In another life, a life that wasn't even a hazy memory but instead an unimportant dream only snatches of which seemed to appear when waking, most of Kamiéra's favorite moments had revolved around shoes.
This was not normal for a boy of his time and place, except it rather was. Cobbler guilds
shoe companies, they were called shoe companies, but they weren't armies, why were they called companies
of enormous size spent untold sums, sums beyond the Palace's ability to fathom, to convince boys and men to wear their products. Mighty warriors
athletes, men who warred only for sport and tried not to draw blood, how very strange
were conscripted into the effort to convince men too young and too old to do more than dream of battle, and men of the right age but not the right skills or readiness for it, to purchase their products.
Those wisps of a dream gave Kamiéra a headache to recall, so he usually didn't. But in that faraway space and time, he had thrilled to his first Big Boy Shoes, had insisted on wearing his first Soccer Shoes out of the store, had shown off without showing off his new Nikes to his third grade class, and had kept the warm glow of the feel of new sneakers for days after each purchase for all of his then-years after.
In his real life, he knew that shoes are the difference between life and death. He knew this because it had been drilled into him and his sisters as part of their rote. He knew this because he knew that infantry must march, and that marching in bad shoes could lead to pain, hobbling, infection, a loss of traction at a critical moment, blood loss, and worse. This was doubly important for units that moved so quickly and brought so much force to bear as to be a hybrid of cavalry and infantry.
He knew that legs support the body, feet support the legs, and shoes support the feet; and so a wise Witchspear knows to have the right shoes for marching, for elegant dances, for gathering the Will, for presiding, for tending, and indeed, for everything.
He also knew this because he had just slipped on yet another twice-cursed rock and had nearly twisted his ankle on even more twice-cursed rock-cousins of the first rock, and only his finely-crafted shoes had saved him.
He was currently receiving a dual lesson in the value of shoes and taking seriously elder Witchspears' rueful advice to powder his delicate regions before a long march because at this, the start of his fourth and final year as a novice, his instructors had sent his Company and his year for their advanced training in integrated field maneuvers with the equivalent class of student Blademages; and those maneuvers were taking place dozens of leagues to the East, at the Stone Marches.
The Gifted had to know how to work with those of the same sex, those of the opposite, and those men who could not hear the Flame at all; and at some point, one could only study so much without a practicum. The Magistrae of the Academy, however, were grown women, much as the Kyrioi of the University were grown men; and so well understood that mixing young men and women in the throes of adolescence, let alone ones whose Gifts created extra urges to mating, was a recipe for trouble. The mixed practicum was therefore reserved for the fourth year, when minds would have grown more with bodies, and, more practically, when dedicated chaperone-tutor hybrids could be spared for the effort.
Kamiéra was imbued with a sense of duty, but he was still an adolescent, and so resented very slightly the implication that he and his sisters could not be trusted not to climb into a bedroll with the first young men they met.
So he ran along, keeping his feet and his pace thanks to his very good shoes, determined not to let the loose rocks and dust and raw spots in sensitive places get to him, and thus saw the large cloud of dust headed their way. Ten paces later, Magistra Leirola raised her hand; Kamiéra and the other Company captains raised theirs, and the entire troop came to a halt. A moment later, the dozens of young men opposite them did the same.
Leirola strode out to meet the Kyrios separating from the throng of sweat and hormones on the other side of the field. Both had their hands on their respective swords, which in turn had their charges place their hands on their weapons. Wind and Flame stirred.
Both adults stopped. "You're dirty," Leirola said, her words dripping with derision. "Haven't you figured out how to bathe without a minder yet?"
The man's face didn't change. "You look like you've been dragged through a chihar den," he replied. "Did you at least kill it on the way back out?"
Neither Kamiéra nor his fellow students could see the look on Leirola's face and this was not how they expected this sort of thing to go. Hands gripped hilts more tightly. So sudden was the Magistra's laugh that a dozen blades nearly cleared scabbards. "You're just saying that because it's been ten seasons since I carried one of your whelps and you want to fix that," she retorted, and almost faster than a group of post-adolescent young women could believe, the adults had crossed the distance between them and were embracing.
Groans and laughter sounded from the two cohorts, relieved that this was just Weird Old People foreplay. So lost was he in the moment, it took Kamiéra some time to realize that the general order to strike camp had been relayed. It took him far less time to pass it on to his own Company.
