Kethry shook her head. “Still a mercenary.”
Tarma chuckled. “That’s how you tell a merc is dead; he just stops collecting paychecks.”
Kero knew that there was something in the air; Tarma had been a little absentminded lately, with that slight frown she always wore when she was thinking. But once she’d satisfied herself that she wasn’t the cause of the frown, she relaxed. Whatever it was that was bothering Tarma, it was not under her control.
So she kept a weather eye out, but concentrated on the things that were in her power to deal with. She had speculations, but nothing concrete to go on.
Finally all speculations came to an end, when she showed up at the practice ring with her arms full of equipment to find Tarma there already, fully armored (complete with full helm), working out. And Tarma wasn’t alone.
There was a young man with her; that was surprise enough. He looked around Kero’s age, and she stiffened reflexively as they both stopped what they were doing and turned at the sound of her footstep. He was rather handsome, in a lanky, not-quite-finished sort of way. His long hair was somewhere between brown and blond, his eyes between gray and hazel. He was taller than Tarma, and moved like a young colt that still isn’t quite certain where his feet are going to go when he puts them down. His armor was good—very good, use on it, but well-maintained and in perfect condition. And there was a surcoat lying crumpled up with some other odds and ends in one of the little alcoves. A surcoat that was as well-made as the armor, and looked as if it was blazoned with some kind of familial device.
All of which added up to one conclusion: he was some kind of nobility. Kero did not like the implications of that.
Tarma waited for Kero to come up to them before speaking. She pushed the face-guard of her helm up, and gave Kero a cool, appraising look. The young man did the same with his helm, then shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Kero,” Tarma said, in a neutral, even voice, “This is Darenthallis—Daren to us. He’ll be training here with you.”
Kero’s first reaction was of resentment. Why? Her second was of jealousy. We were just fine with the two of us.
She stepped forward slowly, keeping her expression neutral, but not her thoughts. They don’t need the money—and now Tarma is going to be spending half her time with him, which means I won’t be learning as much from her. It isn’t fair! By the look of him, he could have any teacher he wanted! Why should he steal mine?
She eyed his armor with envy; up close, it was even better than she’d thought, combination plate and chain mail, the chain mail so fine it looked to have been knitted, with articulated plate that had to have been specifically fitted to him. And he wasn’t finished growing yet—which meant that someone, somewhere, didn’t care how much it cost to keep fitting him with new armor every time he put on a growth spurt. Then she recognized the name—after all, there weren’t that many young men named Darenthallis in the world, and there was only one likely to have armor of that quality.
His Highness, Prince Darenthallis, third son of the King.
Which explained how he’d gotten Tarma to agree to teach him, and virtually guaranteed that the Shin’a’in would be spending the lion’s share of her time with him.
The privilege of rank. Kero’s resentment trebled. I have to earn my way here, and he walks in and takes over.
But she kept it out of her face and manner; she’d learned to school her expressions long ago. Rathgar took a dim view of resentment and rebellion in his children.
Daren smiled; he looked self-confident and sure of his superiority. Kero’s temper smoldered. Well, we’ll just see how superior you are. Especially once we get into the woods. If you’ve ever had to track anything in your life, my fine young lord, I’d be very much surprised.
She cleared her throat, and made the first move. “I’m Kerowyn,” she said, nodding a little, not holding out her hand; she could have freed one to shake his, but she chose not to.
“Daren,” he said. “Are you one of Lady Kethryveris’ students?”
Ignoring the fact that I’m carrying armor. Assuming I couldn’t possibly be anything other than a nice little ladylike mage.
“I’m her granddaughter,” she replied acidly. “And I’m Kal’enedral Tarma’s student.”
Tarma’s left eyebrow rose a little, but otherwise her face was completely without expression. “Well, now that you’ve met,” she said quietly, “why don’t we get down to business.”
Kero’s resentment continued to simmer over the next several weeks. Daren wasn’t any better than she was, especially not at archery. But he kept acting as if he were, giving her unasked-for advice in a patronizing tone of voice that said What’s a little girl like you doing man’s work, anyway? and made her blood boil.
But she kept her temper, somehow; always turning to Tarma after one of those supercilious little comments, and asking her advice as if she hadn’t heard Daren’s.
Unfortunately, from time to time this backfired. Tarma would occasionally give her a slow, sardonic smile, and reply, “I think Daren hit it dead in the black.” Daren would smirk, and Kero’s ears would burn, and she would have to bite her lip to keep from “accidentally” bringing her shield up into that arrogantly squared chin. And then she’d pull her face-guard down and do her damnedest to give him the trouncing of a lifetime.
At night, before Warrl arrived for her evening lesson in mind-magic, she’d lie back in her bath and seethe. It’s not fair, she’d repeat, like a litany. He’s had the best trainers from the time he was able to walk; I’ve only had Tarma for a few moons! Why should I have to share her? And what makes him so much better than I am that money and power didn’t buy for him?
But that was the problem, wasn’t it; life wasn’t fair, and power and gold bought whatever they needed to. From people’s skills to people’s lives. And if anyone happened to be in the way, it was too bad. Money had doubtless bought the near-ruin of her family; power was probably keeping the real perpetrator safe. And now both were conspiring to steal her future—
—if she lay down and let it happen.
I won’t, she resolved every night. I’ll make him compete with me for every moment of time. I’ll be so much better than he is that Tarma will see she’s wasting her time with him and concentrate on me again. I’ll do it.
I have to.
It helped that he was as helpless as a baby in the woods, and when he started, he couldn’t even track the most obvious of traces. She would give him advice in the same kind of patronizing tone he used with her—and she laughed inside to see how he bristled.
She was planning on doing just that this morning, as she skipped down the stairs to the stable, humming a little tune under her breath. Today was going to be a daylong stalk-and-trap session, a “hound and rabbit game,” Tarma called it, and Warrl was going to be the “rabbit.”