The Cadet of Tildor

CHAPTER 40





“How?” Bewilderment overpowering manners, Renee stared from one member of the Seventh to another. “I mean, greetings. No, I mean how. How in the Seven Hells did you know?”

Cory took a folded sheet from his breast pocket. “Diam’s letter.” He frowned. “I was surprised to nay hear from you or Connor.”

“We had no code word,” Renee said, reaching for Diam’s mailing. “I didn’t think Savoy gave it to an eight-year-old.”

“Of course not.” Cory sounded offended. “Diam uses his own code. He’s written ever since learning how, and sent wee drawings before then.” He set the boy on the floor and put a finger under his chin. “Did speaking of this slip your mind, lad?”

Diam’s green eyes and set chin looked like Savoy’s as he met the adult’s gaze. “You never tell anyone a code word. I promised.”

“Anyone doubting they’re brothers?” mumbled someone from the Seventh.

* * *

At the first opportunity, Renee pulled Cory into the stable, where the horses’ snorts and whinnies offered an agreeable backdrop to private conversation. She petted the nose of the bay mare they supposedly visited and aimed her words at the ground. “You should know that I did not simply lack the code word needed to send you a message, but that Commander Savoy specifically refused to give it.”

The sergeant stiffened beside her. “Do ye know why?”

“Yes.” If any reason was enough to make the men reconsider their involvement, this was the one. Nonetheless, they deserved to make their own choice. “Verin declined my request for any official assistance, much less agreed to pull a specialty unit from its mission.”

“High Constable Verin?” Cory whistled a low tone. “And what does he make of your own presence here?”

Renee shrugged, but her fingers dug into the horse’s mane. “I made my choice.”

“Aye, I see ye did. And so did I. Three years past.” His hand brushed her arm, the touch teasing. “We spoke of this before, if in a prettier landscape.”

Heat gripped Renee’s cheeks and she scowled into Cory’s grinning eyes. The bruises of Rock Lake were a lifetime ago, when Savoy walked among immortal gods, and Cory was a sergeant who invited her and Alec to partake in the highly dangerous workout that was the Seventh’s morning jog. “Seven bloody Hells, this is not a jest, Cory.” She stepped away to where she could see his face without having to look up. Responsibility weighed her words, heavier for the fact that someone else would pay for any mistake she made. “You do this, and the Crown can charge you and your men with treason. Treason. Ensure that each of your soldiers stands clear on this point or I will burn the maps I’ve drawn and leave you twiddling your thumbs in wee circles. Am I plain on this, Sergeant?”

The grin faded from his face, and he picked up a brush. “Aye, you are.” He shook his hair away from his eyes and slid the brush along the mare’s flank. “What I mean to say is that we understood the consequences of answering the summons of an eight-year-old boy. I will gut-check each man if ye wish, but I dinna expect any will have a change of heart.”

Renee watched his shoulders bunch and straighten as he worked the road’s grime from the horse’s coat. She took a breath. “Forgive me, Cory. I gave offense.”

He tilted his face toward her and shook his head. “Ye spoke like an officer.” With a sigh, he straightened up, letting the brush hang by his side. A hint of a smile touched his lips. “’Tis a job I neither want nor envy. Officers don’t get much sleep, so far as I can see.”

She touched his arm and returned to the inn, knowing that the simple kiss they’d once shared couldn’t be again. Not like that. Not like it was. Not anymore.

* * *

The following morning, Renee returned to the governor’s manor. The wind following her had lost all courtesy, batting the rain and stench of fish from yesterday’s market all over the street. The few nobles braving the weather offered proper greetings, but Renee rushed past with haste that bordered rudeness. Was Catar ever dry and warm? Dodging Fisker with his guard team and a group of masons adding final touches to the Great Hall, she forged her way to where Seaborn and other magistrates bent over a parchment stack. “Master Seaborn!”

Fisker pushed away from the wall and headed toward her.

Seaborn straightened to survey the room. Making what appeared to be hasty apologies to his colleagues, he caught Renee before Fisker could and steered her from earshot. “What’s amiss?” he asked, the tone warning that something significant had better account for the intrusion.

“I need to see King Lysian. Alone.”

He rocked back on his heels. “Just that? And have you a plan for accomplishing that small errand?”

“Tell him I have maps of the Vipers’ underground lair and know the location of two dozen child prisoners, but will only share the information if granted an audience. Would that answer?”

Seaborn looked at her sharply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It may.” He glanced around the hall. “What have you hid up your sleeve, Renee?”

“The Seventh and a few other details.”

Seaborn straightened, his exhausted eyes surprised as she sketched out her plan. “Bloody gods. You’re as crazy as Korish.”

“And?”

He nodded. “I will try. Wait in the gardens.” He lowered his voice further. “And watch your words in the halls. Our friend from the Pig has been skulking around too much for my comfort.”

The sun rode low on the horizon when a servant in palace livery finally appeared to escort Renee to the Crown’s chambers.

“He recalls you from Queen’s Day,” the woman confided, climbing the stairs to the king’s private apartments.

Renee nodded. The servant stopped by a carved wooden door, knocked thrice, and, upon receiving permission, announced her charge.

King Lysian sat on the windowsill, one knee drawn up and shoulders pressing into the curved stone. He was dressed simply: a pair of black breeches and a blue shirt, a few shades deeper than his eyes. Embroidery wreathed the cuffs and collar of the starched cloth. A miniature painting of a child’s profile rested in his hands. He turned his head toward Renee but stayed seated. “I am given to understand that my once future Servant now holds information hostage.”

She tightened her jaw to ward off the sting of his words and considered her next move. “Information is a coy mistress, Your Highness,” she said, curtsying. “Once met, she will not leave, even when her presence grows inconvenient.”

The king considered her for a moment, no recognition of who she was, beyond a failed cadet, apparent in his eyes. Then a spark of uncertain comprehension. He tilted his head. “You wish to tell me something, yet to have me not know it?”

“My maps of the Vipers’ lair are yours, Your Highness. As for the rest, yes, you took my words correctly.” She held her breath.

He touched the painted child’s cheek and put down the piece, then swung himself to face Renee. His head tilted and his fingers tapped each other for many moments before a grin suddenly lit his face. “Forgive my manners! How could I have failed to recognize my dear cousin’s friend?”

Renee tilted her head. Of course he had recognized her. Even the servant who led her here had said so. “Think nothing of it, Your High—”

His hand interrupted her. “His Highness refuses to grant audience to the errant Lady Renee de Winter. But it would be my honor to entertain a family friend in my cousin Sasha’s absence.” He slid to the floor and offered a bow proper for a young man’s greeting to a maiden. “My friends call me Lys.”

Her face tingled. “An honor . . . ” Unable to bring herself to call the Crown by his given name, she hid the verbal stumble in the folds of another curtsy. “I am Renee.”

“A name of beauty. May I offer you wine?”

Renee rose to her feet and accepted the goblet, catching the mischief playing in Lysian’s face as he presented the drink. Her heart pounded.

He smiled at her.

She buried her nose in the wine. “I fear I’m a terrible gossip.”

“Then I shall endeavor to believe none of it, but will listen attentively in the name of good manners. Will that answer?” Despite the jovial tone, the last was not said in jest.

Renee nodded soberly. “I believe it would.” She took an offered chair. “I heard rumor that a group of soldiers left their post to assist a friend in peril. Should their mission succeed, I believe it would serve the Crown to have authorized it. In fact, it would serve the Crown to claim the whole matter had been a pre-planned covert assault on the Vipers.”

Lysian frowned. “And should the mission fail?”

“The Crown knew nothing of it. Soldiers will always find mischief. Such things are sergeants’ concerns.” She squared her shoulders. “All the men made their choice freely. They understand the consequences.”

He hoisted himself back onto the windowsill, setting the cup beside his thigh. “We speak of Commander Savoy.” His finger rose to ward off protest. “I pay mind to the fate of the man who saved my life, and I know I have withheld aid that may save his.” Lysian lowered his face. “What you suggest will permit the Crown to reap the rewards while taking none of the risk. It sounds unjust.”

“It is.” She replaced her cup onto the tray and crossed her legs. Lives hung on her words as surely as they did on fighters’ swords. “The rescue attempt will be made regardless—during the next Predator match in two days’ time. We have no way of knowing where Savoy has been moved in the interim. If it fails, it fails. But at least in success, the Crown’s seal would save the soldiers from punishment for abandoning their posts. That is better than nothing. The existence of official orders would also give more weight to Commander Savoy’s later testimony against the Vipers, telling the world that no group is beyond a Servant’s reach.”

“Speak to me of the underground.” Lysian sipped his wine while she described the maze of narrow tunnels and mage-locked cages. “There is not room for an army?”

“No.”

“But it is a terrain to which a few well trained fighters would be suited . . . if not occupied with rescuing their leader?”

Renee stiffened. Should Lysian order the Seventh to abandon Savoy in pursuit of Atham’s hostages, their refusal would buy them a noose.

As if aware of her thoughts, Lysian put up his palm. “I may be new to the throne, but I have learned enough not to issue orders that would not be obeyed. I spoke of a follow-on action.”

A breath of relief escaped her. “Yes. They would be both well suited and well positioned for the task.”

“Very good.” Lysian leaned back against the window and regarded her. “I will write such orders, to be made public only in the event of the Seventh’s success. I will also give you a sealed note ordering the Seventh to attempt hostage rescue upon securing Commander Savoy’s release. But I set one condition, Lady Renee.”

She inclined her head and waited.

“Upon exiting these chambers, you will once again bear the title of Servant Cadet. You will be permitted to remain in Catar until this mission ends, but must then return to the Academy and finish training. Will you accept?”

Heart pounding in her ears, Cadet Renee de Winter dropped to one knee. A warrior’s formal salute to a king she served once more, a pledge from the Crown’s champion that she would become.