Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

She swallowed. Thrown out on the spot. Bloody gods. Her face burned despite the cold. She was on probation, yes, but in combat arts, not academics. “Expulsion for one mistake? My first?”

“You chose a poor time for it.” He spread his hands. “Verin had to cut a senior cadet in a few weeks anyway. You were making a difficult decision very easy, Renee.”

She hadn’t considered that. She glanced at Savoy. “Why didn’t he just tell me I was getting off easy?”

Seaborn tilted his head back. “I would wager,” he said, emphasizing the last word, “he did not wish to make excuses for his actions.”

Renee’s stomach twitched in familiar frustration. His actions. Exactly. They were back to that. “Master Verin handles such things in private. Why did Savoy wish to humiliate me?”

Seaborn chuckled. “Is that what you think?” He braced his elbows on his knees and cocked his head at her. “Humiliate you how, Renee? By besting you in a sparring match? I doubt there is anyone in Atham who could hold his own for more than a minute with the man.”

She looked at Savoy and back. “He had wanted to deliver the blows himself. If it wasn’t to prove a point, then why?”

Seaborn glanced at his friend. “He’s a fighter, Renee. He’d wish to face what comes with a sword in hand, even a battle he could not win. Perhaps he believed the same true for you?” He wrapped his hands around his mug and lowered his already quiet voice. “Plus, Korish is not one to let others handle his dirty work. He considered your fate his fault.”

“That’s—” Seaborn’s hunched shoulders made her swallow the word ridiculous . She frowned. “Does . . . Does he hold himself accountable for your injuries in the riding accident?”

“I believe he always has.” Seaborn snuffed out a stray ember with his boot. “I also believe having to hurt you reopened that wound.”

Renee rose before dawn the following morning. Savoy had the watch and was in the midst of morning chores, flowing through the camp like a dancer across the floor. A pot of stew was already heating on a makeshift stove and a stack of fresh wood waited by the fire. On this miserably cold morning, in the middle of the forsaken woods, he looked more at home than she recalled ever seeing him at the Academy.

“What should I do?” she called out, searching for unfinished tasks.

He unbuckled Kye’s hobbles and stowed them in a saddlebag. “Whatever you wish.”

A log cracked in the fire, lighting the silence. Savoy lifted Kye’s heavy hoof, awkwardly balancing it atop his right forearm while his other hand worked the hoof-pick. His sword hung from the wrong hip, a change Renee had failed to notice until now.

She lowered her head and bent to pet Khavi, who slept curled in a ball. The dog lumbered up in greeting, moving with uncharacteristic stiffness. She furrowed her brows at his lethargy and had just reached out to pet him when a snow-laden branch broke from a tree and crashed to the ground beside Savoy. The stallion jumped in place, despite Savoy’s arm still supporting a hoof. Gasping, he dropped the hoof pick and cradled his bandaged hand before leaning on his horse for support.

He turned his head before Renee could look away and their eyes met across the campsite.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked.

She shook her head.

Savoy returned to his task, leaving her to stare at his back and regret her smile of the previous evening. It was time to mend things.

Ten minutes later, Renee sat atop the fallen tree trunk by the fire and filled two mugs with steaming coffee. She took a second to savor the rising steam and called to Savoy, “Peace offering?”

“There isn’t a war.” He did not sit, but at least he took the coffee.

“How’s your hand?”

“What do you want?”

She looked at the fire. It was easier to watch the flames than his face. “Our best swordsman can’t grip his blade. My teacher’s worried about his brother. And . . . ” She gathered herself. “And my friend’s hurt, and no one will even help him tie the bandage.”

He said nothing for a while, and the crackle of the burning wood filled the silence. “I’m not your friend,” he said quietly, long after a thick log charcoaled in the center and broke in two. “And you wouldn’t wish me as one.”

“I understand the risks.” She smiled tightly, then drew a breath. “Seaborn told me that Headmaster Verin had wished to dismiss me.” She didn’t look at him still. In retrospect, she was daft to not have at least suspected the truth. Dafter still to have done the deed, but it was too late for that line of thought. Her head bent over her cup, the hot fumes warming her face. It was gentler on my pride to blame you than to thank you. I’m sorry. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come. She nodded at his bandage instead. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She smiled at him.

Savoy blinked, then chuckled back.

She set her cup down into the snow, regretting the loss of heat. “May I see?”

He shrugged wearily but sat beside her and surrendered his hand. The muscles on his forearm coiled when she pulled away the layers of cloth that stuck to the wound. The unveiled raw, blistered flesh made Renee suck in a breath and turn away. Blood rushed from her head. She lifted her face to the sky and counted to ten until the wave of dizziness passed. “Gods.”

He pulled his hand back and flexed his swollen fingers. “It looked better yesterday.”

“Maybe Alec can—”

“Meddle within my Keraldi Barrier without any training? No.” Savoy pulled the small jar of salve from his pocket and opened it. Seen up close, the viscous white liquid inside was tinged with a pale blue shimmer. “Mage-made.” He answered her unspoken question. “They say it fights off corruption. Seven Hells, it should fight off bears the way it stings.”

She peered inside and recoiled from the rank smell. The salve had to cost double its weight in gold. Meanwhile, Savoy braced his forearm against his knee and fumbled in his pocket for a clean strip of linen.

“Do you want help?” She made herself sound steady. Even a pair of inexperienced hands had to be better than changing a dressing one-handed.

“No.” He paused and then his good hand halted her rising. “But I will take the company, if you do not mind.”

Catar drowned in green. Dirty green coats on loitering young men. Thin green headcloths on girls who winked and purred on street corners. Mismatched green store signs. The shades varied from one ragged cloth to the next, but the color itself was there, slithering through the narrow streets. Viper color.

Growing up in the countryside, Renee learned the Family’s game. Their veesi dealers titled themselves merchants, their thugs claimed the name private guard. Even nobles like Lord Palan feigned legitimacy. Calling a tribute a donation made little financial difference, but compared to the naked disrespect for the law that the Vipers showed, it was genteel.

“The Family sprung from nobility.” Seaborn’s voice had a classroom cadence that made Savoy roll his eyes. Ignoring him, Seaborn added, “Overt crudeness would upset their more delicate maneuvers. The Vipers breed in prisons and slums—their approach is bludgeon.”

Bludgeon. Like shooting arrows into the palace and setting mage buildings aflame. Renee sighed. Bribing the Crown at a time of barren treasury, like the Family was doing, was certainly more refined—and more devious as well. “Doesn’t the Madam realize that brash actions push King Lysian toward an alliance with the Family? He would save face if nothing else.”