The Trelan docks were choked with people. People of all shapes and sizes and hues pressed and pushed their way on and off of ships and barges. Several merchants tried to shove dead fish or live boys at Jerinne. She politely declined all offers. Not that she could purchase such things—even if she wanted them—having no money on her person. Life as a Tarian Initiate wasn’t supposed to involve poverty, but in Jerinne’s case, that was her only option. Her Initiacy had barely been sponsored, with no further stipend beyond the most meager of living expenses.
What would she do if she washed out? Would Baroness Fortinare even take her back into the household? Probably, out of pity, but she’d surely never rise higher than kitchen maid. Cheese in the rain would have better chances.
She couldn’t let that happen. She’d find Heldrin, get him back to the chapterhouse and work Shield Sequence Eight until her arm fell off. She’d go to blazes before she’d wash from Trials.
Jerinne pushed her way over to a pile of crates and climbed on top. Then, at least, she could get a better view, and Heldrin might notice her Initiate jersey and approach her.
Glancing about, she saw a flash of metal in the morning sun. Was that a shield? Who else would even be carrying a shield but a Tarian, even if he was only a Candidate? She put her hand over her brow to cut back the glare. Definitely a shield. And a traveling cloak of Tarian gray.
Also the man in question towered head and shoulders above everyone else around him, traveling case over one shoulder. Blazes, the Grandmaster was right. She couldn’t miss this one. Plus, since the man had a shield on his arm and a sword at his belt, the crowd gave him a wide berth that they didn’t grant to anyone else. Maybe if Jerinne had come armed as well, she’d have had an easier time with the crowd.
He had looked up and noticed Jerinne. That made it easier.
Jerinne cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mister Heldrin!”
The man gave a sharp wave and crossed through the sea of people to Jerinne’s crates.
“You have me at the advantage, Initiate,” Heldrin said.
Jerinne climbed down most of the way, standing on the lowest crate so she could approach eye level with the man. Saints, he was absurdly tall. “Jerinne Fendall,” she said, extending her hand. “I was sent to escort you to the chapterhouse, Mister Heldrin.”
“It’s Dayne,” he said. He put down his case, which Jerinne realized was a full steamer trunk, and took Jerinne’s hand with his massive grip. “I’m sorry they wasted your time on that. I know my way around perfectly well.”
Jerinne jumped down to the ground, pointing to the trunk. “I presume you don’t need a hand with that, either?”
“Not really,” Dayne said. “But the Grandmaster sent someone anyway, right? I imagine it was inevitable.” He said this last part to himself, resigned.
“I wasn’t told much anything, other than to meet you, and escort you back.”
Dayne picked up the trunk with ease and hoisted it back over his shoulder. He gave a gesture toward the main street. “This was the Grandmaster’s way of making sure I knew that he knew I was arriving today. I’m familiar with his methods.”
“I thought you were from Lacanja,” Jerinne said. Dayne spoke like he was familiar with the Grandmaster and the Maradaine Chapterhouse.
Dayne’s face fell slightly as he led Jerinne out of the crowd. “I was there for my Candidacy. I did my Initiacy here.” He sighed. “Of course, where I’m from is Upper Kisan, about a hundred miles northwest of here.”
Jerinne grinned. “Trinital, myself. Small manor house in the same vicinity.”
Dayne nodded. “I thought you might be from the Sharain.” He narrowed his eyes at Jerinne. “Let me guess. Noble house, you the promising child of a loyal member of the staff?”
“That’s right,” Jerinne said. “My mother was the baroness’s lady’s maid, and my father the under butler.”
“My father was the horse steward,” Dayne said. “You and I, we’re special cases in the Order. You’ve probably noticed.”
Jerinne would be lying if she said otherwise. Most of the other Initiates, if they didn’t come from the city, were from the gentry or at least artisan families. There were very few people born to the service class in the Elite Orders.
Such as the Orders were in this day. But for Jerinne, it was the only chance to improve her station.
Dayne looked at her like he understood all that at a glance. “That’s probably why Grandmaster Orren sent you to fetch me. Come on, we shouldn’t waste any more of your time. I would guess you have Trials coming soon.”
“Next week,” Jerinne said. “I’m missing a session right now. Even under Grandmaster’s orders, I’m sure Madam Tyrell will grind me down for it.”
“Madam Tyrell?” Dayne’s deep voice cracked. “Would that be Amaya Tyrell?”
“I’m not supposed to call her that,” Jerinne said.
“Is she the Initiate Prefect?” he asked. “That’s usually a job for a first-year Candidate.”
“No, sir, she runs the training drills.”
“As a Candidate?”
“No,” Jerinne said. What was this guy on about? “She’s an Adept, of course.”
Dayne stopped dead for an instant, bright face darkening. After a moment, he pursed his lips. “Let’s hurry up. You don’t want to keep Madam Tyrell waiting.”
Chapter 2
THE CHAPTERHOUSE LOOKED EXACTLY as he had remembered it. Dayne immediately chided himself for thinking it would be otherwise. He had only been away for two years, and the house had stood for nearly four hundred. Save for new coats of paint, precious little had been changed over the centuries.
He entered through the iron gates to the outer courtyard, cobblestone pathways through pebble gardens. Almost on instinct, Dayne started along the pathway leading to the Initiate barracks, where he had spent most of his three years when he had been here.
He had gotten around one corner of the building when he saw them—the group of Initiates going through their drills, instructions called out by the Adept in front of them. She had her back to Dayne, but he recognized Amaya easily, her long hair tied back the way she always used to. The only thing different about her was her gray tunic had the blue trim of an Adept.
“I want you to move, Initiates. If it’s not hurting, you aren’t pushing hard enough. Sink into that lunge, Gendon. Down, deeper! You control your body, it does not control you!”
Training speech from Master Denbar, word for word.
He was proud of her, but he couldn’t understand how she could already hold that rank. Promotion to Adept after only one year of Candidacy was unheard of—technically possible, but unprecedented. How had word of it not reached Lacanja?
And if he hadn’t heard about her, how much had she heard about what he had done these past two years? About Master Denbar?
Jerinne tapped on his shoulder. “Mister Hel—Dayne. I think you should report to Grandmaster Orren in his sanctum.”
“Right,” Dayne said, turning back around the corner before Amaya noticed him. “I know the way. Go join your training.”
Jerinne saluted him and ran over. Dayne didn’t permit himself another look at Amaya. He’d have to talk to her eventually, but he’d prefer to hold that off for as long as he reasonably could. He silently cursed himself for the cowardice, but this was not the moment. The Grandmaster was waiting for him, and she was teaching. When they spoke, he would want to have the time to do it properly. She deserved to know what happened to Master Denbar.
The Grandmaster’s sanctum was the southeast tower of the main house, in as much as a single room built over the top floor could be considered a tower. Dayne was surprised how quiet the chapterhouse was as he made his way up the steps. There should be other Initiates, Candidates, and Adepts going about their business, if not at least the household staff. The Lacanja house always seemed
filled with activity during the day, even with only a handful of members in residence. Dayne barely saw a soul, and those he did spot kept a respectful distance.
There was no door at the top of the stairs leading into the sanctum, simply a wide arch, opening out into the bright white stone room. Windows filled every wall, their curtains pulled back, providing a glorious view of the river and the southern part of the city on one side, and the household courtyard and much of the sprawling skyline of northern Maradaine, including the royal palace and the shining white dome of the Parliament. Dayne left his shield and sword at the archway and stepped inside.
Grandmaster Orren sat quietly in one corner of the room, reading a small leather tome. The Grandmaster dressed very simply, with only a gray tunic and trousers, absently flexing his bare feet while he read.
Dayne stood silently, waiting for the Grandmaster to note and address him. The Grandmaster surely knew he was there, and as Dayne recalled, loved giving Initiates and Candidates lessons in patience.
After a moment, Grandmaster Orren closed his book and looked up, a polite smile crossing his white-bearded face. “Dayne. It is most agreeable to see you.”
“I’m always happy to be seen,” Dayne said.
“Your trip was safely uneventful, I presume? No mischief found its way to you?”
“Nor I to it.”
“Excellent.” The Grandmaster bounded onto his feet, his body still graceful and lean despite his nearly sixty years. “I think enough troubles have crossed your door for one lifetime.”
Dayne shook his head. “A Tarian doesn’t back away from the troubles on his door. Or the door of his neighbor.”
“Of course not.” Grandmaster Orren closed the distance between them, gently touching Dayne on the arm. “But we all must lay down our shield sooner or later.”
“With due respect, sir, I would hold my shield for as long as I had strength to hold it.”
The Grandmaster chuckled ruefully. “You have such purity of purpose, Dayne. I’ve always thought so. That’s why it pains me so much to have to tell you this.”
“Tell me what, Grandmaster?” Dayne’s heart dropped. This destroyed all hope that he had been recalled to Maradaine for good news. Not that Dayne deserved any.
The old man sighed. “Come, sit with me.” He did not return to his chair, but sat on the floor, legs in winged-bird position. Dayne sat and mimicked the form.
After a moment of contemplation, the Grandmaster spoke. “At the end of the week, I will advance eighteen Candidates, from chapterhouses all around Druthal, to the rank of Adept.”
“Eighteen?” Dayne asked. That was wrong. “Twenty-four is the traditional number of Adepts chosen every year.”
“It will be eighteen this year, and for the foreseeable future.” Grandmaster Orren’s shoulders sagged, as if suddenly heavily burdened. “I shouldn’t tell you this now, but I want to be honest with you. You will not be among those eighteen.”
That hit Dayne in the stomach, far harder than he thought it would. Of course he couldn’t presume to make Adept this year, though he had hoped otherwise. Second-year Candidates receiving the Advancement was uncommon, but far from unheard of. Despite the disappointment, he said, “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do, Dayne. You see, there are many complex elements involved in Advancement, and it’s a more political business than you are aware of.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “And that is your great tragedy, dear boy.”
“My tragedy, sir?”
Grandmaster Orren sighed. “This is not something any Candidate, or even most Adepts, are aware of, but I believe you deserve to understand the full weight of what will happen to you. You see, my list of Candidates for Advancement needed to be approved by the Parliament.”
That was a surprise. “Why does the Parliament have any say? The Charter of the Tarian Order predates—”
The answer was a snap. “Because times change and our Order is not—” Grandmaster Orren stopped himself. “You know your history of the Elite Orders, yes?”
“Of course, sir.”
“So you can tell me what happened to the Marenian Order.”
“They were folded into the Druth Navy when it was founded.”
“And the Hanalian Order?”
“Repurposed into the King’s Marshals in the eleventh century.”
“Of the twelve Elite Orders, which ones still stand?”
Dayne sighed. “Only the Tarians and the Spathians.”
“And why those two?”
“Because we have maintained tradition and discipline—”
That earned Dayne a smack across the head. “That is a lie we tell ourselves, that our Orders persevered due to our purity. The Spathians probably believe it. We shouldn’t. Why those two?”
Dayne knew the real answer, as he knew his history very well. “The Spathians because of Oberon Micarum. And us, because of Xandra Romaine.”
Romaine’s Gift. Her gift to the royal line, and to the Tarian Order. Fifty years ago, a Poasian assassin broke into the royal palace and killed King Maradaine XV, the queen, and the two eldest princes. Xandra Romaine, a Tarian Adept assigned to protect the queen, gave her life to stop the assassin before he murdered his final target: the infant Pomoraine, the king’s grandson from his eldest son. After much deliberation, it was decided that Prince Escarel, the youngest of the king’s sons, would be crowned King Maradaine XVI. But Escarel was serving as Prince Commander in the Island War against the Poasians. He refused to leave the front, and chose to spend his reign as King Commander of the Druth forces in the islands. He did send his pregnant wife—a Napolic native—back to Maradaine to be queen. Years later his son, despite his mixed heritage, became Maradaine XVII.
But many felt that Pomoraine should have been named king, despite still being in swaddling—the True Line of Maradaine. Many people felt Xandra Romaine gave her life to save the true line, and that gift should be honored. That gave the Tarians political support, allowing their order to survive when so many others had dissolved.
The Grandmaster pulled Dayne out of his reverie. “Those two reasons are already very thin threads, ours almost gone from living memory. So we must play the game with those who see us as relics. We must maintain beneficial relations with the Crown and the Parliament, and thus concessions are made.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Most of the time, parliamentary approval is merely a formality. The list is sent to the committee, who accept my decision, and it is of no matter.”
“So why is this different? And why tell me?”
“Because the head of that particular committee, Dayne, is Wesley Benedict.”
The name was another hammer to the gut. “Lenick’s uncle?” That’s what this was about.
“One of them. There are actually four Benedicts in Parliament. The family wields considerable power and influence in their archduchy, and with the current government.”
“I’m aware,” Dayne said. “I’m fairly sure I voted for one last year.”
Another chuckle from the Grandmaster. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I did what I could. I did my best! And Lenick Benedict is still alive thanks to . . .” Dayne trailed off.
“Thanks to who?” the Grandmaster pressed. “Who should that boy, and his very powerful family, thank for the condition he is in?”
“For being alive? Master Denbar,” Dayne said. That was the truth.
“And you.”
“But the condition he’s in, what happened to his body, that falls on the man called Sholiar.”
The Grandmaster made an odd noise and nodded. “Sholiar, yes. I have on my desk a collection of newssheets from Lacanja over the past two years. I fear they paint a poor picture of Master Denbar seeking glory, and you being swept up in that.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“W
ell, I don’t know what happened, beyond what these reports tell me. I know Master Denbar and you became infamous in Lacanja, to the chagrin of the local Constabulary. Then there was this Sholiar person. I don’t know what to make of that. Constabulary says he isn’t real, that no one saw—”
“I saw him, sir.” Dayne would never forget that face. “He was—”
Grandmaster Orren pushed over him. “And when Lenick Benedict was kidnapped, the two of you—”
Dayne scrambled to his feet, unable to sit still a moment longer. “We did what the Benedicts asked us to do!”
“Peace, Dayne, peace,” Orren said, waving him to sit down. “I have these newssheets. I have Constabulary accounts. I don’t have your story.”
Dayne sighed, taking the floor again. “It did begin with the newssheets praising Master Denbar and me for things we did in the city, helping people.”
“Which Master Denbar should have known better than to court. I do not blame you for that. You were the Candidate there.”
“Master Denbar felt that while it lauded us personally, it served the good of the Order.”
Orren made a very pained face, and nodded solemnly. “Go on.”
“So he cooperated with and encouraged the praise, which captured Sholiar’s attention. Lenick Benedict may have been his victim, but we were his target . . . ”
* * *
“Thank you both for coming. Now, we need you to follow these instructions to the letter.”
These were the first words said when Dayne and Master Denbar came into the Lacanja Dockside Stationhouse on urgent summons, escorted to a back room where Lieutenant Stenson and Mister Benedict waited for them. Dayne didn’t appreciate a Constabulary lieutenant talking down to either him or Master Denbar, but he did his best to hold his tongue and show respect.
Master Denbar clearly didn’t feel quite the same way.
“Let me guess, because you already tried doing it your way and failed?”
The lieutenant glowered, but he didn’t deny it. “If I had my way, you throwbacks wouldn’t be anywhere near this.” He gestured at the two of them, dressed in their Tarian tunics, shields on their arms and swords at their belt. Dayne would admit that they looked like something out of an old portrait, especially in the Constabulary House, surrounded by uniformed officers with badges and crossbows. Dayne didn’t care. He was proud to be wearing the traditional garb and arms of the Order.
The Way of the Shield Page 2