02

She fidgeted, waiting for her name to be announced. The name she gave them, not the name she was given.

“Sam of Haywood!”

When she didn’t move, someone shoved her to the front. She’d have to remember she was Sam now, not Samantha. It would take some getting used to.

“William of Gwent!”

Sam craned her neck, trying to catch a proper glimpse of her opponent through the crowd. Despite the swarming mass of spectators and contenders, it didn’t take her long to find him: he was a big lad with a girth that bordered on fat, dressed in red and white, the colors of Gwent. His eyes were small and mean beneath a flop of brown hair and betrayed no sign of intelligence.

A cool gale of morning wind whipped against her cheeks. Sam shivered, but not with cold. Her whole body thrummed with excitement. Six long years it had taken her to get here, six years of predawn workouts and midnight street brawls and mysterious bruises and cuts she couldn’t explain. She was here, and it would all be worth it.

You’ll still have to lie, an inner voice whispered. This isn’t the end of your secrets; it’s the beginning.

Brushing the voice aside, Sam stepped out into the arena. Considering it had been constructed just a few days before the Trials—and it would be torn down soon after—the arena was an impressive affair. The field itself was unfettered apart from a low picketed fence to set the bounds of the fighting. Behind the fence stood a U-shaped amphitheater with enough rows to seat half the city—and it seemed half the city had been seated. The common folk filled out the lower rows and spilled out onto the field if they were too poor to afford a proper seat, while the prime seating went to the wealthy merchants and local aristocracy.

Like their audience, the trainee candidates were a mix of the poor and rich, distinguished by the quality of their clothes and armor. The Trials were open to any who wished to enter, regardless of wealth or status. No, not any, Sam amended. The Trials were not open to Lady Samantha. And so she’d become Sam of Haywood.

Setting her shoulders back, Sam strode further into the arena, her ill-fitting armor rattling with each stride. A few of the boys guffawed. They elbowed William in the ribs and she heard one say, “This one’ll be easy.”

She scowled. Let them laugh. William of Gwent might be twice her size, but she would still defeat him. He lumbered across the grassy field with all the grace of a drunken elephant. They hadn’t begun fighting, and already rings of sweat encircled his underarms. Lady Samantha would have primly wrinkled her nose at the odor of perspiration and rusting armor. But she was Sam of Haywood.

Five swords—not practice swords, but real metal blades of varying lengths and styles—had been laid out in the middle of the field for Sam and William to choose from. Sam tested the balance of each sword until she settled on one she liked, a wide blade with a cat’s head pommel. William chose the greatsword, a hefty, two-handed weapon that weighed nigh on two stone. She smirked. It was a powerful sword—if you knew how to use it.

A trumpet blared, loud and brassy. The officiating Paladin, clad in formal livery, a black fleur-de-lis emblazoned on his white mantle, stepped up to a high podium behind the wooden barrier. “Swords at the ready!” Sam and William raised their blades to the on-guard position. “You know the rules by now. First to draw blood will be declared the winner. If you lose, you’re out. Go home. Better luck next year. Are we clear?”

She nodded. The rules were harsh but fair; outside of the training yard, there were no second chances. Demons didn’t care if you had an off day or if you allowed yourself to be distracted; they would kill you regardless. Sam had encountered a demon once in her eighteen years, and she had nearly died for it. The Trials, in comparison, were lenient.

“Alright, lads,” said the Paladin. Sam would have to get used to that, too; no one would ever again call her Lady. “You may begin!”

Sam studied her opponent. He had a brutish strength—she could tell by the ease with which he carried the greatsword—but his form was poor. She would wait him out, let him attack her first, and then find the holes in his armor.

“Oi, pretty boy!” William heckled. Sam raised an eyebrow at the insult. That was a new one for her. He hawked a wad of spit onto the ground. “Let’s get this over with, pretty boy.”

“You flatter me, with all your talk of prettiness,” she said. She wasn’t pretty, never had been, but she made for a convincing boy. “I’m starting to think you like me.” His face went purple with rage, and Sam choked back a laugh. Sparring with words was almost as much fun as sparring with swords, and she’d had little opportunity to practice.

Incensed, William charged her, swinging his greatsword wildly. Sam sidestepped, and he sailed past her, plunging headfirst into the wooden fence. He fell backwards onto his backside, and the arena burst into laughter.

Good gods, this would be easier than she had thought. “Paladin, does it count as my win if he’s bleeding on his own account?”

“I’m tempted to say yes,” the Paladin said through clenched teeth. “But no, finish it properly.”

William rose unsteadily to his feet, using his greatsword as an anchor. His face, red and round as it was, looked remarkably like a tomato. She felt a little sorry for him.

Not sorry enough to let him win. Sam wanted more than anything to be a Paladin. Their name was synonymous with bravery, and there were no better fighters. And she’d made a promise to herself, on the day she almost died, that one day it would be she who’d do the saving. “My turn,” she said, feinting to the left then circling under his sword.

Barely, William managed to parry her. He slashed at her torso, connecting with air as Sam danced out of the way. She rapped him on the knuckles with the flat of her blade, and the greatsword fell out of his grasp. Fighting a smile, she pressed her sword point into the underside of his chin.

“Win for Sam of Haywood!”

Sam trudged back to where the rest of the trainee candidates stood waiting to a smattering of applause, while a shamefaced William exited himself from the premises. It was too early to celebrate—there must have been fifty boys left, and they were just the Eastern swordsmen. The Paladins held the Trials throughout the West, North and South of Thule; each regional Trial was separated by class of weapon. Only a hundred new trainees would be accepted in total—less if the level of talent was found lacking. Sam was good—great, even—but whether she was the best remained to be seen.

Her new name was called half a dozen times more. Sam sliced and slashed—and blocked on occasion—her way to victory after victory. The guffaws that had greeted her first few bouts disappeared like a hazy memory. After each win, the cheering for her grew more enthusiastic, but she wasn’t a crowd favorite. The crowd’s attentions were fickle, and she didn’t fit the classical profile of a champion.

Winning hadn’t won her any friends, either. The other trainee candidates gave her a wide berth, and she sat alone on the sidelines of the field. Friendship at the Trials was an illusion anyway. How could it not be, when the stakes were so high? Sam could make friends after she was accepted as a Paladin trainee. She hoped.

Winning did guarantee one thing. They would never guess now that the loose metal breastplate and slack breeches hid a girlish figure. The nose she hated, her father’s nose, saved her face from overt femininity. She'd buried Lady Samantha beneath three yards of binding fabric and the unflattering trainee topknot. But her greatest disguise was this: no man would admit, even to himself, that a woman had defeated him.­­­

Sam had visions of what would happen if, gods forbid, she was found out. “Off with her head!” seemed a bit farfetched; her head was worth far more attached. The Duke of Haywood would pay whatever sum to keep her alive—grooming another heir would take too much effort. No, more likely she would be returned to her father, the duke, and they would let him deal with her. He would consign her to a lifetime of needlepoint and embroidery and a marriage she didn’t want; he’d threatened as much before she ran away. Sam preferred the guillotine.

She was getting ahead of herself. She wasn’t a Paladin, not even a trainee, not yet. She could lose her next fight and go home to Haywood on the morrow.

“Sam of Haywood!”

Her name called again. Sam pushed to her feet, pacing to stave off the stiffness of aching muscles. The pale morning light had brightened into a hot afternoon sun, blurring the edges of her vision. She wasn’t accustomed to fighting for so many hours on end, and would suffer for it by nightfall. It would be a pleasant suffering, a physical reminder of her accomplishments.

Her new opponent, a tall, lanky boy, had a long reach and chose a longsword to lengthen it. He was a solid swordsman; his grip and stance seemed natural. She’d watched some of his fights, too. He wasn’t flashy, but he was more than passable. Sam was better.

The Paladin repeated the rules of the duel for the thousandth time, and then: “You may begin!”

Sam lashed out first, swiping at his shoulder. He blocked and parried then swung again. The reach of his sword was too long, and she had to duck underneath it. She regained her footing and slid her sword along the inside of his blade, narrowing the distance between them. Up close, like this, Sam’s shorter blade held the advantage.

A glint of gold caught the corner of her eye, and her head, involuntarily, turned toward it.

There he stood, just beyond the wooden fence, like a ghost from the past. He had grown into himself in the six years since she’d last seen him. His face was harder and his golden hair cropped short, but the spark of mischief in his cobalt eyes was unchanged.

Paladin Tristan Lyons. The man who’d saved her and the reason she was here. He could ruin everything.

Sam faltered, and her opponent’s sword snagged the sleeve of her shirt.

“Halt!” yelled the officiating Paladin.

Shite. Sam pushed back her sleeve. “The skin’s unbroken, Paladin. No blood.” Her heart beat like a hummingbird’s. She’d almost lost. How could she have let herself get distracted? Gods, and in front of him, no less. Whether he recognized her or not, he’d think her a bumbling idiot.

“Swords at the ready!” Sam forced herself to concentrate, raising her sword. “Begin!”

She shifted on the balls of her feet. Her opponent’s blade moved by the tiniest fraction, and Sam attacked, hitting the outer edge. She swung again, and again, battering his sword. She faked to the right then thrust to the left, scoring his side. More than the fabric ripped; red dribbled from a shallow gash.