Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Alemar, she bespoke.

No questions. It is happening. Feel it. Where his hands pressed, she could feel an electrical tug; she could almost hear the crackle in the air. Her ears began to ring, a steady note from deep inside her skull.

She let him in.

They had bespoken many times, but those conversations, though intimate, had always been between distinct entities. This time they shared the same place. She could sense him delving deep, rooting out a source of wrongness that, until that moment, she had not realized existed. She felt him hesitate, evaluate, and decide. Then he took her there, to show her what he had discovered.

The lawns of Garthmorron Hold were stiff and itchy, and hot now that the sun had angled past the trees. Her bare feet danced back and forth across the sward, finding purchase, digging in, jumping, until the soles were completely green. The aroma of crushed grass filled her nose. Side-step. Thrust. Twist. The area sang with the rasp of steel on steel.

Her opponent was Alemar. She circled, keeping outside his range. She had the length advantage, thanks to the growth spurt of adolescence that had not yet occurred for him. Though still lean in the hips and completely flat-chested, she towered half a head above him. She strove to maintain control over her breathing, but it was difficult. The practice blade weighed heavily in her hand.

Alemar plunged forward, thrusting. She turned away, but not in time. The tip of his sword jabbed her sharply in the ribs, almost on top of the bruise from his previous thrust. He had taken her twice with the same technique.

They returned to their starting points. Alemar seemed sympathetic, but it was hard to see much of his expression behind the grid of his face mask. He dipped the blunt at the end of his weapon into the paint pot to restore the red coating. She frowned at the marks on her tunic. The garment looked like it had measles. Alemar's displayed only one stain, and that had been made by a different opponent.

She glanced at Troy, but she dared not meet his flinty gaze. She would not whimper or ask for a rest, no matter how tired she was.

"Begin," Troy ordered, though they had not paused any longer than normal.

Alemar moved in, confidently, aggressively. Elenya parried and retreated. She clenched her teeth in frustration. She was better than he. She won well over half their matches. But she was exhausted, and he was fresh.

He "wounded" her in the heart, ending the match.

She sighed and returned to the starting point. At Troy's command, they bowed to each other.

"Alemar may retire."

As her brother returned to the small knot of other young noblemen waiting at the side, Elenya suppressed her tears. Again. Troy was making her spar again. She had fenced all six of the boys twice without resting. She longed to be excused.

Troy stared at her impassively. "Enns, take your place," he commanded.

Enns strutted forward like a peacock, resplendent in his fine beige tunic, already tall and imposing despite being only a year older than Elenya. Her heart sank. Enns was the best of all of Troy's junior pupils, in part because of his age and size, but also because, since early childhood, his rich father had hired none but the best fencing instructors to train him. The best instructors, that is, until Lord Dran had enticed Troy from Calinin South to become the tutor at Garthmorron Hold.

Enns grinned. He had bested her twice that day. The first time she had scored two marks to his three. The second time, none at all. She licked her lips, chapped from panting. Her arms felt as if she wore lead bracelets.

"Begin," Troy said.

Enns rushed in, creating openings for his thrusts by the sheer intimidation of his charge, taking full advantage of her winded condition. She lasted for the space of ten quick heartbeats, until he landed his point in the center of her belly.

She gasped from the violence of the impact. Her tunic was well padded, and the blunts discouraged serious injury, but the precautions assumed a certain amount of consideration on the part of the attacker. As they walked back to their places, the pain next to her navel proved that Enns had been too harsh.

They faced each other once more. He smirked behind the mask. He, the nephew of a duke, had shown her, a mere gamekeeper's granddaughter, a noble only by adoption, her place.

"Stand up straight, girl." Troy's shout made her jump. How many times had she heard that tone in the months since he had arrived, always with the same bite placed on words that referred to her gender? Out went her small hope that Troy might reprimand Enns, as he had yesterday when Enns had been unnecessarily rough against another boy.

She felt cold, deliberate fury exude from her pores, drenching her body, banishing her weariness.

At the command, Enns drove in as before. This time she held her ground. He was caught completely off guard, had to attempt his thrust early. She easily twisted aside and let him run into her jab. A thick glob of pigment stained the left breast of his handsome tunic.

She smiled impishly at him. The mask could not disguise his anger.

Troy made no reaction other than to utter the next starting command.

Enns charged again, this time in a less headlong fashion, aiming a good, strong thrust to her upper chest. She dropped to her knees, extending her sword. His tip split empty air over her head. Hers landed squarely in his groin.

Enns stopped abruptly, emitting a deep, sudden grunt. Elenya twirled to the side, out of counterstrike range, not because she feared a response-Enns did not look likely to mount one soon-but simply because it was proper fencing strategy, which Troy would notice.

For the first time that day, she stared directly into her instructor's eyes. He met her gaze with an equally firm one of his own. That only fueled her state of mind, keeping the flow of energy open to her tortured limbs.

She faced Enns, smiling. It was his turn to have difficulty standing up straight. As he had not done with her, Troy gave the boy a moment to recover. She thought Enns looked ridiculous with a red crotch, and recalled the rude, typically boyish joke he had made one day when she had been "wounded" there. The memory kept her at peak in spite of the delay.

Troy gave the command. Enns assumed an en garde position, preparing to move in, this time with full caution, but she did not wait. She leaped in, aimed low, then high, then middle. He parried frantically. Knowing how good he was at defense, she did not let up, did not give in to her protesting arms, until she scored with a high cut.

At first, Enns did not acknowledge that the contest was over. "Stop!" Troy called harshly, and the youth froze.

Enns walked stiffly back to his place. Elenya took hers, her limbs shaking uncontrollably. Her body felt light, almost ethereal, like a rythni in flight. At last she had driven a response out of Troy. She was responsible for his raised voice, for Enns's loss of favor, and, best of all, for the undisguised respect in the eyes of the other boys.

She bent low at the waist, mocking Enns for his virtually nonexistent bow.

"Enns may retire," Troy said curtly. He paused, just long enough to dissolve Elenya's sense of victory. "Sit down and rest," he told her.

She sat, knees forward, buttocks resting on her heels, and felt her stomach grow heavy and the parched sensation in her throat become fierce. Once again she had incorrectly assumed that she had fought her last match.

She glanced at Alemar. He scowled in protest. But what could either of them do? They were twelve years old. Lord Dran did not tolerate children defying their tutors. "Noble blood should have a proper dose of humility," said he, adding that the only time to learn to be modest was before coming of age.