Twenty-Five #2
Alys had a feeling that she’d been having a lot, this week: that she was both watching and acting in a stage-play, and others were relying on her for their lines.
In this moment she felt very much the spectator, but then Estiene looked at Jehan and Jehan looked back for a short moment before stepping away and pointedly asking Gregori Luzzi if he wanted to spar.
Gregori blinked the blink of a spectator who’d been unexpectedly hurled up onstage, but he agreed. It was rude not to. And Jehan was one of the best fighters their cohort had.
Moyna was rolling her eyes so hard it looked like it might hurt, and Estiene’s wounded look was turning violent in turn as he gazed after Jehan. Alys stepped back into her own role.
“Estiene,” she said. “I’m so glad you came tonight. Are you all right?”
She’d braced herself, so she managed not to flinch as Estiene swung his expression to meet her gaze. It was a close thing.
“Your eye still looks dreadful,” Estiene said.
“Perfect,” said Moyna. “Prove just how much of a sulky little criminal you aren’t.”
“Fuck off.”
“So, Estiene,” came a cheerful drawl from nearby. “I’m sure you’re dying to tell us your side of the story—”
“You can fuck off too, Sab.”
“Oh, the pain.” Sabastian Lavalle clutched theatrically at his own throat as if trying to stop a bleed. The details of Decroy’s death must have leaked out. Estiene glared at him as if he were longing to make this mime a reality, which didn’t help. He’d never been popular, and now he was vulnerable.
“Estiene,” said Alys, “why don’t we all go and talk over—”
“Yes, why doesn’t Estiene go and cower in a corner, now he’s found trouble not even his papa can get him out of?” said one of Sab’s friends—Alys couldn’t remember her name. She was usually good at names. Her chest was tight.
“Scholars,” the instructor called, but right now they didn’t have enough authority to make it stick.
This was a room full of mages on the verge of becoming untouchable healers, tense with the pressure of the Grand Exam, glad for an excuse to pay back years’ worth of Estiene making proud and crushing remarks about his father.
“What kind of advanced diagnostic skills do you think the Tatrancan army needs?” Sab asked his friend. “Healer, is this a stab wound or a slightly deeper stab wound?”
“Tell us what happened, Estiene!” called someone from farther back, and there was a murmur of agreement and nods.
Alys could almost see the rays of direct gaze pinning Estiene where he stood; she could definitely see the moment when Estiene, instead of withering, decided to fight the entire room.
His lip curled back. It made him look, rather unfortunately, like the eighteen-year-old version of himself who’d made so many enemies in the first place.
“I—”
“Estiene,” said Moyna loudly. “Come and spar with me.”
It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t friendly, but it was exactly the right thing to say, when none of the social niceties fumbling their way through Alys’s mind would have been.
The hunger of their fellow scholars turned into a more familiar keenness as Estiene and Moyna were granted the largest demonstration mat in the centre of the hall.
Even some of the other sparring couples slowed and then turned to watch.
Things had been shifting this week, but between Estiene and Moyna there was still that web of mistrust, and a heavy complication in the form of Jehan.
It didn’t quite have the flavour of jealousy, Alys thought.
They stood, two short figures with shadows for hair and deep wild hurt sparkling in their eyes, and rolled their shoulders and gazed at one another.
Moyna had asked, so Estiene should have been the one to attack her—allowing her to practice disabling an opponent as efficiently as possible—but even as Estiene began to shift his weight, Moyna was already moving in to sweep his legs from under him.
She had the fast, slippery fighting style of a small person who’d been taught how to use smallness to her advantage.
So did Estiene, who hit the mat with a hiss and was already rolling away to stand.
A loud whoop came from a corner of the hall, followed by other shouts of approbation as the tension broke. All the support was for Moyna.
“Do we think this is going to solve anything?” Clement murmured.
They were close by Alys’s side, the top of their head level with Alys’s white-printed temple. A faint scent of parfunda and blackcurrant tea reached Alys and she inhaled to chase it. Warmth spread to her hands, which she hadn’t realised were clenched.
“I think Moyna’s less likely to deal out serious hurt to Estiene than someone like Sab would be, at least.”
“Do you?” Clement sounded amused.
Alys thought about it. “Well. Estiene is less likely to hurt Moyna than Sab.”
“That’s true.”
On the mat, Estiene and Moyna looked determined to prove them wrong on all counts. It was a fast and vicious fight, far more offence than defence, and the instructor had given up trying to call points and get them to pause in between.
As the two of them wrenched briefly apart, Moyna gave a harsh gasp of laughter. Estiene was inspecting the back of his hand as if expecting to see blood.
“Going to tap in, or not?” Moyna called.
Estiene flew at her again before Alys could work out who she was talking to.
It became clear a minute later, when Jehan—flushed with exertion from the bout with Gregori he’d clearly abandoned, and with a look on his face like he was stepping in to take over a healing that a first-year had fucked up—stepped onto the mat and lifted a hand to signal that it was his turn.
“I don’t—” panted Estiene, but Moyna said, “Don’t care,” and stalked off. She winced and shook one of her ankles as she came back to where Alys and Clement were standing.
“Now this is going to solve nothing,” said Alys despairingly.
“They might fuck,” said Moyna, who had sweat beading her forehead and was breathing hard. “That’d clear the room. Or not.”
Estiene tackled Jehan to the mat. Jehan was already cackling like a raven with a sore throat.
“We really do need to talk about tomorrow,” said Alys.
“We will,” said Clement. “But first, maybe we could all stand to climb out of our minds for a while.” They touched Alys’s arm. “If you’re feeling up to it, will you spar with me?”
“Is that a good idea?” said Moyna. “Alys, you almost burned out. And Estiene might be a prick, but he was right about your eye.”
“Luckily,” said Alys, “I’m in a room full of healers.”
Her head did still ache, but this was why she was here. She could ask Clement to do another session of that soothing, invigorating healing, afterward. And in the meantime Clement had given Alys the grace of making her own decision about her body’s limits.
Climb out of our minds. It was a sturdy, active image.
Alys unclasped her necklace, ready to put it away in her pouch where it hung on one of the wall-hooks. Clement’s eyes lingered in the hollow of her throat.
A feeling like an excited sigh went down Alys’s spine.
Most of the room was watching Estiene and Jehan, who no doubt were having some showy and complicated feelings at one another.
Nobody else would care about the soft weight of Clement’s regard and the promise of a rabbit pendant and the fact that something was beginning, quietly, undeniably, here among the headache of tragedy and the unanswered questions of their week.