He’d pulled on some of his oldest and shabbiest clothing in anticipation of getting’ them well-grimed at the coming weaponry-lesson. He was back in his own room and in a very somber mood, sitting on the floor while putting some new leather lacings on his practice armor, when Donni came hunting him.

He gathered up his things and followed one step behind her out through his garden door and into the sunlit, fragrant garden, trying not to let any apprehension seep into his cool shell. She took him on a circuitous path that led from his own garden door, past several ornamental grottoes and fish ponds, down to a graveled pathway that followed the course of the river.

They trudged past what looked like a stable, except that the stalls had no doors on them, and past a smaller building beside it. Then the path took an abrupt turn to the right, ending at a gate in a high wooden fence. By now Vanyel’s arms were getting more than a little tired; he was hot, and sweating, and he hoped that this was at least close to their goal.

But no; the seemingly placid trainee flashed him what mighthave been a sympathetic grin, and opened the gate, motioning for Vanyel to go through.

“There,” she said, pointing across what seemed to be an expanse of carefully manicured lawn as wide as the legended Dhorisha Plains. At the other end of the lawn was a plain, rawly new wooden building with high clerestory windows.

“That’s the salle,” she told him. “That’s where we’re going. They just built it last year so that we could practice year ‘round.” She giggled. “I think they got tired of the trainees having bouts in the hallways when it rained or snowed!”

Vanyel just nodded, determined to show no symptoms of his weariness. She set off across the grass with a stride so brisk he had to really push himself to keep up with her. It was all he could do to keep from panting with effort by the time they actually reached the building, and his side was in agony when she slowed down enough to open the door for him.

Once inside he could see that the structure was one single large room, with a mirrored wall and a carefully sanded wooden floor. There were several young people out on the floor already, ranging in apparent age from as young as eleven or twelve to as old as their early twenties. Most of them were sparring -

Vanyel was too exhausted to take much notice of what they were up to, although the pair nearest him (he saw with a sinking heart) were working out in almost exactlythe weapons style Jervis used.

“This him?”

A woman with a soft, musical contralto spoke from behind them, and Vanyel turned abruptly, dropping a vambrace.

“Yes, ma’am,” Donni said, picking the bracer up before Vanyel had a chance even to flush. “Vanyel, this is Weaponsmaster Kayla. Kayla, this stuff is all his; I guess he brought it from home. I’ve got to get going, or I’ll miss my session in the Work Room.”

“Havens forfend,” Kayla said dryly. “Savil would eat me for lunch if you were late. Don’t forget you have dagger this afternoon, girl.”

Donni nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Vanyel alone with the redoubtable Weaponsmaster.

For redoubtable she was. From the crown of her head to the soles of her feet she was nothing but sinew and muscle. Her black hair, tightly braided to her head, showed not a strand of gray, despite the age revealed by the fine net of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Those gray-green eyes didn’t look as if they missed much.

For the rest, Kayla’s shoulders were nearly a handspan wider than his, and her wrists as thick as his ankles. Vanyel had no doubt that she could readily wield anyof the blades in the racks along the wall, even the ones as tall or taller than she. He did notparticularly want to face this woman in anysort of combat situation. She looked like she could quite handily take on Jervis andmop the floor with his ugly face.

Vanyel remained outwardly impassive, but was inwardly quaking as she in turn studied him.

“Well, young man,” she said quietly, after a moment that was far too long for his liking. “You might as well throw that stuff over in the corner over there - “ she nodded toward the far end of the salle, and a pile of discarded equipment, “ - we’ll see what we can salvage of it. Youcertainly won’t be needing it.”

Vanyel blinked at her, wondering if he’d missed something. “Why not?” he asked, just as quietly.

“Good gods, lad, that stuff’s about as suited to you as boots on a cat!” she replied, with a certain amusement. “Whoever your last master was, he was a fool to put you in thatgear. No, young man - you see Redel and Oden over there?’’

She pointed with her chin at a pair of slender, androgynous figures involved in an intricate, and possibly deadly dance with very light, slender swords.

“I’ll make Duke Oden your instructor; he’ll be pleased to have a pupil besides young Lord Redel. That’s the kind of style suited to you, so that’swhat you’ll be doing, young Vanyel,” she told him.

His heart rose to its proper place from its former position - somewhere in the vicinity of his boots.

Kayla graced him with a momentary smile. “Mind you, lad, Oden’s no light taskmaster. You’ll find you work up as healthy a sweat and collect just as many bruises as any of the hack-and-bashers. So let’s get you suited for it, eh?”

If the morning was an unexpected pleasure - and it was; for the first time in his life he received praisefor weapons work, and preened under it - the afternoon was an unalloyed disaster.

It started when he returned with equipment that weighed a third of what he’d carried over. He racked it with care he usually didn’t grant to weaponry, and sought the central room of the suite.

Someone - probably the hitherto invisible Margret - had taken away the food left on the sideboard this morning and replaced it with meat rolls, more fruit and cheese, and a bottle of light wine.

Tylendel was sprawled on the couch, a meat roll in one hand, a book in the other, a crease of concentration between his brows. He didn’t even look up as Vanyel moved hesitantly just into the common room itself.

Once again he got that strange, half-fearful, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat, and Tylendel jumped, dropping his book, and looking up with his eyes widened and his hair over one eye.

“Good gods, Vanyel, make some noise,next time!” he said, bending to retrieve his book from the floor. “I didn’t know there was anyone here but me! That’s lunch over there - “

He pointed with the half-eaten roll.

“Savil says to eat and get yourself cleaned up; she’s going to present you to the Queen before the noon recess. Then you’ll be able to have dinner with the Court; the rest of us get it on the fly as our schedules permit. Savil will be back in a few minutes so you’d better move.” He tilted his head to one side, just a little, and offered, “If you need any help. ...”

Vanyel stiffened; the offer hadn’t sounded at all unfriendly, but - it could be Tylendel was looking for a way to spy on him. Savil hadn’t necessarily told the truth.

- if only -

“No,” he replied curtly, “I don’t need any help.” He paused, then added for politeness’ sake, “Thank you.”

Tylendel gave him a dubious look, then shrugged and dove back into his book.

Savil wasback in moments; Vanyel had barely time to make himself presentable before she scooped him up and herded him off to the Throne Room.

The Throne Room was a great deal smaller than he had pictured; long and narrow, and rather dark. And stuffy; there were more people crammed into this room than it had ever been intended to hold. Somewhere down at the farther end of it was the Throne itself, beneath a huge blue and silver tapestry of a rampant winged horse with broken chains on its throat and legs that took up the entire wall over the Throne. Vanyel could see the tapestry, but nothing else; everyone else in the room seemed to be at least a hand taller than he was, and all he could see were heads.