Author's Note: Originally, this fanfiction was planned as a oneshot. However, due to the numerous requests for a sequel describing Lord Wyldon's reaction to Neal's impertinent essay, I chose to write another chapter. I tried to capture the humor blended with seriousness and the complexity of the relationship that exists between Wyldon and Neal that readers seemed to enjoy so much in Neal's essay. Unfortunately, I don't know if I succeeded as much as I would have liked, but I hope that readers will still enjoy my humble efforts here.
Consequences for a Rousing Defense of the Oft-Maligned Disobedience
A sharp knock on the door to his study dragged Lord Wyldon of Cavall out of his vivid contemplation of plunging a lance through Nealan of Queenscove's lungs so that the insolent boy wouldn't have enough hot air to offer his constant insulting commentary or at the very least cutting out the lad's impertinent tongue. It didn't matter that his right arm was still in a sling yet from when the hurrock had ravaged it in the royal nursery. He was knight enough that he wasn't crippled by the temporary loss of his dominant arm.
"Enter," he ordered tersely and wasn't astonished when Nealan of Queenscove strode into his office. After all, he had commanded his most aggravating page to come to his study at this hour. As was to be expected, Queenscove had elected to test his temper by arriving at the moment before the eleventh hour just to leave Wyldon speculating on whether Queenscove would actually possess the gumption it required to ignore a meeting with the training master.
"Your lordship wished to see me," remarked Queenscove after shutting the door to Lord Wyldon's study, offering an exaggerated obeisance.
"No, Queensove," Wyldon corrected crisply. "Plainly, it was you who wished to see me, since you were the one who made this meeting necessary."
"The incredible leaps of your lordship's logic have left my silly mind in the dust, I'm afraid." Queenscove's green eyes widened innocently, and Lord Wyldon scowled, since, in his extensive experience with Page Nealan, he had learned that the boy in question only dropped his know-it-all attitude if he thought he could trap others with feigned stupidity.
"Then I shall explain myself to you." Wyldon opened a drawer, withdrew a piece of parchment that he was eagerly anticipating the incineration of, and slammed Page Nealan's defiant essay on the merits, rather than the drawbacks, of disobedience onto his desk. "This is the reason you are here. Now, why don't you tell me what this is?"
"It appears to be parchment with words written in ink upon it, my lord," replied Queenscove, barely glancing at the offensive essay. "Of course, appearances can be deceptive, as you no doubt understand after your years on the battlefield. I would, naturally, want to perform in-depth analysis of the parchment and the ink in question before I reached a definite conclusion."
"I'll save you the trouble, Queenscove." Lord Wyldon's glower deepened, and he wondered if Duke Baird would appreciate it if he slapped some sense into his son. Probably not, he decided. Duke Baird was a healer to the core, always yammering on about broken bones and brain damage. This intense concern with brain damage most likely was the reason why sense had not been slapped into Page Nealan earlier. "I assure you that this is, in fact, the essay on disobedience that you submitted to me."
"If you received my essay, I don't know why your lordship summoned me," observed Queenscove, arching his eyebrows. "I turned in an essay on disobedience just as your lordship requested."
"You turned in an essay on the scant benefits, rather than the manifold problems, associated with disobedience," Lord Wyldon snapped, his cheeks flushing with ire.
"Your lordship assigned me to write an essay on the subject of disobedience." Queenscove's emerald eyes danced in a manner that established more eloquently than words ever could that he found nothing more pleasurable than taunting his training master. "If your lordship had wished me to write on the narrower topic of the pitfalls of disobedience rather than just the broad subject of disobedience, your lordship should have defined the topic of the essay with more specificity. Given your lordship's devotion to justice, you will comprehend how unfair it is to blame the student for the shortcomings and lack of clarity of the teacher."
"Very well," Lord Wyldon answered frigidly, noting inwardly that if Page Nealan played with fire, he would get scorched a consequence. Taking satisfaction from the notion that Queensove, who thought he was so clever, was about to realize how foolish he really was, the training master went on in a tone cold enough to freeze blood, "Let's examine some of the flaws in your essay that you cannot blame on your instructors. Your first mistake, Queenscove, was a grammatical one. When you state, 'Although, since he despises just about every bright idea that my genius has ever concocted, I cannot be certain why he has asked me to share the thoughts he so detests with him,' you, in your haste to impugn my intelligence, were guilty of a fragment. Next time you wish to call into question the erudition of others, you should ensure that your grammar is impeccable first. Hypocrisy has the horrible tendency of undermining one's own arguments."
"Your words of wisdom, as ever, will be remembered well into my senility, I assure you, sir." Once again, Queenscove bowed mockingly. "Are there any other legitimate grievances that your lordship has with my treatise?"
"Yes," responded Lord Wyldon, his lips pressing together tightly. "During your discussion of the war with Tusaine, you mistakenly assert that the then Prince Jonathan and his companions captured the brothers of the king of Tusaine. In reality, they only captured one of the king's brothers."
"You are nitpicking." Queenscove crossed his arms over his chest. "How many brothers were captured has no relevance to the overall nature of my argument. The main point made was not undermined by the fact that only one brother, instead of two, was captured."
"The credibility of your argument was lessened by your error," countered Lord Wyldon, glad that he could at least rip some of Page Nealan's essay to shreds. Maybe this humiliation would be enough to push the headstrong lad back to the university where he belonged. After all, while Queenscove wasn't clumsy in yard skills, he had the spirit of a healer, not a knight. When it came down to it, the boy would rather tend to the wounded than fight. Moreover, he had the soul of a scholar rather than a soldier. In the final analysis, he preferred questioning superiors to obeying them. The university, not knighthood training, was where Queenscove's innate potential—which even Lord Wyldon would grant that the insubordinate young man had—would be developed so that he could serve the realm to the best of his abilities. "If people cannot trust you in minor details, they cannot rely on you in major ones, either. Common sense dictates as much. Besides, if you ever want anyone to take your battlefield analysis seriously, you need to ensure that your details are correct. Details have been the death of many knights."
"I can only assume that you, sir, are attacking the details rather than the overarching theme of my essay because, if you assailed my premise, you would be arguing with yourself," Queenscove commented, all airiness.
"You will not disrespect me again by mocking my decision to rescue the royal children for a second time," warned Lord Wyldon, a quiet menace pervading his voice and his brown eyes burning. "That you dared to do so in your essay to me was bad enough."
"Mock your choice to save the royal children?" His forehead knotting, Queenscove cocked his head. "Your lordship misconstrued my tone twice. I admire your decision to rescue the royal children. You and I often disagree on every conceivable subject, but when it comes to your choice to save the royal children, we are in complete agreement. Even though I think you should cooperate with the healers more about the injury to your arm and that accepting the reward the Crown offered you for your valiant service to Tortall would not have been amiss on your part, I will not deny that when you raced into the royal nursery you were a true hero. I will never stop disrespecting you, my lord, but rest assured that when anyone asks me, I always say with absolute sincerity that your lordship is never anything less than brave."
"Flattery will not protect you from my wrath." Suspicious that Page Nealan was lying or taunting him, Lord Wyldon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I trust that you wouldn't be dishonest in an attempt to decrease the punishment that you undoubtedly will receive for your insulting essay."
"Sir, you know that I never lie to appease you," snorted Queenscove. "That's why I had to write the essay that angered you in the first place."
"Well, in that case, you should be aware that it is only in very rare circumstances that disobedience is justified, and that, even when the defiance is justified, there will always be a price exacted for it," Wyldon informed him dryly, glancing at the arm wrapped in its sling. "Every action has a consequence, and the one for the defiance that you exhibited in your essay for me will be a bell's worth of time spent in the armory polishing swords every Sunday until you return home for the summer. You can use that time to reflect on whether the essay you wrote for me was truly worth the time and energy it will cost you. You might also contemplate how much better your life would be if you returned to the university to train to be a healer."
"I will not change my mind about being a knight, my lord," declared Queenscove shortly, and a haunted expression dominated his features for a moment. "I will be a knight of the realm since my brothers are no longer around to do so."
Recalling the bloody deaths of Graeme and Emry of Queenscove that he had heard whispered of too many times, Wyldon wondered whether Nealan would be another casualty to the Immortal Wars who just took a longer time to perish even as he pointed out dispassionately, "Knights are not the only people who serve the country. Healers, scholars, and peasants are all, in their own ways, just as vital to the well-being of the kingdom."
"I want to be a knight," Queenscove insisted, his hands balling into fists.
"Sometimes duty requires that we relinquish our selfish desires and resist the temptation to structure our lives around what we, personally, want," Lord Wyldon said, although he knew that Queenscove, whose mind was as closed as an iron trap far too often, wouldn't listen.
"I want to be a knight because a member of the Queenscove house has served the Crown faithfully as a knight for generations," Queenscove snarled. "You are a conservative, my lord, so you must understand why I would not wish to break such a chain. Since you love the past so much, you must comprehend why I will not ignore the silent ancestors who are always hovering over my shoulder. My decision has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with them."
"I knew you wouldn't listen to me." Feeling abruptly exhausted, Lord Wyldon sighed and waved a hand in dismissal. "Go away before your tongue can land you in any more trouble."
"May the sagacity your lordship is renowned for increase tenfold overnight." With a final parody of a bow, Queenscove left Lord Wyldon's study, closing the door in his wake.
In the quiet that filled the room now that Queenscove and his impertinence had departed at last, Lord Wyldon found himself staring down at the rousing defense of the oft-maligned disobedience that Queenscove had possessed the temerity to submit to him. Earlier, he had been planning on watching the parchment be devoured by flames in the fireplace of his bedchamber until only cinders remained, but now he wanted to keep the essay. If Nealan was slain in battle like Graeme and Emry had been, he wished to have a momento of the boy, and the young man's arrogance and insolence was perfectly captured in the essay.
Why exactly he would wish to remember someone who frequently made him think about the merits of executing one's pupils was a mystery, he thought as he placed the essay in his desk drawer. Perhaps, because he understood that death tended to turn everybody into paragons of virtue, he wanted to ensure that he recalled just how many faults Nealan of Queenscove had.