The Cadet of Tildor

CHAPTER 8





Savoy sat on a practice court fence and, seeing Lord Palan waddle toward him, braced himself for a headache. The sight of Diam trotting along the fat man’s side turned annoyance to caution. The lord often appeared like this during Savoy’s own time as a cadet and, despite Palan’s unfailingly courteous manner, the encounters had always left Savoy feeling unsettled, as if he were a pawn in an unknown game.

“Korish!” Diam sprinted forward. “Look what Lord Palan gave me!” Bouncing on his toes, the boy produced a spyglass from his pocket and presented the treasure to Savoy. Sparks of excitement in Diam’s large green eyes threatened to set the wooden fence aflame.

Savoy’s stomach churned. Shooting Lord Palan an angry glare, he squatted to his brother’s eye level. Diam stopped bouncing and tensed.

“You must give it back.”

“No! Why?” The boy’s face grew dark. “It’s a present, isn’t it, Uncle Palan?”

The old sense of a game returned. Savoy’s jaw tightened. “Lord Palan, that’s first. Second, Servants don’t take gifts from nobles. Otherwise, we’d be Lord Palan’s Servants and not the Crown’s.” He reached toward his brother, but the boy pulled back. Refusing to look away, Savoy turned up his palm, demanding the sacred object. He received it via projectile. Diam shot him a hate-filled look and stalked off.

Watching the boy’s receding back, Savoy took several breaths before standing up and glowering at Lord Palan.

The older man sighed and patted a handkerchief over his sweaty brow. “He’s eight, Commander. It’s a present, not a bribe. Next time, he simply won’t tell you.”

“Next time, he’ll face Verin.”

“Then don’t tell Verin.” Lord Palan’s tone took on the note of frustration. “Though you never could learn than one.”

“I’m daft. Now, my lord, did your visit have a purpose beyond giving me a headache? If not, I assure you that you’ve accomplished your task.”

Something akin to disappointment flickered across Palan’s face, but a fake smile rushed in to conceal it. “Of course. I only came to check on my nephew. The day seemed right.”

“Tanil is cowardly, but works hard when cornered like a rat in a cage. Anything else?”

There wasn’t, although the encounter left a sour taste in Savoy’s mouth that clung for the rest of the day.

In the evening, after the last of the classes let out and with two hours of daylight left to spare, Savoy retreated into the back woods. The dense forest concealed many trails, clearings, and caves, luring cadets into exploratory voyages. The more courageous trekked farther than they should. At one time, Savoy and Seaborn knew the woods better than its resident squirrels did.

Those were deceiving years, his junior ones at the Academy. With both parents mercenaries, Savoy had spent little time in one place—much less a place with children—before getting bundled off to the Academy. He’d seen more battles by age eight than most cadets did by graduation and, having survived those experiences, knew himself to be both invincible and, despite his smaller size, talented. The only uncertainty was in deducing how to extract the most amusement from his new school while suffering the least punishment and workload. Friends were never intended to be part of the equation. Seaborn just happened.

And he paid for it. They both did.

The grassy alcove where Savoy stopped saw little traffic. The surrounding evergreens, soft ground, and converging trails showed few signs of human intrusion. Kye cantered around the clearing, bucking the air to work off his pent-up energy while Savoy leaned against a tree. The second horse he’d brought, a bay gelding named Lava, showed more interest in grass-chewing than bucking, which was why Savoy chose him.

A birdcall disturbed the silence an hour past the appointed time. Savoy cupped his hands and responded with an identical tune. The poison of last-minute doubt crept through him, questioning the wisdom of opening old wounds. He shook it off. “You’re late.”

“My apologies.” Seaborn entered the clearing. “A conversation detained me. It seems the City Guard found another corn merchant’s body not far from Atham.”

Savoy shrugged. Such things happened, and Seaborn somehow always knew of them.

“The attackers took his corn and left his purse, Korish. The two puncture wounds on his neck are a Viper signature, except I can make little sense of what Vipers may wish with corn.” Seaborn scrubbed his face and leaned against a tree trunk. He was strong and athletic, like the fighter he should have been. “I’m here now, however. Why the secrecy? Please tell me you did not steal that horse.”

“No, I learned that lesson quite well, I believe.” Savoy hesitated. “An idea struck me.”

Seaborn chuckled. “Good gods help me.”

“I brought the gelding for you to ride.”

The mirth faded from Seaborn’s face. “I don’t ride.”

“You did. We did. I’ll teach you. ”

“I’ve seen you teach, Korish. I think I’ll pass on the experience.”

“When did you become the fragile butterfly?” The words escaped before Savoy could stop them. The day two boys learned the limits of their invincibility remained imprinted in his mind, but this was the first time he challenged aloud Connor’s choice to abandon the fighter track.

Seaborn’s look could freeze flame, and Savoy felt a void spreading between them. He’d been a fool to try this. And he’d be a fool to stop. When Connor started to walk away, Savoy blocked the path.

“Move, Korish.” Connor’s voice was dangerously quiet.

Savoy crossed his arms.

“You wish to fight?” Connor met him stare for stare. “You think us fifteen?”

“Think you can take me?”

“No, Korish, I don’t. And I’m all right with that. I have responsibilities that don’t include one-upping you, stealing dessert from the mess hall, or going along with whatever suicidal idea enters your skull.”

“Too busy reading?”

“Grow up, Korish.” He paused. “I did.” Saying nothing further, Seaborn walked around Savoy and left.

Savoy watched his friend disappear down the path, then twisted around and slammed his fist into the nearest tree. He struck again and again, seeing different faces appear in the trunk. Connor’s. Lord Palan’s. His own. That of the idiotic, unknown official who hauled him back to this cursed place.

A snort from behind got his attention. Kye had stopped frolicking and now pawed the ground, ready for battle. Savoy knotted Lava’s reins and sent the gelding toward the stable before vaulting into Kye’s saddle and, heedless of the setting sun, kicked him into a gallop.