Oath of Fealty (22 page)

“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.

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?”

I
n 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.”