Young Writers Society

Happy Today, everyone!

First, I apologize for not posting from the beginning of a work-in-progress, and instead picking a bit farther in. I have a vague sense that this is probably a no-no, but I haven't made up my mind what the opening scene of this story is going to be. Basically, I'd just like some feedback from people who haven't been emotionally involved with the story from its conception (no offense, Gyrfalcon).

To provide some context: the excerpt begins from the Spymaster's point of view, but Kalamindra is my protagonist. Neither of them is human; they're Duranni, a more-or-less humanoid race who live in a forest called Tansir and don't sleep much. I'm sure there are other points that need explaining, but I can't think of any just now. Please crit!

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In Tansi’ren, the Spymaster paced.

This was a common occurrence, repeating itself every night, so regularly that almost the entire court had gotten used to it. But it wasn’t his pacing that was the problem. It was where he chose to do it. They could never be sure where he might show up, and no amount of complaining to the Queen could do any good about it. She only smiled, very sweetly, and asked whether there was anything on their consciences that they didn’t wish the Spymaster to find out about.

Tonight, he made his rounds from the Queen’s quarters, out onto the Guard’s practice grounds and back again. All over Tansi’ren, members of the Queen’s Guard noted his presence and straightened at their posts, endeavoring to look sharp, alert, dependable. Usually, this straightening took place quite suddenly, as they never heard him coming. He was the Spymaster, tall, pale, and always clad in black, with stork-long arms and legs that gave him a misleadingly clumsy look, almost funny until you looked into those pale blue eyes. They looked through you, those eyes did, and they were so often completely dispassionate, revealing no hint of any emotion whatsoever. He moved with a catlike grace when he wished, making no sound, giving no warning. He was the Queen’s most loyal servant, carrying out her wishes swiftly and silently, whether or not she had actually put them into the form of an order. Few people ever laid eyes on him, but the entire court was secretly terrified of him.

At the moment, however, he left off haunting the palace's dark corridors to veer in a new direction. Something on the practice fields had caught his interest, and, as he had an hour or two of free time, he went to inspect it further.

It was a girl. That in itself wasn’t so odd; many Duranni children of both sexes took lessons in combat from various members of the Guard, and during the day, the field was often crowded. They learned to fight with staffs, with knives, with bows and with fists. No, if she had been practicing with any of those weapons, even at this hour, when the field was empty and awash with moonlight, he wouldn’t have been as surprised as he was now.

She was holding a sword. It was a wooden practice sword, and Sky alone knew how she had gotten hold of it, but she held it, not with a student’s clumsy skill, but with the unselfconscious grace of one who had known its use for years. She didn’t notice him, even when he came into the light, and when he was quite close he realized why. Her eyes were closed.

Her sparring form was unfamiliar, even to him, who had seen more swordplay than he ever wished to. Her style was all curves, like a dance; none of the sharp, stabbing gestures he had seen the Guards use. Where had she learned such an art? The Guards didn’t even teach swordplay to their students; it was training reserved strictly for those who had already gained the rank. After all, it was a mad form of combat, if you thought about it; why get so close to your opponent, when you could fell him with an arrow or a throwing knife? Even fighting with a staff was preferable; at least then there was some distance between you.

As he watched, she continued her dance, but faster, until her blade was no more than a blur, and her dark red hair fell down from its tie to dance in the moon-pale air around her. She went on, faster, and faster, until he could hear the air whistling with her passage, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Finally, it came. She stopped, feet spread wide apart, head down, swaying, but did not fall. Her sword dropped heavily from one limp hand. She was panting hard; her narrow shoulders rose and fell with every breath. Now that she was still, he guessed that she couldn't be much older than fifteen or sixteen summers. She was so small, not at all built like a fighter, which only added to his surprise. Who was she? Where had she learned that?

Then she raised her eyes and saw him. He was only a few yards away, close enough to hear her gasp of surprise. But she straightened, looked him in the eye. The sword lay, unheeded, at her feet. She did not look afraid. “How long have you been standing there?” She asked quietly.

The Spymaster smiled faintly, but not out of any particular amusement. The wild dervish was long gone, now. Once she realized his presence, her mask slipped on, that mask of careful, wary control that everyone wore around him. He was used to it, but there was something about the way she stood, almost ready to run, that made him want to put her at ease.

“Only a few minutes. But I was impressed.”

She inclined her head in his direction, very slightly. “Thank you.”

“Where did you learn to use that sword?”

She flinched at that, as he had expected she would. “No one taught me. I…I taught myself.”

“Really?” He let his skepticism show. “You must be a very skilled teacher. How did you get it, then?”

She raised her chin defiantly, a useless gesture, as the top of her head was about level with his chest. “I stole it.”

“From whom?” He really was amused, now; she was sizing him up as if trying to decide how much of a problem he was likely to be. Of course he had no intention of trying to get her in trouble. But he was curious. “You’d have to be pretty good, to get into the Guard’s stockrooms and then out again without being caught. Even I couldn’t get hold of one of those, without asking first.”

Her shoulders sagged; she knew he was right. She looked down at her feet again. He waited. It was one of his specialties.

Finally, she picked up the sword, tucked it under her arm, and spoke again. “I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

“On the contrary. I’m very good at knowing when people are lying or not, and I have had a great deal of experience in believing the impossible.” He smiled at her, a true smile, without really knowing why he did it. There was just something about her face…so familiar…

She cocked her head. One hand was holding the wooden sword under her arm; with the other, she was vainly attempting to get her hair back under control. “Who are you? You’re not in the Guard; I come here to watch during the day and I would know you if you were.”

“Who are you? I can tell you probably couldn’t afford the lessons here; you’ve got a rip in your tunic, and those boots must be as old as I am.”

That made her angry. It was too dark to tell the color of her eyes, but he could still feel her glaring at him as, instinctively, she reached to cover the tear. “You must be a courtier. Only they would be stupid enough to judge a person by their clothes.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Careful, youngling, those are the Queen’s relatives you’re talking about. It isn’t wise to toss insults before you’ve figured out who you’re talking to.”

“It only matters if I care.”

“You should care. So far, I’ve caught you in two lies, and if not that, at least one lie and confession of a theft. What would your parents say?”

She stiffened. He was sure, then, that she was going to run, until, inexplicably, she slumped again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. All this was a stupid mistake.”

Again, she had surprised him, but he took care not to show it. “‘All this’?”

She shrugged. “Coming here in the first place, in the open. Stopping to talk to you. I probably should have run when I first saw you. Now it’s too late.”

“True.” She had intrigued him, no doubt about that. But he wasn’t going to let her off so easily. “What is your name?”

“Kalamindra.” There was a resigned note in her voice. “Kalamindra Ultarae. The sword used to be my father’s; perhaps you might have heard of him.”

The Spymaster stared. That was why she looked so familiar! An Ultarae. The Queen herself was an Ultarae, so this Kalamindra was kin to her. If nothing else, they shared the famous Ultarae-red hair, though Faelodel’s was somewhat lighter. Kalamindra Ultarae, daughter of Lakik Ultarae, hero…which, come to think of it, also explained the girl’s stubbornness. The Spymaster smiled, a little sadly. He remembered the stories. Arguing with Lakik was said to be very much like arguing with a stone wall. It was either pickaxe or go home.

“One of his friends gave it to me,” she explained, and crossed her arms. “He’s not in the Guard, and don’t expect me to tell you his name. I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

“That’s all right. I already know it was Bryar, the healer, who got it for you.”

Her face fell. “But…how?”

“I am the Spymaster, you know.” He went on in a friendly, conversational tone, coming closer as he did and ignoring the frozen shock on her face. “So, let me guess. Bryar wanted you to have your father’s old practice sword. That’s harmless enough. What puzzles me is how he taught you to use it; even in the war, Bryar was an archer, nothing more. He wouldn’t know the first thing about swordplay.” He paused, thinking, and then shrugged. “So maybe you did teach yourself. Impressive.”

“I told you.”

“Yes, you did. My apologies.” Having made a full circle around her, the Spymaster stopped, looking thoughtful. “With all that explained, that only leaves one question: why haven’t the Ultaraes paid for you to have lessons here with all the rest of their brood? It would be a wise investment; you’re a natural, even if you’re a little small for the usual drills.”

She didn’t answer right away; instead, she concentrated on tucking the sword into her belt, and then arranging her hair so that it was all meekly gathered at the back of her neck. Only then did she reply, “You’re the Spymaster. Don’t you know? My father married an Enedil gypsy, my mother, who they’d never met and didn’t approve of. Now that she’s gone, they don’t want me.” The bitterness in her voice was controlled, but there. “Even on the practice grounds, they pretend I don’t exist. Supposedly I’m an embarrassment to the family.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Surely the family has suffered worse embarrassments. I could tell you some pretty colorful stories.”

“Yes, but I’m the one that has the gall to go around looking like him, with his sword, and supposedly his skill, or so Bryar tells me.” Despite her anger, a hint of pride crept in at this last bit. “And I don’t creep around them like some sort of mouse, ashamed of my existence. They can’t stand that.”

He believed it. By and large, the Ultaraes were no worse than any other rich old Duranni family, but their pride was a force to be reckoned with. “I can see how that might be galling.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can.” She yawned, suddenly, and rubbed her eyes with her fists. As she did so, she looked even younger, even less like that wild, dangerous creature he had observed earlier. If he hadn’t had such faith in the evidence of his own eyes, he might have thought it a dream. “Look, I know I wasn’t supposed to be here. I just couldn’t sleep, and this seemed like a good place to go. I’m going home now, and I promise I won’t do it again. Okay?”

He looked into her eyes—gray, he was almost certain—and was almost fooled into thinking she meant it. Almost. Not quite.

He nodded, and she turned to go. But then she turned back.

“Wait. You never told me your name.”

“That is true.” He was surprised that she had thought to ask; few people did. To do so implied that they meant to use it. For a long time, he never knew why he did what he did just then, but she looked so like Faelodel, standing there, that it just came naturally. He bowed, a deep, courtly bow, with all the proper flourishes. “Your father once called me Galwyn.”