Oath of Gold

26

Paks came to the grange hall in the padded training armor and surcoat Seklis had provided. Lieth carried her paladin’s mail, and the elven blade. Light blazed from the grange hall windows: candles on frames hung high above the floor, more candles set in brackets along the walls and the railing separating the seats from the open space. Paks peeked into the hall on her way to the High Marshal’s study: already the seats were filling.

Seklis grinned when he saw her. “Ah—Lady Paksenarrion. Come, meet your fellow examiners. Here’s Marshal Sulinarrion, of Seameadow Grange—and Marshal Aris, of Copswith Grange—and Marshal Doryan—” Someone pulled at his sleeve, and he turned away, leaving Paks with three Marshals: a tall brown-haired woman and two men, both gray-haired and dark-eyed. By the time she had them sorted out (Aris was taller, with a wide scar on his forehead), the High Marshal was back, to complete the introductions. Paks was not sure she had them all straight in her mind, but there was no time to worry about it. The great Bells began to peal, and everyone moved into line, with Seklis rearranging as he saw fit.

“You, Suli—and then Seli here—and Paks, you get behind him. There. Gird’s grace on all of us.”

“Gird’s grace,” came the response, and they walked quickly into the hall, ranging themselves across the width of it just below the platform.

The seats were filled. Candlelight glittered on jewels, slid along the folds of satin and silk, caught the flash of an eye that glanced, and shone steadily back from the few motionless hands. From the far end of the Hall, a fanfare of trumpets followed the bells into silence. Then the pointers, who would judge the trials, entered in their spotless white uniforms. They came forward, bowing once to the examiners in line, then withdrew in two files to either side. Another blast of trumpets, and the candidates entered in two files, still wearing gray training clothes and training armor. They faced the examiners, bowed, and waited. High Marshal Seklis stepped forward.

“Who presents these candidates for trial?”

“I do.” A heavy-set man in the green, rose, and white of the Order stepped into the hall. “Sir Arinalt Konhalt, Training Master of the Order of the Bells.”

“Their names?”

As the Training Master spoke each name, the youth bowed. When he had finished, the Marshal-General spoke again.

“Here in the very hall where Luap spoke, and witnessed to the deeds of Gird, Protector of the Innocent and Helpless, we meet to test the fitness of these youths for knighthood. Each shall demonstrate in at least two bouts that he or she is skilled in swordfighting and brave enough to face a naked blade before others. Do you all agree to submit to the judgment of the pointers?” A murmur of agreement came from them all. “Then here is the order of the examiners.” Seklis introduced each examiner. “Because we have so many candidates,” Seklis went on, “we cannot accommodate all bouts at once. The first five candidates will now choose their examiners.” As the candidates moved forward, Paks watched their faces. They seemed very young; she reminded herself that they had had at least two years of knight’s training, besides serving as squires. None of the first five chose her; she watched as the examiners and pointers led the candidates back down the hall to the fighting areas. The candidates waiting for their turns began to fidget. They could not turn around and watch; they had to face the remaining examiners and try to feign calmness.

At the sound of trumpets, the first bouts began. Swords rang together, and stone echoed the stamp of booted feet. The nearest bout seemed evenly matched at first. Seklis had said that the examiners began by trying standard stroke combinations. No bout could end (except in emergencies) before fifty strokes, no matter what points were scored; most, he said, took between that and a hundred. Paks tried to keep count, but lost it when someone down the Hall cried out. Heads craned, but the bouts went on. Paks looked back at the pair she’d been watching; now the examiner, a Marshal whose name she’d forgotten, was moving the candidate around the area, gaining points with every stroke. The candidate rallied a moment, lunging again and again. But a final flurry by the Marshal broke that attack, and the pointers called the bout just after another one down the Hall.

As soon as a candidate finished one bout, he had to choose his next opponent. This time Paks was chosen, by the only candidate to win his bout. She followed her challenger halfway down the Hall to their assigned area. For the second bouts, the pointers gave the starting word. Paks grinned at the young man; his look of confidence faded. When he lunged, she caught his blade and shed it quickly from hers, then forced him back with a quick attack. He looked startled, as if he had not expected such a strong attack. Before he could recover his timing and balance, Paks pushed him back again, working him around the edge of their space. But he steadied himself, biting his lip, and managed to hold his ground. Paks tested all quarters of his range, probing but not using her full skill against him yet. She let him move into attack again. He quickened; she matched him, saw his surprise, and finished with a decisive rattle of strokes that got past his guard again and again. He would have bruises under his padding. But he bowed politely, and thanked her.

“Lady, it is my honor to suffer defeat at your hands.”

“May it be your only defeat, Sir Joris—” For she had been told his name, the ritual greeting: the first use of their title was by the examiner who passed them.

He grinned. “Lady, if I can learn to fight as you do, it will be. But I thought I had not so much to learn. Are you still learning new things?”

“Joris!” That was his proud father, come from the seats to grip his son’s shoulder.

Paks smiled at the older man. “Indeed I am, Sir Joris—and that’s a good question. You will learn as long as you know you need to.”

“Thank you, Lady Paksenarrion,” said the father. “He—”

“Please—” The pointers touched the older man’s arm. “Sir—please—not here—we have long to go.” Paks returned to the front of the Hall, and the new knight joined his successful comrades in the rear.

Paks lined up behind someone who had not yet been chosen—Seklis’s suggestion, so that each examiner would have a short rest between bouts. The second five were already on their first bouts, although one bout from the first five was still going on. She looked around the Hall, trying to spot the Duke, but in that mass of color and movement, she could not find him at first. She tried again. “He’s fine,” said Lieth in her ear. “I saw them come in.”

A few minutes later, another candidate chose her, and she fought her second bout, this one much shorter. At the fiftieth stroke, the spotter named her the victor. This candidate had taken a hard blow to the left shoulder on her first bout, and Paks suspected she had a broken collarbone. Her face was pale and sweaty, but she also managed her bow, and thanked Paks for the honor.

By this time, two of the examiners were out, one with a broken collarbone, and one with a cracked wrist. Paks made her way past three bouts going on, and lined up again. She did not feel particularly tired, and so put herself in line for immediate choice. She had another easy bout, which she drew out to near a hundred strokes for the candidate’s benefit, and then watched the last two finish. Now the family sponsor for each new knight carried out the new armor which the knights had earned. While the knights changed into their armor (Paks hoped the woman with the broken collarbone would not have to struggle into a mail shirt), the examiners also changed. Then the crown prince formally greeted each new knight by name and presented the tiny gold symbol of the Order. When he was through, the High Marshal stepped forward once more.

“We welcome these new knights to the Order of the Bells, and ask Gird’s grace and the wisdom of Luap to guide them in their service. At this time, any outside challenge may be offered: is it so?”

“Challenge!” A voice called from the far end of the Hall, near the outside door. A startled silence broke into confusion; the High Marshal stilled it with a gesture.

“Name your challenge,” he said.

A figure in plate armor with a visored helm stepped into view; at the same time, someone in Verrakai colors stood in the seats.

“High Marshal, I call challenge on Duke Kieri Phelan. My champion is below: a veteran soldier from his Company.”

Again the hubbub, stilled only when the High Marshal shouted them down. By then Phelan was on the floor, surrounded by the King’s Squires and his own companions. Paks recognized Captain Dorrin and Selfer, the Duke’s squire.

“Phelan?” said the High Marshal. “How say you?”

“For what cause do you call challenge, Verrakai?” The Duke’s voice was calm.

“For your treachery to the crown of Tsaia,” he yelled back.

“I protest,” said the crown prince, from his place. “This is not the occasion; the matter has not been settled by the Council.”

“It is my right.”

“You are not the Duke,” said the crown prince. “Where is he?”

“He was indisposed, your highness, and could not attend.”

“Do you claim to speak for him?”

“He would agree with my judgment of Phelan,” said the other. “As for challenge, and this challenger, that is my own act.”

“Then may it rest on you,” said the prince. “I will not permit Phelan to take up this challenge.”

“Your highness—”

“No, Duke Phelan. As long as you are a vassal of this court—” Paks saw the Duke’s reaction to that; he had not missed the prince’s emphasis, “—you will obey. You may not take it up. You may, however, name a champion.”

Paks was moving before any of the others. “If my lord Duke permits, I will—”

“A paladin?” asked the Verrakai. “You would champion this Duke—but I forget—you also are his veteran, aren’t you?”

“And nothing more,” said the other fighter. Paks wondered who it was; she did not quite recognize the voice.

The Duke bowed stiffly to the prince, and the challenger. “I would be honored, Lady, by your service in this matter. Yet all know you came on quest; I would not interfere.”

The Verrakai and his attendants had also climbed down to the floor, and now stood opposite the Duke. Paks and the mysterious fighter advanced to the space between them. She noted that the other matched her height, but seemed to move a little awkwardly in armor, as if unused to it. The High Marshal raised his arm to signal them. When it fell, Paks and the stranger fell to blows at once.

The stranger was strong: Paks felt the first clash all the way to her shoulder. Paks circled, trying the stranger’s balance. It was good. She tested the stranger’s defense on one side, then the other. It seemed weaker to the left, where a formation fighter would depend on shield and shield partner. Perhaps the stranger was not as experienced in longsword—Paks tried a favorite trick, and took a hard blow in return. So the stranger had fenced against longsword—and that trick—before. She tried another, as quickly countered. The stranger attacked vigorously, using things Paks knew could have been learned in the Company. Paks countered them easily. She had no advantage of reach, against this opponent, and less weight, for she had chosen a light blade (as the High Marshal requested) to test the candidates.

They circled first one way, then the other, blades crashing together. Paks still fought cautiously, feeling her way with both opponent and the unfamiliar sword in her hand. She could feel its strain, and tried to counter each blow as lightly as possible, reserving its strength for attack. Suddenly the stranger speeded up the attack, raining blow after blow on Paks’s blade. Paks got one stroke in past the other’s guard, then took a hard strike on the flat of her blade. This time the sound changed, ringing a half-pitch higher. Warned by this, Paks danced backwards, catching the next near the tip, which flew wide in a whirling arc. She parried another blow with the broken blade, and then dropped it as it shattered, and backed again from a sweep that nearly caught her in the waist.

“Wait!” shouted the High Marshal, but the stranger did not stop. Paks knew Lieth had her second blade ready, but she was backed against the far side of the space. Dagger in hand, she deflected a downward sweep that still drove the chainmail into her shoulder.

The stranger laughed. “You are no paladin. You had the chances, that’s all—”

This time Paks recognized the voice. “Barra!” At that, another laugh, and the stranger raised her visor to show that familiar angry face.

“Aye. I always said I could take you—” Again the sword came up for a downward blow.

But Paks moved first. As fast as Barra was, she had the edge of initiative, and slipped under the stroke. Her fingers dug into Barra’s wrist, and she hooked her shoulder under Barra’s arm, flipping her over. Barra landed flat on her back, sprawling and half-stunned. Paks had her own sword’s tip at her throat before she could move. For an instant, rage and excitement nearly blinded her; she could have killed Barra then. But her control returned before she did more than prick her throat. When she could hear over the thunder of her own pulse, the High Marshal was speaking.

“Your challenge of arms, Lord Verrakai, is defeated.”

With ill grace, the Verrakai bowed. “So I see. My pardon, lord Duke.”

Duke Phelan bowed, silent, and waited while the Verrakai turned to go. Then the Verrakai turned back. “I should have known better, “he said, “than to believe one of your veterans. Are they all such liars, lord Duke—and if so, can we believe this paladin of yours?”

Phelan paled, but did not move, and the Verrakai shrugged and walked out. Then Phelan looked at the High Marshal. “Sir Marshal, my defense is proved by arms, but at the cost, it seems, of something I hold more dear—the good opinion of my veterans.”

“Or one of them, lord Duke. It is a rare commander who has not one bitter veteran. And you were defended by one.”

“Yes.” The Duke came to where Paks still held Barra at sword’s point. “Lady, if you will, permit her to rise.”

Paks bowed, and stood back a pace, still holding Barra’s sword. The Duke offered a hand, which Barra refused, scrambling up on her own, instead. She scowled at him.

“Will you say, Barra, why you chose to serve my enemy?”

“I think you’re crazy,” said Barra loudly. Someone laughed, in the tiers overhead, and she glared upward, then back at the Duke. “You could have been rich—you could have done more, but you let others take the credit. And I was as good as Paks, but you gave her all the praise. She got all the chances—”

“That’s not true.” Dorrin strode across the floor to her side. She gave a quick glance at the tiers and went on. “You and Paks were recruits together—true. And back then, that first year, you were probably her equal in swordfighting. But in nothing else, Barranyi, and after the first year not in that.”

“I was—you just—”

“You were not. Falk’s oath, Barra, I’m your captain; I know you inside out. You made trouble every way you could without breaking rules. You quarreled with everyone. Paks didn’t—”

“That mealy-mouth—”

“Mealy-mouth!” That was Suriya, across the floor.

Barra turned dark red. “Damned, sniveling, sweet-tongued prig! Everyone on her side! Everyone—”

“Barra.” Something in Paks’s voice stopped her. “Barra, you do yourself an injustice here.”

“I? Do myself an injustice? No, Paks: you did that. Make a fool out of me in front of your fancy friends. Think you’re such an example—” Barra jerked off the helmet and threw it at Paks, who dodged easily. “I’ll show you yet, Paksenarrion—you sheepfarmer’s daughter. I know about you. You’re a coward underneath, that’s what—or you’d have had the guts to kill me. Why don’t you, eh? You’ve got the sword now. Go on—kill me.” She threw her arms out, and laughed. “Gird and Falk together, none of you have any guts. Well, chance changes with the time, yellow-hair, and I’ll have my day yet.” She turned away; Paks said nothing, and waved the guards away when they would have stopped her.

“Well,” said the crown prince into the horrified silence that followed her exit, “if that’s the best witness Verrakai can find against you, Duke Phelan, I think your defense in Council is well assured. That’s her own heart’s poison brewed there, and none of your doing.” An approving murmur followed this. Duke Phelan smiled at the prince.

“I thank you, your highness, for your sentiments. Indeed, I hope nothing I have done has provided food for that—but I will think on it.” Then he turned to Paks. “And you, again, have served me well. Paksenarrion—”

“Lord Duke, in this I am serving my gods, and not you; I am no longer your soldier, though I will always be your veteran. I pray you, remember that: although you have done me the honor to treat me almost as a daughter, I am not. I am Gird’s soldier now.”

Although the trouble had come, and apparently gone, without actual danger to the Duke, Paks was still uneasy that night. When the Duke finally retired to his chamber, she held a quick conference with the King’s Squires. On no account must the Duke go anywhere—anywhere—without their protection. If she was not available, they must all attend him.

“But Paks, what is it you fear?”

“The malice Barra feels, directed with more skill,” said Paks, frowning. “Companions, we have not crowned our king yet; until then trust nothing and no one.” When she returned to her own chamber, with Lieth, she found it hard to sleep, despite her fatigue.

Yet in the morning she found nothing amiss. After breakfast in the Duke’s chambers, they went to the Council meeting together. Paks noticed, as they came in, that Duke Verrakai was present, and his brother absent. The two elves were there, sitting lower down, this time. She wondered what they had thought of last night’s events; they would have to agree that the Duke had kept his temper under trying circumstances.

“I asked for this special session,” began the crown prince, “at the request of Lady Paksenarrion, whom you met yesterday. You are aware that she is on quest, searching for the true king of Lyonya. She believes she has found him, and asked that you witness the elf-blade’s test of his identity.”

“And who is it, your highness?” asked Duke Verrakai.

“I will let the paladin speak for herself.” The crown prince waved for Paks to begin.

“Lords, I will give you my reasons briefly, and then the prince’s name.” She repeated her reasoning, now so familiar, from the elves’ claim that the prince had forgotten his past, to the meaning of the message they sent Aliam Halveric about the sword. “As well, when Aliam Halveric gave the sword to Kieri Phelan, to give his wife, the elves replied that the gift was satisfactory. That seemed, to me, to mean that the prince was someone with whom Kieri Phelan, as well as Aliam Halveric, came into contact. Then Garris, one of the King’s Squires who accompanied me on quest, told me of his own boyhood times with Aliam Halveric, when Kieri Phelan was Halveric’s senior squire.” She saw comprehension dawn on several faces around the table, and turned to Duke Phelan before anyone else could speak.

“Yesterday, lord Duke, I spoke openly to you of this reasoning, and of your past; now, before the King’s Squires of Lyonya, and the Regency Council of Tsaia and heir to the throne, I declare that I believe you are the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne, the only son of King Falkieri, and half-elven by your mother’s blood.” She turned to Lieth, who had carried in the elven blade, and took the sheathed sword from her. “If it is true, then this blade was forged for you by the elves, and sealed to you with tokens sent by your mother. When you draw it, it will declare your heritage. Is it true that you have never laid hands on this sword to draw it?”

“It is true,” said Duke Phelan steadily. “I swore to my wife that I would never draw her blade, when I gave it to her, and until you took it from the wall to kill Achrya’s agent, she alone drew it.”

“I ask you to draw it now,” said Paks, “in the High Lord’s name, and for the test of your birth.”

Duke Phelan’s gray eyes met hers for a long look, then he reached out and took the sword’s grip in his hand. His expression changed at once, and at the same time a subtle hum, complex as music, shook the air. In one smooth move, he drew the sword free of the scabbard. Light flared from it, far brighter than Paks had ever seen, more silver than blue. The blade chimed. Outside, the Bells of Vérella burst into a loud clamor, echoing that chime until the very walls rang with it. Phelan gripped it with both hands, raising it high overhead. Light danced around the chamber, liquid as reflection from water. As Paks watched, the blade seemed to lengthen and widen slightly, fitting itself to the Duke’s reach. Then the light still blazing from the blade condensed, seeming to sink into the blade without fading, and the runes glowed brilliant silver, like liquid fire. The green jewel in the pommel glowed, full of light. Phelan lowered the sword, resting the blade gently in his left palm. When he met Paks’s eyes again, his own were alight with something she had never seen there. When he spoke, his voice held new resonance.

“Lady, you were right. This is my sword, and I daresay no one will dispute it.” A ripple of amusement softened his voice there. “Indeed, I had never thought of such a thing. What an irony this is—so many years it hung on my wall, and I did not know of it.”

“Sir king.” The crown prince had risen; with him, the rest of the Council stood. “This is—” Abruptly his mannered courtesy deserted him, and he looked the boy his years made him. “It’s like one of the old songs, sir, like a harper’s tale—” The prince’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“As yet, your highness, I am not king. But your congratulations are welcome—if it means that you do not object.”

“Object! I am hardly likely to quarrel with the gods about this. It is like a story in a song, that you should be a king without knowing it, and have on your wall for years the sword that would prove you.”

“But—but—he’s just a mercenary—” Clannaeth burst into speech. The High Marshal and the crown prince glared at him.

“Gird’s right arm,” said the prince crisply, “if you’d been stolen away as an infant, how would you have earned your bread? As a pig farmer?”

“I didn’t mean that,” began Clannaeth, but no one listened.

Paks, watching the Duke’s face, was heartened at the transformation. She had feared his lingering doubt, but he obviously had none. Whatever the sword had done for him, it had given him the certainty of his birth. So he listened calmly to the short clutter of sound that followed Clannaeth’s comment, until the High Marshal hushed them. Then he addressed the Council.

“Lords, when our prince’s father first gave me the grant I now hold, I told him I had no plans for independent rulership. That was true. But now I find I have another land, a land which needs me—yet for many years, as you know, I have given my life and work to my steading in Tsaia. I cannot expect that you would allow the king of a neighboring land to hold land from this crown, but I do ask that you let me keep it for a short while, and that you let me have some influence over its bestowing. Your northern border—for so long, my northern border—is still a perilous one. It will need a strong hand, and good management, for many years yet if the rest of Tsaia is to be safe. Now I must travel to Chaya, and relieve the fears of my kingdom, but my senior captains can manage well enough in the north, with your permission.”

The crown prince and the High Marshal approved this, and the others agreed—Paks thought by surprise as much as anything.

She looked at the elves. Their faces were as always hard to read, but she did not see the scorn or refusal she had feared. One of them caught her eye, and made a small hand signal she had learned from the rangers: approval, the game is in sight.

“Do you remember any more now?” asked the High Marshal. Phelan nodded.

“A little—and better than that, it makes sense. I had memories of my father—a tall, red-haired man with a golden beard, wearing a green velvet shirt embroidered with gold. Now I know that the embroidery was the crest of our house. And the court I remember, planted with roses—that will be at Chaya, and I daresay I can lead the way to it.”

“Your name?” asked Verrakai.

“I am not sure. Your highness, your father once asked me of my heritage, and then swore never to speak of it. But now, with my birthright in my hand, I will speak willingly. My earliest memories are those I have just mentioned. Then, as you know, the prince—I—was stolen away while traveling with the queen. After that, for many years, I was held captive far away by a man who called himself Baron Sekkady. He was, your highness, a cruel master; I remember more than I would wish of those years.”

“What did he—” began one of the lords. Phelan turned toward him.

“What did he do? What did he not do, that an evil and cruel man could think of! Imagine your small sons, my lords, in the hands of such a man—hungry, tired, beaten daily, and worse than beaten. He would have trained me to the practice of his own cruelties if he could.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“I believe so. He used to display me to visitors. After one such banquet, the visitor seemed to recognize me, and the Baron put silence on him.”

“Put silence—?” asked the Marshal.

“He was some sort of wizard, sir Marshal. I know little of that, but he could silence men, and hold them motionless, by his powers . . . though what he enjoyed most was hearing them scream. That visitor, whose name I never knew, had some strange powers himself, for he woke me, while he himself was being tormented in the dungeons. He sent me away.”

“How?” asked the High Marshal, after a long pause.

“I am not sure. By then I had tried escape—and been so punished for it that I had ceased to hope for anything but death. But this man took my fear, and sent me: ‘There is a High Lord above all barons,’ he said. ‘Go to his courts and be free.’ And so I climbed out the baron’s window, and down the wall, and ran through the woods until I came out of that land. When I came to the coast, I stowed away on a ship . . . and eventually came to Bannerlith, where they set me ashore with their good wishes. I worked my way inland, to Lyonya, at any work I could find, until I fetched up at Aliam Halveric’s on a cold winter day, half-starved and frozen. He took me in—first as a laborer, then as a page in the household, and then—when I showed aptitude for fighting—made me a squire. The rest you know. Anyway, it is from that man—Baron Sekkady—that I got my name as I know it. He told me it was Kieri Artfiel Phelan; he called me Artfiel. I use Kieri. What it really is—”

“Is Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan,” said Paks.

“Falkieri—” he breathed. “So close—like the sword—”

“He must have known,” said the High Marshal. “He must have known who you were, and delighted in that knowledge. Some scum of Liart’s, no doubt. Would you could remember where that was?”

“If I could remember that, sir Marshal, I would long ago have freed his domain of him.”

“Vengeance?” asked one of the elves.

“No—not vengeance alone. He was cruel to many others, not me alone. It would lighten my heart to know the world free of him.”

“My lord,” said the crown prince, “you do not wish me to use your title yet, but I must call you something—what will you do now? Will you travel at once to Chaya?”

Phelan looked at Paks, who nodded. “I think I must, your highness. Lyonya has been too long without me.”

“Will they accept you?” asked Duke Marrakai. “Lady Paksenarrion said something about the elves—”

“Their council swore, the night I left, to accept as their king the man the sword declared,” said Paks quickly. “At that time I did not know it was Duke Phelan. As for the elves, the Lady of the Ladysforest wished to see him before the coronation: the elves had their fears, as I said.”

“And do you still, cousins?” asked Phelan of the listening elves, slightly stressing the last word.

“Lord Falkieri, what the elves feared in you was not to your blame. We feared the damage done by your wicked master. Will you deny your temper, and what has sometimes come of it?”

“No. But I asked if you still feared it.”

One of the elves laughed. “Lord, you are not the furious man I had heard of. Here I have seen you accept insult with dignity, and remain courteous and capable of thought to all. For myself—but I am not the one who will decide—I would trust you to govern humans.”

“But your realm is not all human,” the other elf added. “For too many years Lyonya’s ruler has lacked any feel for the taigin. This lack hurts us all. You have shown no such ability.”

“You believe this, too, was destroyed by Baron Sekkady’s cruelty?”

Both of them nodded. “If the small child is not taught—if instead all such sense becomes painful—then it can be lost, for a time, or forever.”

“I see. But being half-elven, will not my children carry this ability by inheritance, even if I lack it?”

“I suppose—I had not thought—” The elf looked genuinely surprised. “I had heard you swore never to remarry.”

“I said so; I never took formal vows, not being in the habit of breaking my stated word. Clearly I cannot refuse to sire heirs for Lyonya, and old as I am, I daresay—”

“Old!” The elf laughed, then sobered quickly. “My pardon, Lord—and lords of Tsaia. I meant no disdain. But Lord Falkieri, you are not old for half-elven. You are merely well-grown. You have many years yet to found a family, though your people will be glad the sooner you wed.”

“But I’m—”

“Fifty years—and what of that? No elf-born comes to full powers much before that. Your sister would yet live had she waited to wed and bear children until fifty. Fear not death from age yet awhile, Falkieri; blade and point can kill you, but not age alone until your sons’ sons are come to knighthood.”

When the elves said nothing more, the crown prince spoke again. “We would honor you with an escort into Lyonya, my lord. Lady Paksenarrion speaks of peril; our lands are old allies. Will you accept it?”

Phelan nodded; Paks saw that he was near tears from all this. He struggled for a moment and regained control. “I brought with me only a small escort, as your highness knows. I would be honored by a formal one. But when could they be ready to leave?”

The meeting dissolved in a mass of details—which unit of the Tsaian Royal Guard would travel by which route, who would take word to Phelan’s steading in the north, how best to plan the march, and on and on. Paks listened, starting as the High Marshal touched her shoulder.

“If you have a few minutes, Lady Paksenarrion, I’d like to see you in the grange hall.”

“Certainly. I see we won’t be leaving for some hours, if today—”

“Not today,” said Phelan, catching her last words. “Tomorrow at best—I’m sorry, Paks, but there’s too much to do.”

She bowed, and beckoned to Garris, who followed her a few feet away.

“Don’t leave him, Garris—any of you—for any reason—for even a few minutes. I cannot name the peril, but we know that evil powers do not want him crowned.”

“I swear to you, Paks: we will not leave him.”

“I will return shortly.” And Paks followed the High Marshal away from the chamber.

High Marshal Seklis ushered Paks into his study, and seated her near a small fire. A yeoman-marshal brought a tray of sweet cakes and a pot of sib, then withdrew.

“I understand your concern, Lady,” he began, “but it will take the rest of the day to get a troop of the Royal Guard ready to ride on such a mission. Your things, no doubt, are simpler. And the King’s Squires will guard him. Now that you’ve handed over that sword, you’ll need another, and I want a favor in return—the story of your quest so far, to write into the archives for the Marshal-General.”

Paks told her tale, from leaving Duke Phelan’s stronghold to her arrival in Vérella, as quickly and completely as possible, but the pot of sib was empty when she finished. The High Marshal sat back and sighed, then smiled.

“Now I understand your haste. Come—I have no elf-blades here, but we can find something more your weight than the blade that failed you last night.” He led her into the armory, where Paks tried one blade after another until she found one to suit. Then they walked back into the palace, to find the Duke’s suite a chaotic jumble of servants, gear, and visitors. Paks saw Kolya and Dorrin across the outer room, and worked her way toward them.

“He’s not here at the moment,” said Dorrin, “but he’ll be back. Before you ask, all the King’s Squires went with him, as well as Selfer—don’t worry. Falk’s oath, Paks, if we’d known what you would do someday, I don’t know if we’d ever have risked your hide on the battlefield.”

“Oh yes, you would,” said Paks. “How else could you test a weapon? Not by hanging it on the wall.”

“We’ll miss him,” said Kolya soberly. “The best master a land ever had, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m not ill-wishing—I just wish I could pick up my trees and move to Lyonya.”

“He’d find you a grove.”

“It’s not the same. Those Westnuts I struggled with, learning to dig one-handed—I can’t move that somewhere else.”

“And he feels it too,” said Paks quietly.

“I know. And I’m glad for him. All those years of hearing the others pick and pick—hedge-lord, they’d say, or base-born moneybags—they’ll sing a new song now. He was never less than kingly with us; Lyonya’s lucky, and he deserves the best of it.”

“Who’s going with him? For that matter, who’s here?”

Dorrin numbered them on her fingers. “Arcolin’s commanding back north; Selfer and I came along, and we’ll go on to Lyonya. Kolya, you know, and Donag Kirisson, the miller from Duke’s West, and Siger. And Vossik and a half-dozen solid veterans. Plus the usual: carters and muleteers, and that. I expect he’ll take his own veterans, and I doubt we could peel Siger away from him with a knife.”

“And how many of the Tsaian Guard?”

“A score at least. The crown prince would like to send a cohort, but you know what that means in supplies. The Duke—the king—always said the Tsaian Royal Guard traveled on silk.”

The High Marshal nodded. “It’s court life—I’ve argued again and again about it, but to no avail. They’re good fighters—well trained and disciplined—but any decent mercenary company can march them into the ground.”

“It’s too bad the Company can’t be here,” said Dorrin. “They’d be proud of him.”

“What is it—a week’s march? I agree with Lady Paksenarrion; he must not wait that long to travel. Although his own Company would be a fitting escort.”

“If it didn’t frighten the Lyonyans,” said Dorrin. “They aren’t used to troop movements there.”

Paks looked a question at her, and Dorrin blushed.

“I trained there, you know,” she said. “But I was born a Verrakai.”

“You?”

“Yes. They don’t admit it any more.” Dorrin grinned, shaking her head. “My cousin is furious. I remember getting in fights with him before I left home.”

More messengers and visitors arrived. Someone came to Dorrin with a handful of scrolls and a question; she shrugged helplessly at Paks and moved aside to look at them. Servants carried in trays of food. Paks thought of her own rooms, and wondered if Lieth had packed her things before leaving with Phelan. She wormed her way through a cluster of people to ask Kolya when he’d be back.

“I’m not sure—he said not long, but not to worry if it was a glass or so. Some Company matter. He’d already had to talk to his bankers, and draft messages to Arcolin. Why?”

“I’ll go down to my rooms, then, and pack up. It won’t take long.” Paks worked her way out of the suite, past a row of squires bearing messages, and hurried to her own quarters. Lieth had not packed, but she found two of the palace servants straightening the rooms. In a short time, she had rolled everything neatly into her saddlebags or Lieth’s. She went back along the corridors with the bags slung over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and most of the outer court was in shadow. The bustle in Phelan’s suite seemed less. A row of corded packs waited in the outer room. Kolya, Dorrin, High Marshal Seklis, and Donag Kirisson sat around a low table near the fire in the sitting room, eating rapidly. Paks joined them, dumping her saddlebags nearby. She reached for the end of a loaf.

“Where is he? Isn’t he back?”

“Not yet,” said Kolya. “Are you worried, Paks? He has four good squires with him.”

“Did he take the sword?” asked Paks without answering Kolya.

“No,” said Dorrin. She pushed back her cloak to show the pommel. “He asked me to keep it here—said he didn’t want it on the street.”

Paks frowned, her worry sharpening. “I wish he’d taken it. I should have said something.”

“Why?”

“If nothing else, it’s a remarkably good weapon. But more than that, in his hands it has great power, and none of us can use it.”

“You can, surely.”

“Not now,” said Paks. “Not after he drew it—it’s sealed to him completely now. I would not dare to draw it.”

Dorrin looked at it. “If I’d known that—”

“Excuse me, Lady—I was given a message for your hand.” Paks looked up to see a page in the rose and silver house livery holding something out. She put out her hand, and took it. The page bowed, and quickly moved away. It was a small object wrapped in parchment. Paks folded the stiff material back carefully. When she saw what it contained, she felt as cold as if she’d been dipped in the ice-crusted river.