Agemon. Well, that certainly put a different slant on her day.

“I am a Green Rider,” Karigan repeated, but she wondered what Mara would think when the black shield insignia got sewn onto her uniforms. What would Mara think of her new sword?

“Next bell we are expecting those seamstresses and tailors your father promised us, to arrive and do the fittings and alterations.”

“Good timing,” Karigan murmured, still thinking of the insignia. She was terrible with thread and needle.

“What’s that?” Mara asked.

“Huh? Oh, nothing.” Karigan busied herself with her food, but Mara was not finished.

“At one hour, you are to report to Drent for training.”

Karigan groaned. “So soon?”

“Yes, Rider Swordmaster Sir Karigan Helgadorf G’ladheon.”

“At least I’m not Rider Crotchety today, and I guess that makes you Chief Rider Bossy Mara Brennyn.”

“Not by far, my dear. Not by far . . .”

“The way things are going already this morning, I shouldn’t be surprised to see an Eletian walk through the door.” Karigan glanced over her shoulder toward the entrance and hoped that just mentioning it would not make it so. She was relieved there were no Eletians in sight.

But then Mara said, “As for that, you are to report directly to the captain after training with Drent.”

“What do you mean, ‘as for that’?”

“Best that the captain tell you what’s on her mind.”

“I’m apparently not the only one who keeps secrets.”

Mara gave her a catlike smile. Karigan turned her attention back to breakfast. Sounded like she was going to be busy, so she’d better fill up while she could.

• • •

Karigan, along with her fellow Riders, spent much of her morning getting her uniforms fitted for the modified design. She also managed to wheedle a seamstress into sewing the pile of new patches onto the sleeves of her coats and shirts.

At one hour, she reported to the field house, which served as the winter weapons training area. It was a high-ceilinged building, with tall windows, and sawdust upon the floor. There were six rings in which bouts took place.

Three other trainees were present, one of whom was Flogger. She knew, with a sense of dread, that he would make her pay for having bested him last night. Arms Master Drent lumbered up to them, his expression its usual mask of disapproval as he looked them over. Most of it was reserved for Karigan.

“Where is your sword?” he demanded.

Karigan saw that the others wore theirs. “In my chamber.”

“What good is it going to do you there?”

“I didn’t realize—”

“You are a swordmaster now. You practice with steel, not wood.”

“Yes, sir.” She had known this, but for some reason she had it in her mind that like her initiate training, there would be practice swords for her to use.

When normally Drent would bellow at her, he simply said, “Next time, bring your sword. How else will you become accustomed to it? I’ll see what I can dig up while you lot warm up.”

While Karigan stretched and sprinted up and down the length of the field house, she wondered if Drent behaving as a reasonable human being was the difference between a student who was a swordmaster and a student who was not. His usual haranguing of his trainees was intimidating, and there were those who could not endure it, much less the physical rigors of the actual training. He must, she reflected, figure that if students could not handle him, then they were not suited to the demands of being a swordmaster. A sort of test of its own, she decided.

She learned, after Drent returned with a battered longsword for her to use, that he was just as merciless as ever in his training, and could still bark if students made mistakes. And there were other ways he punished them in the name of learning: He set the other three trainees against just her. She flailed at the very real, edged swords they wielded and was “killed” numerous times over by the painful blows of the flats of their blades.

At one point, she lay facedown in the sawdust with the tips of three swords digging into her back. One particularly. She had no doubt it belonged to Flogger. The toes of Drent’s boots stood just inches from her nose.

“You need to learn to fight multiple opponents,” he told her. “Instead of panicking, use what you’ve already learned, and you might have a chance.”

She had fought multiple opponents before, but they hadn’t been swordmasters.

He then put her through exercises to show her how to approach combat when outnumbered. There were new forms to learn, and adaptations of the ones she already knew.

“Real battle is messy,” he continued, “and the enemy will not be nice enough to supply you with only one opponent at a time.”

After Drent deemed she had gotten the new forms to some acceptable level, he set the other three on her again. She lasted a little longer this time, but the bout ended much the same with her facedown on the floor. She spat sawdust as Drent stood over her, shaking his head with a look of hopelessness on his face.

“Get up,” he ordered.

He set the three on her again, and again, and again. They thrashed her each time, and it got harder and harder to clamber back to her feet. So far no one had accidentally killed her with their sword. She still had her head and all her limbs. She looked for the positives where she could find them. The other three students knew what they were about, and she learned they’d been swordmasters for a few months now, which meant they had a decided advantage over her. Two of them aimed to become Weapons, but Molly, who served in the light cavalry, was undecided about whether or not she wanted to become a Weapon. In the meantime, she claimed she just enjoyed the challenge of the training.