by M C Dwyer
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, putting a hand on his heart. “I was afraid someone had sent assassins.”
He wasn’t serious, Nepenthe was certain, but that didn’t stop him from asking, “You mean Lord Wolfe?”
Drinian burst out laughing. “How on earth did you hear about that? It shouldn’t have made it through the rumor mill until an hour from now, at least.”
“I was in the throne room. I was trying to find you.”
Aidan was instantly sober. “Is something wrong?”
Nepenthe pulled back slightly. “No. I mean, well, Orin doesn’t have anything else for me to do. So—”
“So you’re bored?” Aidan smiled. “Fair enough. Since it’s November the king holds court most days. Do you want to come watch?”
At Nepenthe’s expression of distaste both men laughed.
“That was clear enough,” Drinian said. “But I think I can help this time. How are you with horses?”
“I’m not sure,” Nepenthe said, poking at his memories. He’d ridden well enough when he was travelling last summer, and he’d enjoyed helping to take care of Aidan’s stallion. “I think I’d like it?”
“You can give it a try, anyway.” Drinian said. “Report to the stables tomorrow morning and tell them I sent you. They’ll put you to work.”
“But training first,” Aidan said. “You’re going to need plenty of muscle for all that manure you’re going to have to shovel.”
Nepenthe heaved a longsuffering sigh and left.
He was getting stronger, he thought as he walked down the hall. While Aidan still had him running every morning, he’d added an assortment of other exercises to his regimen. When Nepenthe flexed his arm, he could feel the muscle he’d built up. Aidan had also started him with one of the shorter wooden practice swords, though mostly what he’d learned were basic lunges and blocks. It was actually Nepenthe’s least favorite part, because whenever Aidan touched him to correct his stance he’d flinch, undoing his work. Then Aidan’s temper would shorten, and by the end of it they’d be unable to speak to each other.
Nepenthe sighed. Some days he thought he was improving; others, he was still as terrified as that day Aidan had rescued him from the bandits.
He wandered the hallways for a while, but it was beginning to be uncomfortably cold in the areas that didn’t have fireplaces, so he eventually returned to his own room and curled up in front of his own fire. He fell asleep there in the chair and did not wake until dawn.
Chapter 8
“No, no—not like that,” Aidan said for the third time. “Straighten your shoulders. When you swing you need to use your hips, not just your arm.”
Nepenthe stepped back and wiped his brow with an equally sweaty forearm. The gravel in the yard had been white with frost this morning, so they had moved their practice to an indoor arena that Nepenthe hadn’t even known existed. A fire roared at one end of the space, making the room rather warmer than it needed to be for this kind of exertion.
“Like this,” Aidan said, demonstrating once again. His body moved through the combination block and lunge fluidly, and once again Nepenthe missed whatever subtlety it was that made his actions different from Nepenthe’s own.
Regardless, he attempted the move again, only to have Aidan knock the blade away with one easy blow of his own wooden sword. He retreated, wincing and shaking his stinging hand, and gave Aidan a grieved look.
“Pick up the sword,” Aidan sighed. “Do it again.”
Stifling a groan, Nepenthe picked up the sword, knowing this attempt was going to be no more successful than the last few. This time, Aidan reached to push his hips back into line, causing Nepenthe to twitch away like a rabbit that sees the shadow of a hawk.
“Spirits preserve me, boy,” Aidan cried. “What is it you think I’ll do to you?”
Nepenthe flinched, clenching his eyes closed. No other words were forthcoming, so he pried one eye open. Aidan stood expectantly, but Nepenthe had no answer to give. He didn’t know why he was afraid, nor could he remember what might have happened in the past to cause this reaction.
Aidan shook his head. “No more. Go get cleaned up and report to the stables. Maybe they’ll know what to do with you.” He put his sword back in the rack and left.
Simultaneously hurt and relieved, Nepenthe put his own wooden blade away and returned to his room. He washed up and then dug out his oldest set of clothes. There was no reason to dirty anything nicer if he truly was going to be shoveling manure.
Trudging down to the palace stables, he replayed Aidan’s final words. No more—as in, no more for the day? Or was he giving up on teaching Nepenthe all together? With a sigh, Nepenthe decided he wouldn’t blame him if he gave up completely; Nepenthe was feeling like giving up, himself.
He arrived at the stables and presented himself to the stablemaster, a friendly-looking older man with a bristly grey beard and sober blue eyes. He nodded through Nepenthe’s stumbling explanation, then put out a hand.
“Wyatt,” he said. “Nice to meet you Nepenthe.”
Nepenthe shook his hand briefly.
“We can use you. You’ll start with a shovel, just like everyone who comes here, but you can work your way up from there.” A smile briefly split his beard. “That’s what I did.” He winked at Nepenthe and turned. “Here, boy! Leave that wheelbarrow for a moment.”
The boy set down the barrow at once and turned, and Nepenthe blinked. “Alric?” Had Alric mentioned that he worked in the stables? Nepenthe wasn’t sure but thought he would have remembered it.
“You know this troublemaker?” Wyatt said in surprise.
Nepenthe ducked his head in answer.
“Yes, sir?” Alric said, winking at Nepenthe.
“None of that, brat,” Wyatt said, putting a hand on the back of Alric’s neck. “Say hello to your newest helper.” Under Wyatt’s forceful hand, Alric ducked his head in a mock bow.
“Nice to meet you, Nepenthe. Again.” He grinned.
Wyatt gave him a push. “Show him what to do. He can help you muck stalls.” To Nepenthe he said, “Alric will show you what to do. Just don’t let him lead you into trouble.” With that, he turned and left.
Alric grinned. “That’s my granddad. Don’t take him too seriously.”
Nepenthe blinked. “You mean he’s married to the head chef?”
“Yup. They’ve been looking after me since my parents died.”
After a moment of thought, Nepenthe dredged up the memory of Alric telling that story—which also dislodged the remnant of memory that said Alric had been working with the geese, not in the stables.
“What did you do to lose your other job?” he asked.
With a chuckle, Alric turned back to his abandoned wheelbarrow. “That’s a bit of a long story. We can start on some of the work while I tell you.” He handed Nepenthe a shovel and a pitchfork and picked up the handles of the barrow. “Down to the end of this row where the stall is empty,” he said, leading the way.
He showed Nepenthe how to scoop up the manure and turn the hay looking for damp spots, all the while spinning an improbable story about how he suspected the new goose girl was a princess in disguise. He’d been attempting to unmask her identity when the geese got loose and wrought havoc among one of his grandmother’s herb gardens. On top of which, the goose girl was apparently courting the blacksmith’s apprentice who took offense to Alric’s attempts to steal a lock of her golden hair—evidence, Alric protested, that she was more than she seemed. The end result was that Alric got relegated to his grandfather’s care at the bottom of the stable hierarchy.
From Alric’s unrepentant grin, Nepenthe guessed he didn’t actually mind.
They worked their way down the row of stalls, hauling away manure and spreading fresh hay. Other stablehands were busy grooming horses, and some of the ones in the green palace livery tacked up horses and delivered them to waiting Ailerons and nobles. Nepenthe watched, but did not see any of his friends. He wondered if Aidan was s
erving the king in court again, which made him wonder anew whether he’d still have a teacher in the morning.
“That’s quite a sigh for your first day shoveling horse dung,” a familiar voice said.
Nepenthe turned and gave Drinian a small smile, pausing in his scooping. “The job is great, really.”
Drinian laughed. “I don’t believe even you could get excited about moving manure.”
He shrugged. “It’s good to be useful. And I don’t mind the smell, really. I think”—he hesitated, testing the idea—“I think I used to like horses.”
“Well, I’m glad I suggested it, then. And I agree—it’s always good to have a purpose.” He gave Nepenthe a parting wave and was gone.
Alric emerged from the stall and looked after him with wide eyes. “You really are friends with the Ailerons. I thought that was just a rumor.”
“What?” Nepenthe looked at him in surprise.
“The palace rumors said you were the Ailerons’ pet; I guess it’s true.” He tugged on Nepenthe’s sleeve. “Say, could you introduce me to some of them some time?”
Nepenthe pulled away. “Why?”
“Just so I could tell the other guys I’d met them,” he said, as one stating the obvious.
“You can meet them any time you want,” Nepenthe said, struggling to understand.
Alric shook his head and whistled. “You really must be higher born than you look. Look here.” He held up his right hand, palm up. “In this one you’ve got the Ailerons, the nobles, and any of the merchant class with enough money to be desirable to any of the above.” He held up his left. “This one is everyone else. If you work your way to the top of whatever profession you’re in, you have a chance of working for the people in this hand,” he said, giving his right hand a shake.
Frowning, Nepenthe looked from one hand to the other. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said at last. “I’ve seen the Ailerons interacting with those people you grouped in your left hand all the time. No one is stopping you from meeting the Ailerons.” He considered for a moment, trying to remember what he’d been told so many months ago. “You could even become an Aileron, if you have some skill that the king needs.”
Alric looked skeptical and picked up his shovel. “I doubt the king needs someone who’s handy with a manure shovel.”
Nepenthe’s lips quirked slightly. “Maybe not. But Drinian and the others wouldn’t be embarrassed to know you. Come with me after dinner and I’ll prove it.”
Still doubtful, Alric gazed at Nepenthe for a moment. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll come along, and we’ll see which of us is right.” He grinned. “But in the meantime, there’s still one more row of stalls to clean.”
Nepenthe groaned but followed him down the row.
Alric tried to rush Nepenthe through supper, but Nepenthe refused to be hurried. “The Ailerons eat with the king. They won’t be done yet, so there’s no point in rushing.” He took another bite of his roast chicken and wiped away the juice that ran down his chin. “Besides, it’s too cold to stand around until the fire gets going.”
“Don’t you have a coat?”
Nepenthe shook his head and held up his arm. “I’ve just been layering.” He’d raided the seamstress’ ragbag when fall had set in, looking for warmer clothing, but apart from some long-sleeved cotton shirts, he hadn’t found much. Eventually, he knew, he’d have to ask Aidan for help, but he was reluctant—first, to be a bother; and second, because he was feeling a bit abandoned and was morbidly curious as to who would be the first to notice his need. He hadn’t expected it to be Alric.
“You need a coat,” Alric said. “If you think it’s cold now, just you wait till January.”
“I’ll get one,” Nepenthe promised.
He finished his chicken, licked his fingers clean, and put his dishes away. Alric followed behind, hopping with impatience.
“I thought you didn’t think the Ailerons would care to meet you?” Nepenthe said.
Alric grinned. “I don’t. But I would be happy to be proved wrong.”
Nepenthe snorted and led him outside. Mae was the first familiar face he saw, and he approached gravely.
“Evening, Penthe,” she said with a smile. “How have you been?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he replied. “I wanted to introduce someone to you, and I’ll apologize in advance.” There was a snort from Alric behind him, which he ignored. “This is Alric.”
“Nice to meet you, Alric. Are you any relation to Stablemaster Wyatt?”
Alric said cautiously, “He’s my grandfather. How did you know?”
Mae smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “You look like him.”
With an exaggerated groan, Alric turned away. “Nepenthe, I don’t want to meet any more of your friends.”
Mae laughed, and Nepenthe gave a somewhat maliciously satisfied smile and dragged him off to the entrance where he’d seen Lira and Charl enter with linked arms.
“This is Alric,” he said without preamble. “He thinks Ailerons are too high and mighty to talk to servants.”
Alric’s face flushed a deeper red in the firelight and he gave Nepenthe a dirty look. “That’s not what I—”
“Really?” Lira said, and flung an arm around Alric’s shoulders, giving it a squeeze. “Let’s teach him otherwise.”
Nepenthe bowed mockingly and turned away, ignoring Alric’s pleas for help.
Alone again, Nepenthe made his way to the indoor training arena. It was lit with several chandeliers, although the fire had gone out, and a few men and women were practicing in the coolness of the evening.
He stretched, warming up a bit, and retrieved one of the wooden swords. He tried once more, determined to master the move Aidan had showed him that morning, but even without Aidan’s frustrated commentary, he could tell he wasn’t doing it right. He scowled at the blade and scuffed a foot against the rough floor.
“May I?” A voice spoke near his elbow and he whirled, startled.
“Tad.” He breathed out. “What do you mean?”
“Here,” he said, plucking the sword from Nepenthe’s hand and demonstrating the move. It was just as fluid and effortless as when Aidan had done it, but this time, Tad did it twice. The second time he broke it down into incremental steps and described exactly what he was doing. “Here the weight is on the back leg. I shift forward, bringing the sword with me, and shift my weight at the same time. Keep your chest lifted, and see where my hips are lined up?” He did the move once more, not quite as slowly, and Nepenthe watched, his mouth a round O.
“Once more,” Nepenthe begged, and as Tad ran through the sequence again, he copied his every move.
They ran through it in unison several more times, until Nepenthe was certain he’d mastered it.
“Now, with the sword,” Tad said, presenting it to him as though it was a real blade.
Nepenthe took it, drew a deep breath, and ran through the sequence at the proper speed.
It was right; he could tell. A slow grin spread across his face and he did it again.
“That was right, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Tad said with a smile. “Yes, it was.”
They spent another hour in the arena as Tad gave him pointers on what to expect from the various forms Aidan was going to teach him. More importantly, he told Nepenthe what questions he should ask.
“Sir Aidan is an excellent swordsman, but much of his talent is natural. He doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing; he just does it.” He smiled a bit wryly. “A desirable skill in a warrior, no doubt, but less so in a teacher. Ask him which foot the weight should be on, and watch which way he turns his hips—that will go a long way towards helping you master the forms.”
“Thank you,” Nepenthe said fervently. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Tad smiled and bowed slightly. “It was no trouble. Good luck!”
Nepenthe smiled and nodded, then left the arena practically skipping. He’d done it. He’d really done i
t. Aidan would be so impressed.
His steps slowed. Would Aidan appear tomorrow? Or had he given up? He could go ask him, but as he ran through the probable course of that conversation in his mind, he shied away. No, he would just go to the arena tomorrow as though nothing had happened and hope for the best.
Chapter 9
Tad was already in the arena when Nepenthe arrived the next morning. He nodded a greeting to Nepenthe who nodded back and began his own warm-up.
By the time Aidan appeared, he’d started on the pushups, and by the time Aidan had finished warming up as well, Nepenthe was ready. He held the sword in the beginning position and briefly sought out Tad with his eyes.
Tad had paused on his way out the door and when he met Nepenthe’s eyes, gave a brief nod and touched his forehead in salute.
Nepenthe took a steadying breath, made sure his feet were set, and ran through the entire sequence they’d been working on. He finished the final lunge and held his position for a moment, panting slightly. He turned back to Aidan, grinning.
“Good,” Aidan said. “Now, the next sequence looks like this.”
As Aidan ran through another equally complicated set of moves, Nepenthe’s lips thinned in irritation. He followed Aidan with narrowed eyes, ignoring the footwork and the moves he was supposed to be learning, until Aidan finished and turned back.
“What?” Aidan said, looking at him curiously.
Nepenthe could find no words, but clenched the wooden sword tightly. Something was building in his chest, but he couldn’t have said whether it was anger, laughter, or—spirits forbid—tears. It emerged as an inarticulate strangled sound, and he stalked to the door, very deliberately set his sword in the rack, and left.
Tad was waiting in the hallway. He took one look at Nepenthe’s face and let out a strangled sound of his own that might have been a choked-off laugh.
“I apologize,” he said with a low bow. “I was not laughing at you. If you will excuse me, I need to speak to Sir Aidan.”
Keeping his mouth tightly closed on anything that might have tried to escape, Nepenthe threw his hands up in the air and walked away. As he turned the corner, Tad’s deep voice echoed from the arena, “Aidan, you’re an idiot.”