Exile's Valor

Meanwhile the other half of the Trainees left behind were buckling Harrow’s Companion onto the saddles of two more Companions so they could take some of his weight and he wouldn’t have to put that injured leg to the ground. In another moment they, too, were on their way to the Healers, picking their way through the uneven snow.

Alberich was left to pick up the helm and stare numbly after them. He felt sick, but what could he do? There were injuries like this even in normal practice, much less the risky stuff he was asking them to do now. And if he didn’t push them—if they didn’t push themselves—if it came to a real fight, they might not live through it. He wasn’t going to apologize—

But what were they thinking?

“Find us a substitute, Weaponsmaster,” called Brion over his shoulder as the second lot limped toward the Collegium with Harrow’s Companion. “We’re not good enough yet, and this just proves it. Get us a substitute, or get us just a referee and you substitute, and we’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

The words both startled and gratified him, and for a moment, he actually felt his eyes burn. “I will!” he called after them, hoping that they didn’t notice the slightly choked quality caused by the lump in his throat. “But session is ended for today, I think.”

:Tell the others with Harrow, will you?: he asked Kantor.

:Certainly,: There was a pause. :Harrow says to tell you he apologizes for not checking his helm better, and that this is all his fault.:

That called for an apology. :Tell him that he is right—but that it is also my fault for not checking the equipment first myself, and that I also beg his pardon for my carelessness.:

:That ought to scare him out of his bed,: Kantor chuckled. :You, apologizing!:

But as Alberich hung the faulty helm on the pommel of his saddle, and turned to mount Kantor’s saddle and head for the salle, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye.

For one horrible moment, he thought it was someone from the Court. Perhaps one of the Prince’s people—

Which could be a disaster.

Then he saw the color of the mount and the rider’s clothing and had another sickening feeling. This was another Trainee and Companion, and they’d seen the accident. If he thought he was being portrayed as a monster before—

:No Companion thinks you’re a monster.:

He hadn’t seen them there; he’d thought there had been no one watching. In a moment, he recognized them, with something of a start. The Trainee was young Mical, his Companion Eloran—two of the unholy trio whose antics had broken that mirror in the salle and had inadvertently sent him down the road to discovering what the actor Norris had been up to.

What were they doing here?

But Mical’s punishment was long since over; what could he possibly have been doing out here? It wasn’t for pleasure; he looked practically blue with cold, and he must have been here the entire time they’d been playing.

“Weaponsmaster Alberich?” the boy called, as soon as he was within easy conversational distance. “Can we volunteer to be that substitute?”

Alberich raised an eyebrow, making certain that none of his considerable surprise showed on his face, although his jaw ached with the effort of keeping it from dropping. He knew very well that young Mical had a reputation as a demon Hurlee player, despite the late start that he and Eloran had on it because of the punishment work he’d been doing. But that was regular Hurlee, not this—this combat version. Surely no one sane would volunteer for this, not after today, not seeing that the Weaponsmaster would injure one of the Trainees and apparently not think twice about it. And Mical had at least three more years to go in his training, not one or less than one.

“How long have you watching been?” he asked, keeping his tone flat. He expected to hear a slightly cocky “Long enough,” but once again he got a surprise.

“A little more than two moons,” Mical replied. “It took me a while to get my chores scheduled so I had the candlemark free. I heard about it, and I started watching. At first it was—well, because it was Hurlee.” He emphasized the game as if invoking the name alone would explain everything. “Then I stayed.”

Kantor snorted. :Well, well. This is interesting.: