They had probably thought they were fit, and by most standards, they were. They were no match for a man who had spent the last seven years fighting and riding and living hard, and years before that in an infinitely harder “school” than this one. Never mind the past sennights he’d been flat on his back with the Healers; he’d been in top condition before that, and since he’d been allowed up, he’d been regaining what he’d lost.

Besides, these two were nothing like a challenge.

He took pity on them when he caught the telltale signs of true exhaustion—the stumbling, the uncertain aim, the trembling hands. He backed off—and they didn’t follow, they just stood there, like a pair of horses that had been run off their feet and just couldn’t go another step. Their weapons hung from hands that were probably numb, and their heads drooped. In a moment, if he let them, they’d collapse on the floor where they stood.

“Enough,” said Dethor (with immense satisfaction in his voice), the moment before Alberich would have said the same. “Now this, my lads, is what I’ve been too creaky and gouty and damned old to do to you. You’ve just faced a real fighting man in his full fit trim, and what’s more, before luncheon, he was giving one of the Guard a similar workout. This is what you’ll be fighting, when it comes to it, my children,” he continued, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the salle. “This is what you’d better be ready to face when you’re given your Whites. And this is why Alberich is now my Second, and it will be his job to see to it that you can stand against him before you go out in the field. Any questions?”

Silence, broken only by the panting of the two boys that Alberich had just finished with.

“Right, then. You two—” Dethor gestured at the young men. “Off with the armor, and walk laps around the salle until you’re cool. Then you can go back to the Collegium and clean up. Not before. You walk out of my door sore, but if you walk out stiff, it won’t be my fault.”

A groan issued forth from one of the helmets, but both youngsters did as they were told. Alberich almost felt sorry for them; hard luck on them to be used as examples, but they must have warranted the treatment, or Dethor wouldn’t have set them up to be knocked down a peg the way he had. Alberich recalled the expressions that they had worn when the exercise began, and stopped feeling sorry for them.

“Now, Alberich—do you note, my children, that he isn’t even sweating heavily?—take young Theela here, and show her what she’s doing wrong.”