“I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” the prince said, handing the letter back. “Phelan maintained more troops than other nobles—every one knew it was because he was a mercenary—but some worried.”
Arcolin privately thought they had simply wanted an excuse to control Phelan, but he said nothing about that.
“But they expect me to appoint someone—at least temporarily, though they’d prefer a permanent status. I thought of you, of course, and he suggested it.” The prince cocked his head.
“Me? But—I’m not of noble birth—”
“No one thought Phelan was.”
“But—”
“He taught me that what justifies an appointment—any appointment—is how the person carries out their duties, not their birth. He thought you’d be capable, Captain, and his judgment has proven itself over the years.”
But I’m taking the cohort to Aarenis almost escaped Arcolin’s lips; he held it back and instead said, “I’m honored by his trust, and yours, my lord. However, I would need to take contracts, as Phelan did. Otherwise, I could neither afford the soldiers’ keep, nor would it be legal under Tsaian law.”
“I have no objection, and for the reason you state—our laws—it is as well that you continue to take them south. Moreover, as Phelan himself went south every year with the Company, you should be permitted to do so as well. The Council will want to know, as they did with him, who is in charge in your absence every year.” The prince shifted in his seat. “What I would like is this: to change as little as possible now, when great change is happening in the East. Dorrin Verrakai as Duke Verrakai is shock enough; the trials of the other Verrakai will occupy the lords in Council for the rest of the year, at least. If you can protect the borders and maintain the same routine as Phelan, that seems best to me. I can call a Council meeting for to-morrow; can you be ready to present such a plan?”
Arcolin had not felt ready for any of the things that happened since Paksenarrion returned to them, but life did not wait on readiness. “Yes,” he said. “I can be ready.” He felt every moment of the day’s ride, but one thing he’d learned from Kieri was that tired was just a word. “I will need more paper than I brought—”
“Of course,” the prince said. “In fact, we’ve assigned you my late uncle’s suite, as I haven’t yet appointed a new Knight-Commander of the Bells. And I’ve assigned you a clerk, in case you need anything from the library, any research.”
“My lord prince,” Arcolin said, very carefully, “you are more concerned than you’ve said, are you not?”
“I have a—a strange feeling. It’s not over, with Verrakai’s death. I don’t know what … but … I feel a menace.” The prince swallowed. “Not just danger to me, but to the whole realm. And yet—it’s only a feeling, and when there was danger, before Verrakai’s attack, I felt nothing.”
“Nothing? After what you told me of the attack on Kieri—on the king?”
“Not that night. Beclan—my uncle—had told me they thought they’d found all the Liartian priests. At dinner with my friends, it felt normal—I missed it somehow—and now I don’t know if my feelings are trustworthy—”
“If you are asking me whether to be concerned, my lord, the answer must be yes. Of course you must be. Gird may be giving you warning, as well as your own senses. From my experience I would say that such actions as Duke Verrakai took are not taken lightly, or without deep planning; I doubt that his death and that of his brother end it. Your Order of Attainder is certainly necessary.”
“He held me motionless, Captain,” the prince said. “I cannot get over that. I thought Gird’s power was stronger than evil; I thought my faith was enough. This was not wizardry—this was the old magery that Gird once defeated, back again in today’s world.”
The prince looked angry; Arcolin knew that look. All the young squires looked that way the first time they were truly frightened.
“My lord prince,” he said, “I believe the gods are stronger than evil, but faith must marry with deeds. Gird had his cudgel, after all. Yeomen of the granges do not merely pray for faith, but train for deeds as well.”
The prince looked at him, almost indignant at first and then, his expression easing, rueful. “You are right, Captain. This was my first experience of violent death. I saw my uncle, whom I loved, killed before my face and could do nothing. And the Marshal-Judicar, as well.”
“Yet you lived, and killed the killer, did you not?”
“That was mostly Roly,” the prince said. “If he hadn’t come in and bashed Verrakai with a map rod and then stabbed him with a stone knife, I’d be dead. Neither my sword not Juris’s would bite, for Verrakai’s magery, until Roly’s old stone saveblade got him. Then the magery failed.”
Arcolin could imagine the three noble youths, trained in weaponry but inexperienced, against a man like Verrakai, whose own sword skill was well-known at court. And with magery as well—even if it proved wizard-work at the last—
“You did well,” he said, as he would have to a squire. “And I rejoice at your survival. Let me go to work now on a plan to present to your Council tomorrow.” He put aside any thought of visiting Kieri’s—and now his—banker that day.
“I nearly forgot,” the prince said. “There’s another of Phelan’s people—a councilor for one of his villages—who came south with him. A one-armed woman.”
“Kolya Ministiera, yes,” Arcolin said.
“She was staying in an inn, but for her safety I had her come to the palace—I’ll see she knows you’re here.”
By morning, Arcolin had a plan that—according to the palace clerks who had helped him—would fulfill the requirements of a grant-in-lieu-of-heir. They praised his foresight in bringing fair copies of the newly signed village charters. Kolya Ministiera signed the new Duke’s East charter and congratulated him on the grant, but they had little time to talk over what had happened. Though he’d had little sleep, Arcolin was awake when the seneschal asked if he would care to breakfast with the prince; they discussed his plan through breakfast and the prince nodded.
“This should do,” he said. “They won’t give you a title at this time, but they should confirm you as grant-holder until you come back after the campaign season. Once I’m crowned, I can insist on a title, though not a dukedom at first—it wasn’t for Phelan, either.”
“I remember, my lord prince.”
“Well, then. The Council meeting, and the oath—you do know you must swear fealty? Good—and then you can go about your business. I know you did not anticipate all this, but before you return for the Autumn Court, we’ll need to know your mark, your colors, and you’ll need court costume.”
“The same colors and mark, if that’s permissible,” Arcolin said. “I am not Phelan’s heir of the body, it is true, but—”
“You will need his permission,” the prince said. “If you like, you can send him word by royal courier.”
Arcolin nodded. It still felt unreal, but coping with details, moment to moment, he had no time to ponder how unlikely it was that he, like Kieri, might rise to noble rank and own land … his own land, his own people.
His appearance before the Council took less than a glass: he laid out the papers, the charters, his intent to guard the North and East as Kieri had, his need to campaign in the South to support the land until it could support itself. He recognized most of the faces from previous visits.
The Councilors agreed that Jandelir Arcolin should become liege lord of the vacated domain. That he could raise a military force sufficient to guard the North and also campaign in Aarenis, that he could transport said force across Tsaia and through Vérella on the same roads Phelan had used twice each year.
He bent his knee to the prince and swore fealty; he signed the documents that made him a lord-vassal of the Crown and defined his responsibilities. The prince waived the usual security until autumn—Arcolin hoped Kieri’s bankers somewhere had that much gold—and by the noon ringing of the Bells, Jandelir Arcolin, Ca
ptain, had become Lord Arcolin of the North Marches.
He spent the afternoon first with Kieri’s banker and judicar, and then with Kolya and the merchants Kieri dealt with in Vérella, buying the supplies Cracolnya and Valichi wanted. That evening he wrote letters to the North, again aided by the castle clerks who made copies so he need not write duplicates to each village and each commander, and a letter to Kieri in Lyonya, asking permission to retain the fox-head mark and the same colors.
Although he had carried out similar tasks for Kieri, it felt strange to be doing it for himself—to sign the letters and orders as Lord Arcolin and not Arcolin, Capt, for Duke Phelan. He supposed he would get used to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chaya
Kieri Phelan woke, aware moment by moment that he was in a bed he had never slept in before, in a room he did not know … textures, smells, sounds, all unfamiliar. He blinked, in the almost-dark: yesterday and the days before fell into his memory like tiny paintings, bright and clear.
The journey from Vérella, the Verrakai attack, the victory, the welcome here, last night’s acclamation by the Lyonyan nobles and his elven relatives.
Outside, a cock crowed, persistently, and another answered. A dog barked, then quieted. He heard nothing from inside the palace; it might be near dawn, to the cock, but apparently a very early morning to the castle staff.
A cold current of air came from … from there, to his left as he lay in the bed. He stretched again, sniffing the scents that rode on that chill current: stone, the spice of evergreen trees from without, and in the room more subtle spices. From somewhere across the room came a vague sense of warmth, and the smell of woodsmoke, very faint.
He had seen a fireplace in the room the evening before, and a crackling wood fire … now it must be banked, but still giving warmth.
He slipped from under the covers and padded across a carpeted floor—he remembered it was patterned with flowers and vines—to the nearer window. Below all was dark, silent. Above, stars still glittered, but there—it must be sunwards—a dullness dimmed them. Dawn was coming.
When did the palace awake? They had had a sick king—perhaps they slept late here? His own stronghold woke earlier than this; kitchen fires would be burning; recruits would be roused, chivvied into the jacks and out, readying their barracks for inspection … even as he wondered, he smelled woodsmoke from outside as the wind eddied. Abruptly, from below, boot heels rang on stone paving, followed by the lighter patter of soft-shod feet.
No lights, though … did they need no light? A small light bloomed in the distance; he heard the rasp and snick of a latch, the creak of hinges, and then the whinny of horses and the stamping of hooves.
He moved to the fireplace, guided by memory and the gentle warmth, and felt around on the hearth. There—a pot or vase, filled with reeds. He poked at the fire; ashes fell away from a crimson coal, and in moments a flame trembled at the end of the reed. It hardly lit the room, but in its dim wavering light he could see a candlestick placed handily on the hearth, and lit the wax taper there.
From that, he could see the larger candles on the mantel, arranged in a holder, eight of them. He lit only one, then carried the single stick to the bedside, where he lit a bedside candlestick with it. A draft from the window blew the flickering flames sideways, glinting on the jewel in the hilt of his sword.
From outside the door of his own chamber, a soft murmur of voices. He saw no robe within reach, and slid under the covers.
The door opened. Silhouetted against the soft light in the corridor he saw a single figure.
“Sir King! You’re awake!” Lieth. It was Lieth, the youngest of the King’s Squires who had come to Tsaia and accompanied him here. “My pardon, I intended only to stir your fire and begin warming the bath …”
“I wake early,” he said.
“Let me light your candles,” she said. In moments the chamber was softly lit by candelabra on stands, and she had stirred the banked fire into life. “I will send word that you are awake—we expected, after your long journey, that you would sleep longer.”
“It is no matter,” Kieri said. He looked around. The clothes he had worn were nowhere in sight. “My clothes—?”
“I’ll send someone,” she said.
Moments later, an old man appeared, Kieri’s trousers folded over one arm and a green robe over the other. “Sir King, I am Joriam. Your pardon—I did not know you were awake. Your bath chamber is there—and let me show you your wardrobe—” He touched one of the carved wall panels, and it slid aside, revealing clothes all in shades of green and gold. “We have already taken measure from the clothes you wore, and tailors will have your new garments ready in a day or so. Meanwhile, these are clothes the previous king wore rarely or never, made for him before his final illness.”
Bathed and dressed, in a mix of his own clothes and shirt and doublet in Lyonya’s royal colors, Kieri felt more than ready for breakfast, but had no idea where to go. Joriam had taken away his robe and nightshirt and had not yet returned. He opened the door; two unfamiliar King’s Squires stood guard on either side. Across the passage, Paks sat on a bench, chatting with another. She looked up and smiled at him, the same open smile she’d always had but now—with his memories of what she had undergone for his sake—he felt embarrassed. The corner of her mouth quirked, as if she had read his mind.
“Sir King,” she said, standing. “They tell me breakfast is ready downstairs, or someone will bring it—”
“I’ll go down,” he said. One of the King’s Squires went ahead of him; Paks moved to his side as if he’d commanded her; the other King’s Squires fell in behind. “You did sleep last night?” he said to Paks.
“Enough,” she said. He eyed her. She was still much as she had been when he first saw her. Yet … not. She had been just another recruit, and now she was Gird’s paladin. Not, as she had pointed out, his to command any longer. “Captain Dorrin’s awake; she has a report on the cohort for you.”
“I wonder if Sir Ammerlin made it safely back to Vérella.” More than that, he wondered what the Tsaian Council would do, with one of its dukes now king of a neighboring domain and another proven traitor.
Paks did not quite shrug; he could sense her lack of interest in these things. Her quest had been to find Lyonya’s king; she had done so; now she had a respite before, he assumed, Gird sent her somewhere else.
In the passage outside the dining hall, a group of Lyonyan nobles milled about as if waiting for something to happen. He saw Dorrin, looking faintly amused, standing to one side, and a smaller group of elves even farther away.
“The king,” announced the lead King’s Squire, and everyone stepped back, bowing, murmuring greetings.
“Good morning,” Kieri said. He could think of nothing else to say. Apparently that was enough, because the doors to the dining hall opened and he led the way in. A man in the green castle livery bowed him to a seat at one end of a table large enough, he thought, to hold fencing matches on … far too large for breakfast … and by the time everyone was seated, it was only half full, if that.
Breakfast, in Lyonya, meant hot breads, butter and honey, soft cheeses, fruit. None of the porridge he was used to, no meats, no eggs. He made no requests, wanting to know first what was expected. The talk at table was general, casual—nobles asked after each other’s children, or discussed the likelihood of a good crop of wheat this year. Nothing of substance, and nothing addressed specifically to him. When he felt almost full, another tray came in, this one holding rolls of flaky pastry tied with thin green ribbons. One was placed before him, and then before each of the others. Silence fell. Kieri regarded the pastry roll; the others looked at theirs, and then at him.
He picked it up, unwrapped the ribbon, and took a cautious bite. Pastry crumbs scattered, as the others did the same. One of the nobles—Sier Belvarin, he thought he recalled—turned to him.
“Sir King, we really should begin planning your coronation.”
So �
� the pastry rolls were a signal that business could be discussed? That the king could be addressed? He nodded at Belvarin.
“You know that I am not familiar with all your customs and traditions—what do you suggest?”
Glances passed back and forth across the table. “Well …” Belvarin seemed reluctant to go on. Kieri waited. “The period of deep mourning for the late king has passed, but by custom—”
“Not that it matters,” another noble spoke up. “Your coronation must supersede—”
“We must respect—” another began.
“Excuse me,” Kieri said. Silence fell; they all looked at him. He felt a moment’s amusement. The former king had been sick a long time and perhaps had never been a commanding presence. He would have to be careful not to startle these men with his parade-ground voice too often. “If there is a traditional period of mourning for the death of your king, or ceremonies to be performed, that must be respected.”
The impatient one opened his mouth and shut it again. Sier Belvarin looked relieved. “It would be—it would be appreciated, Sir King, if it suits you …”
“How long is the official mourning?” If they would not follow hints, he would ask directly.
“Four hands of days in deep mourning, during which no official business can be done except for emergencies. Sending the paladin to search for the heir was deemed an emergency.”
“And then?”
“Four more hands of days preparing for the transfer of kingship, but that does not start until the king is chosen. As you are here now, that period can begin. With the ceremony usually performed on the fifth or tenth day after that.”
“Surely there is a ceremony of mourning, which the new king should attend—”
Glances again shifted around the table. “Well … yes …” Belvarin said reluctantly. “But as custom requires, he was interred on the fifth day …”
“I must do something,” Kieri said. “He was my relative on my father’s side, though I never knew him. I have had no chance to honor or grieve for any of them—my parents, my sister, the others—”
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