Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Den turned. Stared. Tension stretched taut between them. Their breaths sounded loud in the empty room. Then the startled look on Den’s face morphed to cold rage. The temperature seemed to plummet. Shame and fury flashed in the large man’s face, and his hands trembled in clenched fists. “Drop. That. Blade.” The trainer repeated his demand, his voice growing louder with each retelling, as if the piece of wood in Savoy’s hand would explode if not released. A vein pulsated across Den’s temple and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. In moments, his treasured wall of calm and control had crumpled to dust. “Drop it! Drop it, now!”

“Drop? No.” Savoy twisted the sword and held the hilt out toward the other man. He took care to give no sign of mockery or even acknowledge the gash he had opened in Den’s armor. He had stripped the man of his pride; adding salt to the injury would be indefensible.

Their eyes met.

Savoy shook his head. “Don’t.”

With a jerk, Den ripped the blade free and threw it across the room. The wood crashed into some padding and thumped onto the sand. The trainer’s hand fumbled in his pocket and extracted the amulet. It slipped in his fingers, but he caught it and aimed at Savoy.

The leather bands obeyed, flashing to life and pulling together.

Den gripped Savoy’s hair and forced him to face the wall. He pulled on the rope, securing Savoy high to the ring. “Who in the Seven Hells do you think you are?” he growled in his ear. “You think you’ve had it hard till now? You’re an idiotic, useless, unbroken pup.”

Savoy’s forehead pressed against the cool wall. He held his breath. Behind him, heavy breathing and rustling filled the air and then a crack echoed through the salle. He tensed. The next moment the crack came again, and a stripe of fire ignited across his back.

The blows rained with thunderstorm fury, growing harder and faster until, like a flash of lightning, they ceased to exist. Trails of blood trickled down Savoy’s back.

Savoy breathed deeply, drawing comfort from the stone before him. Pain was a familiar companion in both fighting and training. He worried little for it. The inability to defend himself scorched worse.

He took another breath to collect himself and turned his head, unsurprised to find Den staring at the ground. The hemp, red likely for the first time in its life, fell to the sand.

Den’s shoulders slumped, shame filling the void of exhausted anger. In the minutes just passed, Savoy lost skin, but Den lost more. And they both knew it. Savoy remained silent, letting the trainer simmer in disgrace. From fighter to irate bully was a long way to fall.

“Papa?”

Bloody gods. Savoy’s head snapped toward the child’s voice at the door. He froze at the sight of a curly-haired little girl clutching a blanket in two grubby fists. Her wide eyes glistened in the lantern light, and darted between him and Den, growing more frightened with each trip.

“Papa? Look. Someone hurt that man.” She stepped into the salle and hugged the blanket to her face. “Who did that?”

Den’s mouth moved but produced no words. Once, twice, three times. The child repeated her question, her small hand touching Savoy’s skin and coming away wet. Den swallowed.

The soldier inside Savoy demanded he keep his mouth shut. Cursing himself, he spoke nonetheless. “A stranger wanted to hurt me,” he told the girl, “but your papa found us and chased him away.”

“Oh!” The fright in her eyes turned to awe as she gazed at Den, her face full of worship and pride. “You won’t let the stranger come back, will you, Papa?”

Den shook his head and scooped up the little girl. “I won’t, Mia.” Over her head, his eyes met Savoy’s. “I won’t.” He touched his forehead to the child’s. “What are you doing out of bed?”

She mumbled something about a nightmare and the pair left. Savoy was alone. He twisted in his binds, seeking some comfort. A body adjusted to anything. He focused on breathing, and the world had just started to dim away when footsteps roused him. Den pulled free the rope and stepped away while Savoy got his feet under him.

“Go to bed, Cat,” he said quietly. “I’ll make sure Jasper doesn’t bother you.”

Savoy massaged his shoulders and straightened, holding Den’s gaze before walking to the door.

“Her mother died.” Den’s voice paused behind him. “I have nowhere else to leave her.”

“No business of mine.”

“You’re stupid, you know.” Den’s words dripped bitterness. “You should’ve left me to stumble with her. Broken me.”

“I know.” He resumed walking.

“Who are you, Cat?”

“An idiotic, unbroken pup,” Savoy replied, shutting the door behind him.

It was two days before Den spoke to Savoy again, demanding he stay after training. The others left in a hurry, as if afraid to be named accomplices in whatever offense Savoy was about to answer for. Shrugging, Savoy knelt by the wall and awaited the coming festivities.

Den closed the door behind them. The bolt clicked as it slid into place. That was a first. His gaze remained on the lock. “You needn’t kneel. You’re not in trouble.”

Savoy rose from his usual penalty spot beside the ring in the wall and crossed his arms. This was certainly a first. Den needed something.

The trainer shuffled his feet once and turned, staring at the ground. His jaw clenched and loosened. It seemed an eternity of silence passed before he spoke. “Will you teach me?”

Ah. “No.”

Den jerked straight. “Not the answer I expected.” His brows narrowed, and he tilted his head. “Not the brightest one either.”

“I’m rarely accused of an overabundance of brainpower.” Savoy paused. “Or of making a fine pet.”

“Ah.” Den tilted his head the other way and ran a hand through his hair. Silence reclaimed its hold over the salle. A thoughtful look flickered in his eyes, and Savoy held his breath. Minutes passed before the trainer spoke again. “All right. Not a favor. An exchange? What is it that you want?”

“To get out.”

“That’d be slightly counterproductive to my cause, would it not?” Sarcasm left Den’s face and he added more quietly, “I don’t have the power to do that, Cat. I could get you food, perhaps a girl or—”

“Very well. You train me, I train you. Lesson for lesson.”

“Train you beyond what we do every day?”

Savoy nodded.

“You’ve lost your mind. You’ll collapse from exhaustion.”

Savoy shrugged again. “Can’t argue either point. The deal stands.”

Den frowned, opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it and shook away the thought. “Accepted.”

Savoy bowed, idly wondering what brilliance inspired him to better arm his own captor.

No message came on the fourth day of Seaborn’s absence. Or the fifth. Or the eighth. Not even a note to explain the silence. Renee alternated between worrying for him and vowing to dismember the man. Alec had no theory to contribute, except to add that it was doubtful any combination of him, Diam, and Khavi would be able to open the door to the underground tunnels now that the Vipers had strengthened the lock. Bloody helpful. Following their run-in with Nino, Alec had invited Renee to visit the mage tavern more than once, but despite welcoming words, his tone lacked enthusiasm. Although Jasper and Ivan liked her well enough, she made most of Alec’s other mage friends—unregistered, outlaw mage friends—uncomfortable. He seemed to avoid the inn and private conversations with her.

Renee paced the room, kicking any object in foot’s reach. At the writing desk, Diam bent over a sheet of paper.