Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

The older man rose, waited until Savoy stood and bowed, and then headed for the door. He paused with his hand resting on the handle. “I know my words raked you, lad. That marks you a good officer. See that you are a good teacher as well.”

Savoy stared at the door long after it closed, wondering how Verin had turned being a “good officer” into a liability.

The conversation still weighed on his mind when he met his sergeants, Cory and Davis, a few hours later for a surprise inspection of the Seventh’s mounts. The men had drilled with the Palace Guard a few days ago, but until a specific mission arose, the team had little to do in Atham but patrol the city and the palace grounds, watching for misbehaving Vipers. The reserve status chafed his soldiers. And chafed soldiers found trouble. As glad as Savoy was for his men’s company, he was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of the precautionary recall.

“How are the boys handling the tether?” Savoy asked.

The stable’s lantern light glinted off of Davis’s bald head. “We have enough mending, supplying, and training to do to keep them trotting a while longer, but once that ends . . . ” He opened his palms. “I can’t keep a sword sharp for you if I have nothing to sharpen it on, sir.”

“Understood.” Savoy drummed his fingers against a stall gate. The occupant poked her black nose over the railing and sniffed curiously until a crash of the stable door startled her into a rear. “Whoa, girl.” Savoy grabbed her halter, restraining the filly lest she harm herself. He twisted to see the source of the racket and found a man who should know better standing a few paces away. “Easy near the horses, Connor.”

“Get your hooligans under control,” said Seaborn.

Cory and Davis stepped forward, hands hovering over sword hilts.

“Gentlemen.” Savoy kept his voice low. “Give us a minute.” He watched his men retreat, then stared at Seaborn.

“Either the back pasture grew a barrel of mead, or your men cannot tell a school from a taproom. I found two cadets stumbling around the barracks, losing their dinners.”

“Mead any good?” Savoy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told them to stay away from the cheap brew.”

Connor planted his palm against the wall near Savoy’s head and leaned close. His voice, coming quiet from behind clenched teeth, was a growl. “Get your gang on a leash, or get them gone.”

Savoy crossed his arms. He permitted Connor much, but disrespect toward the Seventh was beyond those bounds. While the Academy slept in the peace of high walls and pretty guardsmen, his men spent most nights with death guarding their dreams. “Put a damn leash on your cadets. Or teach them to drink. I don’t care which.”

“You are the guests here, not the kids. Behave or get out.”

“You think I want to be here?”

“I don’t care. The Academy exists for the cadets, not for you.” Connor’s voice dropped, sending a shiver through Savoy. “Break up the party or I will call Guardsman Fisker to do it. I’m certain he would make the trip from the palace for the pleasure.”

The door slammed behind Seaborn, upsetting the horses again. Breath caught in Savoy’s lungs, as if someone punched his stomach. When he forced himself to turn away, he found Cory and Davis leaning against the stable wall, their eyes boring into him.

“Move the hooligans and their mead into my quarters,” he told them, and started toward the door.

“Where are you going, sir?”

Savoy paused, but did not turn around, not wishing his face to show. “To find a way to get you released from this dungeon.”

“Am I still welcome?” Alec hovered at the threshold of Renee’s quarters. They had not spoken in the two days since Alec had stood the world on its ears—two days that had left Renee’s nails bitten to the quick and no memory of Alec unstudied. He put his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

“You are.” She chewed her lip. One friend should not have to ask such things of another. “Gods, of course you are.”

He closed the door behind him and lingered there for a few moments before sitting on Sasha’s empty bed. He braced his elbows on his knees and interlaced his fingers, his head bent. “I’m sorry that you know.” He spoke toward the floor. “But I’m glad too. And I’m sorry for being glad.”

Renee’s finger traced the rough texture of the bedcover. Two days earlier she would have sworn that a true friendship had no room for secrets. But secrets, it turned out, carried burdens. “Does anyone else know?”

“Gran may suspect.” Alec took a breath. “She raised two mage daughters, she knows what to look for.”

Renee fidgeted. Alec had never mentioned that before either.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he said quickly, as if reading her thoughts. “My mother ”—Alec spat the word—“she tossed me to Gran and took off, like I’ve told you.” He drew a breath. “Aunt Cayle . . . I never told you about her, but she taught me a bit. We didn’t know whether I would Control yet, but she’d call me over and explain things—how Control works, mage history, some stories. The fundamental skills are the same for all mages, and Aunt Cayle specialized in Healing atop that, learning bits and pieces as best she could in secret. She Healed my dog when he burned his paw. I didn’t know it then, but she was trusting me with her life by doing it.”

And now he was trusting her. Renee scooted to the edge of her bed, closer to him. She remembered his grandfather passing on a few years back and knew he little cared to speak of his mother, who had left long before that. That was all. Renee and Alec had been each other’s family for years now, and rarely talked of other relatives. Now she knew why. “Your aunt isn’t registered, then?”

“She wasn’t. The guard hanged her eight years ago.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a leather square the size of a gold crown. The attached thong marked it a necklace, although Renee had never seen Alec wear it. He turned it over to show a small diamond stud worked into the center. An amulet. “She gave it to me when I feared the dark. I could touch it to make it glow.”

Renee reached out and brushed her finger over the smooth stone. Nothing happened.

“It can’t store the energy long. Giving me a candle would have been cheaper and much more practical. But . . .” He raised his shoulders and let the rest go unsaid.

“Why don’t you recharge it? I don’t think she’d mind.”

He snorted. “Why don’t you best Savoy with a sword?” His thumb rubbed the leather. “Healer Grovener probably could, but it would seem strange to ask.”

She bowed her head in apology. Amulets were rare and expensive, but Renee had always assumed that the cost was due to the diamonds and regulation fees. It was easy to dismiss the skill and training involved in unfamiliar vocations. “Is your mother hiding?” That would explain why Alec spoke so little of her. Unwise to draw attention—to his mother and his own bloodlines, both. “Is that why she left?”

“No.” He chuckled without humor. “No, she registered and went to a Crown’s school. Not the Academy, but nicer than anything we’d have been able to afford. Registered mages have status and money, you know. At the expense of freedom.” He snorted. “I was an accident that delayed my mother’s graduation. When she finally received orders, well, I don’t know if she couldn’t take me or chose not to, but I have a guess.” He spread his palms. “The Mage Council has her developing army tools somewhere. She sends Gran coin.”

“At least you know she’s alive.” With a sigh, Renee leaned back on outstretched arms and studied the cracks in the ceiling. She recalled little of her own mother, but the memories she had were warm. “So, your mother is registered, your bloodlines are mage-filled, and you Control . . . And instead of skulking in the shadows of your village, you got yourself to Atham, defying registration under the Crown’s—and Mage Council’s—very noses. You’re hiding in plain sight.”