The Cadet of Tildor by Alex Lidell Page B

turned her back to Savoy and claimed an empty part of the salle. She pulled a weapon from her bag, drew a breath, and commenced her routine, begging the movements to clear her mind as neither sleep nor willpower could. She finished one pattern and started another, and then a third, hurrying to get ahead of her thoughts. When she paused, a hand touched her shoulder.
    She startled.
    “Work with me?” Savoy switched the blade to his right hand and rotated the shoulder experimentally. “That was a request, not an order.”
    Her skin tingled. Renee brushed hair from her eyes. Rivers did not run uphill, arrows did not fly into the Crown’s dining room, and Savoy did not issue requests to cadets. “Why, sir?”
    “I’m bored.”
    She blinked.
    He rubbed his temple. “My shoulder, de Winter. I need to work my shoulder and it’s boring.”
    She blinked again. Yesterday he was wounded saving the Crown’s life. This morning he was bored. Diam had a longer attention span. “Healer Grovener will be unhappy.” She stepped into the center of the salle.
    “And I’ll know whom to blame if he finds out.”
    Squaring off with him, Renee saluted, hiding her concern over their lack of padding behind the leveled tip of her practice sword.
    She needn’t have worried. Savoy’s game resembled nothing she saw in class. Instead of blocking her blows, he redirected them to slide off his blade. His attacks were gentle and deadly, a brush across her throat, a slide down her wrist. By the end of the bout she felt as if she were waving a club at a killer bee.
    “You never showed us that,” she said, panting between rounds.
    “I teach the standard style. It works for most fighters most of the time.”
    “Why aren’t you using it, then?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t.” He extended his arm, holding the practice sword parallel to the ground. A few seconds later his arm began to shake. He retracted the weapon and massaged his shoulder.
    “Sorry. I just thought . . . I apologize, sir.”
    His brows drew together for a moment and then he chuckled. “You thought I’d ignore it?” He nodded to himself. “Of course. That’s what fighters do. That’s what
you
do. Right?” His blade flashed to her neck, the wooden tip pressing into the groove just left of her throat. His mirth dissolved. “Why rip my shoulder smashing your skull when I can slice your artery? You are just as dead, and I am spared Grovener’s rebukes. I fight to win. You fight to prove you’re the same as the boys.”
    His practice sword pressed harder into the soft spot. Renee grew lightheaded and stepped away, blood rushing to her head again. She hadn’t asked for the match. Or the condescension. With his reputation, Savoy could afford pet styles, moves that shied from confrontation and snuck in attacks instead of meeting their opponent on even ground. None would hold such choices against
him.
“I fight to prove myself worthy of the privilege of remaining at the Academy. Sir.” The last word came out with a hiss she was certain to pay for. “May I be dismissed?”
    He cocked his head, regarding her for several seconds. “No.” The word was mild. He switched the sword back into his left hand. “Fight.”
    Fine
. She skipped the salute and went for his throat.
    The throat moved. And continued moving.
    The harder she swung, the more Savoy slid, his very lack of force mocking her efforts. An urge to hurt him suddenly gripped her, and Renee threw her whole weight behind the blows, aiming for his ribs, his thighs, his hurt shoulder. If a blow connected, just one, just once, he’d feel her worth, her potential, he’d know she belonged here with the boys. Her breaths came fast, burning her lungs. The wooden blades quarreled, carrying on a conversation voices could not. The world blurred to a buzz. She . . .
    Renee did not realize she had tripped until Savoy grabbed her tunic to steady her on her feet. She shuffled to reclaim her balance, her muscles