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“Aryn understands that.”
    “Maybe so, maybe not.” Kara tore into the last of her meat and chewed fast. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
    Aryn Locke was walking right for them.

Chapter 5
     
    OTHERS GREETED ARYN as he walked toward Kara’s table, and no greet went unanswered. The consummate politician, he rewarded each with a smile or nod, sometimes pausing to exchange pleasantries. People felt Aryn noticed them. People felt he cared.
    Aryn had a strong chin, wide nose, and blue eyes that could bring a blush to any woman in Solyr. Raven hair brushed his shoulders. Most saw his constant half-smirk as mirth or good humor, but Kara knew it for what it was.
    Contempt for those he judged beneath him.
    Though Aryn wore the leather pants and line-cut shirt of Solyr, he still wore expensive leather boots. His doubled shoulder pads were white leather, not brown, an extravagance rarely seen outside Mynt’s capital. The gold medallion around his neck marked him as Mynt nobility. So far as Kara knew, he never took it off.
    Aryn stopped beside their table and clasped his hands behind his back. Byn eyed him as a wolf would eye a rabbit. Sera stared at her plate. Kara, for her part, just smiled at him.
    “Evening, Aryn. Something I can help you with?”
    “I heard you were injured!” Aryn’s smirk grew. “I just wanted to see how you were feeling, make sure you were all right. How do you feel?”
    “Absolutely wonderful,” Kara said, though her muscles still felt stiff and sore. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to talk.”
    “Perhaps later. I just wanted to wish you the best. I understand why you had to forfeit our duel, and I don’t hold it against you.”
    “That’s big of you, but I haven’t forfeited anything.”
    Aryn furrowed his brow. “One acting as the royal apprentice has no luxury for vacations, exhausted or no. I’m sure that hike cost you a few days—”
    Byn rose and glared. “She glyphed a dying man, kept him alive, and dragged him a half league to Solyr! Could you do that?”
    “Please.” Aryn raised his hands. “Kara is a hero, and her actions speak well of her exemplary character. I was very much looking forward to our duel, and I only wanted to offer condolences.”
    Kara saw Journeymage Talbot striding toward their table, green robes swishing. Talbot was a Tellvan of middle age with a pitted face and black hair. Magic academies in the Five Provinces exchanged faculty to facilitate communication between the schools, and Talbot was fair and well liked. He kept a firm order in his cafeteria.
    “Shove off.” Byn stepped toward Aryn. “If you’re that desperate for a triptych, I’ll take you on right now.”
    “Really? How? You’re not even recorded on our tier.”
    “Byn.” Kara grabbed his arm. “Settle.”
    “I see you’ve taken some offense,” Aryn said. “I’m truly sorry that’s the case. Have a pleasant night.” He walked away.
    Kara pushed up and stumbled around the table, nearly tripping before she grabbed his arm. “You hold on. We’re not done here.”
    Aryn glanced at her hand on his arm, and then frowned at her legs. Kara felt them trembling and fought the flush growing on her cheeks. Everyone could see her shaking.
    “Don’t strain yourself.” Aryn tried to steady her. “You need rest.”
    Kara stepped back as he reached for her, reached with those weak, soft hands. “What I need is for you to reschedule our triptych duel. Until you do, my record stands.”
    “Initiates.” Journeymage Talbot placed himself between them, spread his arms, and moved them apart. His right hand was missing two fingers, a relic of his days in Sheik Meric’s desert armies. “Step apart. Is there a grievance here?”
    “Not at all!” Aryn bowed his head. “I was just leaving.”
    “No you’re not.” Kara fixed her gaze on Talbot. “My injuries forced me to reschedule our triptych duel. I’m ready to do that now. I want to move it to Selection Day.”
    Aryn reached