First Test

‘And I am a terrible obeyer,’ retorted Nealan. ‘All these inconvenient arguments spring to my mind, and I just have to make them.’

‘Three,’ Wyldon said tightly.

‘Neal, shut it!’ someone whispered.

‘I could learn—’ Kel squeaked. No one heard. She cleared her throat and repeated, ‘I can learn it on my own.’

The boys turned to stare. Wyldon glanced at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’ll find my way on my own,’ Kel repeated. ‘Nobody has to show me. I’ll probably learn better, poking around.’ She knew that wasn’t the case – her father had once referred to the palace as a ‘miserable rat-warren’ – but she couldn’t let this mad boy get himself deeper into trouble on her account.

Nealan stared at her, winged brows raised.

‘When I require your opinion,’ began Wyldon, his dark eyes snapping.

‘It’s no trouble,’ Nealan interrupted. ‘None at all, Demoiselle Keladry. My lord, I apologize for my wicked tongue and dreadful manners. I shall do my best not to encourage her to follow my example.’

Wyldon, about to speak, seemed to think better of what he meant to say. He waited a moment, then said, ‘You are her sponsor, then. Now. Enough time has been wasted on foolishness. Supper.’

He strode off, pages following like ducklings in their mother’s wake. When the hall cleared, only Nealan and Keladry were left.

Nealan stared at the girl, his slanting eyes taking her in. Seeing him up close at last, Kel noticed that he had a wilful face, with high cheekbones and arched brows. ‘Believe me, you wouldn’t have liked Joren as a sponsor,’ Nealan informed her. ‘He’d drive you out in a week. With me at least you might last a while, even if I am at the bottom of Lord Wyldon’s list. Come on.’ He strode off.

Kel stayed where she was. Halfway down the hall, Nealan realized she was not behind him. When he turned and saw her still in front of her room, he sighed gustily, and beckoned. Kel remained where she was.

Finally he stomped back to her. ‘What part of “come on” was unclear, page?’

‘Why do you care if I last a week or longer?’ she demanded. ‘Queenscove is a ducal house. Mindelan’s just a barony, and a new one at that. Nobody cares about Mindelan. We aren’t related, and our fathers aren’t friends. So who am I to you?’

Nealan stared at her. ‘Direct little thing, aren’t you?’

Kel crossed her arms over her chest and waited. The talkative boy didn’t seem to have much patience. He would wear out before she did in a waiting contest.

Nealan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Look – you heard me say I’ve lived at court almost all my life, right?’

Kel nodded.

‘Well, think about that. I’ve lived at court and my father’s the chief of the realm’s healers. I’ve spent time with the queen and quite a few of the Queen’s Riders and the King’s Champion. I’ve watched Lady Alanna fight for the crown. I saw her majesty and some of her ladies fight in the Immortals War. I know women can be warriors. If that’s the life you want, then you ought to have the same chance to get it as anyone else who’s here.’ He stopped, then shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I keep forgetting I’m not in a university debate. Sorry about the speech. Can we go and eat now?’

Kel nodded again. This time, when he strode off down the hall, she trotted to keep up with him.

When they passed through an intersection of halls, Nealan pointed. ‘Note that stairwell. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s a shortcut to the mess or the classrooms. It heads straight down and ends on the lower levels, underground.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Don’t call me sir.’

‘Yessir.’

Nealan halted. ‘Was that meant to be funny?’

‘Nossir,’ Kel replied, happy to stop and catch her breath. Nealan walked as he spoke, briskly.

Nealan threw up his hands and resumed his course. Finally they entered a room filled with noise. To Kel it seemed as if every boy in the world was here, yelling and jostling around rows of long tables and benches. She came to a halt, but Nealan beckoned her to follow. He led her to stacks of trays, plates, napkins, and cutlery, grabbing what he needed. Copying him, Kel soon had a bowl of a soup thick with leeks and barley, big slices of ham, a crusty roll still hot from the oven, and saffron rice studded with raisins and almonds. She had noticed pitchers of liquids, bowls of fruit, honey pots, and platters of cheese were already on the tables.

As they stopped, looking for a place to sit, the racket faded. Eyes turned their way. Within seconds she could hear the whispers. ‘Look.’ ‘The Girl.’ ‘It’s her.’ One clear voice exclaimed, ‘Who cares? She won’t last.’

Kel bit her lip and stared at her tray. Stone, she thought in Yamani. I am stone.

Nealan gave no sign of hearing, but marched towards seats at the end of one table. As they sat across from one another, the boys closest to them moved. Two seats beside Nealan were left empty, and three next to Kel.

‘This is nice,’ Nealan remarked cheerfully. He put his food on the table before him and shoved his tray into the gap between him and the next boy. ‘Usually it’s impossible to get a bit of elbow room here.’

Someone rapped on a table. Lord Wyldon stood alone at a lectern in front of the room. The boys and Kel got to their feet as Wyldon raised his hands. ‘To Mithros, god of warriors and of truth, and to the Great Mother Goddess, we give thanks for their bounty,’ he said.

‘We give thanks and praise,’ responded his audience.

‘We ask the guidance of Mithros in these uncertain times, when change threatens all that is time-honoured and true. May the god’s light show us a path back to the virtues of our fathers and an end to uncertain times. We ask this of Mithros, god of the sun.’

‘So mote it be,’ intoned the pages.

Wyldon lowered his hands and the boys dropped into their seats.

Kel, frowning, was less quick to sit. Had Lord Wyldon been talking about her? ‘Don’t let his prayers bother you,’ Nealan told her, using his belt knife to cut his meat. ‘My father says he’s done nothing but whine about changes in Tortall since the king and queen were married. Eat. It’s getting cold.’

Kel took a few bites. After a minute she asked, ‘Nealan?’

He put down his fork. ‘It’s Neal. My least favourite aunt calls me Nealan.’

‘How did His Lordship get those scars?’ she enquired. ‘And why is his arm in a sling?’

Neal raised his brows. ‘Didn’t you know?’

If I knew, I wouldn’t ask, Kel thought irritably, but she kept her face blank.

Neal glanced at her, shook his head, and continued, ‘In the war, a party of centaurs and hurroks—’

‘Hur – what?’ asked Kel, interrupting him.

‘Hurroks. Winged horses, claws, fangs, very nasty. They attacked the royal nursery. The Stump—’

‘The what?’ Kel asked, interrupting again. She felt as if he were speaking a language she only half understood.

Neal sighed. There was a wicked gleam in his green eyes. ‘I call him the Stump, because he’s so stiff.’

He might be right, but he wasn’t very respectful, thought Kel. She wouldn’t say so, however. She wasn’t exactly sure, but probably it would be just as disrespectful to scold her sponsor, particularly one who was five years older than she was.

‘Anyway, Lord Wyldon fought off the hurroks and centaurs all by himself. He saved Prince Liam, Prince Jasson, and Princess Lianne. In the fight, the hurroks raked him. My father managed to save the arm, but Wyldon’s going to have pain from it all his life.’