The metallic clicking coming from the clean, well-lit room sounded vaguely musical in the cool fall afternoon. Outside the large glass windows, leaves were piled up around the slender trunks of trees in shades of brilliant orange and red. The stone walls echoed with the chatter of schoolgirls, clustered in groups around the windows with books balanced on their legs. Most were sitting in one place or another, reading or comparing notes. A brave few had ventured outside in the freezing wind to roam the grounds or visit the nearby village before the evening came.
The most noticeable figures were dressed entirely in white, pacing the floor in the centre of the room. A stark contrast to the sober, dark colours of the standard school uniforms, they also had large, insect-like black masks pulled over their faces. It was from the silver rapiers they held in their hands that the sound was coming, as each strike made a small noise. The blows were falling more furiously now, each trying to test the other's defences, dodging each other with tiny steps. The shorter of the two went into what appeared to be a retreat, which quickly turned into a feint as she lunged forward, extending her arm as far as she could and jabbing the other girl squarely in the chest. The thin silver blade bent with the force of the strike as she quickly threw her arm back for balance, a quiet laugh clearly audible behind the mask.
"You tricked me!" the taller girl cried indignantly, even as she pulled her mask off to reveal a spreading grin. "I thought I'd finally got you into a retreat, and you just doubled back and hit me anyhow. Isn't there something about fair play in the rules?"
"Perhaps," came the low reply, although with a trace of quiet good humour. "But if there was anything unfair in the match, I'd have to say it was your lack of foresight. How long did Tomek spend on warning us to watch our opponents carefully, over and over until we all got tired of hearing it?" She turned away without waiting for an answer, disengaging a stray lock of hair from the back of the mask before tugging it away from her face, cheeks flushed. "It's merely a learning experience, Jacqui. I didn't become a swordswoman overnight. It took years of practise, and bruises, and getting stabbed in the chest- just like you. Eventually it will start to make sense."
Jacqui shook her head dubiously, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. "It doesn't seem fair, though. You've always been good at everything. You're better at music, maths, etiquette...and now fighting arts? Is there anything you can't do?"
She looked up with some surprise, evidently preparing a retort, when two approaching figures interrupted her train of thought. The first thing she noticed was that they were close to her own age, and male- a rarity at Wyverley, which was an all-girls' school. As they drew closer, she recognised one of them as Nicholas Sayre, the Chief Minister's nephew, and a good friend of hers. "Nick!" she cried, forgetting herself as she lifted her gloved hand to wave at him. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He grinned somewhat roguishly and waved back, and she took a closer look at the person he'd brought with him. He was a tall, slenderly built young man with curly hair and hazel eyes, who met her glance for a moment before turning to Nick and saying something in a low voice, to which he responded with a laugh. They were barely ten paces away, and she drew closer to Jacqui without realising it, feeling suddenly stern and self-conscious in her white breeches and jacket, which clung loosely to her slim figure no matter how much she tugged at them. Jacqui had a hand to her hair, pushing locks of it away from her face, and for a moment she was tempted to follow suit.
"Alara," Nick said, reaching out to take her gloved hand. "Look at you. Didn't they ever teach you not to play with swords? Someone could get hurt," he teased, taking the rapier from her grip and checking the balance, peering at it closely. "Look at this, Sam," he said to his friend. "Perfectly balanced. How often do you have to knock this back into shape, eh?" He set it carefully on the ground, watching her from the corner of his eye as her face relaxed into a smile, and she put a hand on her hip.
"Would you appreciate it even if I told you?" Alara replied with a shrug, taking her hand from his to remove the glove and toss it at her feet with the sword. "The fighting arts exam was probably the most of a strain, but I'm pleased with the results."
Jacqui rolled her eyes upward, leaning in to Nick's friend and whispering, "That's because she was first. Just like in almost every other subject..."
He turned to regard her for a moment, and she felt her cheeks go red as her eyes dropped to the ground. Typically graceful, she thought bitterly. Her natural shyness had a tendency to resurface at completely inopportune times, such as when the only boy she would admit having had a fancy for came to visit...
Hearing her name interrupted her thought pattern yet again, especially as she failed to recognise the voice saying it. It was Nick's friend, who up until that point had been mostly silent. "I'm sorry?" she said slowly, looking curiously at him and waiting for a response.
"I was commenting on the origin of your name," Sameth explained. "I've been going to school in Ancelstierre since I was five, and I've never heard anything quite like it. My mother has a cousin whose name is quite similar, however. It's Alare. I've been studying my family tree quite extensively lately. We're from the Old Kingdom, though, so perhaps that's why."
"I've never been to the Old Kingdom," she replied thoughtfully. "At least, I don't think so. But the Wydds aren't my real parents, either. I mean, the family I grew up with," she explained. "I believe I was adopted, although I had lost interest in my past by the time I was old enough to be interested in it."
He said nothing, but continued to look at her...his eyes always returning to the thin scar on the right side of her forehead, another part of her past that had yet to be fully explained. The reason she left her hair down so often was to hide it, to avoid the curious stares or the whispered questions as she walked past. It resembled nothing so much as a careless pencil mark; a small line from the edge of her hair that ended just above her right eyebrow, with another barely-visible line that intersected it only to fade into the pale skin of her forehead before it reached her temple. She had always supposed it was due to those accidents that children have, perhaps one that her foster parents were ashamed of- but now she wondered why it had never crossed her mind to ask about it before.