Inda by Sherwood Smith Page A

play war, and though he was a horsetail, he was only a first-year horsetail, with two long years before he could go over to the guard side and live with men, and war would be real.
    Real, and one day mine, he thought, glancing up at the great walls surrounding the castle, and the sentries in their steady, vigilant tread. All of it mine to command.
    To command! I will not be Aldren-Sieraec, I will be Aldren-Harvaldar, the war king, and afterward they will proclaim me Aldren-Harvaldar Sigun. The Victorious.
    His gaze returned to the court, and the hated red-haired figure down there, flailing away inexpertly with the practice blade, and anger boiled in his guts.
    Memory images, unwanted, of four years ago: Your brother has already mastered the Sartoran script; why can’t you trace your name right in simple Iascan?
    And just last week:
    Your brother can already read this entire record. Can’t you get through a single phrase?
    Anger forged into hatred, but of course the Sierlaef did not speak of it. His father thought him stupid when he couldn’t read a damned line of that damned Sartoran squiggle, but Uncle Anderle-Sierandael knew he wasn’t stupid.
    The Sierlaef sensed the others waiting for a cue from him before they said anything about his own brother. He had no interest in their appraisal. He knew Sponge was bad because he got little training. Was it his fault if the brat was always sneaking off to the library, or hiding with cousin Barend whenever they knew he was looking for them?
    It was not, and his uncle knew it. That’s what mattered, that his uncle knew. His uncle even agreed: Sponge was only good for heraldry, for grubbing in an archive, not for war.
    His uncle would be the real leader, if the Venn made war.
    Down in the court Sponge flailed grimly away, taking hit after hit without flinching. The Sierlaef, watching, felt beneath the anger a pool of cold fear, but he refused to accept it. Sponge was not smarter, that was all. And he’d prove it.
    He took a deep breath, watching Sponge’s partner, a small, brown-haired boy who looked a lot like Tanrid Algara-Vayir. The voices around him resolved into words again.
    “Tlen, your Tvei’s not bad on defense,” Cassad said. “Gand seems to like him.”
    Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir sat back, powerful arms crossed. He spoke for the first time. “All of ’em look solid.”
    Tlen, whose chunky little brother was already being called Biscuit, flicked a look at Hawkeye. The latter alone didn’t have a brother in the scrubs, as his twin brothers were nine. Tlen got a wild grin in return.
    The Sierlaef watched that exchange, quick as it was. His uncle had warned him when he was a pigtail that the Tlens and the Sindan-Ans were as tight as they were ancient clans, along with the Tlennens that his father was named for. And the Marlo-Vayir family was allying with them through a complicated series of intermarriages.
    Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir alone of all his companions didn’t care about power alliances, though his mother had been the Sierlaef’s aunt. My uncle picked the clan heirs for my friends, the Sierlaef thought, his mood shifting from anger to approval. And he was right, and I like them well enough, and I know they will back me in my future wars, but Hawkeye I chose myself.
    Not because he was a royal cousin, but because he was wild. His nickname was the result of his getting drunk his first week at the academy and walking straight into a door. All he cared about was fast horses, good drink, and being the best in a fight.
    “Montrei-Vayir!”
    Hearing his name snapped the heir out of his reverie. It was Sponge’s turn to be tried by Master Gand. He got an idea.
    The others saw his shift in focus and watched as the Sierlaef pointed down at the scrub court and said, “Coward.”
    The surprised companions snapped their attention down onto that red-haired boy. A coward? That was the worst thing you could accuse anyone of—even worse than being thief! Sponge was a coward! Was