“So this is the troublesome Sir Kirothius? Sit up and let me look at you, lad.”
Ki did as he was told, gripping the reins with white-knuckled hands. Tobin watched them both closely as the king sized up his friend. Fitted out in fine new clothes, Ki looked the equal of any of the Companions; Tobin had seen to that.
“Oakmount?” the king said at last. “That would make your father Lord Jorvai’s man.”
“Yes, my king.”
“Odd place for Rhius to seek a squire for his son. Wouldn’t you agree, Solari?”
“I thought so myself at the time,” Solari replied over his shoulder.
Would Erius nullify the bond right here in front of everyone? Ki’s expression didn’t change, but Tobin saw his friend’s hands clench harder on the reins.
But Solari wasn’t done. “As I recall, Rhius met Larenth and some of his sons in Mycena and was impressed with their fighting ability. Strong country stock, he said, not spoiled with court manners and intrigues.”
Tobin stared down at Gosi’s neck hoping his surprise didn’t show. Of course his father had had to lie, but it had never occurred to him to wonder what he might have said to explain Ki’s presence.
“A wise choice, judging by this fine young fellow,” said Erius. “Perhaps more of my lords should take Rhius’ advice. Do you have any brothers, Kirothius?”
Ki broke into a buck-toothed grin. “A whole pack of them, Your Majesty, if you don’t mind ’em rough and plainspoken.”
This won a hearty, full-throated laugh from the king. “We could do with more country honesty at court. Tell me, Kirothius, and be honest now, how does this son of mine strike you?”
No one but Tobin noticed Ki’s slight hesitation. “It’s a great honor to serve Prince Korin, Majesty. He’s the best swordsman of us all.”
“Just as he should be!” Erius clapped Ki on the shoulder, then gave Tobin a wink. “Your father chose well, my boy, just as I thought. I won’t break the bond he blessed, so perhaps now the pair of you can stop looking like dogs in need of green grass.”
“Thank you, my king!” Tobin managed, his rush of relief so strong he could hardly get his breath. “Lord Orun was so set against him—”
The king’s mouth quirked into an odd little smile. “You see where that got him. And call me uncle, remember?”
Tobin raised his fist to his heart. “Thank you, Uncle!”
The king turned back to Korin, and Tobin gripped the saddlebow, dizzy with relief. Ki’s place was safe, after all. For that, at least, he could love his uncle a little.
All of Atyion turned out to greet the king, but it seemed to Tobin that the cheering wasn’t quite as loud as it had been the day before. And this time it was Solari’s troops in the forefront at the castle yard, rather than his own.
That night’s feast more than made up for any disparity in the welcome. Lytia had been busy.
The tables were draped with red and strewn with fragrant herbs. Flat wax candles floated in silver basins, and hundreds of torches burned in sconces on the pillars that lined the room, so that even the painted ceiling vaults were illuminated.
Under the direction of Lytia and the steward, a steady procession of dishes was carried in, more exotic and varied than anything Tobin had ever seen. Huge pike quivered in glistening aspic skins. Humble grouse were encased in new pastry bodies, shaped and painted to look like mythical birds, complete with brilliant plumed tails of real feathers. Companies of spiced crabs stood at attention, holding tiny silk banners in their claws. A roast stag was carried in on a shield, its belly filled with mock entrails made of dried fruit and nuts threaded on strings and glazed with honey and nutmeg. The sweet courses included pears filled with sweet brown cream whipped to peaks, pastry apples filled with dried fruit and chopped veal, and another bird pie, this one filled with tiny red warblers. As they burst free and swirled up toward the rafters, the king’s men released their hawks and roared with laughter as the soft red feathers floated down around them.
Lytia’s sugar dragons were presented on a silver platter the size of a war shield. Each was made in a slightly different pose, some rearing, some crouched as if to pounce, and arranged as if doing battle with each other. The spectacle was borne around to all the tables before the dragons met their ultimate fate.
The squires served the head table. Tobin and the noble Companions sat to the king and Korin’s right. Niryn, Solari and his wife, and other nobles had the king’s left. Tobin was pleased to see Tharin seated among the king’s friends.
“Were some of these men in your Companions, too, Uncle?” he inquired, as the panters worked, cutting the first round of bread trenchers and laying the upper crusts before the king and his kin.
“Your swordmaster was a squire, before his lord was killed in battle. General Rheynaris was one of my boys, and that duke beside him was his squire. Tharin was our butler. Your squire puts me in mind of him at that age. Look at them, Tharin,” Erius called down the table, pointing to the Companions. “Were we as fine a company in our day?”
“I daresay we were,” Tharin called back. “But we’d have found them a fair match on the sword ground.”
“Especially your son, my king, and those wild young ruffians,” Porion called, pointing to Tobin and Ki. “Those lads will match any swordsman in the court when they get their growth.”
“It’s true, Father,” Korin said, slopping wine from his mazer as he saluted Tobin. “Tobin and Ki have dusted the jackets of most of us.”
“They had good teachers.” The king raised his mazer to Tharin and Porion, then clapped Korin on the shoulder. “I’ve brought some gifts for you and your friends.”
These proved to be Plenimaran longswords for Korin and Tobin, and handsome belt knives for the rest. The steel had a dark blue tinge not seen in Skala and it took a cruel, sharp edge. The workmanship was exceptional and the boys excitedly compared their gifts. Tobin’s sword had a curved guard of bronze and silver, and the metal had been worked to look like intricately intertwined briars or vines. He turned it admiringly in his hands, then looked at Korin’s, which had guards made in the shape of wings.
“Beautiful work, isn’t it?” said Erius. “The eastern craftsmen stick closer to the old styles. There are weapons in the treasury vaults dating from the Hierophantic Era just like them. I captured these myself; they belonged to generals.”
He sat back and exchanged a wink with Korin. “I’ve one more gift to bestow, though I won’t take credit for thinking of it. Boys?”
Korin, Caliel, and Nikides left the hall and returned with a bulky cloth-wrapped bundle and Tobin’s standard pole. The banner was furled and muffled in white cloth.
Korin gave the bundle to his father’s page and grinned at Tobin. “Lord. Hylus sends his regards, coz.”
Erius rose and addressed the hall. “I’ve been gone a long time, and have a great deal of business to attend to now that I’m home. The first duty I’m pleased to discharge tonight regards my nephew here. Rise, Prince Tobin, and receive from my hand your new coat of arms: the might of Atyion married to the glory of Skala.”
Nikides unfurled the banner and the king opened the bundle and shook out a dagged silk surcoat, both worked with Tobin’s arms.
The arms shield was divided by a vertical impalement of red, which, together with the silver dragon crest at the top, proclaimed his royal blood. The left side showed the oak of Atyion in white on a black ground edged with silver silk. The right side of the shield bore the red dragon of Illior beneath the golden flame of Sakor on azure edged in white, his mother’s colors.
“They’re wonderful!” Tobin exclaimed. He’d almost forgotten the conversation he’d had with Hylus and Nikides. He shot Nikides a grateful look, suspecting he’d had something to do with this.
“It’s a brave device,” Erius told Tobin. “You must have your battle shield repainted and new tunics for your guard.”
Tobin dropped to one knee, holding the surcoat across his chest. “Thank
you, Uncle. I am honored.”
The king ruffled his hair. “And now it’s time to pay the piper.”
“Uncle?”
“I’ve heard great things about this squire and you—I’d like to see for myself. Pair off with some of the others. Helms and hauberks, that will do. Squire Kirothius, fetch your master’s armor. Clear the floor, you minstrels, and we’ll have proper warrior’s entertainment.”
“You take on Garol, Ki,” Korin ordered. “Who’ll face Tobin?”
“I will, my prince,” Alben called out before anyone else could answer.
“Bastard!” Ki muttered. Any of the other boys might have gone easy on Tobin, let him make a good first showing for the king. But not jealous, proud Alben.
“Yes, let my son test your nephew!” called one of the nobles down the table This must be the famous Baron Alcenar, thought Tobin. The man was dark and handsome like his son, and looked just as arrogant.
Ki and Garol fought first. Taking their places, they saluted the king, then began to circle each other. The nobles pounded the tables and traded wagers.
The betting was all on Garol at first. He was older than Ki and more heavily muscled. The odds seemed justified at first, as he drove Ki back with a series of powerful opening swings. The two had sparred often enough to know each other’s tricks; Ki would have to win with speed and skill.
Working grimly, he blocked Garol’s blows and slowly began turning him, so as not to get trapped against the tables. It put Tobin in mind of the dancing lessons they’d had with Arengil and Una. Ki might be the one backing up, but he was the leader, making Garol open his guard as he was forced to follow his retreating foe. Tobin grinned, guessing what Ki was up to. Garol’s greatest weakness was impatience.
Sure enough, the older boy quickly tired of the chase and sprung at Ki, nearly knocking him over. Quick as a snake, Ki spun on his heel, ducked under Garol’s arm, and smacked him across the back of the neck with the flat of his blade, knocking him on his face. Everyone heard the hiss of his blade across the mail coif; it would have been a killing blow. Arengil had taught them that move.
The audience bellowed and hooted as gold changed hands. Ki helped Garol up and threw an arm around his shoulders, steadying him. Garol rubbed ruefully at his neck, looking a little dazed.
Then it was Tobin’s turn. He was already nervous, and didn’t like the smirk Alben exchanged with Urmanis as he took his place. As much as he disliked Alben, Tobin knew better than to underestimate him; he was a strong, cunning fighter and could be counted on to do anything to win. Rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms to settle the heavy mail shirt more comfortably, Tobin took his place.
When they’d saluted the king, Alben struck a defensive stance and waited, forcing Tobin to make the first move or appear a fool. It was a calculated strategy, and Tobin narrowly missed getting a belly stroke when Alben sidestepped his first feint. It unbalanced him and Alben pressed the advantage with a quick series of punishing swings. Tobin danced and ducked, but still caught a ringing blow across the top of his helm that nearly knocked him to his knees. He recovered just in time to turn a swing, and the tip of his blade caught Alben in the face, sliding across the coif to nick him on the cheek.
Alben swore and redoubled his assault, but Tobin’s blood was up now, too. He would not be shamed in front of the king, or in his own hall.
“For Atyion!” he cried, and heard the challenge echoed in a deafening chorus at the lower tables. Chained at the far end of the hall, the castle hounds bayed and howled. The cacophony lifted Tobin on wings of fire. His sword felt as light as a dry stick in his hands.
After that, all he knew was the clash of steel and his opponent’s ragged breathing as they battered each other around the floor, toiling like harvest threshers with the sweat burning their eyes and soaking the tunics under their hauberks.
Hoping to lure Alben into a fatal overreach, Tobin stepped back, but caught his heel on something and fell on his back. Alben was on him in an instant. Tobin still had his sword but Alben trapped his wrist under his foot and raised his blade for the killing stroke. Pinned, Tobin saw that Alben’s blade wasn’t turned; if he struck, it would take him edge on, breaking bones or worse.
Just then two hissing, yowling streaks shot from beneath the nearest table and ran between Alben’s legs. Startled, he rocked off-balance just enough for Tobin to wrench his arm free and bring his blade up, leveling it at his opponent’s face, the tip just inches from Alben’s left eye. Alben flailed with his arms, trying not to pitch forward, and Tobin hooked his legs out from under him with one foot. The other boy toppled back and Tobin scrambled up to straddle him. Yanking back Alben’s coif, he pressed the edge of his blade to his throat.
Alben glared up at him, eyes burning with pure malice.
Why do you hate me? Tobin wondered. Then Ki and the other Companions were pulling him to his feet and thumping him on the back. Urmanis and Mago tried to help Alben up, but he shook them off. Making Tobin a mocking salute, he stalked back to the table.
Looking around, Tobin found Ringtail innocently washing his face under the head table.
“Well done!” the king cried. “By the Flame, you’re both as good as Porion claims!” Unfastening the golden brooch from the throat of his tunic, he tossed it to Ki. The startled boy caught it, then pressed it to his heart and fell to one knee. Erius presented Tobin with his gold-hilted dagger.
“Now then, let’s see the rest of you at it. Korin and Caliel, you first, and show me that you haven’t forgotten what I taught you!”
Korin won his match, of course. Tobin was certain he saw Caliel drop his defense at least once, letting Korin score a hit. The rest of the boys fought hard and Lutha earned special praise for winning his bout after Quirion broke his little finger in the first assault. Tobin paired with Nikides, and made certain his friend got in a few good hits before Tobin dispatched him.
Erius saluted them with his wine cup when they’d finished. “Well done, every one of you! The Plenimarans are giving us a rest just now, but there are still raiders and pirates.” He gave his son a wink.
Korin jumped up and kissed his father’s hand. “We’re yours to command!”
“Now, now, I’m not making any promises. We shall see.”
The final course of soft cheeses and gilded nutmeats was brought out on painted porcelain plates and the minstrels played old ballads as they ate.
“Here’s a new conceit from the Ylani potters,” Solari told them when the dainties had been eaten. Turning his plate over, he showed the king a verse painted on the underside. “Each one has a riddle or song, which the owner of the plate must deliver to the company, standing on his chair. If I may demonstrate.”
Amid much laughter and table pounding, Solari mounted his chair and declaimed a very silly parody with maudlin dignity.
Delighted, Erius was the next one up, declaiming a blisteringly obscene verse in the tender tones of a pale court poet.
The game was a great success and went on for over an hour. Most of the pieces were equally bawdy, and a few were worse. Tobin blushed hotly when Tharin climbed onto the table and, with a perfectly straight face recited a poem about a young wife satisfying her lover in a pear tree while her ancient, nearsighted husband stood below, urging his wife to pluck the plumpest fruit she could find.
To Tobin’s relief, his plate just had a riddle. “What fortress can withstand fire, lightning, and siege, yet can be defeated by a soft word?”
“A lover’s heart!” Korin cried, and received a round of good-natured catcalls as his reward.
“Show Tobin the great sword, Father,” Korin urged when the plate game was over.
The king’s baldric bearer came forward and presented it to the king on bended knee. Drawing the long blade free of the studded sheath, Erius held it up for Tobin to admire. Yellow torchlight slid along the polished steel, glinting warmly on the worn gold dragons set in raised relief on the sides of the curved quillons.
Erius o
ffered the hilt to Tobin and he had to stiffen his arm to hold it; it was much longer and heavier than his own blade. Even so, the hilt of yellowed ivory wrapped with braided gold wire felt good in his hand. Lowering the point, he examined the large ruby carved with the Royal Seal of Skala set in the fluted gold pommel. This was a pattern he’d seen often in reverse, pressed into the wax at the bottom of his uncle’s letters: Illior’s dragon bearing Sakor’s Flame in a crescent moon on its back.
“The very sword King Thelátimos gave to Ghërilain,” Korin said, taking it and turning the blade to catch the light. “All these years later, it’s come back to a king’s hand.”
“And one day to yours, my son,” Erius said proudly.
Tobin stared at the sword, trying to imagine his fragile, unpredictable mother wielding this blade as a warrior. He couldn’t.
Suddenly, for the second time that day, he was aware of Niryn watching him. Pride replaced fear. Thinking only of the feel of the sword in his hand, he returned the wizard’s stare. This time he was not the first to look away.
Chapter 20
It was well after midnight when Solari and the Companions accompanied Erius and his party from the feasting hall. Tobin kept close to Tharin and as far as he could from Niryn as they wended their noisy way upstairs.
He couldn’t help stealing glances at the king, trying to square this jovial, laughing man with the stories he’d grown up with. But it was like trying to measure his body to its long evening shadow; the two simply didn’t match. Confused, he gave up trying. His fickle heart yearned for a new father, but his mother’s memory still haunted him too strongly to abandon all caution.
Of one thing he was certain, however, from all Iya and Lhel had told him, and what he’d seen here; for good or ill, the king held the threads of his life in those square warrior’s hands. Erius had put Orun over him, and now he’d given charge of Atyion to Solari. Despite the seeming freedom he enjoyed among the Companions, his life in Ero was as ruled by others as it had been at the keep, and this time by people he did not dare trust. For now, it was safer to pretend to love the man he must call Uncle. And for now, the feeling seemed to be honestly reciprocated.