Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Renee crossed her feet while the rest of the class fidgeted in silence.

Seaborn sighed. “Let’s consider this scene: It’s next year. You, now seventeen, have finished the Academy’s classwork segment and are on your field trial, stationed, say, on the western border near our less than friendly—which neighbors? Tanil?”

“Devmani Empire.”

Seaborn nodded. “Near our Devmani neighbors. The invaluable asset that you are, you find yourself dumped off in a small, isolated town. Your commander orders you to keep out of trouble until he gets back from a mission. Sound about right thus far?”

The cadets laughed.

“One of the soldiers in your company falls ill. The helpful townspeople fetch the medicine woman, who you realize is an unregistered mage. Issues, my friends?” He didn’t wait for hands. “Renee, please.”

She rubbed her eyes, hoping the grogginess of her head wouldn’t seep into her voice. “The woman avoided registration, thus committing a high crime against the Crown. I would arrest her.”

Seaborn put his hands into his pockets. “Depriving the town of its Healer will cost many lives, including that sick soldier of yours. Still want to do it?”

Renee frowned. “That’s the law, sir. Mages must register and submit to education and regulation. I’d have no choice.”

“Yes, that’s the law. But what does this law mean for us today ?” Seaborn eyed each student in turn. “Does it matter?” He crossed his arms. “Healer Grovener has a young apprentice this year. The boy is interested in Healing and hopes the experience with Grovener will sway the Mage Council to keep him in that vocation once he turns thirteen and registers. It may work. Or, the Council may find the boy’s aptitude or Tildor’s needs better served by training him as a thermal mage. Or a battle mage. Whether the boy is allowed to Heal others and stay safe or forced to kill and risk his life, is not up to him. That is Tildor’s law.” Seaborn rocked back on his heels. “Yes, you are fighter cadets, not magistrate cadets. But, you will kill more people with the law than you will with the edge of your sword. Understand it, my friends. Know its reasons. In fact”—he smiled—“write about it. Five pages before week’s end. Dismissed.”

That last did not apply to her. Renee stayed seated until the last of her classmates cleared the room, shook her head at Alec, who waited by the door, then rose to strike attention before Seaborn. Her stomach clenched.

He sighed and rubbed his chin. “Up late with your sword, cadet?”

“Yes, sir. I’m—”

“On probation in combat arts. I know.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “I am not down-rating you this time, Renee, but this is your warning. No late assignments, no missed classes.” His voice was gentle. “A cadet will be cut at midyear and a down-rate in academics will affect your class standing. I don’t believe such would help your predicament and do not wish to do such things. But I will. You understand?”

Only Seaborn could issue an ultimatum that left you feeling guilty. She nodded.

He patted her shoulder. “Dismissed.”

Renee started to leave, but a thought scratched at her mind. “Sir, Vipers want to end mage registration. They even burned down an official post three days ago. But . . . Why do they care?”

Seaborn smiled and held the door open for her. “A group that enslaves fighters into Predator pits demands freedom for mages. Ironic.” He paused. “But can you think of a better way to recruit mage support? The Vipers’ Madam is ruthless and blood-lusting, but unfortunately not stupid.” His face grew serious. “There are now more unregistered mages allied with the Vipers than there are unregistered mages in all the rest of Tildor.”

Renee swallowed. The Family caused enough heartache on their own, without Vipers and their illegal mages dragged into the melee. A disease of crime. King Lysian was right.

Renee aimed her blow at Alec’s head. He blocked late and their blades locked a hand-width above his forehead. Her arms shook from the strain, sweat stinging narrowed eyes, but he shook too. With her sword pressing down and his up, the advantage was hers. They both knew it. She had practiced the attack all summer.

“Halt!” Savoy’s voice broke them.

Renee’s jaw tensed as she obeyed the order, stepping away without seeing her score connect.

Alec gave her a minute bow, conceding the match despite its premature end. He never begrudged her her victories, not even in junior years when they were of a size and she beat him nine of ten bouts.

Savoy rubbed his temple. “He outweighs you by three stone. What in the Seven Hells are you doing, de Winter?”

Winning . She clasped her hands behind her back.

“You think you can overpower him? Or anyone in this salle?”

Her knuckles tightened. “Yes, sir. If I create the right circumstance.”

Savoy raised his head, pitching his voice over the salle. “Class halt! Push-up position. Knuckles and toes, backs straight, eyes on me. Hold.” He lowered himself directly in front of her. “Start creating.”

A minute passed. Two. Three. Renee’s shoulders trembled. Sand had scraped the skin off her knuckles and now grated into the sores each time she adjusted her fists. Sweat dripped into her eyes, slid to the point of her nose, and fell to a puddle forming on the sand. Her right arm cramped in inevitable surrender. Her knees sagged toward the sand.

“Recover!” Savoy called a hair before she failed. He held her gaze, driving his point deeper while the class around them reclaimed its footing. Girls and weaker boys didn’t belong among Fighter Servants. They weren’t worthy of becoming the Crown’s champions.

Renee drew a breath and held it. Savoy was testing her resolve, goading her to work harder, to be better. She would.

The door creaked. At Savoy’s nod, Seaborn slipped inside. “Commander, when you finish, Master Verin requests to see us.”

Savoy’s face tensed for an instant before he collected his feet under him and rose. “Dismissed,” he called, dusting his hands against his britches.

Renee stared at the backs of her classmates who poured out the door, Tanil at their lead. By Savoy’s tradition, anyone who failed to finish an exercise owed two hundred push-ups. She hadn’t technically failed, but they both knew why. She didn’t need favors.

She swallowed and, before she could change her mind, claimed a spot by the wall. Her muscles protested the renewed abuse and she worked her fingers, staring at her raw knuckles. She could lay her hands flat. No. Erring on the side of honor, Renee planted her fists into the sand. The discomfort would thin once she started the exercise. Two hundred. Given enough time, anyone could do two hundred. Hells, anyone could do two thousand if they stayed at it long enough. Up and down. Small, easy steps.

She managed twelve.

Collapsing every dozen moves, she did not realize Savoy was still there until he dropped down beside her. His push-ups, easy and controlled, rose and fell in unison to her rhythm. “How many left?”

“One hundred forty.”

“Korish . . . ” Seaborn’s voice trailed off when Savoy held up a finger without breaking form. Seaborn sighed, pushed away from the wall he had leaned on, and headed out. “Very well. I will tell Verin you will join us shortly.”

Savoy nodded and kept Renee’s pace even when she could manage no more than two or three at a time. The companionship scrubbed the exercise of shame, turning soreness from misery to challenge. When they finished, she rubbed her arms and looked up at him, trying to hold on to the string of connection that mutual suffering forged. “Thank you, sir.”