Protector of the Small Quartet

by Tamora Pierce

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  six

  THE LANCE

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

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

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

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

  “But you didn’t want her to,” Stefan repeated.

  Kel shrugged. “It seemed bad. Like, I don’t know, like taking his soul.”

  “Not that buckle, the one next to it,” Stefan told her a minute later, pointing.

  Red-faced, Kel released the strap in her fingers and picked up the right one.

  “He also says you promised not to rowel him.”

  Kel stared at the bandy-legged hostler, not sure what he meant. Then she remembered: rowel was another name for the pointed star-shaped type of spur favored by many knights. “That’s right,” she said, checking the girths.

  “How will you get him to go faster?” Stefan wanted to know.

  “She gave me words to say to him,” replied Kel.

  Stefan nodded. “She’s clever, that Daine.” He cleared his throat and said gruffly, “I didn’t think you’d be one for the spur. Try to mount, now.”

  That took practice. Kel banged her leg a few times before she managed to clear the high back. “I have to do this in armor?” she asked Stefan, who only grinned. Kel wriggled in the saddle, testing her ability to move once she was seated. Peachblossom waited patiently for her to settle down. “About Peachblossom—I’d like to know who treated him so badly,” she added, gathering her reins.

  The little man chuckled. “Don’t fret about that,” he replied. “Leave it to me. The one that did it, he won’t abuse another mount. You have my word.” He slapped Peachblossom on the rear, sending the gelding out of the stall.

  Once outside, Kel leaned down and told the horse, “I think I’ll stay on his good side. Just in case.”

  As usual, she was the last page to reach the long riding yard. Wyldon stood just inside the gate, a row of lances set against the fence beside him. Joren stood there, too. As each page rode by, Joren passed a lance up to him. He even passed one to Neal. By the time Kel reached Joren, only one of the twelve-foot-long weapons remained. Joren ignored her and mounted his horse.

  “Take it,” Wyldon ordered Kel, with a sharp nod at the lance.

  Leaning down, she gripped the weapon and dragged it to her. It was like a very long staff in most ways. There was an indented grip cut into the wood eighteen inches from the butt, and the wood above the grip flared out to protect the bearer’s hand. This weapon should never slide out of her hold. The lance was heavier than a staff, too. Kel gritted her teeth and settled the butt of the lance on the edge of her stirrup, as Lord Wyldon did.

  The pages lined up. As Kel guided Peachblossom into line beside Seaver, Wyldon rode to stand in front of them.

  “Before the immortals came, there was a clamor to cut jousting from tournaments,” he said loudly. “It was said to be too risky. Even with a coromanel, a wide-faced piece, on the lance tip, to soften the impact, it was too dangerous. So few battles are fought between mounted knights, it was said. It was time to retire the lance. Tradition must change to come in step with modern times.”

  Wyldon turned his mount toward the far end of the field. There Kel saw five quintains—dummies painted like warriors and set on wooden posts. In place of each quintain’s left arm was a wooden shield with a target circle painted on it. In place of the right arm was a pole weighted at the end by a sandbag.

  Lord Wyldon braced his lance under his right arm and lowered it until it was level. Once in place, it pointed at an angle across the mare’s withers, into the air on Wyldon’s left.

  “My lord?” asked Merric, raising a hand.

  Lord Wyldon raised his eyebrows.

  “Shouldn’t it stick out straight in front of you, not across your saddle horn?”

  The older pages chuckled; Merric turned bright red at their amusement.

  “Have you seen many tournaments?” Lord Wyldon inquired.

  Merric shook his head, still blushing. “None, my lord.”

  “I could do it that way,” the training master said. “Of course, I’d point my lance into the open air at my enemy’s side. I’d risk walloping my own mount in the head. I assure you, they don’t care for that. And once my lance goes past my opponent, what would happen?”

  Merric shook his head, speechless.

  “Your horse rams your opponent’s mount head on,” Prince Roald said quietly. “Chances are you wouldn’t be able to get him out of the way in time.”

  “Aim for your opponent’s chest with the lance pointed straight ahead, and by the time you’ve hit him, you cannot turn your horse aside,” Lord Wyldon told them. “Strike his shield at the right point, and the power of your blow will either break the shield or drive him all the way out of the saddle—and you can still turn your mount away from the enemy. Do you understand now?” he asked Merric.

  The boy nodded.

  “Always leave an escape route for your charger,” Lord Wyldon said. He turned to face the quintain. Kicking his horse into a run, he thundered down on the target. As he neared it, he stood and leaned forward. His lance tip struck the circle painted on the quintain’s shield. The dummy swung a half turn, and Wyldon thundered by. At the end of the yard, he turned his bay gelding, riding back to the line of pages.

  “What is the best defense for a lone knight against a giant?” he cried.

  “The lance!” shouted the older pages.

  “What is the best defense against an ogre?” he demanded.

  “The lance!” shouted all of the pages.

  “What is the best defense against a spidren?” he wanted to know.


  “A lance!” yelled his audience.

  “Against a charging line of foot soldiers?” Now the riding master joined them, carrying his own lance.

  “A lance!” cried everyone.

  “If the foot soldiers aren’t armed with pikes, anyway,” Kel heard Neal mutter.

  Kel blinked. Neal was right. Pikes were heavy spears fourteen feet or longer. Used properly, they were defeat for horsemen, who speared their mounts on the pikes before they got within striking distance of the pikemen.

  Wyldon halted in front of them. “A knight these days relies on the lance as much as the sword,” he said quietly. “To use it, you must perfect both horsemanship and weapon. If you hit the quintain”—he pointed to the swinging dummy— “anywhere but that target circle, you will get a buffet from the sandbag to make the lesson stick. And it must stick. Immortals and enemy infantry do not forgive mistakes.”

  He dismounted and waved a fourth-year page to a line of chalk drawn across the near end of the yard. “I want you new lads up on this line. Watch the older ones as they charge. Notice they change position as they approach the target. See how the lance is couched, and gripped.”

  The first-years obeyed. They watched sharply as page after page took his place on the line, settled his lance, and set his horse at the quintain. The fourth-year pages hit their target almost every time, but the younger the rider, the more likely it was that the sandbag would spin around and thump him as he rode by. At last it was the turn of the first-year pages. Kel grew more and more nervous, wiping sweaty palms on her sturdy practice clothes. She knew before he struck the target that Neal would miss the circle. She covered her eyes as the sandbag thudded into his back. At least he couldn’t be knocked out of the new saddle and onto the ground.

  We thank the gods for the blessings we have, she thought gloomily, and toed Peachblossom over to the chalk line. Behind her the senior pages lined up. They would ride at the quintain again once she was done.

  Wyldon strode over briskly. He resettled Kel’s grip on the lance with impersonal hands, checked her saddle, and stood away at last. “The lance will slide back when you strike,” he told her as he’d told the other first-years. “Let it. Now, lower it across your chest, till it points out over your mount’s left shoulder. Once it’s down, keep that point level!”

  Kel struggled to raise the lance. It was quite happy to be lowered, and agonizingly hard to raise.

  “Go!” ordered Wyldon.

  Kel leaned forward, her back and shoulder muscles protesting as she fought to keep the lance tip from sagging. “Charge,” she ordered Peachblossom.

  The gelding took off, his speed thrusting Kel against the back of her saddle.

  “Get your point up! Get it up!” cried Wyldon in a battlefield roar that cut through the thunder of Peachblossom’s hooves. “Raise your point!”

  Kel fought the weapon and her fear of the horse. Never had she suspected that a full gallop on Peachblossom would feel like riding an avalanche. I should have just said, “Go faster,” she thought weakly as the target loomed. Wrestling with the lance, she just clipped the shield’s edge. The quintain spun. The sandbag crashed into her side as Peachblossom thundered by.

  Kel dragged on the reins as hard as she would have the day before. Peachblossom, already slowing, reared in protest against the pain in his newly soft mouth. The back on the jousting saddle kept her in her seat, just barely. Peachblossom walked backward, doing his best to keep her from falling. Kel loosened the reins, taking the pressure off the bit. Slowly the horse dropped until all four feet were planted firmly on the ground.

  Kel leaned forward, the weight of her lance dragging at her arm. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the gelding. “I forgot your mouth. I won’t do it again.”

  “The horse is too big for that page,” someone called. “I’m surprised you let him ride that gelding, Cavall.”

  Kel wilted. The pages had learned to ignore onlookers in the practice yards. She hadn’t even noticed that an audience had gathered or thought that anyone in the audience might care enough to comment.

  “The probationer picked that mount herself, Goldenlake,” replied Wyldon coldly. “She had a choice of horses, just like the others.”

  Humiliated, Kel braced her lance on her stirrup—once it was upright, she could control the wretched thing—and turned Peachblossom.

  A squad of warriors mounted on fine horses watched from outside the yard’s fence. They wore the chain mail, blue and silver tunic, and white desert burnoose of the King’s Own, the crown’s elite guard.

  Kel wished she could just sink into the ground and prayed that her Yamani schooling kept the humiliation out of her face. These men were as admired as knights, and they had seen her disgraceful try. Most were grinning.

  One of them, a very tall, big man with rosy cheeks and black eyes, stared at Kel. “This is the girl?” he asked, startled. It was he who had commented to Wyldon.

  The training master grimaced. “Keladry of Mindelan. She knows she may exchange her mount for another, and has chosen not to do so. Have you something we may assist you with?”

  The big man shook his head. “Not this time. We’ve reports of a lone tauros sighted near one of the fishing villages upriver.”

  Kel was trying to remember what a tauros was when a Bazhir with the squad commented dryly, “No doubt it is a strayed bull.”

  That’s it, Kel remembered. Tauroses were creatures with bull’s heads and men’s bodies, huge, witless monsters who preyed on women.

  “Stray bull or not, we’ll handle it,” said the big rider. “You and your lot will get the chance to help us soon enough, Cavall.” He touched his fingers to his forehead in an ironic salute, and rode off at the front of the squad.

  “If we may proceed?” Wyldon asked the pages. “You will have plenty of chances to gawk at Raoul of Goldenlake in the future.”

  Kel bit the inside of her cheek. Raoul of Goldenlake was the Knight Commander of the King’s Own, one of the realm’s finest warriors.

  Neal rode over to her. “Are you all right? You have the oddest look on your face.”

  Kel shook her head. “I’m just embarrassed. I don’t suppose you know how to make people vanish.”

  “It’s not something they teach healers,” he said dryly, riding to the starting line with her. “If I could, I’d do it all the time. Don’t fret. Nobody hits the mark their first day.”

  “But in front of Sir Raoul of Goldenlake,” she replied in a low voice. “Who fought a giant on foot and won.”

  “Actually, he’s Lord Sir Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak—the king elevated him to the peerage in April,” Neal informed her. “And it was only a twenty-foot giant.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t feel half so stupid now,” muttered Kel. Time to change the subject. “What was that about us helping the King’s Own?”

  “The Stump likes us to get battle experience against immortals. If there’s something close by, the King’s Own takes us along.”

  Wyldon called, “You older pages practice separately. Get to it.” They drifted to the other four quintains, leaving the first-years to practice under Wyldon’s eye.

  Wyldon beckoned to Quinden of Marti’s Hill, indicating he should tilt next. “Excuse me, your lordship, but am I older or younger today?” Neal asked.

  “One day I will tie that insolent tongue of yours in a knot,” replied Wyldon absently as he watched Quinden settle his lance. “You may tilt with the first-years.”

  Kel saw Neal open his mouth to reply, and swung Peachblossom into Neal’s brown mare. The mare skipped away as Peachblossom half turned, ensuring that the gelding caught just a fold of Neal’s practice clothes in his teeth instead of Neal’s right leg. By the time Kel had persuaded her mount to release her friend, Neal had forgotten whatever answer he’d been about to give the training master.

  Kel rode four more times at the quintain. Each try was a fight with the heavy lance; not once did she manage to keep the point high enough
to strike the circle. By her third run, her arms felt as weak as overcooked noodles. Kel dragged as she brushed Peachblossom, cleaned her new tack, cut her name onto her lance, and rubbed oil into it. Only when those chores were done could she return to the castle and her waiting bath.

  “What’s wrong?” Neal asked as they stood in line for lunch. “You’ve been quiet all day, not that you ever chatter.” He peered at her so worriedly that Kel had to smile.

  “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all,” she told him. “I’m sorry I was grumpy.”

  “Stop pushing, Esmond!” growled someone behind her. The next minute Kel was knocked out of line. Turning, she saw that the one who’d bumped her was Merric. Beet-red, he mumbled an apology and shoved Esmond in revenge. It gave him a reason to turn his back on Kel as she resumed her place.

  He can’t even look at me, she thought miserably, leaning against the wall. And I can’t look at him. Wonderful.

  She was leaving to collect her books and papers when Cleon stopped her once again. “Page Keladry,” he announced with a broad grin, “my flower, my dove, I need more ink. Run along to stores and fetch me some.”

  “Leave her be, Cleon,” said Neal sternly. “She’s got enough to worry about without doing your errands.”

  Cleon stared at him. The senior pages were always cautious when it came to Neal. First-year or not, he was older and taller than all of them, and once he lost his temper, he didn’t seem to care if he got hurt. Boys who thought nothing of pushing someone like Kel, Merric, or the other first-years around tended to leave Neal alone. “I didn’t ask you, Neal,” Cleon retorted at last. “She has to get used to running errands sometime.”

  “Even the nobles hardly ask us to do things for them,” argued Neal hotly. “They know we’re kept trotting.”

  Kel ran to do as she was told, shaking her head. Trust Neal to extend the whole matter by debating about it.

  She made it to their first class just in time, handing Cleon his ink as she rushed to her seat. Only when she was down and had begun to sort out the mess of her own books and papers did she see how little she’d finished the night before. When Master Yayin, who taught reading and writing, requested her work, she stood and admitted that she didn’t have it, as tradition demanded.