by Dave Duncan
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
1
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 a very nice piece of highwayman ship. And I 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 really 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 simple Blade in the Royal Guard, wanting nothing more in the world, when life had been pleasure from dawn till dawn.
2
“You missed an interesting display of swordsmanship, Commander!” The King was enjoying his Guards’ collective dismay. “Another Durendal legend, I fancy.”
“Take it, my liege!” Montpurse was on his knees in the mud, offering up his sword. “Take it. Cut off my useless head if you want, because I certainly—”
“Stand up, man! Keep your sword. You won’t escape that easily. Well, perhaps I need to borrow it for a minute.”
A nearby copse exploded with an earth-shattering roar, hurling branches and rocks everywhere. The King ignored it, although some of the debris went dancing past his feet. The river plain was pockmarked with craters, most of them now full of water. The honey-colored walls of Waterby were in worse shape, with half the towers in ruins; but archers on the battlements had been sending arrows this far. Not accurately, fortunately. Another thudded into the turf close to Chefney, who jumped.
Bewildered, Durendal was examining Harvest. That was fresh blood on her and those were dead men on the ground, but the last few minutes had vanished in a confused blur of leaping and slashing and parrying. Four?
“What was your family name, Sir Durendal?”
“Family…Roland, sire.” He had not spoken the word in a dozen years. He almost had to think to remember it. Of course a King could ask questions that others must not, but what on earth was Ambrose after now?
The King frowned. “The Rolands of Mayshire?”
“Who? Oh, no, sire. Dimpleshire, very minor gentry. My grandfather held lands in tenancy-in-chief from the Priory of Goodham.” Why ask? And why was Montpurse pressing a hand on his shoulder so heavily?
Then realization—the Commander was signaling him to kneel. Mystified, he dropped to one knee and then to two as full understanding came. Oh, no! He felt the mud cold through his hose.
Oh, yes! The blade came down on his shoulder. Then on the other.
“Arise, Baron Roland of Waterby.”
He arose. Montpurse grabbed his hand and pumped it, hugging him with the other arm. The rest of the Blades started a cheer and gathered around to thump him on the back.
“My liege! I—I thank you, Your Majesty. But I do not deserve—”
“Deserve?” Hoare bellowed. “Four dead men and you don’t deserve? The rest of us ought to be hung, drawn, and quartered—every day for a month.”
One of the towers of Waterby dissolved in a ball of stones and dust that floated leisurely to the ground. Everyone looked quickly to the battery where the conjurers of the Royal Office of Demolition were at work, to see if they had all survived, because sometimes they blew themselves out of the octogram as well as the shot. Then came the sounds—first the distant cheering of the army, second the roll of thunder over the plain.
Durendal turned back to face the King’s smug smile. “But, Your Majesty…I trust that this does not mean…that I don’t have to…” How could a peer belong to the Royal Guard? Unthinkable!
Chuckling, the King returned Montpurse’s sword to him. “Not unless you wish. We grant you leave to retain your present style at your own pleasure.”
That was honor indeed! He could retire at will and be a lord. Not that he ever would, of course. A noble must live nobly, which required vast amounts of money.
Another explosion showered mud and pebbles. They all ducked, and one or two swore at being struck.
“They are finding the range, sire!” Montpurse said angrily.
“True. Well, let us proceed to the battery and hear how Destroyer General views his progress.” The King set off at a leisurely stroll, anxious not to appear to be retreating. With much relief his Blades accompanied him.
Hoare edged close to Durendal to whisper, “My lord, may I kiss your backside?”
“No. You aren’t worthy.”
“I know that. I was just hoping.”
Baron Roland of Waterby. Meaningless, really. He could never afford to use the title, even if he would ever want to.
That evening, as the new peer was whetting Harvest to remove a few recent nicks, a herald came to the tent and presented him with an official notice from Chancery. The honor and lands of Peckmoss in Dimpleshire had been estranged from the royal demesne and granted in freehold to Baron Roland of Waterby; said lands would be henceforth administered to the avail, benefit, and profit of the said baron, pending his further instructions.
He was rich. It didn’t matter.
He was more worried about getting the bloodstains off his jerkin.
3
Those were the great days. In the four years between his second and third visits to Ironhall, he was never far from the King. Of the hundred or so Blades in the Royal Guard, five or six were especially favored; and Sir Durendal was one of them, companion at both work and play.
Ambrose was a ferocious horseman still, in spite of his ever-increasing size, and rode in mad hunts. He hawked and followed hounds. He danced and attended masques. He went on progresses through town and country, while the crowds roared their loyalty. Seldom, if ever, had Chivial loved a monarch as much as this one. He repaired highways and built bridges, fostered trade, wenched notoriously, and kept the nobility under control. He had managed to conclude a treaty with Baelmark, ending a war that had dragged on for fourteen years, so now the coasts no longer lived in dread of Baelish raiders. Almost the only complaints ever heard in Parliament concerned the lack of a male heir, so when the King divorced Queen Godeleva and married the Lady Sian, the country rejoiced and his popularity soared even higher. From any viewpoint, he loomed larger than life. The fickle spirits of chance were his handmaids in those days, and Durendal was there to share in the glory.
When the King did not need him, he never lacked for recreation. There was Rose, soon after he joined the Guard, but Rose’s father disapproved and married
her off to a man of better breeding.
There was Isolde. They spoke seriously of marriage until the rebellion in Nythia called him away. He had thought they had an understanding, but on his return he found her betrothed to another.
That summer of the Nythian Rebellion was perhaps the finest time of all—living with the army, fighting a war. Apart from the vague few minutes when he earned his barony, he experienced little real battle, for the days of kings in armor leading charges had long gone. Only very hard talking by Montpurse kept Ambrose out of several skirmishes, though; and even Montpurse could not stop him on the day Kirkwain fell. Then the King rode through the breach directly behind the vanguard with his Blades around him. Four were killed, a dozen wounded, but they gave more than they took. Harvest alone avenged the four, and the legend of the second Durendal crept a little closer to the legend of the first.
Then there was Kate.
He had seen her around the palace many times, but never close. He took a long time to find the resolution to address her, for he feared rejection—not from most women, for he knew his abilities, but from her—because he still remembered the last time he had presumed to approach a White Sister. One evening, while he was considering whom to invite to a masque, he saw her on the terrace, admiring the swans. Her robe and tall hat were the same snowy white as they, and the blossoms overhead matched as well…. A little rejection would not kill him.
He walked closer and closer and closer, and she did not sniff inquiringly and turn around to glare. She just watched the swans. He saw that she was smaller than he had realized; the tall hennin was deceptive. Size did not matter when everything else was perfection. When he judged the distance to be about right—interest, but not threat—he rested his forearms on the stone balustrade, to bring his eyes nearer to the level of hers.