by Jocelyn Fox
Finn firmly told himself that he did not care how Andraste decided to change her clothing. He steadfastly checked the tightness of his sword belt and unlaced his own vest, the summer heat now much more apparent since they were not cantering on their mounts. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a flash of bare white arms as she pulled her gown over her head; he turned his back before he saw any more.
Rye had adopted the habit of wearing breeches beneath her flowing split skirts, and her white undershirt served as her sparring shirt. She had no issue with stripping away her extraneous layers standing in the open. It had startled Finn the first time he’d seen her casually pull her shirt over her head and then slide down her diaphanous pants over her hips, but now the sight was familiar. Sometimes she wore a vest cut and embroidered in the Northern style; today she donned a scarlet vest worked with silver glyphs. She unconcernedly rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and then slid an axe into a loop on her belt, where it settled as though it belonged there.
“Not many targets around here,” she said, “but still, we’ll see if you’ve been practicing.” Without waiting for a reply, she tossed a second axe to Ramel, who caught it deftly by the handle. They walked toward the river in search of a suitable target, eventually finding a log at the river’s edge that Rye declared would have to suit.
“I suppose we shall have to find our own target, then,” said Andraste as she unwrapped her bow.
“I doubt you’ll be shooting arrows today,” said Finn.
“And why would that be?” the Princess asked. She uncoiled a bowstring from its packet of oiled parchment, inspected it and set one loop into the notch at the end of the bow’s stave. Though he was less than enthusiastic about this lesson, Finn nonetheless stepped forward to help her string the bow. It was a tricky motion that required strength and agility in handling the stave and string. But before he could even ask if she needed help, Andraste braced the bow against one foot, applied tension and deftly slid the string into place.
“Because you must practice drawing an arrow from your quiver, nocking it, and bringing it up to aim,” replied Finn. It was easy enough to learn how to string a bow, he told himself; he was through with glossing over the difficult parts of training. If Andraste wanted to be taught how to fight, he would teach her as the pages and squires were taught. To his surprise, she didn’t speak a word of argument, merely nodding and slinging the strap of her quiver over her shoulder. “Some archers wear their quiver at their hip, on the opposite side of their sword,” he continued. “In training, you can try both locations and see which suits you best.”
The Princess nodded and listened silently to his explanation of the fundamentals of archery. He emphasized the necessity of attention to detail, telling her that the basic motions of drawing an arrow and nocking it swiftly and correctly could be the difference between an accurate shot and a failed one, especially in the heat of battle. “Though you’ll never experience battle,” he amended quickly. She merely smiled and waited for him to continue.
Finn set her a simple drill, a progression meant to ingrain the fundamental movements into her memory. “This is called hundreds,” he told her.
“Oh, that’s a good one!” called Ramel from where he was throwing axes with Rye. “And by good, I mean terrible!”
Andraste smiled at Ramel’s comment, but then sobered as she listened to Finn’s instructions. The first component was raising the bow to the ready position one hundred times. The second component was raising the bow and then nocking an arrow one hundred times, and the third component was completing the movement to the moment before release, the fletching of the nocked arrow brushing against her cheek as she drew the string.
Finn watched her first few repetitions of the first movement and corrected small flaws; then he left her to complete the remaining hundred repetitions of bringing up the bow. He walked down toward the water, watching Rye and Ramel compete in axe throwing. His squire and the Princess’s lady were nearly the same height, but Ramel’s muscled form differentiated him from the lithe woman. Yet Finn admired her speed and precision as she sent an axe flashing through the air to bite into the log.
“I’ve heard that the ulfdrengr sometimes fight with an axe in one hand and a short sword in the other,” he said, crossing his arms as he watched Ramel prepare for his throw.
“Oh, yes, and they’ll spar like that too,” said Rye. “Though two blades mean no shield.”
“It’s a trade-off,” agreed Finn. Not for the first time, he wondered just how much Rye knew of the Northern fighting style. He wouldn’t want to challenge her to a fight in which she chose the weapons, because he suspected she could beat him at throwing an axe. With a glance to make sure that Andraste was still working on her drill, Finn said conversationally, “Do they really treat the girls no different than the boys when they train in the North?”
Rye grinned and slid her axe into the loop on her belt. “Of course, they treat them differently. If a girl wants to keep up with the boys, she must work harder. She has to understand that there’s no mercy just because she has different equipage than the male fighters.” She raised an eyebrow to clarify her bawdy meaning.
“So, then, they’re treated worse?” Ramel hefted his axe and looked at Rye.
“That’s not what I said. They’re treated different, but for a purpose,” Rye replied. “They add some different exercises to strengthen the girls’ bodies. If they’re wolf-chosen, that helps, but there are still differences between men and women in strength. The ulfdrengr train their women in such a way as to close that gap as much as they can.”
“I understand that approach,” said Finn thoughtfully. For some reason, he felt that he owed Rye the full truth, perhaps because he remembered her when she tried to pass as a page at the feast before the Queen, her hair already defiantly cut short. “I favor letting women train with the pages and squires, if they wish to try for a sword.”
Rye grinned, her pale eyes dancing. “I wouldn’t have guessed that the stoic, mysterious Knight Finnead was so softhearted.”
“Quite the opposite of softhearted,” Finn replied. “I believe in keeping the same standards for everyone. It would be quite difficult for a woman to pass what is so challenging for most men.”
“But the ones who do will be fair deadly,” said Rye in a low voice with a grin.
“I think you mean fair and deadly,” rejoined Ramel, walking back to the mark as he hefted his axe in one hand.
“There’s no use in being fair in battle,” retorted Rye without skipping a beat.
“I meant beautiful, not even-handed,” said Ramel.
Rye smiled a little. “I know. And neither are useful at all.”
Ramel feigned rearranging the haphazard curls of his copper hair. “What do you mean, there’s no use in being beautiful?” He widened his eyes and blinked at Rye in imitation of the coquettish looks employed by the younger Court ladies. Rye chuckled and Finn allowed himself to smile.
“Style your curls every morning and wear some tight breeches and you’ll fit right in with the Court dandies,” said Rye. In one fluid motion, she slid her axe from her belt, pivoted and threw the axe unerringly into the chalked circle on the log. Ramel grinned and then turned and released his axe in a quick throw, his blade biting into the wood only a hand’s breadth from Rye’s axe.
“Flirty looks aren’t the only thing you can copy,” said Rye approvingly. Ramel bowed with an exaggerated flourish. Then Rye shifted her gaze over Finn’s shoulder and nodded toward the Princess. “Looks like she’s moved on to the second set.”
Finn turned back to Andraste and found that she had indeed completed her first set of one hundred repetitions. He watched her take a moment to stretch, holding her bow in one hand while touching her toes, and he had to admit that her body was not the slender, waiflike form favored by many ladies of the Court. She was nowhere near as muscular as Rye, but there was strength apparent in her limbs. He tried to consider her objectively, even as a part of hi
s mind noted the way her body curved in certain places. She glanced at him but said nothing as she raised her bow and began her second set of one hundred, drawing the single blunted arrow from the quiver at her hip and nocking it, then raising the bow.
Finn watched and made a few small corrections, as before, and then stepped away to do some of his own drills. He drew his sword and ran through the drills that he’d first learned as a page. The simplest drills required no conscious thought, but he did bring his mind to his motions every now and again to check his form. As he progressed to the more complex drills learned during his years as a squire, the movements warmed his muscles and he felt his heart rate increase, a welcome exertion that helped to dispel thoughts of the past. As in the days after Kieran’s death, he had turned back to his duties as a Knight to distract him from the heartache of losing Shaleh. It was even more maddening because the wood nymph was still very much alive, he thought as he sent his blade into a complex pattern of attacks and counter-attacks. Only the Queen’s poisonous words kept him from riding into the woods, and, perhaps unknowingly, Mab had also taken his visits to Kieran’s grave. It was not the custom of their people to mark gravesites, but somehow Finn felt closer to his friend when he sat close to the place where he’d drawn his last breath. Finn clenched his jaw and launched into a fast, complicated drill, waiting for the burning in his legs and arms to chase away the anger simmering in his chest.
At the end of the movements, the sorrow of losing both Shaleh and Kieran still threatened to choke him, even though he felt sweat sliding down his back. He stood with his sword drawn and controlled his breathing, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to burn away the knot of emotion lodged just behind his breastbone. He glanced at his charger and dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to him; no headlong gallop could do what a session of challenging drills could not, and he couldn’t leave the Princess unguarded. He took a deep breath and heard his own low growl of frustration as though from a distance. Peripherally, he noted that the Princess had stopped her drills and gazed at him with that maddeningly empathetic look.
“Are you finished with your last round?” he asked, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
The understanding in her eyes only deepened, but she answered steadily. “No.”
He pointed at her with his sword. “Discipline. That’s the first rule of training. You do the task set before you. Start your third round.”
She swallowed and then said quickly, “It just looks as though you’re…upset.”
Finn felt the blood draining from his face, his expression crystallizing into a smooth mask that hid the whirling maelstrom of emotions in his chest. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t want her to feel sympathy for him. He was no pretty plaything to be bandied about at will. A thousand sharp replies filled his mind, but he pushed them all aside. “Start your third round, or do not ask me to train you again,” he said, his voice as taut as string on her bow.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Ramel’s voice came from behind Finn.
“Sir, I could use a sparring session.” His squire didn’t make it a question, and Finn knew Ramel would be ready. The Knight whirled and met his squire’s blunt training blade with a ferocious attack, losing himself in the intensity of the skirmish and pushing away the sharp twinge of regret that slid into him when he saw the flash of hurt in Andraste’s eyes.
Chapter 23
Ramel bit back a groan as he pulled his shirt over his head and surveyed the bruises blossoming across his ribs and shoulders. He nodded in satisfaction; he’d guessed from the tension in the Knight’s shoulders and the tightly controlled tenor of his words that Knight Finnead had needed a cathartic sparring session. His bruises and aching muscles were testament to the fact that his master judged him skilled enough to handle a nearly full-speed match – Finnead hadn’t held much back, though he still adhered to the safety rules drilled into every squire from the moment they were handed their first practice blade.
Ramel had been enjoying the afternoon, honing his axe throwing with Rye and bantering with the Northern-trained woman who was still an enigma to him. He’d been debating with himself as to whether Finnead would allow him to escort Rye on a ride alone, and he’d also been thinking about the details of his squire’s oath. He couldn’t lie with a woman, true, but what exactly was the definition of chaste? Every few years, a squire was formally reprimanded for pushing the limits of his oath, but most of those instances had also included some element of scandal. But then again, was Rye even truly interested in him as a woman would be interested in a man? Or did she just look at him fondly, like a younger brother? He’d been turning these questions over in his mind when Rye had slid her axe into her belt and strode quickly up the riverbank toward the Princess and Knight Finnead.
The Princess, facing Knight Finnead, had worn such an expression of sympathy that Ramel had cringed mentally as he’d closed the distance to the Knight. If there was anything Finnead despised, it was being the object of another’s pity. The Princess had replied with a single word to a question posed by Finnead, and then Ramel had drawn close enough to hear their voices. He had recognized Finnead’s tone as one that he’d heard many times when the Knight was correcting him: not unkind but still firm, the voice of an instructor correcting a student. But as his master continued speaking, Ramel had detected an undercurrent of anger in his words.
“Discipline. That’s the first rule of training. You do the task set before you. Start your third round.”
The Princess had hesitated, and Ramel fervently hoped she wouldn’t say whatever it was that occurred to her.
The Princess’s low words carried well enough for him to hear.
“It just looks as though you’re…upset.”
Ramel had cursed under his breath and lengthened his quick stride into a lope. Finnead looked like one of the fleet faehal that the Knights and Guards raced against one another, coiled and ready to spring.
“Start your third round, or do not ask me to train you again,” Knight Finnead said, his voice low and tight with a control that spoke of deep anger. Ramel took a deep breath and drew his practice blade from its sheath.
“Sir, I could use a sparring session.” He tried to make it sound firmer than a polite suggestion, and the Knight had welcomed it, whirling to start the match without even a word, his blade already a blur of silver and his blue eyes flashing darkly. Knight Finnead had beaten Ramel solidly three times, but the squire had lasted admirably long against each onslaught, taking several hard blows without complaint. If Knight Finnead needed a violent sparring session to release some of the emotions that he held so tightly, Ramel was willing to bear a few bruises as the price.
And in any case, he thought, as he prodded the worst bruise on his ribs, some of the squires alluded to worse punishment than Finnead had ever meted out. If this was the worst that his master ever inflicted – bruises equivalent to a tough day in the training yards – then Ramel counted himself lucky. Satisfied that he didn’t have any cracked ribs, he tossed his shirt onto the bed and padded over to the washbasin. The cold water soothed his aching body as he washed. He still hadn’t been assigned a roommate, and he’d given up on asking Knight Balaron about it. The training master sometimes did things for strange reasons, and Ramel thought that living alone was somehow supposed to be part of his training as a squire…though sometimes he wondered if Knight Finnead had spoken to Knight Balaron. Knight Finnead didn’t go out of his way to extend friendship to other Knights, and most concluded that it was because of his grief over losing Squire Kieran.
As they’d ridden back to Darkhill, Ramel working hard not to wince at the jostling of his fresh bruises, Finnead had told his squire that he wouldn’t be dining in the Hall tonight, and thus Ramel would have the night to study and rest. It hadn’t escaped Ramel’s notice that Finnead spoke loud enough for the Princess to hear. He was under no illusion that his night off was any sort of recompense for the brutal sparring session.
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A knock sounded at Ramel’s chamber door. He grabbed a cloth and dried himself as he walked over to the door and opened it.
Murtagh raised his eyebrows. “Well, good thing I decided to visit tonight.” He walked past Ramel and set down his satchel on the table. “What if I’d been a lady? You would’ve scandalized me by answering the door half-dressed.”
Ramel grinned crookedly. “You know as well as I do that no ladies visit the squire’s barracks.”
“Well, except for that one time…” Murtagh smiled conspiratorially as they both remembered the gut-wrenching anxiety of escorting the disguised Princess through the barracks after Finnead’s gauntlet.
“No ladies visit the squire’s barracks for any good reason,” amended Ramel.
Murtagh chuckled. “I think I know what you mean when you say good.” He opened his satchel and began unpacking dried herbs, some tied together with a bit of string and some placed in little pouches. “Sit, and let me teach you this new poultice I learned from one of the healers.”
Ramel pulled out a chair at the table and sat obediently. Murtagh had much more time to spend learning the nuances of more advanced healing, and the Walker apprentices were encouraged to supplement their skills much like the squires.
“Tell me you learned this from Arianna,” he said with a grin as Murtagh moved about the room, putting water over the fire to heat and measuring out herbs into the mixing bowl.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” replied Murtagh without looking at his friend.
Ramel narrowed his eyes and smiled slyly. “Tell me you learned something else from Arianna.” His smile expanded into a grin as he watched Murtagh suppress a smile.
“Well,” Murtagh said, “I really think it was a, ah, mutually beneficial experience.” He shrugged in an attempt at feigning nonchalance.