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She knew a dismissal when she heard it—and this was not the dismissal she had expected. In her rush to get to her feet, she almost knocked her chair over. Somehow she managed to bow and leave the mess hall without tripping. Her friends waited outside.
"What did he want?" demanded Neal. "You were in there forever!"
Kel sagged against the wall. "He wanted to hear about the fight, about how we handled those bandits."
"Gods," mumbled Faleron, covering his face.
"I told him how you led us to the cave, and kept blowing the horn for help," Kel said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. ’’And how Neal and Prosper made it hard to see us, and what we all did in the fight. And he mentioned the Yamanis, and then he told me I could go."
"Better you than me," commented Merric, shaking his head. "Talking to royalty makes me sweat. We’d better get to that book Master Yayin gave us if we’re to read the first chapter by morning."
"There’s something I don’t understand," remarked Seaver as they headed down the hall. "Why assign a book about a war fought two hundred years ago?" His confusion was understandable. Master Yayin always gave them books that were literature, reports, poetry, or histories in which battles were seldom mentioned. The pages were certain that changes in their teaching were made only for the most sinister motives.
Neal drew to the rear of the pack and pulled Kel aside as the others turned into the pages’ wing. Just the touch of his hand made Kel giddy.
"I saw your face when you went up there," he commented softly as he let her go. "You look like you were climbing Executioner’s Hill. What did you expect?"
She hadn’t told him about her experience with Balor’s Needle. She did so now, keeping her voice low.
"Silly!" Neal said with a grin, cuffing her head gently. "The king doesn’t think you have to be perfect—you’re the only one who’s dolt enough to expect that!"
"I’d like to be perfect," Kel said plaintively as they followed their friends. "It would be nice."
’’And so daunting for the rest of us, trust me," Neal assured her. "So why do you think we’ve been assigned a book about old battles?"
"You mean there has to be a reason for the masters to give us hard work?" she retorted. "I thought that was their idea of fun."
Yayin’s change to the kind of reading that Owen classified as "jolly" was not the only difference in how they were taught that fall. The next evening, as the pages and a handful of squires finished supper, Lord Wyldon stepped up to the podium.
"I would like to announce a change in our present schedule. Sunday nights, during the first bell after supper, I wish the fourth-year pages to report here. We will explore combat tactics—how to use ground to your advantage in the positioning of troops, which types of weapon achieve certain effects in battle, and so on." He held up a hand; the pages stifled their groans. "This is not a course on which you will receive marks; it is required only for the fourth-years, though any other pages or even squires who wish to attend will be welcome. Sunday evening, the first bell after supper. You are dismissed."
"As if we needed more studies," Seaver grumbled to Prosper.
Neal ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. "Well?" Kel asked him. "I want to go, at least to see what it’s like."
"I think I’d like to go, too," he replied, surprising her. "I wonder why they’re doing this? Usually they leave that kind of teaching for knight-masters and squires. Of course, the army has an actual school for officers, to teach battle tactics and strategy."
"Tactics and strategy? I thought they were the same thing," Kel commented.
Neal shook his head, a comma of hair flipping into his eyes. Kel longed to touch it but kept her hands locked behind her.
"Tactics, my dear girl, is what you did with those bandits. It’s immediate planning for the immediate problem. Strategy is the long view, the movement of armies and a plan that covers an entire battle or war." Seeing her inquiring look, Neal grinned, shamefaced. "My mother’s father was one of old King Jasson’s generals. He used to tell me about their battles, and all the things that went wrong."
Owen drifted back to walk with them. "Things go wrong?" he asked, startled.
"Grandfather Emry said once the battle starts, everything goes wrong," Neal told him. "You plan strategy and tactics ahead so they won’t go as wrong as they could."
"Your grandfather was Emry of Haryse?" cried Owen, delighted. "He’s a hero!"
"Yes," Neal said dryly, making a face, "I know."
Sunday night came. Faleron attended the new class—as a fourth-year he had to. Neal, Kel, Owen, Merric, and Esmond went out of curiosity. They found something totally different from their other lessons. Lord Wyldon had servants set up a model on a table: it showed the city of Port Legann during the climactic battle of the Immortals War. Metal figures shaped like soldiers, knights, immortals, ships, and catapults were placed to show the positions of each. Daine and the king were there, too. They explained how troops were employed, and asked the pages to suggest why certain types of soldiery had been put in one spot and not another. They learned that Daine had seen the area around the city, mapping enemy positions from dragon-back. The thought of flying made Kel feel sick, but she could see that Daine’s work had given the Tortallans a tremendous advantage.
The next bell rang too soon. Some pages complained and would have stayed, but Lord Wyldon asked them if they had completed their classwork. By then enough assignments had gone half-done that only Neal had no extra work; they were sent back to their rooms to study.
"Boring," announced Merric with a yawn as they left the mess hall. "I can put the time to better use." Kel shook her head. How could anyone describe the lesson as boring? She would have been happy if it had gone on all night.
Kel was still preoccupied by the battle of Port Legann during her dawn exercise with Lalasa. Would it have been different if relief forces from the Copper Isles had beat the queen’s army to the city? Kel let her maid grab her wrist as she tried to see it in her mind. The next thing she knew, she was flying through the air. Only a quick twist saved her from slamming into the door full-force.
Lalasa gasped and knelt beside Kel in a panic. "My lady, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!" she cried. "I never meant it! My lady, I swear, I’ll never do such a thing again, only don’t dismiss me!" She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Kel took a moment to catch her breath. When she did, she began to laugh. "Stop it, Lalasa, you goose!" she ordered. "That was wonderful! You caught me just as you should have. I won’t dismiss you—please stop crying."
Lalasa lowered her hands, gazing at Kel with eyes that swam in tears. "You’re laughing?" she asked, and sniffed.
"That was very good," Kel told her. "You did it exactly right. I’m proud of you!"
"Proud?" Lalasa repeated in a whisper. "But— my lady—I threw you into a door. After all your kindnesses, and teaching me when I’ve hardly been grateful..."
"What I’ve been teaching you, among other things, is how to throw me into doors." Kel grinned as she got to her feet.
"Some nobles would kill a servant for doing that. You know its so, my lady!"
"I do," Kel said grimly. "Nobles like that aren’t worthy of the title. How could I punish you for doing what I want you to do? Only think how silly I would look." She helped her maid up. "Now you can use this to protect yourself, so the only men who end up hugging you are the ones you want to hug you."
Lalasa smiled crookedly. "That will be some time in coming."
Kel put a hand on the older girl’s shoulder. "I wish you would tell me," she said, making her voice as gentle as she could. "What put you off men so bad?"
Lalasa shook her head as she fished her handkerchief from her pocket. "It’s nothing, my lady. I am sorry I threw you, even if I’m allowed to."
"I’m glad you did. Otherwise how am I to know if you’ve got the hold and the leverage right?" Kel pointed out. "And—oh, drat." The first bell of the day began to ring. She looked aro
und, to find Lalasa was offering her the weighted harness. Kel looked at it and sighed. She still wasn’t used to the new weights. Most of the other pages didn’t put theirs on until after breakfast. Couldn’t she wait until then just today?
One day leads to another, she told herself wearily. Next thing you know, the boys will get used to it first, and I won’t be able to keep up. She took the harness from Lalasa and let its weight slide over her shoulders.
nine
AUTUMN ADJUSTMENTS
After two years, Kel could go through her morning classes in her sleep, and sometimes she did. Hand-to-hand combat with Hakuin Seastone and Eda Bell was first. Then came weapons training starting with staffs in the autumn. Archery class followed weapons, then tilting. None of the pages ever expected anything new. In the fourth week of Kel’s third year, however, Lord Wyldon turned creative.
In weapons class, their teachers announced a new program. The first- and second-years were to continue staff practice. The third- and fourth-year pages were to learn how to fight in groups of different sizes. The combinations would change from day to day: three third-years against two fourth-years, four fourth-years against five third-years, or simple battle, one-on-one. They were allowed to use any of their usual weapons, not just staffs. They could even resort to Shang kicks, punches, and throws in a tight spot. The Shang warriors would record points for each combat. When the senior pages were put in groups, one page would be put in command of each side. If the members of a group looked to someone who was not the appointed leader for orders, their side would lose points.
"One day you will be leading peasants who don’t know a sword from a rock. You will have to do your best with them," Lord Wyldon explained on the first day they tried this new practice. "Or soldiers, or other knights, or simply your own squire. Learn to give commands, and learn to take them. Learn to know where the other members of your force are, and learn to command forces of different sizes. Now, get to it!"
"Seniors get to do all the jolly things," Owen complained as they walked to archery practice that first day.
Neal glared at the chubby second-year with all the royal disdain of a vexed lion. He was limping from a staff blow to the knee. "You are a bloody-minded savage," he informed Owen sternly. "I hope you are kidnapped by centaurs."
Kel liked archery. In two years she had gone from holding and drawing the bow wrong to hitting the target’s center on every shot. She had just collected her bow and quiver when she heard the archery master call, "The following will come with me." He walked over to the right side of the yard, where the target by the fence had been moved fifty yards beyond those the pages normally shot at. He named a group that included Kel, Neal, Quinden, Merric, Faleron, Yancen, Balduin of Disart, another fourth-year, and Quinden’s friend Dermid of Josu’s Dirk.
"You people ought to be better," the archery master informed them. "My lord has said it, and I agree. You’ll improve by Midwinter or I’ll know why. Once you start hitting the more distant target, I’ll let you play with these."
Any crossness Kel felt at being forced to work harder when she was already doing well evaporated when she saw the arrows the archery master held. Until now they had shot as if they hunted deer or game birds. These new arrows were armor-piercing broadheads and needleheads, barbed heads, even the ones that made an eerie, whistling sound as they flew. Some were made to pierce a Stormwing’s metal feathers or a Coldfang’s thick hide.
"Each has a different weight, and will fly different. You’ll learn to adjust for each arrow," the archery master told them. "And we’ll do a bit with fire arrows. They fly different, too. In the normal way of things you’d leave this kind of work to archers under your command, but times are hardly normal, are they? All these immortals, three dangerous neighbors on edge—and who might they be?" he demanded, gazing sharply at Quinden.
"Carthak, Scanra, and the Copper Isles, sir," replied the boy quietly.
"Very good. You don’t know what those enemies may get up to, or what will be asked of you. Now, start shooting. The sooner you hit that target, the sooner you get to play with the pretties."
"If they’ve changed things ’round in tilting, I’m going to stick my head in a rain barrel and drown myself," Faleron muttered to Kel as they reported to the stables.
Kel and Peachblossom were the first rider and mount to get into line at the third-years’ quintain. Rather than wait for the others, Kel whispered for Peachblossom to charge, and leveled her lance at the target shield. She hit it just right: the quintain dummy pivoted halfway, letting girl and horse thunder by without the sandbag smacking either one. Kel smiled—she loved a good, solid strike— and was about to return to her place in the third-year line when Lord Wyldon yelled, "Stay there, Mindelan!"
He rode toward her at a brisk trot. Kel waited, trying to guess what he wanted. She’d hit the target; Peachblossom was perfectly saddled; she held her weighted lance at the right angle—and why was he carrying a bowl and a brush?
"You’re getting complacent, Mindelan," he announced as he trotted by.
"Com—what, sir?" she asked, confused.
"Smug. Comfortable. You think you can hit the target anywhere and it’s good, so long as you don’t earn a buffet with the sandbag. At your level"—he leaned close to the target shield and painted a round black dot the size of Kel’s palm at its center—"you should hit this every time. I expect you to hit it every time. You may start now."
Why pick on me? I hit the target every time, and I’m just twelve, thought Kel as she rode back to the line. Only a couple fourth-years hit it as regularly as I do.
The third-years moved to let her at the front. Her friends looked startled; Quinden and his friends smirked. "Who put a wasp in the Stump’s loincloth?" Neal muttered as she passed him.
What made Kel really grumpy was that the training master was right: she was getting smug. As long as she hit within the target circle, she felt she’d done all she needed. She ought to strive to improve, not just coast. If Lord Wyldon thought she could hit a dot she couldn’t even see from this end of the tilting field, she would try.
She brought Peachblossom up to the starting mark and whispered, "Go faster." He picked his feet up in a trot, then a restrained gallop, not the headlong thundering pace that was his response to the command "Charge." If she was to hit precisely, she would do better if they took a little more time to reach the quintain.
Kel lowered her lance across Peachblossom’s shoulders and aimed for that small dot on the shield. She missed, though she did hit the shield, and wasn’t clouted by the sandbag.
"Sloppy," commented Lord Wyldon as she rode past him. He’d dismounted to lean against the fence, where he could see the impact of lance on shield clearly. He was scratching Jump’s ear.
I hope he bites you, Kel thought grimly as she rode to take her place in the third-years’ line.
In the end, Lord Wyldon required only two fourth-years—Faleron and Yancen—and Kel to hit that dot at the target’s center. "I hate it when he thinks up new things," Yancen told Faleron in Kel’s hearing.
Kel agreed with him completely.
On the last day of that week, Kel’s lance hit the black dot and shattered, the impact and crash making her wrist ache. Shaking her hand, she rode back to the barrel and selected a practice lance. Without lead weights such as she’d had in her old one, the lance was feather-light in her grip. When she next rode at the target, she forgot the new weight and raised her lance point far too high. Before she could lower it, she rode right by the quintain, scraping the target shield. The sandbag thwacked her back soundly, her first buffet in over a year. She heard pages laughing as she returned to the line.
She missed the target on her next charge as well. Determined to hit it, she lowered her lance so hard on her third charge that it bounced off her saddle to rap Peachblossom between the ears. Startled, the big gelding reared. Kel dropped her lance and hung on, praying her mount wouldn’t fall backward. Peachblossom wheeled frantically to save himsel
f from that very fate. At last Kel got him under control and on all four feet. She dismounted to collect her fallen lance, and trudged back to the line on foot, leading her mount. She would have dragged the weapon like her eight-year-old nephew if she hadn’t known Lord Wyldon would give her a punishment job for it.
"What is the matter with you today?" demanded Lord Wyldon. "This head-in-the-clouds act will get you killed in the field, do you understand that? You dare not daydream with a weapon in your hand, or under you." He pointed to Peachblossom. "That is a weapon, in case you hadn’t noticed."
Peachblossom’s head darted out quickly, like a snake’s. The training master was quicker. The gelding’s teeth closed on empty air where Lord Wyldon’s finger had been.
"My lord, I’d like permission to take this to the smithy," Kel said, hefting the lance. "It’s too light."
Wyldon blinked at her. "What?"
"Surely my lord knew that Page Keladry has lead weights in all of her practice weapons," commented Neal, who stood nearby. He looked the spirit of mischief.
Kel glared at him. Neal ignored her. He usually did.
"Queenscove, do not try me," Wyldon said, clear warning in his voice. His eyes were on Kel. To her he stated, "You use weighted practice weapons."
Kel made no reply.
"How long have you done this?"
How could she forget? On the day the first-years began to train with the lance, Joren had made sure that Kel got a lance three times heavier than the normal ones. "Since the first week on lance, my lord," Kel replied evenly.
’’All of your weapons, not the lance alone?" he inquired. Neal had told him all, but it seemed he wanted to hear it from Kel.
"It was too strange after a while, going from a weighted lance to a lighter staff and practice sword and ax," she explained. "It works better if they’re weighted, too."
