The Crux turned his back on Sire Rodela and resumed his seat. He straightened the folds of his surcoat over his thighs. He waited until the silence became wearisome, and then he said, “As Sire Rodela says one thing and the sheath another, there’s but one way to find out, and that’s by ordeal.” Now he looked at me and for the first time I met his eyes directly. “When we’re done here tonight, we will give her to the dogs. If she’s lying they’ll sniff it out. If she’s telling the truth—and keeps a stout heart—they’ll leave her unharmed.”
I was thickheaded and slow to understand. And yet part of me was quicker: a wail began deep in the belly and crawled upward. I ground my teeth to prevent its escape.
The Crux watched me with a cold eye and deigned to address me. “I’ve given you leave to speak freely tonight and you’ve been bold enough to call a man of the Blood a liar. If you wish to recant your words, you may do so now, and stand for a liar yourself—and escape the dogs.
Galan began to rise and the Crux said to him, “Be still!” He said to me, “Well? What’s your answer?”
I bowed my head. My throat was dry. I swallowed and swallowed and each time came a jabbing pain.
Trial by ordeal. For themselves, the Blood reserve trial by combat. For us, there is the ordeal. When I lived under the Dame’s rule, such things were only rumors, but under Sire Pava I had seen it once when a village woman accused his horsemaster, Harien, of taking her against her will. The steward had given her the black drink, which is supposed to poison those who lie and spare those who tell the truth. She didn’t survive it, but still I believe she didn’t lie, for other women had whispered of Harien too; afterward they didn’t dare.
I’d never heard of an ordeal by dogs. It was more fearful to me than poison. I’d run from the gazehounds in the Kingswood and seen them tearing at the stag. These war dogs were fiercer still, bred and trained to hunt foot soldiers and bring down galloping horses, the better to get at the horsemen’s throats. Fleetfoot and Ev still slept with the pack, for they’d made themselves useful to Dogmaster and gained a place among the dogboys; but the dogs didn’t know me. I avoided their pen. Was it true they could smell falsehood? For sure they could smell fear. Even I could smell it now in the stink of my own sweat. They would savage me for it. I had no faith the truth would shield me.
The Crux said, “Do you admit you lied?” Now it was my turn to feel the brunt of his contempt. Mud is easily scraped from a boot, he’d said of me once. And he’d said, “Keep her out of my way or I’ll feed her to the dogs.” He’d rid Galan of me one way or the other.
I looked up. Galan too waited for my answer. His brows were drawn together in a frown and his eyes were in shadow. He was a jealous man and Sire Rodela knew it; he’d counted on it. I said to Galan and Galan alone, in all the room, “Whether the dogs prove to be wise judges or as foolish as men, I told the truth. I swear to it.” I spoke in anger that he should need this from me, but even as the words were out I saw that I had misunderstood his look. He lifted his hand as if he would reach across the room and cover my mouth.
“No,” he said, his words overtaking mine. “Sire, I beg you, don’t make her suffer this ordeal. This is a matter within my household, and no one else’s concern. And I believe her.”
“You may believe what you please. To be sure, it’s none of my concern if you are fond to foolishness. But what’s between you and Rodela is my concern,” the Crux said. “It’s why we are met here tonight. I would know whether he lies.”
Galan said, “Then give Rodela to the dogs instead. It will save you bother, for they’ll tear him to pieces.” Now he made Sire Rodela out to be no better than a mudman; the insult did not go unnoticed, to judge by the muttering of the cataphracts.
The Crux said coldly, “If you’re so sure of your sheath, why object to the ordeal? The manhounds will leave her unscathed if she’s faithful. And if not, good riddance.”
“Sire, I know my armiger and my woman, I know them by heart, and I don’t need dogs to tell me which of them is faithless. But if it’s proof you’re after, give me leave to fight Rodela and I’ll prove on his body that he is false.”
“It is the third time, by my count, that you’ve asked this of me tonight,“ said the Crux, “and I’m weary of it. The answer is no, the answer will always be no. You started a feud with Ardor over a woman and set the whole Marchfield into an uproar, and now you’d do the same for our clan. I’ve been patient with you, because I know you tried to mend the feud you began. When you took Consort Vulpeja to your household, you took a man’s part and tried to sow accord where you had earlier sown discord. But discord is a weed that often overgrows the crop. The gods are more vengeful than we are and were not appeased. So when will you learn not to beget feuds in the first place? Will you learn this after you’ve turned the Moon against the Sun, setting the house of Musca against Falco until we’ve let blood all over the floors of our keeps? Or will you learn now, beforehand, and stay your hand and be ruled by the clan’s good?”
Galan made no answer. What the Crux said was wisdom, no doubt. I had hoped Galan would choose another time to grow wise.
“Now, Galan,” the Crux went on, “will you keep your temper or must I walk you up and down like an overheated horse?”
The cataphracts had been quiet; I’d almost forgotten they were there. Now one smiled and the next stretched out his legs and another whispered to his neighbor. The Crux had allowed a little levity to ease his men’s disquiet, like a swallow of ale for a thirst. A swallow was all.
Galan turned his face away from the Crux and I saw how the cords of his neck stood out and his jaw clenched. He looked down at the hands that lay useless in his lap. How easily his uncle had made him look a fool, a hothead; how well he had hobbled his rage. Galan said no more of dogs.
“Well then. Good then,” said the Crux. He looked around the tent, he gathered up the men in his sight, but his glance passed through me as if I were unseen. He said, “This isn’t such a grave matter, after all. We’ve no need to consult the Council of the Dead or study omens to read the will of Crux. Yet it will be a grave matter if we are not agreed, today, to make an end to it. Otherwise there will be rumors and whispers and disputes, men taking this side or that, and I will not have it.”
He paused and leaned forward in his chair. “Does any man here doubt Sire Galan was wronged? An armiger should be as a shield arm to his cat-aphract, his master. His master. Should a man be on guard against his own arm lest it strike him? A cataphract has the right expectation that his armiger will shield not only his body but also what lies within the bounds of his protection: his lands, his chattels, his women. Rodela, instead, struck at what lies closest to Galan, he attacked him in his very bed. Whatever Rodela did to the sheath, whether he lied about it or not—and I will speak of that later—he did disgrace his oath.”
The Crux raised his voice and made his pronouncement. “For this offense I settle on Sire Galan the Musca village that lies at the eastern end of Crookneck Pass, on Hunchback Mountain, and its pastures, fields, coppices, herds, and peoples, and the tolls, taxes, and rights pertaining to it.”
There was a pause. Galan twisted in his chair, never looking at his uncle. I wondered if the Crux was done, if that was all. It was less than it seemed, and more. A Musca village would be nothing but a huddle of tumbledown crofts on a stony mountain flank. Even so, the house of Musca could not afford to lose one. It was well known how poor they were, and how proud. They’d hazarded all the coin they could rub together to equip Sire Rodela as an armiger, in hopes that he’d win enough plunder to become a cataphract himself in the next campaign. It was the best they could do, though every other house in the clan had at least one cataphract in the troop. Now he’d bring home nothing but sorrow. If he lived.
Into the silence crept Sire Alcoba’s voice, lightly. “A village is a high price to pay for trifling with a sheath’s virtue—even a Musca village. Even a virtuous sheath, if such a prodigy exists.”
; It raised a laugh. But the Crux frowned, and Sire Rodela bristled, saying, “Now you mock my house. I’ll not have my house brought into this.”
The Crux answered the armiger sharp: “Then you should not be standing before me, for no man stands without his house.” Next he turned his attention to Sire Alcoba and said, just as sharply, “Make no mistake, I’m more lenient here than Rodela deserves. Do you count an oath worth so little? I know you bear a grudge toward Galan for costing you your armiger and your horse. Perhaps you’re glad to see him spited. But you’d do well to remember it took two to make that wager.”
Neither man was unwise enough to speak.
He looked to Galan then, and waited until his nephew raised his head and met his eyes. It seemed a long time. “You are proud, as you should be,” the Crux said. There was no contempt in his voice now. “But sometimes pride must march with policy. Enmity between houses would be a far greater wrong than you suffered today; it would be a wound in the body of the clan. I ask that you accept this quittance and take no further vengeance. I know it doesn’t satisfy your blood, but I ask that if it satisfies your reason, you will agree to be ruled by it.” He waited again, until Galan gave a curt nod and looked down. Galan never glanced my way.
Then the Crux said, “There is something further. Rodela, having made a mockery of his oath to Sire Galan, can serve him no longer. If Sire Alcoba agrees, Rodela will become his armiger, to take the place of the far better man Alcoba lost to Galan’s foolish feud. That should quit Galan of any debt Alcoba could claim.” He looked to Sire Rodela kneeling before him, and there was enough scorn in his voice to singe the armiger’s hair all over again. “I’m sure you’ll agree to this,” he said, “because if you don’t, you’ll be sent home in a cart with the dames. And if Alcoba finds you unsatisfactory or catches you up to mischief, I’ll give him leave to deal with you as he pleases. Will you swear faithfully to him?”
Rodela mumbled something so small I couldn’t hear it.
“What’s that?” the Crux said.
“I will,” said Sire Rodela, somewhat louder.
“And now you’ll thank me. For the sake of your house and for your father’s sake, I’ve left you the wherewithal to redeem your name.”
Under the weight of the Crux’s gaze, Sire Rodela bowed down and down until his forehead touched the ground. He stretched his hands out before him, palms up, and half of what he said was lost between his lips and the ground, but he did abase himself and swear he was grateful for the Crux’s mercy; he didn’t deserve it, he was unworthy. The Crux watched with a grim satisfaction while Sire Rodela offered up every humble word he owned, his mouth so crammed he choked on them. If there was more resentment than gratitude in his tone, no matter.
Still the Crux wasn’t done. He looked at his cataphracts and said, “Perhaps it escaped your notice that tonight Sire Galan accused Rodela of killing an armiger of Ardor and stealing part of his scalp. It did not escape mine. I won’t weigh that matter here. If it’s true—and I daresay it is, I mark Rodela doesn’t deny it—it is better left to the gods, the ancestors, and a certain angry shade to punish him for desecrating the body of a foe. I think the shade has begun already.” There was an uneasy laugh at this. “But listen well: there are trophy collectors in every war, men who come home with a sackful of ears so they can say ‘I slew this many.’ Such men bring misfortune home to their kinfolk, and I’ll have none of that in my company.
“Now we’ll put the sheath to the ordeal, and soon we’ll know whether she lies or Rodela lies. I shall leave it up to each of you, if Rodela proves false and a profaner, to decide whether you wish the company of such a man.
A shunning. The Crux laid the burden on his men to make the fi nal judgment, to choose the cruelest punishment. Sire Rodela’s back stiffened. His open hands became fists. He made no pretense of gratitude now.
It gave me another reason to face the dogs: to know he would be shunned. Almost reason enough.
The Crux stood and picked up his sword from the ground. Before he sheathed it he prodded Sire Rodela in the ribs. “Get up,” he said, and waited for the armiger to get to his feet. With a glance across the tent, he summoned his own man, Sire Rassis, who took Rodela by the elbow and marched him to the doorway. All the while the Crux took care to stand between Sire Galan and his former armiger.
I stepped aside. Sire Rodela’s eye sockets were dark as bruises and his cheeks, above the beard, were pasty. The Crux had dealt him many blows. He’d been humiliated before his fellows, and he faced shunning. Yet when he passed me, he smiled.
No remedy but murder. Galan had said it, and now his blood was cooler and he would accept what requital the Crux allowed and take nothing more. Sire Rodela had been brought low, but not low enough to suit me. It was not safe to let him live. If I survived the ordeal, I’d see to it myself. And then I’d tread his ashes in the mud.
Sire Rassis jerked his arm and they were out. The Crux was just behind, with Galan and the priests at his heels. The other cataphracts were rising, and the gabble of their voices rose also. The Crux spoke to me and his voice cut through the clamor. “Are you ready?”
Galan came close and said, “Don’t do this.”
Then we were out the door and the cataphracts spilled from the tent after us, around us. The thinnest new Moon hung in the sky. At home in the mountains, it would mark the month of Ingathering. The herders would be bringing the sheep and goats down from the high pastures before the snows, and driving the pigs into the Kingswood to forage for the fallen acorns granted them yearly by the king. Did the months have different names here, by the sea?
There were no clouds. The wind had swept them away.
Galan’s hand gripped my wrist as tightly as if he held the hilt of his sword, and he pulled me against the tide of the crowd until I stopped. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Tell the Crux you lied.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“I know that. I don’t require proof.”
“You say that now. Later you’ll wonder.”
The Crux was on his way back to us, the cataphracts moving aside for him.
Galan looked as if I’d struck him. “Have I earned this much of your distrust? Please … I’m begging. Say you lied.”
He had no armor from me. And he was right, I distrusted him. Oh, surely he believed me. But could he live with me, if I said I’d coupled with Sire Rodela when his back was turned? He forgot the other cataphracts, how they’d scorn him for it.
I too was wounded. He’d asked me to do something he’d never do: claim a vile lie for truth and bear the shame that would come with it. He asked because a drudge has no honor to lose, no word to break-never tells the truth when a lie is safer. I had lied before, many times, to my betters. And yet I couldn’t do it now. I was just discovering this myself. Still, I was angry Galan had not known it.
The Crux was upon us. “Has she changed her mind after all?”
I put my free hand over Galan’s hand and leaned close. “I do trust you—as I trust my own heart.” I couldn’t leave him with bitter words, if they were the last he was to hear from me.
There was no time. I pried his fingers loose from my wrist and walked toward the dog pen while the new Moon looked down: Crux showing his thinnest sickle smile.
The manhounds’ pen backed onto the horse corral. Most of them slept, but they kept sentries. When we came close one began to bark and another took it up and soon there were four or five yammering at us. They woke Dogmaster. He came to the high wooden gate, walking between his charges as they roiled about his legs. I saw Fleetfoot and Ev and two other dogboys sit up across the pen, roused from their sleep amongst a dozen or so dogs lying head to flank, sharing heat.
Dogmaster hushed the dogs but their silence was no better. One growled low, the teeth showing white against the black muzzle.
When the Crux spoke his voice was just as low. “She’s going in for trial by ordeal. Open the gate.” He pointed his thumb at me, not condescending t
o use a finger.
Dogmaster looked dismayed but said nothing. He felt for the latch in the dark and swung the gate half open. Behind me, the noisy crowd pressed forward: cataphracts and armigers and drudges who’d come running as soon as word had flown between the tents. They’d brought torches. Somewhere Rodela was watching too.
I knew exactly where Galan was. I could feel him, a silence just behind my right shoulder. I had silenced him. No matter how close he stood, I was alone in this.
Not quite alone. A god came unwelcome. Rift again, in the avatar of Dread.
I faltered, I balked. I had thought I was afraid before, and counted myself brave because I made my legs walk to the dog pen when they were unsteady. That was nothing compared to this. Dread seized me, inside and out, and I held on to the gate so I would not fall. My palms were wet. Dread drove my heart too fast, my mind too slow. I never knew that fear could hurt so much, that its pains were so various, both sharp and dull.
I couldn’t understand courage. I couldn’t find it in myself. How does a man go to battle? Not the cataphract in all his armor, but the drudge, the foot soldier. How does he face it with no honor of his own to spur him, knowing that whether he lives or dies, he’ll win less praise than his master’s horse? Rift must give the gift of recklessness as well as fear, or the god of war would have no soldiers. They’d all run away.
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