Oath of Fealty Excerpt

D BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK AUTHOR’S NOTE What Has Gone Before When Paksenarrion rode off into the fictional sunset twenty-odd years ago at the close of Oath of Gold, I knew I would want to return to her world someday and write more about the other characters there: Kieri Phelan, his captains Arcolin and Dorrin, Sergeant Stammel, and the rest. They had stories of their own waiting to be told. I never thought it would take this long to return . . . but finally I was able to find the door and here we are, this time seeing the world through other eyes than Paks’s. The Eight Kingdoms north of the Dwarfmounts, and the land of Aarenis, south of those mountains, have had a seemingly stable relationship for generations. Northern mercenaries fought southern wars; southern merchants kept trade flowing over the mountains along the Merchants’ Guild routes and controlled most of the southern cities. The Elder Races—elves, dwarves, gnomes—kept their distance from humans for the most part, except that elves and humans mingled in Lyonya, the oddest of the Eight Kingdoms. But change is upon them, brought by hidden forces and their instrument, the paladin Paksenarrion, whose story is detailed in The Deed of Paksenarrion. Briefly, Paks ran away from her family’s sheep farm to become a soldier, joining Duke Kieri Phelan’s mercenary company in Tsaia. After three years of service in Tsaia and Aarenis, during which she matured from raw recruit to skilled veteran, she left to adventure on her own. Through many trials, she became a paladin of Gird, a holy warrior, and felt a call to return to the Duke’s Company. There, the powers granted paladins led her to the discovery that her former commander was not a bastard duke, as most thought, but half-elven, and the true heir of the throne of Lyonya, next kingdom to the east. Immediately, forces of evil tried to prevent Kieri Phelan’s travel to Lyonya, capturing him and his companions. Paks xii aut h o r ’ s not e pledged to exchange herself and endure five days and nights of torment for his freedom. She endured and survived, to be healed by the gods she served. She followed Kieri east, knowing he would be attacked again, and arrived with additional troops in time to save him. Thanks to Paks, Kieri Phelan becomes king in Lyonya, a role he could not have expected. He must leave behind those he ruled, led in battle, and cared for for so long, and that parting is wrenching. In a widening ripple, everyone Paksenarrion met or came near is thrust into change, from the powerful—the crown prince of Tsaia, the Marshal-General of Gird—to the powerless, including a ragged, starving, one-eyed former mercenary in Aarenis. As this is a new group of stories, Oath of Fealty is an alternate entry point to the story-universe. No one needs to read the earlier books before reading this one. However, if you’re so inclined, all the earlier books are in print, and the Paksworld website, www.paksworld.com, has a complete list. CHAPTER ONE Vérella A small boy clambered from a cellar wall into an alley. He picked his way through the trash along the wall to a nearby street, walked quickly to the next turning, went left, then right. The street widened a little; the people he passed wore warmer clothes. He ducked into an alcove and pulled off the ragged jacket that had concealed his own unpatched shirt and tunic, folded the ragged one into a tidy bundle, and tucked it under his arm. Now he moved at a steady jog into the wealthier part of the city, nearer the palace. Finally he turned in to a gap between buildings, found the trapdoor he sought, and went belowground again. In the cellar of a tall house within a few minutes of the palace gates, he gave a coded knock. A hard-faced man with a spiked billet opened the door. “What d’you want, rat?” the man asked. “For Duke Verrakai’s hand only,” the boy said. “From the Horned Chain.” “I’ll take him,” another man said, stepping out of looming shadows. He wore the red and black of Liart, and the horned chain was about his neck. “Come, boy.” Shaking with fear, the boy followed, up stairs and along a corridor, to a room where another man, in Verrakai blue and silver, sat writing at a table by a fire. “I am Duke Verrakai. You have a message for me: give it.” The boy seemed to choke, and then, in a deep voice not his own, spoke the words Liart’s priest had bade him say. “The man is free, and his companions; the paladin is ours. Without her aid, he can be taken. He must not reach Lyonya alive.” “He will not,” Duke Verrakai said. “Is there more?” The boy dug into his tunic and pulled out a folded paper; 2 e lizabeth mo on Verrakai took it and read it. “Well,” he said, with a glance at the man in red and black. “It seems we must return this boy with our answer.” He wrote on the reverse of the message, folded it, and handed it to the boy. “Go the way you came, swiftly.” Less than a half-glass later, a man in Verrakai blue rode out the south gates of Vérella and turned east on the river road. Later, after the turn of night, Kieri Phelan, newly revealed king of Lyonya, also rode through the gates, with an escort of the Royal Guard. Duke’s Stronghold, North Marches, seven days later Jandelir Arcolin, senior captain of Duke Phelan’s Company, rested his forearms on the top of the stronghold walls, where he had the best view to the south. On one side of the road to Duke’s East, Stammel was putting his own cohort through an intricate marching drill. On the other, the junior sergeant of the recruit cohort supervised a sword drill with wooden blades. Beyond, the trees along the stream showed the first soft golds and oranges of ripening buds, though it would be hands of days yet before the fruit trees bloomed. Old snow still lay knee-deep against the north wall. He heard steps behind him, and turned. Cracolnya, captain of the mixed cohort, came up onto the walkway with him. “Are you putting down roots up here?” he asked. Arcolin shook his head. “Hoping for a courier. We should have heard something by now. At least the weather’s lifted. Though not for long.” He tipped his head to the northwest, where a line of dark clouds just showed over the hills. “Your worry won’t bring the Duke faster,” Cracolnya said. He turned his back on the view south and leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what we’ll do this year.” “I don’t know.” Arcolin glanced down at the courtyard below, to be sure their inquisitive visitors, merchant-agents from Vonja, weren’t in earshot. “He said not to take any contracts until he got back; I suggested they go to Vérella and talk to him, but they were afraid of missing him on the way.” “What are they offering?” “A one-cohort contract to protect farmlands and roads from brigands. I told them we’d need two for that—” oat h o f f ea lt y 3 “At least. Better the whole Company, or you’re without reliable archery. Or were they planning to assign their militia to help?” “No. From what they said, they disbanded half the militia. Trade’s down. But what do you think the Council will say? With the trouble this past winter, the Duke can’t say it’s entirely safe here. Yet—we have to do something. This land won’t support so many soldiers year-round.” Cracolnya leaned over the parapet, watching the recruit cohort. “We’ve got to do something with those recruits, too. They signed up to fight, and all we’ve done with them is train . . . and he’s taken their final oaths: they’ll be due regular pay soon.” “He’ll think of something.” Arcolin looked again at the line of clouds along the western horizon. Buds or no buds, another winter storm was coming. “He always does. But if he doesn’t come soon, we won’t get the good quarters in Valdaire.” He looked south again, sighing, then stiffened. “Someone’s coming!” A single horseman, carrying the Company pennant, moving fast on the road from Duke’s East. Not the Duke, who would have an escort. “Should I announce it, sir?” the sentry asked. “No. It’s just a messenger.” Unfortunately. They needed the Duke. Arcolin turned and made his way down to the courtyard with Cracolnya at his heels. “I’ll tell the stable,” Cracolnya said, turning away. Arcolin moved to the gate, where he could watch the messenger approach. Whatever the message might be, it was urgent enough for the rider to keep his mount at a steady canter, trotting only the last few yards to the gate and then halting his mount to salute the sentry before riding in. Arcolin recognized Sef, a private in Dorrin’s cohort. “Captain,” Sef said, after he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the recruits on stable duty. “I have urgent news.” “Into the barracks,” Arcolin said. Through the opening to the Duke’s courtyard, he could see the two merchants hurrying toward them, but merchants were not allowed in the barracks. He led the way, and turned in to the little room where the sergeants 4 e lizabeth mo on kept the cohort records and brewed sib on their own hearth. “What is it? Is the Duke coming? How far behind you is he?” “No sir, he’s not coming, and you won’t believe—but I should give you this first.” Sef took a message tube from his tunic and handed it over. Arcolin glanced at the hearth. “See if there’s any sib left, or brew yourself some; you’ve had a long ride. And if I know Stammel, he’s got a roll hidden away somewhere.” “Thank you, sir.” Sef turned to the hearth, stirred the fire, and dipped a can of water from the barrel, setting it to heat. Arcolin unrolled the message. A smaller wrapped packet fell out; he put it aside. There, in the Duke’s hand—with a postscript by Dorrin, he saw at a glance—he found what he had never imagined. Kieri Phelan revealed as the rightful king of Lyonya—Paksenarrion had discovered it, come to Tsaia to find him—Tammarion’s sword had been his sword all along, elfmade for him, and it had declared him. Arcolin glanced at Sef, who was stirring roots and herbs into the can. “Did you see this yourself? Were you in Vérella with the Duke?” “No, Captain. I was with the reserve troop. Captain Selfer come up from Vérella, him and the horse both near knackered, and said the best rider must go fast as could be to the stronghold.” Sef swallowed. “He thought it would be only two days, maybe, but that fog came in. I couldn’t go more than a foot pace, mostly leading the horse. It’s taken me twice as long as it should have, three days and this morning.” “I’m not surprised,” Arcolin said. “We had thick fog for days, up here; you did well, Sef.” He read on, while Sef stirred the can of sib, struggling to make sense of what had happened. His mind snagged on Paksenarrion—once in his cohort. I must go, and leave her in torment, Kieri had written. Otherwise her torment is meaningless. Yet it is a stain on my honor. You will rule in my stead until the Regency Council confirms a new lord. I recommended you, but do not know what they will do. This letter and my signet ring will prove your identity and authority. Arcolin unwrapped the smaller packet and found the Duke’s ring. Not one of the copies he lent to his captains on occasion to do business for him, but the original, the one he himself wore. Dorrin’s postscript was brief. She was going with Kieri, on his oat h o f f ea lt y 5 orders; her cohort would follow. She feared more attacks on the Duke—scratched out to read King—on the road east. She did not know when she might return; it would depend upon his need. Arcolin rolled the pages and slid them back into the tube. “Well. You will have traveled ahead of any word of his passage to the east—” He tried to estimate where Kieri might be, where Dorrin might be, seven days on a road he himself had never traveled. Impossible. “Right, Captain.” Sef stirred the can again, sniffed it. “Want some sib, sir?” “No thanks. Go ahead.” Sef took a mug down from the rack and poured one for himself as he talked. “Captain Selfer said Captain Dorrin expected his cohort to catch up with the Duke before the Lyonya border. Wish I was with them—” He took a swallow of hot sib. “I’m—I must admit I’m shocked . . . amazed . . . I don’t know what to think,” Arcolin said. “Our Duke a king—all the rest—” Remembering Paks as a recruit, a novice . . . the steady, reliable soldier she’d become . . . why she left, and when . . . the rumors . . . and then her return. He squeezed his eyes hard against tears, at the thought of her in Liart’s hands, shook his head, and looked again at Sef. “You’ve done very well, Sef. Go tell the cooks to give you a hot meal, and I’ll get Stammel to find you a place to sleep undisturbed.” Sef saluted, then carefully rinsed the can and set it to dry before going out. Arcolin followed him, wondering if he’d have to explain to the Vonja agents before he found Stammel. Instead, Stammel met him at the gate. Arcolin smiled. “Your good instincts again, Sergeant.” “My insatiable curiosity, Captain. News from the Duke could always be marching orders.” “It’s strange news indeed, and I’m not sure what will happen now,” Arcolin said. “The courier was Sef of Dorrin’s cohort—he needs a quiet bed to sleep; he was three days in thick fog between here and the south border. I sent him to the mess hall.” “I’ll see to it, Captain.” “I need to talk to the other captains before I spread the news,” Arcolin said. “I can tell you this—nothing will be the same.” “It never is,” Stammel said. “That’s why we like it. Your leave, Captain.” 6 e lizabeth mo on “Go ahead,” Arcolin said, thinking again how lucky he was to have Stammel as senior sergeant. He found Cracolnya in the stables, talking fodder with the quartermaster. “And I don’t know where more hay’s coming from, this time of year,” the quartermaster said. “Nobody’s got enough stored; it’s not to be bought, not at any price, and I know the Duke wouldn’t want us to take from the farmers’ stock.” Arcolin made a motion with his head, and Cracolnya nodded. To the quartermaster he said, “A messenger’s come from the Duke; maybe an order to move out—that would help.” “I hope so,” the quartermaster said gloomily. He spat into a corner. “I can’t be sure . . .” Arcolin led the way down the aisle between rows of tie stalls to the box stalls at the end, empty now but for his and Cracolnya’s mounts. “What is it? You look—strange.” “I should. You must read it yourself.” He handed over the message tube; Cracolnya opened it, unrolled the message, and started to read. Arcolin’s roan ambler moved up to the front of the stall and nudged him; he rubbed the velvety muzzle absently while watching Cracolnya’s face. “I—I don’t know what to think,” Cracolnya said, when he’d finished. “He’s a king? In Lyonya? How did that happen?” “I don’t know more than this.” “They have a king already,” Cracolnya said. “What’s he think about it?” “You missed a bit,” Arcolin said. “He stuck it in between lines. Their king died without an heir. Paks was there—that’s where she went when she left here. She felt called to find the heir.” He ran a hand over his head. “But—what do we do now? He wants troops out guarding the Pargunese border; he thinks they might use this as an excuse to attack.” “Scouts haven’t said anything.” “No. And this about a contract. You know what he said before he went south; he expected to take the Company south. But only one cohort?” He shook his head. “You know the Vonjans. They’ll want twice the work for half the pay.” “One cohort out, with pack mules, would ease the fodder oat h o f f ea lt y 7 situation,” Cracolnya said. “Two would be better, if you can talk them into it.” “What about protection here, though?” Arcolin said. “He’s worried about the Pargunese, and the south border. A cohort each way, plus mine in the south, will nearly empty the stronghold. And we’ll have to use the recruits, until Dorrin comes back.” However long that might be. Cracolnya shrugged. “This recruit cohort’s the best-trained we’ve ever had. They can garrison this; I can split mine between east and south. Or the recruits can do their first real route march and take the southern end—we haven’t had trouble with either of the neighboring domains, barring the odd thief, since Count Halar’s father died.” “That’s a good idea, about using the recruits to garrison down there if needed,” Arcolin said. “But first, I need to tell the Company about the Duke.” “Maybe we should wait until we hear from Chaya,” Cracolnya said. “Just in case.” “In case—” “He was attacked once. Suppose Verrakai raised a large force against him?” “He’s got Dorrin’s cohort.” “He’s got Dorrin’s cohort on the way, but what if they don’t get there in time? He could be killed. Something could go wrong in Lyonya.” “I don’t—” Arcolin took two steps forward, turned, then took two steps back, avoiding the thought of Kieri Phelan dead. Instead, he said, “We have to tell the troops something—they have to know he’s not coming back.” “He left it to you,” Cracolnya said. “But if you want my advice—” Arcolin nodded. “Then,” Cracolnya went on, “make us a contract, and tell the Company that, and then tell them what you’ve heard, that it’s all we know.” “Ask the quartermaster how many beasts he can feed until spring grass,” Arcolin said. Cracolnya looked smug. “I already know. Twelve.” Arcolin looked down the rows of tie stalls, mostly full. “Better get moving, then.” He left Cracolnya in the stable and headed back to the officers’ quarters and offices. 8 e lizabeth mo on The Vonja agents had retreated to the inner court, but came to meet him as he entered. “Have you heard from the Duke?” one began. Arcolin held up his hand. “I have word from the Duke that I’m to make a one-cohort contract, subject to approval by the Council in Tsaia; he’s reasonably sure they’ll give it.” “But the Duke—is he coming?” “He’s . . . detained,” Arcolin said. “But the messenger who arrived brought his word and seal.” “How soon can you leave? Today? Tomorrow?” “Certainly not today. As the Duke himself is detained, I must visit the councils here, send couriers—” All at once the enormity of the changes ahead hit him, stunning him. Kieri Phelan had been the one constant in his life for years; he never thought that would end. He saw the concern on their faces, the uncertainty, and with his own uncertainty churning inside, it was too much. He bowed slightly. “Sirs, with this word from Duke Phelan, I have orders I must give; you must excuse me.” “Of course,” the senior said. “I only meant, should we ourselves pack to ride today or tomorrow?” “Not sooner than tomorrow, and probably the next day,” Arcolin said. To his relief, he saw one of the house servants hovering in the doorway. To him, he called, “One less for meals; I’m riding to Duke’s East and Duke’s West; I’ll eat there.” He felt like a fraud. As Kieri’s senior captain, trusted and experienced, he knew how to do what he must do, but—he was not Kieri. He could not be Kieri. And to have this handed him, without being able to see Kieri, talk to him, ask questions, be sure . . . it was too much. But Kieri trusted him. He had to do it. Cracolnya was just coming from the stable as he neared it. “Well?” “We’ll split the recruit cohort tonight; I’m taking enough to fill out mine for a contract. I’ll still have to get Regency Council approval, in Vérella. You’ll command the remainder of the recruits and as many of your cohort as it takes to fill them out. You go east; Valichi will have to take the southern group until I can find him a junior captain—and you, too, for that matter.” “Val’s not going to like campaign living,” Cracolnya said, grinning. The recruit captain, oldest of them all, had talked of oat h o f f ea lt y 9 retirement all winter, and used the excuse of crowding in the stronghold to move into Duke’s East after Midwinter Feast. “He can have Kieri’s tent,” Arcolin said. “I’ll take mine.” “Better take Kieri’s yourself; you need to impress the Vonjans. All those southerners think bigger is better.” Cracolnya, proponent of traveling light, had the smallest tent of any of the captains. “About supplies—” “I can send back supplies from Vérella, after I’ve seen the bankers,” Arcolin said. “You should have enough until then.” He glanced at the sky, gauging the amount of daylight remaining. “I must go—I have to get to Duke’s East—” “Shall I tell Stammel?” “My head! I need to do that first, of course. Thank you. Tell them to saddle the chestnut, will you?” “Of course.” The tail end of his cohort was just entering the mess hall; Stammel, by the door, raised his brows at Arcolin, and Arcolin nodded. Stammel came to him. “Captain?” Unasked questions danced in his tone. “The Duke’s not coming; we’re going south. Usual route. One-cohort contract. We fill out with recruits. Captain Cracolnya will command here; he and Captain Valichi will patrol the east and south boundaries. I know you have more questions, but I must ride to Duke’s East. We’ll have a captains’ conference tonight; join us then. How soon can we march?” “Day after tomorrow, sir, if we get right to it. Unless it’s an emergency, I’d like an extra day for balancing loads and the like. Road firm enough for wagons, do you think?” “Talk to Sef. I’ll be sending supplies back from Vérella, so if the road’s good, we’ll use them.” “Right, sir.” “Eat lunch first, Stammel.” “I always do, sir,” Stammel said. It was an old jest; Arcolin felt better when he felt himself smiling again. CHAPTER TWO On the road to Duke’s East, the chestnut pulled hard at first, but finally settled into a smooth canter that eased Arcolin’s tension. It would be all right. He would do what the Duke wanted, even without the Duke there—he had done it before. He had the Duke’s signet ring and the Duke’s written permission to use his funds. Worry returned. What if the Crown didn’t agree? What if they wanted to seize the Duke’s property, land, and money? What if the sky and land turned upside down and he fell off the road? He taunted himself, then slowed to an easy jog as he came into the town. Small children ran alongside, waving. He looked around, seeing Duke’s East with a new eye. Heribert Fontaine, the mayor, opened the door of his house as Arcolin rode up to it, and two boys stood ready to hold his horse. “News, I’ll warrant—I saw the courier go by, not even stopping for a word.” “News indeed. I’ll come in, if I may.” Arcolin dismounted, tossing the reins to the boys. “Walk him around; don’t let him just stand in this cold.” Fontaine held the door open and Arcolin came in. “There— left—the parlor.” It faced east; sun had left the windows, but the room still held a little of its warmth. A bowl of apples on the table scented the air. Arcolin pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the mayor’s wave. “You’d better read this,” he said, handing over the Duke’s message. “It’s all I know.” Frowning, Fontaine read, his brow furrowed. Then he looked up. “The Duke . . . our Duke . . . is a king? Of . . . of Lyonya?” “It would only surprise me more if it were Pargun,” Arcolin said. “All I know is that he’s taken Dorrin’s cohort, and headed east on the river road.” “And the paladin? Paks?” oat h o f f ea lt y 11 Arcolin shook his head. “I don’t know any more than this. Nor did the courier. I would suppose she is dead; that must be what the Bloodlord priests intended.” “And he’s told you to do whatever you think best. Gird’s right arm! I know you’re senior captain, but—does he mean take over the domain?” “I don’t know that, either. I’ve taken a one-cohort contract with the Vonjans. I know we’re squeezing supplies up here.” “So you’ll take . . . how many away?” “One all the way to Aarenis, if the Crown approves; the other two in the domain but not here. One cohort, under Cracolnya, to patrol the Pargunese border; one south, under Valichi, in case any ambitious lordling tries to move in. And I’ll be sending supplies from Vérella for the troops.” “That will ease things,” Fontaine said. “And I don’t think we’ll have more trouble up here for a while. Have you told Valichi? And will you be sending out recruit teams this year? When are you leaving?” Arcolin held up his hands. “No, I haven’t told Val—he’s here in town somewhere. I’d like you to send someone to him, tell him to come up to the stronghold today—we must have a captains’ conference. As for recruiting—not until the domain itself is settled. As for leaving—as soon as we can. I hope as soon as day after tomorrow. And now I must leave; I need to get to Duke’s West today as well.” “And you’re in a hurry. Let me have m’wife fix you a stuffed roll for the ride, if you won’t sit down to eat.” “I can’t stay, but I’d thank you for a roll . . . anything . . .” In a few minutes, Arcolin was mounted again; he set his horse’s nose to the west breeze and eyed the rising dark cloud there with apprehension. His horse was willing now to canter quietly; Arcolin unwrapped the stuffed roll—hot fried ham, onions, and chopped winter greens—and took a bite. Lucky mayor, he thought as he finished, to have such a cook in the household. A second roll nestled in his tunic, in case of need. The ride to Duke’s West took most of the afternoon as the cold breeze stiffened and the cloud rose higher, soaking up all the light. Before he arrived, he saw the glow of light through windows brighter than the day outside. A sentry called challenge; Arcolin halted his horse. 12 e lizabeth mo on “Captain Arcolin of the stronghold to speak to the mayor,” he said. He dismounted, stiffer from the cold than he’d expected. “It’s gone dark early this evening.” “Storm coming, Captain. Sorry to question you—” “No, that’s right, after the mess we had before. But I need to speak to the mayor; we’ve had word from the Duke.” “I can take your horse, Captain. We’ll find a place out of this wind. You’re staying the night—” “No, I mustn’t.” Now others had come out in the cold, windy near-dark, some with torches, and Duke’s West’s mayor, Alwyn Foretson, hurried over. Younger than Mayor Fontaine, he’d lost a hand on campaign. “What’s wrong, Captain? Attack?” “No, not that. Word from the Duke. If we could go to your house—” “Of course.” Foretson led the way. Duke’s West, newer than Duke’s East, was a little smaller, but the mayor’s house was just as comfortable. Rich cooking smells permeated the front rooms. “You’ll eat with us,” Foretson said, as if there were no doubt. “Gladly,” Arcolin said. “Do we have time to get the business over with?” “Yes. I told Melyin to hold the dumplings when I left the house and that’s another half-glass.” “Good. You should read this—it came from the Duke by courier this morning and I know nothing more.” Foretson raised an eyebrow, took the message, and went into the passage, coming back with a four-stick candleholder. “She put the dumplings in and she’s keeping the children in the kitchen. Let’s see now—” His brows went up his forehead as he read. Arcolin walked about, stretching after the ride. The room had a fireplace, but no fire had been laid; a blanket covered the opening. He grimaced; the stronghold had asked the villages for more wood only the week before. Foretson looked up at last. “King?” “So it says,” Arcolin said. “I served under the man fifteen years until I lost my hand. I didn’t know he was royal bred.” Foretson sounded as if that were a personal insult. “Nor I,” said Arcolin, who had been with the Duke longer, as they both knew. oat h o f f ea lt y 13 “Well-bred, certainly,” Foretson went on. “But a king?” Arcolin said nothing. The mayor’s wife came to the door, looked in, shrugged, and went back to the kitchen. “This is going to cause . . . problems.” “I think so,” Arcolin said. “But I have no answers. I do have a one-cohort contract with Vonja, and as the Duke requested, I’m moving Cracolnya’s cohort and the recruits to the east and south.” “Think the Crown will accept that?” “I’ll find out,” Arcolin said, trying to sound cheerful. “I don’t know who the Crown will transfer the domain to—” “Oh, gods! I didn’t think of that one. We could end up belonging to Verrakai or someone like that—” He gave Arcolin a searching glance. “They should give it to you.” “They won’t,” Arcolin said. “I’m not a native; I have no family behind me—” Foretson cocked his head. “Do you want it?” Did he? Arcolin thought for a long moment; the mayor said nothing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I never considered it . . . I never thought beyond . . .” “Well, you’d best think now. There’s lords enough will want it, want it enough to squabble over it. Verrakai and Marrakai both, I shouldn’t wonder, and woe to us if Verrakai gets it. Marrakai wouldn’t be so bad, except his own land’s so far west. No overlap. We’d do better with you, Captain, though without an heir—” “Aye. And no one’s offered it yet, and I have a cohort to take south. And I must eat and go, I’m afraid.” “Is this to be kept secret? And if so, until when?” “It can’t be,” Arcolin said. “People must know; they deserve to know. But they need to know even more: what’s coming next, and that I can’t tell them. I should learn more in Vérella, and when I do I’ll send word.” “I hope he’s safe in Lyonya,” Foretson said. Then, shaking his head: “Royal-bred and half-elf, and I never saw it . . . what a fool I must be.” “If you, then all of us,” Arcolin said. “Including himself, for that matter. He had more chance to figure it out than any of us.” Foretson laughed. “I suppose . . . but I’m not calling the Fox a fool, even with him this far away and not coming back.” Not coming back. Arcolin shivered, but supper was hot and 14 e lizabeth mo on tasty, and he mounted again determined to do his best for Phelan’s land and people, whatever that might turn out to be. He refused the mayor’s offer of an escort back to the stronghold, and rode away in an icy drizzle that stung his face. It would be sleet or snow by morning; he hoped it would blow over before they marched away in it. Halfway back to the stronghold, he met a squad with torches; Cracolnya had sent them. Soon enough he was safely inside, cold and wet but in a seat by the fire, upstairs in the Duke’s study. Valichi was there, with his personal pack; he had even brought his armor. Stammel, waiting for Arcolin by the inner gate, had followed him in and up the stairs. Arcolin waved him to a seat as well. “Fontaine told me,” Valichi said. “Though I find it hard to believe.” “So do we all,” Arcolin said, pulling off his wet boots. Servants had put dry clothes to warm by the fire; he stripped off his wet ones and dressed as they talked. “How’d the village mayors take it?” Cracolnya asked. “Stunned. Confused. Glad we’re taking hungry mouths away, but worried about the future. Who the Crown will give the land to.” “It could be you,” Valichi said. “You were here from the beginning.” “I don’t think so.” But he could not help imagining it, seeing familiar things, familiar people, in a new way. He pushed that aside. “And anyway, I’ve got that contract to fulfill. I can’t start off by breaking one.” “You need the Crown’s consent, remember—if you don’t get it, the merchants will understand.” “That doesn’t produce gold or grain,” Arcolin said. He yawned. “Believe me, I will argue hard if they refuse; I will not toss away what Kieri worked so many years to build. How’s the preparation going, Sergeant?” “On target, sir. All the farriery finished today. The smiths say they’ll have the last of the weapons and repairs done by supper tomorrow. We’ll be ready to march day after tomorrow, as far as the fighting troop’s concerned. And Sef says the road’s no worse than usual this time of year.” “We split the recruits already,” Cracolnya said. “Your cohort’s oat h o f f ea lt y 15 up to the usual start-of-season strength. I didn’t know what staff you’d want to take along for just one cohort—you’ll want a smith, I’m sure, but will you want a quartermaster? Clerk? Teamsters and wagons?” “Teamsters and wagons, yes,” Arcolin said. “Most will come back here with replacement supplies. Kolya’s still in Vérella; she can supervise that. A smith for certain, and one of the surgeons. Stammel, who in the cohort might make a quartermaster?” “Devlin, sir, if he weren’t my junior sergeant. Don’t see how he could do both.” “Agreed,” Arcolin said. “Others?” Stammel shook his head. “No, sir.” “We need someone,” Arcolin said. “One of the quartermaster’s assistants, then; we need him here. Stammel, talk to the quartermaster—I’m inclined to think Maia, but leave it to him.” Arcolin yawned, then stretched. “It’s time we went to bed, captains. Tomorrow will be a full day.” They rose; Arcolin gathered up his wet things and carried them to the kitchen, to be dried by the cooking hearth. Back upstairs, he went into Kieri’s office and looked around. Kieri had asked for nothing from this office, from the stronghold. Things he had bought in Aarenis or Vérella: the striped rug Tammarion had chosen, a carved box with a running fox on its lid, a favorite whetstone always placed on the left of the great desk, a candleholder of translucent pink stone that glowed with light when the candle was lit, the chest in which—as Arcolin knew— Kieri’s dead wife’s armor and the children’s daggers were wrapped in Tammarion’s troth dress. Kieri had asked for none of these. Not ever to return. Arcolin forced himself to take a deep breath and consider what records he might need, for either a contract or . . . that which he did not want to consider. Tired as he was, he sat up late, making notes, packing away those records he would not take in the chest where they belonged, packing the ones he would need into waterproof bags. The room seemed emptier than it should, emptier than it ever had. “I’m trying,” he muttered to himself, then shook his head and went to bed. Arcolin woke to the memory of yesterday’s surprises, and the realization that he needed to parade the whole Company. 16 e lizabeth mo on They had given their oaths to Kieri, who had now left them. They must now give their oaths to him. That ceremony could not be omitted. Outside, the previous evening’s storm continued, alternating brief snow flurries with rattling sleet and icy rain. Perhaps it would stop by noon; Arcolin went down to breakfast and found Valichi staring thoughtfully at the weapons on the dining room wall. A kitchen servant arrived with steaming bowls of porridge and loaves of hot bread. Valichi sat down and started eating. Arcolin poured a little honey, thick with cold, into his porridge and tried a spoonful as Cracolnya came in from outside. “Nasty,” Cracolnya said. “Think it will clear away at all today?” Arcolin asked. “I need to parade the Company and take their oaths.” The two captains stared at him, then at each other. “I had forgotten,” Cracolnya said. “If he’s not coming back—if he’s the one to break it—then we all—” His voice trailed away. “We all swore to him, personally,” Arcolin said. “He’s not our duke anymore, so whether the Crown confirms me or not, for the time being we need a single oath to bind us. And—” He shrugged. “That’s to me.” As he said it, he realized he would also have to travel to the villages again, taking their charters, getting the oaths of mayors and councils, making a copy for the Crown. That would take an entire day. “I understand.” Cracolnya dug into his porridge, eating fast for five or six mouthfuls. “I’ll do it, of course. It’s what he’d want.” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, my pardon. It’s what I want.” “Val?” Arcolin asked. “Yess . . .” Valichi’s answer came slower; he was frowning. He was older than Arcolin, and had spent more time in the North, as Kieri’s recruit captain. Perhaps he had hoped to be chosen, if Kieri ever left. “But I can’t say as I’m willing to stay on as the only captain of a cohort, not longer than it takes to find another.” “We all need co-captains,” Arcolin said. “I’ll be hiring captains, either in Vérella or Valdaire; I’ll send them north.” He leaned on his elbows. “You two take your cohorts away tomorrow, if the weather mends at all. Cracolnya, you take the other oat h o f f ea lt y 17 surgeon and smith; Val will be near enough Burningmeed for a Marshal to help with healing and they have a smith. I can’t leave for another day at least: I need to find the village charters and take them to Duke’s East and West, for all to take oaths on and sign. Val, let the merchants travel with you, if they want an escort, or they can go ahead.” They looked startled, but nodded. By midafternoon, the storm had passed, though furrowed clouds still covered the sky. Arcolin had the Company paraded in the main court, cohort by cohort, to take their oaths. He gave the same speech to the recruits the Duke had given to every year’s recruit intake. The veterans, who had already been told as much as he knew, gave their oaths willingly, as near as he could tell. The Vonja agents chose to ride with Val’s cohort to Burningmeed and travel on to Vérella by themselves. Arcolin spent the evening with one of the Company clerks, collecting the documents he would need the next day, making copies of those he would need in Vérella, rechecking his lists. Next morning, the storm had blown past, leaving a thin skim of high cloud. After breakfast, the other two cohorts left, Valichi’s down the road to Duke’s East, and Cracolnya’s straight across country toward the rising sun. Stammel had Arcolin’s cohort busy at once, cleaning barracks Arcolin was sure the others had left spotless, but it kept the troops busy. Arcolin gathered the bundle of charters and other documents he needed, and rode for Duke’s West first. “Can you hold a Duke’s Court before you go?” Foretson asked, as he signed the charter under Arcolin’s name. “I’m not a duke,” Arcolin said. “Authorization for a Ducal Court would have to come from Vérella. All I can do is hold petty court, same as usual.” “That would help—if you can stay a glass, I’ll have Donag and Arv come in—they’re wanting a ruling on a field boundary.” Once court began, others came in with problems; it was after midday when he rode for Duke’s East, to do it all over again. This time he set up in the Red Fox common room. Duke’s East had fewer cases for petty court than Duke’s West, and he made 18 e lizabeth mo on it back to the stronghold before dark. There he found everything ready for next morning’s departure. Another clear morning. Arcolin looked around the inner court, imagining it as his—if the Crown permitted—and strode out the gate to the main court, where Stammel had the cohort ready, in marching order. Arbad held the roan ambler. Arcolin mounted and looked back at his cohort—the young faces still unblooded, the veterans with their weathered skin, their scars, their eyes full of experience. Stammel gave him a crisp nod. Was he really doing this, really taking a mercenary cohort to Aarenis by himself? As commander? He put his hand in his tunic, feeling Kieri’s signet ring. No more time to doubt. If he could not do it, after all those years of serving with the best commander he’d ever known, north or south, he was a fool— and Kieri would not have trusted him with the Company. He lifted the reins and nudged his horse into motion. As always, the villagers in Duke’s East came out to wave as the cohorts passed. Arcolin smiled at them, called out greetings to the mayor, to the innkeeper, to the village council members. The world had changed. The sunlight, despite a clear sky, felt thinner, muted. The trees looked different, the little river beneath the bridge; the road he had ridden so many times, so many years, looked new, untrodden, unknown. He scolded himself, told himself it was the same: the road, the trees, the sun, the world itself. One man could not make that much difference. He knew he lied. At the border of the Duke’s territory, the post Valichi had set up saluted them as they marched past on the road to Vérella. The marches were no longer than usual, but they seemed both longer and shorter as his mood shifted again and again. CHAPTER THREE Vérella, the palace Mikeli, crown prince of Tsaia, listened to his best friend, Juris Marrakai, joking with Mikeli’s cousin Rothlin Mahieran about the behavior of their younger brothers. Dinner this evening felt almost normal again, with his friends around him and the worst of the peril—his advisers had said—over. Fourteen days had passed since Kieri Phelan left for Lyonya, and nine since the paladin’s ordeal ended. For a full hand of days, the city had been in turmoil as city militia, nobles of the realm, and Marshals of Gird sought to find and destroy Liart’s followers. He and his friends had wanted to take part, prove their courage, in those raids on the city’s underground lairs. Their elders had refused to risk them despite their protests. Instead, his friends had been kept at home to guard their families, while he and his younger brother had been confined to the palace, closely guarded. They’d all been told to stay close, be careful, be alert, report anything suspicious. But finally the city quieted, and the High Marshals had declared it safe enough to relax some restrictions. Once more his friends were together, sharing a meal, as they had so often before. When the door opened, Mikeli expected servants to bring in the next course, but instead saw one of the palace guards escorting a man in Girdish blue and gray, a yeoman by his tunic, travelstained and obviously near exhaustion. “My lord prince,” the yeoman said, his voice hoarse with cold. “I bear urgent news.” He glanced around the table, as if uncertain which was the prince, then dug into a pouch and produced a crumpled scroll. “Here,” Mikeli said. The man handed him the scroll and he unrolled and began reading. The words “well-armed troops . . . refused your order . . . Pargunese . . . magery . . . treason” sprang out at him. “Treason!” The word escaped before he could stop 20 e lizabeth mo on it; he heard the surprise, the horror, in his own voice. He forced himself to silence, and looked up, scanning the room. The startled faces of his dinner companions, their mouths open, stared back at him. Juris Marrakai, Rothlin Mahieran, Rolyan Serrostin, all dukes’ sons whose fathers sat on his Regency Council. Manthar Kostvan and Belin Destvaorn, counts’ sons whose fathers were also on the Council. He glanced at the messenger, noting the air of suppressed alarm. “Treason?” That was Juris Marrakai, quick-eared and quickwitted as always. “Whose? Not Phelan’s, surely?” “No.” Mikeli caught his imagination by the scruff of the neck, mastered his tongue, and tried to think how to say it. If he could say it at all to these, the friends he’d asked in for a quiet supper. The guilty party was also on his Regency Council. “Not Phelan’s,” he said, this time more calmly. “Someone else, against us and against him. He was ambushed, but survived. The paladin reached him in time.” To the messenger: “Sir, your name, if you please?” “Piter, my lord,” the messenger said. “Yeoman-marshal of Blackhedge.” “Were you a witness to this?” Mikeli tapped the scroll. “No, my lord. To make haste, it was passed hand to hand, like. But the Marshal, he had it from the other Marshal, who was there, and he told me some. It’s Gird’s grace—” Mikeli held up his hand and the man fell silent. “Gentlemen,” he said to his friends, “this is grave news, and I must meet with those senior in the realm, your fathers among them. I must go at once—” Juris Marrakai pushed back from the table. “Sir—Your Highness—if it is treason, you must not go unguarded—” Mikeli tried for an easy laugh; it came out more as a cough. “I am hardly unguarded. The palace guard—” “We are your friends,” Juris said. “You can’t leave us out; you can trust us—” But could he? If a councilor could turn traitor, anyone might. He looked again at the papers—for now he saw there were two. One from Ammerlin, commander of the Royal Guard unit he had sent with Phelan, and one from Phelan himself. He held up his hand, and his guests stayed where they were, silent. oat h o f f ea lt y 21 The second note, in Phelan’s clear, even script, said much the same, more briefly and pointedly. And I beg you, sire, that you take all precautions. A man who will so disobey your express order at the margin of your realm will have designs on your reign. I have seen this too often in Aarenis to doubt it. Forgive my presumption; I speak now as one king to another: you must not fail to destroy this threat, at once. For the sake of both our realms. As one king to another: treating him as fully adult, as an equal; that respect steadied his pulse. For the sake of both their realms. Long at peace, but for minor incursions along the northern border, Tsaia had trusted in the stability of its neighbors to east and west. If Lyonya fell, if he himself fell, both kingdoms would be in peril. Verrakai’s troops had used magery, Ammerlin said. Used the power of evil priests of an evil deity, the same who had tormented a paladin day after day beneath the city. Despite himself, the prince shivered. For a moment, he allowed the thought Why me? Why in my reign? but then thrust it aside. This was what kings did—dealt with whatever came. Kieri Phelan, thirty years his senior, believed he could do it: he must. “What did you say to the captain of the guard?” he asked the messenger. “Nothing, Your Highness. Never saw him. Just told the guard at the gate I had to see you, it was urgent, I had dispatches under the seal of Gird.” Mikeli paused to order his thoughts. If he called out, someone would come, but in a bustle; time would be wasted. He had messengers here whom every palace guard knew. “Manthar.” Manthar Kostvan stepped forward. “Take this note—” He scrawled rapidly, poured on hot wax, stamped it with his seal ring. “—to the officer of the guard. I want the palace gates closed to all—no one to enter or leave, no matter what rank. He must alert the palace guard inside, but quietly. We want no panic, no confusion in which someone might be missed. Then find your father and ask him to come to—” He paused. Meet where? Where was safe? Who else would he need? The Knights of the Bells, certainly. “In the Knight-Commander’s chambers, 22 e lizabeth mo on near the Grange Hall. I’m going there now. Go swiftly, but do not raise an alarm.” Manthar nodded and hurried out the door. “Belin.” Mikeli scrawled another note, and sealed it, as Belin nodded. “Escort Piter here to the steward, make sure he gets a meal and that someone takes charge of him, lest the traitor strike him down, then go for your father with the same message.” He handed Belin that note; Belin and the messenger left. Mikeli looked at the three dukes’ sons still standing at his table. They all looked back, brows bunched a little as they tried to puzzle out what was going on. “Gentlemen—you deserve to know what is amiss. Let me read this to you.” He read Ammerlin’s message, glancing up from line to line to gauge their reactions. Shock, horror, disgust, anger. When he finished, and let the scroll curl up, they burst into speech. “I can’t believe they would—” “After the paladin proved Duke Phelan—the king—was the king—” “Even a Verrakai—” “But what can we do?” Rolyan Serrostin, practical as ever, said it first. “Are all your fathers in the palace this night?” Mikeli asked. His cousin and Juris Marrakai nodded; Rolyan shook his head. “My father isn’t far away,” he said. “He only went to have dinner with my great-uncle, a few streets west. I could fetch him—” “There isn’t time,” the prince said. “And I’ve already ordered the gates closed. Roly, you stick with me. You two, go find your fathers.” “You need more than one of us with you,” Juris Marrakai said. “My father’s dining with Duke Mahieran—Rothlin or I could find both—” “I’ll go,” Rothlin said. “My father was going to take yours to the stable afterward, to talk horses—you know how they are when they get started. I know which stall they’ll be hanging on the door of, if they’re not still at table.” “I’ll stay, then,” Juris said. “Tell your fathers I must meet them urgently,” the prince said. “If they are alone, tell them it’s a matter of treason, and who, but otherwise, only that it’s urgent. Go now, and quickly. If any of oat h o f f ea lt y 23 you come to the Knight-Commander’s chambers before I do, let him know there’s trouble and I’m on the way. Roly? Juris? Let’s go.” “Not without arming,” Juris said, nodding to the prince’s private chambers. In moments, Mikeli had belted on his sword and the young men had retrieved theirs from the racks. Roly and Juris each checked that their saveblades were in place. Roly’s, Mikeli remembered, was an ancient stone-bladed knife, supposedly brought all the way from Old Aare when his ancestors came over the sea. His own—he checked it—had been his father’s, given to him after his father’s death. As they went into the passage, Mikeli felt his skin tighten on his body as if he had gone out in midwinter in summer clothes. For the first time in his life, he thought he knew how the older men felt, who had faced death. His training, he realized, had been only a shadow of the real thing. Kieri Phelan had been in danger, and so had others, but he himself had always been protected. In the Knight-Commander’s chambers, they found Beclan Mahieran, Knight-Commander of the Bells, and Donag Veragsson, Marshal-Judicar of Tsaia, enjoying mulled wine and pipes and toasting their sock-clad feet before a crackling fire. Their damp boots stood propped on bootholds a careful distance from the hearth. “You look grim, Nephew,” Beclan said. He didn’t rise, but raised a hand in salute. “What’s amiss to bring three of you young rascals here this time of night?” “There’s trouble,” Mikeli said. The two older men didn’t move, but for Beclan nodding at the other two chairs, an invitation to sit. “It’s serious,” Mikeli said. He didn’t want to sit down; he had to move, and strode to the far end of the room, to the table where Beclan kept a copy of the Code of Gird, before whirling and striding back. “It’s treason. We must raise the Order of the Bells, Uncle, immediately.” “Treason!” Both the older men sat up straighter at that. “What do you mean?” The Knight-Commander got it out first. “A messenger arrived just now, from the east. Kieri Phelan was attacked by a contingent of Verrakai troops, joined with some from Pargun, and they used magery and had a priest of Liart—” 24 e lizabeth mo on “But you gave a warrant of safe passage—and the Royal Guard escort—” “This is from Sir Ammerlin,” Mikeli said, handing the larger scroll to the Knight-Commander. “And this from Phelan—” He handed that one to the Marshal-Judicar. As they read, he moved around the room, noting the sword rack with Beclan’s weapons, Donag’s belt and sword hung on a wall peg, the men’s damp cloaks hanging on adjoining pegs. They must have been out in the city together, he realized, checking what progress the Marshals had made in uncovering Thieves’ Guild hideouts and secret passages. “Sit down, will you? My neck hurts having to follow you around.” Beclan rolled his head; the prince could hear the crackle. “Striding around in here won’t accomplish anything. What have you done so far?” Mikeli threw himself into one of the chairs; his friends remained standing. “I was at dinner—” He told them what he had done. “And then I came here.” “Good beginning. Though as we’ve been finding out, this palace isn’t as secure as it could be.” “I suppose someone could come in over the walls—” The Knight-Commander shook his head. “Not that way. Underground: it’s a warren, with some parts left from Gird’s day, additions and demolitions, no rational plan. I asked the steward to look into it, because I know some of the lads in training have secret passages to get from the barracks to the training hall and it occurred to me that the Thieves’ Guild would no doubt benefit by a way in. I never thought of one of the nobles—” He glanced at the other two. “Do they know who—?” “Yes; I read them Ammerlin’s message. I didn’t tell Manthar and Belin.” “Verrakai never liked Phelan,” Beclan said. “He always resented him, and I suppose it was just too much—but ignoring a royal pass—” “I wonder if that family has held on to any of the old magery,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “That could be . . . difficult.” “Illegal,” Beclan said. “But no one’s seen anything like that since the Girdish wars. Surely you don’t think they’ve managed to conceal it all this time?” oat h o f f ea lt y 25 “My father says they had it longer than anyone,” Juris Marrakai said. “He said that’s why our families have always been at odds. We lost the magery early, and they didn’t—they scorned us for that. Said we’d intermarried with stupid peasants.” “Leaving that aside,” the Marshal-Judicar said, “the question is what resources does Verrakai have here and now. Which of the family are in the palace now, tonight, and what Verrakai retainers—” “Or agents,” the Knight-Commander said. “Or agents. Which are here now, an immediate threat, and where might they be? I know the Duke maintains a house in Vérella; gods grant he’s there, and not here.” “And gods grant he doesn’t yet know that we know, that the attack failed and we have a message from Ammerlin.” The Knight-Commander pulled his feet off the footstool with a sigh and looked around at his boots. “Not dry yet, I’ll wager . . . but the palace plans, such as they are, are up in the library—” “I’ll go,” Serrostin said. “I know exactly where they are. Do you need anything else?” The Knight-Commander sat back. “Yes, Rolyan, if you wouldn’t mind. The chapter secretary may still be somewhere about; if he is, ask him to attend me here. I don’t suppose another few minutes of warm feet will matter.” “And beware,” the prince said. “We don’t know what the situation is, Roly, so be careful.” “I will,” Rolyan said with a grin, patting the hilt of his sword. In the quiet after Rolyan left, the prince wanted to leap up again and do something, anything. When would the other men come, those he was sure—almost sure—he could trust? How long would it take—how long had it been already? Just as he was ready to spring to his feet again, Juris Marrakai sat, with a sigh, in the other chair. “I never liked Verrakaien, you know that, but I still have trouble believing any peer of the realm would act like this. Thieves, surely, but—” “Those who follow evil gods become evil themselves,” the Marshal-Judicar said. He struggled out from under his lap robe, and padded sock-footed across to a cabinet. “We need sib, Knight-Commander; my mind at least is clouded by supper and 26 e lizabeth mo on wine; I’ll brew some.” He poured water from a jug into another warming can, and set that on the hearth, pushing it close to the fire with a poker, and poured in a packet of dried roots and herbs. He sat down, pulling the lap robe back over his legs. “You young men don’t feel the cold as much as we do, and you don’t get as fuzzled with a little mulled wine, either.” “We have how many Verrakaien to worry about?” Beclan said. “The Duke, obviously, and his brother, who called that challenge on Phelan.” “All of them,” Donag said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Your Highness, until they’ve been examined, we do not know how many still have, and use, the ancient magery, and if they do use it, with what purpose. It’s possible that more—even women and children—are as guilty as the Duke. You must issue an Order of Attainder.” “The Council will have to approve,” the Knight-Commander pointed out. “The prince can’t issue an order like that without Council approval until he’s crowned.” “Attainder!” Mikeli said. “It’s not the fault of the whole family if one person goes wrong—that’s what the Code of Gird says.” And the youngest Verrakai boy at court was a close friend of his own younger brother, Camwyn. Camwyn would be furious if Egan was imprisoned. “The Code of Gird does not forbid attainder in cases of high treason, Your Highness,” said the Marshal-Judicar. “Your safe conduct was a direct order: defying your authority is sufficient. So is using magery in defiance of your orders. Every member of the family must be seized and examined; someone you did not suspect might start a rebellion.” “Or assassinate you and your family,” the Knight-Commander said. “Treason is always a conspiracy; it’s too big a task for one man, and throughout history has been the work of groups.” Mikeli wanted to jump up again but made himself sit still. Kings did not fidget. CHAPTER FOUR Rolyan Serrostin passed through the Knight-Commander’s outer office to the corridor and moved swiftly to the Grange Hall itself—empty, no light showing under the door to the armory or the records office—then back to the main part of the palace, up a flight to the royal library. No one challenged him, though he heard a subdued bustle in the distance, the faint echoes of hurrying feet. In the library, once he had lit the lamps, he saw at once what he needed. One set of plans hung from its pole on the wall beside the librarian’s desk, and another lay loosely rolled on the table nearby. He lifted down the heavy pole and rolled that set of plans carefully, setting it beside the other. The High Marshal would want both, no doubt; notations might have been made on the second set of plans—Rolyan unrolled it a little, and saw fresh markings. Stacks of wax tablets in their wooden frames, quills, sheets of parchment, and a stoppered ink bottle littered the tabletop. One of the wax tablets, open, had other notes, something to do with tunnels. He might as well take as much as he could at once. Rolyan rolled both sets of plans tightly on their poles, secured them with leather thongs, tucked the poles under his right arm, and gathered up a double handful of wax tablets. Quills and ink he was sure he could find in the Knight-Commander’s outer office. On his way back to the Knight-Commander’s chambers, he caught a glimpse down a side passage of Dukes Marrakai and Mahieran, men he knew well, hurrying in the other direction— to their own quarters to arm themselves, no doubt, before coming to the Knight-Commander’s. He wondered for a moment if the prince’s cousin had told them any details. Treason. He could not really imagine it. Nobles intrigued against one another—everyone 28 e lizabeth mo on sought advantage—but treason was—was something else, something beyond that. Outside the Knight-Commander’s door, the sentry looked alert but very nervous. “Anyone else arrived?” Rolyan asked. “Just m’lord Marrakai,” the sentry said. “And—and I feel something’s going to happen.” Rolyan felt his skin draw up in prickles. “Marrakai—but I just saw him down there—” He jerked his head back down the passage. “Get help,” he said. “Something’s wrong.” With that he opened the door of the outer office—hurried across it, but silently—and through the open door of the inner rooms saw the back of a man—the wrong height and shape for Marrakai—in Verrakai blue and silver. The blood smell raised the hair on his arms before he quite realized what he saw. Across from him, by the fire, the Marshal-Judicar sprawled on the floor and the Knight-Commander of the Bells slumped in his chair, a look of horror on his face and blood soaking the front of his robe. The prince and Juris Marrakai both sat still as if carved in stone. A bloody sword hung in the air, moving slowly toward the prince, and the room seemed full of some pressure other than air. Magery! It must be Duke Verrakai . . . He wanted to yell, but he could not find breath for that. He had no time to draw his sword; he dropped the tablets and swung the poles as hard as he could, taking Verrakai in the neck even as the tablets clattered to the floor. Verrakai staggered, his hand already grabbing for his sword; Rolyan stepped sideways to brace for a thrust with the poles, slipped on the dropped tablets, stumbled into the wall, and missed. He saw the sword in the air fall; saw Marrakai dive to retrieve it; saw the prince snatch at his own sword and draw it; saw Verrakai, his own sword now in his hand, make some movement with the other that once more stilled them. “You!” Verrakai said, turning to Rolyan, where he sat sprawled against the wall. Rolyan tried to push himself up, but could not. “You would attack a duke, would you?” “You would attack a prince, would you?” Rolyan said. He saw the telltale shift of Verrakai’s weight, and parried with the pole as Verrakai’s sword came down. The blade hung momentarily in the linen roll; Roly threw himself forward, over the scattered tablets on the floor, drawing his dagger left-handed, and stabbed oat h o f f ea lt y 29 at Verrakai’s knee, but the blade didn’t bite. Armor? It didn’t feel like hitting armor. Before he could yank the pole free of Verrakai’s blade, he heard a thunnnk as someone’s sword—he couldn’t see whose— hit Verrakai in the back. Verrakai whirled, stumbled over Roly’s legs, staggered, and half fell on him. Roly stabbed frantically with his dagger, holding on to one of the man’s legs as Verrakai kicked and struggled to his feet again, but the blade would not go in. More magery? Cold sweat slicked his hands. Magery was evil; he’d heard that all his life. He could hear more sword blows to Verrakai’s body now, and yet the man did not cry out, did not stop fighting, did not bleed. Someone’s boot and a lot of weight landed on his ribs; he grunted, now blinded by masses of dark blue cloak—Verrakai’s— and he couldn’t get his breath. Pressure eased; blades clashed, he heard thuds and clatters as things fell. He tried to get out from under, swiping at the cloak, but it snugged tighter around him, as if it were alive. Someone kicked his head; something whacked his hand hard enough that he lost the dagger. More yells from outside somewhere, more people rushing in—and a hand slid in, under the cloak, lifting it with a dagger blade. He rolled forward and sank his teeth into the hand. The cloak whirled away from him, lifting to Verrakai’s shoulders, and he could see again, see that he had his teeth in Verrakai’s heart hand, just as Verrakai dropped the dagger he held. In that moment, arms free at last, Rolyan pulled the saveblade, black as death, from his boot, and surged up, striking at anything he could reach. He had a momentary glimpse of Verrakai’s sword . . . and then the old blade slid in, like a hot knife into butter. Over his head, a blade clanged, then screeched, as Verrakai sagged, his weight coming onto the knife blade, hot blood spurting down, soaking Rolyan’s arm. CHAPTER FIVE “Are you hurt, Roly?” Mikeli knocked Verrakai’s blade aside before it fell. Was that a stain near the tip? Was it poison? He looked around the room, now crowded with the men he had asked his friends to summon. Sonder Mahieran, Duke Marrakai, Counts Destvaorn and Kostvan; his friends crowded behind them, near the door, eyes wide. “N-no. I—I just—I killed him.” Roly was still trembling. Mikeli felt his own hands shaking; he knew what Rolyan was feeling. Neither of them had ever killed a man before; neither of them had ever been so near violent death. He’d been told it was like hunting: it wasn’t. The stench of blood and death in the room sickened him. He wanted to spew; he did not want to shame himself in front of the others; he hoped he did not look as green around the mouth as Rolyan. He swallowed, hardening his jaw against the rush of nausea. “Gods be praised for that,” Juris said. He, too, was pale. He glanced at his father and Duke Mahieran, now inside the room. “You saved us, Roly. He was going to kill all of us and blame me and my family.” “Gird’s blood, what a mess!” That was Duke Mahieran, kneeling beside the Knight-Commander’s body. “Beclan . . . oh, Beclan . . .” Tears ran down his face into his beard; he kissed his dead brother’s hand. “And the Marshal-Judicar.” He turned and closed Donag’s eyes gently. “It’s hard to believe anyone would kill a Marshal-Judicar, a Knight-Commander—” “And using magery,” Duke Marrakai said. He looked as dangerous as Verrakai had. “Don’t remind me,” Mahieran said. “I remember your warnings.” “I’m sorry to have been proved right,” Marrakai said. Under his beard, his jaw muscles worked. “A sad day for Tsaia.” oat h o f f ea lt y 31 “A dangerous night,” Kostvan said. “Pardon, my lord dukes, but Verrakai may have a secret way into the palace, and he has a brother as dangerous as himself. We have no time for mourning now—we must act. Your younger brother, Your Highness—is he safe?” Mikeli gathered his scattered wits. “You’re right, my lord count. Terrible as this is, worse may be coming. Uncle, will you take command of the palace guard, and Duke Marrakai, will you take command of the Bells, and order them out? Camwyn should be in his chambers, but if he’s not—” After a piercing glance, his uncle nodded, stood, and shouldered his way out the door. Marrakai paused. “Juris?” “I need him here,” Mikeli said. “Very well,” Marrakai said, and went out, his cloak swirling behind him. Kostvan bowed. “My lord, the messenger who came—where is he? He might have more to say—” “I sent him with Belin Destvaorn to eat and rest.” “Verrakai would want him dead,” Kostvan said. “Shall I check, and also alert the household staff?” “Thank you, my lord,” Mikeli said. Kostvan turned to go, just as a squad of palace guards arrived. “What is happening?” asked one from outside. “Treason,” Kostvan said. “The first one’s dead, but there are others. Guard your prince.” Count Destvaorn beckoned to the guards. “We need to lay out the High Marshal and Knight-Commander with all due respect. In the Knights’ Hall, or the grange, do you think?” “Knights’ Hall,” Mikeli said. He wanted to sit down; he must not sit down. The sergeant gulped, then glanced at Verrakai’s body. “And him?” “He was the traitor. He killed them, and tried to kill the prince. Make sure he’s dead, and search his body for . . . for anything that might give us a clue what else we might face.” “What about that one?” He pointed at Rolyan, still sprawled on the floor, looking sick. “He saved us,” Mikeli said. “If Roly hadn’t come back from the library and hit Verrakai . . . we’d be dead.” He moved closer, avoiding Verrakai’s blood. “Roly—are you all right?” 32 e lizabeth mo on “I—I will be.” Rolyan blinked; tears tracked down his face. “I never—never killed anyone—before.” Mikeli could not think of anything to say. “Come on,” Juris said to Rolyan. “Let’s get you up and out of that mess.” He held out a hand, and Mikeli held out his. Rolyan took hold, and they pulled him up. He looked better standing up, though bloody to the shoulder on his right arm. “You’ll want clean clothes,” Juris said. “My lord prince, may I take him off to clean up?” “Not yet,” Mikeli said. His mind whirled, tossing out ideas, images, faster than he could grasp them. “We don’t know if there’s someone else—Verrakai’s brother, his son, Kirgan Verrakai—we should stay together, not wander about.” He focused on Rolyan’s face, still paler than normal, his gray-green eyes wide and staring. “Roly—did his blade touch you anywhere?” “I don’t—don’t think so. It’s just—” “Get him into the other room,” Count Kostvan said. “His first kill—he needs to be out of this smell, out of this mess. You all do. I’ll take care of it.” He turned to the sergeant. “Here—find something clean and warm in the Knight-Commander’s cupboard for Kirgan Serrostin to wear. Kirgan Marrakai, fetch a can of water if you please. Cold will do. You and the prince can help him clean up. He’ll do better then.” The Knight-Commander’s outer room, furnished as an office, was cooler and the stench of death much less. “I’m fine,” Rolyan said. “I’m sorry, I—” “Nothing to be sorry about. You saved us both,” Juris said. “I couldn’t even move.” He sounded angry; he was usually the leader in their activities, a stronger fighter than Roly. “Nor I,” Mikeli said. “Sit down, Roly—” It was easier to be calm, he noted, when he was taking care of someone else; his hands weren’t shaking now. “I’ll get blood on the chair,” Rolyan said. “No matter,” Mikeli said. “Ah—here’s the sergeant with some clothes.” The man laid a stack of clothes and towels on the scribe’s table. “We’ll get this off you,” Juris said. He rolled up his own sleeves; Mikeli followed his lead and in moments they’d removed Rolyan’s dinner capelet, unlaced his doublet, then his oat h o f f ea lt y 33 shirt, while Juris rolled up the bloody sleeve, then the clean one, and pulled the shirt over his head. With the tail and back of the shirt wetted in the can of water Juris had brought along, they cleaned the blood from him. “I can’t wear his—” Rolyan began, as Juris handed him an undershirt. Mikeli took his hand. “You can’t walk about the palace halfnaked, Roly. We need you. And my uncle Beclan would want you to have them. Now get dressed. It’s going to be a long night.” Rolyan managed a shaky parody of his usual grin. “At once, your royalness.” That sounded more like the real Roly. Mikeli turned to the sergeant. “We’ll need those plans and things Roly brought. They’re on the floor in there—” “At once, my lord.” The sergeant bowed and went back to the inner room. More palace guards arrived, with litters for the bodies, and a servant appeared with a jug of sib and a plate of pastries. “My lord Marrakai said to bring this—” he said. Mikeli gestured to the table; the servant set it down. “We can’t just eat,” Juris said. “If your father meant us to,” the prince said, “we had better. Come now—we were interrupted at dinner. I doubt we’ll see a bed tonight; we need something.” Food and sib restored Rolyan’s normal coloring even as a distant clamor rose, nearing as Knights of the Bells gathered in their hall. CHAPTER SIX Vérella, two days later As they came in sight of Vérella, Arcolin saw what he had not seen for years—a Royal Guard blockade on the road. He trotted ahead of the cohort and then halted at the blockade. “What is it?” “Who are you?” demanded a man with officer’s knots on his shoulder. “Arcolin, Duke Phelan’s captain, with a cohort bound for Aarenis—surely you had word. Our employers preceded us.” “They’re all in Phelan’s colors, Captain,” one of the troop said. “It’s got to be him.” “Do you have proof of your identity?” the captain asked, a shade less truculent now. “I have the Duke’s ring and a letter,” Arcolin said, fishing the ring out of his pocket and handing it over. “It’s the Fox’s, all right,” the captain said, handing it back. “I suppose you know about the trouble?” “The Duke wrote that he had been proclaimed king of Lyonya,” Arcolin said. “That he was on his way to Lyonya. Is that the trouble?” He did not want to ask about Paks, not from a stranger. “Nay. Worse. Treason and rebellion. Two nights agone, Duke Verrakai tried to kill the crown prince—did kill his uncle, Knight-Commander of the Bells, and Marshal Donag, the Marshal-Judicar of Gird. All the Verrakaien are under attainder, but it’s thought many will try to pretend they’re someone else, and they have magery.” “Magery?” Arcolin stared. “If you mean the old lords’ magery, that’s all gone—been gone since Gird’s day. It’s all wizard-work now.” “So we thought, but it’s not. Anyway, Captain Arcolin, now I oat h o f f ea lt y 35 know it’s really you and not some Verrakai putting a glamour on me, you’re wanted in the palace. You’re to go there at once. Your cohort can stay in palace barracks, if you like—” “We usually march through,” Arcolin said. “Aye, but things are different now. You’ll be here at least a day and a night, I daresay. The gate guards will know where your soldiers should go.” A night in someone else’s barracks would at least not lighten his purse. Behind him, he heard the marching feet come to a final stamped halt. He turned in the saddle. “Change of plans, Sergeant Stammel. I’m wanted in the palace; we’ll be staying in Vérella overnight; the cohort will be housed in royal barracks.” “Very good, sir,” Stammel said. He eyed the Royal Guard and asked no questions. “There’s been some trouble. We don’t want more.” “No, sir.” Stammel would need no more hint than that to keep the cohort—especially the young ones—on a tight leash. As they went on from the roadblock toward the city, Arcolin told Stammel what he’d been told. “I suspect there’s a lot more to it, and the city either roiling or too quiet. I don’t know what the prince wants with me; I don’t know if our employers are still here, or have gone on. I will need to contact the Duke’s bankers, and see about finances, too, so we might be here even two nights, if the prince’s conferences last a long time.” “Verrakai attacked the prince and killed his uncle? Why? Surely he didn’t hope to take over the kingdom? And why now, just when the Duke’s gone to Lyonya?” “My guess would be that Verrakai tried to attack the Duke first. He’d always hated him as baseborn, you know.” Stammel snorted, a very Stammel snort, and Arcolin went on. “If he did that, and attacked the escort of Royal Guard the prince sent with him, then that’s already treason. Then he might think his only chance would be to assassinate the prince and try to hide the facts until—I can’t believe he thought he could pull it off, though. But that Royal Guard captain said he used magery.” “He used a Liart priest, I’ll wager,” Stammel said. “Not magery—that’s all been lost for hundreds of years.” “That’s what I told him, but he thinks not,” Arcolin said. 36 e lizabeth mo on “He thinks the Verrakaien have it. That’s why they’re all under attainder.” “Good thing Dorrin’s with the Duke in Lyonya, then,” Stammel said. “It’ll be hard for her to come back through.” Arcolin felt a jolt. He had forgotten that Dorrin was a Verrakai. “They wouldn’t include her; she’s not even in the family book,” he said. “They know, I would bet on it,” Stammel said. “Proper mess, it sounds like. So—we need to smarten up, before we come into the city?” Under the circumstances, he meant. Before they went into a royal barracks. “Good idea,” Arcolin said, and raised his hand. Stammel halted the cohort. He and Devlin and their new corporals went through, checking equipment, sharpening the troops up, and then they started off again. Arcolin took the opportunity to check his own gear, stuffing his winter hat into one saddlebag and the scarf around his throat into the other, putting on his helmet. Stammel came back to the front of the cohort, gave Arcolin a nod, and again they set off, now near enough to see the guard at the first gates. The palace guards, more alert than Arcolin had ever seen them, insisted he disarm before he came into the palace itself. “One of us will bring your arms, sir,” the taller guard said. “Under the circumstances no one can carry arms save with the prince’s express permission.” “That’s quite all right,” Arcolin said, unbelting his sword and dagger. “I have a small boot knife, as well.” “That also, if you please.” Arcolin removed it, and watched as the guard wrapped them all carefully then put the bundle under his arm. “This way, Captain,” the shorter guard said, and led the way; the taller followed with Arcolin’s weapons. He had been in the palace many times, carrying messages from the Duke to the Council and even to the crown prince as he grew older and more active in the government. He sensed at once the change in atmosphere, the tension showing in the way servants, guards, and nobles moved, the glances cast at him. A young man in Marrakai red and green with the shoulder oat h o f f ea lt y 37 knot of the kirgan stopped him. “Sir—aren’t you one of Phelan’s captains? Is there news of him?” “I’m Arcolin, his senior captain, yes—but I’m just in from the north and only now learning what has happened. I’ve had no news from the Duke—the king—since before he left here.” The kirgan gave a short nod. “Thank you. I believe my father has met you before. I wondered why you were here—” “The prince asked for him,” said Arcolin’s escort. “And we had best be going there, by your leave, Kirgan.” “Certainly, certainly.” The kirgan bowed. “I beg your pardon, sir.” Arcolin smiled, returned the bow, and went on, following his escort. The Marrakaien had always been Kieri’s particular friends, and Arcolin had seen the young Marrakai before. He’d then appeared to be one of the prince’s friends content to leave Council business to his elders. Now he, too, looked different. The crown prince was in his office, with armed guards at the door and inside both. Though it had been almost two years since Arcolin had seen him, Arcolin had not expected to find him looking so much more a king. Arcolin bowed. “My lord prince.” “Captain Arcolin! I’m glad to see you arrived safely. Did you have any trouble on the road?” “No, my lord. But then, I traveled with a full cohort. When I left the Duke’s stronghold, I knew only that he had been proclaimed king of Lyonya.” “You know about the assassinations?” “Only what your Royal Guard told me.” “You will need to know all of it; please sit down.” He looked at the guard carrying Arcolin’s weapons. “Return Captain Arcolin’s weapons to him; I know him personally and he is not a threat.” Arcolin sensed the guard’s reluctance and ventured a suggestion. “Perhaps you would prefer that my sword, at least, be in custody?” “No, no,” the prince said. “If we had not been armed, we would have died. You are known to me, and I will be happier when I see that sword on your hip.” Arcolin belted it back on, rearranged his other weapons, and sat down where the prince indicated. 38 e lizabeth mo on “My Council would agree to my coronation being advanced,” the prince said. “But I have chosen to wait until Midsummer, as is traditional. However, I have taken over additional powers in this time of emergency. Let me brief you on what happened.” Arcolin listened, horrified but fascinated, as the prince explained everything from Duke Phelan’s arrival at court, having been summoned by the Regency Council, to the present. And all while he, Arcolin, had been up at the stronghold, unaware. “Did you, did anyone in his Company, have any idea of his parentage?” the prince asked, finally. “No, my lord,” Arcolin said. “I was with him twenty years and more; we all thought him remarkable, but as for this—born to a throne and half-elven—it’s hardly believable.” “If I had not seen the sword come alight in his hands, I would not have believed it myself. I cannot—I cannot comprehend the years he was lost, or how he was found, and once found, not recognized.” “Nor I, my lord.” “Well, you know most of what has happened here. To complete the story, we discovered lairs of Liart’s worshippers in the Thieves’ Guild, and with the help of the city granges, these were exposed. Certain of the Thieves’ Guild have cooperated with the Crown . . . not all were happy to have overlords of any kind. That appears to be mostly through Paksenarrion’s influence with a thief—or Thieves’ Guild enforcer—she met in Brewersbridge years back.” “That would’ve been after she left us,” Arcolin said. “Yes. He’s the one who got her out after . . . well, after what happened.” “I don’t understand how she survived.” He wanted to hear that, not what had been done to her. For the first time the prince’s face relaxed into a smile. “Nor does anyone else except Gird and the High Lord’s favor. Witnesses say her wounds healed, slowly enough to watch and fast enough that in minutes she was whole again, broken bones mended, bleeding wounds but scars—or in some cases, no scars at all. It terrified those watching; they fled. She had been branded on the brow: she now bears a silver circle, the High Lord’s mark.” Arcolin felt hollow . . . he had known Paks from her first year oat h o f f ea lt y 39 in the Company, and though he had recognized her basic good character and her fighting ability, he’d never seen that potential in her. How had he missed so much—the Duke’s real nature, Paks’s real nature? What else had he missed? “You are an experienced soldier,” the prince said. “And you have known many realms. More than I have, who have visited only within Tsaia. You must recognize how unbalanced Tsaia is now, with two domains vacated . . . if this were the South, what would you say about it?” “A dangerous situation, my lord prince. Your eastern border, from north of the Honnorgat halfway down to the mountains, and your northern border all at risk.” “What would you do?” Arcolin stared. “My lord—that is for you and your Council to say.” “But you know Tsaia—you have lived here how long? And you have studied military history, our history, haven’t you?” Arcolin tried to calm himself. “You need strong, loyal lords in both places. Not the same for each—that’s too much, too big, for one to rule well and it would unbalance the realm. Verrakai—I know nothing about its resources, its people, even its terrain, but I would expect it’s more thickly settled, and thus potentially more difficult than the North Marches. Though at least, with Kieri Phelan ruling Lyonya, you should have no problems from over the border.” “Pargunese soldiers were also in that attack. It’s believed they crossed into either Verrakai’s lands directly or through Lyonya.” “Lyonya had a weak king.” “A dead king by then, but yes. I’m sure Kieri Phelan won’t let that happen again, though what resources he will have I don’t yet know.” “The northeast and north are your most vulnerable,” Arcolin said. “We fought off the orcs this last winter—destroyed their base and the Achryan priest supporting them. They should be little trouble for a while. The Pargunese, though, test the border off and on—we keep constant patrols out for that.” “Who’s commanding there?” “Cracolnya—he has been senior captain of the mixed cohort for years. Experienced, a good tactician, good manager, too. When Captain Dorrin comes back—” He paused at the look on 40 e lizabeth mo on the prince’s face and felt his heart sink. “She didn’t—in that attack—?” “No, no. She survived; her arrival with the paladin just saved the day, I understand. I would like your assessment of her. You do know she’s a Verrakai?” “Of course,” Arcolin said. “She’s never made a secret of it, or of her estrangement from her family.” “Do you believe that estrangement complete? Have you known her to contact her family?” “No, my lord, never. I know she asked the Duke—the king— not to assign her to duties here, where she might meet Duke Verrakai. She and the Verrakaien both considered her no longer part of the family.” He hoped to convince the prince Dorrin was not a traitor. “Birth matters, in spite of choice,” the prince said, a bit grimly. “It made your duke a king; it will make Dorrin Verrakai a duke, if she accepts my offer.” Arcolin stared. “Dorrin? You can’t mean— I beg pardon, but—you want her to take over as Duke Verrakai? Of Verrakai?” He imagined Dorrin’s reaction to the thought; she had spoken of her family only with revulsion. “She’s the only adult Verrakai I can exempt from the Order of Attainder, precisely because she was estranged and was said to be blotted from their records. Not every Verrakai is evil—I know that—but at present I cannot take risks. The innocent will clear themselves at trial, in time, but I dare not leave Verrakaien loose on the land that long. We have evidence they’ve colluded with Liart’s priests—it’s a danger to both.” “But—” Arcolin could not imagine the Duke’s Company without Dorrin any more than he could imagine it without the Duke. He shook his head to clear it. “We were expecting her to return—the Duke said her cohort had been sent for, as escort, but are they staying?” “I don’t know yet. They went with him into Lyonya; if she takes up my offer—which is contingent on her gaining control of Verrakai and sending those resident at Verrakai House to Vérella—she may well want to keep them with her and I’m assuming the king or his successor as duke will agree to a contract with her.” Arcolin considered the situation back north . . . were two oat h o f f ea lt y 41 cohorts enough to protect the dukedom and Tsaia’s borders? Probably. It had worked that way for years, with even fewer at the stronghold during the fighting season. “I’m pleased to hear your opinion of Dorrin Verrakai,” the prince said. “It accords with everything Phelan ever said about her, and I see her as the best hope to make Verrakai a healthy, sound, and loyal steading. There’s a young man in another branch—whom I personally believe is loyal and not involved— who, after his trial, should be a good possibility as her successor, as she has no children and is unlikely to breed.” “Likely not,” Arcolin said, almost choking at the casual use of a term that, applied to Dorrin, made her nothing but a prize cow. “And that leaves the problem of Phelan’s domain,” the prince said. “For my part, I would let it stay in his name awhile, and consult with him on a successor, but the Council is concerned. They do not wish so large a domain to be under the control of Lyonya’s king, more especially as it adjoins Pargun.” “I understand,” Arcolin said, when a pause seemed longer than necessary. “Tell me,” the prince said. “I know he sent word to you—what were his orders?” “Before he came south, to prepare the troops for a contract; he was hoping to get your approval to take some of the Company south again. Then this—” Arcolin handed the prince Kieri’s letter. “I have a one-cohort contract with Vonja, if the Council approves.” “I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” the prince said, handing the letter back. “Phelan maintained more troops than other nobles—everyone knew it was because he was a mercenary— but some worried.” Arcolin privately thought they had simply wanted an excuse to control Phelan, but he said nothing about that. “But they expect me to appoint someone—at least temporarily, though they’d prefer a permanent status. I thought of you, of course, and he suggested it.” The prince cocked his head. “Me? But—I’m not of noble birth—” “No one thought Phelan was.” “But—” “He taught me that what justifies an appointment—any appointment—is how the person carries out their duties, not their 42 e lizabeth mo on birth. He thought you’d be capable, Captain, and his judgment has proven itself over the years.” But I’m taking the cohort to Aarenis almost escaped Arcolin’s lips; he held it back and instead said, “I’m honored by his trust, and yours, my lord. However, I would need to take contracts, as Phelan did. Otherwise, I could neither afford the soldiers’ keep, nor would it be legal under Tsaian law.” “I have no objection, and for the reason you state—our laws— it is as well that you continue to take them south. Moreover, as Phelan himself went south every year with the Company, you should be permitted to do so as well. The Council will want to know, as they did with him, who is in charge in your absence every year.” The prince shifted in his seat. “What I would like is this: to change as little as possible now, when great change is happening in the East. Dorrin Verrakai as Duke Verrakai is shock enough; the trials of the other Verrakai will occupy the lords in Council for the rest of the year, at least. If you can protect the borders and maintain the same routine as Phelan, that seems best to me. I can call a Council meeting for tomorrow; can you be ready to present such a plan?” Arcolin had not felt ready for any of the things that happened since Paksenarrion returned to them, but life did not wait on readiness. “Yes,” he said. “I can be ready.” He felt every moment of the day’s ride, but one thing he’d learned from Kieri was that tired was just a word. “I will need more paper than I brought—” “Of course,” the prince said. “In fact, we’ve assigned you my late uncle’s suite, as I haven’t yet appointed a new KnightCommander of the Bells. And I’ve assigned you a clerk, in case you need anything from the library, any research.” “My lord prince,” Arcolin said, very carefully, “you are more concerned than you’ve said, are you not?” “I have a—a strange feeling. It’s not over, with Verrakai’s death. I don’t know what . . . but . . . I feel a menace.” The prince swallowed. “Not just danger to me, but to the whole realm. And yet— it’s only a feeling, and when there was danger, before Verrakai’s attack, I felt nothing.” “Nothing? After what you told me of the attack on Kieri—on the king?” oat h o f f ea lt y 43 “Not that night. Beclan—my uncle—had told me they thought they’d found all the Liartian priests. At dinner with my friends, it felt normal—I missed it somehow—and now I don’t know if my feelings are trustworthy—” “If you are asking me whether to be concerned, my lord, the answer must be yes. Of course you must be. Gird may be giving you warning, as well as your own senses. From my experience I would say that such actions as Duke Verrakai took are not taken lightly, or without deep planning; I doubt that his death and that of his brother end it. Your Order of Attainder is certainly necessary.” “He held me motionless, Captain,” the prince said. “I cannot get over that. I thought Gird’s power was stronger than evil; I thought my faith was enough. This was not wizardry—this was the old magery that Gird once defeated, back again in today’s world.” The prince looked angry; Arcolin knew that look. All the young squires looked that way the first time they were truly frightened. “My lord prince,” he said, “I believe the gods are stronger than evil, but faith must marry with deeds. Gird had his cudgel, after all. Yeomen of the granges do not merely pray for faith, but train for deeds as well.” The prince looked at him, almost indignant at first and then, his expression easing, rueful. “You are right, Captain. This was my first experience of violent death. I saw my uncle, whom I loved, killed before my face and could do nothing. And the Marshal-Judicar, as well.” “Yet you lived, and killed the killer, did you not?” “That was mostly Roly,” the prince said. “If he hadn’t come in and bashed Verrakai with a map rod and then stabbed him with a stone knife, I’d be dead. Neither my sword nor Juris’s would bite, for Verrakai’s magery, until Roly’s old stone saveblade got him. Then the magery failed.” Arcolin could imagine the three noble youths, trained in weaponry but inexperienced, against a man like Verrakai, whose own sword skill was well-known at court. And with magery as well—even if it proved wizard-work at the last— “You did well,” he said, as he would have to a squire. “And I 44 e lizabeth mo on rejoice at your survival. Let me go to work now on a plan to present to your Council tomorrow.” He put aside any thought of visiting Kieri’s—and now his—banker that day. “I nearly forgot,” the prince said. “There’s another of Phelan’s people—a councilor for one of his villages—who came south with him. A one-armed woman.” “Kolya Ministiera, yes,” Arcolin said. “She was staying in an inn, but for her safety I had her come to the palace—I’ll see she knows you’re here.” By morning, Arcolin had a plan that—according to the palace clerks who had helped him—would fulfill the requirements of a grant-in-lieu-of-heir. They praised his foresight in bringing fair copies of the newly signed village charters. Kolya Ministiera signed the new Duke’s East charter and congratulated him on the grant, but they had little time to talk over what had happened. Though he’d had little sleep, Arcolin was awake when the seneschal asked if he would care to breakfast with the prince; they discussed his plan through breakfast and the prince nodded. “This should do,” he said. “They won’t give you a title at this time, but they should confirm you as grant-holder until you come back after the campaign season. Once I’m crowned, I can insist on a title, though not a dukedom at first—it wasn’t for Phelan, either.” “I remember, my lord prince.” “Well, then. The Council meeting, and the oath—you do know you must swear fealty? Good—and then you can go about your business. I know you did not anticipate all this, but before you return for the Autumn Court, we’ll need to know your mark, your colors, and you’ll need court costume.” “The same colors and mark, if that’s permissible,” Arcolin said. “I am not Phelan’s heir of the body, it is true, but—” “You will need his permission,” the prince said. “If you like, you can send him word by royal courier.” Arcolin nodded. It still felt unreal, but coping with details, moment to moment, he had no time to ponder how unlikely it was that he, like Kieri, might rise to noble rank and own land . . . his own land, his own people. His appearance before the Council took less than a glass: he oat h o f f ea lt y 45 laid out the papers, the charters, his intent to guard the North and East as Kieri had, his need to campaign in the South to support the land until it could support itself. He recognized most of the faces from previous visits. The Councilors agreed that Jandelir Arcolin should become liege lord of the vacated domain. That he could raise a military force sufficient to guard the North and also campaign in Aarenis, that he could transport said force across Tsaia and through Vérella on the same roads Phelan had used twice each year. He bent his knee to the prince and swore fealty; he signed the documents that made him a lord-vassal of the Crown and defined his responsibilities. The prince waived the usual security until autumn—Arcolin hoped Kieri’s bankers somewhere had that much gold—and by the noon ringing of the Bells, Jandelir Arcolin, Captain, had become Lord Arcolin of the North Marches. He spent the afternoon first with Kieri’s banker and judicar, and then with Kolya and the merchants Kieri dealt with in Vérella, buying the supplies Cracolnya and Valichi wanted. That evening he wrote letters to the North, again aided by the castle clerks who made copies so he need not write duplicates to each village and each commander, and a letter to Kieri in Lyonya, asking permission to retain the fox-head mark and the same colors. Although he had carried out similar tasks for Kieri, it felt strange to be doing it for himself—to sign the letters and orders as Lord Arcolin and not Arcolin, Capt, for Duke Phelan. He supposed he would get used to it. CHAPTER SEVEN Chaya Kieri Phelan woke, aware moment by moment that he was in a bed he had never slept in before, in a room he did not know . . . textures, smells, sounds, all unfamiliar. He blinked, in the almost-dark: yesterday and the days before fell into his memory like tiny paintings, bright and clear. The journey from Vérella, the Verrakai attack, the victory, the welcome here, last night’s acclamation by the Lyonyan nobles and his elven relatives. Outside, a cock crowed, persistently, and another answered. A dog barked, then quieted. He heard nothing from inside the palace; it might be near dawn, to the cock, but apparently a very early morning to the castle staff. A cold current of air came from . . . from there, to his left as he lay in the bed. He stretched again, sniffing the scents that rode on that chill current: stone, the spice of evergreen trees from without, and in the room more subtle spices. From somewhere across the room came a vague sense of warmth, and the smell of woodsmoke, very faint. He had seen a fireplace in the room the evening before, and a crackling wood fire . . . now it must be banked, but still giving warmth. He slipped from under the covers and padded across a carpeted floor—he remembered it was patterned with flowers and vines—to the nearer window. Below all was dark, silent. Above, stars still glittered, but there—it must be sunwards—a dullness dimmed them. Dawn was coming. When did the palace awake? They had had a sick king— perhaps they slept late here? His own stronghold woke earlier than this; kitchen fires would be burning; recruits would be roused, chivvied into the jacks and out, readying their barracks oat h o f f ea lt y 47 for inspection . . . even as he wondered, he smelled woodsmoke from outside as the wind eddied. Abruptly, from below, boot heels rang on stone paving, followed by the lighter patter of soft-shod feet. No lights, though . . . did they need no light? A small light bloomed in the distance; he heard the rasp and snick of a latch, the creak of hinges, and then the whinny of horses and the stamping of hooves. He moved to the fireplace, guided by memory and the gentle warmth, and felt around on the hearth. There—a pot or vase, filled with reeds. He poked at the fire; ashes fell away from a crimson coal, and in moments a flame trembled at the end of the reed. It hardly lit the room, but in its dim wavering light he could see a candlestick placed handily on the hearth, and lit the wax taper there. From that, he could see the larger candles on the mantel, arranged in a holder, eight of them. He lit only one, then carried the single stick to the bedside, where he lit a bedside candlestick with it. A draft from the window blew the flickering flames sideways, glinting on the jewel in the hilt of his sword. From outside the door of his own chamber, a soft murmur of voices. He saw no robe within reach, and slid under the covers. The door opened. Silhouetted against the soft light in the corridor he saw a single figure. “Sir King! You’re awake!” Lieth. It was Lieth, the youngest of the King’s Squires who had come to Tsaia and accompanied him here. “My pardon, I intended only to stir your fire and begin warming the bath . . .” “I wake early,” he said. “Let me light your candles,” she said. In moments the chamber was softly lit by candelabra on stands, and she had stirred the banked fire into life. “I will send word that you are awake—we expected, after your long journey, that you would sleep longer.” “It is no matter,” Kieri said. He looked around. The clothes he had worn were nowhere in sight. “My clothes—?” “I’ll send someone,” she said. Moments later, an old man appeared, Kieri’s trousers folded over one arm and a green robe over the other. “Sir King, I am Joriam. Your pardon—I did not know you were awake. Your 48 e lizabeth mo on bath chamber is there—and let me show you your wardrobe—” He touched one of the carved wall panels, and it slid aside, revealing clothes all in shades of green and gold. “We have already taken measure from the clothes you wore, and tailors will have your new garments ready in a day or so. Meanwhile, these are clothes the previous king wore rarely or never, made for him before his final illness.” Bathed and dressed, in a mix of his own clothes and shirt and doublet in Lyonya’s royal colors, Kieri felt more than ready for breakfast, but had no idea where to go. Joriam had taken away his robe and nightshirt and had not yet returned. He opened the door; two unfamiliar King’s Squires stood guard on either side. Across the passage, Paks sat on a bench, chatting with another. She looked up and smiled at him, the same open smile she’d always had but now—with his memories of what she had undergone for his sake—he felt embarrassed. The corner of her mouth quirked, as if she had read his mind. “Sir King,” she said, standing. “They tell me breakfast is ready downstairs, or someone will bring it—” “I’ll go down,” he said. One of the King’s Squires went ahead of him; Paks moved to his side as if he’d commanded her; the other King’s Squires fell in behind. “You did sleep last night?” he said to Paks. “Enough,” she said. He eyed her. She was still much as she had been when he first saw her. Yet . . . not. She had been just another recruit, and now she was Gird’s paladin. Not, as she had pointed out, his to command any longer. “Captain Dorrin’s awake; she has a report on the cohort for you.” “I wonder if Sir Ammerlin made it safely back to Vérella.” More than that, he wondered what the Tsaian Council would do, with one of its dukes now king of a neighboring domain and another a proven traitor. Paks did not quite shrug; he could sense her lack of interest in these things. Her quest had been to find Lyonya’s king; she had done so; now she had a respite before, he assumed, Gird sent her somewhere else. In the passage outside the dining hall, a group of Lyonyan nobles milled about as if waiting for something to happen. He saw Dorrin, looking faintly amused, standing to one side, and a smaller group of elves even farther away. oat h o f f ea lt y 49 “The king,” announced the lead King’s Squire, and everyone stepped back, bowing, murmuring greetings. “Good morning,” Kieri said. He could think of nothing else to say. Apparently that was enough, because the doors to the dining hall opened and he led the way in. A man in the green castle livery bowed him to a seat at one end of a table large enough, he thought, to hold fencing matches on . . . far too large for breakfast . . . and by the time everyone was seated, it was only half full, if that. Breakfast, in Lyonya, meant hot breads, butter and honey, soft cheeses, fruit. None of the porridge he was used to, no meats, no eggs. He made no requests, wanting to know first what was expected. The talk at table was general, casual—nobles asked after each other’s children, or discussed the likelihood of a good crop of wheat this year. Nothing of substance, and nothing addressed specifically to him. When he felt almost full, another tray came in, this one holding rolls of flaky pastry tied with thin green ribbons. One was placed before him, and then before each of the others. Silence fell. Kieri regarded the pastry roll; the others looked at theirs, and then at him. He picked it up, unwrapped the ribbon, and took a cautious bite. Pastry crumbs scattered, as the others did the same. One of the nobles—Sier Belvarin, he thought he recalled—turned to him. “Sir King, we really should begin planning your coronation.” So . . . the pastry rolls were a signal that business could be discussed? That the king could be addressed? He nodded at Belvarin. “You know that I am not familiar with all your customs and traditions—what do you suggest?” Glances passed back and forth across the table. “Well . . .” Belvarin seemed reluctant to go on. Kieri waited. “The period of deep mourning for the late king has passed, but by custom—” “Not that it matters,” another noble spoke up. “Your coronation must supersede—” “We must respect—” another began. “Excuse me,” Kieri said. Silence fell; they all looked at him. He felt a moment’s amusement. The former king had been sick a long time and perhaps had never been a commanding presence. He would have to be careful not to startle these men with 50 e lizabeth mo on his parade-ground voice too often. “If there is a traditional period of mourning for the death of your king, or ceremonies to be performed, that must be respected.” The impatient one opened his mouth and shut it again. Sier Belvarin looked relieved. “It would be—it would be appreciated, Sir King, if it suits you . . .” “How long is the official mourning?” If they would not follow hints, he would ask directly. “Four hands of days in deep mourning, during which no official business can be done except for emergencies. Sending the paladin to search for the heir was deemed an emergency.” “And then?” “Four more hands of days preparing for the transfer of kingship, but that does not start until the king is chosen. As you are here now, that period can begin. With the ceremony usually performed on the fifth or tenth day after that.” “Surely there is a ceremony of mourning, which the new king should attend—” Glances again shifted around the table. “Well . . . yes . . .” Belvarin said reluctantly. “But as custom requires, he was interred on the fifth day . . .” “I must do something,” Kieri said. “He was my relative on my father’s side, though I never knew him. I have had no chance to honor or grieve for any of them—my parents, my sister, the others—” Paks, down the table, nodded at him; he could see for himself that the other nobles and even the elves were relaxing a shade more. Belvarin’s brow furrowed. “Sir King, you would wish to combine all these into one ceremony?” “I do not know your traditions,” Kieri said again. “I depend on you for guidance—but surely the late king’s memory must be honored now, before I am crowned.” “It would be better,” said one of the elves, “if the other ceremonies—at least for the elfborn and half-elven—were separate, since their deaths were long ago in your human terms. Each life deserves its own measure of respect; they are not kindling wood, to be bundled together.” A few shocked looks from the human nobles, but no disagreement. oat h o f f ea lt y 51 “Thank you,” Kieri said. “I mean no disrespect and will be guided by your counsel—all of you—in this matter. Now, Sier Belvarin, tell me what is appropriate in the matter of the former king.” “It is what we call laying the boughs,” Belvarin said. “It can be public or private, with someone to guide you through the ritual, but it should be soon.” “I will be ready whenever you say,” Kieri said. “And then your coronation . . .” Belvarin said. “I see no need to rush,” Kieri said. “At the regular time, after the days of preparation. You are not like to change your minds, I hope?” A quick murmur of negatives. “You came on an auspicious day,” Belvarin said. “Forty-five days after he died. And four hands more brings us five days from the Spring Evener. Your coronation could be on the Spring Evener or another day that hand.” Then, seeing Kieri’s expression, he went on. “Nine times a hand, Sir King—the elves consider nine auspicious for deeds of power.” Kieri nodded; he knew the elves cared far more about numbers for their own sake than any other race. “This is, I presume, an unusual—perhaps a unique—situation in your history?” “It is indeed,” Sier Halveric said. Though he was Aliam Halveric’s elder brother, he looked younger and sleeker—he had not spent his life leading an army in battle, Kieri thought. “For that reason, it is my belief your coronation must be more elaborate—” “We must consider our resources—” Sier Galvary said. Kieri had no idea what resources Lyonya commanded. What did a kingdom covered with forest and full of elves and a few humans produce? He had only the vaguest memory of seeing goods identified as coming from Lyonya in Tsaian markets. Where else could they trade? What did they trade? Aliam Halveric had taught him long ago that finance was the foundation of a successful mercenary company—or steading—or kingdom. “Excuse me,” he said. They all fell silent again. “I was last here as a youth, a young man—living with Aliam Halveric as his squire, and then in Falk’s Hall preparing for knighthood. I apologize for knowing so little about your—our—land, but I have no 52 e lizabeth mo on idea what these resources are. You will need to instruct me . . . it is not my intent to ruin the land before I know it well, by undue extravagance, but on the other hand, your honor is due some ceremony.” This time, as the glances passed across the table, he was able to pick out patterns. Of the humans, Halveric and Belvarin seemed to lead opposition groups; others looked to them first, then at each other. Familiar as he was with the workings of Tsaia’s court, here he felt adrift, uncertain. They did not need his uncertainty: they needed the best he could give them. He tried to remember what Aliam had said about his brother. “We have time,” he said. “Time for me to learn more of what I need to know, time to plan.” One of the elves nodded, approving. But elves always had time, if a rock didn’t land on one. “I will need to check on my escort, after breakfast, but let us say midmorning, for a meeting of those who keep the finances?” This time a look of surprise from them all. “You don’t wish to rest a day or so?” Belvarin asked. “Your long journey . . . the attack . . . surely you are still fatigued. We do not wish to exhaust you.” Kieri managed not to laugh out loud. He, a mercenary, fatigued by a journey that had been, except for the battle, no strain at all? “I am not fatigued,” he said, pitching his voice to reassure Belvarin. “You had a sick king so long, I understand and appreciate your concern, but having taken on this task, I intend to do a good job. Which means going to work now, this morning. If you, Sier Belvarin, will begin organizing the memorial for my predecessor—” He did not even know the man’s name, and no one had mentioned it. “I will speak to you later about that. For the finances—” Brisk nods. Sier Galvary raised his hand; Kieri nodded. “Sir King, those keeping the treasure rolls of the kingdom report to me. Would it please you to come to the treasury yourself, or would you prefer to see the records here?” He paused, and before Kieri could answer said, “The light is better here, to be honest, and the tables are larger.” Kieri smiled. “Here, then. I need to know all you can tell me about the economy of Lyonya, internal and external, from what crops are grown in the fields and fruit in the orchard, to what goods are traded here and abroad. I know it will take more than oat h o f f ea lt y 53 a day to learn . . .” He pushed back his chair and they all stood; when he stood, they bowed, and he nodded gravely. Paks and Dorrin, catching his hand signal, stood aside as the Siers and elves left the dining hall and waited for him. “Do you want me to parade the cohort here, my lord—Sir King?” Dorrin asked. “I think not,” Kieri said. “I need to begin learning my way around; I’ll visit them where they’re quartered. Paks, I doubt I’ll have time to check on my mount today—would you see that he’s exercised a little? Tell whoever’s in charge of the stables that he should be walked in hand for perhaps a glass, but nothing fast. He’s in a strange stable and he can be fretful.” “Of course, Sir King,” Paks said. “I can lead him from mine, if you like; I was going out.” “He doesn’t usually—” Kieri began, then chuckled. Any horse would follow Paks’s paladin mount, he was sure. “Yes, if you have the time, that would be perfect. Let him get used to the place.” He turned to Dorrin. “A few minutes for the jacks and we’ll be off.” The King’s Squires went before and behind as he and Dorrin walked briskly across the palace forecourt toward the great gates. The air was chill and damp, but not cold; he thought it felt like a light frost the night before, but nothing to harm the early spring that had followed him from the border. Kieri looked around, trying to discern more of the layout than he had in the brief glimpses he’d had the afternoon and evening before. His childhood memories of the place did not help: then, all the walls had seemed the same height, and the child’s interest had been on knee-high things. It looked smaller now—but he had been smaller. Was it as big as the palace in Tsaia? He thought not, but he hadn’t seen all of it yet. Outside the gates, they turned left. A broad cobbled street, a few muddy lumps of snow still piled along the margins, lay between them and a stretch of winter-tan grass just showing a little green between ranked trees far taller than the palace. It stretched away in the distance. “What’s that?” he asked. “The Royal Ride,” one of the Squires answered. “It leads to the Royal Forest, if you like to hunt.” If he liked to hunt? Kieri felt a grin stretch his face. His steading had no real forest, being far north of the Honnorgat, 54 e lizabeth mo on only patches of woods his tenants needed for wood and nuts and rooting for their hogs. He had hunted a few times with Marrakai, who had extensive forests, and once with the crown prince in Tsaia’s Royal Reserve. He looked at the long stretch of turf, imagined riding there, galloping flat-out . . . but he had work to do first. “Most of the meat on the palace tables is game,” another Squire said. “The Royal Huntsman provides it as needed. Venison, wild boar, and small game.” His mouth watered. He ignored it; he had just had breakfast. But the thought kept coming back. He had a forest . . . a palace and a forest. A forest full of game. “I do not know your names,” Kieri said. “I met only those who came to Tsaia with Paks. How many King’s Squires are there?” “In former days, as many as twenty, but with our king’s illness, he needed fewer, and dismissed the rest. Six only stayed at the palace. We—my pardon, Sir King: I am Astil, and these others—” He paused; they spoke one by one, giving their names: Varñe, Berne, Panin. “We were called back to serve for a time.” “How are you chosen?” Kieri asked. “The king chooses, from those with the skills, and who desire to serve. King’s Squires must be Knights of Falk, sound in body, skilled in weaponcraft, hardy, and must speak elvish well enough to be understood and understand. Some Squires have been rangers, others come from the Royal Archers.” “Are any of you elves?” “No, Sir King. Elves do not serve that way. More were halfelven in the old days, but not in the former king’s reign.” Beyond the strip of trees that bordered the Royal Ride, stone and wood buildings bordered the road on both sides; the wall enclosing the palace grounds ended, he realized, with that strip of trees across from it. Now there were people, scurrying about on their errands; he recognized the same styles of clothes as he knew from Tsaia, plus some he did not know, odd shapes in hats, wider trousers tucked into shorter boots. When people saw the King’s Squires, they stopped, turned to stare, and then bowed to him. Kieri smiled; he wondered if he should speak to them individually, but after that polite bow, they turned and went on the way they had been going. “They won’t bother you today,” Astil said. “It is considered rude to approach the king unless it is a day declared for such a oat h o f f ea lt y 55 thing. No one expected you would be out today, so they are probably confused and certainly not ready to intrude.” “Thank you,” Kieri said. The street they were on curved this way and that around the massive boles of tall trees; he noticed gaps in the rows of buildings, where other trees—singly and in groups—grew undisturbed. It made the city seem smaller, more like a market town; he had no way to gauge its real size when he could not see more of it at once. “Down here,” Dorrin said. Astil and Varñe turned left into a side street with a narrow walking lane cleared between melting snowbanks. It sloped gently downward; Kieri could see all the way over a low wall to open land beyond, not trees. He remembered coming out of the forest through which they’d ridden from the Tsaian border, to see across wide meadows and a stream the city sheltering under great trees. No city wall, he remembered; only the palace had a wall. How did they defend—? “It’s that inn—the Smoking Chimney,” Dorrin said. A wider space had been cleared of snow in front of the inn. A heavy door stood open, with a blanket hung to keep out a draft. From inside, Kieri heard familiar Tsaian accents. “An’ I don’t doubt the captain and himself’ll be here soon enough, so there’ll be no wanderin’ off nowhere to get into trouble. You’ll stay here until we get orders otherwise—” Varñe knocked on the door; they heard footsteps approaching. A man with a long apron tied around his waist poked his head out from around the blanket and said, “I’m sorry, we have no rooms—oh! Sir King—come in—” He held the blanket aside. Before Kieri could adjust his sight, the drum of boots on the floor told him what was happening. Sure enough, the cohort stood in perfect order, tables and stools in the inn’s common room shoved aside. “Well,” he said. Their faces struck him to the heart. How many years he had led these soldiers up and down from his steading to Aarenis and back. How many years they had followed his orders, fought his campaigns and won them. And now . . . now he must hand them over to someone else. But not just yet. Now was the time to do what they expected, to reassure them—after a night alone in a strange city—that they were safe, that he still cared. He walked along the lines, as at any inspection. Boots polished, brass bright. He knew without 56 e lizabeth mo on asking they had all had breakfast, all made their beds—whatever their beds were, here. The innkeeper looked calm; the servants— over there, watching—looked more curious than anything else. The main thing, besides letting them see him, letting them absorb the differences—his gold and green clothes instead of maroon and white, the King’s Squires—the main thing was to keep them busy, until he must send them away home. “Are the horses here, Captain?” he asked Dorrin as he moved to the end of the front rank, with a little nod for the corporal. “Yes, Sir King,” she said. This time she did not stumble over it; he didn’t expect she ever would again. “This inn had enough stable room; I chose it for that reason.” “Excellent,” Kieri said. “After inspection—Jamis, you missed a spot on your left boot—” Jamis turned red. “You’ll want to check your mounts and exercise them.” He glanced at Astil. “Where could a troop ride, and not cause a problem? The Royal Ride?” “Sir King, the Royal Ride certainly, but closer to this inn are the river meadows. I’m sure one of the stableboys could show you the way.” “It’s up to you, Captain,” Kieri said. “The horses will need light exercise today and some work every day the weather and ground conditions allow. We won’t want to turn the river meadows into a quagmire. Innkeeper—” The man came forward, face alight. “You have met Captain Dorrin, I know, but let me be clear about your fees—” “You don’t need to worry, sir—sire,” the man said, flushing. “It’s an honor, it is, to have you in my inn—” “I’m not worried,” Kieri said with a smile. “But I know how much my soldiers eat. Be sure that you will be paid, and regularly, for their board, as long as they stay here. And if there should be any problems, do not hesitate to tell Captain Dorrin.” “I was scared at first, sire,” the man said. “Them being foreign soldiers, and mercenaries at that. But they’re less trouble than some merchants, I’d say. Why that’n—” He pointed at a man in the third rank; Kieri recognized Ulfin, a ten-year veteran. “—he already rehung a door on its hinges that a drunk had kicked out two nights agone and I’d had no time to fix. They can stay as long as you like, sire, so long as I can buy the food to feed them.” Dorrin stayed with the cohort to organize their exercise; Kieri oat h o f f ea lt y 57 and the King’s Squires headed back to the palace. Kieri looked around; from this direction, he could tell the city—town— stretched off to the east, though he could not tell where it ended. He would have to spend a day exploring, or find a map. As they passed the trees bordering the Royal Ride, Berne stared off down the grassy stretch. “Someone’s there!” he said. “Coming down the Ride.” Kieri looked. A red horse, its tall rider leading a gray he also recognized. “It’s Paks,” he said. “She’s exercising my mount Banner . . .” He hardly recognized the feeling that tightened his chest. She was another he would lose, when she left—when Gird or the gods called her away on quest. He wished suddenly he could have met her family, her father. Did they even know what she had become? Would they ever? She had spotted him now, and waved; he waved back. The red horse lifted into a trot; his gray surged forward, then slowed at a flick of the red’s ear, keeping polite pace without crowding or rushing. As they neared, Paks smiled down at him. “I didn’t think a short trot would hurt,” she said. “He looks good,” Kieri said. Banner took a step forward, toward him, then stopped, eyeing the red horse. “Here,” Paks said, tossing him the lead rope. He caught it neatly, and Banner came to him, lowering a velvety muzzle to his hands. “He was no trouble—a bit stiff at first, as you suspected, but loosened up quickly.” “I’ll take him back myself,” Kieri said, “if you want to ride longer.” “You? Sir King, one of us can take—” But as Astil reached for the lead, the horse threw up his head and snorted. “He’s used to me,” Kieri said. “And he’s trained for war.” “A gray,” murmured Panin, who had said the least so far. “You know they’re high-strung, Astil.” Kieri sensed some bias he needed to know. Stroking the horse’s neck, he said, “Grays are high-strung?” “Everyone knows that,” Panin said. “They’re air and water— unstable, changeable, capricious. Earth-fire horses, like that—” He nodded at Paks’s horse, standing like a statue, ears forward and only little puffs of vapor coming from its nostrils in the cool air. “They’re much steadier.” “Hmmm,” Kieri said. Not the right time to question their 58 e lizabeth mo on prejudices, but he’d never seen grays as particularly flighty. Certainly not Banner. He had an impulse to show them how steady Banner could be, but even Banner might act up if he swung up bareback in this strange place. “Come along, Banner,” he said instead, and walked on, the gray horse at his side. “Do you need me, Sir King?” Paks asked. “No,” he said, hoping she meant only “for the present” but knowing he must say the same if she was leaving forever. “Then I’ll let this fellow stretch his legs,” she said. Some signal passed from her to the red horse, or the horse took it on himself to disprove the Squires’ beliefs, for he pranced in place, half reared, then wheeled, and bolted flat-out back up the Royal Ride, wet divots spraying up behind him. “She rides like a horse nomad,” Panin said. “She rides like a paladin,” Kieri said. “Horse nomads would worship her as the Windsteed’s bride, if they saw her on that horse.” “Sir King—Sir King—!” A groom hurried from the opening of the mews to the left as they entered the palace gate. “I can take him, Sir King—you need not—” “Just show me where he’s stabled,” Kieri said. “His name’s Banner—I don’t think I told anyone when we arrived.” “Sir—down here, then, if you will.” The row of stalls seemed to be mostly empty, but the stall the groom led him to was amply large, clean, freshly laid with deep straw. Kieri stopped the horse outside. “He’s been exercised in the Royal Ride, and it’s wet—you’ll want to check his hooves, make sure he’s thrown all the mudballs out.” “Of course, Sir King. Jemi—come hold this horse—” A younger man, hardly more than a boy, came out of a stall down the row and hurried to take the lead. Kieri gave the horse a last pat and turned away. Buy a paperback of OATH OF FEALTY Amazon Barnes & Noble Borders Powell’s IndieBound Other Retailers Buy an eBook of OATH OF FEALTY Amazon Barnes & Noble Borders Sony Kobo Other Retailers