They all looked downcast. Good. Whatever Haron had done to them—and she suspected he had ensured their weapons and training were inferior, using them mostly for show—they needed pride in their work and their tools. “Mikel, what do you think of the swords the mercenaries carry?”
“My lord Duke, they’re—they’re beautiful.”
Dorrin felt her brows rising. They weren’t beautiful; they were ordinary, workmanlike swords that had seen proper care.
“If you had such swords, would you be willing to learn to care for them and keep them … beautiful?”
“Yes, my lord!” The others nodded.
Dorrin looked over at Selfer. “Captain, I wish to purchase eight of your spare swords, with scabbards, for these men. And—how many belts were bad?”
“Two, my lord Duke.”
“And two belts. You have no crossbows, I think?” She knew perfectly well they did not, but this was too much fun. She could see by the twinkle in Selfer’s eye that he recognized the game.
“No. We carry them only for certain campaigns.”
“Swords, then, and belts. If your people can find any use in their weaponry, fine; otherwise, retain it for the metal. See that these men receive instruction in the proper care of their weapons.”
She saw amazement in the men’s eyes and turned away before she had to laugh. Soon enough they had mounted again, this time with Phelani-designed swords, and they were holding themselves with more confidence. Dorrin continued a slow march; she did not want to miss any traps her relatives might have set.
Midmorning of the third day saw them close enough to Verrakai House that Dorrin could easily feel the magery employed to screen it. She remembered the maze of trails and tracks; the glamours that would have led them astray had no effect on her. When they came out of the trees, there before her was the same stretch of fields, snow striping the furrows of the ploughland. Near the little river thin green showed where magery warmed the soil to ensure an early start to the year’s crops, just as magery kept the stream from freezing over. In blocks of orchard, the buds of fruit trees showed varying shades of red, rose, and gold with the coming of spring.
And there was Verrakai House, the old keep rising grim and dark from its center, the various additions in less weathered stone … outbuildings around it … no wall, because, she’d been told, they needed none. Magery alone would protect the house.
Magery had brought it down—the prince had been clear. If she could not rule Verrakai, the Crown would take over, razing the house, the old keep, everything, and divide it between lords the prince thought loyal.
Dorrin reached inside her doublet and pulled out the ducal chain and medallion again. Valthan nodded approval as she spread it on her shoulders, folding back her cloak so it showed clearly, but it was not for him—or for her family—that she did so. For an instant she had felt again the panic of the child she had been, and fought it down with a soldier’s discipline. The former duke’s ring, large enough to fit her bare thumb, fit snugly on the heart-hand heart-finger over her riding glove; she made sure it was secure, and touched the ducal medallion. She was not that terrified, miserable child, nor yet an errant daughter returning to beg forgiveness; she was the prince’s vassal, the rightful Duke, come to take control of a rebellious province. When she was satisfied, she legged her mount on.
“Do you want the Royal Guard to precede you?” Valthan asked.
Dorrin shook her head. “No. They must see that I am in command, and unafraid.”
“An archer could take you out—”
“Remember my protection,” Dorrin said. “I doubt they’ll try anything that simple, but if they do I have nothing to fear—nor do you. You may announce me when we get there.”
No one rode out to meet the column as it marched nearer. No sentry challenged them; nothing stirred in the empty, snow-patched fields, no cattle or sheep or horses—some should have been grazing the Winterfield—no peasants. Dorrin knew better than to think no one had noticed their arrival.
“Do you want me to send out scouts?” Selfer asked.
Dorrin shook her head. “I know it’s what we would do ordinarily, cut off anyone trying to escape, but I’m not sure how far my protection extends. I think it’s better to stay close, even though some may win free.”
Halfway from the trees to the house, she felt the first tingle of personal magery. It had a flavor she remembered, one of her cousins’. She blocked it without effort, and checked to see if it had touched her troop. No. It had been meant for her alone, and her cousin would recognize her block as readily as she would recognize her cousin’s probe. If they had not known before who was coming, that touch would reveal her.
They waited on the front steps of the entrance hall, all the women she remembered and the children she had never seen. Her aunt Jeruvin, the deposed Duke’s widow. Her other aunt, the Duke’s brother’s wife. Her mother. Her male cousins’ wives and her female cousins, all their faces stony with hatred … only the children showed anything but hostility. The older male cousins—who should have been there, unless they’d been fostered to other houses—were nowhere in sight. They might be preparing an attack, or they might have fled.
She halted her mount and waited; the Royal Guard unit fanned out around her, and Valthan rode up beside her.
“By proclamation of the Crown Prince and the Regency Council of Tsaia, I present your new Duke, Dorrin—”
“We know who that is!” That was the Duke’s widow, Jeruvin. She glared straight at Dorrin. “Traitor! You are dead to us!”
“That is your Duke,” Valthan said. His hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Show respect!”
“That is no duke. That is a runaway, nameless, a traitor to this family and cast out long ago. It is an insult that it is here.”
Valthan started to speak, but Dorrin waved him to silence. “You, widow of Haron Vasli Verrakai, are under Order of Attainder, as are all here save the youngest children. You see this chain of office—you see this ring.” She held up her clenched fist. They would understand that, oh yes they would. “I am the Duke now, by order of the prince and Council—”
“Attainder!” That was her own mother. “What have I done to be attainted? What have any of us done that the prince should so maltreat us? I have had naught to do with Haron—”
“You lived under his rule; you chose to stay under his roof. You outlawed me.”
“You are no child of mine!” Her mother turned her back.
“True enough. I am your Duke, like it or not.”
“Liar!” One of her cousins, Syrila, flicked her hand and a bolt of flame spurted from it. “You are talentless, witless—”
Dorrin put out her hand and the flame vanished, to her own brief surprise. So easy? “Whatever you think, I am your Duke, and you will find it in your own best interests to stop this nonsense.”
Syrila fairly gaped, an expression Dorrin had long wanted to see on her face. “But you—you can’t—you never could—”
“I’m not a child now, Syrila. Don’t do that again.” Dorrin could feel, as if they were touching her, the shivers of apprehension that ran through the Royal Guard, Girdsmen all. They had been told; they had heard Marshal Berris agree that Dorrin must use magery against the mageborn if necessary. But now they had seen for themselves what they were up against—and what was on their side. Not a mercenary—not just a mercenary—and certainly not a Girdish paladin, but a magelord.
“Where did you learn—?”
“How much do you know—?” A torrent of questions, during which her mother turned again.
Dorrin held up her hand, and for a wonder they fell silent at the gesture alone. She wanted to use her magery as little as possible, not only to reassure the Girdish, but to convince her relatives that it did not take magery to defeat them. “That is not your concern,” she said, deliberately copying her uncle’s tone, but adding no power to it. “Your concern now is proving to the prince and Council that you are not as guilty of treason
as Haron was. All adult members of the family will be transported to Vérella, there to stand trial—”
“Treason! I committed no treason!” Jeruvin stamped her foot.
“The court will determine that,” Dorrin said. “You will be escorted by the Royal Guard—” Her aunt’s expression shifted, showing exactly what she had in mind when alone with Girdsmen who had no magery. “—and,” Dorrin added, “I will bind your magery, for their protection. I doubt you can break my bindings, but should you do so, I will kill you myself.”
Jeruvin glared but said nothing more. Haron’s brother’s wife said, “When must we go? It is starting to thaw, and the roads are vile—”
“You will start tomorrow, at first light,” Dorrin said. The sooner she got the elder women out of the place, the better. Without taking her eyes off them, she said, “Kefer—assign someone the care of my mount.”
“At once, Capt—my lord Duke—” He said something she did not attend, being concentrated all on her relatives; she knew, and they knew, that a moment’s inattention would give the women a chance to attack, and she had no doubt they would. One of the soldiers ran forward to hold her mount.
Dorrin threw a leg over its neck and vaulted down without looking away; that impressed them, she could tell. The younger children were round-eyed, all but one boy who blurted, “I can do that, on my pony. It’s not hard.”
“Mostly you fall down when you try it, Bori,” said a girl, shoving him.
“I do it sometimes!” he said, shoving back.
One of the adults thumped both heads, and they fell silent, glaring at each other. Dorrin had to struggle not to laugh.
“Sir Valthan, attend me please,” she said, and headed for the steps. She felt a slight pressure as she reached the bottom step, and threw her power against it; it popped like a soap bubble. Was that really their strongest defense? Still looking Haron’s widow in the eye, Dorrin said, “Don’t do that again, Aunt, or I will drop you where you stand.”
“It wasn’t Jeruvin, it was I,” her mother said. “Would you dare flaunt your power against your own mother?”
“You said I was not your child,” Dorrin said. “Stand there, then, if you doubt me.” She was within arm’s length now; she touched her mother with her heart-hand forefinger and let her power out. Her mother stood silent, held motionless with one hand half raised.
Jeruvin, hatred blazing from her dark eyes, made some signal behind her back, and two of the younger women rushed forward, hands raised.
They slammed into the invisible barrier Dorrin raised, yelping with pain. “You only make it harder on yourselves,” Dorrin said. A wicked glee flickered in the back of her mind; she stamped it down. They already knew arrogance and bullying; they needed to see another kind of power, another kind of leadership. “Aunt, you have caused another injury to these young ladies. You must be still.” The magery for holding someone motionless took almost no energy at all; she extended it to all the adults in view, and then, without hurry, one by one, bound their magery. None had magery as strong as hers. Despite the Knight-Commander’s prediction, she was surprised. Was her power really that strong, or had theirs weakened over the years?
But she had no time to study that conundrum. The family she saw here, and their magery, was not all that menaced her. Somewhere men and older boys hid, planning an attack, unless they had run away. Somewhere servants lurked, possibly only frightened but possibly Liartians eager to do harm. “Captain, secure the outbuildings.” Dangerous work, but it had to be done.
“Yes, my lord,” Selfer said. “Search them as well?”
“For now, simply secure them.”
He bowed and turned away. She looked at the gaggle of relatives. “You will all be under guard in the great hall for now. If you give trouble, you will be shackled in the stables. When I release you, it is only for you to walk into the hall and sit down on the floor, where the Royal Guard directs. Children under ten will go to the safe nursery when I have found nurserymaids; suckling babes you may keep with you.” She turned her head a little. “Sir Valthan—proceed.”
They had discussed this; he knew what to do. Some inside the great hall, to watch the Verrakaien come in, tell them where to sit, and guard. Some to herd them in, as if they were sheep. Dangerous sheep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They hated her with every breath; she could feel that, and yet it did not hurt, not the way it had when she was young. She eased back the power she had exerted, and slowly … staggering a little, some of them … they moved into the doorway, past her, with Valthan’s soldiers.
She reached out, then, and felt for the other magic she knew was built into the place. The tang of the Bloodlord’s cruel power tingled along her senses, disgusting and frightening at once. A whisper eased into her mind: Broken blades, jagged hooks, whimpers, moans, screams … I give you these.
“Ward of Falk,” Dorrin said, aloud. “Ward of Falk against all evil ones—”
Falk is not my master. I have no master.
Dorrin pushed it out of her mind. Disembodied voices could come from anywhere; Liart’s power needed a physical focus. If they had priests of Liart there—well, she had already bound her relatives’ magery. She now believed she could deal with them as well.
The question now was how to manage her relatives until they could be transported to Vérella. Would the Royal Guard be adequate security? Did her family have allies between here and Vérella? And where were the men and older boys? Unfortunately, she had no magical vision that let her see through walls, or find anyone not using magery against her.
At least here and now, the Guard should be enough. When all the prisoners were inside and under guard, she and her escort moved on into the house. The great hall, scene of so many humiliations, looked much the same. She still remembered which of the doorways led where, to kitchens and other offices, to dining rooms and up front stairs or back to the rooms above. She nodded to Valthan, who read again the prince’s order and called all to come forth.
This time it was servants, shuffling warily out of various doorways and edging downstairs to gather in a disorganized mass at the other end of the great hall from the ladies. Verrakai’s household livery on the upper servants, and drab on the others … it had been so long, Dorrin didn’t recognize any of them.
She took a step forward. “I am your new Duke, by order of the crown prince and Council,” she said. “From now on, all orders come from me. Is that clear?”
A murmur, not of resistance but uncertainty.
“If you obey me, no harm will come to you. If you do not, I will consider you conspirators in the treason which brought the Attaint to all in the family, and you will be transported to Vérella to stand trial. What say you?”
“By what right do you treat highborn ladies so?” This from a tall man in the house livery pushing his way forward; the others edged away from him and averted their gaze.
“Who are you?” Dorrin asked, without replying to his question.
“I am His Lordship’s steward,” he said. His expression and voice expressed confidence in his own authority. “Grull Lanatsson is my name, and I am in charge of the household, under His Lordship.”
“Did you not hear?” Dorrin asked. “Haron the traitor is dead. All adult members of the family are under attainder and as they have already tried to attack their Duke—me—and members of the Royal Guard, traveling under royal warrant, they are prisoners, and treated as such. As for you, you may have been the former Duke’s steward, but you are not yet mine. Do you acknowledge me?” Dorrin sensed more movement in the corridor behind the servants, a shifting in the group of them, and another man came to the front, in footman’s livery.
Grull said nothing, scowling as he glanced around the hall, where armed soldiers were obviously on alert. The footman leaned to him and murmured something Dorrin could not hear. He shook his head; the footman stepped back. Then he said, “I would see this so-called order—”
“You have heard it read by an
officer of the Royal Guard, a Knight of the Bells,” Dorrin said. “You see the Royal Guard uniforms. Acknowledge me as the rightful Duke, or not, but no more delay.” She could feel, from the far end of the hall, her relatives’ bitter hatred.
He looked around at the other servants, and by his expression did not like what he saw.
“I acknowledge you,” he said, finally.
“You can’t!” said the footman who’d been near him. “You know what he—”
“Be silent, fool!” Grull said.
“Come here,” Dorrin said. “Both you and that footman. What is his name?”
“Coben,” Grull said. He strolled forward, every movement confident. Behind him, Coben followed.
When they were a bare spear-length away, Dorrin halted them with her mage power; they both paled. Grull did not struggle, but the footman’s strained face showed that he was trying to break the spell. She walked closer to them; her personal guard came with her. “Grull, what gods do you serve?”
“Whatever gods my lord commands,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“And what god did your lord command?”
“He—” Grull trembled suddenly, as if with a chill, and the voice Dorrin had heard in her mind spoke with Grull’s mouth. “What do you think, little rabbit? He is my faithful servant.”
“Then he cannot be mine,” Dorrin said. She looked at the footman. “And you? Speak, Coben.”
“You’re not the Duke,” Coben said. “I heard about you; you’re just a runaway, not really a Verrakai, and anyway you’re just an old woman.”
“Do you also follow the Bloodlord?” Dorrin asked.
Coben smiled, showing his teeth, and licked them. “The mightiest of gods is Liart, Lord of Torments. You will never prevail against him—”
Oath of Fealty Page 20
