Oath of Fealty

34

Camwyn, the prince’s younger brother, mounted his horse, first in the procession, and led his friends to the training ground. Today, it would be mounted drill without weapons—not nearly as exciting as knocking the heads off straw-stuffed figures—but at least his brother the prince let him out of the palace. Eight Royal Guards rode with them, in case of attack, and the Royal Guard senior riding instructor, carrying a bundle of flagged sticks to mark points on the field.

Camwyn had missed all the excitement when Verrakai attacked his brother; it was all over by the time the palace guards came to warn him … and arrest Egan Verrakai, Duke Verrakai’s grandson, until that moment one of his own friends. Now Egan was imprisoned, under Order of Attainder, and Mikeli would not relent.

The training field opened out before them as they came through the gates. Camwyn felt like spurring his mount into a gallop, but he had promised Mikeli he’d obey.

“Line up there,” the instructor said. “Straight line, and I want every horse square to it. Guard, place your mounts there—there—and down there.” He rode on, leaning over to place the first stake.

No one argued with him. Boys who argued spent the rest of that lesson on the ground with a shovel and rake, putting horse manure into a sack and dragging tools and sack around the field while their friends rode. Even princes. Camwyn’s horse lined up neatly, but pawed at the ground. On his left, Beclan’s horse shifted its rump from side to side; on his right, Aris’s danced in place. By the time the instructor rode back up the field, the turf under the line of horses was scuffed and torn. He stopped in front of them.

“Gentlemen! I told you a square halt. Yet your horses are writhing about like worms in a bucket.”

“He won’t hold still!” Beclan Destvaorn said.

“Neither would I if you were sitting on my back like that,” the instructor said. “Your toes are out; you’re playing a tune on his ribs with your heels; you’ve cramped his neck with that death grip on the reins, and you’re sitting on the small of your back, not your seat.”

Camwyn, attending to his own posture, suddenly realized that his right heel was snugger than the left; he relaxed that leg a little and his horse quit pawing. “And you,” the instructor said, pointing his remaining flagged stick at Camwyn. “Your seat bones weren’t evenly weighted and you were digging him in the ribs—good that you fixed it, but you shouldn’t have done it in the first place. That’s the same mistake you made on your first pony.”

Camwyn felt his neck getting hot, but the instructor had already moved on to the next of them, Aris Marrakai. Aris, Camwyn thought, put on airs about his father’s horses, admittedly some of the best in the kingdom. Camwyn relaxed, prepared to enjoy the next bit.

“You’re letting your horse dance without warming up properly—surely you, son of the foremost horse breeder in the realm, know better.”

“Yes, sir,” Aris said. “I don’t know why he’s doing it.”

“Do you not, indeed? Then I will tell you. You—” The horse leapt straight up, twisted in the air, and came down in a series of enormous bucks. Camwyn’s horse threw its head up and skittered sideways away from Aris’s mount; all the horses reacted. Aris rode the first few bucks with a skill Camwyn envied—Aris was the best rider in their group—but soon lost his rhythm. The instructor had ridden his own mount close, and tried to grab the horse’s rein, but it squealed and lunged, teeth snapping.

“Dismount! Now!” the instructor said. Aris flew into the air, launched as much by the horse as by his own will, and the instructor plucked him neatly by the back of his tunic as the horse ran squealing down the field, bucking and kicking. “All dismount!” the instructor said. Camwyn and the others did so. Aris, pale-faced, stood staring at his horse, now standing lathered and trembling at the far end of the field, snapping at its own sides. The Royal Guards closed in cautiously. As they watched, the horse lunged toward one of them, but fell to its knees, and then, jerking, to its side. Aris took a step in that direction, but the instructor stopped him.

“Did you saddle your own mounts today?” the instructor asked.

“No,” Camwyn said. “They were in their stalls, saddled, when we got to the stable. And we were on time!” He glanced at Aris, who stared down the field, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Aris—I’m sorry—”

“Unsaddle them now. No—first spread out. Camwyn, to that corner. Two horse-lengths between you. Then unsaddle them. Check the saddlecloths, but do not touch anything you find.”

“Should I—? Please, sir, let me—”

The instructor’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, young Marrakai; it’s too late. And I’d not risk you—let the Guard remove the tack.”

Camwyn’s own mount, another Marrakai-bred bay, had quieted. He unfastened the girth, pulled the saddle off, and set it on the ground; the horse stood quietly, as it should. He looked at the sleek bay back … with a lump on it. Lump? He reached out to feel it, and just stopped himself. “Sir?” he called.

The instructor rode over, took one look at Camwyn’s horse, and hissed through his teeth. “Don’t move,” he said. Camyn stood still. “It may not have bitten yet,” the instructor said. “Drop the reins, come hold my horse.” The instructor was already dismounted. Camwyn took the reins as the instructor spoke quietly to his horse, drawing a dagger from his belt.

“What are you going to do—” Camwyn began, but the dagger was already moving, the lump flying away from the horse’s back.

“May be too late already,” the instructor said as Camwyn’s horse shuddered and jerked its head; sweat broke out on its neck. The instructor stroked across its back with his gloved hand. The horse flinched, pinned its ears, and cow-kicked. Before Camwyn had time to ask another question, the instructor had cut its throat, dancing away from the flailing hooves as the horse fell, a torrent of blood pouring out.

“Sir!” Camwyn said.

“Poison,” the instructor said. “Yours and Marrakai’s; now we’ll see the others.”

None of the other horses showed any lumps, nor did the saddles or saddlecloths. The instructor checked carefully; the boys tried not to look at the dead horses, or at Camwyn or Aris. Camwyn, still leading the instructor’s horse, walked over to Aris.

“He said poison,” he said.

“I heard.” Aris, usually so ebullient, spoke so low Camwyn could hardly hear him.

“Who would poison a horse?” Camwyn said. “And how?”

Aris swallowed hard before answering. Camwyn realized he was trying not to cry. “Verrakai,” he said. “To kill you, or maybe me, or both. Or because the horses were Marrakai-bred.”

“But they’re all dead,” Camwyn said. “The bad ones, I mean, and Egan’s in prison.”

Aris looked at him. “If they were, our horses wouldn’t be dead. No one else would do it, but one of them or someone they controlled.” A tear rolled down his cheek; he scrubbed it away. “I’m sorry, it’s just—he was my first, that was mine alone.”

“I didn’t know,” Camwyn said.

“I was there at his foaling,” Aris said. “My father—helped me do the things you do with foals, to teach them trust. I was in Fin Panir for most of his training, but when I’d come home, I’d help. And then when I came here—Father let me bring him.”

Camwyn didn’t know what to say. Aris had not been his closest friend, in the group of boys who took instruction with him, and he himself had ridden a succession of palace ponies and horses chosen and trained by someone else. “I’m sorry” was all he could think of.

The other boys were saddling their horses. Down the field, two Royal Guardsmen, dismounted, were taking the saddle and bridle off Aris’s horse.

The instructor came back. “The other horses appear safe to me. This attack was aimed at you, Camwyn, and at Aris—and your families, of course.” He cleared his throat. “It would be best if you continued with practice; you are of an age where learning to continue in your duty past any difficulty is important.”

“You can’t just—with the dead horses lying there?” Camwyn bit his tongue and apologized.

“On a battlefield someday, you may face worse than this,” the instructor said. “So may your mounts. We all hope war stays far away, but I would be remiss in my duties as your instructor if I let you all trail back to the palace like a litter of whipped puppies. Gird has given you a challenge: will you meet it?”

“Yes, sir,” Aris said, before Camwyn could say anything. Camwyn nodded.

“Then we are but one horse short. Camwyn, you take mine. Beclan, Aris will ride your horse for a few minutes. You come with me to the center of the field. Ride two by two, that way, at a walk. Do not let your horses put a hoof in the blood or foam from the two poisoned ones.”

The instructor’s mount, a faded roan smaller than his own charger, moved off in a walk with complete equanimity. Camwyn concentrated on his posture, on giving precise signals, and was almost unseated at the first turn when the horse spun in a quarter circle.

“Lightly, lightly,” the instructor called. “You’re yelling at him; try a whisper.”

As the lesson went on, with students changing horses every circuit of the field, until finally pairs were changing horses while trotting together, Camwyn felt better. When he was on the ground, following the instructor, hearing every comment, he began to see things he’d never noticed before. Riding the different horses, having to adjust his seat and his aids to them, he tried to apply those things in a way he hadn’t before.

Finally it was over; once more they stood in a line, and this time the horses were quiet. The instructor looked them over. “Well done,” he said. “You young men—” It was the first time he’d ever called them men. “—are worthy of your fathers. You learned a hard lesson today, one I would not have chosen for you. But I warn you—what happened today may happen again. You, as lords’ sons, are all in danger. From now on, you must go early to the stables, as a group, and as a group inspect every mount, and all the tack, before mounted drill. Of course all the grooms are being questioned, but you’re old enough to take some responsibility yourselves. I have sent to the stables for two horses, for Camwyn and Aris; when they come, we will go back, in proper order, as if nothing had happened. I will report to the prince and Council.”

Four more Royal Guardsmen arrived with the two led horses, a roan and a gray; they carried fresh saddlecloths. With them came a Marshal. The instructor checked the saddlecloths, the saddles, and then drew aside to speak to the Marshal while the two saddled their new mounts.

“You will be knights someday,” the instructor said, when he returned to the group. “Ride like that, through the city, and not like chattering boys.”

Camwyn felt no desire to chatter; Aris rode beside him, grim-faced now, looking ready to kill someone. He was reminded that Aris’s older brother, Juris, was his own older brother’s best friend. Instead of talking, Camwyn sat tall, imagining himself as Camwyn Dragonmaster, for whom he’d been named. Of course, he was Girdish, but the images of Camwyn, sword in hand, confronting the Father of Dragons were far more dramatic than those of Gird with his cudgel. He scolded himself for daydreaming, hoping no one had noticed, and watched the people in the streets as they passed. Was one of them a Verrakai agent? Servant? What would he do if someone rushed at him?

In the royal mews, the stablemaster met them. “My lords—I had no idea—”

“Enough,” the instructor said. “These boys have other lessons now. Let them go, and then we’ll talk.”

Camwyn wanted to stay and listen, but his escort and his tutor were there as well, and Duke Marrakai had already collected Aris.

“To the Council with you all,” Marrakai said. He looked as grim as Aris. “We want it all down before you’ve forgotten or talked each other into something that you didn’t see.”

Camwyn had found Council meetings boring before, the times his brother the crown prince made him sit through one. He’d not been to one since the assassination attempt. This one proved different. He and his friends were held in an anteroom and ordered not to talk, while one by one they went in to tell their stories to the Council. Those who finished were whisked away by tutors, older siblings, parents before they could report on what it had been like.

Camwyn expected he and Aris would be first, since their horses had been poisoned, but instead they were last, and Camwyn went in before Aris. He had to relate the entire morning’s events, from waking up to the instructor killing his horse.

“Are the horses usually saddled and waiting in their stalls?” asked Duke Mahieran.

“No, sir,” Camwyn said. The Duke usually ruffled his hair and called him a young scamp, but today his uncle treated him with cool courtesy. “Since Midwinter, we’ve usually had to groom and saddle them ourselves, but sometimes the grooms do it.”

“So you were not surprised to find the horses ready?”

“Not really. It’s easier that way, anyhow.”

“And did you check the saddle?”

“I tightened the girth before mounting, and looked at the stirrup straps and girth for soundness, but I didn’t feel under the saddlecloth. The horse showed no sign of discomfort; its eyes were bright; its nostrils … everything seemed normal.”

The Duke led him through the rest of it—mounting, riding out to the drill field—step by step. Camwyn described the horse’s behavior. “They were all shifting around—not just mine, who was pawing. It’s spring, and we haven’t been out for days—”

“What was Aris Marrakai’s horse doing?”

“Prancing in place. I heard Aris talking to it—we’re not supposed to, in drill, but he was trying to calm it.” Camwyn went on to tell the rest as clearly as he could.

“What did the lump look like? Part of the horse or something on the horse?”

“On the horse,” Camwyn said. “Like—like one of those mud nests some wasps make, but only this big …” He held his forefinger and thumb apart. “Maybe as thick as my thumb. Dull-colored, flattened some where it was under the saddle.”

“You saw nothing, no lump, under the saddlecloth before you mounted?”

“No, it was under the saddle, right in the middle of the back. I wouldn’t have seen it.”

“Someone put it there,” Duke Serrostin said.

“That’s obvious,” Duke Mahieran said impatiently. “Camwyn, when the instructor knocked it off the horse’s back, did it break apart when it landed? Did you see anything come out of it?”

“No,” Camwyn said. “I was holding his horse here—” He gestured. “—and the lump went that way, where I couldn’t see. Do you know what it was?”

“No,” the Duke said. “I’m sure we’ll find out. You may go now. And this is not a topic for gossip, is that clear?”

Camwyn looked at his brother, but Mikeli’s face was blank as a closed door. No invitation to stay … Camwyn walked out, as Aris was ushered in; their eyes met briefly, Aris’s still angry.

Camwyn’s tutor and guards awaited, and he spent the rest of the time until lunch on the history of the Girdish wars, a period when the Marrakai—allied early with Gird—had gained importance. Camwyn had worked out most of the battles with his collection of miniature soldiers, and tried to impress his tutor with his perfect knowledge of the terrain, opposing forces, and tactical quirks of each, but his tutor concentrated on the unexciting areas of family genealogy, law, finance, and religion.

Lunch came while he was still struggling to untangle the lineages of Mahieran, Serrostin, Verrakai, Marrakai and their vassals during the Girdish wars. Camwyn preferred to consider merely their alliances—Girdish, anti-Girdish, and neutral—but his tutor insisted on his noticing who married whom and which branch of a family chose which.

After lunch in his own quarters, surrounded by palace guards and a hovering taster, Camwyn joined the others again in the Bells training hall for weapons drill. No time to talk there; the armsmaster kept them busy and breathless until all Camwyn wanted to do was fall to the floor and gasp. After that a lesson with the palace Marshal on the Code of Gird, and finally a bath and supper. With his brother and several of his brother’s friends, including Juris Marrakai. And Aris.

“I share your grief,” his brother said to Aris, taking him by the hand. “And yours,” he said to Camwyn, taking his. “By Gird—we could have lost you both today!”

He led them to the table and sat them one to either side of him. Camwyn looked across at Aris. He had not eaten with Mikeli and the men since their father died; he’d still been in the nursery then.

“We join the Council after dinner. Just for talk—” Mikeli looked at them both. “No more questions—or not as formally, anyway.”

“Do you know yet what it was?” Aris asked. “Juris won’t tell me anything.” He glared down the table at his brother, who grinned.

“The Marshal and instructor believe they do, but are reserving that knowledge for the time being.”

“It was wicked,” Aris said.

“Yes,” Mikeli said. “But we will not talk of it during dinner. We have other things to discuss with both of you.”

Camwyn sat up at that.

“After the meal is served,” Mikeli said. He nodded to the guard at the door; servants came in with food, and the taster sampled each dish without incident. The servant withdrew, and the prince forked a slice of roast goose onto his plate. The others served themselves.

Camwyn ate steadily. Mikeli would talk when he was ready, not before, and the food—more varied and richer than what he was usually served—delighted him in spite of the situation.

Mikeli put down his fork. “Camwyn, you and Aris are not as close as Juris and I, I think. Is that not so?”

Camwyn nodded, his mouth full of roast goose.

“The attack on you two might be because someone thinks you’re like Juris and me—or because you’re my brother and Aris is a Marrakai—or because you were both riding Marrakai-bred horses today. Duke Verrakai planned to put blame on Juris for killing me … whichever Verrakai did this might have wanted to put blame on the Marrakai for your horse’s behavior.”

“But his horse died, too,” Camwyn said.

“Yes. Perhaps they hoped both of you would be injured or killed when your horses reacted to the poison.” Mikeli sighed. “Cam, you’ve never been that interested in Council meetings and such.”

“No …”

“And your tutor says you like anything military better than anything about politics or finance—”

“I don’t like all the gossip,” Camwyn said, ducking his head.

“At your age, neither did I,” Mikeli said. “But I knew I would be king, and must learn why it mattered. Camwyn—you know how close to death I came. And if I had died, you are my heir. You and I are our father’s only living children.”

“Why me? Rothlin’s older and he knows more. If there’s an emergency he’d be better—”

“Because that’s the way it’s done. Roth only gets the crown if both of us die, and that’s after Uncle. Cam, I haven’t pushed you much; I remember too well how I hated giving up my boyhood interests. Now I can’t wait any longer. I need you; the land needs you.” Mikeli stopped there and looked at him.

Camwyn felt a stab of fear. Mikeli was serious … he had not let himself think much about the assassination attempt. He hadn’t wanted to imagine his brother sitting helpless with a magicked sword coming at him. Now he let himself imagine Mikeli dead, and someone telling him, and having suddenly the whole weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. He couldn’t do it—could not—and yet … and yet he was named for Camwyn Dragonmaster. Did that count for nothing? Was he like an infant’s toy, given a hero’s name but capable of nothing?

“I did not know,” he said, to give himself time.

“No, any more than I did when Father died. I don’t blame you, Cam, but now I need you. I need a brother who may be a king after me, and will be a help to me while I live. I had hoped the menace was over and you could have a few more years—but it’s not, and you can’t.”

Camwyn tried for the feeling he’d had riding back from practice—solid, sober, knightly. He glanced at Aris. The younger boy’s face lit up. Egan Verrakai had said Aris was a cocky upstart who thought he was the equal of his elders. That he was pleasant around Camwyn only because he was currying favor. But since Egan had … left … something had changed in the boys’ riding group. Aris hadn’t acted differently than any other boy his age assigned the duties of page or squire. Now Aris’s smile warmed his fear. “I’ll do my best,” Camwyn said.

“I want my friends to know you better, and you to know them,” Mikeli said. “And I want to know your friends, as well. That doesn’t mean you and Aris have to become like brothers, as Juris and I are, but we need all of you, for the struggle that’s going on.”

The rest of the meal passed quickly; the older ones talked of things Camwyn didn’t fully understand, but he tried, instead of ignoring them. The older men of the Council, the young men’s fathers and uncles, continued to treat him and even Aris as if they were adult, equals. They talked of affairs of the realm without explanation, but Camwyn found it easier to follow a conversation between Duke Serrostin and Duke Mahieran on the movement of funds between Vérella and Fin Panir than to listen to his tutor. Aris, he noted, was quicker to ask questions, willing to risk his father’s correction or his brother’s scorn—which didn’t come as often as he’d expected.

Egan had always insisted that lords must never show ignorance, never admit they didn’t understand, but the Marrakaien—now that he could watch Juris and Aris together with their father—all seemed as comfortable asking questions as answering them.

“What do you think?” Crown Prince Mikeli turned to his uncle and the other Council members after the younger boys had left.

“I think we’re damned lucky they’re alive, either of them,” Duke Mahieran said. “That was a close call this morning; Gird’s grace their instructor knew what to do.”

“I’m asking about Camwyn,” the crown prince said. “Is he what you’d expect—what we need?”

“Hard to tell what he’s really like, after something like this … he seemed quiet … a little stiff …”

“He’s lost his best friend,” Duke Marrakai said. “It can’t be easy, knowing the Verrakai boy’s in prison, under charge of attainder. Aris said Egan was always with him.”

“And I didn’t do anything,” the crown prince said. “I thought—if Cam liked him, that might ease the tension with the Verrakaien.”

“Egan didn’t like Aris,” Juris Marrakai said. “He didn’t want Camwyn and Aris to be friends. Though in all fairness, Aris didn’t like Egan either. I don’t know who started it.”

“I do,” Count Destvaorn said. “And unfortunately it fuels our suspicions of Egan Verrakai. He told tales of Aris, and some of them were not true. I heard him; I scolded him; he apologized. But later I heard through a friend’s son that he was spreading the same tales again. And tales of me, as a Marrakai friend who could not be trusted.”

“I worry that Cam’s loyalty to his friend could overcome his good sense,” Mikeli said, helping himself to a handful of shelled nuts.

“After the attack on you? And on himself today?”

“I hope not, but—I don’t know, my lords. This business today frightened me, I don’t mind admitting. We were warned some of them could take other bodies, and to keep watch, but—a groom? A stableboy? How can we tell?”

“Dorrin Verrakai has some way to tell—she found some, she reported,” Duke Marrakai said.

“And we’ve heard nothing from her since—”

“Except reports from the Marshals in Harway and Darkon Edge that things are better. No specifics,” Destvaorn said.

“We could send someone to ask, but she’s surely coming to your coronation,” Duke Marrakai said.

“I am not sure,” Mikeli said. “If she’s battling renegades over there, she may not come.”

“I would send her a very clear invitation,” Duke Marrakai said. “A royal courier. We will all feel better if we see her again and can be sure of her loyalty, and you can also ask her advice.”