Tapel took a step back, shifting one foot behind the other in the way he’d been taught. His opponent came forward to meet him and raised his sword as if to strike. Tapel lifted his practice sword to parry, but instead of striking, the merchant’s son kicked Tapel hard in the side of his knee.
Tapel winced but managed to stay on his feet. Another feint then became a real blow, and Tapel’s arm numbed at the shock of the two wooden swords colliding. Tapel couldn’t believe the strength of the blow. His opponent was three years younger than him.
Some of the boys jeered at Tapel. He was a foreigner with a Halrana accent, and they resented his private instruction and life of privilege. He couldn’t see what was so privileged about it; he slept in the same barracks as the other boys, only returning home on Lordsdays for dinner with his mother, Amelia. Tapel could still remember starving in war-torn Ralanast when these boys had been well fed in Sarostar.
Tapel blinked sweat out of his eyes and looked for an opportunity to strike through his opponent’s defenses. The guard of the merchant’s son was high . . . perhaps he could make a false pass at his head and cut low . . .
Tapel took a step forward and feinted into the face of the merchant’s son, then dropped to one knee and smashed his wooden sword where the boy’s thigh should have been. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
His opponent had deftly sidestepped around the clumsy attack, and with Tapel’s footing uncertain, the merchant’s son charged.
Tapel dropped and rolled to avoid the charge, then returned to his feet, panting and gasping. His opponent skewered the air where he’d been. Tapel shook droplets of sweat from his mousy hair. He hadn’t thought he would regret winter’s passing, but now, on spring’s doorstep, the sweat was becoming a problem.
“Never give up the advantage of solid footing unless you’re absolutely sure of yourself,” Bladesinger Bartolo said to the ringed boys. “Tapel’s roll was the only move available to him, but a better opponent would have bested him anyway.”
Tapel’s light wooden sword felt like it was made of solid iron. He waited for the next attack, knowing it was only a matter of time until he was beaten, and knowing it would hurt.
He looked around at the boys circling the sandy floor of the arena and wished there weren’t so many watching. Distracted, he almost missed his opponent coming forward. Tapel raised his sword with both hands on the hilt to ward off the overhead swing in the nick of time.
“Concentrate!” Bladesinger Bartolo called.
Tapel tried, but he couldn’t forget that Bartolo himself, as well as Miro, the high lord, had trained in this very arena and gone on to become the world’s finest swordsmen. And the man who’d trained them was Rogan, Tapel’s stepfather. Tapel didn’t want to let Rogan down.
Tapel moved to dodge the next attack but instead felt a dulled wooden sword point smash into his left bicep. He fought the urge to cry out, even though the blow was agonizing.
“Fight on,” Bladesinger Bartolo called out. “Tapel, hold your sword one-handed now. Your left arm is limp.”
Tapel lifted the sword, now as heavy as a sack of grain, and tried to ward off the next flurry of blows. There was a sound like a cracking whip, and he felt a sharp whack on his temple; suddenly, he was on his back on the ground, staring up at the sky.
“Tapel, stand,” Bladesinger Bartolo said.
Lord of the Earth, it was an effort, but Tapel climbed to his feet.
“Now bow to your opponent. Good, both of you. It’s time for the sixth form now. Steel swords. Tapel, go to the infirmary and get that head seen to.”
Swaying on his feet as he left the arena, Tapel put his fingers to his temple and looked with surprise as they came away tinged with red. He couldn’t even remember the skin being split. He wondered if that was what it was like in real combat—whether you kept fighting even when you’d been cut deeply, or whether you felt the pain right away and struggled to go on. Perhaps it depended on the wound.
Some of the youths made way for Tapel to get past, chuckling and shaking their heads, but Tapel turned back to the arena as two sixth-form students with sharp steel swords stepped in. Now fifteen years old, he wanted to watch the older boys fight.
The best to watch were the young men four and five years older than him. Once, he even saw Bladesinger Bartolo enter the arena with Dorian. Their swords whirled so fast, Tapel couldn’t even follow. Not long after that Dorian went into the Dunwood for secret training. Dorian returned with the zenblade and armorsilk of a bladesinger, and half an ear. He never told anyone what had occurred in the Dunwood, although Tapel heard rumors that the Halrana were somehow involved. Dorian had half an ear, but Tapel could feel the envy washing off every other student.