Oath of Fealty

14

Dorrin Verrakai rode into Harway at the head of her cohort, still wearing Phelan’s maroon and white. She had briefed Selfer on what she expected, and on what her new powers were. She told him what Paks and the Knight-Commander had said about the melding of her years of military experience with the magery, about Falk’s blessing. Selfer nodded, though he said little; she thought he was less worried than before about the magery. She repeated what she’d told Kieri, that in their last session, she had held an entire Field of Falk motionless at once and stopped arrows in flight so they hung in the air.

In the market square, forty Royal Guard Light Cavalry awaited her, all muffled in fur-lined cloaks against the cold. The commander introduced himself as Sir Valthan Destvaorn.

“My lord—lady Duke,” he said. “It is the prince’s wish that I give you his messages; I have arranged lodging for you and your soldiers.”

“Thank you,” Dorrin said. She did not dismount; it had been a hard, cold ride that day and she longed for a hot drink and something soft to sit on.

“Are these the same as battled for Duke—the king—on the way to Lyonya?” he asked.

“They are indeed,” Dorrin said.

He looked them over, his expression wary. “They are the former Duke’s troops, are they not? Mercenaries?”

“Indeed. And my cohort these many years. And at the moment, tired and cold, so let us proceed to lodging, where I will be pleased to explain more, if you wish.”

“Oh … certainly …” He wheeled his horse in line with hers and pointed with his crop. “That way, away from the river.”

The inn he had chosen was the largest, with ample stabling for their mounts and pack animals. Selfer took charge of settling the animals and the troops; Dorrin followed Sir Valthan into the common room and through to a private parlor.

As she hung up her cloak and warmed herself at the fire, he ordered in a pitcher of sib and sweet cakes hot from the oven.

“Since the prince wrote you,” he said, when he returned, “we have captured those Verrakaien in Vérella. You know the Duke and his brother who attended court there are dead. The kirgan and a younger boy are in custody, as well as those Verrakaien in the royal service, and a few others visiting in the homes of loyal lords. But we have not captured other Verrakaien we know of, and we do not have a complete list. We have blockaded the roads that enter Verrakai lands, but after the first attempt to enter and arrest those at Verrakai House resulted in loss of that patrol—”

“What happened?”

“We found bodies just inside Verrakai boundary stones,” Valthan said, grimacing. “And were ordered to wait until the new Duke—you—arrived before trying again. We’d heard all of Liart’s priests were killed in the battle you were in—”

“All of them there were killed,” Dorrin said.

“Well, there must have been more,” he said. “There’s dangerous magicks—traps, confusions of trails. And that patrol—” He looked hard at her. “We are charged to give you escort into the Duke’s … your … domain. To assist you in taking your place as the new Duke. Do you anticipate resistance once you show your insignia?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said. She poured herself a mug of sib and let the hot liquid burn down her throat. “My relatives will not yield to me because the prince named me duke; far from it. Surely the prince has told you that I left the family and was stricken from the rolls when I won my ruby.” She touched the Falkian ruby. “They wanted no part of me; I wanted no part of them.”

“Yet you are here.” Both tone and look challenged her.

“My prince asked me,” Dorrin said. “For the sake of the realm, for those long tormented by the Verrakai, I am here.”

“I was given this for you.” He handed over a velvet pouch; inside were a scroll case and a flat leather box in Verrakai blue. Dorrin opened the box first and found her uncle’s chain of office and ring. “The prince wishes you to come to Vérella when you can, to be formally invested, ideally at his coronation.”

Dorrin unrolled the first scroll and read aloud.

The next scroll held an order for her, personally:

Finally, a very short note:

Dorrin looked over at the Royal Guard captain. “Sir Valthan … were you made aware of the contents of these messages?”

“The Order of Attainder, and your appointment as serjeant of arms to enforce it? Yes. I am to place the troop under your command and assist you in your duties. We will take custody of Verrakai under the Order and transport them to Vérella.” He said nothing about the third note.

“Have you conveyed noble prisoners before?” she asked.

“Yes, but not often, of course. Treason such as this, I have never known before, and if it were not proven by so many witnesses, including men I know myself in the Guard, I would scarce believe it. One of the old families … a duke of the realm—”

“Believe it,” Dorrin said. “I was there when the Verrakaien troops attacked the king and his escort. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And yet … you are also a Verrakai. It is strange to me, my lady, that the prince and Council would trust a Verrakai, even one estranged for years.”

His brown eyes showed worry, confusion, and not a little suspicion of her. As well, she could feel the tension in him, as if it were in her own body. Dorrin sighed.

“I do not wonder at your surprise,” she said. “I, too, was surprised. It is only, I believe, because the prince thinks no one else can locate and bring the conspirators to justice that I was chosen for the task. I do not expect it to be easy or safe.”

“I had heard …” He turned his head away for a moment, then looked down at the mug of sib he held. “I had heard stories about you, my lady, from Verrakaien at Court.”

“I’ve no doubt you did,” Dorrin said. “They hated me for betraying the family, as they saw it, and for my part I avoided Court to avoid them. I was there, this time, only at my lord—the former Duke Phelan’s—command, because he wanted his captain more senior than myself commanding at his stronghold. He did not anticipate a need to travel through Verrakai lands when he went to Vérella in answer to a Council summons, or he would not have had me with him.”

“I see.” He took a swallow of sib, then another, and looked at her directly again. “What kind of trouble do you anticipate?” Sight came on her as his eyes met hers; she could feel his mood, the tenor of his thoughts, much like the churning waters of a stirred pot. How bad will it be, and can I trust her? he was thinking.

Now she was at the crossroads: either way, no turning back. Could she contain the family magery herself, protect this man and his command, without revealing the worst of the family’s treachery? She felt the flick of Falk’s Oath, as if her ruby had burned for an instant. No … either way she would betray someone, but she must not betray the greater trust.

“Magery,” she said.

“Verrakai has wizards?” he asked.

“Wizards do magicks,” she said. “Some better, some worse, some more powerful than others, but that is not magery. This is the old magery, Valthan. Southern magery, that all the magelords once had. Surely you know what the prince told me—it was used against him, when Verrakai meant to kill him.”

His hand rose to his own knightly insignia, the Bells. The Order of the Bells was rigorously Girdish, in origin and practice. His voice trembled. “I thought—it must have been—Liart’s spells the Duke used. The old magery was all lost, if it was ever more than the powers granted by evil gods. Gird destroyed it—”

“No,” Dorrin said. Once having started, it was easier. “It was not all lost, and Gird did not destroy it. Magery was failing even before Gird’s rebellion destroyed the old system … some families had lost it completely, and in others only a few individuals had it. The Marrakaien, for instance, had no effective magery then. The only Mahieran left alive after the war had none; that’s why he was made king; the other surviving families agreed, to make the peace with the Girdish. But some families … our family … still had the old magery, and held it close. They chose then not to fight openly—they lacked the numbers—but preserve it for some future time.”

“Did the prince know? The Council?”

“The prince certainly does now, since he experienced it himself. Before, I don’t know—I don’t imagine so. To be honest, Sir Valthan, I do not know how much of Haron’s magery was his own innate power and how much was—as you thought—granted to him as one of Liart’s worshippers. Its existence was always a close-held secret, and they believed alliance with Liart was the means to retain and strengthen it.”

His face expressed all the disgust and horror she herself felt. “Is that the—” He gulped, then went on. “Is that the only way to preserve the magery?”

“No,” Dorrin said. “Some children are born with it, long before they could swear service to Liart.”

“Do … do you have this magery?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said, and watched his already pale face pale even more. “I do. I was born to it, but never trained in its use.”

“Does the prince know that?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said. She handed over the third note. “As you said.”

He looked up from the note, eyes blazing. “It’s against the Code! The practice of magery is expressly forbidden. He cannot permit this—”

“He believes, as I do, that it is the only way—”

“He should have called for a paladin,” Valthan said. “A Girdish paladin.” His glance at her ruby was eloquent of scorn. “You had one with you—did you not think to ask her help?”

“Indeed I did,” Dorrin said. “And her response was that she would not come with me—she felt no call to come—but she did help me awaken my own magery.”

“Awaken?”

“It had been blocked by the Knight-Commander of Falk when I was a student at Falk’s Hall. See here, Sir Valthan, I am no more happy about this situation than you are. I have no love for my family; I never meant to see the place again. I did not regret the loss of the little magery I then had; I made a good life for myself without it. But this is what my—and your—prince wants, for the good of the realm. Otherwise, he thinks, Tsaia might face civil war and thousands could die, leaving the realm weak against foreign enemies like, for instance, Pargun.”

She bit into a sweet cake and gave him time to think that over.

He watched her eat; his color had returned. “I have no experience fighting magery,” he said. “Do all the Verrakaien have it?”

“Most do,” Dorrin said. “I will not deny it is dangerous, but not to the soul of one of your faith … you are a Knight of the Bells; you are Girdish. Gird will aid you, I truly believe.”

“And you are Falkian.”

“Yes, and I hope Falk will aid me. You may not know that Falkians are not forbidden magery, if they have it—most don’t, but some, being part-elven, have that form, which is different from mine. If I did not believe my magery, and my experience in war, could prevail, I would not lead my cohort or your people into Verrakai lands; I would have refused the prince’s request.”

“But you said you were not trained in that magic—magery,” he said.

“Not as a child. The current Knight-Commander of Falk and the paladin Paksenarrion released it from the bonds that had held it, and trained me after I accepted the task.”

“So short a time …”

“The Knight-Commander thought it enough,” Dorrin said.

He looked at her a long moment, then nodded. “I’m thinking we could use more troops.”

Dorrin chuckled; he looked startled. “We could always use more troops,” she said. “But we must do with what we have—or you could contact the grange here, or Marshal Pelyan at the next—or both—and ask their assistance. There are granges in Verrakai lands, and though some are dispirited—Darkon Edge certainly was—they are not corrupted, so far as I know. They should be your allies.”

“And yours,” he said.

“So I hope,” Dorrin said. “Though they may well not trust me at first simply because I am Verrakai. No wonder in that.” She ate another sweet cake.

A knock came at the door; she said “Enter” and Selfer looked in.

“All settled, Captain. Animals being groomed and fed; the troops can eat in sections or we can take meals out to the barns where there’s more room. There’s a hay barn almost empty.” Selfer looked fresh enough to travel another half day. “There are locals come in for supper—”

“The barns then, if the landlord has no objection.” She started to remind him about fire precautions and the other minutiae of settling a cohort for the night in civilization, but stopped herself. He was past needing that; what he needed now was her trust.

“Right, Captain. I’ll report back when they’re done. The landlord’s set them up for sleeping in the loft upstairs, sergeants and officers to have rooms. I thought we should leave a guard in the barn with the animals.”

“Excellent, Selfer.”

He withdrew, and Valthan cocked his head. “He’s very young.”

“He’s lived a lot,” Dorrin said. “Youngsters grow up fast in combat.” She yawned. “Excuse me, but I am going to need real food shortly. After that, perhaps we could visit the local grange together?”

In the late-winter dusk, the grange was brightly lit from within, though the big doors at the road end were shut. At the barton entrance two young yeomen stood guard, faces stern as Dorrin and Sir Valthan approached.

“Welcome, visitors,” said one. Then his eyes widened. “Sir—you are a Knight of the Bells—I’ll get the Marshal.” He whirled and darted into the barton.

Dorrin grinned at the other guard, much younger, who looked confused and uncertain. “This is Sir Valthan Destvaorn, of the Royal Guard,” she said. “And I’m Dorrin, a Knight of Falk.”

Valthan glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. But then he nodded; evidently he understood and accepted her reason for not proclaiming her new status this night.

One of the Marshals Dorrin had seen after the battle came to the barton gate, wiping his hands on his tunic, sweat gleaming on his face. “Welcome, sir knight—lady—oh! I remember you, don’t I? I’m Marshal Berris.”

“That’s right,” Dorrin said. “I’m Dorrin, and as a Knight of Falk ask courtesy of the grange. This is Sir Valthan—”

“Knight of the Bells, that’s what the lad said. Welcome, sir. And you, my lady. Knights of Falk are always welcome, and you in particular. Come in, both of you. I’ve had to add drill nights, since the grange has grown so in size.”

“This is Harway Grange?” Valthan asked.

“It’s the grange for Harway now,” Berris said. “It was established before the border was set, as a village barton in the early days of the war, Thornhedge. So it’s on the grange rolls at Fin Panir as Thornhedge Grange, but Harway’s long grown out to swallow the old vill and travelers call us Harway Grange. I suppose I should write the Marshal-General and see to getting it changed, but I don’t like to lose the old name.”

“And no wonder,” Valthan said. In the barton, steam rose from the sweaty yeomen who had been drilling furiously—formation drills, Dorrin noticed; some were rubbing bruises from the hauks. “When it pleases you, Marshal, I’m ready to take my turn.”

Berris chuckled. “And they’re ready for a breather, I daresay. So am I, though. I daresay this lady, Falkian though she be, will not mind a few touches with you—”

“She traveled all day, Marshal; I believe her fatigued, as I am not.”

Berris glanced at Dorrin. “My apologies, then. Perhaps—”

“I’ve had food and a rest, Marshal,” Dorrin said. “I would be pleased to cross blades with Sir Valthan, though not to his hurt. I understand that your rules do not require blood be drawn?”

“No, certainly not. And should you prefer another mode of combat, you have only to ask. We will be glad to observe two knights of different traditions—”

“And one non-knightly tradition,” Dorrin said. “As you know, Marshal—and many of you may as well—” She looked around at the interested faces. “I was one of Duke Phelan’s—now King Falkieri’s—captains when he was a mercenary.”

“Good,” Berris said. “We shall move into the grange itself, where others are now studying Girdish lore, who tranferred from Falkian fields along the border.”

Inside the grange, Dorrin and Valthan moved to the platform; those who had been outside crowded in, and those who had been studying moved to the sides. Dorrin had watched the ritual exchange of blows many times and had practiced so many times in front of troops that she had no concern at all except for wondering if Valthan would start with a standard opening or one of his own. She intended to follow his lead; she was sure she could take him in real combat, but she needed him as an ally.

“I’m wearing mail,” she said to the Marshal. “I was traveling and haven’t yet changed.”

“I also,” Valthan said. “It’s fine with me, if it is with you.”

“Perhaps you should go to the training swords,” Marshal Berris said. “No sense risking a nick on a quality blade, just for the exchange.”

Dorrin nodded and, seeing no stand, took off belt and sword together, hanging them on one of the hooks on the wall nearby. Valthan did the same. The Marshal handed them wooden training swords, which had only simple crossguards.

“Knucklebusters,” Dorrin said, grinning. Valthan grimaced, but ended in a grin. She jumped lightly onto the platform and walked back and forth, imprinting its dimensions in her mind; Valthan did the same. Then, from opposite corners, they waited the Marshal’s signal, and when it came, began a slow spiral toward each other.

Valthan held the training blade a little loosely, as he would have a dueling blade, where the play of fingers had more effect. Dorrin, equally skilled with duelers’ weapons, battle swords, and short swords, wondered if it was a feint. The sword he’d been wearing had a scabbard as broad as hers. She feinted; his response was so quick, she grinned as she parried, the clack of the wooden blades loud in the breathless silence. He tried a second thrust, just off where it should have been, and she made a parry that trapped his blade long enough to drive a thrust to his shoulder. A touch, no more than necessary, but he dipped his head, acknowledging. An honest dueler, then. Not all were.

He switched hands suddenly, and with a diagonal pace attempted her unprotected side; Dorrin spun with his move, instinct taking over, and the strong inner third of her blade met the outer third of his—strong against weak—with enough force to take it from his hand and send it clattering across the platform to land in someone’s hands a length away.

Valthan stared at her, empty-handed and wide-eyed, for a moment. She forced herself to stillness, backed a step, and bowed. “My pardon, Sir Valthan,” she said. “Enemies have made that switch before, and I forgot this was a ritual exchange. I struck harder than I should have.”

“How did you do that?” he asked, still staring as if she’d turned into a wildcat. Or a wicked mageborn.

“I would be glad to show you in slow practice,” she said. “It’s a very useful stroke, but only against that particular attack. If the Marshal permits?”

Marshal Berris seemed as awestruck as Valthan. “Please,” he said. “I was taught how to face an other-handed fencer, but only quick retreat and regroup if someone switched hands.”

“Let’s have that blade,” Dorrin said, as if the fellow holding Valthan’s wooden blade were one of her own cohort, and he handed it back, hilt-first, very politely. She checked the tip. “I’m sorry, Marshal—I cracked this blade. You’ll have to get another. I’ll be glad to pay—”

“No, no … these are practice blades; they break; it’s their nature. Here—Sir Valthan, do you wish to be the demonstration model, or shall I?”

“I,” Valthan said, reaching for the replacement blade. “I’ve never had someone disarm me with that move; I want to see how it was done.”

“Very slowly, so they can see,” Dorrin said. “Do exactly what you did. Do you have a count for it? If so, call it out.”

He complied. The feint before the switch, one and two; the change of hands, three and four, but his foot was already moving in the diagonal step.

“If I had stood still,” Dorrin said, standing still, “he would have had an excellent draw cut here …” As he moved past her, she allowed the cut, fore and aft. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. Now, if you don’t mind, at the same speed, repeat.” He returned to his place and began the same moves.

This time, moving at his speed, she demonstrated the footwork that moved her out of danger, and gave her opening to strike. She held up her hand and they both halted at the moment of contact, showing how the leverage was all hers by correct placement.

“It’s a viable parry even if you don’t disarm your opponent,” she said. “But at full speed, it will usually jar them enough to cost them their blade, if your own has some weight.”

After that, the Marshal wanted to try it, and soon Dorrin was tiring. It had been a very long day. He recognized that, and agreed to meet her at the inn the next morning to talk.

“That trick,” Valthan said, on their way back to the inn. “It’s just a trick of fence?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said. “What did you think? Magery?”

“It was so … unexpected.”

“I learned it in Valdaire,” Dorrin said. “My third campaign year with Phelan. I’d taken a gash from someone who did what you did, only with steel, and a man with a withered arm approached me after, and said he had a foolproof response for such attacks. I didn’t believe him, but it turned out he was a fencing master famous there, and though it cost good gold, it has been worth it since. He had lost the use of one arm to a poisoned blade, and knew more about fencing one-handed against many attacks than even the Duke’s armsmaster Siger. Practice it in your mind, and in a salle only in private; use it only at full speed, and no one will know what you did.”

“But you taught it to an entire grange of Girdish yeomen,” Valthan said.

“I showed it to them. Not one in a dozen will work enough to make it useful to them. And I taught it to Siger, in the Duke’s Company.”

“You puzzle me,” Valthan said, as they neared the inn.

“I puzzle myself,” Dorrin said, grinning. “I must get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”