Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Sasha shook her head. “In this case the claim was true—all agreed the deed was a jest. The boy just wished to ride the stallion, not keep him. But, the guardsman—who was responsible for said horses and didn’t take kindly to a pair of children making him look the fool—claimed that intentions are irrelevant. Said the boy was a thief and a heinous one, since he stole from the Crown himself.”

Renee pulled her legs up under her and sat back against the wall. She was inclined to side with the guardsman. “What happened to the boy?”

“Court agreed with the guard. Ordered the boy flogged for horse poaching and sent to the dungeons for treason.”

Renee blinked. With Tildor’s economy bound to commerce, thieves received harsh treatment, but common reason separated a boy’s prank from a criminal conspiracy. “How in the Seven Hells did two boys even get close to the Crown’s horses to begin with?”

Sasha’s smile confessed that she had awaited the question with some eagerness. She put her palms on the writing table and leaned over them. “They were Servant cadets—fighters—in this Academy.”

Cadets? Renee jerked her head toward Sasha. Cadets weren’t criminals; they were kids like her and Alec and Sasha. Moreover, they were kids training to do right by Tildor while others did right only by themselves. To scourge a cadet, much less shut him in a dungeon, was to violate . . . something. The word eluded her. The peasants on her father’s estate pledged their obedience and lives to Lord Tamath, but he pledged to protect and care for them in return. Did King Lysian owe anything to the Servants who swore to him? Did he owe anything to Savoy, who took his arrow? “Who was it?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know.” Sasha dropped the journal back into the still- open drawer and shut it with her foot. Her lips tightened as if the lack of information was a personal affront. “The Academy precedes the anti-mage rebellion, so we can narrow things down to several centuries of students and closed records.”

The logs in the fire began to crackle and the room filled with a savory aroma of burning hickory. Renee scooted closer to the flame and reached for her ink. The bottle tipped, spilling blackness over the blue trim of her uniform. The cap rolled mockingly under the bed.

Cursing, she righted the bottle, sprang to pull a rag from her trunk, and blotted the mess. At last settling back down, she grabbed another bottle from her desk. The cap slithered off in mid-motion, spilling ink over her hand. She cursed again.

Once an accident, twice . . .

Renee opened her drawer to find all the bottles identically sabotaged and glared around the room. One day she’s in battle for the Crown’s life and the next she must check her quarters for juvenile pranks. Wonderful.

“We didn’t play jest with your ink.” Alec held up his hands.

“Yes. Triple promise,” a voice added from the doorway. Sloshing mud on the ink-stained floor, Diam and Khavi padded into the room. Beads of murky water dripping from the boy’s once blond hair had turned him into a grinning mound of dirt.

Sasha threw a towel at him. “What happened?”

“I learned the jumping-tumble-of-doom. Wanna see?”

Alec stiffened as the equally wet dog rubbed against his side, sniffing his jacket and whining. “What if you go bathe Khavi instead?”

It was a worthy effort, but destined for failure. Diam cocked his head in Alec’s direction, smiled, and sprawled himself in front of the fire. “No, we like it here,” he announced. And fell asleep.

“You’ll lose a student after midyear exams,” Seaborn said, his knee testing a chair in Savoy’s quarters. “Who do you think?”

“Tanil or Renee.” But you knew that before you asked. Savoy watched his friend pry off the chair cushion and smack it, eliciting a dull thud. “Quit destroying my furniture.”

“I think someone put a board inside the pillow.”

“Yes. Me. Put it back.”

“Life here too soft for you?”

Savoy perched himself atop his desk. His friend didn’t come to speak of furniture. He came to talk about the only topic he cared about these days. Cadets. “Say it, Connor. Or don’t say it. Make up your mind.”

Replacing the cushion, Seaborn sat down, his eyes inspecting the floor. “I care little for Tanil’s fate, but Renee . . . She’s got the mind to make a good Servant. It would upset me to lose her. Speak with her about her academic efforts. Your words would do what mine cannot.”

And Cory, the Seventh’s sergeant, could speak on virtue next. “Connor, you wrote half my papers.”

“Which makes me a dangerous evaluator.”

“I’m a fighter, Connor. My job is to keep her alive, not to worry about her grammar.”

“You are a teacher! Your job is to steer her from trouble and help her graduate. Are your morning sword games accomplishing that?”

“If she deigns to actually use the moves I teach her, they may guard her life.” Savoy crossed his arms. “Whether she does, or how she balances time, is her decision.”

“A teacher ensures his students make the right one, with books as much as with swords.” Seaborn shook his head. “You work with her because you’re bored, Korish. But you aren’t here for you, and you aren’t here to be her friend. Kids make choices based on your guidance. When you get it wrong, they pay the consequences. Stop this before you lead her into trouble.”

“She is sixteen, not six, Connor.”

“Wake up, Korish! With your looks and status, you could tell a sixteen-year-old girl to drink poison, and she’ll want to.” He drew a breath. “You don’t even see how she looks at you, do you?”

“Bloody gods, listen to yourself.” Savoy shook his head. This was the senior cadets’ last Academy year, before their two-year field trials. By nineteen they’d take the Servant’s Oath and make decisions in the Crown’s name. They’d hold others’ lives in their hands. And Connor feared granting them control of their own schedule. “Have you even ventured out of Atham in the past five years?” Savoy asked. “There is a world out there, you may have failed to notice. One where people must make their own decisions of what to eat for breakfast. And then deal with the consequences.”

Connor sat down and laced his fingers together. He spoke with frustrating calm, as if addressing a magistrate in court instead of a friend in a barracks. “The Seventh, if I recall, primarily runs secret, highly tactical missions in hostile territories. Do you believe that platform gives you the full worldview you speak of? Do you even know the real purpose behind half your assignments?” His hands opened. “So yes, Korish, I seldom leave Atham, and I ride in a wagon when I do go. But I work with the law, which touches more people than the edge of your sword ever can. And I work with cadets, who will likewise touch others.”

Savoy stared at the invisible wall of words that his friend erected between them. “You tangle in abstracts, Connor. I’m a fighter.”

Connor raised his brows. “Abstracts? Like laws that treat children as hardened criminals?” His voice dropped and he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You hiding from everyone for two years did not make me blind. What happened to you—”

“Was what I deserved and what I needed.” Savoy shoved himself away from the desk. “I went from hooligan to master swordsman. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, Connor. And sure as hell don’t do it under my flag.”

“Verin—”

“Saved my life.” Heated blood rose to Savoy’s face and he locked eyes with Connor, daring him to so much as consider contradicting.

Connor held up his palms. “Forgive me,” he said softly, and dropped his face down before turning to the window. Outside, the wind ruffled golden leaves. The transition from summer heat to autumn chill had been as gradual as a cliff. “I heard the Crown recalled the Seventh.”