Chapter Text
“Fools rush in where horse lords tremble to tread.”--An old K’miri aphorism often quoted by Commander Buriram Tourakom in the training of Riders to discourage wild heroics.
Tired and Concerned
“You look tired.” Roald glanced up from the history essay he was composing for Sir Myles on the myriad causes of the Immortals War to eye Kel–he had discovered that was her nickname; what she preferred to be called–with worry. He had been fretting about her all day. Ever since she had shown up to breakfast with purple bags beneath her eyes. Looking as if she hadn’t slept at all. His concern had only mounted when she remained quieter than usual throughout their combat training and academic lessons.
He knew quiet, after all. Was an expert in it. Had become well-schooled in its nuances, shades, and delicate flavors of meaning by being so reserved and careful in his speech himself. Had developed a honed sense of when quiet indicated serenity and when it heralded the opposite: inner turmoil. Usually, Kel’s quiet radiated an air of calm. An aura of peace like an untroubled lake deep within herself.
Her quiet today had been different. Darker. Shadowed by uncertainty. Riddled by doubt. That concerned Roald more than her appearing exhausted. Everyone had sleepless nights after all. What mattered was why they did. What guilts and fears haunted them.
Mama, he knew, would have chided him for the insensitivity of his observation if she were present. Would have reminded him with tart disapproval that no female relished being told she looked tired. That the words made any female feel as if her appearance was being critiqued. Judged and found wanting. That her beauty was somehow diminished from some subjective standard of what it could be.
Roald, however, couldn’t think of a more delicate way to phrase his concern. Besides, by the rough-and-tumble manners of the pages’ wing, he considered his comment sensitive enough. Bordering on the refined even.
“Aren’t I supposed to look tired, Your Highness? Aren’t all pages supposed to look tired? Wouldn’t Lord Wyldon say he wasn’t training us hard enough if we didn’t look tired all the time?” Kel maintained a firm focus on the mathematics equation she was tackling. The two of them were studying together in Roald’s room after dinner.
So far, neither Cleon of Kennan or Faleron of King’s Reach had come with the boys they were sponsoring–Esmond of Nicoline and Faleron’s younger cousin Merric of Hollyrose–to join Roald and Kel in their studying though Roald had tried to politely suggest they would be welcome. That there was an open invitation extended to them.
Roald hoped that their minds would change with time as Kel continued to prove her skills on the practice court and in the classroom. That their stances would soften. He was reluctant to push too hard with two of the boys he liked and respected most in the pages’ wing. Aware that doing so might ironically produce the opposite effect to the one he intended. Might entrench Cleon and Faleron in strong views that Kel should not be allowed to train as a knight that they did not currently harbor.
At the moment, they might not be willing to defend her right to train for her shield the same as any lad, but they weren’t outright opposed to her and her presence in the pages’ wing. Roald thought, with time on his side, he could work with that.
The only problem being that time wasn’t on his side or Kel’s. Perhaps time was never on anyone’s side. Everybody died with some form of unfinished business after all. A bleak and disconcerting notion. One he wished had never occurred to him. Never crossed the path between his ears.
To distract himself from this disturbing idea (so many of the ideas that occurred to him as he grew into manhood were disturbing), he responded to Kel. Persisted with a grim good humor, “Ah, but you look more tired than usual. As if you didn’t get any sleep last night.”
He was prying. He realized that but also believed it was his duty as a sponsor and friend to do so. To press and prod her into revealing whatever was bothering her so he could aid her if he could. Guide her as far as he was able.
Kel hesitated. Gaze flicking to the door of Roald’s room, which was open, of course. As it always was when they studied together. Lord Wyldon had been explicit about that command. That a door was to remain open whenever Kel was in a room with a male page. That no greater impropriety than was absolutely necessary should attach itself to Kel’s existence in the pages’ wing.
Lord Wyldon plainly possessing a more prurient imagination than Roald had thought before Kel came. An imagination that envisioned sordid scandals and lurid affairs lurked behind every closed door where males and females happened to congregate together.
The hallway was empty of passing pages, which Kel seemed to interpret as sufficient privacy to confide in him. “Last night, before lights-out, I saw Joren’s crowd bullying one of the other first years. Telling him that pages are meant to be graceful, not clumsy, when they shoved him. Made him spill the heavy pitcher and cups of milk they’d forced him to fetch from the kitchens. They didn’t even really want the milk. They just wanted to humiliate him. Order him to mop up the spilled milk with his clothes.”
She hadn’t divulged the name of the first year thus shamed. Roald noted and approved of that discretion.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. The behavior of Joren and his ilk toward first years often provoked that reaction from him. He didn’t condone the tormenting of first years that Joren and his accomplices all too frequently indulged in, but he also couldn’t deny that hazing had been happening for centuries. Long before Joren and his crowd had been born much less set foot in the pages’ wing. It was a time-honored tradition. A rite of passage that initiated newcomers into knighthood training. A custom that could be practiced with benign intentions as well as malicious ones.
He paused. Measuring his words. Weighing them in his mind before he spoke. “Joren and his crowd take the custom of hazing too far. They become bullies. That’s why I’ve warned you to steer clear of them when you can. To stick close to me so I can protect you.”
“I know.” Kel nodded, though Roald had the distinct impression that she was more worried about the fate of the other first years than she was about her own hide. She was always more concerned with the welfare of others than her own safety. It was a noble trait, but also one that frustrated him. Made him want to bash his head against a wall because of how much it complicated looking out for her as a sponsor and friend should. “I haven’t sought them out for the pleasure of their company, believe me, Your Highness.”
He smiled slightly. Having no trouble believing that. Took a deep breath. Bracing himself to continue with the part he understood she wouldn’t like. Would disagree with and possibly even recoil from. “But hazing is a custom that can’t be entirely disrespected or discarded. It serves a purpose. That’s why it developed. It initiates newcomers into the life of the pages’ wing. Teaches them humility and obedience. Prepares them for the chores and tasks they’ll be expected to perform without complaint when their squires.”
It was easy for the justifications for hazing to pour from his tongue once he began voicing them. There was a reason behind every tradition, after all.
“I understand, and I’m not trying to change that, Your Highness.” Kel met his gaze squarely with unblinking hazel eyes. Unwavering. Unflinching. “I run your errands without argument, don’t I?”
“You do,” he allowed with gravity so that she wouldn’t suspect he was grinning on the inside.
“I recognize that you sending me on your errands is your way of welcoming me to the pages’ wing. Of declaring that you’ll treat me the same as any boy.” Kel’s eyes didn’t drop from his as she went on, “I can appreciate and respect that. What I can’t appreciate and respect is how Joren and his friends are acting. They aren’t welcoming new pages. They’re torturing them. They aren’t teaching humility and respect. Just that the big can beat on the small without consequence, and that’s the opposite of everything the Code of Chivalry is supposed to stand for, isn’t it?”
“The realm is littered with knights that don’t live up to their vows. The values they’re sworn to uphold.” Roald sighed. It was hard not to become a bit of a cynic when raised at court and instructed in politics since a young age. “Who treat the Code of Chivalry as a loose list of suggestions rather than a sacred collection of commandments. You might dream of becoming a knight because you believe in the ideals a knight should embody, but not everyone’s motives are as pure. Many are seeking power or privilege. Others only pursued knighthood because their fathers ordered it.”
“So I should abandon my ideals?” Kel arched an eyebrow. A rare expression from a typically impassive girl. “Forsake my fool’s quest for knighthood, Your Highness?”
“No. Of course not.” Roald shook his head. “I’m not saying you should stop trying to earn your shield. Just that you shouldn’t expect to solve all the kingdom’s problems. Especially not when you are only a first year page.”
Seeking to solve all the realm’s problems seemed a fool’s errand to Roald. One overarching in its ambition. Lacking all sense of balance and proportion. Even in a king or queen. Certainly in a page new to her rank.
“I’m not trying to solve all the kingdom’s problems, Your Highness.” Kel was staunch. Stubborn in her quiet, understated fashion. He admired that even when it exasperated him. “Only the ones that parade themselves before my nose.”
He didn’t know how to answer that bold declaration that reminded him of something his sister Kally might say.
She took advantage of his silence to add earnestly, “That’s why I couldn’t sleep. Because I saw an injustice and abuse of power committed, and I fled from it instead of stopping it. I realize it’ll be easier for me if I don’t push back against the hazing custom, but I don’t know how I could swear a knight’s oath if that meant becoming the kind of person who lets bullying go unpunished. Who doesn’t fight against evil when I see it. Who doesn’t stand up for my beliefs.”
She was asking herself the sort of questions Roald didn’t like to contemplate. The ones that made him wonder whether he should be opposing Joren’s crowd with more stridency and less subtlety. The ones that made him fear he was failing to abide by his own principles. Not living up to the values he ought to represent as prince. Disappointing his country and himself. Falling short of expectations. Neglecting his responsibility–his duty to see that justice was done even in the rough-and-tumble pages’ wing.
“You couldn’t sleep because you’re putting too much pressure on yourself to be perfect.” His statement designed to assure himself as much as her. Clasping her shoulder gently. Deciding that they couldn’t be accused of impropriety for that. Not when the door was open per Lord Wyldon’s stern orders on the subject. “Stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you’ll sleep much better.”
She bobbed her head in wordless assent. Appearing to acquiesce to his wisdom. Yield to his greater age and experience. Yet, somehow, he suspected that his advice hadn’t entirely satisfied her. Stopped the churning in her mind. Eased the guilt in her heart. Erased the ache from her conscience.
She would, no doubt, continue to mull over the question of how to address the issue of bullying in the pages’ wing according to the dictates of her conscience. He could only hope that her conclusions and the dictates of her conscience wouldn’t lead her into trouble.
He liked her and was her sponsor. Didn’t want to see her selfless heart land her in a mess. Resolved to strive to be there for her if it did.