who was always so kind to her, his tone made her blood run cold.
But Kyra was not one to back down from a fight—a trait she had learned from him.
“And why is that?” she demanded.
His expression darkened.
“I do not need to give you a reason,” he said. “I am your father. I am commander of this fort, of my men. And I do not want you training with them.”
“Are you afraid I shall defeat them?” Kyra said, wanting to get a rise out of him, refusing to allow him to close this door on her forever.
He reddened, and she could see her words hurt him, too.
“Hubris is for commoners,” he chided, “not for warriors.”
“But I am no warrior, is that right, Father?” she goaded.
He narrowed his eyes, unable to respond.
“It is my fifteenth year. Do you wish me to fight against trees and twigs my whole life?”
“I do not wish you to fight at all,” he snapped. “You are a girl—a woman now. You should be doing whatever women do—cooking, sewing—whatever it is your mother would have raised you to do if she were alive.”
Now Kyra’s expression darkened.
“I’m sorry I am not the girl you wish me to be, Father,” she replied. “I am sorry I am not like all the other girls.”
His expression became pained now, too.
“But I am my father’s daughter,” she continued. “I am the girl you raised. And to disapprove of me is to disapprove of yourself.”
She stood there, hands on her hips, her light-gray eyes, filled with a warrior’s strength, flashing back at his. He stared back at her with his brown eyes, behind his brown hair and beard, and he shook his head.
“This is a holiday,” he said, “a feast not just for warriors but for visitors and dignitaries. People will be coming from all over Escalon, and from foreign lands.” He looked her up and down disapprovingly. “You wear a warrior’s clothes. Go to your chamber and change into a woman’s fineries, like every other woman at the table.”
She flushed, infuriated—and he leaned in close and raised a finger.
“And don’t let me see you on the field with my men again,” he seethed.
He turned abruptly, as servants opened the huge doors for him, and a wave of noise came tumbling out to greet them, along with the smell of roasting meat, unwashed hounds and roaring fires. Music carried in the air, and the din of activity from inside the hall was all-consuming. Kyra watched her father turn and enter, attendants following.
Several servants stood there, holding open the doors, waiting as Kyra stood there, fuming, debating what to do. She had never been so angry in her life.
She finally turned and stormed off with Leo, away from the hall, back for her chamber. For the first time in her life, she hated her father at that moment. She had thought he was different, above all this; yet now she realized he was a smaller man than she had thought—and that, more than anything, hurt her. His taking away from her w
hat she loved most—the training grounds—was a knife in her heart. The thought of living her life confined to silks and dresses left her feeling a greater sense of despair than she had ever known.
She wanted to leave Volis—and never come back.