by Dave Duncan
“Oh, Dog, do behave yourself!” Master of Rituals snapped. “This is typical of him, Your Grace. He’s been warned a thousand times, so if you want to leave him out, then—”
“No!” Dog roared. He fell on his knees and raised clasped hands in supplication. “I am only trying to be helpful, Your Highness! Just offering to go first in case you botch the first attempt.”
Sir Lothaire shook his head. “I am deeply sorry, Your Grace. He means well. He just can’t help it. We’ve tried every punishment in the book and they make no difference. I’m afraid one either takes Dog as he is or not at all.”
“Is he safe?”
“Oh, yes. He’s never hurt anyone, although he could break most of us in half if he exerted himself. I’d worry more that he would refuse to hurt a real enemy…. It’s just what he says and when and how he says it. The decision must be yours, Your Highness.”
Dog doubled over as if to kiss the ground. “Please, please! I try. I keep trying, all the time.”
“Do so and we’ll see,” Malinda said weakly.
Sir Lothaire sighed. “It’s just the way he is. Let us go to the Forge, Your Grace.”
At first the Forge seemed to be only a low, moss-covered dome with small peaked windows, but there was more of it underground, a crypt reached by a flight of stairs. Spring water brimmed over eight stone troughs around the perimeter and ran in gutters to a drain in the rock floor. Five raised hearths bore crackling fires and three others had been banked so they merely glowed. The array of tongs, pincers, and hammers hung on the walls; the bins of ore, miscellaneous bars and ingots; the eight huge anvils—all were reminders that this was a working smithy, the place where the famous cat’s-eye swords were made. It was on the ninth anvil, an iron slab in the center, that youths were wrought into living Blades. An octogram of white tiles inset in the rock floor around it formed Ironhall’s elementary, rife with all eight elements.
“Now you have to meditate,” Master of Rituals said cheerfully.
Malinda shivered in the dank air. “Meditate on what?”
“Anything…the books don’t say.” His glasses slashed firelight. He lowered his voice. “I think it’s just so the candidates can’t complain that they didn’t have time to think about it.” Chuckling, he bowed and strode off to the stairs.
Malinda headed for the hottest-looking fire. Winter, Abel, and Audley separated and made themselves as comfortable as possible beside a hearth apiece. Dog stood where he was, staring across at her.
“Do you need me?” Dian asked with distaste. “Because if not, Your Almighty Highness, I’m going to sneak back to bed…er…alone,” she added with a hint of her old grin. “Really.”
“Bring me my cloak and I’ll allow that.”
What was there to meditate about except the future, about which she could predict nothing whatsoever?
Soon after that, Master Armorer came to ask each candidate in turn what name he wanted on his sword. He went away and the excitement was over. After about an hour, Malinda decided she could stand no more boredom. She walked around to the nearest candidate, who happened to be young Abel. He looked up with wide eyes and began to rise.
“No, sit,” she said, and joined him on the floor. “If we must meditate, then let’s have something to meditate about. Tell me how you chose your name.”
He hesitated. “Well, Your Grace…It sounds good. Able to do things, capable. And there have been five Abels in the Order, far back as the archives go, but the name never appears in The Litany of Heroes.”
“You want to be the first?”
A juvenile grin flashed. “I thought it must be lucky.”
“Makes sense! And what are you going to call your sword?”
“Willing. That’s a joke, see—Abel and Willing?”
“A good one. I shall need a commander for my Guard. Tell me why I should appoint you rather than one of the others.”
He gaped. “Me, Your Grace? Oh. Um. I’m the second best swordsman, after Winter. Commander Bandit was a very good Leader, wasn’t he, because everyone liked him? I think I’m pretty popular, Your Grace.” His cheeky grin returned and stayed.
She was not impressed by his reasoning, but she admired quick wits. “And if I decide to appoint one of the others, which one should it be?”
“Dog!”
“Everyone says Dog is crazy.”
“Oh, he is, but he’s clever, too.”
Puzzled, she asked, “Just why do you think he’d make a good commander?”
Abel chewed his lip for a moment, not looking at her. “Because he’s been Second for the last month, and Second is responsible for discipline, you know, keeping the juniors in line. It’s tricky and a lot of Seconds fail and have to call on Grand Master for help. Everyone thought Dog was too soft, and Hawthorn lipped him the very first day. Hawthorn’s no lightweight, but Dog held him out the window by one ankle—upside down, see, one-handed, and two floors up—and made him count to forty-nine.” Abel sniggered. “He, er, wet his shirt, Your Grace! And Dog said the next man would have to go to a hundred and fifteen. Since then Dog just has to look at them with those eyes of his and they crap their—Beg your pardon, Your Grace. Scares them, I mean. I think Dog could keep us in line for you.”
“I’ll keep that formula in mind,” she said, rising. Grand Master had not been overharsh in summing up Master Abel as a silly kid.
The next one around the octogram was Winter, ferociously chewing his nails. She asked the same question she had asked Abel.
“There are s-six Winters in the Litany. It’s a g-g-great heroes’ name to live up to.”
“And what have you named your sword?” Icicle? Frost?
“Fear.”
“Fear? Why?”
“Because fear is the…Because I hope to strike Fear into the hearts of your foes, my lady.”
“I hope you do. Give me some reasons why I ought to appoint you commander.”
He flinched, thought for a moment. “I’m the best swordsman of the four of us, although Sir Piers didn’t think much…I wouldn’t be a very good commander. I’m a fire-time person.”
“What’s a fire-time person?”
He blinked owlishly at her. “Everyone has two dominant elements, one virtual and one manifest. My manifest element is fire—I’m restless, inquisitive, jumpy—and my virtual is time. It’s a bad combination for a leader. Good mix for a swordsman, though.”
“Interesting! I thought I knew more conjuration lore than most, but I’ve never heard that theory before. What about your friends?”
Winter brightened at the chance to lecture. “You really should ask a White Sister, my lady. She could sense the elementals directly and know for sure. I’m only guessing, but I do know them pretty well, so I’ll say that Abel is air-love. He’s flighty, erratic, but everyone likes him. Or maybe airtime, since he’s so nimble. Audley’s water. That’s obvious, because he’s so smooth, always fitting in. Plus, um, I’d guess love for him too, my lady. Dog…Dog’s a puzzle. Earth, certainly, because of his strength. I think his virtual element is chance…. Odd things happen to Dog. One day one of the old knights lost the cat’s-eye out of his sword. The setting was worn, see? Grand Master offered a reward and Dog walked out across the moor and found the stone right away—and he hadn’t been out there for days, so he hadn’t seen it fall or cheated or anything!”
“He’s lucky?”
“Sort of.” Winter chuckled nervously. “On the way back an adder bit his ankle. That’s typical of him, my lady. If any man’s going to be struck by lightning, it’ll be Dog.”
Malinda was impressed, sensing a quick mind. If Winter was more apprehensive than the others, it might be because he had too much imagination.
“Thank you, Winter. You’ve given me something to meditate on. Getting back to the original question, if I don’t appoint you commander, who’s the best of the other three?”
“Oh, Audley, Your Grace! Nothing ever rattles him.”
Audley was next—s
lim, dark, toothsome. He smiled at her as if she were just a pretty girl, not a princess. If he was as good with a sword as he was with those eyelashes, he would conquer the world.
Why had he chosen that name, she asked.
“I just liked the sound of it, Your Grace, oddly enough.”
And his sword?
“You saw Durendal’s sword hanging in the hall? Well that’s Nightfall, and no one would ever use that name again, but I’m going to call mine Evening.”
She gave him the royal stare until he flinched, which took longer than she had expected. “Two is too much. Don’t you know that making terrible puns near the heir to the throne is a capital offense?”
“Puns?” He wafted the lashes again. “Me, Your Grace?”
“Yes, even you, oddly! Can you think of any reason why I should appoint you the commander?”
“Other than as a punishment?” he murmured, glancing around the Forge. “Just by default, my lady. I’m not nearly qualified to be a commander yet, but I’m closer than any of the others.”
“And if my distaste for puns drove me to choose one of them, which should it be?”
Again Audley studied the other three. “Winter. He’s smart and conscientious; if Sir Piers was right about binding giving him more confidence, then he’ll make an excellent Blade. Abel’s an airhead and a smartass. Dog’s…unpredictable. Talks like a madman.”
“So he says odd things, but what does he do? Can I trust him?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t listen to what he says. He absolutely refuses to fence unless his opponent wears a mask and padding—seniors usually don’t, you see. It’s not that he’s not good with a sword. He’s just stubborn as this anvil on that, won’t take the chance of hurting anyone.”
“What about young Hawthorn?”
Audley shot her a surprised glance. “Even Grand Master approved, and he never has a good word for Dog usually. He has a sense of humor. It doesn’t show very often.”
“He’s always been like this?”
“Long as I can remember. He had a very hard time of it when he was the Brat. He was so big, even then, and we…the sopranos discovered he wouldn’t defend himself…. Sailor was Prime and eventually he had to step in and put a stop to it. Two boys were expelled for sadism.”
“Why was he put in Ironhall? What had he done?”
“We don’t know.” Audley hesitated. “He cries out in his sleep.”
“Saying what?”
“Nothing we can ever make out, except he seems to want someone called Ed. If we say there was a lot of dog howling last night, he just shrugs those mountain shoulders of his and goes away, walks out by himself. In an hour or so he’ll come back, and that’s all. He’ll be all right, Your Grace, I’m sure. We’ll need him if we ever have any real fighting to do; Dog’s strong as a bull. They’ve probably made a broadsword for him.” He thought for a moment. “He’s no slouch with an ordinary saber, though.”
She went to sit beside the problem Dog. He stared at her with no expression on a memorably ugly face. In the dim light of the Forge his bizarre white irises were less noticeable, but his nose was twisted, his mouth and jaw lopsided, and one ear was puffed out like a puffball.
“Why did you choose the name Dog?”
After several seconds came his grinding growl: “A dog is a loyal and fierce defender.”
“But to call someone a dog means they are of little worth, low repute.”
Eventually she realized that he was not going to answer, because she had not asked a direct question. She tried a smile and it was refused.
“What are you going to name your sword?”
“Why should a sword need a name? It won’t come when I call.”
“You weren’t paying attention when they did the bit on manners, were you? Tell me why I ought to appoint you commander of my Guard.”
“You mustn’t. I won’t be commander.”
“Then who should be?”
He stared at her, perhaps thinking, perhaps not. Finally he growled, “I don’t care. Any of them.” He shrugged what Audley had called his mountain shoulders. His insolence irked her, although it seemed more indifference than deliberate offense.
“Don’t you ever smile?”
“When a dog shows his teeth it is not amused.”
“Laugh, then? Do you ever laugh?”
He thought for a while. “Long time ago I did,” he said, and turned his back on her.
The day dragged by in boredom and hunger. She meditated mostly on her two brothers—the infant king and the ruthless warrior—but she found no new insights. As the high windows began to darken, a couple of armorer apprentices came and poked up the fires into cheerful blazes. Master of Rituals shuffled in, accompanied by Dian with a pile of laundry, followed by some juniors carrying what seemed to be tabletops.
“Bath time, Your Highness,” he explained cheerfully. “I’ll just run through the ritual with you quickly if you would be so gracious as to come over to the octogram…. Your part is very small, but vital, of course, and you spend most of your time standing here, which is love point. Directly across from you, the candidate will be at death. The Brat is always chance…. With only four to bind, we won’t need to reform the octogram between bindings, just reaffirm the dedication, and I shall chant Dispenser….” He babbled off into technicalities, as conjurers were wont to do.
She listened, trying not to be distracted by the juniors, who were chuckling and smirking and whispering obviously lewd remarks, while busily linking their wooden panels together to make a sort of unroofed shed. What was the joke? Abel was grinning, Audley making a brave effort not to, and Winter’s face had been locked into a sickly smirk since noon. Only Dog remained serious.
“…you and the candidates have to bathe at water, death, chance, and finally love. That order is very important. There…there…there…and finally over here.” Lothaire smiled, spectacles shining gold. “Complete immersion.”
Dian was obviously more amused by the prospect than by anything that had happened since Bandit’s death. “Towels, Your Wetness, and a very slinky sort of monk’s robe with cowl. Court will go wild over it when you set the next season’s fashions.”
Master of Rituals awoke to the nuances of the situation. “It might be best if the candidates went first? Boys, bring the screens over here please. Then you can go. Quickly now! We had to find this in the cellars, Your Grace. Master of Archives says you are the first lady to bind a Blade since the late Queen Sian….”
Soon after that, Dian and Malinda were sitting by the fire at air point, completely enclosed in the head-high fence, hearing a succession of splashing noises and yowls of agony outside as the four would-be Blades performed their ritual cleansing. That was all Malinda did, anyway. Dian found a knothole that gave her a one-eyed view of the trough at death point. She seemed quite impressed by someone.
When the four thoroughly-chilled young men had dried and dressed themselves, they helpfully moved the screens and set them up around the trough at water point so the Princess could begin her own ordeal. The water felt as if it should have ice on it. She wondered if all this hardship was really necessary for the ritual or merely another sadistic test of dedication.
Darkness had fallen and only firelight lit the Forge. Just before midnight the knights, masters, and candidates came trooping in; and suddenly time, which had dragged endlessly all day, leaped forward in a blur. She was standing at her place in the octogram, with Grand Master, Master of Rituals, a frightened boy who must be the Brat, and her four future Blades. Eight in all, of course. There was singing…. Some elements were invoked, others revoked. There were arcane rituals with handfuls of grain and gold coins…. Malinda was not sensitive to spirituality, but the sepulchral echoes alone were enough to make her scalp prickle. And then the Brat was squeaking out his lines, laying a sword on that great metal slab in the center…Dog helping Audley off with his shirt…Winter marking his chest with charcoal to show where she must strike….
&nb
sp; A half-naked young man was standing on the central anvil, holding his sword aloft in salute to her while he spoke the words of the oath in a shaky voice:
“Princess Malinda, upon my soul, I, Candidate Audley of the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, do irrevocably swear in the presence of these my brethren that I will evermore defend you against all foes, setting my own life as nothing to shield you from peril, reserving only my fealty to our lord the King. To bind me to this oath, I bid you plunge this my sword into my heart that I may die if I swear falsely or, being true, may live by the power of the spirits here assembled to serve you until in time I die again.”
She had never seen real fear before. His eyes showed white all around the irises and his sword hand trembled; but he spoke the ancient words without a fault and jumped down without stumbling. He moved gracefully, sinking on one knee to proffer the sword to her, then backing away to sit on the anvil. Winter and Dog clasped his arms to steady him. The rest was up to her. Even Audley’s lips looked white, for he must wonder if a woman who had never touched a sword before today was now about to kill him. “Don’t look at his face,” Master of Rituals had told her, “watch the sword.” She looked down at the sword she held no more steadily than Audley had.
Oh, spirits! It was curved! At her practice session this morning, Lothaire had never mentioned curved blades, but this sword they had made for Audley had a slight but unmistakable curve to it.
She must get it right first time. This ritual had worked thousands of times in the past. Her mother had bound Blades; it could not be very difficult. She had only three words to speak. She lined the point up with that mark on the boy’s chest, desperately trying to stop it trembling, saw him wince as she pricked him and drew blood.
“Serve or die!” She pushed as hard as she could, trying to turn the hilt to keep the wound as small as possible. It slid in so easily she almost stumbled; it struck bone. Audley made a horrible hoarse noise that she assumed was a death rattle and screwed up his face in a rictus of agony, wrenched against his holders; she pulled…try not to twist it on the way out…but she must twist it to follow that arc….
