P. Hodgell - Bound in Blood

“He has no coat,” said Rue, who had emerged to join them. “He’ll freeze to death.”

“He has chosen the White Knife of winter. For that he doesn’t need a coat.”

A note had arrived for Jame while she was away. She opened it as cadets, unbidden, formed a bucket brigade to fill her bath. It was from Kirien and read:

“Your servant Graykin has left Mount Alban. We thought at first that he was hiding or I would have informed you sooner, but then word came that he had taken a post horse and ridden south.

“Postscript: he also seems to have taken some particularly dangerous herb from Index’s shed. Index being Index, he won’t tell me what it is or what it does, but he advises, if found, to make notes of its effect before you destroy it.”

Note in hand, Jame entered her uncle’s dark quarters. One of the two chests had been smashed open and its contents, the Lordan’s Coat, was gone. Graykin had returned.

Mid-Winter’s Day dawned bright and clear. Better yet, the Riverland was experiencing one of its rare, mid-season thaws. Somewhere, a misinformed and probably doomed robin chirped merrily. Everywhere, there was the sound of dripping, and icicles hung from the tin roof in rows of glittering teeth, separating the boardwalk from the practice square. Cadets emerging from their barracks for assembly paused, staring, then laughed. It seemed a pity to destroy such a miracle, so they only broke as many as they needed to gain access, one by one, to the square.

The Commandant awaited them. When they had scrambled into order, he began to stroll between their ranks, hands clasped behind his back, white silk scarf of office rippling at his throat. The only sounds were the swish of his long, black coat, the drip of water, and the squelch of his boots on the soggy ground. Even the robin fell silent, as if under the shadow of a circling hawk.

“Welcome,” he said in his clear, light voice, “to the Winter War.”

The ranks quivered like so many hounds held tightly in check.

Sheth Sharp-tongue smiled. In a steady, almost casual tone, he summarized the rules of play, stressing their similarities and differences from those of Gen. Most cadets could have spoken the next line before he did. However, among the masked ranks of the officers chosen to monitor, one slender figure in black, and he no randon, listened intently.

This newcomer’s concentration was disturbed by a hoarse muttering behind him.

“Harn,” he whispered, “are you all right?”

The randon swayed as he stood, his big hands opening and closing, his eyes bloodshot and glazed as they peered through his mask.

“All right, all wrong, all gone . . . ”

“Harn!”

“I understand your enthusiasm,” the Commandant was saying to the cadets. “Remember, however, that most of you are first-year students, even you ten-commanders. Any campaign is a complicated matter. It can run away with you. Be mindful, also, to curb undue violence. No one is to be killed or even seriously maimed. To do so is not only against the rules but bad form. At the very least, it will cost you points. At the worst . . . well, your training here has been to effect results with as little force as possible. We are warriors, not common butchers. My eyes”—and here he indicated the watchers with a languid wave of his hand—“will keep me informed of your progress. You have twenty minutes to position your flags. Go.”

The cadets scattered.

It didn’t take long, since each house had endlessly reviewed possibilities. The temptation was to keep one’s flag close so as better to defend it. However, it could also be secreted anywhere within one’s territory, that is to say, within the space encompassed by one’s barracks or—at greater risk—anyplace else within the field of play.

Berrimint and Doni had both told Jame where they intended to place their own flags. Jame had chosen the cadet dormitory with its maze of tentlike enclosures. First, though, she wanted to check Greshan’s quarters one more time for Graykin. Now more than ever, his knowledge of Tentir’s secret passages would be invaluable. Besides, it worried her profoundly that he had returned at all, much less that he had reclaimed the Lordan’s Coat, or vice versa. Consequently, she ran up the stairs accompanied by Jorin with the Knorth flag folded inside her coat.

There was no sign of Graykin, however, in the shambles that Greshan’s quarters had become. She should really have it cleaned up, Jame thought. Jorin had trotted over to the chest containing the cocoon and rested his paws on it. Through his cocked ears, she heard the sleepy, interior rumble of a purr, and through his paws she felt it. To whom was the wyrm bound now? It had arrived the companion of a darkling changer, then bitten Tori, then stung her. That aside, was she being a fool to harbor a darkling, however unfallen? Huh. One might ask the same of Tentir, not that the college truly knew what it had on its hands with her.

Some slight sound made her half turn. A body crashed into her, knocking her off her feet, onto her back, falling on top of her.

“Timmon, you fool,” she gasped up into the familiar face looming above her own. “Play hasn’t even begun yet!”

“What are a few minutes between friends? We still could be, you know, and more. Just submit.”

She tried to free herself, but he had her well and truly pinned, his weight on her legs, her hands held by one of his above her head against the floor.

Jorin chirped anxiously. Timmon was a friend, as far as past experience told him, but he didn’t understand this kind of game.

Timmon ran his free hand over her face in a caress, down to cup her breast—luckily not the one shielded by the folded flag.

“Our people are waiting for us.”

“Let them wait.”

“You really don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, I really, really do.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

“This time, it’s your turn.”

With that, he reared back, wrenching off her token scarf, and retreated with it to the door.

“Let’s see how you like being helpless.”

Then he was gone, closing the door as much as its sprung hinges allowed behind him.

Jame sat up cursing. One rule of the Winter War was that any cadet who lost his or her scarf was considered “scalped” and out of action. They had to stay where they were, communicating with no one, until either the war ended or, more unlikely, someone rescued and restored their scarf to them. Jame’s was worth a lot, as many points as her house flag. Then too, so was the Ardeth flag, which she had extracted from Timmon’s coat as he rose off of her. Now she had two major house standards in her possession, but couldn’t tell anyone, nor did anyone know where she was.

What a crappy way to start a war.

Harn Grip-hard shambled through the corridors of Old Tentir. Present and past blurred in his mind. He was a first-year cadet. He was a former commandant of the randon college. What was this urgency that drove him on? Where was he going, to do what? Who would die? Who was already dead?

“Father!” he cried, and the close-set walls swallowed his voice.

All right, all wrong, all gone . . .

When Sheth Sharp-tongue finished his address, the cadets broke and ran for their barracks. The monitors likewise dispersed, leaving the Commandant and the Highlord.

“Now are you glad that you accepted my invitation, my lord?” asked the former, indicating the heady air of excitement in which the college simmered.

“Ask me later. Did you see where Harn went?”

The Commandant’s eyebrows rose. “No. Why?”