The Book of Mordred by Vivian Vande Velde

the sun finally set, giving her the chance to rest her aching body. She was not eager for their first real chance to talk, for she feared she knew what the men would have to say.
    And, in fact, once they finished setting up camp and eating, Mordred asked, with a nod toward the sword she had set down beside her, "How good are you?"
    She stretched out on her side, unable to sit any longer than the time necessary for the actual eating of their evening meal. She knew Mordred must have asked Galen already. He was testing her assurance. Or the level of her pride. Two different matters, requiring two different answers.
    "Competent," she answered. She didn't know what to do with her hands, and plucked at the grass before her. Mordred was buffing the breastplate he had been wearing all day. Galen was poking at the fire with a stick. Alayna said, "When we were children, I could keep up with Galen."
    Mordred concentrated on rubbing a section of the metal.
    But something about his manner made Alayna add, "And Galen is quite good."
    "Oh, yes," Mordred agreed. "He has done well in tournaments."
    Alayna considered this for a moment. "Yes?"
    Galen grinned. "Despite the fact that I have beaten Mordred nearly every time we've been up against each other, he insists he's the better fighter."
    "That," Mordred said, "is not exactly true. What I've told him is that battle is not a joust: no points racked up for snapped lances, no one to break things up if they get too heated. Your brother is in love with the ideals of chivalry. Tournaments, of course, are a sports' event—nobody is supposed to fight all out. Galen thinks tournament rules apply even in real life."
    With a grin Galen said, "Mordred has been advocating slash and maim."
    Mordred looked about to protest, but in the end did not.
    Alayna's thoughts went—as they did in any free moment—to Kiera. Before the men could switch from baiting each other to badgering her, she said, "So, tell me about this wizard H albert of Burrstone, that you seem so sure has Kiera."
    Mordred glanced up, but said nothing.
    The campfire threw dancing shadows over all their faces.
    Galen stopped poking at the fire and took a drink of ale from his wineskin. "Well, for one thing, he is perhaps the strongest wizard since Merlin is gone."
    "Strongest in wizardry," Alayna asked, "or strongest in men and money and holdings?"
    "Good question," Galen acknowledged, and she felt a flash of irritation at the condescension, as though she were in the habit of asking foolish questions, which she didn't believe she was. The fire had grown too hot on her arms, but she didn't move back.
    "Both," Mordred finally said, when it became apparent Galen wasn't going to say anything.
    Their eyes danced from one to the other—Alayna's brown, Galen's blue, Mordred's gray—each eager to read the others' reactions but reluctant to be read.
    "That's one thing..." Alayna prodded, reminding Galen that he had hinted at more than one point.
    Mordred reached to readjust a branch in their fire.
He always chooses his words carefully
, Alayna thought, and though there was nothing wrong with that, it was uncommon in one so young, and she did wonder at it.
    "Merlin," Mordred said, "never concerned himself with acquiring wealth or personal glory. He did not use magic"—Alayna noticed how he practically spat out the word "magic" and wondered at that, too—"for petty personal gains or to settle grudges. Perhaps I am just used to his manner. He kept aloof, and did not use magic to inflict spiteful miseries or to affect the odds on wagers."
    Galen said, "Mordred admires aloofness, as you may have already guessed."
    Mordred gave a smile that was the picture of aloofness.
    "And as for grudges," Galen added, "
he
does hold them."
    "Certainly," Mordred admitted, "but I don't use magic to settle them."
    "You have a grudge against Sir Halbert?" Alayna asked.
    "Yes," Mordred said.
    "Because he uses magic in a way of which you don't