Oath of Gold

24

They traveled to Vérella with far less difficulty than Paks had feared—though with far more publicity than she’d hoped. Marshal Pelyan, whom she’d met on the way to Lyonya, had heard of the quest before their arrival. Travelers, he said, had brought word as soon as it came to Harway. And he himself had passed the word on through the granges. So their arrival in any town caused excitement but not curiosity. Paks enjoyed the crowds of children that followed them, the flurry when they entered an inn, but hoped the admiration was not premature. As well, she remembered the winter before, when she had stumbled into such towns as a hungry vagrant, whom the children tricked and harassed instead of cheering.

In each town, they spent the night in grange or field, for Paks wished the King’s Squires to have such protection at night. The Marshals each had a measure of news or advice; she listened to all. She did not tell them the prince’s name, but she told what she could of the quest so far. The nearer she came to Vérella, the more recent the news became. In Westbells, just east of Vérella, Marshal Torin told her that the Duke had been summoned to the Council. She had not asked, but it seemed Phelan’s call to court was of interest even to a neighboring town.

“What I heard,” he said between bites of roast chicken, “was that after the Marshal-General went up there, and whatever passed between them, his friends on the Council thought he should come speak for himself. You know, I suppose, that there was a motion to censure him.”

Paks nodded. She had heard about this from the Marshal-General.

“I never thought so bad of him myself,” Marshal Torin went on, “for it seemed to me that if over half my yeomen were killed by treachery, I’d take risks enough to stop that. But they say by his charter he’s bound to have a hundred fighting men on his lands, and the word was that this was not the first time he’d left the north unguarded.” He ate steadily for a minute, then put down the bones and wiped his hands. “I can’t believe that, or there’d have been more trouble. Kostvan, who holds south and east of him, has never complained. But then there was word about how he fought in Aarenis—even rumors from a Marshal down there, so I hear. And last year, instead of staying quiet at home, he went haring off to Fintha because of—” He stopped short and turned dark red. Paks smiled.

“Marshal, he went haring off to Fintha on account of me—and that may have been foolish, but showed a warm heart.”

“Warm heart or not, it made some on the Council angry. They’d bid him stay on his lands, and—”

“But his men stayed,” put in the yeoman-marshal, a young man who reminded Paks of Ambros in Brewersbridge. “His captains, and all the men—they could have handled any trouble—”

“I didn’t say they were right, Keri. I said they were angry.”

“Some of them would be angry no matter what he did.” The young man’s face had flushed. Paks wondered why he was defending Phelan.

“Court gossip, Keri. Nothing to do with us. You can clear now.” The Marshal waited until Keri had left the room before saying more. Paks used the interval to ask her squires about their readiness to ride the next day—an unnecessary question, but they answered without surprise.

“You’re going to the Council,” said the Marshal, when she had dismissed them to rest, and did not wait for her answer. “You’ll find them in a flutter, I don’t doubt,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s why I mentioned Phelan—you know him, and he’s likely there, and that’s why. He’s got friends and enemies both on the Council, and until they’ve settled themselves about him, they’re likely to be skittish with you. The thought that Lyonya had sent a paladin to search in Tsaia for an unknown prince—well, you can see how that will suit. Will they have to acknowledge someone as sovereign of a neighboring realm who has been thought base-born here? How if he’s a slave, or a servant?”

“He’s not,” said Paks quietly.

“You know who it is?”

“Yes, but I am not at liberty to say, until I have spoken to him.”

“I see. That makes sense.” He chewed his lip a moment. “Someone highborn? How could that be, unless—no, I should not ask. You have your own guidance from Gird and the High Lord, and I pray their grace and strength for you. I doubt your task will be easy, even knowing for whom you go.”

“Could you tell me,” asked Paks, “which of the Council is the right person to approach?”

“Hmmph. Right for what, is the question. As you have dealt with me, so must I deal with you. I have no right to tell you all that the Marshals of Gird suspect about some families on the Council; we have not the proof, and we are bound not to illspeak without it. Yet I would not talk freely with anyone, and certainly not with the Verrakai family. Kostvan is utterly loyal, but has less power. Marrakai—Marrakai has the power, and I believe is loyal, but the Marrakaien have long had a name for secret treachery. Yet you know that the name is not the reality: the real traitor may not have the reputation. Clannaeth is flighty—they say it’s his health, but I have a cousin down there who says it’s his second wife. Destvaorn is bride-bound to the Marrakaien, but none the worse for that, if the Marrakaien be sound. Konhalt—there’s another I’d go clear of; I know nothing against them, but that three times the neighboring grange has had to chase evil things from their hills. The rest are small, of little power compared to these, or closely related. I might speak to Kostvan first, or Destvaorn, and then to Marrakai. Phelan wields power, but not at the moment; your past connection would be suspect there.”

Paks got from him the descriptions of these various lords, and committed them to memory. Then she chanced to mention the Verrakai captain she’d met north of the Honnorgat—a Girdsman, he’d said. “Oh, that branch is sound,” said the Marshal cheerfully. “I don’t wonder you thought him well enough. That’s the trouble with some families—and the Verrakaien aren’t the only one—you can’t tell by the name. Take the Marrakaien, now: true or treacherous, they’re all of one brew, and that a heady one. There’s naught to choose one from another, barring looks. But others—well, you have dreamers, drunks, daring men and dour men all in one heap, like mixed fruit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Paks.

Their entry into Vérella was far different from the first time she’d seen the city. The guards at the first gate had heard of her quest; they saw her coming and held traffic (light enough at this season) to pass her through. She had long forgotten the way from the south gates to the court, but the guard sent an escort to guide her, an eager young soldier whose bright face reminded her of all the recruits she’d ever seen.

On horseback, she could see over the parapets of the bridge; the Honnorgat here had a skim of ice even in midstream. At the inner gate, on the north bank of the Honnorgat, a guard captain waited, mounted on a horse decked in the rose and silver of Tsaia; he dismissed the escort, and led them to the court himself. For a little they rode alongside the tall bare wall that Paks remembered, then turned left, and left again, and came to open gates that gave on a wide courtyard. Here they dismounted, at the captain’s directions, and liveried grooms led the horses away. Paks warned the groom assigned to her horse, and the horse trailed him without a hand on his reins.

“Lady Paksenarrion,” said the captain, with a low bow, “I have orders to convey you at once to the Regency Council, if you are not too fatigued with your journey.” His voice conveyed the secure belief that they would indeed be too fatigued.

Paks returned the bow. “Not at all. It is in answer to Gird’s call that I seek the Regency Council; it cannot be too soon.”

To her surprise, the captain reddened slightly. “Well—ah—Lady—the council assumed you would wish to take refreshment, whenever you came, and—in fact—they are in session now. But when they come forth, I am sure—”

Paks followed the pressure she felt. “By your leave, Captain, I would not intrude, but by the gods’ commands. If you will, guide us to the Council, and make known to them that I would see them.”

“They know you’re coming—” he blurted, completely flustered.

“Yes, but not when—nor exactly what I have come for. Sir, the matter is urgent—” She felt this intensely, as if every moment now mattered. “I believe they will agree on the necessity for this, when I give my message.”

“Well, Lady—” Clearly he did not know how to argue with a paladin on quest. Paks smiled at him.

“Come, Captain; take me to the Council, and let them decide if they have time. We do no good standing here in the cold.”

At that he bowed, and led the way across the courtyard. The three squires followed Paks closely. She noticed, even in that rapid walk, how different this court was from that in Chaya. Fluted columns of pinkish stone supported a portico on three sides, and rose to frame a pointed arch opposite the gate. Above were walls ornamented with half-pillars separating pointed windows, several rows of them, up to the fretwork of stone that hid the roofs from those below. A lacework of frost or snow glittered from every roughness of the stone, making the palace shimmer with the rose and silver of Tsaia. Suddenly, from far over their heads, a sweet powerful clamour broke out. For a moment Paks could not think what it might be: then she remembered the Bells. The captain turned to her, speaking through the sound.

“You have heard our Bells before, Lady?”

“No.” Paks could not say they were beautiful; she wanted only to listen. In the song they were gold, “the golden bells of Vérella”; she wondered if they truly were. The captain talked on, heedless.

“The elves gave them, when Vérella was founded. To look at they are pure gold, but of course they cannot be all gold, for it would not stand the beating. But the elves had them cast, and their voices are sweet to hear.” His last words rang loud; the Bells had ceased.

“How often do they ring?”

“It depends on the Council. Always at true dawn, as the elves have it, and sunfall, and at midday when the Council is sitting. And for any festival, of course: Midwinter, Summereve, Torre’s Eve, High Harvest, Gird’s Victory—for those.”

They had come to steps leading up to tall doors under the arch. Guards in rose and silver nodded to the captain and he led them in. Here the floor was set with polished blocks of silver-gray stone. Paks looked around the wide hall; wide stairs rose ahead of her, where the hall narrowed to a passage still wider than the main room in a cottage. To right and left were tall doors folded back to reveal great empty rooms opening into other rooms. Tapestries hung on the walls; the lamp sconces were polished silver. The captain had paused for a moment, looking around. Paks saw a youth in a green tunic with red piping over red hose—Marrakai colors, if her memory served—come into the room on the left. The captain hailed him.

“Pardon, Kirgan—is the Council still sitting?”

The young man—a squire, Paks was sure, though the title was that of eldest son—nodded. “Yes, Captain. Why?” Paks saw his eyes rake over her and return to the captain’s face.

“It’s this—Lady Paksenarrion, a paladin. She is on quest, and must speak with the Council, she says.”

“At once?” The boy’s eyebrows rose, and he met Paks’s gaze with surprising composure.

“I must ask them to hear me,” said Paks quietly. “It is in their power to refuse.”

He laughed shortly. “They will hardly refuse to hear a paladin, I daresay. It’s better than what they have been hearing—”

“Sir!” The captain’s tone chilled.

The boy’s face reddened. “I beg your pardon,” he said formally. “I spoke as ill befits a squire.”

“If you will follow me,” said the captain, turning to Paks. She nodded, but watched the boy’s face stiffen as the captain snubbed him.

“I took no offense, Kirgan,” she said to him.

She and the Lyonyan squires followed the captain through two large rooms and down a wide passage to a deep alcove. Here four guards in rose and silver stood before doors inlaid with silver and enamel. The captain spoke to them softly, in a dialect Paks did not recognize. One of them stood aside, and the captain knocked softly at the doors.

At once they were opened slightly from inside. The captain conferred with someone. Paks was aware of tension in the room beyond: it seeped out the open door like a cold draught. Then a louder voice spoke from within, an order, and the captain turned to Paks, clearly surprised.

“They will hear you now,” he said.

“Thank you, Captain, for your guidance and help.” Paks walked forward; the guards stood aside from the doors, now opened wide. She felt rather than saw the Lyonyan squires following.

Within was a room smaller than those they had passed, well-lit by high windows on both sides. At the far end an empty throne loomed on a dais; on either side were tiered seats behind a sort of fence, rising up to the base of the windows. These were nearly empty, though a few squires lounged there, and—Paks squinted a moment against the light of the top tier—two elves. Taking up most of the floor space was a massive table of dark wood, heavily carved and inlaid with silver. Around this sat the lords she had come to see: the Regency Council of Tsaia. In the seat below the throne, the crown prince, who would be king by Summereve. Paks thought he looked man-grown already. His brother, younger by almost three years, sat to one side: he had no place on Council, and looked as bored as any youth locked into adult discussions of policy when he had rather be hunting. At the prince’s left, a burly man in green and red, who reminded Paks of the boy outside: that was Duke Marrakai. Duke Mahieran, in red and silver. Baron Destvaorn, in blue and red. Kostvan in green and blue. Verrakai—she let her eyes linger a moment on Verrakai—in blue and silver. Sorrestin in blue and rose. Clannaeth in yellow and rose. And alone at the near end of the table, facing her now, Phelan in his formal dress: maroon and white. He smiled at her, then moved to one side so that she could approach the table.

The man who had opened the door, a silver-haired old man in the royal livery, announced her.

“Lady Paksenarrion, Paladin of Gird.”

Paks bowed toward the prince.

“Your highness, lords of the Council: I thank you for your courtesy in thus allowing me an audience.”

The crown prince spoke quickly. “It is our honor, Lady, to receive any paladin in this Court. Pray tell us how we may aid your quest.”

“I will be brief.” Despite herself, her eyes slid a little toward Duke Phelan. She almost thought she could feel the sword’s desire to come to him. “You already know, I believe, that the king of Lyonya died without an heir of the body.” They nodded. “I was called to that court, to Chaya, as paladins are called, but not, alas, to heal the king. Instead I bore unknowing a treasure of that realm: this sword.” She pulled back her cloak; they peered at the sword hilt. Duke Phelan, as the others, merely looked puzzled.

“What sword is that?” asked the High Marshal into the brief silence that followed. Paks was sure he had already heard the tale, but she merely answered him.

“According to the testimony of lords in Chaya who remember, and the elves themselves, it was made for the son of King Falkieri—the older brother of this king, whose wife and son were lost while traveling to the Ladysforest. Because I bore the sword, the king—the one who lay dying—thought perhaps the gods meant me to take the throne after him, and so he spoke. But this, too, was not the quest for which I was called.”

“He would have given his kingdom to you?” That was Verrakai. Paks could feel the scorn from where she stood. “To a—a—commoner? A peasant’s child?”

From the corner of her eye, Paks saw Duke Phelan’s face whiten with rage; before she could speak, the prince did.

“Peace, Verrakai. Gird chose her paladin; whatever her past, she has been given abilities that would grace any throne. And we will not have any guest insulted at this table.” He smiled at Paks. “You will forgive Duke Verrakai’s surprise, Lady? Those of us who live in the midst of families graced with every talent may find it difficult to credit such talents elsewhere.” Paks thought she caught a bite of sarcasm in that; so did Verrakai, who first paled then reddened.

She bowed. “Your highness, I can take no offense for truth spoken. I am a commoner, a sheepfarmer’s daughter, and I found the thought of myself on a throne as outlandish as Duke Verrakai might wish. Indeed, that is not my destiny, nor do I seek it. But the dying king, loving his land much, thought a paladin might bring peace—that I can understand. And his lords, your highness, loving their land and peace more than pride, would have agreed.” She waited a moment for that to sink in; some of the Council found it hard to believe, by their expressions.

“Instead of that, I was called to search for the rightful king. By bringing this sword where its true nature could be known—by tracing its history carefully—by searching for the man who was once the prince of Lyonya—by all these means I am to find the rightful heir to that throne and return him to his place. In warrant of this, I am accompanied by these King’s Squires of Lyonya, who will witness the identity of the man, when we find him, and escort him to Chaya.”

“Only three?” That was the younger prince, now listening alertly.

“Four began the quest with me,” said Paks. “One died. We have been beset by evil powers, lords, who do not want the rightful king found.”

“How will you know?” asked the High Marshal again.

“By this sword.” Paks laid her hand on the pommel; it felt warm to her touch. “It was made for the prince, partially sealed to him in its forging. Had the journey they were on been complete, it would have been completely dedicated to him, and no one else could have drawn it. But that did not happen; the journey was never finished. So I have used it, and so have others—but according to the elves, who made it, it will still acknowledge its true master when he draws it.”

“And where did you get it?” asked Verrakai, still sour.

“From Duke Phelan,” said Paks.

“That thief—” muttered Verrakai. Paks heard it clearly. She laughed.

“Thief?” she repeated. “Not unless he took it as a babe in arms. It was lost from Lyonya over forty-five years ago. He was given it, Duke Verrakai, by Aliam Halveric of Lyonya, who had found it near a dead elf in the forest.”

“So he says.” Verrakai’s insistent distaste was not mellowing.

“So also the elves themselves say,” said Paks. “Aliam Halveric told the elves when he’d found it; they did not ask its return, but told him to give it to the one for whom it was made. They thought he knew what sword it was; alas, the elves have trouble remembering the brevity of human lives, and that he had been too young to see the sword at court.”

“But then—” The crown prince’s voice topped a sudden burst of talk; it stilled, and he went on. “But then the elves knew—they knew who the prince was? Why didn’t they simply say?”

“And how did they know?” asked the High Marshal, with a sharp look at the two elves who sat high in the tiers.

“You will remember that Falkieri’s queen was elven; the prince was half-elven. It seems that when the tragedy occurred, everyone assumed the boy had been killed. Instead, he was stolen away—beyond the seas, the elves think, since they could have sensed his presence anywhere in these realms.”

“Even in Pargun or Kostandan?” asked Duke Marrakai.

“I am not sure, my lord.”

“Yes,” came a silvery elven voice from the seats above. “Anywhere in these realms or Aarenis, Duke Marrakai, elves could have found him.”

“So you see,” Paks went on, “the elves also thought him dead, when they could not sense him. Then some years later, he returned to Lyonya: how, I do not know. But elves found him there, fairly quickly, and—”

“And did nothing? Do you ask me to believe that?” Verrakai led the rush of noise that followed. Paks waited until the room quieted; this time the prince had let them talk themselves out.

“The elves said,” Paks went on, “that the prince had been treated so badly that he had no remembrance of his past. He knew nothing of his name, his family, or his elven blood. They found him so damaged that they feared he had none of the taig-sense left; they feared to try any intervention lest they damage him further.”

“And so they did nothing.” The crown prince’s voice was calm.

“Not quite nothing, your highness. They watched. Remember that at that time, the prince’s younger sister was alive and well—”

“But now,” said the crown prince, “Lyonya has no king, and no clear heir, and the elves want a part-elven ruler. Is that the meat of it?”

“Not quite. They do not want this man to rule unless he’s fit for it—and they doubt his fitness.” Paks waited for the silence. Then she spoke. “I do not doubt it.”

“What!” The crown prince leaned forward; all of them stared. “You know—you know who it is?”

“I do.”

“Then why haven’t you said? Why this nonsense about a quest?” Verrakai again, sneering.

“Because, my lord, I have not been granted leave to speak by the gods—or by the king himself. What, would you have me place an innocent man in danger, by blurting his name out for the world to play with? Already one King’s Squire is dead, killed by a priest of Liart, to prevent my finding him. Already the powers of evil in Lyonya are massing to keep him from the throne. Suppose I had said his name openly, from the time I first suspected who it would be—would he be alive this day, to take the sword and test his inheritance?”

“Well said,” said the High Marshal. “Well said, indeed.”

“I came here,” said Paks, more quietly, “to tell the Council of Tsaia that my quest leads me into your realm. I must go where the quest leads, but in all courtesy, I ask your leave to travel as I must.”

“Is he here?” asked the crown prince. “In Tsaia?”

“He is,” said Paks, weighing the danger of that admission.

“Can you tell us now who it is?”

“No. Not at the moment, your highness. I must ask Duke Phelan some questions about the sword’s history in his house: who handled it, and how.”

“We all have questions for Duke Phelan,” said Verrakai. “I hope, Lady Paksenarrion, that his answers to your questions are more to the point than his answers to mine.”

The crown prince shot a glance at Verrakai that silenced him. Then he smiled at Paks. “We shall defer our questions until you are through, Lady Paksenarrion. A paladin’s quest—and such a quest—is a matter of more moment than the Duke’s response to matters of law.” He rose, and the others rose with him. With a bow, he led them from the room, through a door Paks had not noticed behind the throne. The squires in the tiers followed, and the two elves climbed down to stand near Paks and Duke Phelan.

“Are you certain, Lady, of the rightness of your judgment?”

“I am certain, sir elf, of the rightness of the gods’ commands; my own judgment is not at issue.”

“Be joyous in your certainty, paladin of Gird,” said one of the elves, eyes flashing.

“I hope you are right, indeed,” said the other, “for I would see no fires rage in the forests of Lyonya, as have raged in other lands.” He turned to the other elf. “Come cousin—we shall know all soon enough; we might as well leave the paladin to her work.” And with a bow, the elves also withdrew.

Meanwhile, Duke Phelan had recognized Garris, and come to grip his arm. “Garris—by the gods, so this is where you ended up. King’s Squire—a good place for a good man.”

“Well, my lord, I—” Garris struggled with his knowledge and the Duke’s ignorance.

“You can’t my lord me, Garris. Not when we were boys together. Have you told Paks here about all our scrapes?” Phelan turned to Paks, grinning. “Garris was a year or so younger than I, Paks, at Aliam Halveric’s, and I got him in more trouble—”

“That’s not what I heard,” said Paks.

“It’s true enough,” said the Duke. “But come—let’s sit down. Have you been here long? When did you arrive? I had heard nothing until I came to Vérella, where I found word that the king of Lyonya was dead, and you were coming here on quest.”

“We have just come, my lord,” said Paks, settling gingerly into the chair Duke Verrakai had vacated. “We rode this morning from Westbells.”

“Have you had any refreshment? I can certainly have someone bring—”

“No, my lord. Please. We shall have time enough after.”

He gave her a long look. “So. It is that urgent, eh? Well, then, Paks, ask what you will, and as I know, I will answer.”

Paks began with what she knew of the sword’s history, and the Duke nodded. He affirmed what Aliam Halveric had said of the sword when he took it. Without prompting, he spoke of his vow to Tamarrion.

“You see, she had been—was—a soldier, as I was, and she was not giving that up.” The Duke glanced quickly at Lieth and Suriya. “You will understand that. So I felt—in giving her a sword—that it would be but courtesy to promise it would always be hers alone.”

“What happened when she first drew it?” asked Paks.

“It showed a blue light, much as any magic sword may. Not as bright as when you draw it, Paks, but Tamar was not a paladin. Though as one who loved and served Gird to her death, she might well have been.”

“Did anyone else in your household draw it?”

“No. Not that I know of. Tamar was proud of it, and no wonder. Little Estil—our daughter, that was killed—she wanted to, but I remember Tamar saying she’d have to grow into it.”

“And even after her death—”

“No. Someone took it and cleaned it, when they found—found them.” His voice shook an instant, then steadied. “By the time I came north again, she was in the ground, and it was back in its scabbard, lying across her armor, for me to see. I hung it on the wall, where you found it, Paks, and there it stayed until you took it. I don’t think that it would have suffered Venneristimon to mishandle it.”

“No, my lord, I don’t think so.” Paks sighed. She hardly knew what to do; she could feel the stiffness of the squires, waiting for her to do—what? Tell him? Hand him the sword? What? She looked at his face; it was more peaceful than she’d seen it before. Was that peace a kind of defeat? But no—his eyes still held fire enough, and his hands and voice were firm. Now that she knew, she thought she could see the shape of elven blood—not as much as expected, but there. And for a man of fifty, he was remarkably lithe and young. Beside her, Suriya stirred, her cloak rustling a little.

“My lord,” she began again, “What do you remember of your childhood?”

The Duke’s eyes widened. “What!” An instant later he had shoved his chair back, and was standing, pale of face. “You don’t—Paks—no.” He put a hand to the chair; color seeped back into his face. “I understand. You want to help me, do something for me, but—”

“My lord, please.” Paks forced his attention. “Please answer.”

“Nothing good,” he said grimly. “And you cannot be right in what you surmise.”

“I can’t?” Paks surprised herself with the tone of her voice. “My lord, I ask you to listen and think of this: the elves, when they heard from Aliam Halveric that he had the sword, told him to give it to the prince. And when he replied that he was giving it to you, they said it was well enough. They erred in thinking that Aliam knew the sword and its properties. But they knew that he suspected who you were.”

“Aliam?” Now the Duke’s face was white; he clung to the chair with both fists. “He knew? Aliam?”

“He suspected, my lord, and had no proof, nor any way to find some. And your sister was betrothed, soon to be crowned.”

He shook his head, breathing hard. “I trusted him—Aliam—he said—”

“He said that he did not think your parentage could be proven, or your place restored; indeed, that’s what he thought at the time. He was not sure; he had been too young when it happened, and he dared not ask anyone.” Paks had feared his wrath with Aliam more than anything, but he was already nodding his head slowly as she spoke.

“I can understand. A boy with no background—what could he say? And my memories—so few, so far back. But—” He looked at Paks again. “Are you sure, Paks? Are you certain it’s not your regard for an old commander?”

“My lord, it is not my thought only. I have talked to Aliam Halveric, and to elves of high degree—”

“And why didn’t they—?” The Duke stopped in midsentence, his voice chopped off from a rising cry. His hand dropped again to the chair. “Because I was unfit—am unfit—”

“No, my lord. You are not.”

“I am. Paks, you know—you have seen—and Lyonya requires abilities I don’t have—if ever I did.”

“My lord, you are half-elven, with abilities scarce less than the elves, but constrained by a mortal life. I believe you have them still, buried by what you have endured. Why else would the High Lord and Gird have sent me to find you? Would they choose an unfit king?”

“No—”

“And if they can make a paladin out of me, my lord, after all that happened, they can make a good king out of you.”

“Perhaps.” The Duke sat again, pulling his chair to the table so suddenly that its legs scraped loudly on the floor. “So—you are sure, and the elves are sure, that I am a prince born, and the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne. Is anyone else convinced?”

“Aliam Halveric.”

“And any others?”

“We have not used your name, my lord, for fear that evil would come on you before I could reach you. But the lords of Lyonya, gathered together after the king’s death, agreed to accept the sword’s evidence. The elves had admitted that the prince lived, and might be found. I think most of the lords, if not all, will accept you.” She watched him; his eyes had fallen to the table, where he traced some of the silver inlay with his forefinger.

“It would be a matter for laughter, if I could laugh,” said the Duke quietly, “that I am born a prince, and of better birth than those lords who have scorned me as a bastard mercenary. They were so sure of my lack—as was I, most times—and now—” His finger paused; he looked up at Paks. “You assume, Paks, that I want to be king.”

“No, my lord. I only know that you are the rightful king, and must be.”

“Hmmph.” His gaze went past her to meet each of the squires. “Garris—Lieth—Suriya—if Paks is right, then I am your king. But I must say this, however it seems to you. Many years have gone by since I was a lost and lonely boy, tramping the fields of Lyonya looking for work. Aliam Halveric took me in, taught me my trade of war, taught me respect for the gods, and what I know of right and wrong. Garris, you knew me then—you know what sort of boy I was. Did you ever think I might be a prince?”

Garris blushed. “My lord—sir—I thought you were special, then—you know I did.”

“As a younger boy to an elder, yes. But birth?”

“Well, my lord—you acted like a prince—”

The Duke’s mouth curled in a smile. “Did I? I was trying to act like Aliam, as I recall. But what I mean is this. I had nothing when I came to Aliam. He gave me my start—as you all know, I’m sure. But from there, I made it myself. That land in the north—my stronghold—that is mine. My money, yes, but more than that. I built some of that wall myself; barked my own knuckles on that stone; left some of my blood on the hills when we fought off the orcs. Years of my life—dreams—Tamar and I, planning things. My children were born there, in that chamber you saw, Paks, the night we talked with the Marshal-General. I fought in Aarenis, yes—for that’s where the money was, the contracts that let me improve my own lands. The money for that mill came from Aarenis, the food I bought all those years before the fields were large enough. Stock for farmers, fruit-trees for Kolya. But what I cared for—what I gave my heart to—was that land, and those people. My people—my soldiers.” His fist was clenched now, on the table before him. “Now I find I’m a prince, with another land, and other people. But can I leave this, that I have made? Can I leave the hall where Tamar ate, and the courtyard where our children played? Can I leave those who helped me, when they knew nothing of princes or kingdoms, only a young mercenary captain who dreamed of his own lands? Already this year they have endured one upheaval. Those that stayed are mine.” He looked from face to face. “Can you understand this?”

Paks felt the tears stinging her own eyes. When Garris spoke, she heard the emotion there. “My lord, I understand. You were always that way—even at Aliam’s, you would take responsibility. Of course you care for them—”

Suriya had pushed back her chair, and gone around Paks to stand beside the Duke. When he glanced up at her, she spoke. “Sir king, if you were unfit to be our king you could not have spoken so. I am most junior of your squires, but by your leave, I will not leave you until you sit in your own throne.”

The Duke’s face furrowed. “By the gods, Suriya, were you listening at all? I am not sure I want this!”

“Sir king, on Falk’s oath I swear, you will be king, and until that day I will ward you.” Paks had never seen Suriya like this, completely calm and certain. She smiled at Paks. “Lady, you told us we would have a king worthy of our service; so I find him. If he cannot find his heart in this yet, it will come, and I will await it.”

“Gird’s grace rest on your service, Suriya,” said Paks. And to the Duke, “My lord—or should I say, sir king—I believe it is the gods’ will that you take this crown. Surely if you follow their will, good will come even to your lands in the north.”

“Think you so? Think you so indeed? It would not be the first time a man has followed what he thinks is the gods’ will, and had things go ill indeed.”

“You mean your wife’s death,” said Paks bluntly. “My lord, that was not the gods’ will, but Achrya’s; I believe her plan was laid longer than you have yet realized. Do you think you were stolen away by chance? Do you recall the words of her agent that night, when she said you were not born a duke?”

“Yes.” The Duke sighed heavily. “Damn. All those years I worried because I did not know who my father was, and now—” He looked at his closed fist and opened it deliberately. He sighed again, and looked up at Suriya. “You are right, of course, as is Paksenarrion. If I am Lyonya’s king—though to my mind that’s not yet proven—then I must be the king; I cannot sulk on my own estates, and leave Lyonya to suffer evil.” Paks felt the tension ease; Garris and Lieth moved from her side to the Duke’s without a word. He smiled at them. “So—you would leave Paks unwarded? I assure you, squires, I am in no peril here.”

“Paksenarrion is a paladin, and well fit to guard herself,” said Lieth. “Though when she goes out alone, one of us will go with her, by your leave.”

“Indeed so,” said the Duke, as Paks still thought of him. “Until this is settled, I wish that. But now what?” he asked Paks. “Your test is that sword, is it not? Should I draw it here, or before the Council, or in Chaya? What is your word?”

“I do not know,” said Paks. “You know more of statecraft than I: here are three witnesses to speak of what happens. Do we need more? I think you should not travel without testing it; the sword will be a mighty weapon for your defense, once you have held it.”

“And will leave you swordless,” he said, with a small smile. Paks shrugged. “No,” he said, “we must find you another weapon; I will not have a paladin of Gird unweaponed for my sake. Let me think. The prince should know as soon as anyone. His father granted my steading, and was my friend; I would have sworn allegiance to this boy with all my heart. Indeed,” he went on, with a broader grin, “it’s as well you came when you did, Paks. They were urging me to swear now—before his coronation this summer—as proof of my loyalty. And so I might have done, and been bound by that oath, if you had not come in. For I tell you I had no reason to do otherwise.”

“Sir king—” began Garris tentatively.

“Garris, you must not call me that—any of you—until the sword proves me so. Please. Your service I accept, but we must observe the courtesies of this court as well. Paks, it must be before them all, I think: the whole Council. To do otherwise would arouse suspicion. Then if it fails—”

“It won’t,” said the squires at once.

“If,” the Duke repeated firmly, “then all will know, and will also know that I made no secret trials. Paks, if you will speak to the lords yourself, it will be better. The prince has no vote, but the Council defers to his wishes where it can; he will determine the hour.”

“As soon as may be,” said Paks.

“As he wills,” said the Duke. “You will find him certain of mind. As were all of us, at nearly twenty.”

“How shall we explain the service of the King’s Squires?” asked Paks, thinking how it would look to have the Duke trailed by those green—and-gold tunics.

“You asked them to look over some scrolls—old accounts—I had brought with me. I have brought the Company Rolls, at the Council’s request. Will that do?”

“Certainly.” Paks rose, with the Duke, and preceded him to the door. Outside, the elderly man who had announced her waited. “Sir, might I ask an audience with the prince?”

“With the crown prince, Lady?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Come with me, then. Is Duke Phelan free to meet with the Council?”

“Sir, I have asked him to look up something from his records; the squires go with him to take notes. By the time I have spoken to those other lords I must see, perhaps he will be free.”

The man bowed. “I will inform the Council, Lady.” He called to a page, and gave that message to be taken to all the lords in turn.