Oath of Fealty (27 page)

“Captain,” Dorrin said to Selfer. “Collect the weapons, stow them. Sir Valthan, attend me.” She rode forward a few steps; Selfer and ten of the Phelani approached the little troop cautiously, but the Verrakai militia offered no resistance as their bows and sword belts were collected. “Dismount,” Dorrin said to the Verrakai militia, “and stand before me.”

They did so, clearly afraid; two of the Phelani took the horses’ reins and tied them together. Dorrin and Sir Valthan dismounted then.

“Sir Valthan will witness your oath of fealty,” she said. “He is a Knight of Gird, a Knight of the Bells, a noble of Tsaia and known to the prince himself. I am a Knight of Falk as well as your Duke.” She touched the ruby of her order. “Understand that these oaths are binding, and that the gods themselves will know and punish disloyalty.”

The leader nodded; the others, whey-faced, stared like cattle.

“Here is the oath you will pledge,” Dorrin said. “I—and then your name, all of it—do pledge fealty to Sir Dorrin, Duke of Verrakai, to protect, preserve, and obey, by day and night, in fear, famine, fire, and frost, to the end of my blood and life. To this I pledge my honor.”

“That’s not the same—” Sim began, from the back row; one of his comrades shoved him.

“Haron was a traitor, and he’s dead,” Dorrin said. “His oaths were false. Swear or not; it is your choice.”

“I will,” said the leader. He knelt in the mud before her and said the words in a steady voice, looking her in the eye.

“Rise, then, Mikel Vadrison. I accept your oath.”

One after another they knelt and pledged, even Sim, who stammered his way through with prompting from Mikel and others.

“Now, Sir Valthan, as you have witnessed their oaths to me, I ask you to witness mine to them.” He looked surprised, but nodded. “I pledge to you the protection of my name and my honor, so long as you are loyal—” She named them all, one by one. “You will not
hunger, while I have food. You will not freeze, while I have fire. No evil will haunt your homes, while this blade has an edge and I have strength to wield it.” She drew the blade, and it flashed in sudden sunlight. Their eyes widened; surprise, fear, and hope mingled in their expressions.

Dorrin grinned at them. “Now, because you did not know I was your Duke, your earlier rudeness is forgiven you—but so you do not forget, you will march today without your arms. Captain, take charge of these men, and ensure that, as they are unable to defend themselves, they are not put at risk.”

The troop moved on, the Verrakai in the midst of the Phelani. That night they camped in the cold damp, but the Royal Guard had tents for their own comfort. “You can have mine,” Sir Valthan said, “if you have none of your own.”

“No,” Dorrin said. “I made a pledge to those fellows in blue; they need to know I keep promises. I will share their conditions, though not their food.” She sat at the same fire with them and her cohort of Phelani, sword across her knees, and slept well enough. It was no different from campaigning with Kieri.

The next morning, she called the militia group to her, took a report from Vossik and Selfer on their behavior the previous day and night, and the inspection of their weapons. Their behavior had been satisfactory, but their weapons—“I found rust on four blades,” Vossik said, “and one is already cracked from a nick no one bothered to file out. Scabbards oiled, but not really clean. Two belts are old dry leather, ready to give way. The crossbows need to be taken down and reassembled by an arbalest; the bindings on five are rotting. Two, the prod’s loose of the stock. I don’t know who their armsmaster is, but he’s not doing his job. If these were our people, they’d have their pay docked for the damage to weapons.”

Dorrin looked at the militia; the leader had flushed. “I’m disappointed,” she said. “I demand better of my people. Rusty, nicked swords are good for scaring unarmed peasants, but not for real fighting. Crossbows with bad bindings are out of alignment and don’t shoot straight. We haven’t time to test your skills and see if they’re as rusty as your blades, but I can’t depend on you for my protection as you are.”

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.

T
hey 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.