bed. He threw a scroll on the covers.
"There's your pardon. I'll make you a knight
in the Order, and you can put all that fencing skill
of yours to work teaching, here in Ironhall. Well,
what do you say?"
To live out the rest of his days in these barren
hills? To be a permanent horrible example
of a failed Blade, pointed out to all those
youngsters, and helping to trap them as he had been
trapped? It was unthinkable. "No."
"Thought not." There was a dangerous glint of
satisfaction in the King's cunning stare.
"Well. I didn't ride all day on an
empty stomach just to pander to a self-pitying
namby-pamby. You're interfering with the business of the
kingdom. You're an almighty nuisance, but I'm
going to try another binding on you."
"What? Will that work?"
"Probably not. The conjurers say it will kill
you. I'm going to find out." A royal bellow
rattled the casement. "His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
Durendal shook his head.
The royal yellow eyes flashed dangerously.
"You refuse our command?"
Making a great effort, Durendal said,
"Binding is evil. It steals a man's soul."
"Steals it? It gives him one, you mean. If
your past had had any future in this world, boy, you
would never have been brought to Ironhall. A
Blade has pride, status, and above all a
sense of purpose. He matters. His life
matters. His death may matter even more. And you
certainly don't look as if you've got any
future at the moment. Serve or die!" The
King raised a clenched fist. "But I won't be
a laughingstock, even for you. Can you stand on your own
feet? Will you say the words?"
To climb up on the anvil or lift a
sword in his present state would be an impossible
effort. "No."
"Very well. I take back the pardon." The
King did, crumpling it into a pocket. "Now you
have a choice. You can either be put to the Question, stand
trial, and then have your head chopped off, or you can
get a sword through your heart tonight. Which is it
to be?"
Since he couldn't just will himself to death, the quicker
way was the more appealing choice. Besides, it would
make fat Ambrose do his own filthy
executions.
"All right. I'll say the words."
"Then get out of that putrefying bed and bow to your
sovereign lord."
"I haven't any clothes on."
"I won't scream. Up!"
Durendal forced himself upright. The covers were
made of lead, but he heaved them aside and put his
feet on the floor. He stood, swayed,
straightened.
"Go on, man! We are waiting!"
Durendal began to bow and collapsed.
"I didn't say grovel, I said bow!" The
King took him under the arms and hoisted him to his
feet like a doll, big as he was. For a long
moment they stared at each other.
Then the King pushed, and he fell back on the
bed like a dirty shirt.
"Get dressed. We'll start as soon as
you're ready. Cold baths come first." The door
slammed behind the monarch. The building trembled
again.
"For the last time," the King roared, rousing
long-sleeping echoes, "I am not going
to meditate. Not five minutes, not one minute.
I have meditated all day on a horse to get
here. The candidate has meditated in bed for even
longer. I am hungry. Begin now!"
Eight hearths flickered in the deep stillness
of the hold. More than a hundred men and boys
held their breath in the spirit-sanctified gloom.
Master of Rituals cringed. "My liege!"
Candidate? Yes, Durendal was a candidate
again. He was as weak as a newborn babe again.
Even standing without swaying was an effort, and there were
all those shocked young eyes staring at him. Young!
It wasn't even three years since he had been
one of those apple-cheeked kids, but they
had not looked so innocent then, surely? Could those
be seniors? When he'd agreed to go through with this,
he had forgotten there would be an audience. He was
the celebrated, the famous, the renowned Sir
Durendal, who'd taken the King's Cup away
from Montpurse last year and just a few days ago
had won a broadsword duel without striking a
blow. He must look like a geriatric paralytic
to these adolescents, ruining all their dreams. Every
one of them was going to have to go through the ordeal in the
next few months or years, and seeing their King
strike the famous Durendal dead in front of
their eyes would give all these kiddies
nightmares.
There was Montpurse, shining like a gold
figurine in the firelight, going to be Second
for him in the ritual. Poor old Grand Master,
failing fast--soon another sword would hang in
the hall. But Harvest was going there even sooner,
because Sir Durendal was going to die tonight, and good
riddance to all of them and the whole stinking world.
Master of Archives was Dispenser, just as he had
been the last time. He hadn't shut out death for
poor Harvest. There was the other Harvest, the
remade sword, and a badly undernourished Brat
stumbling his way through the dedication.
He felt the spirits rally and his skin pucker.
Weak, weak! Why did he have to be so weak?
Three days without food shouldn't make his knees
shake like this. He staggered in to join hands with the others
around the anvil. The singing soared erratically,
half the Forge trying to stay in one key and the other
half trying to follow the King as he bellowed out the
words in several. But the song still worked. Tears
blurred the firelight. He wondered if the
others noticed.
He didn't really want to die. It was just that
life wasn't worth living anymore.
He made it back to his place and Hoare
arrived to remove his shirt. Why was he leering like
that? Was he looking forward to Durendal's death?
Oh, perhaps he was trying to appear cheerful. Then
came Montpurse's thumb on his chest ... and a
frown on Montpurse's face as he realized
how far off-target the scar was. It felt as if
he put the mark where it ought to be, one rib lower.
Back to the center for the sword. Why had they
made Harvest so heavy this time? And the anvil
seemed a foot higher than he remembered. He
climbed onto it, straightened up, and
swayed. The King put a foot forward, then
stopped.
Deep breath. "My Sovereign Lord, King
Ambrose IV, upon my soul and without
reservation, I, Durendal, companion of the
Loyal and Ancient ... defend you, your heirs
and successors, against all foes ... bid you
plunge this my sword into my heart that I may
die. ..." Last time he had shouted. Now he
had no cause to shout, but he did not mumble, either.
He very nearly fell headlong getting down off
the anvil, and he did twist his ankle. He
limped over to the King and disposed of the sword. It
was a great relief to be able to sit down. This was
it, then. Time to die. All over.
The King put the point to the charcoal.
They stared hard at each other.
Will you live?
Will you kill me?
Hoare and Montpurse were waiting to take his
arms.
Why live? Was being a Blade purpose
enough?
Well, perhaps it was better than nothing. Show the
fat toad! Show them all. On sudden impulse
--just as he'd once trounced the King at fencing,
and just as he'd dropped in front of Aldane's
charge--he put his hands on his thighs and lifted his
chin. "Do it now!"
"Serve or die!" The King was fast, but then
he'd done this fifty times or more. The guard was
almost touching Durendal's chest before the awful
explosion of pain came; then it was all over, the
sword was out again, and he felt that rush of life and
healing.
Marveling, he rose. Sweat cold on his
skin ... crazy, hysterical cheering ... the King
returning his sword and clapping a hand on his
shoulder ... Life! He had a life to live.
Beaming as proudly as if he'd been on the
other side of the gruesome ordeal, the King shouted
over the tumult, "Ready to ride, Sir
Durendal?"
Slipping the bloody sword through the loop on
his belt, Durendal gave fat Ambrose his
own treatment--the steady stare first. "Against whom,
Your Majesty?"
The King's fist clenched, but he did show a
trace of doubt. "Against all foes, of
course!"
Then the smile. "Of course, my liege."
EVERMAN
III
At last the great door and the snowy steps beyond--
Lord Roland was about to leave Greymere for the last
time, venturing out into a very unpleasant-looking
winter's night. Never would his own fireside
seem more welcome.
The King came and went from palace to palace:
Nocare, Greymere, Wetshore, Oldmart, and
others. Court was where the King was, but government
was where the paper was; and the clerks and counters,
lawyers and lackeys, labored year-round in the
capital, Grandon. Even now, when the King had
shut himself up in Falconsrest for Long Night,
the pens still scratched busily in Greymere
chancellery. Carriages were held ready day and
night for the convenience of senior officials.
The weathered, square-faced head porter had
borne the grandiose title of Gentleman Usher
for longer than anyone could remember, perhaps even
himself. Roland had bid him many thousands of good
morrows and good evens. Now the old man looked
ready to melt like the slush on the cobbles.
All he could say was, "I got my orders,
my lord." There was a coach and four in clear sight
sheltering under the arch, awaiting his hail, but he had
his orders. He probably had hopes of a
small pension from the King if he continued to behave
himself for the next couple of years--and did not die
of misery in the next few minutes. He had his
orders.
Lord Roland had never owned a coach of his own,
unless one counted the one his wife used. He had
rarely in his life carried money. He did not
even have a horse of his own at the palace just now,
but he needed to proceed home with as much dignity as
possible, and a two-hour walk through the streets and
out into the countryside in his chancellor's robes would
not be dignified. Kromman wanted to hurt, but
then Kromman had been nursing his hatred for a
generation.
Quarrel's eager young face seemed
dangerously inflamed under the rushlights. He was
practically quivering. Roland gestured him forward
and took a step back.
"Gentleman Usher," he said from behind his
guardian's shoulder, "this is very embarrassing for
me. My Blade, Sir Quarrel, has not
been with me long enough to learn how things are done in the
palace. Thus, when I sent him on ahead
to order a carriage, he did not understand that the
ensuing problem was not of your devising. I am sure
he would not really have hurt you, but--"
Quarrel's sword hissed from its scabbard.
Gentleman Usher lost his look of despair.
"Ah, noble Sir Blade! Pray be not hard
on a poor old man or deprive his fourteen
grandchildren of their beloved grandfather!"
"Verily!" Quarrel said. "Dost thou not
summon yonder carriage full speedily and
direct it to a place congruous to my ward's
desires, then I shall expeditiously slit thee
into elementary eighths."
"Forsooth? Hold it under my chin, lad--it'll
look better. Coach! Coach!"
As Roland climbed into the carriage, he could
hear Gentleman Usher directing the driver, still
at sword point. When the horses began
to move, Quarrel swung nimbly aboard and
closed the door. The team pulled out of the palace
gates, clattering into the night-filled streets.
Farewell, Greymere!
"Thank you, Sir Quarrel. That was
congratulate you on your verbal feinting earlier."
"My pleasure, my lord." He did not
laugh, but his smile was audible.
What was Roland going to do about this boy, trapped
in a fatal allegiance? Binding only worked one
way, but a man's instincts and standards insisted that
loyalty must be a two-edged sword. Long
ago, he had survived a reversal conjuration
unscathed, but he knew of only one other who
had. He would drag Quarrel with him in his
downfall, and that was unjust.
As he would drag down many others, no doubt.
What, for that matter, of his wife? His shameful
dismissal would upset her if he were upset, but
she would be very glad to have him to herself at last. She
had never cared for court life, all glitter and
sham. How long would they have together before Kromman
sent the inquisitors?
What sort of a fool would expect
gratitude from a monarch?
The clattering and jingling of the coach was overridden
by a voice from the darkness opposite. "May I
ask a question, my lord?"
"You are trying to stop me brooding, I
presume?"
A chuckle. "Of course. But I do want
to know the answer."
"Ask then. Ask questions anytime. The old can still
be useful as sources of information."
"Will you tell me about the time you saved the King's
life?"
Oh, that! They always wanted to know about that.
"I wish I could. You r
eally ought to ask the
King. He saw it all, and he was the only one
who did. Absolutely as cool as an
icicle." He heard himself sigh. Those had been
the days! "It happened back in 355--in
Nythia, of course. Outside the walls of
Waterby, about the third week of the siege, I
think. It was a foggy morning. And there was a great
deal of smoke and dust about, too."
And noise, of course--deafening thunderclaps as
Destroyer General and his men tried to bring down the
walls, and the defenders retaliated with conjurations
of their own. The King would never listen to reason.
He wandered the camp in full view, ignoring
arrows and flying rocks and explosions of elemental
power, driving his Blades insane with the risks he
took. They crowded around him like swarming
bees until he cursed at them to give him
room to breathe. Yet somehow, that morning, for just the
critical few moments, there was only one. ...
Roland remembered he was supposed to be
telling Quarrel this story, not reliving it. He
pulled himself back from that misty morning, from golden
youth and high adventure, back to Grandon's
bleak winter, the swaying carriage, shame, and
dismissal. Old age. This was 388 already. Where
had the years gone?
"I just chanced to be walking with the King and no other
Blades close. I don't know why. It must have
been conjuration, I suppose."
"I thought our bindings were spirit-proof?"
"So did we. If the rebels had that much
control, you'd have thought they would have blasted the King
directly. The conjurers at the College never
could explain it, although they speculated that my double
binding might have made me more resistant than the
others; or it may have been fickle chance. We were
going through marsh and low scrub, so we tended
to spread out, avoiding puddles and so on. The
others had wandered farther off than they realized. The
King and I were discussing horses, ambling along like
blind turtles.
"As to what actually happened--I don't know,
I really don't know. Four armed men jumped out
of the bushes." Not men, just boys. "The next thing
I recall is being a little short of breath,
blood on my sword, four bodies on the
ground. Then Commander Montpurse arrived at a
scream. You never heard such language! His
Majesty laughed at him, calm as milk."
Yes, those had been the great days--days of youth
and love and war, the days when he had been a