Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a Tamora Pierce fanfiction, so I would appreciate any feedback I receive from readers, because I'd like to gauge whether I ought to continue with this or not. I just loved Wyldon and Owen so much in Lady Knight that I had to delve into their relationship a little.

Disclaimer: No, my name is not Tamora Pierce, and, therefore, I own nothing. If I were her, I wouldn't be posting on a fanfiction website, would I?

Review: Review and you'll magically be sent to Tortall.

A Squire at Last

When Owen of Jesslaw entered Lord Wyldon of Cavall's office, the change in it swept over him immediately, and, initially, he supposed that he had strode into the wrong room by mistake, despite the number of times he had come over the past four years. On a whole, his bemusement could perhaps be forgiven, since the study was practically in disarray, and Lord Wyldon was renowned for keeping his possessions meticulously. However, when Owen spotted the training master piling tomes into a trunk, he realized that he had, indeed, wandered into the correct chamber, after all.

"What happened?" he stuttered, gawking at his environs. "Did a hurricane strike, my lord?" That seemed to be the only logical reason for the anomaly that was the condition of Wyldon's quarters.

"Is that any manner to enter a room in, Jesslaw?" Tilting his scarred face away from the luggage he was packing, Lord Wyldon glowered at the adolescent. "Here I was thinking that Master Oakbridge had managed to hammer a modicum of etiquette into your head."

"I beg your pardon," mumbled Owen, bowing and praying to any of the listening deities that this movement would conceal the eyeroll he had been unable to suppress. More audibly, he added, "Sir Myles said you wished to see me."

That was why he was here in the first place, although why the training master desired to meet with him was as unfathomable to him as advanced mathematics was. As a general rule, when Lord Wyldon wanted to have a word with a page or squire, it was not an auspicious omen. Yet, Owen was at a loss to comprehend what transgression he had committed on this occasion. Mithros, he hadn't even been embroiled in any conflicts with anyone who would question Kel's virtue in at least a month. It seemed that those who would have disparaged her had finally determined that it wasn't worth a fist up every orifice to do so, which demonstrated that it was actually possible, although difficult and time consuming, to teach an old dog a new trick.

"So I did." With a grunt, Lord Wyldon shoved himself off the floor and settled himself in the oaken chair behind his now empty desk. Once he had seated himself, he gestured at the uncushioned, uncompromising chair opposite him. "Please be seated."

Even though it was discomfiting to do so in the training master's presence, Owen complied out of a habit of obedience to the other's commands and because the "please" was superfluous. The imperious tone in which the sentence was uttered rendered it an order, not a request, and even he wasn't lunatic enough to defy Lord Wyldon over such a trivial issue.

"Now, attend to me closely," stipulated Lord Wyldon, "for I'm about to tell you something crucial, and I don't want the entire palace to know by this time tomorrow. Am I clear?"

At this juncture, Neal might have quipped that the man did appear rather off-color― transparent, in fact― now that he mentioned it, but Owen wasn't quite as obnoxious as his acerbic friend, so he only vowed exuberantly, "My lord, I promise that I'll tell no one what you say to me."

"Don't make pledges that you can't fulfill, Jesslaw. I am aware of the fact that you can no more clamp your mouth shut than thunder can resist following lightning," Lord Wyldon advised him, his jaw twisting in a fashion that, on a less austere individual, might have indicated a wry amusement. Before Owen could assemble the wits required to devise a rational reply to this accurate assessment of his secret-keeping skills, the older gentleman resumed expressionally, "I've decided to resign from my post as training master."

"You're quitting?" Owen gasped, his mouth agape. No, that was impossible. The world would end before the training master gave up. He was too resolute and valiant to surrender. "You, of all people, are giving up?"

"Don't be so dramatic, Jesslaw," snapped Lord Wyldon. "I'm not quitting―I'm resigning, or handing my position over to someone who I believe will do a better job than I will. There's a considerable distinction between the two, and it would be beneficial if you learned it."

At this point, Owen could concoct no comment that would lower the tension in the chamber, and silence permeated it for one of the most stifled minutes of his whole rather unspectacular existence, and then Lord Wyldon announced baldly, "If I'm no longer training master, then I'll be eligible to command in the war against Scanra in the spring, which, of course, means that I could use a squire."

"Are you asking me to be your squire, my lord?" Owen couldn't prevent the dubiousness from intruding upon his voice, since he was about as certain that he had either misheard or misconstrued the older man's pronouncement as he was that Carthak was south of Tortall. He was also suspecting that this was an odd dream and that, if he pinched himself forcefully enough, he would be dragged back to reality with a jolt. "Me?"

"Yes, I'm asking you," the other confirmed, his manner clipped.

"But I'm not the best at anything!" Owen protested, gray eyes agog. When he pinched himself, he discovered, to his alarm, that he remained right where he was. Apparently, this wasn't a dream. It was really transpiring.

"No, you're not, but you're not the worst, either, and, with honing, you wouldn't make a terrible warrior," explained Lord Wyldon, his brown eyes as immovable as a glacier, as usual. "I happen to believe that I can provide that polishing. Besides, as I've recently been reminded, being a knight is about much more than being an excellent fighter― it is about abiding by the Code of Chivalry. While battle arts can be taught, morality can't, or―" Here, he broke off for a second, his gaze haunted, and then forged onward in his latest campaign― "if it can, I am not capable of offering that instruction, as the cases of Joren and Vison attest. However, you have honor and the rest can be taught if you're willing to learn."

"So I get to be the squire of a fighting knight, after all?" Owen's eyes sparkled with jubilance as his pulse rose, deluging his body with adrenaline.

"You can be if you so desire, yes." Lord Wyldon bobbed his head in somber affirmation. "Still, I would urge you to consider my proposal carefully. You know what an unrelenting taskmaster I am from experience. Well, if you're my squire, it'll be noticeably worse. I'll work you like a horse. You'll learn to tilt, to breed dogs, and more than you ever wanted to know about the art of making war. In short, if you're looking for a less strenuous squireship, remain under Sir Myles' guidance until another knight asks you to be his squire."

"No, I'll be your squire, my lord," Owen burst out, almost bouncing up and down in his wooden chair. He would be able to do some real fighting before his Ordeal, and he would be able to spend a majority of his remaining time as a squire away from the court, two things he was beginning to surmise would never occur as month after disconsolating month crept by and no knight offered him a post as squire.

Yes, Lord Wyldon behaved like a bear with a headache six out of the seven days in a week, but he was a beast Owen was familiar with, and he had declared that he would work him like a horse― but any knight worth his salt knew exactly how far he could push his mount and cared for it well so that it would return the service in warfare, and, as far as Owen could judge, Lord Wyldon devoted himself to being the ideal knight. Sure, he didn't always succeed, but you had to admire or at least respect someone who tried when most people didn't.

Besides, he had learned so much as a page under Wyldon, so, no doubt he would master much more as his squire. That's right. He would perfect his battle techniques in the skirmishes against the savage Scanrans from the north, and then, when he was knighted, he would utilize his talents to annihilate the bandits in Tortall…the time those scum had to inhabit the realm was limited, and they would all rue the day a contingency of vagabonds had murdered Owen of Jesslaw's mother.

Right now, though, he was quivering with eagerness to confide in Kel. Of all his buddies, she would be capable of relating to the exhilaration flowing through his veins and arteries at the present, because she, too, had feared that she would not be selected, either, as she was "The Girl." Yet, she had been taken as squire by Lord Raoul, who seemed cheery enough when he wasn't pretending to be a cliff at banquets and who doubtlessly had taught her all sorts of jolly things like jousting. Yes, as soon as he was dismissed, he was going to see her, so he could babble on about how lucky he was so someone who was actually interested.

"Go pack. We leave for Cavall tomorrow. I'll get you a permanent mount then." Lord Wyldon waved a hand for him to depart, and with a hasty, perfunctory bow Owen raced out of the study to visit Kel in her quarters and impart his marvelous news upon her.