“Drusl,” I whispered.
“Girton,” she said. I felt her hands touch my shoulders, her lips brush mine. “I want to forget, Girton. I want there to be only you and I in the Tired Lands tonight.”
All the heat from the castle’s fires collected in the eaves. When she pulled at my buttons and my clothes slid off, the shiver that ran through me was not from the cold. Together, in that dark place, we left behind the trouble and turmoil of the castle and ventured into soft lands neither of us had travelled before.
Chapter 22
I had not expected to sleep but calm descended on me after my time with Drusl. We had parted in a mist of contentment that left me warm in a way I had never been before. It was a warmth that stilled the wine-dark sea inside me. My eventual sleep was deep and dreamless and lasted long past the hour I would usually wake.
I rushed to the squireyard, struggling into my harlequin armour. Thoughts of magic were once again locked behind a door in my mind. When I entered the squireyard something had changed. The two groups, which had previously been so tight, no longer appeared so close.
Rufra stood by the racks of wooden swords with his back to me. A bandage was wrapped around his head and occasionally he rotated the joint of his shoulder as he inspected the swords. When he chose a pair he made some practice swings and thrusts—whatever damage the crossbow bolt had done had clearly been superficial.
Boros approached him.
“Is it true, Rufra?” he said.
“Is what true?” Rufra sounded belligerent, distrustful.
“That you killed seven men single-handed?”
“I doubt it,” said Aydor. “He probably had help.” He glanced at me.
“It sounds like a fine feat of arms,” said Celot guilelessly.
Aydor swatted at him with a glove.
“Be quiet, fool.”
“It is if it’s true. Is it true, Rufra?” said Boros again, quietly.
Rufra looked at the dirt and drew a line in it with the tip of his wooden longsword.
“Seven died,” he said quietly. He flicked a stone away from his feet with the tip of his blade and it skittered across the compacted earth of the squireyard. “Luck played its part, and they were not men well trained for battle. But there were seven and when I woke they were dead and my blades were wet with blood.” Then he shot me an unfriendly glance and I knew he had not been unconscious when I killed those men. My feet became leaden and I slowed to a stop.
“I would partner you in sparing, if you will,” said Boros. Tomas gave him such a venomous look that if I had been Boros I would have worn my armour day and night from then on. Strangely, Barin gave his twin a similarly vehement glance.
“I would also like to fight with you,” said another squire, one of Aydor’s, stepping forward.
“And I,” said another. I wondered at these boys who were so quick to change their allegiance. Possibly I did them a disservice. Maybe they had always been uncomfortable serving Aydor and Tomas and had only needed an excuse to get away; Rufra’s skill and the events in Calfey had provided it. Nywulf watched the boys, his arms crossed and a faint smile on his face. I wanted Rufra to turn them down and say he would spar with me. He should have done. He only had their respect because I had won it for him.
“It seems like you’ll be too busy to give me any more training, Rufra.” I forced a laugh.
He caught my eye and looked away.
“Yes,” he said. Then headed towards the centre of the training ground as if I had ceased to exist.
“Rufra?”
“He has real swordsmen to practise with now,” said Boros. “I don’t think you’re needed, mage-bent. If he spars with you any more he may get worse rather than better.”
I ignored him and chased after Rufra.
“Rufra,” I said, grabbing him by his arm, “we are friends. No matter what. You said that.”
“I have new friends now,” he said. “Friends I can trust.” There was no emotion in his voice and it took long seconds for his words, and the fact he was cutting me off, to sink in.
“But we are friends,” I said again. I heard a laugh. Someone, Hallin I think, said, “Poor little cripple.” I longed to lash out—my arms shook with tension—but this was not an enemy I could fight. I was helpless in the face of Rufra’s sudden indifference.
In the back of my mind lurked a shadow that promised it could help.
“I need to practise,” said Rufra. He pointed with his stabsword at the straw-filled dummies we used to practise thrusts and swings on. “If it’s worth you bothering, the beginner’s mannequins are over there.” He turned from me. Without even asking for my side and at the first sniff of a change in his fortunes Rufra had dropped me like a bad pear.
“If I am to practise alone,” I shouted after him, “I may as well do it somewhere I am welcome.” Rufra did not turn but Boros did.
“Good luck finding somewhere, country boy,” he shouted and turned away, enveloped in a cloud of laughter. Even Tomas and Aydor smiled at his wit and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I walked away, my face and hands burning with shame at being so easily used.
Drusl was the only one I could trust.
Betrayal was an entirely new experience for me. I wanted to run to Drusl and lose myself in and with her, as I had the night before, but I knew if I did then everything was likely to come pouring out—who I was, why I was here and how badly Rufra had treated me after I had saved him. Then I would be a betrayer of confidences also. I told myself, with all the haughty pride of hurt youth, that I would not stoop to Rufra’s level. I would at least retain my dignity. With nowhere and no one to turn to I did the only thing that was left to me—I returned to our room, removed my armour and I went to find somewhere dark and quiet to feel sorry for myself while thoughts of magic and betrayal whirled in my mind, the distance from cocksure assassin to heartbroken child crossed in a few short steps across the squireyard.