Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

A warhorse. She wanted to pet his warhorse. Savoy rubbed his temple and pulled Kye to a halt to avoid trampling the future cavalrywoman. “He’s trained to kill people.”

“Oh . . . ” She rubbed the sole of her right foot against her left calf. “Do you kill people too?”

“Of course he does,” said a boy’s voice. “He’s got a sword.”

Other voices joined in with their opinions. Behind the buzz of the children’s speculation brewed a wave of adults’ quiet comments.

“Is that him?”

“No, Savoy isn’t coming.”

“The Crown ordered him.”

Stopping had been a mistake. Someone reached a hand toward Kye’s flank and the stallion snapped his teeth.

“Get your animal under control, Commander,” said a familiar voice. Its owner, leaner and more gray-haired than Savoy remembered, guided his own horse through the crowd. He sat tall in his saddle and his eyes scrutinized Savoy from head to toe, as if he were a boy caught after the curfew bell. “The mount oft reflects the mood of his rider.”

Savoy swallowed his thoughts and bowed to Verin, Servant High Constable of the Crown’s army, the Academy headmaster, and for several years, Savoy’s foster father. “Hello, sir.”

“Supply problems at Fort Ellis?” Verin asked mildly.

“Sir?”

“I presume your lack of uniform reflects poor efforts of the quartermaster. My apologies for the inconvenience.” Verin narrowed his eyes, glaring at the onlookers and arousing a flurry of activity. No one wanted to upset a Servant of the Crown. Verin’s voice softened. “The cadets look to their teachers for example, lad.”

Cadets . Savoy’s hands tightened so hard on the reins that Kye tossed his head, earning a sideways glance from Verin. Cadets . He was being made to trade the Seventh for a gaggle of children. Savoy forced his fingers open and continued the journey in silence. The familiar sights of the Academy’s stone-walled barracks, trimmed-grass courtyards, and imposing buildings welcomed him with the hospitality that shackles greet a prisoner.

“I arranged a corner stall for Kye, on the chance he is as intense as other warhorses I’ve had the pleasure of knowing,” Verin said as they reached the stable where two handlers awaited.

Savoy nodded. Kye hated stalls.

“I will see you in my study. You spent enough time there to remember the way, I believe?” Verin’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile as he walked away.

The stable hand reached for Savoy’s reins. “Sir?”

“Don’t go near Kye.” Savoy unsaddled the stallion himself and bent to clear rubble and sewage bits from the horse’s hooves. This assignment wasn’t just ridiculous, it wasn’t right.

A half hour later, Savoy, in full uniform, came to attention in front of Verin’s desk. The office had changed little since Savoy’s cadet years, when he and his friend had stood in this spot too often. A few more lines creased the old leather chair, a few more volumes filled the oak bookcase. Even the smell was the same—sealing wax, old books, and jasmine tea. He tensed despite himself.

“Sit, lad.” Verin waved toward a chair. “For once, you are not here for a reprimand.” Crow’s-feet wrinkles accented the corners of his eyes when he smiled. That was new too.

Savoy stayed standing. “Why am I here, sir?”

“To teach.” Verin’s weathered hand took an iron teakettle off the tray and filled two cups.

“I’m a fighter, sir, and the Seventh is a combat unit. I know as little of children as my replacement knows of my men.”

Verin’s face hardened. “You are a Servant of the Crown, sworn, if memory serves me, to obey said Crown’s wishes.”

And if King Lysian even knows of my assignment, I’ll eat a goat intestine raw. Savoy caught himself in time to guard his words. It was not beyond Verin to take him up on the suggestion. “Is this an exercise in administrative policy, sir?”

“It is an exercise in fortifying our Servant officer cadre. The Academy believes that a year of teaching cadets is an investment worth making.” Verin pulled up his brows. “It is a compliment to your skills, lad. One that I am proud to support.”

“It is a farce, sir. I fight in real battles, with real swords, and real consequences. I will happily demonstrate all that to whichever puppeteer arranged this ludicrousness. I—”

Verin’s palm slammed the table. The resulting din reverberated off the walls and rippled the surface of the jasmine tea. “You are twenty-three and behave like a sullen child.”

Savoy swallowed.

“The Academy is a living institution. We all carry out duties beyond these walls.” Verin leaned forward and the High Constable pips on his collar caught the light. His tone took a familiar note of steel. “You may reclaim your command and re-sharpen the Seventh after dispatching your current obligations. I am not suggesting that task to be simple; I am saying it is one you will address at a later date. For the time being, your responsibilities are to your students, Commander Savoy. You are in the service of the Crown and are called to serve here.”

Savoy said nothing for a few moments. Ridiculous orders or not, if not for fostering with Verin, he’d be a guest in a prison instead of an officer in the Crown’s champion troop. “What do you expect me to teach them, sir?”

“They are the upcoming officer elites. Teach them what you think they need.”

“Experience.”

The headmaster bored his gaze into him.

Savoy strained to keep the discontent from his voice. “Yes, sir.”

Leaning back in his chair, Verin allowed the silence to linger. Finally, he sighed. “You may go.”

Savoy bowed and braced to attention once more before starting for the door. His hand was already on the handle when he turned back and asked softly, “Why am I here, sir?”

Verin sipped his tea, silent.

As Savoy walked away, he could not help but wonder how he would survive the coming year.

To an outsider, the practice courts might look like the bastard children of the spotless Academy. Tucked at the far west end, away from the main courtyard, past even the stables, the handful of wood-fenced corrals circled a barn-size building called a salle, a large room with a sand floor. To Renee and the other fighters, this was the Academy’s soul. Rules carved into a wooden plaque hung above the door. She couldn’t recall anyone ever reading them, but they belonged here. Just as she did.

The morning sun flowed through the salle’s windows, lighting the Academy of Tildor crest, which was painted at chest height on the opposite wall. Its sword and scroll shimmered in the rays full of swirling dust motes. The blue mage flame, a remainder from the days when mages ran the school, proudly held its ground. It was an old drawing, one that nobody seemed to notice any longer on the wall.

When she was little, like all children, Renee wanted Control. She had seen mages walk in shrouds of respect and glamour, Healing wounds with a touch of their blue flame, and answering summonses to work on secret projects for the Crown himself. She wanted it most upon turning thirteen, when the Academy dismissed many of the girls and weaker boys in her class. Even the smallest, scrawniest mage could contribute to a battle, she told herself at night when she imagined waking up one morning to discover herself a mage and suddenly able to sense the Keraldi Barrier. What must it be like, she wondered, to reach toward a friend and feel the invisible shell holding his life energy as surely as if she were touching real skin.

“The mage’s ability to feel and Control life energy manifests when the body matures,” Headmaster Verin had told her upon finding her in the chapel. “You cannot make yourself a mage any more than you can make yourself taller. But, to each strength is a cost.” He had sat down beside her, looking straight ahead, as she did. “Do you know why we have no mage Servants?”