Lerant winced.
They delivered their remaining letters, then rejoined the progress near Fief Eldorne. Once again the train had set a proper camp under the Seneschal’s direction: they would be there for several days. Kel could see that preparations for a new tournament were underway. Riding to their part of the camp, she and Raoul wove in and out of a seemingly endless stream of servants, workmen, and vendors, all carrying burdens.
Raoul reined up to let a group pass them in wagons loaded with wood for building grandstands. “Kel, when do you want to start taking part in tournaments?”
The griffin snapped at Kel as she absently preened him with her fingers. “No,” she said firmly, smacking him lightly on the beak. “My lord, it seems a waste of time. Let’s face it, I haven’t beaten you, and I know your work in the saddle better than anyone’s. If I’m going to risk breaking my neck, I’d like to do it when I have a chance to win.”
Raoul began to chuckle. “Kel, I haven’t been unhorsed in, Mithros, a decade.” He grinned at her. “I was born with lead in my behind, I know what I can do and what I can’t, and every buck who thinks he knows the lance comes to try me sooner or later. Before you start thinking you’re no good, get some other opponents.”
It occurred to Kel that after her father, Raoul was the nicest man she’d known. He did his best by her, spoke honestly, and never treated her as anything but an equal.
“Maybe so,” she replied. “But I’ll pick my time.” The griffin looked up at her and shrilled. “Hungry again,” Kel said wearily. “He eats more than I do, and at least I’m getting bigger.”
“So will he,” Raoul told her. “Wait till you see an adult up close.”
“If it’s not trying to kill me, I’ll look all I can,” Kel replied.
They settled into the life of the progress. Kel practiced her weapons with her knight-master and other squires at stops. In camp she resumed glaive training with the queen, the Yamanis, her mother, and Buri. On tournament days she tended Raoul’s armor and weapons. She also made sure Lerant beat her in races to tend Drum after jousting, though she never let the jealous standard-bearer know that she let him win or that she liked the help. It never seemed to occur to him that with a griffin to mind, it was to her advantage to let him cover some of a squire’s traditional jobs.
She continued to refuse offers to compete. Raoul did it because he was challenged to fight at every stop and didn’t mind showing people that his reputation was well earned. Kel was happy just to assist him and cheer when he rode Drum onto the tilting field.
The weeks of social engagements were blurring together in Kel’s mind when the progress reached Fief Sinthya. She had already been here to deliver the monarchs’ “request” that its master, a boy of nine, and his mother, who had been spared the old lord’s fate when his treason was uncovered, put a lavish meal before their hosts. Kel was so used to the banquet routine that her mind was on other things as she carried the finger bowl and towel to Lord Raoul’s table. As she offered them to his female companion, she looked into violet eyes.
Kel dropped the bowl, splattering Lady Alanna’s indigo skirts and Lord Raoul’s spruce green hose. “I’m sorry,” Raoul said wickedly as Kel mopped up the spill. “Should I have warned you?”
Kneeling on the ground, Kel saw Alanna kick Raoul in the shin. “Don’t tease,” the Champion ordered. “Yes, you should have warned her.” To Kel she added, her voice barely audible, “Relax. It’s the only way I can say hello without a hundred people saying I put a good-luck spell on you.”
Kel mumbled something; she didn’t know what. Bowing, she retreated to the service room for a fresh towel and bowl.
“What’s this?” demanded Master Oakbridge, pressing cool, dry hands to her cheeks and forehead. “You are warm, and unusually clumsy. Are you ill?” Kel shook her head. For someone who fussed over the problems she presented, being neither a proper young lady or a proper squire, Master Oakbridge could be irritably kind. “If you are ill, tell me. You have no notion of how a summer cold can travel in a group of people like this.”
“Thank you, sir, I’m fine.” Kel accepted a new bowl and towel from a servant. “I was just surprised by my lord’s dinner partner, that’s all.”
“But surely you’ve met,” Oakbridge said, tugging her tunic until it was straight. Kel shook her head. “Well, she’s not demanding, so relax,” he ordered her. “At least no one can claim she’s magicking you to succeed, not with half the folk here being mages. Go. They’ll bring the first course up before you know it. Don’t forget you have four people to wait on.”
She did, Kel saw as she returned: Harailt of Aili, dean of the royal university and one of Kel’s favorite civilians, shared the table; Lady Haname was his companion. “Forgive me, Master Harailt, Lady Haname,” Kel said, presenting the bowl to them in turn. “I don’t know what came over me.”
They assured her that no offense was taken, and returned to an enthusiastic discussion of Yamani farming.
Kel returned to the service room and took up the first dish, leeks and ginger in almond milk. She served it to all four adults without spilling a drop. “I understand you have the care of a griffin,” Alanna remarked, looking out over the room.
“Yes, Lady Knight,” Kel replied softly. “Daine is trying to find his family now.”
“Doesn’t his care cut into your training?” asked the lady, tasting the puree delicately. “They need to be fed quite often, don’t they? And they are more like wild creatures than pets.” She nodded at Kel’s hands, which were a tapestry of scratches and scars.
“He’s wild, yes,” Kel admitted. “But we get along.”
They spoke of innocent things. If anyone overheard, Alanna’s questions were those anyone might ask. She was well informed about Kel’s weapons skills and training. She even knew about the morning glaive practice and Kel’s years in the Islands.
When Kel presented the last finger bowl and the Champion rinsed her hands, she smiled at Kel. “Once you’re knighted, perhaps you could teach me to use this glaive,” she suggested. “It sounds like a good all-purpose weapon.”
Kel walked to the service hall glowing. The lady took it for granted that Kel would win her shield. She wants me to teach her! Kel thought, elated. She picked up a tray with cups and a pitcher of cordial. Me, teach the Lioness—who could have dreamed?
Alanna had gone when Kel returned. Now she sat with the king, talking to young Lord Sinthya. “Was that so bad?” Raoul asked, pushing back from his chair.
“You could have warned me,” Kel said reproachfully.
“I should have,” he admitted, looking sheepish. “I’m just used to you taking whatever comes without a blink. It never occurred to me you might need a warning.”
Once they were released from banquet service, Kel ate a late supper with her friends among the squires, including Owen, Neal, Merric, and Cleon. Usually some of them walked her back to her tent to watch the griffin’s last feeding of the day. They kept a respectful distance as they looked on. None of them wanted to risk a griffin attack just because Kel’s charge might scratch or bite him. Instead they fed treats to the sparrows and played with Jump as they talked with Kel.
Another thing all of them did was try to keep Owen’s spirits up. “It’s terrible,” he said that night at Fief Sinthya as he scratched Jump’s tattered ears. “I had no idea most knights think having a squire is a pain. I just want to train as a bandit killer, but either the ones who like that have squires, or they say a squire will slow them down. Do you know what Master Oakbridge said?” he demanded, indignant. “He said Myles of Olau wants a secretary. A paper shuffler! And Sir Myles—well, he’s a good fellow, even if he’s forever saying chivalry is unrealistic and too hard on us, but honestly! I’ll never get any field experience with him, unless it’s in skulking and sneaking and invisible inks.” He looked at his friends, woebegone. “I have to take it. This business of being unattached is worse than shuffling papers. Master Oakbridge makes me run errands
and draw seating charts until I think I’ll go mad.”
“At least Myles won’t bite your head off if you venture a comment of your own,” Neal said gloomily, tickling the queen sparrow Crown on the chest. “There’s a lot to be said for a good-natured knight-master.”
“Mine’s a decent sort,” Cleon remarked without looking at Kel. “Explains things, doesn’t expect you to read his mind. I’d best get back. He’s in the archery competitions tomorrow, and I think his bowstring’s fraying.” It was a signal for all of the boys to wander off into the night.
Kel settled the animals and changed into her nightdress, feeling low. And why? Cleon hadn’t tried to kiss her or get her alone. He hadn’t made excuses to linger after the others left. That was good. It saved her from hurting his feelings. Had he followed up on that kiss, she would have been forced to tell him that she was concentrating on her knighthood alone. That would be awkward, unpleasant, depressing.
I suppose the kiss didn’t mean anything to him, Kel told herself, not for the first time. Or he’s got a proper girl to admire, someone pretty and small, with big eyes, and hands not all clawed and scarred by an ungrateful immortal she dislikes.
It doesn’t matter, she thought as she lay awake that night. I didn’t like his flirting with me anyway.
“Yap all you like, dog.” That cold voice stopped Kel as she wound between rows of tents, returning from the ladies’ privy. “But a cur dog is all your house whelps. It’s only a matter of time before you turn on the hand that feeds you.”
“Lord Raoul doesn’t think so.” That was Lerant of Eldorne’s voice. Kel frowned.
“Goldenlake is a dolt without two thoughts in his head,” the cutting voice said. “He’s shames his blood, consorting with sand scuts”—the scornful name for the Bazhir—“and wenches and sprigs of traitorous trees like you.”
Kel heard a thud. She moved up closer until she could peer around an open tent flap to see. Three young men stood over the fallen Lerant of Eldorne. Two wore swords and the silver-rimmed tunic badges of knights: one with the flail and sword of Fief Groten, the other with Tirrsmont’s spear and fist badge. The third was Joren of Stone Mountain, icily handsome in Paxton’s colors.
The man with Groten’s badge spoke to the Tirrsmont knight and Joren. It was his voice that Kel had heard. “As I said, our leaders are purblind, dazzled by female flesh and foreign wiles. They shelter traitors,” he pointed to Lerant, who wiped blood from his mouth, “and drag those of the noblest blood,” he bowed slightly to Joren, “before a magistrate like common highwaymen.” To Lerant he said, “Too bad you can’t demand satisfaction in the lists, Eldorne, but you’re the degenerate son of a degenerate line. Your sire knew you’d be chewed up and spit out by the Chamber of the Ordeal if you got there. Its power at least remains uncorrupted.”
Lerant tried to stand. The knight from Fief Groten shoved him down.
“We couldn’t afford a knight’s gear, that’s why I didn’t become a page,” Lerant growled. He spat blood onto Groten’s boot. “Why don’t we settle this with swords?”
“Because you’re neither knight nor squire,” Groten told Lerant. “You’re just something to wipe on.” He smeared his boot across Lerant’s tunic.
Kel stepped into the open. “You speak against our knight-master. You must be shown the error of your ways,” she said. “And Joren’s no highwayman, just a kidnapper.” She offered Lerant a hand without taking her eyes from his tormentor. “If it’s the lists you want, you shall have them. I am a squire, and I want satisfaction from you.” The time-honored phrases of the challenge came from her lips with a sense of strength that grew with each word. Do mages feel like this when they chant spells? wondered Kel.
“I can defend myself!” Lerant snapped, shoving her hand away.
“I’m not concerned about you,” Kel said. “For starters, he maligned Lord Raoul. If he weren’t a coward, he’d also name those he says are ‘dazzled by female flesh’—my flesh? Commander Tourakom’s? Or the Champion’s, or the queen’s, do you suppose? Since he doesn’t want to pay for his words, he hides behind his shield. Except now he can’t. If he refuses to meet me in the lists, everyone will know what he is.”
“I am Sir Ansil of Groten,” snapped the knight. He was a grim-faced man in his thirties with eyes like polished stones. “You will have your meeting, squire. When you lie in the dirt with my lance through your body, all will see what happens when men do the right thing. Tomorrow, at the individual matches. I will enter our names with the tournament clerk.”
He stalked away, Joren and the Tirrsmont knight trailing him. Joren looked back once to smirk at Kel.
“Don’t growl at me anymore,” Kel told Lerant. “That had to be done, and he wasn’t going to give you a chance.”
“He would if I slapped him,” Lerant retorted. “He’d have no choice, then.”
“All right—when I’m done, slap him and have your fight,” Kel said wearily. A whiff of fish rising from her belt pouch made her grimace. “I have to feed the griffin.” She headed for her tent.
Lerant followed her. “He says he’ll kill you.”
“If he does, then the gods don’t want women to be knights. Isn’t that how trial by combat works?” Did she have everything for a proper tilt? she wondered, reviewing her list of armor. Raoul had added pieces to it before they left the palace.
“My lord will be angry,” Lerant pointed out.
“Why? He said he wanted me to compete in the tournaments. Look.” Kel turned to face Lerant. They were of a height, Kel now five foot ten. She met his angry brown eyes. “I have things to do if I’m to fight him, so let me go do them.” She walked away.
She was washing her hands after feeding the griffin when Cleon walked into her tent. “Kel, they just put your name up for tomorrow’s jousting lists,” he said, running his fingers through his red curls. He ignored Jump and the sparrows, who were trying to get his attention. “Against Ansil of Groten. Tell me—” He stopped in mid-sentence, looking her over. “It’s true, isn’t it? You challenged a full knight—you, a second-year squire.”
Kel tried a smile. It didn’t feel as confident as she would have liked. “Oh, well, I had to,” she replied. “The man’s a bully. He insulted my lord.”
Her tent had never felt this small before. She liked mathematics, her mind babbled. It was impossible for there to be less room inside a tent with just her and Cleon there than there was when Merric, Neal, and Owen were present as well. Her brain was rattling. In a moment she would start to babble out loud. Instead Kel began to refill the sparrows’ seed dishes. She needed to do something with her hands.
“He’s asking a winner’s purse of ten gold crowns,” said Cleon gravely.
“I have that money from Joren. I can pay if I lose.” When I lose, she thought as she put out the filled dishes. She glanced at Cleon, then looked down. It always surprised her to see him in her family’s colors of blue, cream, and gray, wearing the Mindelan gray owl crest.
She knew she ought to find something else to do with her hands, but she looked at Cleon again. He looked good in those colors. Perhaps it wasn’t the colors. Perhaps it was the way his shoulders filled out his cream linen shirt, or the way his chest pressed against his blue tunic.
She looked up: his eyes were on her. Warmth flooded Kel’s body. Hurriedly she grabbed her breastplate and a polishing cloth. “I have to go over my gear,” she mumbled.
Big hands tugged breastplate and cloth from her grip. Cleon put them aside and told Kel softly, “Was I wrong? I thought you liked it when I kissed you but you’ve avoided being alone with me ever since.”
She hung her head. “Midwinter was, it was, nice,” she said, cringing inside at her idiotic reply. It was very warm in the tent. “People would talk, if we—if they saw. They might not know it was friendly. They might get the wrong idea.”
“Here I am, hoping one person will get the right idea,” Cleon explained.
Even with her eyes on her shoes, Kel
could see his legs; he stood that close. His clothes smelled of orris. The warmth of his body spread to envelop her. “If someone sees . . . ,” she whispered.
“Jump, close the flap, there’s a good fellow,” Cleon said. The dog obeyed immediately.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Kel protested. Where was Raoul? If he were in his tent next door, he might hear and interrupt. Obviously Jump and the sparrows weren’t going to stop whatever was going on, she thought wildly. As chaperons they were useless if they liked the person who was confusing her so. “I meant we shouldn’t be, you know, alone,” she said, dry-mouthed.
“Please look at me, Kel,” Cleon asked.
She was ready to refuse, but he’d said “please.” It would be churlish not to look up, so she did, meeting his gray eyes with her hazel ones. He was smiling. That was a dirty trick. It was impossible to remind him she was a fellow squire, sexless, when he smiled with so much liking that her insides melted. He lowered his head just a few inches to press his mouth to hers.
Oh, my, thought Kel.
He took his lips away. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
She was glad to hear his voice crack. She wasn’t a complete dolt if this upset him, too.
“Neither of us turned into anything awful,” Cleon went on hoarsely, “the tent didn’t collapse, even the animals are quiet.”
Kel looked around. All eyes—the sparrows’, Jump’s, the griffin’s—were on them. “I . . . ,” she began, not sure what to say.
Cleon wrapped big hands around her elbows, leaned in, and touched his mouth to hers once more. Kel gasped, then forgot almost everything else as Cleon drew her snugly against him.
A mocking voice sounded in her mind. It was Joren’s, from a talk they’d once had on the palace wall. “You’d make a fine wife for one of those big fellows—Cleon, for instance. You could settle down and raise young giants.” Kel stiffened.
Cleon released her instantly. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You have to say if I push too hard. I’ve just been thinking about this for such a long time—”
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