Oath of Fealty (61 page)

Camwyn didn’t know what to say. Aris had not been his closest friend, in the group of boys who took instruction with him, and he himself had ridden a succession of palace ponies and horses chosen and trained by someone else. “I’m sorry” was all he could think of.

The other boys were saddling their horses. Down the field, two Royal Guardsmen, dismounted, were taking the saddle and bridle off Aris’s horse.

The instructor came back. “The other horses appear safe to me. This attack was aimed at you, Camwyn, and at Aris—and your families, of course.” He cleared his throat. “It would be best if you continued with practice; you are of an age where learning to continue in your duty past any difficulty is important.”

“You can’t just—with the dead horses lying there?” Camwyn bit his tongue and apologized.

“On a battlefield someday, you may face worse than this,” the instructor said. “So may your mounts. We all hope war stays far away, but I would be remiss in my duties as your instructor if I let you all trail back to the palace like a litter of whipped puppies. Gird has given you a challenge: will you meet it?”

“Yes, sir,” Aris said, before Camwyn could say anything. Camwyn nodded.

“Then we are but one horse short. Camwyn, you take mine. Beclan, Aris will ride your horse for a few minutes. You come with me to the center of the field. Ride two by two, that way, at a walk. Do not let your horses put a hoof in the blood or foam from the two poisoned ones.”

The instructor’s mount, a faded roan smaller than his own charger, moved off in a walk with complete equanimity. Camwyn concentrated on his posture, on giving precise signals, and was almost unseated at the first turn when the horse spun in a quarter circle.

“Lightly, lightly,” the instructor called. “You’re yelling at him; try a whisper.”

As the lesson went on, with students changing horses every circuit of the field, until finally pairs were changing horses while trotting together, Camwyn felt better. When he was on the ground, following the instructor, hearing every comment, he began to see things he’d never noticed before. Riding the different horses, having to adjust his seat and his aids to them, he tried to apply those things in a way he hadn’t before.

Finally it was over; once more they stood in a line, and this time the horses were quiet. The instructor looked them over. “Well done,” he said. “You young men—” It was the first time he’d ever called them
men
. “—are worthy of your fathers. You learned a hard lesson today, one I would not have chosen for you. But I warn you—what happened today may happen again. You, as lords’ sons, are all in danger. From now on, you must go early to the stables, as a group, and as a group inspect every mount, and all the tack, before mounted drill. Of course all the grooms are being questioned, but you’re old enough to take some responsibility yourselves. I have sent to the stables for two horses, for Camwyn and Aris; when they come, we will go back, in proper order, as if nothing had happened. I will report to the prince and Council.”

Four more Royal Guardsmen arrived with the two led horses, a
roan and a gray; they carried fresh saddlecloths. With them came a Marshal. The instructor checked the saddlecloths, the saddles, and then drew aside to speak to the Marshal while the two saddled their new mounts.

“You will be knights someday,” the instructor said, when he returned to the group. “Ride like that, through the city, and not like chattering boys.”

Camwyn felt no desire to chatter; Aris rode beside him, grim-faced now, looking ready to kill someone. He was reminded that Aris’s older brother, Juris, was his own older brother’s best friend. Instead of talking, Camwyn sat tall, imagining himself as Camwyn Dragonmaster, for whom he’d been named. Of course, he was Girdish, but the images of Camwyn, sword in hand, confronting the Father of Dragons were far more dramatic than those of Gird with his cudgel. He scolded himself for daydreaming, hoping no one had noticed, and watched the people in the streets as they passed. Was one of them a Verrakai agent? Servant? What would he do if someone rushed at him?

In the royal mews, the stablemaster met them. “My lords—I had no idea—”

“Enough,” the instructor said. “These boys have other lessons now. Let them go, and then we’ll talk.”

Camwyn wanted to stay and listen, but his escort and his tutor were there as well, and Duke Marrakai had already collected Aris.

“To the Council with you all,” Marrakai said. He looked as grim as Aris. “We want it all down before you’ve forgotten or talked each other into something that you didn’t see.”

Camwyn had found Council meetings boring before, the times his brother the crown prince made him sit through one. He’d not been to one since the assassination attempt. This one proved different. He and his friends were held in an anteroom and ordered not to talk, while one by one they went in to tell their stories to the Council. Those who finished were whisked away by tutors, older siblings, parents before they could report on what it had been like.

Camwyn expected he and Aris would be first, since their horses had been poisoned, but instead they were last, and Camwyn went in before Aris. He had to relate the entire morning’s events, from waking up to the instructor killing his horse.

“Are the horses usually saddled and waiting in their stalls?” asked Duke Mahieran.

“No, sir,” Camwyn said. The Duke usually ruffled his hair and called him a young scamp, but today his uncle treated him with cool courtesy. “Since Midwinter, we’ve usually had to groom and saddle them ourselves, but sometimes the grooms do it.”

“So you were not surprised to find the horses ready?”

“Not really. It’s easier that way, anyhow.”

“And did you check the saddle?”

“I tightened the girth before mounting, and looked at the stirrup straps and girth for soundness, but I didn’t feel under the saddlecloth. The horse showed no sign of discomfort; its eyes were bright; its nostrils … everything seemed normal.”

The Duke led him through the rest of it—mounting, riding out to the drill field—step by step. Camwyn described the horse’s behavior. “They were all shifting around—not just mine, who was pawing. It’s spring, and we haven’t been out for days—”

“What was Aris Marrakai’s horse doing?”

“Prancing in place. I heard Aris talking to it—we’re not supposed to, in drill, but he was trying to calm it.” Camwyn went on to tell the rest as clearly as he could.

“What did the lump look like? Part of the horse or something on the horse?”

“On the horse,” Camwyn said. “Like—like one of those mud nests some wasps make, but only this big …” He held his forefinger and thumb apart. “Maybe as thick as my thumb. Dull-colored, flattened some where it was under the saddle.”

“You saw nothing, no lump, under the saddlecloth before you mounted?”

“No, it was under the saddle, right in the middle of the back. I wouldn’t have seen it.”

“Someone put it there,” Duke Serrostin said.

“That’s obvious,” Duke Mahieran said impatiently. “Camwyn, when the instructor knocked it off the horse’s back, did it break apart when it landed? Did you see anything come out of it?”

“No,” Camwyn said. “I was holding his horse here—” He gestured. “—and the lump went that way, where I couldn’t see. Do you know what it was?”

“No,” the Duke said. “I’m sure we’ll find out. You may go now. And this is not a topic for gossip, is that clear?”

Camwyn looked at his brother, but Mikeli’s face was blank as a closed door. No invitation to stay … Camwyn walked out, as Aris was ushered in; their eyes met briefly, Aris’s still angry.

Camwyn’s tutor and guards awaited, and he spent the rest of the time until lunch on the history of the Girdish wars, a period when the Marrakai—allied early with Gird—had gained importance. Camwyn had worked out most of the battles with his collection of miniature soldiers, and tried to impress his tutor with his perfect knowledge of the terrain, opposing forces, and tactical quirks of each, but his tutor concentrated on the unexciting areas of family genealogy, law, finance, and religion.

Lunch came while he was still struggling to untangle the lineages of Mahieran, Serrostin, Verrakai, Marrakai and their vassals during the Girdish wars. Camwyn preferred to consider merely their alliances—Girdish, anti-Girdish, and neutral—but his tutor insisted on his noticing who married whom and which branch of a family chose which.

After lunch in his own quarters, surrounded by palace guards and a hovering taster, Camwyn joined the others again in the Bells training hall for weapons drill. No time to talk there; the armsmaster kept them busy and breathless until all Camwyn wanted to do was fall to the floor and gasp. After that a lesson with the palace Marshal on the Code of Gird, and finally a bath and supper. With his brother and several of his brother’s friends, including Juris Marrakai. And Aris.

“I share your grief,” his brother said to Aris, taking him by the hand. “And yours,” he said to Camwyn, taking his. “By Gird—we could have lost you both today!”

He led them to the table and sat them one to either side of him. Camwyn looked across at Aris. He had not eaten with Mikeli and the men since their father died; he’d still been in the nursery then.

“We join the Council after dinner. Just for talk—” Mikeli looked at them both. “No more questions—or not as formally, anyway.”

“Do you know yet what it was?” Aris asked. “Juris won’t tell me anything.” He glared down the table at his brother, who grinned.

“The Marshal and instructor believe they do, but are reserving that knowledge for the time being.”

“It was wicked,” Aris said.

“Yes,” Mikeli said. “But we will not talk of it during dinner. We have other things to discuss with both of you.”

Camwyn sat up at that.

“After the meal is served,” Mikeli said. He nodded to the guard at the door; servants came in with food, and the taster sampled each dish without incident. The servant withdrew, and the prince forked a slice of roast goose onto his plate. The others served themselves.

Camwyn ate steadily. Mikeli would talk when he was ready, not before, and the food—more varied and richer than what he was usually served—delighted him in spite of the situation.

Mikeli put down his fork. “Camwyn, you and Aris are not as close as Juris and I, I think. Is that not so?”

Camwyn nodded, his mouth full of roast goose.

“The attack on you two might be because someone thinks you’re like Juris and me—or because you’re my brother and Aris is a Marrakai—or because you were both riding Marrakai-bred horses today. Duke Verrakai planned to put blame on Juris for killing me … whichever Verrakai did this might have wanted to put blame on the Marrakai for your horse’s behavior.”

“But his horse died, too,” Camwyn said.

“Yes. Perhaps they hoped both of you would be injured or killed when your horses reacted to the poison.” Mikeli sighed. “Cam, you’ve never been that interested in Council meetings and such.”

“No …”

“And your tutor says you like anything military better than anything about politics or finance—”

“I don’t like all the gossip,” Camwyn said, ducking his head.

“At your age, neither did I,” Mikeli said. “But I knew I would be king, and must learn why it mattered. Camwyn—you know how close to death I came. And if I had died, you are my heir. You and I are our father’s only living children.”

“Why me? Rothlin’s older and he knows more. If there’s an emergency he’d be better—”

“Because that’s the way it’s done. Roth only gets the crown if both of us die, and that’s after Uncle. Cam, I haven’t pushed you much; I
remember too well how I hated giving up my boyhood interests. Now I can’t wait any longer. I need you; the land needs you.” Mikeli stopped there and looked at him.

Camwyn felt a stab of fear. Mikeli was serious … he had not let himself think much about the assassination attempt. He hadn’t wanted to imagine his brother sitting helpless with a magicked sword coming at him. Now he let himself imagine Mikeli dead, and someone telling him, and having suddenly the whole weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. He couldn’t do it—could not—and yet … and yet he was named for Camwyn Dragonmaster. Did that count for nothing? Was he like an infant’s toy, given a hero’s name but capable of nothing?

“I did not know,” he said, to give himself time.

“No, any more than I did when Father died. I don’t blame you, Cam, but now I need you. I need a brother who may be a king after me, and will be a help to me while I live. I had hoped the menace was over and you could have a few more years—but it’s not, and you can’t.”

Camwyn tried for the feeling he’d had riding back from practice—solid, sober, knightly. He glanced at Aris. The younger boy’s face lit up. Egan Verrakai had said Aris was a cocky upstart who thought he was the equal of his elders. That he was pleasant around Camwyn only because he was currying favor. But since Egan had … left … something had changed in the boys’ riding group. Aris hadn’t acted differently than any other boy his age assigned the duties of page or squire. Now Aris’s smile warmed his fear. “I’ll do my best,” Camwyn said.

“I want my friends to know you better, and you to know them,” Mikeli said. “And I want to know your friends, as well. That doesn’t mean you and Aris have to become like brothers, as Juris and I are, but we need all of you, for the struggle that’s going on.”

The rest of the meal passed quickly; the older ones talked of things Camwyn didn’t fully understand, but he tried, instead of ignoring them. The older men of the Council, the young men’s fathers and uncles, continued to treat him and even Aris as if they were adult, equals. They talked of affairs of the realm without explanation, but Camwyn found it easier to follow a conversation between Duke Serrostin and Duke Mahieran on the movement of funds between
Vérella and Fin Panir than to listen to his tutor. Aris, he noted, was quicker to ask questions, willing to risk his father’s correction or his brother’s scorn—which didn’t come as often as he’d expected.

Egan had always insisted that lords must never show ignorance, never admit they didn’t understand, but the Marrakaien—now that he could watch Juris and Aris together with their father—all seemed as comfortable asking questions as answering them.