Oath of Fealty Read online

  He glanced at Dorrin, who nodded. “With respect, I would say the same. You have commanded veteran soldiers before, used to both danger and taking orders; these are not, and will flinch away from roughness.”

  “I hear you,” Kieri said. “And yet I worry.”

  That night, only his second in Chaya, Garris—oldest of the King’s Squires—and Lieth stood beside his door when he came to his chambers.

  “So you pulled night guard, Garris? Don’t they respect your gray hairs?”

  Garris grinned. “They think you’re safe enough at night, Kier—Sir King. And Lieth’s young; she stays awake half the night anyway, if I should doze off. What time will you wake? I hear you surprised them this morning … I slept until almost noon.”

  “Cock-crow,” Kieri said. “And you slept late back at Aliam’s; don’t blame that on age.”

  Garris laughed. “So I did, and many’s the morning you tumbled me out of my bunk in the squires’ room and then shoved my head under a pump. I hope you won’t do that now you’re king.”

  Kieri clapped him on the shoulder and Garris opened the door for him. In his chamber, he found the bed already turned back, with the handle of a warming pan sticking out. He pulled it from between the sheets and shook the coals into the fireplace. Sleep came slowly; his mind raced with questions and ideas.

  He woke in the dark again, but this time he knew exactly how to find the fire and light his own candles. He felt stiff; he needed the exercise that had always started his day. Surely they had a salle somewhere … or, if not, he could practice in the forecourt. He pulled on trousers he’d left on a chair, and fumbled at the paneling to find the touchlock that would open to reveal his clothes.

  The chamber door opened and Garris looked in. “Aha! I thought I heard you stirring. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a shirt,” Kieri said. “Something I can get dirty, not one of these elegant kingly ones.”

  Garris touched a panel and it slid aside. “It’s that ivy leaf,” he said, pointing it out. “And what are you planning to do, dig in the garden?”

  “Loosen my muscles,” Kieri said. “Is there a salle?”

  Garris grinned. “Is there a salle? You’ve never seen anything like it, Kier—Sir King.”

  “Quit that,” Kieri said, pulling on one of his old shirts. “I know you have to be formal some of the time, but I told you in Vérella—call me Kieri, at least when we’re alone—and where is Lieth, by the way?” He unrolled a pair of socks and put them on, then pulled on his boots.

  “I sent her to the kitchen to fetch sib.”

  “So—where is this miraculous salle?”

  “Kieri—can’t you wait until the sib comes?”

  “I could—but I’d rather not.” He went to the bed and lifted down the great sword. As always, the jewel flashed as he touched it.

  “Well, then. I’ll take you.”

  As they came into the passage, they met Lieth, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and several mugs. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the salle,” Garris said. “Our king is not only awake, he’s ready to poke holes in us.”

  “Sir King—?”

  “Lieth, it is my habit: swords before breakfast. I would like to do that here, as well. I understand this is a change for you—”

  “It is no matter, Sir King,” Lieth said. “Do you want sib before, or should I bring it—?”

  “Let’s each have a mug,” Kieri said.

  She set the tray on a table in the passage and poured; Kieri noticed she took only a half cup, but Garris drank a full one. Then they walked together down the passage, down stairs to the main level, back the length of the main passage there, right into a narrower passage that turned sharply twice, to an outside door that opened onto a small paved court. Facing them was another wall, with a taller door; Garris opened it wide and gestured Kieri in.

  He sensed a large empty space—dark at first, but slowly brightening, the pale pearly glow he associated with elf-light. Nearest the door, a smooth wooden floor covered perhaps a quarter of the length. Beyond was stone—uneven, like an old paved street—and beyond that more stone, even rougher.

  “Have you ever seen one like this?” Garris asked.

  “No, but it’s what I always wanted,” Kieri said. “A salle for serious fighters.” He looked around. To the heart-hand side of the door stood a weapons-rack, beautifully carved.

  “The King’s Stand,” Garris said. “You’re the only one can use that.”

  “Practice blades?” Kieri asked, hanging his sword on the stand.

  “Here,” Lieth said, opening a chest full of wooden blades. “And bandas.” Kieri put on a banda and took one of the wooden blades.

  “So—shall we go a round?” Kieri asked Garris.

  “Lieth will stand guard,” Garris said. “One of us always does, when the king practices.” She took up a position in the doorway, sword drawn, while Garris took one of the wooden swords and faced Kieri.

  They had scarcely exchanged five blows of a standard training sequence when a clatter of boots and an angry voice brought them to a hold.

  “Who do you think you are, coming to the salle without an armsmaster present! It’s not your time to spar, Squires! You’ll wake the king with this racket!”

  “No,” Kieri said, coming to the door. “They will not wake the king, for the king was already awake.” He smiled down at the wiry little man who now gaped up at him.

  “Sir … King.”

  “Yes,” Kieri said. “And you must be an armsmaster.”

  “Carlion, my lord king. Senior armsmaster of the Royal Salle. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—it’s just, Sir King, the young ones come sometimes when they shouldn’t, and there’s been accidents—”

  “I’m not angry,” Kieri said. “And I should, in courtesy, have spoken to you first. But I am used to training early in the morning—before affairs of the day take over. I would like to continue that training, under your guidance.”

  “My guidance—” Carlion looked sharply at Kieri. “Sir King, you have been a soldier; you are not ignorant of arms, but I do not know what guidance you think I can give.”

  “Let us see,” Kieri said. “How would you test anyone who first came into your salle?”

  Carlion cocked his head. “Is that waster near the weight you’re used to?”

  “Close enough,” Kieri said.

  “Then you and Garris spar. Garris’s skills I know. Garris, do you attack, and let the king respond.”

  Garris attacked; Kieri fended him off easily, making only parries to see what Carlion would say.

  “Sir King, you are slacking and that is a bad habit. Make your attacks as you would—”

  Kieri did, and quickly penetrated Garris’s guard, once, twice, three times.

  “Hold,” Carlion said. “I see I must test you myself; you are beyond Garris.”

  “He always was,” Garris said. “We were squires together at Aliam Halveric’s.”

  “Ah,” Carlion said. “And he has fought often, and you have not.”

  Carlion, Kieri found, was no easy opponent. Wiry and fast, his shorter stature made low attacks easy for him, but he had the ability to strike high as well. Kieri was soon drenched in sweat, despite the morning chill, as was Carlion. They paused for breath again, and Carlion nodded. “You, Sir King, are ready—and more, I would think—to practice in the middle range. I warn you, some stones there will tip. At the far end, in the roughs—well, come see, while you catch your breath.”

  Great blocks of stone, loose rocks here and there—Kieri wanted to try it then and there, but enough light showed in the windows to make it clear he must get to breakfast and the meeting he had called.

  “Thank you, Armsmaster,” he said. “I will come again.”

  “Come every morning, if you like,” Carlion said. “I rise early myself.”

  Back in his own chambers, Kieri found his bath waiting, and went down to breakfast with his mind full o
f what he needed to accomplish that day: the mourning ceremony for the old king—and he had to find out the man’s name!—making sure Galvary had an estimate for Halveric, so Halveric could begin planning the coronation, finding out who could help him with Lyonyan laws and customs—and at some point he would have to broach the topic he knew they would not want: that of security, the need for a defensive force. Could he wait until his coronation? Would the Pargunese, or the Verrakai?

  The Council meeting that morning raised new concerns. His nobles were not stupid or lazy, but under a weak king they had lacked effective guidance, and wasted their energy competing among themselves for power and influence. They had no long-range plan; they expected matters to go on as they had, without requiring any intervention from them.

  Only a glass later, they fell to quarreling over something that happened before he arrived, when someone’s cattle had encroached on someone else’s pastureland and heifers had been tupped by the wrong bull.

  “Siers!” he said. The room fell silent. “Your quarrel is ill-timed; that happened years ago, and we have immediate matters. I will hear no more of that quarrel, is that clear?”

  Three of them reddened, but bowed from their seats, and the murmur of “Yes, Sir King” included their voices.

  “Good. We have immediate concerns: first is the mourning ceremony. How soon can it be arranged, Sier Belvarin?”

  “Five days, Sir King. All is in readiness except the ritual boughs; they should arrive day after tomorrow, and then a day to trim them.”

  “Then on that day, I will ask Council members to attend me, and the day before I will need advice on the ceremony itself, never having seen one.”

  “I am at your service,” Sier Belvarin said. “That should take no more than two turns of the glass.”

  “Sier Galvary?” Kieri said. “The budget for the coronation?”

  “I handed the total in to Sier Halveric this morning,” Sier Galvary said.

  “And I have begun,” Sier Halveric said. “Beginning with the invitations to distant personages.”

  “What foreign guests should we expect?” Kieri asked.

  “At the coronation of your predecessor Prealíth sent a representative; they should certainly be invited. The court of Tsaia sent a member of the royal family; they too should be invited. Kostandan sent a gift by their ambassador; I would expect the same. Pargun sent a member of the royal family; it … did not turn out well.”

  “Oh?” Kieri raised his brows.

  “His speech at the feast … was belligerent. He pointed out how many troops Pargun maintained, and claimed it was only by his father’s forbearance that we were suffered to exist a separate realm and that might not last. To put it plainly, he got drunk and made a fool of himself, and the Pargunese ambassador chose to believe it was our fault. Led the poor lad astray, he said, or poisoned him with elvish wine.” Halveric grimaced. “It was perfectly good brandy from Aarenis, not elvish.”

  “That sounds right for the Pargunese,” Kieri said. “But after they attacked me on the way here, I’d sooner invite a pack of wolves. Surely they won’t expect an invitation.”

  “Who knows how they think?” Halveric said. “But no, we need not. I will have more details for you, Sir King, after the mourning service—if you do not object.”

  “No,” Kieri said. “But I do have an assignment that will not take long, and will set us on the way of thinking into the future, the unknown, as elves do—though not quite that far.” He allowed himself a chuckle; the two elves said nothing but looked pained. “Let us consider it in manageable numbers. A hand of years hence … then two hands, then four, then ten. As a start, you will each write three things you want to see accomplished for the realm within a hand of years. Only three—there will be more.”

  His own list, already prepared, lay before him. In a few minutes they had completed their task. “Now read them,” Kieri said. One by one, they read their lists. All but one started with “The king marries and begets an heir” and none contained what was at the head of his own list, “Peace.” When they had finished, he read his own list, continuing to ten hands of years. They looked stunned.

  “Sier Halveric, you are the only one who did not list my marriage and getting an heir at the top of your list. Why?”

  “You promised to marry and give us an heir, Sir King. I trust you.” Halveric sounded smug.

  “I can understand,” Kieri said, looking at the others, “after what you have been through, your intense interest in this. Indeed, providing you with an heir is my duty, and it is important to the realm. Yet remember, when the king left you no heir, the gods provided. I don’t intend to trouble them again, but you should not fear unduly. Your goals are worthy; what matters to you matters to me. But what matters to me must also matter to you … and assuring peace is more important even than assuring an heir.”

  “We are peaceful,” Sier Belvarin said, looking puzzled. “I am glad you want to remain so, but—”

  “It is the peace of a lamb who does not see the wolf crouched at the forest edge,” Kieri said. Belvarin stiffened. “It is not the peace I want for this land, and it is not the peace you should want.”

  “Peace is peace,” Sier Carvarsin said, glowering. “We have not had a war here for generations; we are no threat to our neighbors, so they have no reason to attack us.”

  “And no reason not to,” Kieri said. Now all of them looked shocked. “Think you: If the Pargunese will come to Tsaia to attack me, as they did on my way here, why will they not attack here?”

  “They never have,” Sier Belvarin said. One of the elves stirred.

  “Amrothlin?” Kieri said to him. “Is that your memory?”

  “Long ago in human time,” the elf said, “when first the Seafolk came up the river in their pointed ships, they would have settled on this side. We did not permit it, for we had seen how they dealt with the trees, as if trees existed only to make more ships. They were easily frightened, and kept to the north side of the river after that.”

  “How did you frighten them?” Kieri asked.

  The other elf looked down his nose for a moment. “The taig, Sir King, has many powers of which you are as yet unaware, but as I am to be your tutor in such things—” Kieri stared; he had not expected that. “—I will show you when it is time. That is many lessons hence.”

  “Does that mean elves will defend the land against the Pargunese, if they attack?” Kieri asked.

  “We defend the Ladysforest,” Amrothlin said. “Since the Compact, that is all we are bound to do. It is up to the king to protect the people. Though, as you know, we may choose to aid the king.”

  “Let us hope the Pargunese do not know that,” Kieri said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the days before the mourning ceremony, Kieri’s daily schedule acquired some stability. Waking at dawn or before, a session in the salle with his Squires and Armsmaster Carlion, breakfast, a meeting with the Council, and then a longer session with one Council member after another. In the afternoon he visited his cohort and took exercise, then met again with his advisers. His elven relatives insisted they needed at least two hours a day for his schooling in matters elven, but the first session with Orlith consisted of sitting in silence as he tried—with little success he was sure—to open himself fully to the taig.

  On the day before the mourning ceremony, Sier Belvarin came to instruct him in the rites, bringing with him two other Siers and the Seneschal.

  “The ceremony’s … different … than it is in Tsaia,” Belvarin said.

  Kieri waited out the glances, the shifting of hands on the table.

  “You see,” one of them said, with a quick glance at the others, “we bury them.”

  “Yes …” That didn’t sound different.

  “It’s—you do know the Lady of Peace?”

  “Of course,” Kieri said. Did they think because he had been a soldier he would not know of Alyanya?

  “It’s the land.” Another long pause, a
nother set of looks exchanged. “Well, we’re old in the land here, you see. Before the magelords came, there were people here. Humans. In Tsaia, too, but the magelords conquered them. Here, we have the old ways.”

  The old ways. Kieri had read, with some scorn, the Girdish beliefs about their origins before the magelords came. All peaceful farmers and herders, but they had shed blood to thank Alyanya for the gift of fertility … was that what this was about?

  “You blood the blade before setting iron to the soil?”

  A look of relief from all of them. “Exactly. You know this?” Belvarin asked.

  “Well, yes. I thought everyone knew that. I know some of my—my former—landholders did that before ploughing or digging. We blooded our blades at the Spring Evener.”

  “So you see, then, that when someone dies, they go to the land, to return to Alyanya the gifts of flesh she gave them in life. They feed the land, so the land will feed others. That’s the first ceremony, returning to Alyanya what she gave, fruit for fruit. And then, when the time has passed, they rise again, clean bone—”

  A distant memory pricked. Before Aliam raised him to squire, he had been sent up in the attics to look for holes in the roof after a windstorm—there’d been broken slates in the courtyard—and as he looked around in the dim light he’d seen a gruesome face leering at him. He’d managed not to scream, but he’d fled down the ladder, shaking, only to have Estil tell him it was only a skull. Only.

  “You dig them up?”

  “Yes. And that’s the greater ceremony, raising the bones and carrying them to the memory-hall.”

  Kieri felt the small hairs rising on the back of his neck, as if they were tiny bones themselves. “Memory-hall?” he said, keeping his voice as level as he could.

  “Every village had one, once,” Belvarin said. “It would be in the appropriate place, and the elders’ skulls were mounted to the center posts—but we don’t do that anymore. After the elves came north and made a pact with our people and those of our people who came from Tsaia when the magelords invaded—the old people, this is—the customs changed.”