First Test

She grinned at her own folly. Hadn’t she learned by now that the first thing a boy grabbed in a fight was hair? She’d lose chunks of it or get half choked if she wore ornaments and ribbons.

Overhead a bell clanged three times. She winced: the sound was loud.

‘Time,’ Salma called.

If she thought anything of the change in Kel’s appearance, she kept it to herself. Instead she pointed to yet another piece of writing: Girls Can’t Fight! Salma’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘What do they think their mothers do, when the lords are at war and a raiding party strikes? Stay in their solars and tat lace?’

That made Kel smile. ‘My aunt lit barrels of lard and had them catapulted onto Scanran ships this summer.’

‘As would any delicately reared noblewoman.’ Salma opened the door. Once they had walked into the hall, she took the key from Kel and went about her business, nodding to the boys as they emerged from their rooms.

Kel stood in front of her door and clasped her hands so no one could see they shook. Suddenly she wanted to turn tail and run until she reached home.

Wyldon was coming down the hall. Boys joined him as he passed, talking quietly. One of them was a boy with white-blond hair and blue eyes, set in a face as rosy-cheeked as a girl’s. Kel, seeing the crispness of his movements and a stubbornness around his mouth, guessed that anybody silly enough to mistake that one for a girl would be quickly taught his mistake. A big, cheerful-looking red-headed boy walked on Wyldon’s left, joking with a very tall, lanky youth.

A step behind the blond page and Wyldon came a tall boy who walked with a lion’s arrogance. He was brown-skinned and black-eyed, his nose proudly arched. A Bazhir tribesman from the southern desert, Kel guessed. She noticed several other Bazhir among the pages, but none looked as kingly as this one.

When the training master halted, there were only five people left in front of doors on both sides of him: four boys and Kel. Her next-door neighbour, a brown-haired boy liberally sprinkled with freckles, bowed to Wyldon. Kel and the others did the same; then Kel wondered if she ought to have curtsied. She let it go. To do so now, after bowing, would just make her look silly.

Wyldon looked at each of them in turn, his eyes resting the longest on Kel. ‘Don’t think you’ll have an easy time this year. You will work hard. You’ll work when you’re tired, when you’re ill, and when you think you can’t possibly work any more. You have one more day to laze. Your sponsor will show you around this palace and collect those things which the crown supplies to you. The day after that, we begin.’

‘You.’ He pointed to a boy with the reddest, straightest hair Kel had ever seen. ‘Your name and the holding of your family.’

The boy stammered, ‘Merric, sir – my lord. Merric of Hollyrose.’ He had pale blue eyes and a long, broad nose; his skin had only the barest summer tan.

The training master looked at the pages around him. ‘Which of you older pages will sponsor Merric and teach him our ways?’

‘Please, Lord Wyldon?’ Kel wasn’t able to see the owner of the voice in the knot of boys who stood at Wyldon’s back. ‘We’re kinsmen, Merric and I.’

‘And kinsmen should stick together. Well said, Faleron of King’s Reach.’ A handsome, dark-haired boy came to stand with Merric, smiling at the redhead. Wyldon pointed to the freckled lad, Esmond of Nicoline, who was taken into the charge of Cleon of Kennan, the big redhead. Blond, impish Quinden of Marti’s Hill was sponsored by the regal-looking Bazhir, Zahir ibn Alhaz. The next pairing was the most notable: Crown Prince Roald, the twelve-year-old heir to the throne, chose to show Seaver of Tasride around. Seaver, whose dark complexion and coal-black eyes and hair suggested Bazhir ancestors, stared at Roald nervously, but relaxed when the prince rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Only Kel remained. Wyldon demanded, ‘Your name and your fief?’

She gulped. ‘Keladry of Mindelan.’

‘Who will sponsor her?’ asked Wyldon.

The handsome Zahir looked at her and sniffed. ‘Girls have no business in the affairs of men. This one should go home.’ He glared at Kel, who met his eyes calmly.

Lord Wyldon shook his head. ‘We are not among the Bazhir tribes, Zahir ibn Alhaz. Moreover, I requested a sponsor, not an opinion.’ He looked at the other boys. ‘Will no one offer?’ he asked. ‘No beginner may go unsponsored.’

‘Look at her,’ Kel heard a boy murmur. ‘She stands there like – like a lump.’

The blond youth at Wyldon’s side raised a hand. ‘May I, my lord?’ he asked.

Lord Wyldon stared at him. ‘You, Joren of Stone Mountain?’

The youth bowed. ‘I would be pleased to teach the girl all she needs to know of life in the pages’ wing.’

Kel eyed him, suspicious. From the way a few older pages giggled, she suspected Joren might plan to chase her away, not show her around. She looked at the training master, expecting him to agree with the blond page.

Instead Lord Wyldon frowned. ‘I had hoped for another sponsor,’ he commented stiffly. ‘You should employ your spare hours in the improvement of your classwork and your riding skills.’

‘I thought Joren hated—’ someone whispered.

‘Shut up!’ another boy hissed.

Kel looked at the flagstones under her feet. Now she was fighting to hide her embarrassment, but she knew she was failing. Any Yamani would see her shame on her features. She clasped her hands before her and schooled her features to smoothness. I’m a rock, she thought. I am stone.

‘I believe I can perfect my studies and sponsor the girl,’ Joren said respectfully. ‘And since I am the only volunteer—’

‘I suppose I’m being rash and peculiar, again,’ someone remarked in a drawling voice, ‘but if it means helping my friend Joren improve his studies, well, I’ll just have to sacrifice myself. There’s nothing I won’t do to further the cause of book learning among my peers.’

Everyone turned towards the speaker, who stood at the back of the group. Seeing him clearly, Kel thought that he was too old to be a page. He was tall, fair-skinned, and lean, with emerald eyes and light brown hair that swept back from a widow’s peak.

Lord Wyldon absently rubbed the arm he kept tucked in a sling. ‘You volunteer, Nealan of Queenscove?’

The youth bowed jerkily. ‘That I do, your worship, sir.’ There was the barest hint of a taunt in Nealan’s educated voice.

‘A sponsor should be a page in his second year at least,’ Wyldon informed Nealan. ‘And you will mind your tongue.’

‘I know I only joined this little band in April, your lordship,’ the youth Nealan remarked cheerily, ‘but I have lived at court almost all of my fifteen years. I know the palace and its ways. And unlike Joren, I need not worry about my academics.’

Kel stared at the youth. Had he always been mad, or did a few months under Wyldon do this to him? She had just arrived, and she knew better than to bait the training master.

Wyldon’s eyebrows snapped together. ‘You have been told to mind your manners, Page Nealan. I will have an apology for your insolence.’

Nealan bowed deeply. ‘An apology for general insolence, your lordship, or some particular offence?’

‘One week scrubbing pots,’ ordered Lord Wyldon. ‘Be silent.’

Nealan threw out an arm like a Player making a dramatic statement. ‘How can I be silent and yet apologize?’

‘Two weeks.’ Keladry was forgotten as Wyldon concentrated on the green-eyed youth. ‘The first duty for anyone in service to the crown is obedience.’

‘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.’

‘He’s a hero, then,’ breathed Kel, looking at Wyldon with new respect.

‘Oh, he’s as brave as brave can be,’ Neal reassured her. ‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t a stump.’ He fell silent and Kel concentrated on her supper. Abruptly Neal said, ‘You aren’t what was expected.’

‘How so?’ She cut up her meat.

‘Oh, well, you’re big for a girl. I have a ten-year-old sister who’s a hand-width shorter. And you seem rather quiet. I guess I thought the girl who would follow in Lady Alanna’s footsteps would be more like her.’

Kel shrugged. ‘Will I get to meet the Lioness?’ She tried not to show that she would do anything to meet her hero.

Neal ran his fork around the edge of his plate, not meeting Kel’s eyes. ‘She isn’t often at court. Either she’s in the field, dealing with lawbreakers or immortals, or she’s home with her family.’ A bell chimed. The pages rose to carry their empty trays to a long window at the back of the room, turning them over to kitchen help. ‘Come on. Let’s get rid of this stuff, and I’ll start showing you around.’

Salma found them as they were leaving the mess hall. She drew Kel aside and gave her two keys. One was brass, the other iron. ‘I’m the only one with copies of these,’ Salma told her quietly. ‘Even the cleaning staff will need me to let them in. Both keys are special. To open your door, put the brass one in the lock, turn it left, and whisper your name. When you leave, turn the key left again. The iron key is for the bottom set of shutters. It works the same as the door key. Lock the shutters every time you leave, or the boys will break in that way. Leave the small upper shutters open for ventilation. Only a monkey could climb through those. Don’t worry if any of the boys can pick locks. Anyone who tries will be sprayed in skunk-stink. That should make them reconsider.’

Kel smiled. ‘Thank you, Salma.’

The woman nodded to her and Neal, and left them.

Neal walked over to Kel. ‘If they can’t wreck your room, they’ll find other things to do,’ he murmured. When Kel raised her eyebrows at him, he explained, ‘I learned to read lips. The masters at the university were always whispering about something.’

Kel tucked the keys into her belt purse. ‘I’ll deal with the other things as they come,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, where to?’

‘I bet you’d enjoy the portrait gallery. If you’re showing visitors around, it’s one of the places they like to go.’

After leading Kel past a bewildering assortment of salons, libraries, and official chambers, Neal showed her the gallery. He seemed to know a story about every person whose portrait was displayed there. Kel was fascinated by his knowledge of Tortall’s monarchs and their families; he made it sound as if he’d known them all personally, even the most ancient. She stared longest at the faces of King Jonathan and Queen Thayet. She could see why the queen was called the most beautiful woman in Tortall, but even in a painting there was more to her than looks. The girl saw humour at the back of those level hazel eyes and determination in the strong nose and perfectly shaped mouth.

‘She’s splendid,’ Kel breathed.

‘She is, but don’t say that around the Stump,’ advised Neal. ‘He thinks she’s ruined the country, with her K’miri notion that women can fight and her opening schools so everyone can learn their letters. Anything new gives my lord of Cavall a nosebleed.’

‘Still determined to go to war with the training master, Nealan?’ enquired a soft, whispery voice behind Kel.

She whirled, startled, and found she was staring at an expanse of pearl-grey material, as nubbly as if it were a mass of tiny beads melted together. She stumbled back one step and then another. The pearl-grey expanse turned dark grey at the edges. Looking down, Kel saw long, slender legs ending in lengthy digits, each tipped with a silver claw.

She backed up yet another step and tilted her head most of the way back. The creature was fully seven feet tall, not counting the long tail it used to balance itself, and it was viewing her with fascination. Its large grey slit-pupilled eyes regarded her over a short, lipless muzzle.

Kel’s jaw dropped.

‘You’re staring, Mindelan,’ Neal said dryly.

‘As am I,’ the creature remarked in that ghostly voice. ‘Will you introduce us?’

‘Tkaa, this is Keladry of Mindelan,’ said Neal. ‘Kel, Tkaa is a basilisk. He’s also one of our instructors in the ways of the immortals.’

Kel had seen immortals other than the spidren on the riverbank, but she had never been this close to one. And it – he? – was to be one of her teachers?

‘We basilisks are travellers and gossips,’ Tkaa remarked, as if he had read her mind. ‘I earn my keep here by educating those who desire a more precise knowledge of those immortals who have chosen to settle in the Human Realms.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kel said, breathless. She started to curtsy, remembered that a page bowed, and tried to do both. Neal braced her before she could topple over. Once she had regained her balance, the red-faced Kel bowed properly.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Keladry of Mindelan,’ the basilisk told her as if he hadn’t noticed her clumsiness. ‘I shall see you both the day after tomorrow.’ With a nod to Kel and to Neal, he walked out of the gallery, tail daintily raised.

Neal sighed. ‘We’d better get back to our rooms. Tomorrow’s a busy day.’ He led her back to her room, pointing out his own as they passed it. ‘We’ll meet in the mess hall in the morning,’ he told her.

Kel used the key as Salma had directed, and entered her room. Everything was in place, her bed freshly made up, curtains and draperies rehung. A faint scent of paint still drifted from the walls. ‘Gods of fire and ice, bless my new home,’ she whispered in Yamani. ‘Keep my will burning as hot as the heart of the volcano, and as hard and implacable as a glacier.’

A wave of homesickness suddenly caught her. She wished she could hear her mother’s low, soothing voice or listen to her father read from one of his books.

Emotion is weakness, Kel told herself, quoting her Yamani teachers. I must be as serene as a lake on a calm day. It was hard to control her feelings when so much was at stake and she was so far from home.

But control her feelings she would. If anyone here thought to run her off, they would find she was tougher than they expected. She was here to stay.

To prove it, she carefully unpacked each porcelain lucky cat and set it on her mantelpiece. Only when she had placed each of them just so did she scrub her face and put on her nightgown.

Climbing into bed, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She imagined a lake, its surface as smooth as glass. This is my heart, she thought. This is what I will strive to be.

CHAPTER 3

THE PRACTICE COURTS

The next morning Kel heard the chatter of birds. She crept over to her open window and peered outside. It was nearly dawn, with the barest touch of light colouring the sky. Before her was a small courtyard with a single bedraggled tree growing at its centre. On it perched house sparrows, drab in their russet brown and tan feathers, the males with stern black collars. Several birds pecked at the circle of earth around the tree. Kel watched them as the pearly air brightened. Poor things, she thought, they’re hungry.

In her clothespress she had stowed the last of the fruit-bread Mindelan’s cook had given her for the journey south. Kel retrieved it and broke it up into crumbs, then dumped it on the courtyard stones. She was watching the sparrows devour it when the first bell rang and someone rapped on her door. She opened it and said a cheerful good morning to the servant who stood there with a pitcher of hot water.

‘Good is as good does, Page Keladry,’ he said, his long face glum. He placed his burden on her desk. ‘I’m Gower. I’m to look after you.’ He began to sweep out the hearth as Kel took the water into her dressing room.

A new fire was laid when she returned to the main room, her face washed and her teeth clean. ‘If you’ve anything special you require, soap or cloths or such, tell me,’ Gower said sorrowfully. ‘Within reason, of course.’

Kel blinked at him. She’d never met anyone this gloomy. ‘Thank you, Gower,’ she replied, intimidated. ‘I don’t need anything just yet.’

‘Very good, miss,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘I mean, Page Keladry.’

She sighed with relief when he left, and hurried to dress.

Undiscouraged by Gower, she wished Neal a good morning when she found him in the mess hall. He looked at her through bleary eyes and mumbled, ‘There’s nothing good about it.’ Kel shook her head and ate breakfast in silence.

The day flew by. It began underground, where the palace stores were kept. A tailor took Kel’s measurements. Then his assistant dumped a load of garments into her arms. She got three sets of practice clothes, sturdy tan cotton and wool garments to be worn during the morning. She also received three changes of the pages’ formal uniform – red shirt and hose, gold tunic – to be worn in the afternoon and at royal gatherings. Shoes to match her formal gear were added; her family had supplied boots for riding and combat practice. Neal took the cloaks and coats she was given for cold weather.