Oath of Fealty

7

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 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 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 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.

“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 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.

“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 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 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, 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 half-elven 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 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 snow-banks. 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 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 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 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 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.