Memory
She'd come back to her little Section One place, not particularly sore but looking forward to soaking in the hot springs in an hour or so, and was dismayed to find it wound all about with strings of various thicknesses.
"Some guard you are," she told Fang, who hadn't come to work with her. Lying flat in front of her door, he lowered his head to lie flat, the very picture of canine misery. Peachblossom sighed and patted him, then started looking for a loose end to start from.
Jump helped her with that; the other dogs, not being able to tell what she was doing, ran about panting for a while, then took after Fang, lying about.
It wasn't a large house, nor was there much to remark about on its outside. Whoever had done this with the string had been determined, she had to admit.
She rounded a corner and found Mistress, one of the cats, chewing happily through some of the string. Peach moved her aside, not wanting anyone to choke. Then she looked at the sodden length the cat had been working on.
"Well, that's one way," she muttered, and took her war fan up off her belt to cut through it. Jump took one end of the string in his jaws. She took the other.
It was a tedious process. More than once, Peach considered just chopping up the entire length. But that would be a waste, surely, when winding this back up would mean having some intact balls of string. She kept at it.
Eventually, Jump summoned her with a whuff. She went to him and found something in a tangle of yarn. Forgetting herself, she reached down to touch it without giving it a close look; it wasn't an animal or metal, so she'd assumed she didn't have to take that precaution. The world lurched, changed, and the Ordeal showed her something.
It was somewhere else, somewhere in the open. She was wearing something heavy - armor? - with some kind of shield strapped to one arm, and she was standing next to a large horse, giving its muzzle a caress. Other than its breathing, it was quiet nearby - elsewhere there was a crowd, and other horses. But she and this one stood alone, unless anyone closer was silent.
She was steady. There was a little thread of anxiety, but she had banished it to where it was nothing she couldn't ignore. This was something she had resigned herself to do. She wasn't afraid.
Hoofbeats approached. They stopped some small distance away, and above them someone - mounted, not a centaur, she could hear the horse snort - asked her, "You still mean to do this, Squire K______?"
"I do, sir," she heard herself say, her voice steady.
"Very well." The man's voice took on a kind of rhythmic quality, as if repeating something he'd said hundreds of times before. "You have three runs in which to knock your opponent from the saddle. This is considered a victory. If your lance breaks, and lances do, the field monitor will give you a new one. If your horse is lamed, you may either accept a mount provided by the Crown, or concede the victory to your opponent. If neither of you falls from the saddle in three runs, the judges decide the victor from the strength of blows delivered and accuracy of hits. Do you understand me?"
She felt herself nod. "Then take your place in your designated lane. Listen for the trumpet to start," the man told her. She heard him turn his horse and ride away.
She mounted her horse. It was a big horse. The saddle, from what she could feel of it, was padded, with a high back. She reached down to pat the side of the horse's neck, saying, "Let's go, Peachblossom." It tossed its head and snorted explosively.
Taking the reins and touching her boots to its sides, she rode - Peachblossom? She had really named herself after a horse? - forwards and accepted something, probably one of the lances that had been mentioned. By the heft of it she knew it had to be very long. She rested the butt against her stirrup so that it pointed up into the air, and rode forward. She was - she was jousting. Tilting. Taking part in a contest, with onlookers. Mock combat.
All right.
There was a sound of wings and a scratchy thump, a body with claws landing on wood. She turned to look towards whatever it was and spoke, surprised and annoyed.
"Do you feel clever? I thought you couldn't get out of the tent."
In response there was a piercing screech, almost like the sound a bird of prey would make. It seemed to go directly through her head. Birds called in alarm. Other horses neighed; the crowd murmured, and her Peachblossom shook its head vigorously.
The back of her neck was prickling. She shivered and ordered, "Stop that. Behave. I mean it. Otherwise I'll chain you next time."
She looked ahead and lowered the lance so that it pointed across the saddle, then did something with her armor and a hinge - lowered a visor, it felt and sounded like. For a few seconds she did nothing but breathe.
The same man who had told her the rules, judging by the voice, called out something about Squire K______ of Mindelan and Sir Voelden of... somewhere. His voice didn't carry as well as it might have, or else her helmet and its padding blocked it out.
A trumpet sounded.
"Charge," she whispered to her horse. He - she'd started thinking of Peachblossom as a stallion or a gelding - surged forwards under her. Surging with him, she leaned forwards in the saddle, bracing her feet in the stirrups and adjusting her grip, eyes tracking something ahead. It was like riding an avalanche.
There were two blows, then. One as something - another lance, most likely - struck her shield squarely. The other as her lance struck what was probably another shield, glancing off it. Her shield arm went a little numb, but the ache in both was fading even as Peachblossom slowed, and she guided him to swerving and returning to what she had to guess was her starting point.
The bird creature shrieked again as she passed him. Now the crowd was quiet. From the other side, another horse - Vorelden's? - neighed in protest. Peachblossom only blew and got them into position. She waited.
The trumpet sounded. Without waiting for instruction, Peachblossom went into that thundering charge again.
She rose in the saddle, setting herself, readying her lance. This time when they hit, something in what she hit gave, and instead of an impact on her shield arm, something small and hard crashed into her sternum, making her gasp and reel, dazed, almost making her drop the lance. He'd hit her with his - hit her, not her shield.
The crowd didn't like that. A man's voice, familiar, was bellowing "Foul!". She swayed, and felt her horse lunging.
"No! Peachblossom, curse you, stop it!" She was trying to shout, but her voice was a breathy squeak. She couldn't seem to fill her lungs enough. The horse heard anyway, and turned when she pulled on the reins, going back to the starting point.
She handed her lance away and touched her breastplate, felt the fist-sized dent just under her heart. There was an odd, cold, angry feeling then. It hadn't been an accident. Voelden had tried to kill her.
"Get me water and a fresh lance, please," she heard herself say. Her voice was still strained; she didn't have her wind entirely back yet. She focused on breathing for a moment and accepted a waterskin when it was handed up to her. The contents had no taste at all, but it was cool and she took several swallows before handing it back down.
A lance met her hand. She took it, and someone told her, "You can retire from the lists."
"Thank you, but no," she said, her voice almost normal now. She turned into her lane, set inside. She knew what she would do.
There was the trumpet. Peachblossom charged. His rider rose, bracing herself a little differently, angling her shield arm in a different way.
When she hit, she hit hard. Her lance broke in the impact, and she let the remains fall. His impact was different than the first time; maybe it had broken too, but that didn't matter, because she was still moving. She was leaning out, ramming her shield out and around, hooking something of her opponent's with it and heaving while a horse that wasn't Peachblossom whinnied.
He fell out of the saddle and hit the ground with a grunt. The crowd roared.
She dismounted and went to him, ducking under something with a wince for her ribs, and drew a sword that she hadn't known she was carrying. He was cursing her under his breath, but stopped when she lifted something - a visor? - with that sword and pressed the point to something underneath.
Her voice even, she said, "Yield. Or I carve my initial right there."
"I yield." He was pained and disbelieving and ever so slightly afraid.
She felt herself smile without any vestige of warmth or humor. "And they say conservatives can't learn."
The sword was sheathed again and she went back under... whatever it was, wincing again for her ribs, and back to Peachblossom, though she didn't mount him this time. Instead she started to lead him - not touching the reins, but he followed as closely as if she had.
The crowd, or part of it, was chanting. She lifted her head. They were shouting, "Mindelan! Mindelan! Mindelan!"
Soon she heard women's voices, and a group of them surrounded her, heedless of her protests, and took her with them. She started to sag with relief, but a jolt of worry made her say, "Peachblossom-"
"Will be groomed and watered," someone said with authority. "You're coming to my tent and waiting for the healer. That lance could have killed you."
She closed her mouth and went with them. A surge of sudden cold fear came out of nowhere and washed over her. The - whoever that woman was, she was right. Voeldan could have run her through. She could have died there, easily.
Yet she didn't stumble, didn't say anything. Wherever and however she had learned to hide her feelings, that training held. The fear sank back, controlled.
Something might have shown, though, because now someone was hugging her one-armed, apparently careless of her armor. "Mama, I'm fine," she protested. That training helped her again; her voice was steady.
"I know." Her mother's voice was low and lovely. Hands, several people's hands, started taking off her armor, a piece at a time. Another surge of worry made her lift her head, but she didn't know what she did or said next - it was then that the memory faded back into the present.
She came back to herself, came back to the now, blinking, holding a now-dead crystal in one hand. Jump was nosing at her in concern. She reassured him with a murmur, thinking about what she'd just - well, not seen, obviously. Felt and heard.
She rubbed her ribs, under and a little left of her heart. There was a kind of fading, phantom echo of the pain of that impact, but she knew there wasn't a scar there. Maybe if she went to Wellspring, they could tell her if those bones had ever been broken. Maybe not. Even if they did, it wasn't like that would prove that that had happened at all, no more than the fact that it "felt" right did. The Ordeal, the spirit in it, it could change reality into whatever it wanted.
A strange test. She hadn't ever pictured herself... performing like that. Fighting for... why? To entertain? Had she and Voerelden had some argument and he'd decided to try to kill her?
And if it was true... she'd named herself after her horse. She'd known that Peachblossom had been a name, that she hadn't really named herself after flowers. But a horse? She couldn't call herself that, now.
Mindelan, maybe. If it was true, that was where she was from. She was of Mindelan... That could work. Real or not, it felt right.
She was rolling up the string when she found that her stockings seemed to have... shrank. Drastically; they weren't even up to her knees anymore. They felt strange, too - differently tight. She took off her boots, one at a time, and saw first that her stockings were now made out of some different kind of cloth, with pink stripes - but also that each toe was encased in its own compartment.
Like gloves for feet. Mindelan glanced around to find only the animals watching and laughed, and if there was an edge of hysteria in it, well, it made her feel better and it wasn't hurting anyone.
"Some guard you are," she told Fang, who hadn't come to work with her. Lying flat in front of her door, he lowered his head to lie flat, the very picture of canine misery. Peachblossom sighed and patted him, then started looking for a loose end to start from.
Jump helped her with that; the other dogs, not being able to tell what she was doing, ran about panting for a while, then took after Fang, lying about.
It wasn't a large house, nor was there much to remark about on its outside. Whoever had done this with the string had been determined, she had to admit.
She rounded a corner and found Mistress, one of the cats, chewing happily through some of the string. Peach moved her aside, not wanting anyone to choke. Then she looked at the sodden length the cat had been working on.
"Well, that's one way," she muttered, and took her war fan up off her belt to cut through it. Jump took one end of the string in his jaws. She took the other.
It was a tedious process. More than once, Peach considered just chopping up the entire length. But that would be a waste, surely, when winding this back up would mean having some intact balls of string. She kept at it.
Eventually, Jump summoned her with a whuff. She went to him and found something in a tangle of yarn. Forgetting herself, she reached down to touch it without giving it a close look; it wasn't an animal or metal, so she'd assumed she didn't have to take that precaution. The world lurched, changed, and the Ordeal showed her something.
It was somewhere else, somewhere in the open. She was wearing something heavy - armor? - with some kind of shield strapped to one arm, and she was standing next to a large horse, giving its muzzle a caress. Other than its breathing, it was quiet nearby - elsewhere there was a crowd, and other horses. But she and this one stood alone, unless anyone closer was silent.
She was steady. There was a little thread of anxiety, but she had banished it to where it was nothing she couldn't ignore. This was something she had resigned herself to do. She wasn't afraid.
Hoofbeats approached. They stopped some small distance away, and above them someone - mounted, not a centaur, she could hear the horse snort - asked her, "You still mean to do this, Squire K______?"
"I do, sir," she heard herself say, her voice steady.
"Very well." The man's voice took on a kind of rhythmic quality, as if repeating something he'd said hundreds of times before. "You have three runs in which to knock your opponent from the saddle. This is considered a victory. If your lance breaks, and lances do, the field monitor will give you a new one. If your horse is lamed, you may either accept a mount provided by the Crown, or concede the victory to your opponent. If neither of you falls from the saddle in three runs, the judges decide the victor from the strength of blows delivered and accuracy of hits. Do you understand me?"
She felt herself nod. "Then take your place in your designated lane. Listen for the trumpet to start," the man told her. She heard him turn his horse and ride away.
She mounted her horse. It was a big horse. The saddle, from what she could feel of it, was padded, with a high back. She reached down to pat the side of the horse's neck, saying, "Let's go, Peachblossom." It tossed its head and snorted explosively.
Taking the reins and touching her boots to its sides, she rode - Peachblossom? She had really named herself after a horse? - forwards and accepted something, probably one of the lances that had been mentioned. By the heft of it she knew it had to be very long. She rested the butt against her stirrup so that it pointed up into the air, and rode forward. She was - she was jousting. Tilting. Taking part in a contest, with onlookers. Mock combat.
All right.
There was a sound of wings and a scratchy thump, a body with claws landing on wood. She turned to look towards whatever it was and spoke, surprised and annoyed.
"Do you feel clever? I thought you couldn't get out of the tent."
In response there was a piercing screech, almost like the sound a bird of prey would make. It seemed to go directly through her head. Birds called in alarm. Other horses neighed; the crowd murmured, and her Peachblossom shook its head vigorously.
The back of her neck was prickling. She shivered and ordered, "Stop that. Behave. I mean it. Otherwise I'll chain you next time."
She looked ahead and lowered the lance so that it pointed across the saddle, then did something with her armor and a hinge - lowered a visor, it felt and sounded like. For a few seconds she did nothing but breathe.
The same man who had told her the rules, judging by the voice, called out something about Squire K______ of Mindelan and Sir Voelden of... somewhere. His voice didn't carry as well as it might have, or else her helmet and its padding blocked it out.
A trumpet sounded.
"Charge," she whispered to her horse. He - she'd started thinking of Peachblossom as a stallion or a gelding - surged forwards under her. Surging with him, she leaned forwards in the saddle, bracing her feet in the stirrups and adjusting her grip, eyes tracking something ahead. It was like riding an avalanche.
There were two blows, then. One as something - another lance, most likely - struck her shield squarely. The other as her lance struck what was probably another shield, glancing off it. Her shield arm went a little numb, but the ache in both was fading even as Peachblossom slowed, and she guided him to swerving and returning to what she had to guess was her starting point.
The bird creature shrieked again as she passed him. Now the crowd was quiet. From the other side, another horse - Vorelden's? - neighed in protest. Peachblossom only blew and got them into position. She waited.
The trumpet sounded. Without waiting for instruction, Peachblossom went into that thundering charge again.
She rose in the saddle, setting herself, readying her lance. This time when they hit, something in what she hit gave, and instead of an impact on her shield arm, something small and hard crashed into her sternum, making her gasp and reel, dazed, almost making her drop the lance. He'd hit her with his - hit her, not her shield.
The crowd didn't like that. A man's voice, familiar, was bellowing "Foul!". She swayed, and felt her horse lunging.
"No! Peachblossom, curse you, stop it!" She was trying to shout, but her voice was a breathy squeak. She couldn't seem to fill her lungs enough. The horse heard anyway, and turned when she pulled on the reins, going back to the starting point.
She handed her lance away and touched her breastplate, felt the fist-sized dent just under her heart. There was an odd, cold, angry feeling then. It hadn't been an accident. Voelden had tried to kill her.
"Get me water and a fresh lance, please," she heard herself say. Her voice was still strained; she didn't have her wind entirely back yet. She focused on breathing for a moment and accepted a waterskin when it was handed up to her. The contents had no taste at all, but it was cool and she took several swallows before handing it back down.
A lance met her hand. She took it, and someone told her, "You can retire from the lists."
"Thank you, but no," she said, her voice almost normal now. She turned into her lane, set inside. She knew what she would do.
There was the trumpet. Peachblossom charged. His rider rose, bracing herself a little differently, angling her shield arm in a different way.
When she hit, she hit hard. Her lance broke in the impact, and she let the remains fall. His impact was different than the first time; maybe it had broken too, but that didn't matter, because she was still moving. She was leaning out, ramming her shield out and around, hooking something of her opponent's with it and heaving while a horse that wasn't Peachblossom whinnied.
He fell out of the saddle and hit the ground with a grunt. The crowd roared.
She dismounted and went to him, ducking under something with a wince for her ribs, and drew a sword that she hadn't known she was carrying. He was cursing her under his breath, but stopped when she lifted something - a visor? - with that sword and pressed the point to something underneath.
Her voice even, she said, "Yield. Or I carve my initial right there."
"I yield." He was pained and disbelieving and ever so slightly afraid.
She felt herself smile without any vestige of warmth or humor. "And they say conservatives can't learn."
The sword was sheathed again and she went back under... whatever it was, wincing again for her ribs, and back to Peachblossom, though she didn't mount him this time. Instead she started to lead him - not touching the reins, but he followed as closely as if she had.
The crowd, or part of it, was chanting. She lifted her head. They were shouting, "Mindelan! Mindelan! Mindelan!"
Soon she heard women's voices, and a group of them surrounded her, heedless of her protests, and took her with them. She started to sag with relief, but a jolt of worry made her say, "Peachblossom-"
"Will be groomed and watered," someone said with authority. "You're coming to my tent and waiting for the healer. That lance could have killed you."
She closed her mouth and went with them. A surge of sudden cold fear came out of nowhere and washed over her. The - whoever that woman was, she was right. Voeldan could have run her through. She could have died there, easily.
Yet she didn't stumble, didn't say anything. Wherever and however she had learned to hide her feelings, that training held. The fear sank back, controlled.
Something might have shown, though, because now someone was hugging her one-armed, apparently careless of her armor. "Mama, I'm fine," she protested. That training helped her again; her voice was steady.
"I know." Her mother's voice was low and lovely. Hands, several people's hands, started taking off her armor, a piece at a time. Another surge of worry made her lift her head, but she didn't know what she did or said next - it was then that the memory faded back into the present.
She came back to herself, came back to the now, blinking, holding a now-dead crystal in one hand. Jump was nosing at her in concern. She reassured him with a murmur, thinking about what she'd just - well, not seen, obviously. Felt and heard.
She rubbed her ribs, under and a little left of her heart. There was a kind of fading, phantom echo of the pain of that impact, but she knew there wasn't a scar there. Maybe if she went to Wellspring, they could tell her if those bones had ever been broken. Maybe not. Even if they did, it wasn't like that would prove that that had happened at all, no more than the fact that it "felt" right did. The Ordeal, the spirit in it, it could change reality into whatever it wanted.
A strange test. She hadn't ever pictured herself... performing like that. Fighting for... why? To entertain? Had she and Voerelden had some argument and he'd decided to try to kill her?
And if it was true... she'd named herself after her horse. She'd known that Peachblossom had been a name, that she hadn't really named herself after flowers. But a horse? She couldn't call herself that, now.
Mindelan, maybe. If it was true, that was where she was from. She was of Mindelan... That could work. Real or not, it felt right.
She was rolling up the string when she found that her stockings seemed to have... shrank. Drastically; they weren't even up to her knees anymore. They felt strange, too - differently tight. She took off her boots, one at a time, and saw first that her stockings were now made out of some different kind of cloth, with pink stripes - but also that each toe was encased in its own compartment.
Like gloves for feet. Mindelan glanced around to find only the animals watching and laughed, and if there was an edge of hysteria in it, well, it made her feel better and it wasn't hurting anyone.