that why he was so slow?
But he stood right up to the master, not flinching, nor crying, or cringing. He took the blows—and he earned a lot—with no change of face at all.
The seeming contradiction struck all the Sier-Danas, one by one. They turned assessing gazes from the boy on the court to his royal brother, and with practice the Sierlaef’s companions gauged his thin, bony face. Most of the time the royal heir listened to their opinions, but rare was the mood that permitted contradiction. The jut of his jaw, the narrowed hazel eyes, those were the signal flags for Agreement Only.
The Sierlaef’s Sier-Danas read the signals with the ease of long habit. Sponge was to be considered a coward, then. They shrugged, then returned their attention to the court.
“Who’s the tall butterhead with all the cuts?” The quietest Sier-Danas, Manther Jaya-Vayir, spoke up. His brother, too, was nine and would be in the next Tvei group.
“That butterhead’s Buck’s brother,” Tlen said.
“Best start calling him Cherry-Stripe,” Cassad said, looking at all those tiny sword cuts.
“He shows promise,” Manther said agreeably.
A grunt of agreement came from the Sierlaef, who never spoke if he could help it; single words and sometimes phrases he could manage without stuttering, but rarely a whole sentence, unless he practiced it over and over.
“Three lefties altogether,” Tlen observed. “No. Four. That last one there switched to left.”
Approval. Lefthanders were usually faster with a sword, because they had to be, and they were unexpected; also, the Sierlaef was left-handed.
“Algara-Vayir Tvei’s solid,” Cassad said, eying Inda with judicious interest.
“Slow,” the Sierlaef said. “Like his Ain.”
Tanrid Algara-Vayir of Choraed Elgaer might be considered slow by some, but he was fearless, strong, tenacious, and could be vicious when crossed. He was also the son of a prince, the highest rank after the king’s own family. The Algara-Vayirs had, by marriage and treaty, acquired their title even before the Montrei-Vayirs had taken the throne from the Montredavan-An family. Everyone knew that old history, but they didn’t know why the Sierandael hated the Algara-Vayirs.
The Sier-Danas figured the Sierandael’s hatred had something to do with why the Sierlaef had not invited Tanrid Algara-Vayir into their circle, but that was one of the questions you didn’t put to the royal heir.
So no one said anything as the five watched Inda stand up to an onslaught from a master bent on finding out every weakness.
Just about then the last of the Sier-Danas, Buck Marlo-Vayir (so named when he was just a scrub and climbed up on a war horse to strut his riding skills, just to be launched butt over head), slid up onto the roof, and at a gesture from the prince the other four obligingly wriggled over to make space.
“I have to do a signal run with the ponies,” Buck reported. “Just got my orders. I leave after supper.”
Shrugs and acknowledgments. Part of the horsetails’ duties was commanding the rides of the upper-level pigtails—the level they’d all been last year—called ponies.
“Gand tickled up your Tvei,” Cassad said, waving a long, muscular arm. “We’re gonna call him Cherry-Stripe.”
Buck Marlo-Vayir, now an Ain, looked down at his brother Landred, who was waiting against the wall. “Coo,” he said, thinking about how Landred would feel when he hit the baths that night—and how much worse it would hurt in the morning when he woke up. He snorted, with no vestige of sympathy. “Cherry-Stripe, yah. Look at him strut.”
“Won’t,” the royal heir said. “If.”
From long practice Buck decoded the threat. “He won’t drop the reins again,” he promised, remembering his swift, brutal confrontation with his younger brother the night before. “He just got overeager, and he mistook his target. He also didn’t understand the rules of the mess hall. He does now.”
The royal heir
But he stood right up to the master, not flinching, nor crying, or cringing. He took the blows—and he earned a lot—with no change of face at all.
The seeming contradiction struck all the Sier-Danas, one by one. They turned assessing gazes from the boy on the court to his royal brother, and with practice the Sierlaef’s companions gauged his thin, bony face. Most of the time the royal heir listened to their opinions, but rare was the mood that permitted contradiction. The jut of his jaw, the narrowed hazel eyes, those were the signal flags for Agreement Only.
The Sierlaef’s Sier-Danas read the signals with the ease of long habit. Sponge was to be considered a coward, then. They shrugged, then returned their attention to the court.
“Who’s the tall butterhead with all the cuts?” The quietest Sier-Danas, Manther Jaya-Vayir, spoke up. His brother, too, was nine and would be in the next Tvei group.
“That butterhead’s Buck’s brother,” Tlen said.
“Best start calling him Cherry-Stripe,” Cassad said, looking at all those tiny sword cuts.
“He shows promise,” Manther said agreeably.
A grunt of agreement came from the Sierlaef, who never spoke if he could help it; single words and sometimes phrases he could manage without stuttering, but rarely a whole sentence, unless he practiced it over and over.
“Three lefties altogether,” Tlen observed. “No. Four. That last one there switched to left.”
Approval. Lefthanders were usually faster with a sword, because they had to be, and they were unexpected; also, the Sierlaef was left-handed.
“Algara-Vayir Tvei’s solid,” Cassad said, eying Inda with judicious interest.
“Slow,” the Sierlaef said. “Like his Ain.”
Tanrid Algara-Vayir of Choraed Elgaer might be considered slow by some, but he was fearless, strong, tenacious, and could be vicious when crossed. He was also the son of a prince, the highest rank after the king’s own family. The Algara-Vayirs had, by marriage and treaty, acquired their title even before the Montrei-Vayirs had taken the throne from the Montredavan-An family. Everyone knew that old history, but they didn’t know why the Sierandael hated the Algara-Vayirs.
The Sier-Danas figured the Sierandael’s hatred had something to do with why the Sierlaef had not invited Tanrid Algara-Vayir into their circle, but that was one of the questions you didn’t put to the royal heir.
So no one said anything as the five watched Inda stand up to an onslaught from a master bent on finding out every weakness.
Just about then the last of the Sier-Danas, Buck Marlo-Vayir (so named when he was just a scrub and climbed up on a war horse to strut his riding skills, just to be launched butt over head), slid up onto the roof, and at a gesture from the prince the other four obligingly wriggled over to make space.
“I have to do a signal run with the ponies,” Buck reported. “Just got my orders. I leave after supper.”
Shrugs and acknowledgments. Part of the horsetails’ duties was commanding the rides of the upper-level pigtails—the level they’d all been last year—called ponies.
“Gand tickled up your Tvei,” Cassad said, waving a long, muscular arm. “We’re gonna call him Cherry-Stripe.”
Buck Marlo-Vayir, now an Ain, looked down at his brother Landred, who was waiting against the wall. “Coo,” he said, thinking about how Landred would feel when he hit the baths that night—and how much worse it would hurt in the morning when he woke up. He snorted, with no vestige of sympathy. “Cherry-Stripe, yah. Look at him strut.”
“Won’t,” the royal heir said. “If.”
From long practice Buck decoded the threat. “He won’t drop the reins again,” he promised, remembering his swift, brutal confrontation with his younger brother the night before. “He just got overeager, and he mistook his target. He also didn’t understand the rules of the mess hall. He does now.”
The royal heir
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