Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

Mazael examined his reflection in the silvered looking glass. He wore boots, clean trousers, and a tunic. Over his shoulders went a black cloak embroidered with the three-swords sigil of Cravenlock.

  The quarters Mitor had given them were comfortable enough. Tapestries covered the stark stone walls, depicting scenes of Castle Cravenlock’s past glories, and a large double bed rested against one wall, covered with a feather mattress and an enormous pile of pillows. A huge paneled wardrobe, a large desk, and a pair of chairs made from red oak and carved with Cravenlock sigil stood against the walls. Mazael had spent the greater part his life sleeping on cold ground under the stars and found the chambers excessive. Gerald, though, was right at home.

  Mazael picked up his worn sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Lion dangled from his left hip and a dagger rested on his right. Lion was ornate enough for a feast and dagger was necessary as an eating utensil. He grimaced and rubbed his beard. He was rarely adverse to feasting, revelry, and wine. But eating at Mitor’s table would leave a sour taste in his mouth.

  But there was nothing to do but to get on with it. With luck, he and Gerald could depart for Knightcastle within a week. He felt a twinge of anger when he thought of Rachel. She had changed in the last fifteen years, and not for the better. Her betrothal to smiling Sir Albron Eastwater proved that.

  Mazael shook his head and left his chambers, intending to see if Gerald was ready yet. Gerald took more time to primp than the vainest of noble ladies.

  He rounded a curve in the staircase and almost walked into Romaria. She stumbled, and his hand shot out and caught her arm.

  “Gods of the earth,” swore Romaria. “You’re fast.” She grinned. “I thought I was going to have a headlong tumble.”

  “We can’t have that,” said Mazael. Her bare arm felt warm and soft under his fingers, despite the corded muscles beneath her skin. She wore a gown of patterned green and blue fabric that left her arms bare. It suited her very well. Around her neck was a stole of black fur. Mazael laughed.

  “What?” said Romaria. She did not try to pull away from him.

  Mazael reached up with his free hand and fingered the black fur. “It seems you’ve found more than one use for that cat.”

  Romaria grinned. “I cleaned it this afternoon.” Her smile turned mischievous. “So, are you going to let go of my arm...or do you want to take a different sort of tumble together?”

  Mazael slid his hand over her shoulder and onto her other arm. “Right here, against the wall? Direct, aren’t you?”

  “What, would you have me play the blushing virgin?” said Romaria.

  “You? I didn’t think so?” said Mazael. He wanted to kiss her.

  “So perceptive,” said Romaria. “For a man, that is. And so good with that fancy sword, and so fast. I think you might be worthy of me.”

  “I should hope so,” said Mazael.

  Romaria smiled. “Your friend would be shocked if he saw us.”

  “Gerald shocks easily. I’ve tried to train him out of it,” Mazael said. Romaria’s strange ice-blue eyes sparkled, a flush spreading through her pale cheeks. “Gods, you have lovely eyes.”

  “Do you say that to all your women?” said Romaria.

  “No, I usually say ‘how much for the night?’” said Mazael.

  Romaria went silent, and Mazael realized that he had blundered.

  Then she laughed, her shoulders shaking with amusement. “You would, wouldn’t you? What a strange man you are! It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d had every whore from here to Knightcastle, yet you put your life on the line for those peasants in the town. You stood up to Mitor, when no one else was brave enough.”

  Mazael shrugged. “Mitor’s cruel and stupid. What right does he have to terrorize his peasants? As for the whores, well, I have urges, as does any man, and the women need to eat, as does anyone. I always pay them triple what they ask. I can afford it, and it seems only fair.”

  “How generous. The Church should make you into a saint.”

  Mazael laughed. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “I wonder if you’re the one the Seer saw,” said Romaria. “I wouldn’t mind that, not at all.” Her voice had that odd note of fear again.

  “Who?” said Mazael.

  Romaria’s grin reappeared, as wicked as the flashing edge of a sword. “No one." She leaned up, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and pulled away. “At least...not yet.”

  “I’m disappointed,” said Mazael. “Could you trip again?”

  Romaria laughed. “Maybe later. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock Sir Gerald.”

  “I suppose I’ll see you at the feast, then,” said Mazael.

  Romaria grinned. “I look forward to it.” Then she was gone.

  Mazael leaned against the wall and blew out a sigh. He’d had numerous women in his life, but never an encounter quite like that. Then again, he’d never met a woman like Romaria before.

  He shook his head. Nothing clouded the mind like lust, and he needed his wits clear for Lord Mitor’s feast. After a few moments, he put Romaria from his mind and climbed the stairs. He thought of what Gerald would have said if he had seen them together and laughed.

  A moment later he reached Gerald’s door. “No, no,” he heard Gerald say. “Fetch that tunic...no, the blue one, I say!”

  Gerald stood before the mirror, his torso bare. His hair and his mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, his boots polished to mirror sheen. His sword lay across the bed, sharpened and polished.

  Wesson stood at the wardrobe, digging through a pile of tunics. He gave Mazael a despairing glance.

  “Ah...good...Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, shaking out a tunic. “I didn’t expect you so early.”

  “Actually, I’m late,” said Mazael.

  Gerald pulled the tunic on, stared at his reflection, shook his head, and pulled the tunic off. Wesson stifled a groan.

  “Really?” said Gerald. “So soon? Were you delayed?”

  “What?” said Mazael. “I suppose so.”

  Gerald grunted. “Say, Wesson, hand me the, ah...red one. Red and blue usually go well together.” Wesson grunted and began to dig through the pile of tunics.

  Mazael sat on the edge of the bed. “This is fastidious, even for you.”

  “Well, I haven’t mentioned it before,” said Gerald. “But my father considered arranging a marriage for me with one of the ladies in the southern half of the Grim Marches.”

  A chill tugged at Mazael. He glanced out the window, and lurched to his feet, eyes wide. A sea of blood covered the plains surrounding the castle, churning in froth-crowned waves, splashing and staining the castle walls...

  “Mazael?” said Gerald. “Is something wrong?”

  Mazael blinked. He saw the plains and the town through the window, and nothing more. “What...nothing. I almost sat on your sword, that’s all.”

  Gerald laughed. “That would make for an unpleasant wound.”

  “What were you saying about a marriage?” said Mazael. He sat in one of the chairs, away from the window.

  Gerald scrutinized his reflection, tugged at his mustache, and smiled. “Well, I am the only one of my father’s sons to remain unwed. Before he sent us to the Grim Marches, he suggested that a marriage with one of the daughters of the southern Marcher lords might lie in my future.”

  Mazael laughed. “So, a future Lady Roland might feast in Mitor’s hall tonight?” A gleam came into his eye. “I hear that Lord Marcus has another daughter.”

  Gerald shuddered. “The gods forbid! If she’s anything like her sister, I fear that I would rather join a celibate order.”

  “You realize, of course, it’s all intrigue?” said Mazael. “Your father would marry you to my sister if she wasn’t betrothed already. He wants an alliance with the Cravenlocks, should they rise up against the Mandragons.”

  Gerald sighed. “Wesson! My surcoat, please. I’m well aware of that. You have something of an advantage over me, I fear. You left Lord Mitor’s h
ousehold, so your brother has no hold over you and cannot command you to marry.” Mazael shuddered at the thought. “Yet you are not one of my father’s vassals, nor are you of his blood. You could marry whomever you wish. You could marry a comely peasant wench, and no one would object, though I imagine the court would whisper.”

  Mazael snorted. “Once you’ve been hit with a sword a few times, words lose their sting.”

  “Truly,” said Gerald. “Yet I must marry as my father commands, and I can only hope for a wife who does not have the countenance of a sow and the temperament of a porcupine.”

  “Good luck,” said Mazael.

  “A pity your sister is already betrothed,” said Gerald, pulling on his surcoat, the fine blue cloth embroidered with the greathelm of Roland in silver thread. “She seems quite a proper lady, and is very comely, to boot. Wesson, my sword and belt, please.”

  Mazael tugged his fingers through his beard. “Betrothed to that smiling fool Sir Albron. You ought to court her anyway. Gods know you’d make a better husband. Sir Albron would likely stand there and smile while you wooed her away.”

  Gerald tucked his dagger into his belt. “Well...I agree with you, but it hardly seems honorable...”

  “Honorable,” said Mazael. “Albron has all the honor of a jackal. I wonder if Rachel is merely infatuated. She gets cow-eyed whenever he comes near.”

  Gerald tossed a blue cloak over his shoulders with a flourish. “Well, that’s a consideration for later. Right now, there is a feast with food and wine and music awaiting. I, for one, do not want to keep it waiting any longer than necessary.”

  Mazael laughed. “Then by all means, let’s go.”

  They descended the steps of the King’s Tower. Mazael passed the spot where he had walked into Romaria and grinned.

  Only a thin line of light glimmered in the western sky when they entered the castle’s courtyard. The doors to the central keep stood open, torchlight spilling out. Six armsmen in formal armor stood on either side of the doors, and four other men waited nearby. One lumbered ponderously, while the other moved with fluid grace. Mazael turned towards them, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Who is it, Mazael?” said Gerald.

  “Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael, “may I introduce Master Othar, court wizard of Castle Cravenlock, and Sir Nathan Greatheart, armsmaster...former armsmaster, of Castle Cravenlock...and the men who managed to keep me from getting killed as a child.”

  Master Othar boomed laughter. Six feet tall and half as wide, a tangled white beard covered his double chin. Othar walked with the ponderous majesty of a lumbering elephant, barely using the cane in his meaty right fist. The much shorter and thinner Timothy deBlanc walked after him.

  “Well, boy!” said Othar. “You’ve gotten taller.”

  “And you’ve gotten fatter,” said Mazael.

  Othar laughed and slapped his belly with his free hand. “Aye, boy, so I have! At my age, I reserve the right to eat any damn thing I want. Sir Nathan here has been telling me that he expects my heart to burst any day now for the last twenty years. Well, my heart’s still pounding along just fine.” He laughed again. “Though I do expect I’ll make a misery for the gravediggers when I finally go.”

  “That is not something to jest about,” said a deep voice. Sir Nathan Greatheart was lean and gaunt. Deep lines marked his weathered face, and ropes of sinewy muscle corded his arms. The hilt of a two-handed greatsword, bigger than Romaria’s bastard blade, rose from over his shoulder. A young man, Nathan’s squire, Mazael assumed, stood behind the old knight. “I have been admonishing you to take better care of yourself for twenty years. I cannot recall a single time when you heeded my advice. Mazael.”

  “Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

  “Sir Mazael, I should say,” said Nathan. He smiled, something he did rarely. “You have earned that title. Even here, we have heard tales of your exploits during the Mastarian war.”

  “Thank you,” said Mazael.

  “Sir Nathan and I have been visiting the villages north of here for the last few days,” said Othar, “raising fresh men for Lord Mitor’s army. When we returned earlier today, it seems you were the talk of the town. According to one peasant, you cut your way through a thousand Mandragon soldiers and snatched Lady Rachel from their grasp.”

  “It was more like thirty,” said Mazael. “And Sir Gerald helped.”

  “And then, when you return in triumph to Castle Cravenlock, you save an innocent innkeeper and his wife from unjust execution at the hands of a cruel knight,” said Othar. “Sounds like a jongleur’s song, boy! You have had a few busy days. I told you, Nathan, this one’s destined for legend.”

  Remembering the sorry scene made Mazael angry all over again. “Captain Brogan was a cruel fool. He should have been scraping dung from the stable floors, not commanding men. And for Albron to give a man like that free reign in the village, gods, that went from mere foolishness to stupidity.”

  “Albron and I have our disagreements,” said Nathan. “The appointment of Brogan stands among them.”

  Othar snorted. “It’s possible that the gods have made worse men, but not many.”

  Mazael grunted and looked at the sky. The stars had begun to come out. “How are things here, really?”

  “What do you mean?” said Othar.

  Mazael made a see-saw motion with his hand. “I talk to Rachel and get one version of events. I talk to Mitor and get grandiose ramblings. I talked to Sir Tanam, briefly, and he accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. What is happening here, truly?”

  Sir Nathan sighed. “Mazael, things have not been well at Castle Cravenlock since Lord Richard rose up against your father Lord Adalon. You know that.”

  Mazael nodded.

  “In truth, I think things have not been well here since Lord Adalon married Lady Arissa Dreadjon, your mother. No man was more kind and generous than your father, Mazael, but he was weak. It shames me to say it of the lord I served for most my life, but he was not a man of strong will, a quality Lady Arissa possessed in abundance. She rode over him without mercy. Were it not for her, I believe Lord Adalon would have surrendered the liege lordship of the Grim Marches to Lord Richard without struggle,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Oft times the sorrows of the present are rooted in the miseries of the past,” said Timothy.

  “Ah...the writings of the magister Aristor. I see you are familiar with the works of the great wizards. Very good, young man,” said Othar. Timothy beamed.

  “What is happening now?” said Mazael. “The Grim Marches were peaceful when I left.”

  “I thought Mitor would be content as Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan. “Then that whispering schemer Simonian came...”

  “No,” said Othar. “It began earlier, when Albron came...”

  “You are right,” said Sir Nathan. “Albron came to Castle Cravenlock six years ago...”

  “Six years?” said Mazael. “Albron told me that he had fought in the uprising, and received his knighthood from my father.”

  Nathan grimaced. “A lie. Albron is full of them. He may have fought in the uprising. Thousands did. But he did not set foot in Castle Cravenlock until six years past. He took service as an armsman. Somehow he gained Lady Rachel’s favor, and Lord Mitor knighted him after a year. I wanted him gone from the garrison. The man had less truth in him than a thief. Yet he courted Lady Rachel, and she insisted that he stay.”

  “Then Simonian came,” said Othar. “Watch yourself around that one, Mazael my boy. He’s sly and powerful. It would not surprise me if he knows black arts.”

  “Simonian came three years past,” said Nathan. “I urged Lord Mitor to banish him. Foreign wizards are notorious for knowledge of dark arts. From time to time the magisters simply assassinate those they suspect of practicing forbidden magic. It is legal for them to do so, sanctioned by both Church and king. I feared Lord Mitor would become caught in Simonian’s eventual fall.”

  “Mitor bobs his fat head
up and down whenever that wizard speaks,” said Mazael.

  “Lord Mitor made him court wizard,” said Othar, scowling, “but he carries out none of the duties. Simonian is often gone for weeks at a time. I continue on, as I always have, and neither Simonian nor Lord Mitor seems to care. After a few months of this, Lord Mitor demanded harsher taxes of the local peasantry to pay for his mercenaries. Sir Nathan protested, calling it banditry. So Lord Mitor dismissed him...”

  “And replaced him with Sir Albron Eastwater. A liar, but a liar that would carry out Mitor’s instructions without question,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Are Albron and Simonian in league together?” said Mazael.

  Othar shrugged. “It is possible. If they are, Simonian is the greater. When they disagree, Albron always backs down.”

  “What about this business with Sir Tanam Crowley and Rachel’s abduction?” said Mazael.

  “Gods,” swore Sir Nathan. “If Albron and Lord Mitor had listened to me, it would never have happened. Albron had holes in his guards that an army could stroll through. And if Lord Mitor hadn’t planned to take Crowley captive...”

  “What?” said Mazael. Rachel certainly hadn’t mentioned that. “Rachel told me that Lord Richard had sent Crowley to offer Toraine Mandragon in marriage. Mitor rebuffed him, Sir Tanam rode back to Swordgrim, returned to begin dickering, and rode away with Rachel!”

  “That’s almost what happened,” said Othar. He pulled a battered wooden pipe from a pocket of his robes and stuffed it with tobacco leaves from his belt. A brief spell kindled the pipe, and Othar took a long pull, sighing in satisfaction. “Lady Rachel neglected to add that Lord Mitor planned to capture Crowley and hang him in the town’s square.”

  “Gods of heaven!” said Mazael. “If he had...nothing could have stopped war. Lord Richard and the Black Dragon would have fallen on Castle Cravenlock like a storm out of hell. Mitor would find himself dangling from a gibbet. Gods! Sir Tanam might have seized Rachel out of fear for his life!” Mazael wanted to kill someone. Preferably Mitor

  “Oh, yes,” said Othar, puffing on his pipe. He wiggled his fingers, whispering a spell, and the smoke rising from his pipe formed the ghostly image of a noose. “Simonian and Sir Albron had been telling Mitor lies of grandeur for years...how he deserved the liege lordship of the Grim Marches, how Lord Richard was nothing but a murdering usurper...”

  “Yet they failed to remind Lord Mitor how the Dragonslayer spared his life,” said Nathan. “Another man would have killed every one of the Cravenlocks.”

  “Truly,” said Othar, “but tell that to Lord Mitor. Simonian and Albron have filled his head to bursting with these foolish dreams. I’m afraid this business with the Old Crow has sealed the matter. There will be war. Lord Mitor will charge Lord Richard with the abduction of Lady Rachel...and Lord Richard claims...”

  “What?” said Mazael. He thought of Sir Tanam’s charge of “witchcraft and sorcery”, Romaria’s tales of walking dead men, and Othar’s suspicions of Simonian. Something clicked together in his head. “What does Lord Richard claim?”

  Othar raised an eyebrow. “He claims that members of House Cravenlock are practicing ungodly witchcraft and unholy sorcery. Utterly absurd, of course...”

  Mazael shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s not Mitor or Rachel or Marcelle. It’s Simonian who’s doing this ‘vile sorcery’. On my way to the castle, I met a woman named Romaria Greenshield...”

  Nathan blinked. “One of Lord Athaelin’s sisters?”

  “His daughter,” said Mazael. “He sent her north to find and deal with a renegade wizard. She claims that dark magic is loose in the Great Southern Forest, that corpses...zuvembies, she called them, rise to kill. I’m inclined to believe her. She seems a remarkable woman.”

  “Mazael suspected before that a ‘wizard’s trickery’ lay behind the troubles,” said Gerald. “No insult, of course.”

  “None taken,” said Othar and Timothy together.

  “I would not find it hard to believe that a creature like Simonian traffics with demons and conjures dark magic,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Then let us march into the great hall and put an end to him right now,” said Mazael.

  “I taught you better than that,” said Sir Nathan. “We have suspicions, but no proof. Lady Romaria claims to have seen dead men rising. The folk of Deepforest Keep are known for strange things. Master Othar and several other visiting wizards have scoured Castle Cravenlock and the surrounding lands for dark magic and have had found nothing. For all we know, Lord Richard has seized upon this tale of witchcraft to rid himself of Lord Mitor once and for all. The Dragonslayer has mercy in him, but far more ruthlessness than compassion.”

  “You’re right,” said Mazael. “But if Simonian is here for a benevolent purpose, I’ll believe it when I see pigs flying over the castle.”

  “I as well,” said Sir Nathan. “But we have suspicions, suppositions, and rumors. Not fact. We may believe what we will, but Lord Mitor will never believe us without proof.”

  “Damnation,” said Mazael.

  “Speaking of messes,” said Master Othar, “why did you come back to Castle Cravenlock? You were always good at staying out of the messes of other people...but you had an unfailing tendency to create messes of your own, as I recall.”

  Mazael laughed. “That’s true enough.” He told Sir Nathan and Master Othar everything that had happened in the last few months.

  “So, Lord Malden plans to involve himself our mess?” said Othar.

  “I expected as much,” said Sir Nathan. “Lord Malden has never forgiven Lord Richard for his son's death. Pardons, Sir Gerald, but Lord Malden would welcome vengeance against Lord Richard.”

  “None taken, Sir Nathan,” said Gerald. “I know my father. But I am sure he will see reason.”

  “And Lord Alamis Castanagent will not sit by while a war rages on the eastern borders of his lands,” said Sir Nathan. “And if Lord Alamis involves himself, then so will every great lord in the kingdom.”

  “The king would have to take a hand,” said Othar.

  Sir Nathan sighed. “And then we will have war across the kingdom.”

  Mazael blinked. For an instant he saw blood gushing from within the castle keep, bursting from the windows, and pouring down the stone walls in crimson rivers. He blinked again and shook his head.

  “Is something amiss?” said Sir Nathan.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I’ve been suffering from headaches recently.”

  Othar laughed. “Too much ale, I’ll warrant.”

  “Do not project your bad habits onto Sir Mazael,” said Sir Nathan.

  “No, it’s not ale,” said Mazael. “I haven’t had enough to make me drunk since I left Knightcastle.”

  “I could give you an elixir,” said Master Othar.

  “If they still trouble me tomorrow,” said Mazael.

  “Let us speak of happier things,” said Sir Nathan. “Master Othar and I have not seen you in fifteen years, Sir Mazael, and the gods have decided to bring us together again. Let us commiserate and share what has happened over the years.”

  “Truly,” said Othar. “All this talk of war and necromancy spoils my appetite. A man can’t eat properly when he’s worried.”

  Sir Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That has never stopped you before.”

  Othar shrugged. “It is the principle of the matter.”

  “Indeed. Sir Mazael...there is something I would ask of you,” said Sir Nathan.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Come here, Adalar,” said Sir Nathan. Nathan’s squire stepped forward. The boy was about thirteen, with brown eyes, a narrow face, and a grave expression.

  “This is your son!” said Mazael.

  Nathan smiled. “Yes.”

  “But you were certain that you and Lady Leah would never have children,” said Mazael.

  A shadow passed over Nathan’s gaunt face. “I...was wrong, it seems.
Leah conceived a year or so after Lord Richard’s victory. Nine months later she gave birth to Adalar. The...birth went hard. Othar tended her, and she lived through it, but...”

  “It took most of her strength,” said Othar, holding his pipe in one hand. “I thought she would pull through...but, the gods have mercy, she died five months later.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mazael. He remembered Sir Nathan’s wife very well. She had always given Mazael a treat when he had accompanied Sir Nathan to his keep.

  “The gods give with one hand and take with the other,” said Nathan. “It had always been her fondest wish to have children.” Nathan looked away for a moment. “Regardless, I have a request to ask of you, Sir Mazael. I ask that you take Adalar for your squire.”

  “Squire?” said Mazael. “Why me? Surely you could find some great knight to take Adalar as a squire. I am sworn to Lord Malden, and spend most my time riding about fulfilling his commands...”

  “That is why I want you to take him as your squire,” said Sir Nathan. “I have raised my son as best I know how, and now it is time for another knight to complete his training. You are the best knight for that task. Granted, you are often reckless, and have several bad habits.” Gerald smiled. “But you are the best sword, the best fighter, I have ever met. And you fulfill the true spirit of a knight’s vows, as your actions against Sir Tanam and Brogan show. Too many knights are hollow suits of armor, following the letter of vows they do not believe.”

  “Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Mazael.

  Nathan nodded. “Aye. He offered to take Adalar as his squire. Do you think I would entrust my son’s training to that one?”

  That decided Mazael. “Very well.” He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Adalar knelt, his head bowed. Mazael spun his sword and placed the flat of the blade on Adalar’s left shoulder. “Adalar Greatheart,” he said. He tried to remember how the oath went.

  Fortunately, it came. “Do you swear to serve me in all things, to obey me without question, to care for my weapons, mounts, and other possessions, and to pay me due respect?”

  “Yes, sir knight,” said Adalar. His voice cracked on the second word. The boy grimaced and spoke again. “Yes, I swear, Sir Mazael.”

  Mazael tapped Adalar and switched the blade to the boy’s right shoulder. “And I swear to feed and keep you, to train in you in the use of weapons and horses, and to teach in you in all the ways of a knight. Do you accept my oath?”

  “Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. He sheathed Lion and pulled his dagger from his belt. He offered it hilt first to Adalar. “Well, get up, Adalar. You’re a squire now.”

  Adalar took the dagger and stuck it through his belt. He was smiling. “Yes, Sir Mazael. Thank you.”

  “I’d offer you congratulations,” said Gerald, “but I fear you’ll come to regret this, after the first time Sir Mazael decides to charge an army by himself.”

  “Hilarious,” said Mazael.

  “Wesson should be glad for the reprieve, since he will no longer have to squire for both of us,” said Gerald.

  “Yes, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson. Mazael could not recall ever hearing such sincerity in the boy’s voice.

  “I am proud of you, my son,” said Nathan.

  Othar clapped his free hand on Adalar’s shoulder. “Very good, my boy! I have no doubt you’ll make a splendid squire. You take after your father that way.” The old wizard grinned. “You’ll make a far better squire than Sir Mazael was, I’ll wager.”

  “No challenge there,” said Mazael.

  Othar laughter. “Ha! If Sir Mazael rides you too hard, boy, come to me and I’ll tell you about the time he broke the leg of Lord Willard Highmarch’s eldest son.”

  Adalar’s eyes widened. “You did, Sir Mazael? Robert Highmarch is lord of Highgate now.”

  Mazael had forgotten about that. “The fool had it coming. His father’s armsmaster hadn’t trained him to guard for blows below the waist.”

  “Lord Willard was furious, as I recall,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Why? I did him a favor. It’s good someone taught Robert Highmarch that lesson. If I hadn’t, I doubt Lord Willard would have ever had any grandchildren,” said Mazael.

  Sir Nathan cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go to the great hall. Lord Mitor will be waiting on us...or upon you and Sir Gerald, rather.”

  “I wouldn’t mind making Lord Mitor wait a little longer, in truth,” said Gerald. “I wish my father would meet Lord Mitor before deciding his course. I do not doubt that speaking with Lord Mitor in person would drastically change my father’s opinion regarding certain matters.”

  The guards bowed as they stepped through the keep doors. Lord Mitor, his wife, and his advisors waited within the anteroom to the great hall, clad in their richest finery. Mitor looked like a pear in his green doublet, and Marcelle's gown somehow made her look more vulpine. Rachel was beautiful in a green gown that matched her eyes, but Mazael thought Sir Albron’s arm around her waist ruined her appearance.

  Simonian of Briault stood in the corner, still in his rough brown robes, shadows playing across the craggy planes of his face. Mazael saw the amusement in his murky eyes.

  Lord Marcus quivered with indignation. “You are late! One does not keep the liege lord of the Grim Marches waiting!”

  Mitor waved his hand. “Bah! One does not keep you waiting for your food, that is what you mean to say, Marcus. Sir Mazael has merely ensured that we enter a few moments late, as is appropriate to our high stations.”

  “That’s exactly it,” said Mazael.

  “I was afraid you were not coming, Sir Mazael,” said Rachel.

  “Why? I wouldn’t miss this for all of Lord Richard’s gold,” said Mazael.

  Simonian laughed. “That is generous of you, my lord knight. Richard Mandragon has quite a lot of gold.”

  Mitor’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. His pallor was worse than it had been this morning. Mazael wondered if Mitor was drunk. “That is my gold, by rights.”

  “Truly, my lord,” said Simonian. “Lord Richard shall soon learn that, to his everlasting sorrow. But if your humble servant may make a suggestion, should you not commence with the feasting? Your subjects within the hall grow anxious, my lord, and wish to bask in the light of your wisdom.”

  Flatterers and liars, Mazael thought.

  “Do not presume to advise Lord Mitor, sorcerer,” said Sir Commander Galan.

  Simonian bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord knight, but I cannot wield sword and shield as you do, or lead armies, or inspire the masses. I can only serve my lord as best I can.”

  “Do not concern yourself, my friend,” said Mitor to Sir Commander Galan. “Simonian only seeks to serve me...and I seek to restore the Justiciar order to its ancient rights in the Grim Marches once I am liege lord. Therefore, we are all of one purpose, no?”

  Sir Commander Galan looked anything but pleased. “Very well, Lord Mitor.”

  “Let us proceed, then,” said Mitor. “Mazael, you and Sir Gerald will join me at the high table, as befits my brother and a son of Lord Malden Roland.”

  “Really,” said Mazael. “What of Sir Nathan and Master Othar? They have served the house of Cravenlock well all their lives. Surely they deserve a seat at the high table?”

  Mitor snorted. “They are old and have outlived their usefulness to me.” Mazael saw Adalar tense at the insult to his father, but the old knight remained calm. “Do not quibble with me, Mazael. After all, once Lord Malden comes to my cause, yes, we shall all indeed be of one purpose.”

  Sir Nathan bowed. “If you will excuse me, my lords, Master Othar and I must find our places at the benches. Adalar, remain with Sir Mazael.”

  “Yes, Father,” said Adalar.

  “Now, shall we feast, or shall we stand here and talk all night?” said Mitor. “Tell the herald to begin.”

  Armsmen threw open the double doors to the great hall. Mitor’s herald banged his staff against the marble floor
thrice and called out the names. “Lord Mitor Cravenlock, lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches. Lady Marcelle Cravenlock, his wife!” Mitor and his wife marched arm in arm down the aisle between the low tables, almost appearing regal.

  “Lord Marcus Trand, lord of Roseblood Keep!”

  “Mazael,” said Rachel, “I’m sorry we exchanged harsh words earlier today. You were only trying to tell me the truth...at least, the truth as you see it...and there are so few people who will be honest with me.”

  “Now, Rachel,” said Albron. “If Sir Mazael has offended you, he should apologize to you, not the other way around.” He smiled at Mazael. “True knights should remain courteous to ladies at all times.”

  “Lord Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall!” Old Lord Roget sighed and began the long shuffle down the great hall.

  “Knights are also supposed to speak the truth at all times,” said Mazael. “Didn’t Lord Mitor...oh, wait, Lord Adalon...tell you that when he knighted you?” Mazael had the satisfaction of seeing Albron’s eternal smile turn sour.

  “Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Justiciar Knight, Commander of Justiciar Knights in the Grim Marches!” Sir Commander Galan adjusted his blue cloak with a flourish and marched into the hall, boots clacking against the stone floor.

  Sir Albron laughed. “Now, now, Sir Mazael. You’re setting a poor example for young Adalar Greatheart. We should not bicker like this. It is most unseemly.”

  “Did Lord Adalon tell you that?” said Mazael. “That would be an interesting trick, since you never met him.”

  “Mazael,” said Rachel. “Please, stop this. Albron will be your brother-in-law within the year.”

  “Truly,” said Sir Albron. “There’s no need for such pettiness. I have no doubt that you have a few embellishments in your personal history. Did you really defeat Sir Commander Aeternis in the Mastarian war? Oh, wait, my mistake. That was Sir Mandor Roland, as I recall. And that sword with such a pretty gold lion’s head for the hilt? A trophy of battle, or a bauble picked up in some Knightport vendor’s stall?”

  “Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and his betrothed, Lady Rachel Cravenlock, sister of Lord Mitor!”

  “Ah,” said Albron. “Duty calls. Well, I shall see you at the high table, Sir Mazael, Sir Gerald.” He marched away, Rachel on his arm. Mazael wanted to ram Lion into the man’s back. Rachel gave Mazael a single sad glance over her shoulder, and then walked with her betrothed to the high table.

  “What a remarkably loathsome little man,” said Gerald. “Wesson, take note. When you are a knight, never act as Sir Albron did.”

  “I must apologize for Sir Albron,” said a gravelly voice. Simonian stepped out of the shadows. “He has risen high most quickly. Seven years ago he was a common mercenary. Now, he is armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock and betrothed to Lady Rachel. I fear his pride has risen just as high. He is almost unmanageable at times.”

  “Lord Mitor does not find it so,” said Mazael.

  Simonian laughed. “Indeed. Why would Sir Albron bite the hand that feeds him? So long as Lord Mitor’s star rises, Sir Albron will rise with it.”

  “Until this ship starts to sink,” said Gerald. “Then Albron and all the other rats will swarm out.”

  This seemed to amuse Simonian. “I had not viewed in that way, my lord knight.”

  “Sir Gerald Roland, son of Lord Malden Roland!”

  Gerald straightened. “Well, that’s it, I suppose. Come along, Wesson.” Gerald strode down the hall, scrutinizing every noblewoman in sight.

  “And what of you, wizard?” said Mazael. “What stripe of rat are you?”

  Simonian smiled. “You are direct, are you not? I imagine Sir Tanam Crowley found that out quite well. No doubt our fair young Lady Romaria has accused me of all sorts of vile necromancy. And I shudder to think what Sir Nathan has told you.”

  “How would you know?” said Mazael.

  Simonian spread his callused hands wide. “My lord knight, you know better than that. When there’s a plague, or a famine, or a woman births a deformed child, who is first to catch blame? Why, the wizard, of course. The common folk of Briault always believed such twaddle. And a foreign wizard...even better! Fetch the oil and the torches!” Simonian sighed. “I fear I am misjudged and misunderstood on every turn. I am a simple servant. I simply wish to help Lord Mitor reach his full potential, the heights of greatness.”

  “Really,” said Mazael. “I have difficulty connecting Mitor with greatness.”

  Simonian sighed. “As do I.” His murky eyes glimmered. “But you, my lord knight, you’re different, aren’t you? You always have been, I judge. That fine sword must dance like lightning when you wield it. Who has ever been able to stand against you? None, I should think. Killing comes so naturally to you. And you enjoy it, do you not? Yes, I can see it in your face, in your eyes.”

  Mazael wanted to draw Lion and silence the wizard. But another part wanted to listen. “What are you babbling about?”

  “Potential,” said Simonian. “Mitor is nothing. But you, Mazael Cravenlock, you could be so much more. The herald will call your name soon. When he does, why not march up to the dais, draw that magnificent blade, and separate Mitor’s ugly head from his fat body?”

  Mazael saw it clearly. He saw himself stride up to Mitor, saw Lion flash from its sheath, and saw Mitor’s head roll and bounce down the hall.

  “Think of it,” murmured Simonian. “You could become a greater lord that Mitor ever was. You can end your sister’s absurd betrothal to that strutting fool...marry her to your friend Gerald, perhaps. And Mitor deserves to die, does he not? And you want to kill him, I know you do. I see it in your face. You would enjoy it. Do it.”

  Mazael looked into the hall. He saw Mitor sitting at the high table, fat and weak, his harridan wife perched besides. Around him, Mitor’s covey of fools and allies sat and babbled, Rachel caught in their midst like a rose in a ring of thorns. His gaze wandered down the hall and settled upon Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Yes, Mazael could kill Mitor, but what would they say? What example would that set for Adalar?

  “What sort of lying serpent are you?” said Mazael. “Mitor’s advisor, indeed! What game are you playing? I’ll warrant you’re the one behind all the rumors of witchcraft and necromancy I’ve heard!”

  “No serpent, I assure you," said Simonian.

  “I ought to tell Mitor all this,” said Mazael. “Let’s see how he reacts when he’s confronted with real treason.”

  Simonian’s amusement increased. “He’d never believe you. You do realize that he’s terrified of you?”

  “Get out of my sight,” said Mazael, “else I’ll kill you, and deal with the consequences later.”

  Simonian flinched, then his smile returned. “Yes...I rather believe you would." He bowed and departed for the great hall.

  “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” boomed the herald, “brother of Lord Mitor.”

  “Adalar,” said Mazael.

  Adalar didn’t answer.

  “Adalar!”

  Adalar twitched. “What...oh, my apologizes, Sir Mazael. My...my attention wandered.” He frowned. “Where did everyone go?”

  “To the feast,” said Mazael. “Didn’t you see?”

  Adalar’s frown deepened. “I...I suppose not.”

  Mazael stared after Simonian. “Go to your father, and tell him that I gave you permission to attend with him.”

  “Are you not coming?” said Adalar.

  “I feel ill,” said Mazael. “The prospect of eating with that pack of serpents is enough to steal anyone’s appetite.”

  “As you command.” Sir Nathan had trained Adalar well. The boy walked through the doors and went to his father’s side.

  Mazael walked out into the comforting coolness of the courtyard. His stomach churned and his head ached, and he felt so tired. Gerald will laugh at this tomorrow, Mazael thought. He went to the King’s Tower to find his bed.

  4


  The Dream