Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Renee had shaken her head, and he’d glanced at her then.

“The Servant’s oath. It must be given freely. A mage has no choice, either in who she is or what specialization the Crown’s mage council selects for her. And, since she already belongs to Tildor, there is no oath to give.” He had smiled. “Plus, mages only support armies; they do not lead soldiers or wield weapons themselves.”

Renee had crossed her arms. “Tildor has battle mages, they wield weapons.”

“They do not. They are weapons. Dangerous weapons that someone else wields.” Headmaster Verin’s voice softened. “Very few mages have both the strength and the training to make a meaningful difference in battle. Even if you were one, at most, you might use mage energy to strike a target someone else selected while a team of fighters tries to protect you from the enemy’s arrows. Is that where your heart lies?”

Renee did not want to be a mage after that.

Now she traced the painted sword’s edge with her finger. This was her choice. “What do you think Commander Savoy’s like?” she asked, feeling a presence behind her and turning to glance at Alec.

“Ruthless.” Alec leaned his back against the wood-planked wall, arms crossed over his wide chest and gaze fixed on the door. The other students, fewer than twenty left in the senior class now, milled about, speaking in hushed voices and rechecking gear. They were early. A smart thing to be on the instructor’s first day.

Renee shook her muscles loose. The tension in the room was growing, feeding on itself, and she sought comfort in the familiar sights. The large, rectangular hall smelled of sweaty leather and old sand. Spare gear, dusty and ill-fitting, spilled from the bins in the corner. Outside the window . . . She blinked as a pair of curious green eyes on the other side of the glass met hers. The eyes widened and disappeared, replaced by a dog’s white muzzle.

She chuckled, earning annoyed glances from the boys.

Alec sighed. “Try and keep your head down, for once. You don’t need Savoy riding hard on you any more than he will anyway.”

“Where’s your strategic mind?” Renee raised her brows. “The more attention he gives me, the less he gives you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m certain the commanding officer of the Seventh is able to make only one person miserable at a time.”

“Scared?”

“Sane.”

The door swung open before she could retort, and everyone raced into formation.

Korish Savoy was not, as Renee imagined, big as a blacksmith. He was average height, and his lean muscles underscored agility, not bulk.

Renee’s heart beat in her ears.

“Pads. Practice swords. Now,” said Savoy.

So much for an introduction. They scrambled.

Savoy swung a bag off his shoulder and began strapping on worn leather pads. He moved like a cat, the gear pliant in his hands and conforming to the familiar shape of his muscles. Renee admired the economy of his motions until she realized he was ready and waiting. Cheeks hot, she sprinted through the rest of her buckles and laces.

Alec held her weapon out to her. “What’s holding you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re warmed up?” Savoy drew a practice sword from his bag and moved toward the center of the salle.

The cadets exchanged glances. No one spoke.

Savoy ran a hand over his hair. He pointed his blade, singling out Alec. “Answer.”

Alec shuffled his feet.

Renee hid a wince. The last time Alec looked that miserable in front of an instructor was at age twelve, when he was summoned to explain the contents of his pockets to Headmaster Verin. Granted, he hadn’t sat too well after that, and he never again earned so much as extra work duty.

“No, sir. The class . . . ” Alec drew a breath. “The class just began now, sir.”

Savoy massaged his temple. He was but half a hand taller than Alec, and not as broad—but seemed bigger. “Was that a surprise? Did the gods miraculously summon you all here, at the same time, with bags full of gear, and without any idea of what we might be doing?”

He caught the eyes of each student in turn. Renee tensed when his gaze met hers. How could anyone know what he expected before he told them? He raises standards, she told herself. Certainly the Seventh warms up on its own .

Withholding further comment, Savoy separated the students into pairs. He joined the cadets’ lines instead of ordering them about from the sidelines like their past instructors had. Alec, who now faced Savoy, had the grim look of someone preparing for the gallows.

They started with a single attack-parry drill. Instructors always started with boring moves. Renee made herself focus, determined to make a good impression. She adjusted her stance. Parry left. Reset. Keep back straight. Push off the back foot hard when lunging. Attack left. Parry right. Relaxing, her body fell into the drill’s rhythmic motions, punctuated by the even clacks of the wooden blades.

“Rotate!” The order brought Renee to a new partner. In her peripheral vision, she watched Savoy face off with Tanil, a thin blond boy who darted to and fro, trying to stay ahead of the instructor’s blade. In contrast, Savoy’s movements looked leisurely to the point of boredom.

Rotate. The drill changed to single combination attack.

Rotate. Alec.

“You’re the only one not breathing hard,” he said, adjusting his grip on the sword.

She shot a glance at Savoy. “Not the only one.”

Alec shook his head in warning.

Rotate.

Renee looked into Savoy’s eyes and smiled.

He did not smile back. He attacked, sword sailing at her head. When she blocked, the vibrations from the impact ran through her body. The blow hadn’t looked that forceful. They reset, and she lunged to attack left. His blade materialized in her way. Renee blocked the next blow and attacked again, their swords beating a comfortable cadence.

Savoy looked bored to tears. She shared the sentiment. Gathering her courage, Renee reset a little quicker, attacked a little harder and faster. No rebuke came. He met her blow for blow, always hitting the perfect center of her blade, always parrying with the center of his. Hot blood urged her on. High block. Left parry. The clacking wood sounded like a drum roll.

She caught his eyes and, seeing a twinge of interest, pushed the speed further. The reset pause disappeared, the drill’s rules a memory. Clack-clack-clack . Her body danced. Low block. Attack. Right parry. Attack. Parry again. In a flash of inspiration, Renee added a feint before her next advance. Savoy blocked, unfazed by the ruse. He countered and she hurried to block his high attack.

Except, he did not do a high attack. She watched him change the strike in mid-motion, while her blade continued up to block an assault that no longer headed that way. Savoy’s face said he saw it too.

He did not pull the blow. The blade struck Renee’s right forearm so hard that the thud of wood hitting padded leather made all heads turn toward them. Air caught in her lungs and pain seared through her arm, spreading into her side. Burning, then numbness, shot down to the small fingers of her hand. Her grip failed. The wooden blade slipped, thumping against the sand-covered floor.

Swallowing, she forced herself to straighten in silence. Her eyes met Savoy’s just in time to see the calm on his face while his blade rose again. It landed on the same spot.

She cried out. The world swayed. Cradling her arm, she knelt to the floor. Looking up, Renee saw Savoy swing his blade for a third time and grimly braced herself. The blow stopped an inch short of her neck.

“You are dead,” he told her before pitching his voice over the salle. “That will be the last time anyone here lets go of a weapon.” He looked down at Renee. “Am I understood?”