Oath of Fealty

40

The next morning, Dorrin arrived at the palace to find that she had been assigned a dressing room and two tiring maids to help. The tiring maids, used to helping noble ladies into their dresses, stared at Dorrin in her trousers and boots with some dismay. “But—you’re a lady …”

“I’m a duke,” Dorrin said. “And I’ve spent my life as a soldier. I brought the clothes I was told to bring.”

Giggling, the tiring maids helped her into them: the elaborately ruffled shirt with its lace collar and cuffs, the striped, bloused short trousers, the slashed doublet through which the shirt’s sleeves had to be carefully tugged to make symmetrical puffs, the stockings, the ribbons tied at the knee, the formal high-heeled court shoes, silver buckles decorated with yet more jewels in the Verrakai colors. Everything had ruffles or lace or jewels or some combination of these.

It was ridiculous, Dorrin thought, and yet … she did feel different, inside that magnificence. She fastened Falk’s ruby to the lace of the collar, one drop of red in all that blue and silver and gray.

A knock on the door. “A half-glass, my lord,” came a voice through the door. Dorrin picked up the blue velvet cap with its silver-pheasant feather and put it on, then looked in the mirror as the tiring maids lifted the formal robe and held it for her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. In the mirror, she saw the transformation completed. No more Dorrin the runaway. No more Dorrin the student at Falk’s Hall. No more Dorrin, cohort captain in Phelan’s Company … but Dorrin, Duke Verrakai. This was what people would see, now and in the future … not her past, but her present.

She smiled at the tiring maids, and thanked them for their help. Another knock on the door. “Time, my lord.” The door opened. The Master of Ceremonies looked her up and down. “Excellent,” he said. Behind him, a servant with a flat box. He opened it. “Your court chain of office.”

Unlike the ducal chain the prince had sent before, this was all gold, the links beaten into the shape of the Tsaian rose. She bent her head and he lifted it, then laid it on her shoulders. “Come along,” he said, as if to a child, and she followed him.

In the corridor near the Grange Hall, Knights of the Bells stood on either side, their mail shining, their swords belted on. The other nobles were milling about, chatting. Dorrin looked around. Duke Marrakai caught her eye and waved her over.

“We need to stay at this end, we dukes,” he said. “You’ve met everyone, I believe.” By “everyone” he meant the other dukes, Dorrin understood. Behind them, clusters of counts, and beyond that, barons. The dukes were easily the most resplendent.

And the hottest. Barons, Dorrin had noticed, had sleeveless court gowns, showing the puffs of their shirts, and only a narrow edging of fur at the neck. Even counts had less fur than the dukes, who were all, by now, fanning themselves. She had not brought a fan. Duke Marrakai offered his, but she shook her head, and in a moment a palace servant came up and handed her one.

The Master of Ceremonies reappeared, having gathered up some laggard barons, and chivvied them all into the right order. Dorrin was appalled to find herself at the head of the line, beside Duke Mahieran and behind the Lord Herald with his beribboned staff. “Don’t worry,” Mahieran said. “Just do what I do, only on the other side of the hall and right after.”

Then the Bells of Vérella rang out, chime after chime, followed by the blare of trumpets; servants pulled back the doors, and they went in. At the far end of the Hall, the crown prince, all in white, stood below the throne between—Dorrin blinked, not having expected this—the Marshal-General of Gird and the new Marshal-Judicar. Dorrin led her file of nobles to the right, around the roped-off area in the middle of the hall; when Duke Mahieran stopped, she turned to face him.

She had not imagined that a trial of arms would be part of the coronation ceremony, but the prince and Marshal-General exchanged blows that could be heard clearly throughout the Hall. The Marshal-General stepped back and saluted. “He is sound of body and skilled in arms,” she said loudly. “The Company of Gird accepts his sword.”

“Accepted,” the nobles said.

Then the lowest-ranking baron spoke up. “Is he without blemish, as a king must be?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said.

Servants stepped into the central area, folding the prince’s clothes as he took them off. He stood before them, bare as at birth, and turned. Dorrin could not take her eyes off that fair young body.

“He is without blemish,” the baron said. “The company of barons accepts him.”

The prince had dressed again. The lowest-ranking count spoke up. “Does he know the rule of law, or the rule of passion?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said again.

The Marshal-Judicar came forward. He asked questions, so many that Dorrin lost count.

“He is a man of law,” the count said finally. “The company of counts accepts him.”

Duke Mahieran turned to the dukes beside him, and then across from him. “What say you, Dukes of the realm: Do you accept this man, Mikeli Vostan Keriel, as your king?”

“We accept him!” they said, Dorrin as loud as the rest.

The prince walked back to the throne and turned; servants lifted the robe, deep red embroidered in silver, and he put his arms into it. Then he sat.

Mahieran stepped forward; the Marshal-General met him, and together they lifted the crown of Tsaia from its stand. Together they held it over his head.

“All here witness the High Lord’s blessing, Gird’s grace, and the consent of nobles of this realm, of the crowning of Mikeli, King of Tsaia.” They lowered the crown to his head and stepped back.

The Marshal-General handed him a different sword, this one obviously old, in a battered scabbard. “Gird’s sword: may you wield it to defend your realm.” He took it, kissed it, and handed it back to her.

Mahieran handed him a scepter. “The staff of law: may you wield it to defend the right.” Again Mikeli took it, kissed it, and handed it back. The Bells pealed again, a great clamor, and trumpets blew a deafening fanfare.

When silence fell again, Mikeli, now king of Tsaia, waited while servants removed the pillars and ropes. Then the nobles closed in from side to side, the two lines slightly offset so that Duke Mahieran was a half stride in front of Dorrin. As each knelt and gave the oath of fealty, he clasped their hands, and bent to kiss their heads as they kissed his hand. Dorrin found it more moving than she had expected.

After returning the court chain of office to the Master of Ceremonies and putting off the great robe, she mingled with other nobles and their families in the airy second-floor reception room before the formal procession. She’d been allowed to invite her distant relative Ganarrion Verrakai, cleared of any suspicion of conspiracy and freed from prison only a few days before she arrived in Vérella. He wore his Royal Guard uniform. They’d never met; they fumbled some time for a common topic before she mentioned Paksenarrion, and he brightened. “I met her, on her way to Lyonya,” he said. “Were you her commander, in Phelan’s company?”

Dorrin explained, and from there they chatted easily about military matters, horses, and the strange ways of the gods. The king had suggested Ganarrion as a possible heir; the more she talked to him, the more she was inclined to agree. They did not mention the Order of Attainder or the continuing search for their fugitive relatives. “Come stay with me in Verrakai’s city house,” she said.

“My pardon, my lord Duke, but I cannot. I am on duty, as we all are—this leave of a few hours is all I can spend with you. Please understand, it is not lack of respect.”

“Of course not,” Dorrin said. “But we should know each other better. Perhaps you can visit in the east—for Midwinter Feast, if that’s allowed. If not, I will understand.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “When do you return to the east?”

“In a few days,” Dorrin said. “I have much to do there. I will return for Autumn Court, of course. I will be presenting an old friend, Jandelir Arcolin, who was Phelan’s senior captain and is now to gain a title and take over that domain.”

“I will try to come, though if I’m assigned once more to the northeast, I doubt very much it will be possible,” Ganarrion said. “I would like to meet—do you know his title?”

“No,” Dorrin said. “You should meet him, however; we’ve been friends a long time, and fought many campaigns together.”

A servant in the palace livery came up to them and handed Ganarrion a folded note. He read it and shook his head. “My lord, I’m sorry—I’m called for. I hope to see you again before you leave.”

“Go safely—I need not tell you to be careful.” She watched him go, and sent prayers after him.

Duke Mahieran bore down on her. “I didn’t want to interrupt while you were talking to your relative, but we need your advice about something.”

“Certainly,” Dorrin said. “What is it?”

“Let us find a quieter place.” He led her to a smaller room. A moment later, Duke Marrakai joined them; Dorrin felt a sudden tension.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You reported that some of your relatives could change from one body to another and thus go undetected—and that you had found a few such. How did you know?”

“I found the first evidence in the family rolls,” Dorrin said. “But those do not give the names—never the full name, and often no name at all—of the person whose body is taken. Those who make the transfer are marked as deaths in the rolls, with a special symbol.”

“But how did you find those who had transferred? You sent word you had killed some—killed them permanently?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said, thinking of the children buried in the orchard. “Those are definitely dead. How I knew them—as you know, the prince—the king—gave me leave to use my magery as I needed. That let me see something wrong about their eyes and spirit.”

“Is this something you can teach others—us, for instance?”

“I doubt it,” Dorrin said. “But what is it? Do you suspect someone here?”

“Someone tried to kill Camwyn, the prince’s younger brother, and my son Aris, by poisoning their horses right before they rode out. Planted a wax capsule under the saddle; we think the poison leaked out and into the horses’ backs—”

Dorrin felt almost faint. “It was not just poison,” she said. “Though it would have been covered in wax, around the clay. The wax melts with the heat of the horse and the pressure of the rider eventually breaks the seal of the clay. Then it is only a matter of time—were the horses restive?”

“Yes. They would not stand still. Then suddenly—”

“They went crazy—bucking, bolting—is that what happened?”

“Yes—their instructor thought it might be some kind of insect sting, a wasp or something, but he found no evidence, though the capsule remained. Broken, of course.” Marrakai looked angry. “Did you know about this? What it is?”

“When I was a child,” Dorrin said, “I heard of such things. You know there are flies and other creatures that lay eggs on livestock, usually in a wound, and infest the wound with maggots. Some cause illness—staggers or flayleg. And some give such a painful bite the animal goes wild.”

“Yes, but—”

“Some of my relatives used magery to enhance those attacks—”

“They attacked animals?”

“As a way to attack people, my lord. I overheard, once—and was punished for having passed by the door at the wrong time—one of them speak of you, Duke Marrakai. You know they hated you, and they hated also your reputation for breeding the best horses. They had devised, they thought, a way to ruin your reputation by destroying your horses, but the process was arduous and they were willing to wait years, they said.”

“They nearly destroyed my son,” Marrakai said. “Though I suppose that, too, would have pleased them.”

“No doubt,” Dorrin said. “Do you know who saddled the horses that day? If it is the same thing, it must be placed on the horse no more than a glass before it is ridden. A groom—”

“None of the grooms admit to saddling those two horses—or any of the horses the boys rode that day. Most often the boys tack up for themselves, but sometimes it is done for them, especially if there’s word they will be late to the stable.”

“Were any of the grooms sick, between the time you captured and imprisoned Verrakaien—including the ones I sent you—and the time of this attack on the horses?”

“Sick?” Mahieran frowned. “I don’t know, to be sure. All the grooms had been with us a long time—”

“One was,” Marrakai said. “Don’t you remember, Sonder? That fellow—what was his name?—who usually did stalls in the new wing. We asked for him—Pedraig, that was his name—and they said he was sick with the wasting. Then in two tendays, that he was like to die, a terrible fever. But he recovered.”

Dorrin’s stomach clenched. “That’s your man.”

“Pedraig? He’s been with us for years,” Mahieran said. “He’d never do anything to hurt a horse or a child, I promise you.”

“Pedraig wouldn’t,” Dorrin said. “But the man in his body now is not Pedraig. Did any Verrakai sicken and die—or die suddenly, aside from execution—while imprisoned?”

“Three,” Mahieran said. Now he looked worried. “Do you think—”

“I think a Verrakai contrived Pedraig’s illness, and took him over,” Dorrin said. “Perhaps one in prison, perhaps one living concealed in the city, or elsewhere in the palace staff. Though how he could manage that from a distance I do not know. What I do know is that I must go now, immediately, and see this fellow—”

“Now?”

“He will know I have come to the coronation—if it’s not gossip in the stable I’d be amazed—and if it is one I captured and sent here, he knows I have the full magery. He knows I can reveal him. At least the king is safe here, or so I hope—”

Mahieran started. “Gird’s arm! He was about to make his progress—!”

“What?”

“Come,” Mahieran said, and Dorrin followed as he hurried back to the reception. Over his shoulder, Mahieran said, “The new king greets all the palace servants—including in the stables—and then mounts his horse to ride in procession through the city and around the bounds—Midsummer, you know.”

“Take me to Pedraig,” Dorrin said, turning to Marrakai. “Find the king,” she said to Mahieran. “Don’t let him come near his horse.” She was halfway to the palace doors before she realized she had just ordered two senior dukes around as if they were her soldiers. And they had not protested.

Across the wide stone-flagged courtyard, the royal procession was forming: grooms held the horses of those who would ride—Dorrin had declined the honor, having no proper mount for the occasion. The horses were decked out with manes and tails elaborately braided and dressed with flowers and ribbons, bridles and saddles festooned with bells and brightwork. The king’s horse, a Tsaian gray stallion, stood at the head of the line, tossing its head now and then and pawing with one massive hoof. Already some nobles had changed their court shoes for boots and were standing in clumps, chatting as they waited for the king to arrive. From the king’s horse to the gate, a line of grooms held baskets of rose petals, ready to strew them in front of the king as the procession began.

“Pedraig,” Dorrin said to Marrakai. “Is he here?”

“I don’t see—there!” Marrakai nodded at one of the grooms with baskets, a nondescript light-haired man.

As Dorrin’s gaze met that of the man in groom’s livery, she knew at once he was Verrakai … and then, that he was her father. Her father, here? He smiled, a smile widening into such vicious glee that she felt cold all over, immobilized with horror. Before she could raise a shield of magery, he struck, a bolt of pure enmity and malice aimed not at her but at Marrakai. She parried it, but not fast enough: Marrakai fell as if hit by a stone.

Dorrin stepped over Marrakai’s body, shielding him from further attack, and loosed her own magery, first trying to hold him at bay. But he was stronger than any she had faced before. Again he struck, this time at a horse in the procession, a flick of fire that set its trappings ablaze; it screamed, jerked loose from its handlers and plunged away. The other horses reared, squealing and fighting their grooms; instant turmoil followed, with shod hooves ringing on the stones, shouts of command, screams of fear, the rasp of swords from the sheath.

She glanced around, and a flood of power broke through her shield; she staggered against force that sought to hold her as the king had been held. The sense of weight increased; she felt her knees buckling. With agonizing slowness, she forced her head around to see her father grinning at her, that same feral grin.

You cannot stand against me—daughter. The remembered voice mocked her. No once-born could. Your power came from me; it is part of mine; I am its master.

“Falk’s Oath, you are not,” Dorrin said aloud. Her voice sounded odd, but she was able to force herself upright. “You are evil, your strength comes only from blood magery.” She struggled forward, fighting the pressure of it, drawing her sword, ignoring the plunging horses, the screams and yells. “Falk and the High Lord defend me; they have given me the true magery—”

You sent the mother who bore you to her death; would you kill your own father as well? And you call me evil?

Dorrin ignored that, took step after slow step, as if wading through thick mud. His power pressed on her; she could see no effect of hers on him; he stood there smiling.

Remember those nights in the cell? Remember how you begged for your puny suffering to end? What a coward you were … and are still. Now you are old, barren, weak. An empty husk, useless for anything but torment. I will take your body but keep you as a mind-slave, helpless but aware, and use your power as my own.

Memory flooded her mind: the pain, the smells, the tastes of it. Her father, worse than Carraig … nausea cramped her belly; the vile taste filled her mouth. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Again her knees sagged; her hand’s grip on her sword loosened, and the sword tip fell to the stone, ringing a warning. Her hand clenched tighter. Not again, not again … She tried to say Falk’s name, but her mouth was dry, dry as bone-dust and as bitter. Dry as a cursed well …

A well that now brimmed with clean water. From the depths of despair, from that recent memory, she reached for the source of her own power, the power Falk promised was hers, untainted. Falk’s knight, not her father’s daughter; Falk’s knight, who had freed a woman and her unborn child from a curse that bound them in unending torment, whose tears had renewed the waters.

“Falk,” she managed. At once that sweet, cold water filled her mouth, washing away the taste of evils she had endured, washing away fear and hatred. As she swallowed, the water seemed to renew her whole body; her strength surged back, as water had done in the well. She saw her father’s expression change even as she felt her power mastering him. Could he feel her new determination? Now she held him motionless, and knew he could not flee. Should she bind him for others to capture, or would it be better to kill him herself? She raised her sword, saw his concentration change to fear, and then to glee again … the look she had seen on the child’s face who had been about to force a transfer.

“Falk!” she cried, pleading, and for the first time in her life cast the death spell like a spear, not knowing if it would truly kill.

His face contorted for an instant, and then he fell and lay motionless. Dorrin ran to the fallen body—she felt nothing there—no taint of evil, dire mist as she’d seen after Carraig died, no hint of lingering malice. “I’m sorry,” Dorrin said, to the body that had once been an honest groom’s, as she sheathed her sword. “You were a good man once; you deserved better.”

She looked around—the courtyard was still in chaos. With a touch of magery she calmed the horses, put out the smoldering fire that had started the panic. She hoped no one would notice that part. Duke Marrakai still lay where he had fallen; now his sons crouched beside him, staring at her wide-eyed.

She walked back to them.

“You killed him!” Kirgan Marrakai said, eyes blazing. “You killed them both! He should have known you lied! You’re just like the rest! Traitor!” He drew his dagger and lunged at her. Dorrin barely evaded the thrust, and backed away.

“Kirgan Marrakai—I did not!”

“I saw—he was beside you, he fell, and you tried to make it look like it was that groom. We know him; we’ve known him for years!”

“It was not that—” Dorrin stepped back again as the young man still advanced, dagger now in his left hand, right hand reaching for his sword.

“I saw it too,” said one of the counts. “Seize her—”

Glancing around, Dorrin saw only hostile faces, weapons drawn. Nobles and palace guards alike, they formed a ring around her, all clearly frightened but determined. Was this the gods’ punishment for killing her parents, even though they were evil? Well, if so, at least she had saved her king. She folded her arms and stood still, waiting for the blow that would kill her.

“Hold!” That shout from the palace stopped Kirgan Marrakai’s arm in midswing. “Stand away—let me see her.”

The Marshal-General of Gird, with Duke Mahieran and the king, came down the palace steps and across the courtyard. Slowly, reluctantly, the nobles sheathed their weapons and bent a knee to the king. Dorrin, arms still folded, made her bow as well.

Into the moment of silence, Aris Marrakai spoke, a boy’s voice shaky with fear and surprise. “He’s—he’s breathing.”

“What?” Kirgan Marrakai turned.

“Wait,” the Marshal-General said. Everyone stared at her as she went to Duke Marrakai, knelt beside him, and looked him over. “How did he fall?” she asked. A dozen voices answered, tumbling over one another.

“She did it—he fell backward—he just fell—I didn’t see but I heard—”

“He’s alive,” the Marshal-General said, “but he hit his head on the paving stones.”

“She made him fall,” Kirgan Marrakai insisted, pointing at Dorrin. “He was beside her and there was a flicker of light and then he fell. She used magery—”

The Marshal-General turned to Dorrin. “Well? What say you?”

“I did use magery, Marshal-General. Duke Marrakai pointed out the man we were sure had poisoned the horses a tenday or so ago … not the real groom, but a Verrakai who had taken over his body during his illness. I thought he would attack me first, but he attacked Duke Marrakai, and my attempt to shield him from that attack was not enough. To my shame.”

“Is this what you were telling me about on the way, Duke Mahieran?”

“Yes, Marshal-General. I went to warn the king before he came out here, and she and Marrakai went to find Pedraig—the groom.”

“You are convinced she was telling the truth?” Before Mahieran could answer, she turned again to Dorrin. “How did you kill him? And do you know which Verrakai he was?”

“I killed him by magery, Marshal-General, because he was too far away to reach with the sword when he attempted another transfer, to another innocent man.”

“Which Verrakai was he?”

“My father.”

The Marshal-General chewed on her lip for a moment. “To kill with magery condemns you to death, under the Code of Gird—you know that.”

“Yes, Marshal-General.”

“Did you think of that at the time?”

“No. I thought how horrible it was that another man might die—and hated what I did, but—I did it.”

“The Code of Gird offers no alternatives to death for your act,” the Marshal-General said. “Do you feel that is just?”

Dorrin just stopped herself from shrugging, which would add rudeness to her crime. “Marshal-General, laws are written as they are for a reason. I swore fealty to the king, which included swearing to obey the Code of Gird as administered in Tsaia. I have no complaints.”

“I do,” the king said. He looked from Dorrin to the Marshal-General. “I believe she saved my life—and other lives—by acting as she did. This man nearly killed my brother and Aris Marrakai; we asked Duke Verrakai to help us find the one who did so, and she has done that. By all reports, she has carried out the commands we first gave her, when we asked her to take on the Verrakai domain. I am not moved to waste a valuable peer for a quibble of law.”

“You must, my liege,” Dorrin said. “For if a king does not obey the law, how can his subjects?”

“I do not want to see you die, Dorrin Verrakai.”

“And I am not particularly eager to die,” Dorrin said. “But the law is the law, and we are both sworn to it.”

“As administered in Tsaia,” Duke Mahieran put in, quoting the oath. “And in Tsaia there are other things to be considered, mitigating factors, and also the King’s Mercy. That Dorrin Duke Verrakai killed with magery is not—since she freely admits it—in question. But the King and Council may, if they choose, consider her motives, what alternatives she might have had available, and then at the king’s discretion, he may choose an alternative punishment.”

A mutter from those watching.

“Let us consider,” Mahieran went on. “First that this man, as Duke Marrakai and I were both convinced from Duke Verrakai’s words, did poison the horses of Prince Camwyn and Aris Marrakai, and thereby imperil their lives. He was guilty of treason, and for that alone would have been condemned in a trial to shameful death. Second, that since he was not really Pedraig the groom, but a Verrakai in Pedraig’s body, his life was already forfeit under the Order of Attainder. Third, that he was no doubt conspiring to assassinate our king on the very day of his coronation by poisoning his horse—and perhaps others—the very same way he had done with the prince and young Marrakai’s horses.”

Mahieran looked around; the peers and palace guards were nodding.

“So that Duke Verrakai having killed this traitor is no crime, but a service to the Crown. She used magery to kill him, that is true, and killing by magery is against our laws—but suppose she had pierced his body with a poisoned blade? Killing with poison is also a crime—but is there anyone here who thinks if she had done that she would deserve death for so dispatching an enemy of the Crown and people of Tsaia?” Heads shook, the murmur rose.

“So I say, it is unfortunate that circumstances forced her to use magery, but if she had not, we would face worse problems. If this Verrakai had taken another body—if she had not been able to shield—at least partially—Duke Marrakai—if she had not been so determined to find and dispatch this villain that she ordered me around like one of her soldiers—” His glance at Dorrin was almost mischievous. “Then our king might be dead, and the realm in chaos worse than frightened horses loose in the palace court.” He turned to the king and bent his knee. “I ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai, my liege.”

“And I—And I as well—” Other dukes chimed in, all but Marrakai who lay still on the pavement. Mahieran turned to Kirgan Marrakai.

“Will you answer for your father, Kirgan?”

“I—” The young man looked at Dorrin. “My lord Duke, I mistook you, and what I saw. My pardon, my lord.” And to the king he said, “My liege, I also ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai.”

“Kneel,” the king said. Dorrin knelt on the rough stone; she felt one of her stockings rip. The king drew his sword and put the tip at her throat as she looked up at him. “For that you have done this thing, your life is forfeit.” Then he laid the flat of it on her head. “But for that you have done this thing in our service, and by it have served the Crown and People of the realm well, I pardon you, Dorrin Duke Verrakai, and if the gods would punish you, let the punishment fall on me, as your lord and king. Now rise.”

Dorrin rose; someone in the rear of the throng clapped, but it died away; the matter was too serious for applause.

“And we still,” the king said, “have a procession to ride. But we will see each horse unsaddled and examined.”

Under the king’s saddlecloth, Dorrin saw a brown lump, thumb-sized, just where the king’s weight would break it. With the king’s permission, she lifted it away by magery, and then ran her hand over the stallion’s satiny back. “It is unbroken; it can have done no harm, and there is no irritation to indicate he did anything else.”

All the Marrakai mounts had the same, but only two other horses, both Marrakai-bred.

By then Duke Marrakai had awakened, complaining of nausea and a severe pain in his head; the palace physicians insisted he must be carried in and put to bed.

“You must ride with us, Dorrin,” the king said.

“I have no proper mount—these horses are all—” Fancy and useless were the terms that came to mind, that she must not use.

“Take my father’s,” Kirgan Marrakai said. “He would offer it, if he were here.”

“I need my boots,” Dorrin said, as she looked down at her torn stocking. But someone had already run to the palace, and before she could get to the doors, the tiring maids were there with her boots, her silver spurs, and the proper cape.

She rode out the gate near the head of the procession, side by side with Duke Mahieran and behind the prince, through streets strewn with flowers and good-luck charms, to the cheers of the crowd.