Knight and Champion Page 15

  The Baron only used his receiving hall for official matters, preferring his private quarters for domestic affairs. Flanked by shaggy montane rovers, he was sitting in his usual chair by the fire. She hated the way he fed his dogs little meat cubes while he talked - the snapping of jaws was extremely off-putting. The chamber was cosy enough but had the musty air of an occupant spending too much time in it. Catelyn curtsied as she had been instructed and waited for the prickly man to speak. He regarded her with pale eyes. Salt and pepper stubble suggested he hadn’t shaved recently, but that was nothing unusual. There was a languorous quality to him that bordered on shabbiness. She suppressed a shiver as he looked her up and down.

  “Your wounds,” he said at length. “They haven’t festered.”

  It was a comment, not a question. Catelyn had to admit she was as surprised as he. That garbage pit was a lodestone of bacteria. So far, with the Fat God’s grace, along with the copious layers of salve applied by Gavar Innis, she had avoided infection.

  “Looks like your little gamble paid off,” he continued. “I imagine you’ll be telling that story for a while yet.”

  Catelyn bowed - her arrival at Duskovy Castle had been a little unusual. Unsure whether the elves had left the village, Catelyn had hitched a ride with Harson, the carter. The crazy old man was determined to complete his run to the castle despite the surrounding chaos. She’d never forget how the soldiers on the ramparts had looked at her as she rolled off the wagon, covered in shit and wide-eyed with fear. It was like an alien had fallen from the sky.

  “You honor me, milord,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I have unpleasant news, girl,” the Baron said, tossing a chunk of meat to his dogs. “Your family aside, the people of Guill are genuine commoners. Common beliefs, perspectives, attitudes. Unfortunately, they are prone to superstition.”

  The Baron sighed, as if the effort of so many words at once had fatigued him.

  “The La Berne estate is no more,” he said in a flat tone. “Fearing a second attack, the villagers conspired to burn it to the ground. I am sorry - your father’s estate may have seen to your future.”

  Catelyn bowed again. Those last words were a none-too-subtle reminder that she was only at the castle on the back of the Baron’s charity.

  “I’m training with the squires,” she said. “I’ve learned much in just a few -”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard,” Duskovy said. “This foolishness will cease. No woman has ever graduated to common soldier, let alone knight. I must ask you to pay your way, Catelyn. You may stay on as a scullery maid.”

  Catelyn felt the sharp blade of disappointment. She hadn’t exactly impressed anyone in the yard but she needed time. What would she do if she wasn’t allowed to spar? Without the discipline of the yard there was too much time to ruminate on her family.

  “Milord,” she murmured. “Might I inquire as to the result of the recent village head count?”

  The Baron coughed. “There is nothing there for you.”

  Of course, she knew the answer. Everyone did. She just wanted to hear it from the highest authority. It wouldn’t bring any of her loved ones back, but it helped to have some kind of acknowledgment that it happened.

  “Bear up, girl,” Duskovy sniffed. “Things are never as bad, or as good, as they seem.”

  Catelyn curtsied, keeping her frustration at bay. It wouldn’t do to anger this man. She had nowhere else to go and was, for the moment, dependent on his graces.

  “Report to Miss Landia,” he called as she left.

  The name filled Catelyn with trepidation. Anne Landia was the head maid and had a reputation for brutality. Her heart heavy like a stone, she found the barrel-chested woman on the ground level of the keep in the kitchen.

  “I’ve been briefed,” Miss Landia said with a frown. “You will receive a set of unders and an apron. If anything should happen to them, you will be dismissed. If I find reason to fault your work, you will be dismissed. If you are insubordinate, you will be dismissed. Is that clear, orphan?”

  Catelyn forced out a smile. This one was going to be trouble.

  For two weeks Catelyn was up before dawn scrubbing grease from the hall floor. Duskovy’s men were returning to the garrison in drab and drabs. Catelyn was expected to clean their foul rooms after her kitchen duties. As a girl she liked to picture chaste, monk-like warriors up in the grand, forbidding castle, laying themselves to sleep after prayer or a round of diligent meditation. The reality couldn’t have been more different. Judging from the sticky sheets and paraja husks, several of the men kept each other company through the cold nights. Their recreational habits were of little concern to her beyond the god-awful messes they left. She was released from her soul-destroying work at around three in the afternoon, at which point she was usually too tired to do anything other than prowl the upper ramparts and contemplate the view.

  After her third week of brutal shift work, Catelyn received a tiny room to herself behind the buttery. The sour smell of rancid curd was horrendous, but she appreciated the isolation. A sheepish-looking Sange came to visit on her first night there. He wanted to train. He felt bad about what had happened and yearned to make amends. The offer was one hour a day, after his usual drilling was over. Now that spring was gaining momentum, there would just be enough light.

  It was an offer Catelyn couldn’t refuse. Since the attack on Guill, her basic plan had been survival. But now she was determined to make something of her time at the castle. She would never be allowed to join the garrison, but who was to say she couldn’t become a knight? Less than a month ago she’d been on the verge of enrolling at Lakeshore Academy. Under normal circumstances her utter humiliation in the training yard suggested that study was indeed the correct course of action. And yet … there was something about the way Doran’s dream of becoming a knight had been destroyed. Something incredibly sad and, well … unjust. Someone needed to avenge him. Why couldn’t that person be her? It wasn’t as if she detested the marital arts - on the contrary, she found them intoxicating. If she was knocked down, she not only saw a thrilling victory of sorts in getting back up, but she burned to know how and why it had happened. If she had such a questing brain like everyone said, wouldn’t that be an advantage in a fight to the death? On her first day at the castle, Sange told her that the thinking warrior was automatically quicker and more organized than his opponent. She believed that with all her heart. Catelyn’s world had been stripped of all color by violence, so wasn’t it entirely appropriate that she devote the rest of her life to the art of battle? A knighthood wouldn’t help poor Doran, of course, but it would offer some small shred of justice. She would hunt that tiny shard down even if it took her to the far side of the world.

  Of course, a knighthood was far easier to achieve in one’s dreams than it was in Ardennia - especially for a woman.

  “Impossible,” Sange said after their second, private sparring session. He’d sent her tumbling more times than she could count. “Even if you developed the requisite skills, you still need a patron. The Baron has already rejected you, so you’d need private tuition from another lord or a renowned knight.”

  “It’s possible, though,” Catelyn countered, slipping out of her armor wearily. The sun had dipped behind the keep and she couldn’t wait to climb into her lice-ridden bed.

  “Not really,” Sange said dismissively. “Female squires are beaten down at every opportunity by male rivals. They are hunted for having the temerity to think they can become knights. I’ve heard of some who were raped and killed. Even if you actually made it, it would be a hard, lonely life.”

  “Then why the hell are you training me?” Catelyn asked. Her raised voice drew the attention of other boys, who laughed scornfully. Sange regarded her with sad eyes.

  “I never said you didn’t have a right to defend yourself,” he said. “When you leave, and I know you will, I’d prefer you were at least able to coordinate sword and shield.”

  Catelyn couldn’t help bu
t smile, her anger dissipating.

  “Not planning to leave just yet.”

  The boys who had just sauntered by were now poking fun at an old man passed out in the corner of the yard. All Catelyn could see was a gray shock of curly hair, matted with horse manure, and a faded jerkin streaked with paraja stains.

  “Yoii,” Sange said with distaste. “Probably dead. Let’s get our gear back to the sheds.”

  Catelyn nodded, but kept one eye on the old man. Yoii was the resident mage. It was said that Duskovy only kept the washed-up drug addict for his vast knowledge of history. In the old days, a mage was attached to every castle to ensure good fortune. But since magic had faded from the world they’d lost their former credibility. Catelyn had never seen Yoii look remotely capable of wielding his Tevalo branch of magic.

  “He’s on thin ice,” Sange muttered. “If you ask me, he’s destined for The Tower.”

  Built centuries ago on the Isle of Holy Light, The Tower was a commune and sanctuary for human mages. Some still had a modicum of power within the Tevalo branch, but most were fading fast. The idea behind The Tower was to arrest the alarming decline in Tevalo magic. From the outside, their collective efforts looked to be in vain. In fact, no meaningful news had emerged from the commune in over a decade.

  Catelyn passed Sange her armor. “Can you take care of this for me? Yoii needs help.”

  “He’s not worth it, Catelyn!”

  But the Baron’s son may as well have been talking to the wind. Catelyn crossed the yard purposefully and hauled the rotund mage to his feet. The old man blinked rapidly and focused his bleary eyes on her.

  “Am I being moved on?” he asked, looking down his nose at her. It might have been an imperious sight once upon a time. Now it was somewhat pathetic.

  “Show me to your room,” Catelyn said patiently. “You’ll die of cold out here.”

  “You young folk know nothing of death,” the mage grumbled, but he allowed himself to be supported into the keep. Yoii’s chamber was on the second floor. Catelyn followed him into a surprisingly well-ordered room.

  “You from the north?” she asked, noticing several ice fossils in a basket by the door.

  The mage grinned as he climbed into his cot.

  “Stujik,” he said. “Atlan Mountains.”

  “Then I apologize,” Catelyn said. “A northman would’ve lasted two nights out there.

  Yoii’s laugh turned into a messy splutter. Catelyn helped him sit up.

  “I’ll bring you some soup,” she said, flinching from his foul breath.

  “Wait,” he said, looking at her with sudden intensity. “Stay with an old man for just a little while.”

  Something had changed in Yoii’s demeanor. Where he was simply appreciative of a young woman’s assistance just seconds ago, he now regarded her with intense interest. Strangely intrigued, Catelyn sat at his old writing desk.

  “What is your name, girl?”

  “Catelyn la Berne.”

  “La Berne?” he repeated, eyes glistening. “My dear, I’m so sorry. How are you bearing up?”

  Catelyn forced a smile out. “Grateful to be here,” she said. “I think I’ve found a way forward, so I can’t complain.”

  “Oh?” the mage said, raising an eyebrow. “Of all the folk in this callous place, you have every right to complain. Tell me - what’s your chosen path?”

  Catelyn winced, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

  “You may laugh,” she began, “but I seek patronage to become a knight.”

  “Indeed,” Yoii returned, almost giddy with enthusiasm. “I think you’d make a fine knight.”

  His eyes became shrewd.

  “Have you ever heard of Nanomine?”

  “The battle mage?” Catelyn asked.

  “Precisely. The last great human battle mage. Over three hundred years ago, she helped the elves defeat a basilisk in the Eastern Veld.”

  “I’ve heard the story,” Catelyn said. “Now, about that soup …”

  “Stay, please,” Yoii said quickly. “I wish you confide in you.”

  Catelyn dutifully waited while Yoii made himself comfortable. It couldn’t hurt to hear him out. Besides, there was something about the way he kept glancing at her. She longed to hear something that wasn’t a barked order, even if it came from a decrepit old man.

  “Mages aren’t what they used to be,” Yoii began. “I was beginning to fear that my finely tuned senses were in decline. Near dead, to be exact.”

  Bone-tired and hungry as she was, Catelyn nodded attentively.

  “My dear, you have shown me that I was mistaken. My senses have not failed me, even if my powers have. When you were close to me just now I felt your gestalt as if you had opened a door into your very soul.”

  Catelyn wondered if Yoii was laying on a particularly elaborate seduction, but his eyes were brimming with earnest emotion.

  “Gestalt?” she repeated.

  “Indeed. No mage has ever come close to understanding this particular energy, but it manifests as tension, a force stretched to snapping point. My dear, you have fierce gestalt in there somewhere.”

  “What does it mean?” Catelyn asked, skeptical yet curious.

  Yoii leaned back against his pillows complacently.

  “Good question,” he sighed. “What does it mean? For starters, it means that I haven’t come across someone like you in decades. I would’ve sensed them. Gestalt is rapidly fading from the human body with each new generation. You, my girl, are an anomaly.”

  The mage smiled, but there was something predatory about it.

  “You know, I haven’t had an apprentice for several years,” he said. “The talent in this region is laughable. The Baron might just keep me on if I was to take you under my wing. He still believes in the Tevalo School even as most lords disavow the magic arts. What do you say?”

  Catelyn blinked. This was all happening too fast. She was still coming to terms that something like gestalt even existed. She knew nothing about magic and wasn’t remotely interested in pursuing it as a vocation. Overwhelmed, she made for the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you, Yoii.”

  “Of course, I’d need to speak to Miss Landia first,” the mage murmured.

  That stopped Catelyn in her tracks.

  “And I’ve noticed you like sparring in the yard,” the mage continued. “Give me half of your time and you can spend the rest with that Duskovy boy.”

  Catelyn’s mind raced. She ran some quick calculations in her mind - one tired training hour a day versus four or five productive ones.

  “You can have me at noon,” she said. She hoped to train in the mornings when she was sharp and fresh.

  “Fine,” Yoii said blandly. “I don’t rise till then anyway.”

  As spring lengthened the days at Duskovy Castle, transforming the frost-flecked dawn mud into hard-packed dirt, Catelyn grabbed her opportunity with both hands. Her brief, brutal stint as scullery maid was over. Things could’ve been a lot worse. The Baron had apparently agreed to her strange apprenticeship and left her well enough alone. The down side to her new structure was Sange’s inability to train her. All squires reported to Sergeant Havara at first light for intense drilling. Though she wasn’t permitted to join them, Catelyn was given a thin strip of dirt along the edge of the training yard. Here, she did her best to mimic the grueling training exercises of the main group. Occasionally she even had access to a sparring dummy. Suspecting Sange was her silent benefactor, she often helped him clear the yard after morning drills. The soldiers, for the most part, regarded her with mild amusement. As long as she wasn’t encroaching on their sweaty work, she was tolerated. She liked to flatter herself that their respect had risen ever so slightly. As long as she stayed out there for as long as they did, rain, hail or shine, there was a sense of kinship that couldn’t be denied.

  As for her skills, well, they was improving. Whilst admiring her dedication, Sange warned that a solider trai
ning alone could only advance if he knew what he was doing. Squires were generally pooled together so they could spark each other’s learning. Catelyn understood his concerns, but wouldn’t be denied. What choice did she have? She savored her hours in the yard, sometimes whipping her body into a frenzy even when the squires were huddled around the water barrel. She could feel incremental improvement in her stamina and concentration. These were surely cornerstones of any warrior’s ability. Comforted by that knowledge, she generally didn’t allow herself a break until the bell rang for high noon. Only then was it time to haul her weary body into Yoii’s chamber.

  Most days, the portly mage was still asleep. Catelyn quickly gave up trying to rouse him, instead thumbing through the curious tomes on his bookshelf. There were books on alchemy, history, philosophy and, of course, Tevalo magic. There were even a few elvish tomes written in ancient Darlish. Just looking at them made her stomach crawl. Her favorite book was a thick dwarven compendium that contained a detailed description of an underground city. She liked to run her fingers over the intricate engravings that accompanied dwarven writing - their books were as much works of art as information repositories.

  Once Yoii had risen and gone about his usual ministrations (some of them rather indiscreet), it was time for magical instruction. For the first week or so he simply recounted the history of Tevalo magic in Ardennia. It all started with Revjar Tevalo, a miller on the Bhos river in the Polessi Highlands. When his water wheel was smashed during a violent storm, he despaired that he and his children would go hungry. As he waded into the water in a vain attempt to repair the splintered wood, the entire structure broke free and thundered toward him. He instinctively drew a wall of water around himself, which absorbed most of the impact and saved his life. Stunned, he devoted the rest of his life to the exploration of his latent ability. He documented his findings in a tome that was eventually reproduced and distributed throughout Ardennia. Tevalo magic, or the ability to manipulate the four basic elements - water, air, earth and fire - became the standard mode of magic among humans. There were always rumors of other types of gestalt, but Tevalo was fiercely defended as the only legitimate form of magic.