In Ragmarket and Southbridge, he learned how to defuse a potentially violent situation without drawing his sword. He learned to look into a man’s face and predict whether he would run or fight, whether he was lying or telling the truth. He learned how to put a victim at ease, so he could get the information he needed to track down a thief. When trouble was brewing, he could smell it in the air.
Amon developed networks of residents who began to trust that he wouldn’t betray them if they fed him information about thieves or tipped him off to a gang fight. The other soldiers at the Southbridge Guardhouse—the good ones— learned that he wouldn’t betray them either, and they began to turn to him for leadership of sorts.
All in all, Amon felt that he was doing some good, despite Mac Gillen. Best of all, his successes were a constant irritant to his sergeant.
One night he and his patrol returned to Southbridge Guardhouse to find his father waiting in the briefing room, maps spread over a long table. It was two a.m., and a rumble of snores came from the next room. Jak Barnhouse, the duty officer, was hovering, practically wringing his hands.
“I know Sergeant Gillen would want to speak with you, if he was here,” Corporal Barnhouse said. “I don’t know where he is just now.”
“The rest of you, give your reports to Corporal Barnhouse and get some sleep,” Edon said, waving off Amon’s squadron. “I need to speak with Corporal Byrne in private.”
They shuffled off with Barnhouse, looking over their shoulders like they were hoping Captain Byrne would relent, and they’d be asked to stay.
“Sit.” Amon’s father gestured to a chair. “At ease.” The captain’s face was etched with lines of weariness, and Amon felt a twinge of worry.
Amon sat, resting his hands on the table. “What is it, Da?”
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Anything.”
“I know you—ah—prefer your posting here in Southbridge.” Here, a trace of a smile came and went. “But I need you and your triple to come back to the castle close and serve as personal guard to the princess heir.”
Amon frowned, confused, then looked around to make sure no one could overhear. “But ...but I thought you said it was best if I kept my distance since . . . since the complaint from the Bayars. That people would talk.”
His father studied Amon’s face for a long moment, then said, “People will talk, that is a risk, but greater risk has come up, so I’ll deal with this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Queen Marianna is sending Averill Demonai and me to Chalk Cliffs to look into reports of pirates,” Edon said. “Tomorrow.”
Amon still didn’t understand. “What does that have to do with the princess heir?”
“I have a bad feeling about it, that’s all,” his father growled, raking a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Then, after a long pause, he added, as if the words were difficult to say, “My connection with the queen has been . . . muddied. Usually I can predict what she’ll do, guess what she’s thinking, but lately . . . I don’t know. Something’s changed. I almost feel as though she wants to get us out of the way.”
“Why would she want to do that?” Amon felt stupid, asking question after question, but he’d figured he rather know than take a guess. “And . . . if she does . . . I mean, she is the queen and all.”
Amon pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead as if it hurt. “I’m just not sure she’s making good decisions. She may have good reasons for doing what she’s doing. I just don’t understand them. But I’m going to do what I need to to protect the line. And if I’m wrong, then ...” He shrugged.
“Well, then. You sent my triple to bed.” Amon rose to his feet. “Shall I wake them and tell them to get ready to leave?”
His father shook his head. “There’s something else. Something important.” He waved him back to his seat.
Amon sat down again, waiting, smothering a yawn. He’d do whatever his captain, his father, wanted him to do. That was a given. So why couldn’t they all get some sleep?
His father cleared his throat. “In the clan, as you know, there is a naming ceremony, in which the young are confirmed in their vocation. Among the gentry here in Fellsmarch, name day parties mark passage into adulthood.”
“Right,” Amon said, and was tempted to add, I know, but didn’t.
“We Byrnes have our own rite of passage,” his father said.
“We Byrnes?” Amon looked up at his father’s face, thinking he was joking, but found no trace of humor there. “What do you mean?”
“Our family has a special bond with the queens of the Fells, going back to Hanalea. It often passes to the eldest in each generation. Unless he or she refuses. Then it goes to the next child.”
“The captain of the Queen’s Guard has always been a Byrne,” Amon said. “Is that what you mean?”
“It’s a Byrne for a reason,” his father said. “A soldier named Byrne died for Hanalea when she was taken by the Demon King. That soldier’s son helped to free her. When she returned to the throne, she proclaimed that henceforth the captain of her Guard would be bound to the queen, blood to blood, so he would be better able to do his job. That soldier’s son was the first to be bound. Your many-greats-grandfather.”
“So,” Amon said, trying to understand, “you are ...bound to Marianna. Is that what you’re saying?”
“And my mother was bound to Lissa. And her father to Lucia.”
“How does that work? Do you swear an oath, or . . .”
“It’s more than an oath. There is a temple ceremony, a binding ritual. And after that, your destinies are linked. We serve the line of Gray Wolf queens. The bond cannot be broken. We cannot knowingly act contrary to the good of the line.”
“It’s magic, then?” Amon said, and his father nodded.
“What happens if you do act contrary to the good of the line?” Amon asked. His father shook his head. “We don’t That’s the thing. We are physically incapable of doing so.”
This was more than surprising. Amon had always considered his family the least magical of any he knew. In fact, he’d always felt left out and rather colorless next to those that had it, like wizards, clan royalty, even the queens.
The Byrnes were dependable, steady, honest, hardworking, loyal—courageous to a fault. The kind of men and women you would want to have fighting beside you or covering your back or guarding the treasury. But magical?
Amon struggled to come up with something to say other than, Are you sure? Or, You’re not serious?
“You have magical powers, then?” he asked.
His father laughed, rubbing his chin as if embarrassed. “Well, it’s a subtle thing.”
“The queen—she knows about this?”
Byrne shook his head. “The queens do not. That’s the way Hanalea wanted it—she was more interested in preserving the Gray Wolf line than in supporting an individual queen.”
“Are you bound to the line, or to an individual queen?”
“I’m bound to the line, but in effect, each captain serves one queen, unless that queen somehow endangers the line. His father paused, then added, softly, “We don’t discuss that particular charge with our queens, either.”
“So . . . there may be times when we act contrary to the interests of our sovereign queen in order to serve the line?”
“Aye,” his father said, without apology. “Even if Marianna knew, I doubt she’d take it all that seriously. You know how she is about the temples and the faith. For her, it’s rather like believing in garden pixies.”
“So,” Amon said, looking for the point in this bit of history. “You’ll choose your successor when the time comes.”
“The next captain in line would serve Raisa. I’ve chosen you.”
Amon sat stunned, his thoughts swirling, a kaleidoscope of images and memories.
How had he ended up here, in this place, poised to assume the role that fate had handed him?
His father had tutored him
in swordplay and horsemanship, but no more so than any other father. He’d spent long hours around the Guard barracks and stables at the castle, because his father was posted there, and he was interested in horses, and he loved to hear the talk of tactics and weaponry.
No one had ever said to him, Go to Oden’s Ford and learn to be a soldier. But he had. And no one had ever said to him, Join the Queen’s Guard. But he had. Serving in the Guard was a family tradition, though he had many aunts and uncles who had not.
But always, of course, at least one per generation had.
Since he’d been named to the Guard, he’d considered the possibility he might end up captain if he performed well and stayed with it. After all, he’d come in as a corporal, based on his performance at school and the recommendations of his father’s friends. He was a skilled swordsman, the best in his class, and excelled in his coursework and received high marks in field operations. Everyone said he took after his father. And he was proud of that.
He’d always assumed, however, that he’d chosen his own way from a range of possibilities. That if he’d wanted to be a trader, or a blacksmith, or an artist like his sister, he could have done it. And now it turned out he’d been treading a narrow path, committed from birth, walled in by magic and a bargain made a thousand years ago.
“You do have a choice,” his father said, as if he’d read his thoughts.
Amon looked up at his father. “How do I have a choice? Lydia becomes captain?”
“She is a Byrne,” his father said.
Amon thought of his dreamer of a sister sitting on the riverbank, skirts spread about her, head bent over a charcoal drawing. He shook his head wordlessly.
“And if she says no, there’s Ira,” his father said, naming Amon’s ten-year-old brother. “Though he’s still young, and we need to choose a captain now.” He paused. “You have cousins, of course.”
“Why now?” Amon asked. “There can be only one captain of the Guard, and that’s you.” Perhaps by the time a decision needed to be made, he’d have time to get used to the idea.
“I’m worried about the Princess Raisa. Right now we have no direct connection with her, and my connection with Queen Marianna seems to be failing. If you’re willing, bonding with Hanalea’s line through Raisa will give you something of a sixth sense. You’ll be able to anticipate trouble, to know when she’s in danger, to predict what she might do. It’s also supposed to give us some influence over them, where their safety is concerned.” He smiled wryly.
That won’t do any good, Amon thought. They’ll do whatever they want anyway.
“This is ...permanent, I take it?” Amon asked. “What if I change my mind?”
“It is permanent,” his father said, toying with the ring on his left hand, the heavy gold wolf ring he was never without. “You won’t change your mind once it’s done.” He paused, smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if you’re going into orders. You can marry, have children, all of that.”
To continue the line of Byrnes, of course.
“And if it comes down to a choice between family and queen?”
His father looked into Amon’s eyes, his hazel gaze clear and direct. “The queen, of course.”
Of course. Amon already knew the answer when he asked the question. In his heart of hearts he’d known his father’s priorities all along.
“What about Oden’s Ford? Would I go back, or . . . ?”
“We’ll see how things stand when the time comes. It may be you’ll go back. Whatever serves the line.” His father sighed. “I’d wanted you to complete your training before your naming. But I don’t think we can risk waiting.”
But—there was this other thing Amon had avoided thinking about. His feelings for Raisa. Even now his heart beat faster when he thought of her. Images rolled through his mind—Raisa, dressed as a boy, in that ridiculous cap, striding unarmed into Southbridge Guardhouse to save gang members who were being tortured. Raisa delivering name day gifts to Speaker Jemson to feed the poor. Raisa demanding that he help her become a better queen.
Raisa in the garden by torchlight—her hair hanging in long strands around her face, chin propped on her fist, green eyes deep enough to drown in. Raisa floating in his arms around the dance floor, her head against his shoulder, her small perfect body pressed against his while he tried to control the hammering of his heart. He remembered those two kisses that she’d probably given without a thought.
Two kisses that still woke him up at night.
Everything about her seduced him—her looks, her speech, the way she moved, the person she was and was meant to be.
“Da,” he said, staring down at the table, unable to meet his father’s eyes, “the thing is, I’m . . . I have feelings for Raisa— for the princess heir—that I shouldn’t have. I’m worried that I might—that we might—do something that would . . . harm the line.”
Amon swallowed hard and looked up into his father’s face and saw something that he never expected to see— understanding layered over sorrow.
“Amon,” he said. “We love the Gray Wolf queens. But it’s like I told you. Once named, we will not harm the line. It is our great strength, and also our burden.”
Amon stared at his father. He thought of his mother, dead in childbirth with Ira, and wondered if she had known. By the standards of the day, Edon Byrne had been a good husband and an attentive father, faithful to duty and queen. Now he seemed like a tragic figure, a holder of secrets.
What about my own choice? Amon thought. Raisa would never be his; he knew that. But if he took himself off to Oden’s Ford, and after that to a posting at Chalk Cliffs, chances were the pain would fade in a decade or so. He was only seventeen.
What would it be like to be with Raisa constantly for the rest of his life, as her captain and counselor, to see her married, always within reach, knowing he could never have her?
Like his father and Queen Marianna.
But what if he said no, and something happened to Raisa? How could he forgive himself?
His father said he had a choice, and he did. The right thing and the wrong thing.
Amon reached across the table and gripped his father’s callused hands. “I’ll do it,” Amon said.
His father looked down at their joined hands. “You’re sure?”
Amon nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Then let’s go to temple,” Edon Byrne said, rising from his chair.
Although it was now four in the morning, Speaker Jemson was waiting for them in his study, dressed for ceremony.
His father had told the speaker they were coming. His father had known what his decision would be.
So much for choices.
“Captain Byrne,” the speaker said gravely. “And Corporal Byrne. This is most unusual, to preside over the binding of both father and son. Usually one captain passes on before the next is named.”
“These are dangerous times,” Edon Byrne said. “Still, the line must be protected.”
“Yes, it must,” Jemson said. He looked at Amon. “You have agreed to be bound to Hanalea’s line?”
“Yes.” Amon nodded. He found himself wishing he’d been able to bathe before coming here. He felt filthy and unworthy in his stained uniform, after a night patrolling Ragmarket.
As if Jemson had heard his thoughts, he extended a bundle of cloth toward Amon. “Remove your clothing and put these on. Then join us in the Lady Chapel.” Jemson and his father left him alone in the study.
Remove all of his clothing? Or just his uniform? Amon didn’t want to get it wrong. He debated, then stripped completely. The robes were rough-spun cotton, undyed, of the sort acolytes wore. He felt rather strange and airy under the voluminous tent of fabric—as if he were still naked.
Amon padded barefoot across the cavernous sanctuary to the intimate Lady Chapel to the right of the altar. It was dedicated to Althea, Patroness of the Poor. Unlike the private chapels in the temple at Fellsmarch Castle, with their gold statuary and gilt and marble
fittings, Althea’s chapel was stark in its simplicity, yet obviously well loved. The simple wood altar shown with hand polishing, and there were fresh flowers in vases to either side of the image of the lady. Cool moonlight washed through the clear glass windows, echoing their design on the floor.
Jemson and his father stood to either side of a long table. Several objects were laid out in readiness: a large stone basin, a glittering knife, a stone jar, a small crystal bottle, a silver goblet. Amon studied the display, questions crowding his mind.
Jemson smiled at him. “Your part is quite simple, really, for so important a rite. We mingle your blood with Hanalea’s, and you drink the result. The rest we pour into the soil of the Fells, to bind you to the land and the Maker. A sacrifice, of sorts.”
I’m dreaming, Amon thought. Byrnes don’t do these sorts of things. He thought of his triple sleeping in the barracks. Thought of Raisa back at Fellsmarch Castle, unaware of the link being forged between them. Was it fair to do this without her permission? What if she didn’t want to be linked with him?
He licked his lips. “Will she . . . will she know?”
“She may feel something,” the speaker said. “Or she may sleep through. If she does wake up she won’t know what to make of it.”
“Do you really have blood of Hanalea here?” After a thousand years?
“It is taken from her descendants, the queens of the Fells.” The speaker rested his hand on the stoppered bottle. “This is the blood of the princess heir. I will speak words over it.”
Jemson paused as if to see if Amon had any more questions. Then said, “Bare your arm, Corporal Byrne.”
Amon did. He scarcely felt the sting of the blade, and watched, a little amazed, as his blood dripped into the basin, forming a small pool at the bottom.
Jemson lifted the crystal bottle and spoke some words in clan speech. Amon made out the words Raisa ana’Marianna and Hanalea. The speaker unstoppered the bottle and tipped a few drops into the basin. Then lifted it high, swirling the contents, reciting a long incantation.
Amon’s thoughts slopped around in his head, mirroring the mixture in the basin. He pressed his arm against his side to staunch the flow of blood and felt the wet seep through to his skin.
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