The Shadow Companion - Laura Anne Gilman [12]
“Grrrr.” The boy at the other end of the rope bared his teeth and growled, but obediently went down onto his knees in order to tie the rope to the peg without losing any of the tautness.
“You pull a good rope,” one of the squires called. “Pity it’s bound to end up around your neck.”
Newt laughed and went to the third rope, making sure it had been tied properly. There were few things you learned faster working in the kennels, the way he had as a young boy, than how to tie a secure knot.
“Up the tent!” Newt called, and they hauled on the ropes until the pavilion cover was upright once again.
“Good, dog-boy!” one of the squires called, continuing the rough-handed teasing. “Say woof!”
“That’s horse-boy to you, and I say to you ‘neigh.’”
“Four legs, a tail, and no brains—not so much of a difference between horse and dog.”
“You take that back!”
Newt looked up from tying off the final rope only to see the squire flat on his back in the mud, Gerard looming over him, holding him down. “You don’t speak to him like that—not until you’ve done as much as he has,” Gerard growled.
“Ger!” Newt knew that Gerard had a temper—he had, in fact, been at the receiving end of it many times—but this seemed extreme. “Gerard, it’s okay!” He hauled Gerard off the now muddy squire, shoving him, gently, to arms’ distance away.
“What was that all about?”
“He said—”
“I heard what he said.”
“He—it doesn’t bother you?” Gerard looked at Newt, then up at the now clear sky as though there might be some answer up there.
“It would have if it meant anything.” Newt knew that he had sore spots, things that riled him when poked, but he very rarely got angry. His mother had taught him to let things slide off his shoulders, and working with animals sensitive to your moods had set the lessons in stone. Anger had no place in his life, especially over such a foolish thing as name-calling.
“I appreciate the championship,” Newt said. “But I don’t need it.”
He was tired of Gerard always playing the squire role no matter what, as though that were the only thing that mattered. He was tired of hiding his participation in events, of staying quiet in order to keep any rumor or hint of trouble at Camelot from spreading.
“If you’d fought like that when we first met, you might actually have won,” he said instead.
“If Sir Lancelot hadn’t shown up to save you, you’d have been wearing your face backward,” Gerard retorted, reaching to help the squire he’d just tackled up from the mud. “Callum, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry about that, Callum. Newt’s a friend of mine, and I don’t take well to him being mocked. Even in jest.”
“I’ll remember that.” The boy was unhappy, but clearly unable to find fault either with Gerard’s apology, or his reasoning.
Gerard glanced up at the sky, then turned to Newt, his face serious again. “We need to talk about Ailis.”
“Ailis? Is she all right?” Newt looked around, as though expecting to see her in the crowd gathering around them.
Gerard looked up at the sky again and found the moon that was beginning to rise. “We need to talk,” was all he said.
“Gather!”
The call came from the center of camp, and everyone turned to hear who was yelling.
“Gather!”
“That’s Tom,” Gerard said, relieved at the interruption. Tom was Sir Matthias’s squire, the one who actually was stuck polishing gear and minding the horses. “Something must have happened. Come on!”
The two friends pushed through the crowd, slipping occasionally on the mud-slick grass, to where Sir Matthias was standing. A young, nervous-looking monk was beside him. There were torches set up to hold the darkness at bay, but even with them, everything had a strange, shadowy cast. It caused Newt to look around nervously, waiting for something to jump out at them.
“Nobody else feels it.”
“What?” Gerard said.
Ailis had appeared next to Newt, looking straight ahead, watching not Sir Matthias, but the monk with him. “The darkness. Nobody else feels it.”
“You do.” Newt’s words were less a statement than a question.
“So do you, don’t you?” Ailis said, looking