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Samwick
"Half-awake, if that. Keeps mumblin' somethin'; a name, happen. Amersa, mebbe."
"A woman, doubtless, though it's no name I ever heard."
It's Aumersa, ye clods, and she's no woman. Sam intended speech, but no sound emerged. Half-awake, if that, he thought… but alive, at least. He tried to move, but achieved only agony. His body recoiled, flinging him back into darkness.
He woke later. Much later, he realised. The window-light betokened evening.
Then the tawny light dimmed: a shadow at the window. A head peered in, then a small figure vaulted the low sill, landing silently. Sam raised his head to see better. That brought no dire retribution, but when he tried to sit up the pain undid him.
He was flat on his back again, but only moments later; the light hadn't changed. The newcomer, leaning over him, was mocha-coloured, like most upriver folk, liberally freckled, hazel-eyed. Narrow chin, broad cheekbones, dark hair bound back. "I'm sorry, Sir Rider."
"Sorry? For what?" His voice sounded powdery. "Was it your arrow pierced me? Or hobbled Aumersa?"
"Aumersa? Is that your Beast's name?"
"Aye, lad, it is." A flicker of expression, enigmatic, but other matters pressed: "How fares she?" The lad had said 'is' not 'was', but he needed certainty.
Instead of answering, his visitor was laughing. Silently, to be sure, but full of mirth. "Reckon we're even," he said finally.
"What d'ye mean?"
"I've been callin' her him… and you called me lad."
He stared. "Ye mean… ye're not?"
'Draff, I don't try that hard to pass!"
It was his turn to laugh, though it made him wince. "I beg forgiveness, m'lady. Perhaps ye'll make allowance, since I'm barely wakened."
Narrow shoulders shrugged. "Don't bother me."
"Nonetheless, I apologise. But, please, ease my mind… Aumersa: she lives?"
"Aye, that's why I'm here. They said you wasn't to be disturbed, but I had to ask. So I came this way."
"We're on the ground floor?"
"Nay, in the West tower… but it's easy. Walk along the herb-garden wall, climb the vine. If you're small like me, you can climb inside it, properly hid." Watching his face, she flushed, a subtle coppery bloom. "But you don't need to know all that. You want to know about the Beast… Aumersa."
"Aye, if ye please."
"It—she's exhausted, if I'm any judge… but it's horses I know, not Kingsbeasts. I've given her water, and she's taken some, but I don't know what to feed her. And I've cleaned the wound, best as—"
"—What did ye say? Ye've cleaned the wound?"
"Aye, I—"
"—She allowed it?"
"Aye, sir. It was—"
But there were footsteps outside, and his strange visitor darted away through the window. Before the door even opened, he was wondering if the conversation had been a delirium-dream.
Fendry
Fendry crouched within the vine, below the sill. Pothecary Vairth's voice carried easier than the Rider's soft tones. Hard to speak out when flat on your back, but she reckoned he'd be soft-spoken anyway. The biggest surprise was that he'd been so young, possibly younger than herself, lacking even the shadow of a beard.
She could tell the Rider hadn't given her away. Why should he? she thought; but she didn't know how a King's Rider might think; and her visit was certainly irregular. She'd eyed the climb before, but never had excuse to essay it. It was satisfying to confirm she was equal to it.
Couldn't have done it in skirts… I don't try that hard to pass, she'd said. But neither did she dress like other women. Skirts would be a constant liability: only think about mucking out, the mess your boots got into. And how would you ride? She'd watched fine ladies, on their side-saddles, some never venturing above a trot. It had to be a strain for the horse, unbalanced like that.
Of course, mere practicalities never strictly required her to bind her breasts, to tuck her braided hair inside her shirt. She'd observed that the other hands, the Stablemaster, were easier around her if she didn't too blatantly remind them she was a girl—but 'not reminding' wasn't the same as masquerading as a lad, or so she'd thought.
Finally the old Pothecary said, "Rest, Sir Samwick. I'll have some broth fetched in an hour. Don't try sitting up before. Too easy to reopen that wound."
The door closed, steps descended. Fendry slipped back within. "Sir Samwick, is it, then?"
"Not strictly. Squadronmaster Samwick, if we're formal. Just Sam, if we're friends. And how do I call ye?"
"Fendry."
"That's a name, but who are ye, m'lady Fendry?"
"I'm the one trying to care for your Beast. And if I'm to do more afore dark, I can't dally. I've cleaned her wound but I can't see any way to bandage it, and I don't know what to feed her."
"It's nigh impossible to bandage a wing. If the wound's deep, we'd caul it."
That took some explanation, and availed nothing without the right supplies. The only other option was that she'd keep cleaning it, 'every chance I get'. They could but hope wound-ill would not set in.
Food was simpler. "Meat. Lightly seared, ideally, but she'll take it raw. All ye can manage. Kingsbeasts eat like ye'd not believe. Ye've noticed how warm she is? It's like they burn hotter than other creatures; wiser men than I say it's how they have strength to fly. It's asking a lot, when ye consider. Not just their own weight, but Rider, harness, weapons."
"Well," she said, "I'd better shift if I'm to feed her tonight… Will she be all right out in the orchard? She don't need shelter?"
"Long as it don't rain, she'll do well enough."
Turning, she saw it was near twilight already; scant need to worry about concealment on her way down. "I'll return in the morning. First chance I get."
Samwick
Fendry was a good listener. Or perhaps she couldn't get a word in edgeways. Once she'd reassured him on Aumersa's condition, he could hardly stop talking. Maybe it was relief; maybe the apothecary's latest draught had loosened his tongue.
Still, she seemed genuinely fascinated, and that was flattering. Maybe he had retained of a man's vanity than he'd thought; but he'd been raised to be a gentleman, and a gentleman did not talk ceaselessly; a gentleman also asked questions, and attended to the answers. "Are there many females in your stables?" he managed at one point.
"Aye," she said. "Plenty. Mares and fillies." He took a moment to get the joke.
Still, mostly, he talked and she listened.
"We're losing the war," he couldn't keep from saying. "Slowly, to be sure; most don't see it, don't want to see it. Happier if the criers can still blather on about 'inevitable victory'." To Samwick it was all too obvious, and he sensed his wingmen saw the truth too. Hard not to. Crucially, they were losing the battle in the air. Their battle.
In contemplative moments, usually when he and Aumersa were alone above the morning mists, he'd wondered if the race of Kingsbeasts had declined somehow. Certainly, no king had ridden into battle for many generations. Tales of monarchs leading squadrons sounded like legend today.
The present King, like his forebears, had trained with the squadrons, mastered the aerial arts, though he only made short flights on ceremonial occasions now. Let the heralds proclaim him the finest Rider of his generation. No harm singing that tune, in public.
"Truth is, he was a decent Rider. He made the grade, fairsquare. But he wasn't the best. I was too young, myself, then… but if we'd ever met on level terms, I'd be better. Nor am I the only one."
Fendry nodded, perched on the windowsill, ready to slip out instantly.
I'd be better. Sam didn't need to hear the heralds proclaim it. He knew; his wingmen knew; and so, he suspected, did the Beasts. Mayhap, deep down, His Majesty knew it too.
He shrugged "It's immaterial now. He got too heavy, that's the end of it." A Prince couldn't limit his growth by extraordinary means. "They reckon the limit's a hundredweight."
"What limit?"
"Rider-weight. So your Beast can climb, manoeuvre freely. It's hard for any Rider to keep below that beyond seventeen, eighteen." Impossible for some, cut or uncut. And then what were you, as a cut-man?
She eyed him consideringly. "I'd've reckoned you more than seventeen."
"Aye, m'lady. I'm a lucky one. Seen twenty summers. But it's a struggle, and lollygaggin' here ain't helping."
There were always eager boys. At sixteen, many were impressively fearless; but 'fearless' brushed wingtips with 'reckless'. "A reckless Rider don't only imperil himself, he risks his beast too. 'Course, beasts can be replaced—same as boys—though ye'd have to be heartless not to mourn the waste of life. What we're always lacking is trained Beasts, and Riders. Truly experienced Beasts, like experienced Riders, are rarer still."
Fendry
Samwick had fallen silent. After the spate of words, that was almost shocking. Even more disconcerting, he was gazing fixedly at her. In Fendry's experience, when men stared, it was rarely good news.
Then he spoke, and it was merely puzzling. "Your pardon, m'lady, what age have ye?"
"Two-and-twenty."
"Two-and-twenty. Shreds! There's scarce one in a hundred still Riding combat at two-and-twenty. They might still ride 'em for training, build up their strength." He gazed at her again, a curious smile slowly spreading. "I know ye're skilled, caring for horses… But do ye ride, also?"
"Not as often as I'd like."
"Why not?"
"Hands only get to ride when the stable-master reckons a horse needs exercisin'. When their owner can't ride for a few days, say." She sighed. "Then, he reckons, they get more exercise with a heavier rider. Meaning every other hand afore me."
"Just like us, in the Combe. Heavier Riders for training…"
She doubted he'd really care to listen to her grievances… but she'd listened to him plenty, hadn't she? She rarely got the chance to vent her feelings; just a little, carefully, with Eldreth. "I've tried sayin' they'll get the same result if I ride a bit further, or faster, or use a heavier saddle… might as well talk to a wall. The horses pay me more heed. It's a good week if I get to ride more'n'once."
"And it's riding ye like best?"
"Course! Ain't it for you?"
"I suppose it is." His grin faded, and she suddenly thought she might have hurt his feelings. Hadn't he just said it was rare that a Rider lasted past two-and-twenty? She might only ride once a week, but surely she'd be able to continue for many years.
Samwick was staring again. "Well, m'lady. Doubtless your Lord's letter will have reached the Palace today. Likely we shall have a visitor tomorrow. Perhaps more'n one."
"Other fliers? Other Beasts?"
"Well, the men cannot fly here on their own."
Read Chapter Three
I loved the dynamic between Samwick and Fendry. The world building also felt natural. I will be reading chapter 3 soon.
The dialogue in this piece is really good, they're conversation moved at a good clip and the reader is given more information without being 'told' it.
Im curious now why Fendry has to be so sneaky, is it because she's a girl? Or just that as a stable hand she's not allowed to talk to a squadronmaster because of rank?