Chapter 10: Second Spring

Summary: In which friendships are sealed, blades are found, and Clueless geeks out some more on the details of martial arts.

Author's Note: So I know that in First Adventure TP says the pages forge their practise swords, but…yeah, no. That's unfeasible on so many levels. Also, it turns out that once you start writing friendship feels, you just can't stop.

The last night before the Midwinter feast ended, five pages gathered in the room of the Crown Prince of Tortall. It couldn't really have been identified as such. There was a privacy screen for Jon's valet, but aside from that, it was the same narrow bed, desk, and dresser occurred with every page's room.

Nearly all of the gifts had been exchanged, and Alex was happy to know that his gifts had been received well. He'd never been too imaginative, when it came to gifts, and in the end usually settled for something that he knew was needed and would serve well. A new dagger for Raoul, new quills for Gary, who was forever breaking them, with his too-tight grip. Francis' gift had been easy, as well: the blond boy's fair skin marked easily, and he barely went a day without sporting either painful swellings on the arms or some kind of contusion. A small jar of Duke Baird's finest bruise balm. Jon's gift had taken a considerable amount of thought, before Alex decided on a book of incantations and spells.

"You don't think it's cheating?" the Prince's eyes had something in them that had Alex feeling almost wary.

"Well, no," Alex replied, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read what was going on. Jon was a good friend, but sometimes, it was painfully obvious when he was plotting. That made it no easier to guess what the plot in question actually was, though. "You have the Gift. You have a duty to figure out how to use it."

"So you wouldn't take the view that magic could be used as a crutch," the Prince said, his eyebrows scrunching together in thought.

"No. A tool, yes. A useful tool. Also, if you don't use it, your opponent probably will. That doesn't make it dishonourable to wield it, anymore than it's dishonourable to know how to throw a punch rather than always going for a duel," Alex said bluntly, feeling a pang. He had tried not to mind, he really had, and had tried to focus on the fact that they all enjoyed his gifts so much, but the absence was starting to get at him.

A flash of pleasure in those blue eyes, as Jon reached under his pillow to draw something out. A blue stone, two knots holding it firmly in the centre of a leather cord..

"In that case – Happy Midwinter, Alex. From all of us." Alex caught the missile, and turned the stone over, his mouth dropping open. It was beautiful. The candlelight seemed almost trapped within the depths of the stone, as it glinted and gleamed.

"We thought around your neck would be best," Raoul said. "So that people wouldn't be able to see it."

"But – why? I mean, it's beautiful, but…"

"It's a thunder talisman," Jon said softly. "I didn't realise that what I would do would get us all into trouble. So I thought, for next time…"

Alex's throat tightened, and his eyes stung. They hadn't forgotten him. Not at all.

"You," he said, flushing as his voice cracked slightly. "Are very good friends."

Raoul and Francis exchanged glances. So did Gary and Jon. Then they turned to him.

"We know," Jon said, simply.

Alex grinned, as the spell broke. "You're modest, too, Highness," he teased, poking the other boy in the rib. "Now help me tie this. Around the neck won't work, someone could try to strangle me with it."

"Is everyone from Tirragen paranoid, or is it just you?"

Such an insult could not go unchallenged, Alex explained to Duke Gareth, and therefore there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the pillow-fight that had broken out in the Prince's room after lights out.

The Duke seemed to need to cover a yawn urgently at that stage, then he recovered himself.

"Very well. One week of cleaning spears in the armoury after your duties are complete. You are both dismissed."

The five pages bowed, and walked out of the office.

"I thought it went well," Alex offered to Jon, who walked beside him scowling at the floor.

"I thought the whole point of the gift was to avoid punishment work!" the Prince protested.

"You can only do that for so long. Besides, how else would the spears get cleaned?" Gary said, in the centre. Alex clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder.

"You'll get used to it, Jon," he said.

* o * o * o *

Alex stared at the forge in horror. The air of the place was hot, and it rang with the sounds of hammer, metal and anvil. It was enormous, easily the size of one of the ballrooms of the Palace, albeit very differently laid out.

It was the day after the last day of the Midwinter feasting, and the day had begun very strangely. The pages had reported to the Mithran priests for reading and writing, only to be redirected to the forge, where they had been met by His Grace and an unknown man, wearing an eyepatch and as dark as Selwyn. His Grace had promptly consigned them to the care of the man, who turned out to be none other than the famed Captain Sklaw.

Alex turned to the Captain.

"You cannot be serious," he said flatly.

Arram Sklaw bared his teeth. "Can't I?"

Frantically, Francis shook his head at Alex. Raoul and Gary, meanwhile, were regarding Alex and the Captain like they were an interesting Player's show. Alex ignored them, glaring back at the mercenary Captain.

"No, you can't! It'd take us months to forge swords! Most of us haven't so much as held a hammer in our lives!"

Sklaw's eyebrows crashed down into a frown, before he chuckled. "Well, it's good to see someone who knows the first bit about smithing." He shook his head. "We're going to spend a few days here, boys, even if yon pup–" he jerked his thumb at Alex –"is right about you not forging the swords. As it happens, they've already been made. What is going to happen is that you are going to polish the blades that have already been made. The swords that have been made for this year's Guardsmen, most of them are ready now. You are going to polish them, each of you with one of the forge's apprentices as your guide. You will obey their every order, or you will never so much as pick up a sword." His tone was pure steel. "Understood?"

Alex nodded, and he felt Raoul, Gary, and Francis nodding alongside him.

"Good. Feel the metal as you do it. Get a feel for your first weapons."

One of the forge boys crouched in front of Alex, and beckoned him. "This way, sir," he murmured.

"I'm not a Sir yet," Alex whispered back. "Call me Alex. Page, if you must."

The boy, several years older, smiled tentatively at him, as he showed him to a low table. There was a large clamp there, with a sword held in its vice. On the table were a bowl of clay, a bowl of water, and several stones.

"You start with this stone, Page," the boy said, picking up the one furthest to the left. He tapped the blade lightly, several inches from where it began at the wide base. "This part here is the tang. You don't polish that. Ever." Alex nodded. "You pick one direction, and you go from here–" he tapped the spot where it began to taper, "to here." He pointed to the narrow, razor tip of the blade.

"I don't need to worry about sharpening it?"

The boy shook his head. "No. We'll do that for the blade, after we've made the cross-guards and grips for them. Easier, that way."

Alex nodded his understanding, and set to work.

Under Mack's guidance, Alex slowly polished the blade, learning about water as lubricant for the blades, why the polishing had to be done before the blade's cross-guard and grip was made.

"No, not there," the boy shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his face.

"So where?" Alex asked wearily, leaning his head against the table.

Mack looked at him for a long, long moment. "You've really never done this before, have you?"

Alex shook his head. "Closest I've ever gotten is just cleaning my blades. But that's never taken as long as this."

Mack smiled in understanding. "Fair enough. There's a reason why a polisher commands a good price."

Alex's eyes widened. "You mean most people get paid for it?"

"Aye, but the Palace has to produce more, and they needs pay many. Setting pages to polishing the new blades for the Guardsmen week or so every year means that they don't need to pay the apprentices' wages as well as food for a week, and that counts," the older boy explained.

Alex thought about the sheer number of people in the Palace at a given point in time, and paled. Mack nodded. "Exactly."

"Remind me to never do the books for the Palace," Alex mumbled, grabbing the rag and the clay.

"Why do books when you can polish? Don't you dare grab that clay, you've not finished with that stone yet!"

Alex sighed, and swapped the stone for clay again. Mack leaned over, tapping it at a particular spot. "There. Start your stroke there, end it here."

"As you say."

Eventually, Mack swiped the stone out of his hand. "Enough. It's time for the noon meal. I think you're coming back here afterwards, though."

Alex stifled a whimper, as he tried to uncurl his fingers and they cramped. Ow, ow, ow, ffyc, ffyc!

Strong, rough hands grabbed his arm and helped him up.

"Thanks," he whispered.

The other boy winked at him. "Don't thank me yet."

Alex stumbled over to join the others, who all looked in equally poor condition, carefully looking away from their hands.

"I hate being a page," Gary said at last.

"Me too," Alex sighed. "C'mon. Let's go to lunch."

* o * o * o *

By the end of the week, there were new callouses on Alex's hands, but each and every one of the twelve new Guardsmen's swords had been polished. Aramis had been unsympathetic to the exhaustion and cramping hands, staunchly refusing to let Alex stop having their destreza lessons, which meant that sleep was becoming an incredibly precious commodity.

One week later, every second-year boy met in the indoor training hall, used when the snow had finally made the outdoor practise courts unusable, as bidden the night before.

Arram Sklaw looked them up and down, and snorted, before turning on his heel and marching off. They exchanged weary glances among themselves, before trotting after him.

"The Armoury, in case you case you lasses couldn't realise it," Sklaw said, throwing open the doors. Alex's eyes widened as he took in the sheer scale of it. "Down the far end, is the training swords pile. It shouldn't be too hard for you to select ones that are suitable."

Meaning, you'll get us to pick them, then berate us if we pick wrong, Alex thought, stamping down on a quick surge of anger at the thought. No. Losing his temper would not help him, even if Captain Sklaw was a horrible teacher.

Bright Goddess, if I ever have children, I never want to be like him. Ever.

Alex walked to the pile of training swords, eyeing them. The blades were nicked, often worn, and fairly dull. They'd weathered a lot of abuse. They were often double- fullered, long grooves running along the inner edge of the sword in order to give more flexibility.

Mithros and Maiden, you've seen hard use, haven't you.

They were mostly all arming swords, as Sanya had predicted, but there was a few others in there was well. One had a very unusual hilt to it, almost like a handle shaped like the stoneware mugs his people used. Twice fullered, the blade curved slightly, single-edged.

Sanya said it was best for mounted combat. But the handle-hilt would protect my hands, and make it easier to grip.

Can it hurt?

Slowly, Alex stood, his hand gripping the hilt and drew it from the scabbard, taking several steps away from the others. The curve of the blade meant the balance felt very different from his arming sword. He stepped away from the others, and tried an overhand slash. It's a bit big, but I could grow into it. It's good for cutting and slashing, but not always good for on foot. Unless…

Experimentally, he stabbed forward, at an angle. You could use it to thrust, although it wasn't anywhere near as easy as simply slashing down. It had to be done with care. He swung it about some more, and smiled.

I could learn this.

When he turned around to face the other boys and the Captain, Sklaw's eyes were surprised. "Wonder how that one got there?" he murmured. "Well, if you're set on it, and it goes poorly, we'll find out soon enough."

"So that's a 'yes', then," Gary said, with a grin, holding his own arming sword.

"Buckle 'em on, boys," Sklaw said. "You go nowhere without these."

"What about when we're bathing?" Gary asked.

Sklaw smirked. "Treat the leather with oil. It will make the scabbards water-resistant."

He'll do it, too, Alex realized with a groan. That was the problem with insane, supposedly tiger-wrestling mercenary Captains.

Not seeing the point in delaying, Alex found some rags, a pot of oil, and set to work.

* o * o * o *

After that, their lessons resumed, with the class-work of the mornings unchanged. But on the practise courts, things had become different. The hour of stretching and warm-ups had become forty minutes instead, timed by the Butterfly to the second. At that point, Sklaw – who had inevitably crept up on them – would bellow, usually causing their scabbards to smack against their legs painfully. An hour and twenty minutes of swords would follow, before their schedule resumed as normal, until the horseback hour.

"Captain?" Alex said aloud.

"Hill barbarian," the man roared back. "Get back into stance!"

Alex deepened his lunge. Thighs and backside ached from the strain of maintaining the fencer's lunge, designed for the quick kill of duels, best suited to the rapier, the arming sword, anything where thrusts would be prevalent over sweeping, cutting action. A stabbing motion, rather than the shifting of leverage and force he was coming to realise his backsword required.

"Can I ask a question?" he asked, undeterred by the insult. Sklaw insulted everyone. His way of toughening them up. By the end of page training, Alex wondered if there would be anything soft left in him, or if he would be entirely made of steel and leather.

"You just did! Can't you count?"

The barb stung, and Alex pictured himself yanking it out, as he would a splinter.

"Why an hour and twenty minutes with swords?"

The man's grin was mirthless. "Because swords are what you use when it's all gone to Uusoae's bedchamber, lad," he answered. "Straighten up! You're trying to stab you're opponent, not fall into his sword!"

Alex held his head high, and held his stance. At least I've got an answer to that question, he thought grimly. But if that's what the sword was – the weapon you had when there was nothing else left – then Alex would master it, he promised himself.

The worst came to worst for Mama, and she had no way out. I will not leave the girls defenceless!

Resolved again, he switched from his lunge, into the balanced ready stance.

Gods, I cannot wait for the bath, he thought, as Sklaw called a halt. It was barely the third hour of the afternoon, but sweat had already started working its way into his eyes.

Raoul took his place opposite him, and Alex shook his head. They wouldn't be at the bath-house for several hours, and in the meantime…

Guard!

Alex brought his right hand down on the punch, deflecting it out and away from the vulnerable point of his face, shoving it off course.

The next fist flew, and he blocked it with both arms crossed protectively in order to lend more strength.

"Tirragen, what are you doing?" came the voice of the Shang Butterfly.

Startled, Alex looked, and was caught off guard by the blow.

"Agh!" White-hot pain seared through his jaw, and he flew back.

"Alex!" he heard Raoul's voice cry.

"Get back, Goldenlake!" the Butterfly's tone cracked like a whip. Alex groaned. He had collided against the bucket of combat staves, and the clang set his ears to ringing. "Tirragen, it was a nasty blow. Can you say anything."

Alex opened his mouth, then closed it, as agony bloomed again. Businesslike, calloused small fingers felt along his jaw.

"I thought so. Dislocated. Goldenlake, you can apologise when you escort him to Duke Baird. He should be well enough by the time archery begins, if not before," she said briskly.

Raoul's hand was in front of him. Startled, Alex looked up, and took it. Raoul hauled him to his feet, and slid an arm around Alex's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Alex." Alex hesitated, then leant into the touch. Raoul was touchy-feely, and if Alex was being honest, then so was he. And yes, his jaw ached like ffyc, but it was an honest mistake.

They walked through the halls to the healing rooms. The way was familiar to Alex, and he picked up the pace. Up a flight of stairs, take the corridor to the right, three doors down…

Raoul made to open the door, and Alex held up a hand, before flashing a "thumbs-up" and smiling hesitantly. It didn't seem to make his jaw ache anymore than it did already.

Raoul nodded, relief crashing across his face, and they entered the healing rooms.

"You again, Master Tirragen?"

Duke Baird's face was gentle as he took in the sight of the dusty pages. Alex nodded, then whimpered.

The Duke looked at Raoul. "What happened?"

"The Shang said that his jaw was dislocated," Raoul said, beginning to pace. Alex reached, and his hand closed on the collar of Raoul's tunic. The other boy whirled, and Alex shook his head just the tiniest bit.

Quit it. If you pace, you'll make me nervous. If I'm nervous, Duke Baird has to take longer to heal me.

Apparently the movement had gotten across to Raoul, because he sat, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

"Ah, I see the damage. You've got quite a hook, Goldenlake. Was there a quarrel behind this, or pure mishap?"

"Mishap," Raoul mumbled.

"I see." The Duke's hands were gentle as they laid on Alex's head, and coolness swept through his jaw, pain being flooded out in the sensation of chill.

Oh, that's good. Pity none of the other boys can do it…Could Jon learn how to heal, maybe?

"Better?" the Duke smiled at him, and Alex nodded gratefully.

"Thank you, your Grace," he said.

"You're not sleepy, are you? Some people get that way after healings."

Alex shook his head. "No, I will be well. Raoul, stop looking like you kicked your puppy."

The head snapped up. "You're not angry."

"Don't be stupid. Of course not," Alex said, briskly, jerking his thumb to the door. "Have a good day, your Grace," he called after him, as they walked back through the door.

"But–"

Alex clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Raoul. It was a mistake. It happens. Stop fretting." He kept walking, then turned, rolling his eyes.

"But I hurt you!"

"Yes, brothers do that sometimes, especially sword-brothers. Now stop looking like I kicked your puppy."

A long silence, interrupted only by the sounds of their boots clacking against the hardwood of the Palace.

"Brothers?" Raoul asked tentatively.

Alex rolled his eyes, pushing into a jog. "Yes, Raoul. Sword-brothers. Now come on, before they assign us punishment work for being late."

As hard as he tried, he couldn't keep some warmth out of his voice.

I hope you enjoyed it.