Oath of Fealty (71 page)

She smiled at the tiring maids, and thanked them for their help. Another knock on the door. “Time, my lord.” The door opened. The Master of Ceremonies looked her up and down. “Excellent,” he said. Behind him, a servant with a flat box. He opened it. “Your court chain of office.”

Unlike the ducal chain the prince had sent before, this was all gold, the links beaten into the shape of the Tsaian rose. She bent her head and he lifted it, then laid it on her shoulders. “Come along,” he said, as if to a child, and she followed him.

In the corridor near the Grange Hall, Knights of the Bells stood on either side, their mail shining, their swords belted on. The other nobles were milling about, chatting. Dorrin looked around. Duke Marrakai caught her eye and waved her over.

“We need to stay at this end, we dukes,” he said. “You’ve met everyone, I believe.” By “everyone” he meant the other dukes, Dorrin understood. Behind them, clusters of counts, and beyond that, barons. The dukes were easily the most resplendent.

And the hottest. Barons, Dorrin had noticed, had sleeveless court gowns, showing the puffs of their shirts, and only a narrow edging of fur at the neck. Even counts had less fur than the dukes, who were all, by now, fanning themselves. She had not brought a fan. Duke Marrakai offered his, but she shook her head, and in a moment a palace servant came up and handed her one.

The Master of Ceremonies reappeared, having gathered up some laggard barons, and chivvied them all into the right order. Dorrin was appalled to find herself at the head of the line, beside Duke Mahieran and behind the Lord Herald with his beribboned staff. “Don’t worry,” Mahieran said. “Just do what I do, only on the other side of the hall and right after.”

Then the Bells of Vérella rang out, chime after chime, followed by the blare of trumpets; servants pulled back the doors, and they went in. At the far end of the Hall, the crown prince, all in white, stood below the throne between—Dorrin blinked, not having expected this—the Marshal-General of Gird and the new Marshal-Judicar. Dorrin led her file of nobles to the right, around the roped-off area in
the middle of the hall; when Duke Mahieran stopped, she turned to face him.

She had not imagined that a trial of arms would be part of the coronation ceremony, but the prince and Marshal-General exchanged blows that could be heard clearly throughout the Hall. The Marshal-General stepped back and saluted. “He is sound of body and skilled in arms,” she said loudly. “The Company of Gird accepts his sword.”

“Accepted,” the nobles said.

Then the lowest-ranking baron spoke up. “Is he without blemish, as a king must be?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said.

Servants stepped into the central area, folding the prince’s clothes as he took them off. He stood before them, bare as at birth, and turned. Dorrin could not take her eyes off that fair young body.

“He is without blemish,” the baron said. “The company of barons accepts him.”

The prince had dressed again. The lowest-ranking count spoke up. “Does he know the rule of law, or the rule of passion?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said again.

The Marshal-Judicar came forward. He asked questions, so many that Dorrin lost count.

“He is a man of law,” the count said finally. “The company of counts accepts him.”

Duke Mahieran turned to the dukes beside him, and then across from him. “What say you, Dukes of the realm: Do you accept this man, Mikeli Vostan Keriel, as your king?”

“We accept him!” they said, Dorrin as loud as the rest.

The prince walked back to the throne and turned; servants lifted the robe, deep red embroidered in silver, and he put his arms into it. Then he sat.

Mahieran stepped forward; the Marshal-General met him, and together they lifted the crown of Tsaia from its stand. Together they held it over his head.

“All here witness the High Lord’s blessing, Gird’s grace, and the consent of nobles of this realm, of the crowning of Mikeli, King of Tsaia.” They lowered the crown to his head and stepped back.

The Marshal-General handed him a different sword, this one
obviously old, in a battered scabbard. “Gird’s sword: may you wield it to defend your realm.” He took it, kissed it, and handed it back to her.

Mahieran handed him a scepter. “The staff of law: may you wield it to defend the right.” Again Mikeli took it, kissed it, and handed it back. The Bells pealed again, a great clamor, and trumpets blew a deafening fanfare.

When silence fell again, Mikeli, now king of Tsaia, waited while servants removed the pillars and ropes. Then the nobles closed in from side to side, the two lines slightly offset so that Duke Mahieran was a half stride in front of Dorrin. As each knelt and gave the oath of fealty, he clasped their hands, and bent to kiss their heads as they kissed his hand. Dorrin found it more moving than she had expected.

After returning the court chain of office to the Master of Ceremonies and putting off the great robe, she mingled with other nobles and their families in the airy second-floor reception room before the formal procession. She’d been allowed to invite her distant relative Ganarrion Verrakai, cleared of any suspicion of conspiracy and freed from prison only a few days before she arrived in Vérella. He wore his Royal Guard uniform. They’d never met; they fumbled some time for a common topic before she mentioned Paksenarrion, and he brightened. “I met her, on her way to Lyonya,” he said. “Were you her commander, in Phelan’s company?”

Dorrin explained, and from there they chatted easily about military matters, horses, and the strange ways of the gods. The king had suggested Ganarrion as a possible heir; the more she talked to him, the more she was inclined to agree. They did not mention the Order of Attainder or the continuing search for their fugitive relatives. “Come stay with me in Verrakai’s city house,” she said.

“My pardon, my lord Duke, but I cannot. I am on duty, as we all are—this leave of a few hours is all I can spend with you. Please understand, it is not lack of respect.”

“Of course not,” Dorrin said. “But we should know each other better. Perhaps you can visit in the east—for Midwinter Feast, if that’s allowed. If not, I will understand.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “When do you return to the east?”

“In a few days,” Dorrin said. “I have much to do there. I will return
for Autumn Court, of course. I will be presenting an old friend, Jandelir Arcolin, who was Phelan’s senior captain and is now to gain a title and take over that domain.”

“I will try to come, though if I’m assigned once more to the northeast, I doubt very much it will be possible,” Ganarrion said. “I would like to meet—do you know his title?”

“No,” Dorrin said. “You should meet him, however; we’ve been friends a long time, and fought many campaigns together.”

A servant in the palace livery came up to them and handed Ganarrion a folded note. He read it and shook his head. “My lord, I’m sorry—I’m called for. I hope to see you again before you leave.”

“Go safely—I need not tell you to be careful.” She watched him go, and sent prayers after him.

Duke Mahieran bore down on her. “I didn’t want to interrupt while you were talking to your relative, but we need your advice about something.”

“Certainly,” Dorrin said. “What is it?”

“Let us find a quieter place.” He led her to a smaller room. A moment later, Duke Marrakai joined them; Dorrin felt a sudden tension.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You reported that some of your relatives could change from one body to another and thus go undetected—and that you had found a few such. How did you know?”

“I found the first evidence in the family rolls,” Dorrin said. “But those do not give the names—never the full name, and often no name at all—of the person whose body is taken. Those who make the transfer are marked as deaths in the rolls, with a special symbol.”

“But how did you find those who had transferred? You sent word you had killed some—killed them permanently?”

“Yes,” Dorrin said, thinking of the children buried in the orchard. “Those are definitely dead. How I knew them—as you know, the prince—the king—gave me leave to use my magery as I needed. That let me see something wrong about their eyes and spirit.”

“Is this something you can teach others—us, for instance?”

“I doubt it,” Dorrin said. “But what is it? Do you suspect someone here?”

“Someone tried to kill Camwyn, the prince’s younger brother, and my son Aris, by poisoning their horses right before they rode out.
Planted a wax capsule under the saddle; we think the poison leaked out and into the horses’ backs—”

Dorrin felt almost faint. “It was not just poison,” she said. “Though it would have been covered in wax, around the clay. The wax melts with the heat of the horse and the pressure of the rider eventually breaks the seal of the clay. Then it is only a matter of time—were the horses restive?”

“Yes. They would not stand still. Then suddenly—”

“They went crazy—bucking, bolting—is that what happened?”

“Yes—their instructor thought it might be some kind of insect sting, a wasp or something, but he found no evidence, though the capsule remained. Broken, of course.” Marrakai looked angry. “Did you know about this? What it is?”

“When I was a child,” Dorrin said, “I heard of such things. You know there are flies and other creatures that lay eggs on livestock, usually in a wound, and infest the wound with maggots. Some cause illness—staggers or flayleg. And some give such a painful bite the animal goes wild.”

“Yes, but—”

“Some of my relatives used magery to enhance those attacks—”

“They attacked
animals
?”

“As a way to attack people, my lord. I overheard, once—and was punished for having passed by the door at the wrong time—one of them speak of you, Duke Marrakai. You know they hated you, and they hated also your reputation for breeding the best horses. They had devised, they thought, a way to ruin your reputation by destroying your horses, but the process was arduous and they were willing to wait years, they said.”

“They nearly destroyed my son,” Marrakai said. “Though I suppose that, too, would have pleased them.”

“No doubt,” Dorrin said. “Do you know who saddled the horses that day? If it is the same thing, it must be placed on the horse no more than a glass before it is ridden. A groom—”

“None of the grooms admit to saddling those two horses—or any of the horses the boys rode that day. Most often the boys tack up for themselves, but sometimes it is done for them, especially if there’s word they will be late to the stable.”

“Were any of the grooms sick, between the time you captured and
imprisoned Verrakaien—including the ones I sent you—and the time of this attack on the horses?”

“Sick?” Mahieran frowned. “I don’t know, to be sure. All the grooms had been with us a long time—”

“One was,” Marrakai said. “Don’t you remember, Sonder? That fellow—what was his name?—who usually did stalls in the new wing. We asked for him—Pedraig, that was his name—and they said he was sick with the wasting. Then in two tendays, that he was like to die, a terrible fever. But he recovered.”

Dorrin’s stomach clenched. “That’s your man.”

“Pedraig? He’s been with us for years,” Mahieran said. “He’d never do anything to hurt a horse or a child, I promise you.”

“Pedraig wouldn’t,” Dorrin said. “But the man in his body now is not Pedraig. Did any Verrakai sicken and die—or die suddenly, aside from execution—while imprisoned?”

“Three,” Mahieran said. Now he looked worried. “Do you think—”

“I think a Verrakai contrived Pedraig’s illness, and took him over,” Dorrin said. “Perhaps one in prison, perhaps one living concealed in the city, or elsewhere in the palace staff. Though how he could manage that from a distance I do not know. What I do know is that I must go now, immediately, and see this fellow—”

“Now?”

“He will know I have come to the coronation—if it’s not gossip in the stable I’d be amazed—and if it is one I captured and sent here, he knows I have the full magery. He knows I can reveal him. At least the king is safe here, or so I hope—”

Mahieran started. “Gird’s arm! He was about to make his progress—!”

“What?”

“Come,” Mahieran said, and Dorrin followed as he hurried back to the reception. Over his shoulder, Mahieran said, “The new king greets all the palace servants—including in the stables—and then mounts his horse to ride in procession through the city and around the bounds—Midsummer, you know.”

“Take me to Pedraig,” Dorrin said, turning to Marrakai. “Find the king,” she said to Mahieran. “Don’t let him come near his horse.” She was halfway to the palace doors before she realized she had just
ordered two senior dukes around as if they were her soldiers. And they had not protested.

Across the wide stone-flagged courtyard, the royal procession was forming: grooms held the horses of those who would ride—Dorrin had declined the honor, having no proper mount for the occasion. The horses were decked out with manes and tails elaborately braided and dressed with flowers and ribbons, bridles and saddles festooned with bells and brightwork. The king’s horse, a Tsaian gray stallion, stood at the head of the line, tossing its head now and then and pawing with one massive hoof. Already some nobles had changed their court shoes for boots and were standing in clumps, chatting as they waited for the king to arrive. From the king’s horse to the gate, a line of grooms held baskets of rose petals, ready to strew them in front of the king as the procession began.

“Pedraig,” Dorrin said to Marrakai. “Is he here?”

“I don’t see—there!” Marrakai nodded at one of the grooms with baskets, a nondescript light-haired man.

As Dorrin’s gaze met that of the man in groom’s livery, she knew at once he was Verrakai … and then, that he was her father. Her father,
here
? He smiled, a smile widening into such vicious glee that she felt cold all over, immobilized with horror. Before she could raise a shield of magery, he struck, a bolt of pure enmity and malice aimed not at her but at Marrakai. She parried it, but not fast enough: Marrakai fell as if hit by a stone.