Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to Tamora Pierce.
"That ought to teach him not to mess with us," said Bryce of Carmine Tower to his friends with a self-satisfied smirk. Leaving his victim on the ground, the page walked toward the mess hall for dinner.
Wyldon of Cavall lay sprawled on the cold, stone flagstones. His body ached all over and normally pale face was flushed. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, were black and blue. His soft, often smiling mouth was bloody and swollen. Regaining consciousness, he wondered how long he'd been knocked out for. Wyldon stood up and almost collapsed again as blood rushed to his head. He wondered how the other pages could be so cruel. He had been the scapegoat ever since he'd arrived at the palace that fall. He'd endured teasing, hazing, and nasty tricks. Shy and quiet; Wyldon would be the last person to pick a fight or even engage in one. He was courteous to everyone and completed all of his class work, in which his talents lay, not in the fighting arts.
He limped dejectedly back to his room, filled with hate and anger toward Bryce and his cronies. Memories of every single name he was called, every trick that had been played, every fist that had ever hit him, flooded Wyldon. At that moment he didn't care about the consequences. He wanted Bryce to suffer. He wanted Bryce to be punished.
With nothing but coldness and hatred in his brown eyes, the battered ten-year-old turned toward Duke Gareth of Naxen's office. He knocked on the training master's office door, then entered.
"Cavall? What happened to you?" asked Gareth the Elder with concern at the sight of his pupil in a bloody mess.
For a moment, Wyldon reconsidered telling on his tormentor. Like the other pages, he knew it was an unwritten rule not to tell when you got in a fight. So he started to walk to the door when he felt a shooting pain up his leg. Wyldon knew he couldn't continue to live like this, in fear and pain. Bryce deserves this, he thought.
"It was Bryce of Carmine Tower, sir. Winsyder, Preston, and Wells too," Wyldon confessed, looking at the floor. His voice shook with uncertainty and insecurity, "He just attacked me. I didn't provoke him."
His eyes met Duke Gareth's crestfallen face. Wyldon could tell he was disappointed in him. "You go to the healers," Wyldon limped to the healers with mixed emotions.
That night he fell asleep immediately from exhaustion and the healing.
The next morning when he walked to the mess hall for breakfast, he was greeted with cold stares and silence, not even a "good morning" from his friends or an insult from his enemies. Wyldon's footsteps echoed through the silent hallway. He took his tray and sat at the table alone but didn't touch his meal. Regret and shame filled his thoughts. Never again, he promised himself, never again will I be such a dolt. I'll be stronger and I'll survive this training. Someday, I'll teach all of the pages the consequences of disobeying the rules, any rules, written or not.
Wyldon sighed inwardly as a bloody page entered his office.
"What happened to you, Greg?" asked the training master, bit of exasperation in his voice.
"Ean of Eldorne beat me because I wouldn't fetch his mathematics book," the first year page replied. He sported a black eye, a swollen lip and a bloody nose. For a second, Wyldon saw himself in the same position twenty-three years earlier. He shook himself out of his reverie.
"See a healer then return to your room," Wyldon's voice was harsh and unforgiving. Blood splattered on the floor as Gregory nodded vigorously. The Royal training master studied the young page as the boy limped out of the room. He won't make it, thought Wyldon; He's not strong enough to stand the silence.