Protector of the Small Quartet Read online

  Soon everyone knew that when Kel got flustered, she gripped her bow in the wrong spot, two-thirds of the way down. Rushed, she drew the string with her thumb, not her index and middle fingers. She forgot that she used a short bow, and pulled the string back so far that the arrow dropped away. She bit her tongue and said nothing of the differences between Yamani archery and Tortallan. It’s not like I was any good with a Yamani bow, she told herself. After Wyldon’s comments about foreigners, Kel let him think she made silly errors as she concentrated on correcting her draw and her handling of the arrow.

  Stone, she told herself as she picked up a dropped arrow, hearing giggles. For a moment she was five again, listening to the Yamani children laugh and tease the clumsy foreign barbarian. They accepted me in the end, she told herself. These boys will, too.

  “Riding!” called Wyldon when the bell sounded the end of the class. “New boys, pick a mount from the spares. That horse will be yours to look after and ride for now. Saddle your mount and ride him out. Don’t take forever!”

  The pages set off for the stable at a trot. Halfway there, Kel noticed that the other four new pages were running full out to reach the stable first. She picked up her pace, knowing they wanted to beat her to the best choices of the spares. The group of older pages running ahead of her spread out and slowed down, blocking her without appearing to know she wanted to pass. When she got to the pages’ stable, the new boys had made their selections. Their sponsors lounged in front of the stalls as if they dared Kel to even look at the others’ selections.

  They had left her two options. One was a chestnut mare with dull, uninterested eyes and a slumped stance. You could be after her a whole week before she’d take a step, thought Kel. The other horse was a small destrier, larger than most of the other mounts but not as big as the warhorses ridden by knights. A gelding, he was a strawberry roan: red-brown stockings, face, mane, and tail, and a white-flecked reddish coat. His attention was fixed on Kel, and there was a calculating look in his eyes. There were large scars on his legs and sides. White-haired spots on his back showed where he’d been saddled improperly in the past.

  The other pages were halfway done saddling their mounts. Neal worked on his horse, a neat brown mare, as he kept an eye on Kel.

  Kel advanced to the dull-eyed mare, hand outstretched. She had to thrust it under the mare’s nose before the horse would so much as sniff.

  “She’s the one you want,” a man said, coming out of the shadows at the back of the stable. His clothes were spiked with hay and splashed with dried slobber; his blond hair looked as if horses grazed on it. Light blue eyes bulged slightly in his reddish face. The dull mare ambled over and nuzzled him. “She’s a bit slow, but she’s steady. Peachblossom there’s ruined for knight’s work— maybe ruined for work at all.” He shook his head, eyes sad. “Dunno what I’ll do with ’im if he won’t take to cart or plow. They’re after me to free up his box for when the new mounts come next week.”

  Kel could see it in the stableman’s face: he did know what he would have to do. Horses cost money to keep. If they didn’t pay for their stall and feed by working, unless they were good for stud they were put down.

  She walked over to the gelding. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out the apple she’d put there and offered it to Peachblossom. The horse spent more time examining her than sniffing the treat, but he took the apple all the same.

  “He won’t bite, miss,” said the hostler, coming over. “Not with me about. But I can’t make him stay good, not without neglecting others. Sooner or later my effect on him will wear off. And he’s got plenty of other tricks.”

  “I’ll take—did you say Peachblossom?” she asked. “If he doesn’t work out, I’ll trade him for one of these new horses you’re expecting.”

  “He’s too big, miss,” argued the hostler. “He’s not for someone that’s just learning how knights ride.”

  “Let me try, please,” Kel replied. “I won’t hurt him.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried for,” insisted the man.

  “Have you made a choice, probationer?” demanded Wyldon. “We do ride today, remember.”

  The hostler grasped Peachblossom’s head and laid his face on the horse’s muzzle. “You’ll be good, all right? I want you to, and sitting in here isn’t what you’re made for. Behave yourself, Peachblossom. You do know how.” He released the horse and nodded to Kel. “He’ll fare all right for a time, at least. If he gets shifty, tell him Stefan said ’be good.’” He ambled into the shadows at the stable’s rear.

  Kel found the gelding’s tack and got to work saddling him. About to pull the girth tight, she found that Peachblossom was rounder than he’d first appeared. It was an old trick. The horse swallowed a bellyfull of air, making the saddle too loose, ensuring that the rider would slide off.

  He’s testing me, Kel thought. She kneed him in the belly. He turned and looked at her. “I’ll tell Stefan on you,” she whispered.

  The horse blew out the air he’d sucked in. Kel cinched the girth tight. By the time Wyldon reached their end of the building, she and Peachblossom stood ready. Wyldon gazed at Kel and at the horse. If he thought the mount was too big and too hostile for Kel, he kept it to himself. Instead he ordered her to clean the tack well before she used it again. That done, he told the pages to lead their mounts outside and down the hill.

  The practice yard was far enough from the stable that horses would not be forever trying to run for home. Kel was grateful for that. She was big for her age, but Peachblossom was big, too. If he raced for his stall she would flutter along behind him like a kite at the end of the rein.

  Wyldon and the riding master stood beside the open gate to the yard and observed as each page walked his mount through. Once everyone was inside, the riding master ordered them to form a line, with the horses’ heads facing inward. After inspecting the horses, the riding master said quietly, “Mount up.”

  Has anyone ever mounted down? Kel wondered as she swung into the saddle. The moment she settled, she thought that perhaps she’d been rash. Peachblossom’s back was much wider than her pony’s.

  “Time was,” Neal had explained the day before, “pages rode ponies till they were twelve or so. Our Stump, though, says that knights ride true horses, and so will pages. My father told me the number of broken bones from horse accidents has quadrupled since Wyldon became training master.”

  I should’ve taken the stupid one, thought Kel. This fellow is too much for me. Peachblossom sighed, as if he’d heard. Kel gritted her teeth. No. I’ll keep him. He won’t be pulling carts or killed for dogmeat, not while I have breath in my body. Knights ride horses, so pages ride horses, she told herself, and sat tall. Peachblossom looked back at her as if to say, Don’t get cocky.

  “Walk ’em sunwise,” ordered the riding master. “A foot between you and the next rider.”

  Kel tugged the reins. Peachblossom didn’t move. She tugged harder. Gods, his mouth must be as hard as stone, she thought, and yanked. At last the gelding understood, just as Wyldon ordered, “Move him along, probationer!”

  Peachblossom turned and walked forward as soon as Kel nudged his sides with her feet. He paced along so amiably that Kel risked a look around. Most of the other mounts were restless, fighting rein and bit. Feeling better as she watched their riders struggle, she turned her eyes ahead. Peachblossom was stretching out his neck, trying to bite Neal’s brown mare. Kel shortened her reins, pulling his head up. “You won’t fool me,” she whispered. The horse flicked an ear back toward her, listening. “I have nieces and nephews!”

  Peachblossom blew out as if to say, Nieces and nephews are all very well, but they aren’t me.

  “Trot ’em,” ordered the riding master.

  Kel kept a watch on her mount. Peachblossom obviously could not be left to his own devices for so much as a breath. The remainder of the lesson was a series of contests between her and the tricky gelding.

  When Kel waddled out of the stable, her leg
s feeling as if she still had a mountain between them, Wyldon stopped her. “The boys use the men’s baths,” he said without meeting her eyes. “We made arrangements for your bathing, for all that I feel it is a mistake to make even a single exception for you.”

  So is this fair? Kel wondered. He’s treating me differently from them. But I feel better about washing up by myself...It was too much to think about. She rubbed her head wearily. He seemed to want an answer of some kind. “I understand, my lord,” she told him.

  He lifted his eyebrows, as if he doubted she understood. “You will find a bath ready in your chambers,” he said. “I expect you to be on time for lunch.”

  Kel bowed. “If may go then, my lord?”

  He nodded. She looked at the long, sloping rise to the palace. “You would do better to run that,” remarked Wyldon. “You need the exercise. But I do not require it of the lads, and I will not ask it of you.”

  You won’t ask it, but I’ll do it anyway, she thought stubbornly. You’ll see. I’m as good as any boy. I’m better.

  Slowly, her legs protesting every step of the way, she began to trot up the hill.

  four

  CLASSROOMS

  Academic classes began after lunch, just as Kel began to feel her bruises. Her first two classes— reading and writing, then mathematics—were taught by shaven-headed Mithran priests in bright orange robes. Not long after the pages’ arrival, the teachers put them to work on their first written lessons of the year.

  “History and the law of the realm,” Neal murmured as they walked into their third class. “You’ll like this!” He slapped a desk next to his. “Sit here. Sir Myles doesn’t care where we put ourselves.”

  “Sir Myles?” she asked.

  “Sir Myles, Baron of Olau, our teacher in history and law,” Neal explained. “Why do you ask?”

  Kel ran her finger over a scratch on her desktop. “He’s the Lioness’s father,” she told him shyly. Seeing him would be almost as good as meeting Lady Alanna herself.

  “Adoptive father, actually,” Neal said as a small, chubby man entered the room. He was long-haired and bearded, dressed in a dark blue tunic over a dark gray linen shirt and gray hose. His green-brown eyes were sharp as he looked over the pages.

  “Here we are, trembling on the brink of a new year.” Sir Myles ambled up to the front of the room and leaned against the wall. “I’m pleased to see no one swung his scythe too hard and cut off his own head—”

  “But not for lack of trying!” joked the redheaded Cleon.

  The knight raised gracefully curved brows. “You did not have to say that,” he said mildly. “You would not be worthy to be a page if you were not always trying something.” He perched on a tall stool. “Well,” he said companionably, “we’ve had quite a year. Will someone explain why calling the recent deluge of battles the Immortals War is misleading? Your highness?”

  Prince Roald ducked his head, but replied in a clear voice, “Because immortals—Stormwings, spidrens, ogres— were in the fight, but they were just allies to Scanrans, Copper Islanders, and Carthaki renegades. They weren’t the leaders.”

  Sir Myles did not seem to care whether his students stood to answer. “Very good.” The man looked around. “How many of your home fiefs took damage in the fighting?”

  Hands went up, Kel’s among them. No part of the realm was unscathed.

  “How many know someone who was killed?”

  Hands went up again. Kel knew of two people in the village who had been cut to pieces by killer centaurs. Luckily her own family had been spared the loss of any members.

  “These losses are felt,” Sir Myles told them. “Their majesties honor their sacrifice, and we all wish that it had not been needed.” As the hands went down he said briskly, “Why did this happen? How did Scanra, the Copper Isles, and the Carthaki rebels come to assault our shores? Joren?”

  The handsome boy lounged at his desk, seemingly bored. “The King’s Champion killed a Copper Island princess thirteen years ago.”

  “That is one reason: bad blood. It doesn’t explain the Carthakis and the Scanrans.”

  Joren shrugged. “Scanrans always raid us. They don’t need a reason.”

  “But they do have reasons,” Sir Myles pointed out. “Pressing ones that send them against us year after year. Put the Carthakis aside for now. Consider our gentle neighbors to the north. What riches do they have?”

  “Furs?” suggested Faleron.

  “Rocks,” added Cleon, who got the laugh he’d intended.

  The discussion went on. It ranged from poor Scanrans with failed crops to the destruction of the old Carthaki emperor and the installation of the new one, Kaddar. When the bell rang, it surprised Kel—she had lost all track of time.

  “So what do you think of the king’s spymaster?” Neal murmured in her ear as they left the classroom.

  Kel came to a dead stop. “What?”

  Neal smirked. “You didn’t know. Myles of Olau isn’t just a teacher and a member of the King’s Council. He’s King Jonathan’s spymaster.”

  “You’re making that up,” she accused him.

  “Why?” he asked. “My father says he’s the best spymaster the realm’s had. It comes from Sir Myles going into trade to mend the Olau finances. His merchants send him all kinds of information—he just expands on it.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t tell,” Kel pointed out. “Maybe it’s supposed to be a secret.”

  Neal shrugged. “It’s not talked of openly, but it’s no secret. What’s secret is who’s his second in command, the one who does the legwork.” He steered her into yet another classroom.

  Kel came to a full stop again. All thought of spies and secrets evaporated from her mind. One entire wall of this classroom was filled with windows. Two walls were lined with shelves of glass containers, which enclosed plants, water, food dishes, even animals or fish.

  Kel was glad to see that the other first-year pages seemed as amazed as she.

  “Go ahead, look closer,” Neal said. “Master Lindhall likes us to take an interest in the animals.”

  A small turtle was trying to bite Kel’s index finger through glass when something white and clicky landed on her outstretched arm. It was a kind of living skeleton, a creature of bone and air. It had flown to perch on her, yet its wings were empty, slender fans made of very long finger bones. It gripped her arm with fossil claws. It tilted its long, pointed skull back and forth as if it were looking her over.

  Leaning over, the thing clattered its jaws at her. Then it bit her nose so gently she felt only the barest pressure of its teeth.

  “Bone!” A man strode over, brushing silvery blond hair from his eyes. “You must excuse Bonedancer,” he told Kel in a soft and breathy voice. “There was no such thing as manners when he was alive, so he thinks he need not learn them now.”

  Bonedancer looked at him and clattered his jaws.

  Kel looked at the skeleton, then at the man. He was nearly a foot taller than she, tanned and weathered, with broad cheeks and pale blue eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  The man smiled. “A mage was briefly granted the power to raise the dead last year. Bonedancer was one of the things she brought back to life. He was a fossil then, and a fossil he remains. He’s just rather more lively than most fossils.”

  It sounded like an explanation, but Kel was not sure she understood. I’ll ask Neal, she told herself. “Thank you, sir,” she told the man politely.

  “I’m Lindhall Reed,” he said to her and to the other first-years. “I am one of your teachers in the study of plants and animals. Have a seat, you new ones. As for everyone else, who has brought me a plant from home?” he asked. The older pages and Neal reached into their belt-purses to draw out leaves and stems wrapped in parchment.

  Kel took a desk near the irritable turtle and waited, for her head to stop spinning. She was positive that none of her brothers had mentioned flying skeletons when they talked about their studies.

  After Ma
ster Reed’s class, those who possessed a magical Gift went to study magecraft. Kel and the magic-less pages had a class with Tkaa the basilisk.

  “For those who are new to the palace,” the tall immortal began, “you should know that the king has decreed that those pages and squires without magic must learn to cope with magical things. You will have several teachers in this area. I will instruct you in the ways of immortals, of which I am one.”

  He bent down, until his large eyes gazed almost directly into Esmond of Nicoline’s. “And immortals are...?” he inquired.

  “Monsters?” replied the boy. He gasped, panicked. “I mean—I beg pardon! Not monsters, of course not.” He fell silent as the basilisk laid a paw gently on his shoulder.

  “Beings from the divine realms, who may live forever unless they are killed in some way,” Seaver said quietly.

  “Very good,” replied Tkaa.

  “Some are monsters, sir,” added Seaver, meeting Tkaa’s gaze steadily. “My father was killed by a spidren.” Kel thought of the one that she had faced at Mindelan and swallowed hard.

  “My sympathies,” replied the basilisk with a bow. “Spidrens are monstrous. Let me tell you of their creation, and of their habits.”

  The pages listened with fierce attention. Spidrens laired throughout the realm and were a deadly threat.

  Their final class of the day was etiquette, taught by Upton Oakbridge, the royal master of ceremonies. The room was hot and the work so boring that Kel had to fight to stay awake. She ached all over from the morning’s activity. The new pages were taught bows to nobles of different rank, which only made her muscles ache more. The older boys hid yawns as they practiced writing formal letters.

  As the class drew to a close, everyone was given a book and assigned to report on its first chapter for the next day. When Kel saw the title, she grinned.