Felix disliked few things in life more than sparring by himself in the practice yard. But his father’s guard never found time to practice with him, and his own attendants were hopelessly inept with a sword, or at least pretended to be whenever they sparred with their prince. Therefore, bright and early in the morning, Felix made his way alone to the barracks yard, his wooden practice sword strapped to his side, and began the basic stretching exercises.
He did not need to come here to practice, of course. Oriana Palace furnished a room where noblemen and their sons could study the arts of fencing and swordplay. But Felix did not feel that it was authentic to learn weaponry surrounded by gold-framed mirrors and stepping on a polished wooden floor. He visited that room only to take lessons with his fencing master, a tight-faced old man who emphasized in a reedy voice that fencing was an art.
“What good will art do me on the battlefield?” Felix had once demanded.
The fencing master refused to answer. His mouth had squeezed into a severe wrinkled line across his face as he slapped the prince on the wrist with the flat of his sword and told him to assume first position.
Felix never practiced in that room unless absolutely necessary. Much better the dirt and grit of the guards’ practice yard, where real men pitted their skills against those of their peers and learned what it meant to prepare for war and battle and glory and honor. None of which had anything to do with art.
But the guards refused to spar with him. Felix suspected that they laughed at him behind his back when he practiced by himself against one of the wooden dummies suspended on poles at intervals across the practice yard.
Felix flexed his fingers and stretched his arms and legs, a scowl souring his face. He’d quarreled with his senior attendant before venturing out to the yard that morning, for the man had once more tried to insist that he should go to the noblemen’s room and practice with one of the barons’ sons or some such nincompoop. Felix had stood his ground, but on his way down to the yard he had been obliged to listen to whispers among his three attendants trailing behind him, and he suspected they were discussing his swordsmanship in unflattering terms.
Felix glared at the dummy before him, drew his wooden sword, and assumed first position before it, saluting first as he’d been trained. A snort of laughter exploded behind him somewhere, and he turned to glower over his shoulder, but none of the off-duty guardsmen in the yard were looking his way. No others were practicing at that moment, though a few men stretched their muscles near the fringes of the yard. Felix faced his inanimate opponent once more, raised his sword, and lunged. The dummy swung around on its pole, its own wooden sword flailing uselessly through the air. Felix jumped away, carrying his leading foot back behind his rear foot and touching on the balls of his feet. He executed the maneuver perfectly, he thought, and wondered if any of his father’s guard would notice.
His attendants, clustered by the small north entrance of the palace, whispered among themselves and refused to look his way. The boy’s scowl deepened until it threatened to form permanent creases across his face. He assumed first position again and advanced, carrying the leading foot forward, toe pointed, setting it down heel first and bringing the rear foot up beside it – planting it ball first, as his master taught him. He lunged again and struck the dummy in the shoulder.
It rocked about, its blank face spinning balefully before him, and Felix suddenly wanted very badly to whack it a few times over the head. His grip tightened on his sword, and he had to force himself to back away and assume first position again rather than take out his frustration on the inoffensive dummy. He wished one of his attendants swung on that pole.
“Bad form.”
Felix jumped and spun to his right. Prince Aethelbald stood a few yards away, his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s that?” Felix asked, frowning at him.
“You presented your exposed back to your opponent,” Aethelbald said. He shook his head, his eyebrows quirked reprovingly. “You are, by all rights, dead. That was no retreat.”
Felix rolled his eyes, swinging his sword through the air as he shrugged. “It’s a dummy.”
“It’s your opponent.”
“I highly doubt he’s going to take a poke at me.” Felix turned from Aethelbald back to his dummy and lunged again. He knocked it squarely in the stomach, and it spun in a complete circle. It was a satisfactory hit, and Felix felt better for it. But when he glanced Aethelbald’s way, the Prince of Farthestshore was still eyeing him critically. “What?” the boy demanded.
“He would have disarmed you.”
“What?”
Aethelbald nodded to the dummy. “Were he alive, he would have disarmed you.”
Felix sneered at him. “Everyone’s a critic.”
“Yes,” Aethelbald said, “but no one else, I gather, has bothered to voice his criticism.”