“I heard the story. It wasn’t your fault. You did what you were supposed to.”
“I had to leave,” was all he could say. She was right, but his sins were too grievous. Without Master Denbar there, there was no way he could stay in Lacanja.
“You won’t get promoted to Adept if you’re here. Not this year.”
She didn’t know. “That’s why there’s three years of Candidacy,” Dayne said. “For most people.”
That came out more bitter than he intended. Dayne put the Incentive back on the shelf.
“One throw is all you have?”
His hand hadn’t even left the shelf. He took the Incentive up and hurled it at her, aiming for her knee. Then he grabbed a second Incentive, and rocketed it at the center of her body.
The second one he threw with everything he had in his arm.
The two balls flew true, but Amaya planted her staff and pulled her legs up, twisting out of the way of them both. She landed running at Dayne, jabbing the staff exactly where his head had been a moment earlier. He rolled out of her way, diving toward the wall of shields.
This wasn’t the exercise he had planned for the morning, but by the Saints, it would do quite nicely.
She executed four perfect attacks—attacks that never touched him, since his dodges were just as perfect—before he got a shield. Now he was ready.
“That all you have, Adept Tyrell?” Her staff came in close, but he blocked it, pinning her weapon against the wall.
She tried to smash her forehead against his chest—he was far too tall for her to reach his face—but he opened out, forcing her off balance. He pushed her down and away, wrenching the staff out of her grip as she dropped to the floor. She dove into the push, rolling away from him, but now unarmed. Not that she would stay that way long in this room. She went for two handsticks and came back at him.
“Was promotion that easy last year and I missed it?” Dayne asked, dodging her blows.
“Every Candidacy is different,” she said with almost as much venom. “We all thought going with Master Denbar would have been the sweetest plum.”
“I wish it had been someone else.”
“No,” she shot back, coming in with a variant of a standard attack sequence. “You do not get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Wallow in your blame and misery,” she said. “You were the one he chose, and—”
“And now he’s dead, it’s my fault!”
“Did you stab him?” They were now in a rhythm of attacks and blocks.
“I may as well have.”
“Dayne,” she snarled. “Did you kill him, or did you merely fail to save him?”
As if the distinction mattered. “For a Tarian—”
She pounced toward him. “No, not that sewage. No one tried harder to beat that out of your skull than Master Denbar.”
Dayne shoved her away, hard. “And now he’s gone. My fault.”
He hurled the shield at her—normally an incredibly stupid tactic, but with multiple shields on the wall next to him, there was no real loss. Surprisingly, the shield hit her square in the chest, knocking her off her feet. He was certain she’d dodge it. There was no reason why she wouldn’t be able to dodge a thrown shield. For a split second, his heart raced up to his throat. He had thrown too hard, too strong. He could have . . .
He hadn’t. She flipped back onto her feet, landing in a ready stance.
“Are you all ri—”
“Don’t even,” she snarled. She was winded, holding one arm close to her body. The hit had hurt her more than she would admit. “Let’s go on.”
If that was what she wanted. Warily, he picked up her staff and tossed it to her.
“Really, though. No one makes Adept in their first year of Candidacy.” He took up another shield. “It doesn’t happen.”
She launched into a furious offensive. He first thought it was in rage, not worthy of a Tarian Adept, but he quickly saw she was moving perfectly through her sequence patterns. Despite her obvious anger, she was in absolute control of her weapon and her body.
As was he. Not one strike landed.
“You think I don’t know that?” she snarled. “You think it isn’t whispered by every other Adept and Candidate?” Thrust to his solar plexus, dodged. Swing around across his left side, blocked. “Even the Initiates!”
Despite her excellent form, she was in pure attack mode, leaving herself open on several occasions. Dayne didn’t press the advantage, didn’t attack. Only dodge, block, retreat. She kept at it, cycling through advanced sequences faster and faster.
Dayne jumped back to avoid a surprise sweep when she broke out of sequence. She threw the staff down on the floor.
“What is wrong with you?” she snapped. Sweat was pouring off her brow, and she held her hand against her side.
“Why is something wrong?” Dayne asked. “I thought we were . . .”
“My left side was open, you didn’t strike. My knees were vulnerable, you didn’t strike. I all but presented my bare throat to you, and you didn’t take one attack.”
“I threw the shield,” Dayne said. “I think I may have broken your ribs with it.”
“You may have,” she said.
“And I didn’t want to—”
“Blazes, Dayne!” she shouted. “The last thing I need is for you to coddle me.”
“I’m not—” Dayne started, but he was interrupted by the sound of more people coming into the training room.
Amaya stormed off to the exit.
“Amaya,” he called out. “I don’t want—”
She was gone.
Not that he really could have told her, explained why. She wouldn’t understand.
He wasn’t coddling her. He would have done the same sparring against anyone else. He had only thrown the Incentives and the shield as hard as he had because he was confident she would be able to defend herself.
Once she had been hit, he didn’t want to risk anything else. He knew damn well that at his strength, with his skill, he needed to be more vigilant than anyone else.
He was lucky she had only been injured.
Lenick Benedict had only been injured. He was lucky he hadn’t killed the boy. It wasn’t from a lack of trying. Master Denbar had been right about that. He had to be more careful.
Dayne hung up the shield, and then picked up the other weapons and Incentives. No need to leave the practice room a mess.
An hour later, after the course of stretches and calisthenics he had originally intended, Dayne went to the dining hall. Tables were mostly filled with Initiates, Candidates, Adepts, and Masters all segregating themselves by their rank. Dayne saw where he ought to sit, with other Candidates. He knew many of them from his Initiacy, but after the ugliness with Amaya, he wasn’t sure what to expect from any of them.
But the last thing he needed was to be afraid to sit down and eat. That would not be worthy of a Tarian.
A hand clapped down on his shoulder. Dayne immediately recognized Aldric, a third-year Candidate, and the only Tarian almost as tall as he was. “Good to see you, Heldrin,” Aldric said. “You got here just in time for Trials.”
“I suspected as much,” Dayne said, turning just enough so Aldric’s hand would naturally fall off his shoulder, without making it look like he was trying to pull away. Aldric had an oily charm that always troubled Dayne. “I was met by an Initiate who is worried about Second-Year Trials.”
“Which one?” Aldric looked over to the table of Initiates, his attention clearly focused on the group of young women there.
“Fendall,” Dayne said, nodding at Jerinne. Jerinne, for her part, was not engaging with her fellow Initiates. She ate her breakfast in distraction, nose deep in a book. Dayne was more than a little reminded of himself in his Initiacy.
“Right,”
Aldric said. “Should be fun to see them sweat through their Quiet Days, hmm?”
“Those start today, right,” Dayne confirmed. With no Initiates in Lacanja, he had forgotten the exact schedule. Initiates were granted three Quiet Days where they were given no training or instruction, to rest and prepare for their Trials. That explained why the practice room was relatively empty.
“They do,” Aldric said. “Price and Richens and I were planning—”
Dayne didn’t bother to listen to the rest—he was sure it involved a mean-spirited prank, knowing Aldric. He didn’t care. Grandmaster Orren had given him a duty, even if it was an informal one. He walked over and crouched next to Jerinne, who almost jumped out of her chair on Dayne’s approach.
“First Quiet Day before your Trials, right?”
“Right.” Jerinne spoke with hesitation. She had probably already been on the receiving end of one of Aldric’s games.
“I heard about an event happening later this morning. Come with me, and I’ll help you with your Shield Sequences later.”
Jerinne glanced around, as if she was expecting a prank to reveal itself. “What sort of event?”
“A museum opening. Should be some important people there. And you might learn something.”
“Really?”
Dayne nodded. “Meet me in the front hall in dress uniform after breakfast.” He gently clapped Jerinne on the shoulder and took his own seat at an empty table.
* * *
Jerinne was shocked to find Dayne actually in his dress uniform. She had thought the museum invitation was an elaborate hazing ritual that Dayne had cooked up with the other Candidates. Aldric had been whispering to Dayne right before he approached, and Aldric was by far the worst of that lot. But there Dayne was, waiting patiently in crisp grays and cap, sword at his belt and shield gleaming on his arm. Jerinne had never seen a shield that well polished.
Jerinne started to suspect that it was Dayne himself that was being hazed.
At the very least she no longer felt as self-conscious about wearing her own dress uniform. The outfit—bordering on costume—was elaborate and impractical. The coat alone was almost long enough to be a dress.
“Why are we wearing these, Dayne?” she asked.
“I understand there will be some members of Parliament, some nobility. We’re representing the Tarian Order, so we should look the part with respectability and honor.”
“Did we get orders to do this?” Jerinne asked. Technically, the Masters and Adepts wouldn’t give any orders on the Quiet Days, but they would give strong suggestions. And Candidates . . . would be a problem. Jerinne swore to every saint that when she was a Candidate, she would never do that.
Looking at Dayne, proudly wearing the dress, there was no way he was the type of Candidate who would do that sort of thing. He looked like the perfect model for the Tarians. This was the guy who bucked convention for a torrid fling with Madam Tyrell? It was almost impossible to believe.
“Not at all,” Dayne said. “If there were orders, it wouldn’t be just you and me. I was going to suggest to Grand Master Orren to have more of us there, but I couldn’t find him. Come along.”
Dayne led the way out into the street. Jerinne followed close, feeling less conspicuous about the stares of passersby when she was near Dayne. Dayne nodded and waved and said “Good morning” to most everyone they passed, which seemed to startle people.
“Is that how it is in Lacanja?” Jerinne asked.
“How what is?” Dayne asked.
“Greeting strangers as they pass by. I guess it’s a friendlier city than Maradaine.”
Dayne chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I stood out there as well.”
“I think you stand out anywhere,” Jerinne said. “Why more of us?”
“It would have been a sight, don’t you think?” Dayne said. “Imagine it, a score of Tarians marching down the avenue to the museum in full dress. A whole parade. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
Jerinne could imagine it, but what she saw in her head surely didn’t match Dayne’s vision. “Or frightening. Twenty armed men and women, in matching uniform? People might get the wrong message.”
“Wrong? We’re Tarians, Jerinne. We’re the Shield of the People. The people know our order has only ever—”
“I don’t know if people know that,” Jerinne said. “I mean—excuse me, sir?” She approached a man walking by—dockworker steve or shipbuilder by his build and smell. “Could I trouble you for a moment?”
The man looked apprehensive, his eyes darting between Jerinne and Dayne. “What can I do for you, my graces?”
“No, sir,” Dayne said, “We’re not—”
Jerinne cut him off, holding up one finger. “If you would be so kind, could you tell me who we are?”
The man bit his lip. “Your graces don’t know who you are?”
Jerinne shook her head. “I’m sorry, good sir, I wasn’t clear. We are in our right minds, of course.”
“Of course,” the man said, though he didn’t seem convinced.
“What I meant to ask was, do you recognize what we are, by our uniform and arms?”
“Oh,” the man said, his brow screwing up in thought. “You’re not navy men, I know. Or army, I’m pretty sure.”
“True,” Jerinne said, glancing over at Dayne. The big guy looked out of sorts.
The man snapped his fingers. “You’re King’s Marshals, aren’t you?” He suddenly turned pale. “You’re not here for me, are you?”
“No, sir,” Jerinne said. “Sorry to have troubled you. Good day.” She gave the man a quick salute, and the man scurried off.
“That doesn’t—” Dayne started.
“We’re a block away from our chapterhouse, Dayne,” Jerinne said. “To most people, armed folk in uniform are all the same.”
Dayne looked quite cross. Jerinne started to sweat, her throat tightening. She may have gone too far. She was only an Initiate, and Dayne a Candidate.
“This is why we need to be out here, don’t you see? This is why we need to excite people. And draw that excitement to the history museum. If the people learn—”
He stopped short, his eyes narrowing, focusing on something far off. Before Jerinne could turn to see, Dayne was running. It took a moment for Jerinne to spot what had Dayne’s attention. A block away, there was an overturned cart with a man pinned underneath, and another man running from it.
Dayne was going to the cart, so Jerinne focused on the man running away. He had a wad of crumpled paper in one hand, likely notes of exchange. The other hand held a knife.
Thief.
Jerinne drew her sword and charged. The man was about to dash into a dark alley when Jerinne closed the distance, blocking the man’s escape.
Sword and shield in ready stance, Jerinne barked out in her deepest voice, “Hold fast!”
The man jumped in with his knife, quicker than Jerinne expected. She parried the blade, but the thief had moved in too close for Jerinne to do a proper riposte, so she pulled back.
The man barreled onto Jerinne’s shield, forcing her to take his weight. Jerinne’s attention was still on the knife, which was about to slice her belly.
Jerinne rolled back, dragging the man with her and flipping him over. The man crashed into a brick wall and dropped to the ground, coughing. Jerinne got back on her feet, and with a dismissive swipe, knocked the knife out of the man’s hand. The thief wasn’t in any condition to fight back. Jerinne sheathed her sword and relieved the thief of the stolen bills.
She turned back to the scene of the crime. Dayne crouched next to the man under the overturned cart. The cart had pinned the victim, surely crushing him.
“Come on,” Jerinne yelled to the people around. “Perhaps together we can—”
No one else moved, as the crowd on the street stood transf
ixed as Dayne grabbed hold of the cart with his massive hands. With barely a sound of effort, he righted the cart and freed the man.
Dayne knelt back down, “It’s all right, sir,” he said calmly. “How bad is it?”
“Think . . . leg . . .” the man wheezed out.
“Call for Yellowshields,” Dayne said to the crowd. Some of them broke from their spell and ran off.
Jerinne knelt down by them. “I got your money back, sir,” Jerinne said, holding out the bills.
“Thank you,” the man managed. His eyes weren’t focused much on Jerinne or Dayne. Dayne took the bills from Jerinne’s hands and put them in the man’s coat pocket.
“The thief?” Dayne asked.
“Over there,” Jerinne said. “I took care of him.”
“Does he need the Yellowshields as well?” Dayne asked. At first, Jerinne thought Dayne was making a joke, but he gave the appearance of real concern for the thief’s wellbeing.
“Bruised and winded is all,” Jerinne said. “I don’t think I really hurt him.”
“Good,” Dayne said, clearly relieved.
Constabulary and Yellowshields both arrived. The constables groused and gave ugly looks to the two of them, and the Yellowshields helped the injured man onto their stretcher. Dayne approached the Yellowshields, spoke warmly with one and shook his hand, and then let them do their work.
“Old friend?” Jerinne asked.
“Caskly,” Dayne said. “He was in our Initiacy cohort, but he didn’t make it past second year.”
“So now he’s a Yellowshield?” Was that what Tarian washouts did? Join the city loyalty?
“It’s quite fitting, actually,” Dayne said. “Not just because Caskly was more of a healer than a warrior. Did you know the Yellowshields actually evolved from the Ascepian Order?”
“No, I didn’t.” Jerinne could never keep the disbanded Orders straight. Even though they were taught the history of the various warrior orders of Druthal, they weren’t expected to memorize them.
At least Jerinne didn’t think so. Maybe that was part of the Second-Year Trials.
Dayne nodded, but offered no further comment. After a few minutes, both the thief and his victim were taken away. Dayne watched the wagons roll off, his expression wistful.
The Way of the Shield Page 6