“Why not bring someone?” asked Kel sensibly. “They can’t try to match you up if you bring an eligible female. Not me, though. Not even for you, sir, would I face at your great-aunt’s what I get at Grandmama’s.”
That startled a bark of laughter out of him. Then his face turned gloomy again. “If I bring a lady of our rank, Kel, she might think I mean something by it. I don’t want to hurt someone that way. I may be ‘a feckless gawp of an overage boy,’ Aunt told me once, but I don’t play fast and loose with people.”
Kel leafed through her book without seeing it. “Why not Buri?” she suggested at last. “She won’t get any romantic notions, you’ll have someone to talk to, and maybe your relatives will leave you alone, at least about marriage.”
Raoul thought about this, rubbing his chin. “Why would she put herself through something like that if she didn’t have to?”
“Aren’t you friends?” Kel wanted to know. “I’d help my friends in a situation like that.”
“She’ll never agree,” Raoul said, one hand inching toward a sheet of parchment.
Kel smiled and put the book down. “Not if you don’t ask her. I’ll take the message.”
Reading his note, Buri grinned. “Poor lad! A big man-creature like him, needing protection! Oh, I can’t turn my back on him. Tell him I’ll do it. A sacrifice for friendship—what’s more appropriate at Midwinter?”
Kel returned late after an evening spent with the Yamanis. There were no candles burning in Raoul’s quarters: was he still at his great-aunt’s? Yawning, she lit a candle in his study so he would have it to see by, then entered her rooms and lit a branch of candles for herself. She would read until he came in. She wanted to hear how the evening had gone.
With the best intentions she nodded off over her book. The sound of her front door smashing open woke her.
“Bitch!” a man screamed. Jump attacked the intruder. Sparrows followed like feathered brown darts, gouging the newcomer’s face. Kel threw herself out of bed to yank her glaive from the wall.
“Trollop, you killed my boy!” shouted the man who fought Jump and the birds. Kel pulled a shutter open, admitting cold air and early morning light—it was shortly after dawn. Jump gripped one of the man’s wrists in his jaws, drawing blood. The birds continued to strike his face and eyes as he flailed at them with his free hand.
Kel didn’t know this well-dressed, white-haired stranger. Neither did she know the woman and man who ran in to grab him, the woman clinging to his waist, the man with one hand on the stranger’s tunic as he tried to knock Jump away.
The door to Raoul’s chambers sprang open. Raoul was in his loincloth, holding his unsheathed sword. Buri, clad only in a blanket, stood at his elbow, a dagger in her free hand. “Birds, move,” ordered Raoul. The sparrows darted off. Raoul grabbed the snarling man one-handed and smashed him against the wall, shaking off his human companions. “Jump, let go,” ordered Raoul. Jump obeyed.
The woman, her face red and tearstained, wrung her hands as she and the other man babbled to Raoul. Kel tried to hear what they said, without success. Raoul’s captive continued to swear at her. He craned around Raoul to stare at Kel with blue eyes that bulged in their sockets.
Kel came forward, glaive ready in case the other two attacked her. When the captive shut up long enough to breathe, she said quietly, “I don’t even know you.”
He answered with curses. Raoul changed his grip to press a broad forearm across the man’s throat, cutting off air and voice. “My lord of Stone Mountain, you forget yourself,” he said icily. His captive wheezed. “If you try to carry out your threats, I will break your jaw.”
“He is distraught,” the woman said, her voice breaking. “My lord, please, Burchard is out of his mind with grief.”
“My nephew is dead,” the other stranger cried. “The Chamber of the Ordeal opened on his corpse.”
“Joren? Dead?” whispered Kel, horrified.
Joren’s uncle and mother glanced at her and away, as if they could not bear to see her. “It is the shock,” Joren’s mother whispered, fresh tears on her face. “Don’t hold my husband responsible.”
Raoul eased the pressure on Burchard of Stone Mountain’s throat. The man was not white haired but pale blond, as Joren was. “He was to be the greatest of us,” Burchard whispered. “My lord Wyldon said, after that first year, he was the most promising lad he’d seen.” His eyes were adder-poisonous as he looked at Kel. “Jumped-up merchant slut,” he whispered. “He was never the same after you arrived. Never. You witched him, cursed him—” His voice was cut off as Raoul reapplied pressure.
“I am tired of you,” Raoul said, his voice deadly soft. “Nothing affects the Chamber of the Ordeal, you stupid bigot. Ask Numair Salmalín—”
“A progressive!” snapped Joren’s uncle.
“Ask him under oath, then,” rapped out Buri, hoisting her blanket around her shoulders. “Numair is the most powerful mage in the realm, politics or none. He knows what everyone knows—no one has ever been able to affect the Chamber.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Raoul told Joren’s mother, “but Kel didn’t kill your son. I won’t ask to settle this insult to my squire’s honor, and thus to mine, by combat. In that I respect your grief.” He released Burchard.
The man fell to the floor. “Two lives destroyed in that Chamber this year,” he whispered, staring at Kel through a sparrow-made mask of blood. “How did you do it?”
“I didn’t!” Kel protested, shocked.
“Hush, Kel,” Raoul ordered. To Burchard he said, “One more chunk of spew and you answer me by the sword, understand?”
Burchard said nothing, only rubbed his throat. Raoul looked at Joren’s mother and uncle.
“We understand,” Joren’s mother told Raoul. She tried to pull her husband to his feet.
“We understand our realm has strayed so far from tradition that the gods’ gifts fail,” Joren’s uncle snapped. “The Chamber is breaking down. What more proof do we need that we have lost divine favor? What have you people left untouched? You school the whelps of farmers, let women make war, intermarry with foreigners—”
“I make allowance for your grief.” Kel had never heard that tone in Raoul’s voice. White-hot rage seem to smoke off his skin. “Go. Bury your boy.” Raoul hauled the lord of Stone Mountain up one-handed and thrust him at his wife and brother. “While you do, ask yourselves where he learned to be so rigid that he shattered under the Ordeal. Get out.”
They left. Kel shut the door, trembling.
Raoul rubbed his face with both hands. “Gods,” he whispered, “I need a drink.”
“Shall I get you one?” Kel asked, unsure.
“Not the kind I meant, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “Juice, water—no liquor.” He smiled crookedly. “It turns me into someone I don’t like.”
“I’ll find something,” Kel promised, looking for her clothes.
“Kel.” Raoul grasped her shoulder. “That was bile, pure and simple. You had nothing to do with Joren’s fate—you do understand that?”
Kel thought about it. “Yes, sir,” she said at last.
“Raoul, maybe you’re not entirely right,” said Buri, leaning on the door to his rooms. “You heard Lord Fart-face. Joren was a golden boy before our Kel arrived. Maybe the Chamber just found the selves that Vinson and Joren revealed around Kel.”
“I thought only Alanna was lucky enough to be the tool of the gods,” Raoul commented.
“Don’t the gods say when they choose you?” Kel asked. “I’ve never heard from them.”
“Oh, maybe I’m just giddy,” Buri said with a shrug. “Who goes tonight?”
“Garvey of Runnerspring,” Kel replied. “One of Joren’s cronies.”
“He’ll have an audience tomorrow,” said the K’mir, walking into Raoul’s study. “And I am going back to bed.” She glanced at Raoul. “Well?”
He grinned, then looked at Kel. “Don’t let them poison you,” he told
her. “Your coming was a fine thing, for the realm, for all those girls who come to watch you tilt, even for an old bachelor like me.” He went into his rooms and pulled the door shut after him.
Quite a few people visited the Chapel the next morning as Garvey of Runnerspring entered the Chamber. Kel did not, though she heard about it from Owen. The watchers had a long, quiet wait. When Garvey emerged, weak and shaken but otherwise fine, a sigh of relief went up.
The next morning Zahir ibn Alhaz, another of Joren’s friends, entered the Chamber. He too walked out alive, sane, and confessionless.
Prince Roald’s year was larger than the previous one: eleven squires awaited the Ordeal. The court remained at the palace as every squire entered the Chamber. There were no more upsets, and the departure of the progress was announced the day of the last Ordeal. Kel was packing Raoul’s things when someone knocked at his door. She opened it to find the king and several of his chief councillors: Sir Gareth of Naxen, Alanna the Lioness, Sir Myles of Olau, and Lord Imrah of Port Legann, Prince Roald’s former knight-master. Raoul stood at his desk, frowning. “Sire, to what—”
The king said flatly, “Wyldon of Cavall has resigned. He won’t reconsider.” He looked at Kel. “I don’t want your friends to hear this before the official announcement,” he ordered. Kel nodded and brought chairs for everyone.
“Resigned?” demanded Raoul. “In Mithros’s name, why? He’s done a cursed fine job!”
The king looked meaningfully at Kel. She read his expression: he did not want her there. She fetched cups, brought a pitcher of cider in from the window ledge, and poured drinks for everyone, then left.
The king had forbidden her only to talk to her friends, she thought as she headed for the pages’ wing. The training master’s door was open; Wyldon was inside, packing things in a crate. He looked up when she knocked.
Only then did she think that Wyldon might not approve of her coming when she wasn’t supposed to know of his resignation. She was about to make a lame excuse and go when his mouth jerked sideways.
“I suppose they’re with Raoul, trying to name a new training master,” he remarked. “What brings you here?”
“My lord said it, and I agree—you’re a wonderful training master,” she replied, worried for him. “You can’t go.”
“I can, and I will,” replied Wyldon. “I must.” He sighed, rubbing the arm that had been raked by a savage winged horse called a hurrok. It always bothered him when snow was about to fall. “Come in and close the door,” he ordered. “Did you hear why?”
“No, sir,” Kel replied, doing as he bid. It felt odd to sit in his presence. She perched on the edge of the chair, a compromise between standing and being comfortable. “I gave them something to drink and left.”
He wrapped a stone hawk figure in cloth and stowed it in his crate. “Two failures in one year—it’s never happened. I think my training, my approach, is flawed. Maybe I’ve done this for too long—fifteen years, after all. It’s time for someone new.”
“But sir, you can’t blame yourself,” Kel protested. “Joren and Vinson . . .” She stopped, suddenly unsure. She had often thought that Wyldon ignored the bullying of first-year pages, encouraging boys to fight and to use their strength without thinking.
“You see?” Wyldon asked, sardonic. “You aren’t sure that I didn’t help to create Vinson and Joren either. I told lads to be aggressive, to concentrate on the goal. Mindelan, it may be that the best thing said of my tenure is that you were my student. Should that be the case, I am the wrong man for this post. I did all I could to get rid of you. Your probation was wrong. You know that, I know it. I was harder on you than any lad. Thank Mithros I remembered my honor and let you stay when you met the conditions—but it was a near thing. Next time I might not heed the voice of honor.”
Kel watched him pack for a while, unable to think of a reply. He had confirmed what she had wondered about for years. Still, she didn’t think he should go. “Sir, I learned so much from you,” she said at last. “You’re the kind of knight I want to be.”
He regarded her with the strangest expression in his eyes. “I am not,” he said. “But that you believe it is the greatest compliment I will ever receive. Go back to your master, Kel. If they can’t decide, tell them I said Padraig haMinch. He’s old blood, conservative, and a Minchi.”
Knowing she was dismissed, Kel stood. Before she could leave, she had to ask: “Sir, what will you do?”
Wyldon massaged his bad arm. “Go home. Idle about until my wife threatens to leave me. I’ve asked for a post on the northern border come spring. Scanra is on the move. I’d like to do what I can.” He waved an impatient hand. “Go, Mindelan. If you’re going to snivel, do it outside my office.”
Kel nodded, unable to trust her voice, bowed, then went. She didn’t snivel, but she did blow her nose.
Something occurred to her; she ran back to his open door. “Sir?” she asked.
Wyldon looked up from a book. “Weren’t you leaving?”
“Sir, if you’ll only consider,” she began nervously. She wasn’t at all sure that her idea was good, but her instinct was to pursue it.
“Consider . . .?” he prodded.
Kel blurted, “Owen of Jesslaw.”
“Owen?” he asked. “That hellion?” He folded his arms, looking thoughtful. “All right,” he said finally. “Tell Myles I would like a word when he’s free.”
When she reached her room, she stopped to listen at the door. Should she tell them Lord Wyldon’s suggestion?
“It’s settled, then. Padraig haMinch.” That was the king’s voice. Kel heard chairs scrape. “Gary, take over with the pages—you’ve been complaining how your paperwork is backed up. I’ll see if there’s a scry-mage at haMinch. I’d like to give Lord Padraig word as soon as possible.”
As they emerged from Raoul’s chambers, Kel stopped Sir Myles to relay Lord Wyldon’s other request.
That night Kel was packing when her door burst open. She was reaching for her sword when she saw that the newcomer was not Burchard again, but Owen. His eyes bulged and his curls looked as if he’d been yanking on them. He ignored Jump and the sparrows, who greeted him with enthusiasm.
“Kel!” he cried. “Kel, I’m a squire!”
She tried not to giggle and succeeded, barely. “You’ve been a squire for months.”
“Not like you’re a squire, not like Neal. Kel, my brain’s going to pop! I’m not in service to Sir Myles anymore. Lord Wyldon resigned, and he’s going home a while, and come spring he’s going to fight Scanrans. With me! He’s going to work me like a horse, he says, but Kel, I’ll be a squire to a fighting knight! Isn’t it the jolliest? And he’ll teach me to breed dogs!”
He launched himself across the room and hugged her wildly, then stepped back, looking sheepish. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh, treat you like a girl or anything.”
Kel sank down on her bed, head in hands. She lost the battle to appear serious and laughed until she couldn’t catch her breath.
Kel missed the departure of the progress. Raoul took Third Company out ahead to scout the road. Buri rode along with her own Group Askew and two more Rider Groups, the Sixth, called Thayet’s Dogs, and the Fifteenth, Stickers. Both Riders and Third Company were detailed to watch the front, sides, and rear of the train, as Glaisdan and First Company stayed close to the monarchs and looked noble. They were welcome to it, as far as Kel was concerned. She preferred scout detail. For one thing, no court gossips were out here, teasing her to say whether Raoul slept alone these days.
The progress stopped in Irontown for a week, then continued south, leaving the forest to enter drier country, Tortall’s grain lands. Crawling on, they reached the borders of the desert. The snows of the north turned to rain. The nights were cold, the days bearable. When they came to the desert itself, the king ordered the units in advance of and at the rear of the progress to rejoin it.
“As if we wouldn’t know to come back,” grumbled Dom. He an
d Kel rode together one morning, guarding the supply train.
Kel grinned at him. “But we wouldn’t have, unless ordered to. You know we wouldn’t.”
Dom grinned back, making Kel’s pulse speed up. “Well, yes, but still, he shouldn’t treat us like unruly children.”
Kel, who knew the pranks the Own and the Riders played when left alone, raised her eyebrows. Dom chuckled. “You look just like my lord when he does that,” he informed her. To Cleon, who rode up, he said, “Doesn’t she look like Lord Raoul when she raises her eyebrows?”
Cleon scowled. “She looks like herself,” he retorted.
Dom looked at Kel; his mouth curled in a wry smile. He shivered. “Does it seem cold to you all of a sudden? I believe I’ll find a blanket.” He rode off with a wink at Kel.
“That wasn’t nice,” she commented as Cleon fell in beside her.
“He was flirting with you,” growled the newly made knight. Kel had worried he would be assigned away from the progress now that he had his shield, but for the moment, at least, Cleon was allowed to stay. “I know what flirting is, and he was doing it.”
“Dom flirts with everyone. It runs in the family—you know how Neal gets.”
“Both of them can flirt with someone else,” Cleon snapped. Suddenly he looked ashamed of himself. “Oh, rats, Kel, don’t mind me. I’m grumpy. Lately all we do is wave at each other as we pass.”
“I know,” she said. “At least we see each other. We couldn’t even do that in the forest.”
Quietly he said, “I don’t know what I’ll do if they separate us. There’s too much of me to go into a decline, but . . .”
Kel met his eyes wordlessly. Sooner or later Cleon would be sent away in service to the Crown, probably to deal with the growing pressures from Scanra.
“Hullo,” he said, shading his eyes to look east. “What’s this?”
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