Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

His jaw tightened. “But I’m not hiding. I’m making a choice to be a fighter Servant instead of yielding to a mage’s impulse. You do the same, choosing to train instead of surrendering to your size or your father’s decrees. Anyone can conscript as a common soldier or purchase an officer’s commission, but becoming a Servant—that proves something.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “All Servants have their reasons.” A hint of a smile twitched across his face. “Even Savoy, I’m sure.”

She smiled back. Alec was right. The Servants’ code inspired her, but different yearnings drove different people—whether for opportunity, or challenge, or to uphold a family tradition. They all had potential to be good officers.

Alec shook his head like a dog and leaned back. “Where is the Seventh this fine day? You like running with them over training with Savoy alone?”

A knock at the door halted her growing blush. She missed the regular morning sparring, but Savoy still found an hour for her now and again. “Enter,” she called instead of answering Alec.

A small girl in a page’s uniform appeared long enough to say that Headmaster Verin wished Renee to attend him in his office immediately.

Alec’s face was carefully neutral. He looked out the window.

Renee waited until the girl’s footsteps receded. “I didn’t say anything,” she told him, her mouth dry.

His shoulders relaxed. “I didn’t think you would, but . . . ” He frowned. “Diam? I like him, but he’s eight.”

“I’ll give you warning if they know.” Renee leaned her forehead against the doorframe before stepping out. “It may be something else altogether.” She headed out before he could ask what.

The late afternoon sky was still crisp and clear. The administrative building towered above Renee, casting its shadow over the Academy grounds. Its white marble steps, thick columns, and strict, smooth walls radiated grandeur and intimidation. No one, except perhaps for those who entered it daily, could walk inside without feeling the significance of her own existence dwarfed by the immensity of the institution.

Holding her breath, Renee pulled open one of the doors, so heavy that for the first few years as a cadet she couldn’t open it by herself. Not that she had much practice. Mischief that sucked most of the boys into trouble and a headmaster’s summons had politely avoided her. Until now. The door closed behind her with a puff of cold air, shutting out the courtyard noise and leaving her to climb the stairs in dooming silence.

From the top stairway window, she saw Savoy approach the building and forced herself to maintain composure. He’d expect that of her. He was near the entrance now and seemed unaware of Seaborn rounding the corner. Without warning, Seaborn grabbed Savoy and spun him around. A suicidal move. Renee held her breath.

Savoy stiffened, but allowed himself to be shoved.

Seaborn’s finger jabbed Savoy’s chest until the latter turned away and entered the building.

“Make no mistake about it, Korish.” Seaborn’s voice echoed up the stairs. “We both know who’s responsible.”

“Yes,” Savoy answered.

Renee stepped farther away from the landing, as getting caught eavesdropping was unlikely to improve her situation. Her thoughts raced as quickly as her heart. The exchange below shed little light on which of her recent misdeeds put her here. It was possible that Diam had told his brother the truth, and Verin now planned to force her into bearing witness against her friend. Or that Seaborn had realized the essay she turned in was not of her writing. Or . . . she clasped her hands behind her back to still them.

Savoy crested the stairs, looking as pale as Renee felt. Whatever had happened, he was unhappy about it. That made two of them. She forced a ghost of a smile to her face to encourage them both.

“Face the wall, cadet,” he said.

It was as though he’d doused her with freezing water. Renee turned toward the wall, too humiliated to meet either his eyes or Seaborn’s. Footsteps sounded behind her as the two men walked past, toward Verin’s office.

“What about her?” Seaborn asked as the door started to creak closed.

“She stays outside,” said Savoy. There was a click, and conversation became too muffled to discern.

Renee’s palms were slippery with sweat by the time they came out an hour later, Savoy in the lead. He walked toward her, stone-faced, while Verin watched from a few paces back. “With me.” Savoy tapped her writing journal against his leg and shoved her toward the steps. Seaborn and Verin followed.

Renee stumbled as Savoy thrust her into the training salle. She slid on the sandy floor, catching sight of Seaborn and Verin taking posts at the wall while she regained her balance. Seaborn’s slumped shoulders sank farther. Seaborn. The essay. At least she knew what it was about now. Her heart sped. “I’m sorry,” she whispered toward him, but it wasn’t Seaborn who rounded on her with disappointment, and something else, flaring in his eyes. It was Savoy.

He opened her journal, ripped out a fistful of pages, and threw the bundle at her. Paper separated in mid-flight and glided to the ground, fluttering in and out of the squares of late-day light that fell from the windows onto the sand.

“What in the Seven Hells possessed you?”

Blood drained from her face. She glanced back at Seaborn, but found herself unable to meet his eyes. Savoy towered over her. Swallowing, she bent to pick up the pieces of her essay. No, not her essay, just the one she handed in.

“I—I didn’t have time,” she stammered, containing herself to the task of collecting the rubbish. She wished the ground could open and let her disappear into oblivion.

“You found time to play with swords and the Seventh,” Savoy shot back. “I trusted you to act responsibly, de Winter, to act worthy of the office you strive for.”

She straightened to face the sting of his words, finding none of her own.

Savoy grabbed the pages from her grip and ripped them apart, letting the shreds fall like bits of dirty snow. She watched them cover the sand, not looking away until she felt something hard shoved into her chest. Her hands gripped the proffered practice blade, her sweaty palms slipping on the hilt.

“This here is fun, right, de Winter?” His wooden blade struck her thigh. “Unlike doing your own work.”

She flinched.

He struck again, landing the blow on her upper arm. “You plan on just standing there now? Did your sword turn into a fashion piece?”

She brought up her weapon but could not meet his gaze.

Savoy swung at her head.

His attack was too clean, too obvious. Renee raised her sword to block.

He circled her blade and struck her side, laying a welt across her exposed ribs. Blood pooled beneath unbroken skin. Renee gasped and clamped her free hand over the pulsing bruise. The instant she did, Savoy hit her crooked arm just above the elbow. Numbness, then fire shot up her shoulder and through her side. She hunched over in pain, knowing she was presenting her already throbbing shoulder for another blow. It came.

Renee backed away, staring at Savoy wide-eyed. The systematic savageness of the attack frightened her in a way sparring with him never had. He followed her retreat. A belly strike snatched her breath and Savoy’s blade rose up again, his face promising this was but the beginning.

No reprieve. No pause. Granting her a sword had been a mockery. Savoy powered though her parries or else manipulated her moves to expose bruises. He branded new stripes over hurt flesh. Good gods. She whimpered. He ignored her cry. The attack kept coming. Forever.

Renee fell.