Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  Perchaya’s eyes widened as she stared at him. Did he, the duke of Bronleigh, one of the most powerful men in this sea of dukes and lords and counts and earls, have a chance with Perchaya, farm girl of Dov?

  It seemed at once like a ludicrous question, and also one worth asking. And then, suddenly, Perchaya knew the answer.

  “Yes,” she said.

  For the first time on the terrace, Hugh’s face brightened. “I’m glad,” he said. “May I trouble you for another dance?”

  Perchaya allowed herself to put her hand on his offered arm, guided back into the ballroom.

  Kenton had shown her things she’d never seen, many of which she wished she hadn’t. Meeting him had been like awakening to possibilities both wonderful and terrifying.

  But she’d give him this, he’d taught her how to imagine more for herself, to see her future as an infinite possibility, instead of a well-traveled road. She knew that many of those possibilities led to her death or worse, but as Hugh took his stance beside her and they joined in the dance, she let herself imagine for a moment that those possibilities also included a life in a castle like this, on the arm of a man who was steady and kind, somehow living out her days as the duchess of Bronleigh.

  With the image of Kenton’s disgust sharp in her mind, she found it wasn’t an intolerable idea.

  Forty

  Jaeme stood beside Daniella, trying not to dwell on the way Greghor wandered among the guests with a warm smile, as if he hadn’t sold them all out to their enemy.

  Jaeme ought to be doing the same, ought to be smiling and embracing the people who had known him since he was young, if only to keep up appearances. Even better, he should be out looking for Kotali, so they could all escape from the mess before the madness took hold. He’d spent most of the day reaching for a sense of what he was drawn to, but in the end, he found himself longing only for two things. First, to be by Daniella’s side and for the tension between them to have mysteriously vanished. And second, to get her to safety, far away from all the machinations that threatened to destroy them. A nice sentiment, perhaps, but hardly the call of the god of stone.

  He’d carried a pebble in his pocket all day as he wandered, massaging it gently. He still had the god sign, so he should damn well be able to hear the call. But the only thing he felt that might be comparable was a vague sense of nausea whenever he considered fleeing.

  That might be the god, but it could just as well be his nerves.

  Jaeme leaned against the wall of the ballroom and tightened his arm around Daniella, who stared in the direction Kenton had gone with a troubled look on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” Jaeme asked. “Did he step on your shoes? I would have thought he’d be an atrocious dancer, but he looked halfway competent.”

  Daniella turned to him, though her expression didn’t ease any. They’d been polite to each other since their fight last night—too polite. He’d tried to apologize again when he’d returned to the room after talking to his uncle, but so many unspoken thoughts had been swirling through his head that it came out awkward at best. Daniella had accepted the apology, but it didn’t seem to help. They hadn’t even talked about the dead body or the accusation against his uncle. They hadn’t talked about anything at all, simply fallen asleep beside each other, only their arms touching.

  He didn’t know how to explain any of it to her without panicking her, when he was the only one keeping her safe. With his uncle now informing him of the situation with Diamis, Jaeme would have time to get her out when the Lord General eventually invaded. If she ran—from Greghor and from him—she’d have no such protection.

  “I wasn’t thinking about Kenton,” Daniella said. “I’m worried about Perchaya.”

  Jaeme shrugged. Perchaya was the least of his worries at the moment. “Hugh is the most honorable, most boringly good person I know. Seeing Perchaya with him, well. I’ve never been less worried about her.”

  “It’s not that. I’m worried Kenton is going to do something to mess it up.”

  “Ah,” Jaeme said. “Now that seems like a reasonable fear. I do have a dungeon, you know. We could lock him up before he causes any more trouble. He’s not a bearer, after all. All we have to do is keep Diamis from killing him.”

  Daniella gave Jaeme a look that was halfway disapproving, which was an improvement over just about every look she’d given him today. Jaeme took her hand and squeezed it and Daniella squeezed back, her lips twitching up, and for a moment, Jaeme thought they might be about to emerge from the nervous tension that held them at odds.

  A trumpet sounded, and they both turned their attention to the dais where the musicians had been playing. There, Jaeme’s uncle stood beside two men. One of the men, in a bright tunic of yellow and blue, was a knight a full decade younger than Jaeme.

  The other was Matthon Buras.

  Jaeme stared at him. He must have recovered from his loss at the bandit chase. There were always a few commoners competing in the tournament, but in all the years he’d been attending them, he’d never seen one make it to the final duel. The crowd was buzzing at his presence and the knight was glaring at him.

  Interesting. Jaeme had to give it to Buras. He must have worked and fought with great dedication and passion to have gotten this far, which was more than the rest of these entitled noblemans’ brats could say, Jaeme included. Looking around the room, Jaeme could see the predictable response arising from the nobility. Their reactions ranged from shock and dismay to downright anger. Baron Argess, seated next to Hugh, grumbled something that seemed to displease Hugh, who Jaeme noticed had an arm protectively around Perchaya.

  Buras, with his shaggy dark hair and plain-clothes cotton tunic and breeches, stared straight ahead as if he didn’t notice any of it.

  “May Kotali’s blessing be upon us!” Greghor called in Mortichean. Jaeme held his breath, as if his uncle’s invocation of the god after betraying his own oaths might cause Kotali to open a chasm and swallow Greghor on the spot.

  No such thing happened. The god remained as silent as ever. Greghor held out a palm to each of the competitors and added, “May your hearts be as stone and your blades as the wind.”

  Along with the rest of the knights, Jaeme made a crossing motion over his heart, and repeated the last words.

  Did that make him also a traitor? The code would demand that he turn his uncle in to the Council, but they, too, had betrayed his family. Such infidelities seemed more endemic to Mortiche than the vows themselves.

  “I welcome you all to the pinnacle of another year’s tourney,” Greghor continued. “Once again we have been witness to extraordinary martial prowess, superior horsemanship, and of course, inventive competition.”

  With the last, Greghor shot Jaeme a pointed look. Jaeme forced a grin and lifted his goblet in response, and the room erupted into laughter—except for the elder and younger Osmoors. They appeared unable to pull their eyes away from Matthon Buras.

  Jaeme could only be glad their attentions were no longer fixed on Daniella.

  “I hold the distinct honor of introducing your champions,” Greghor said. “These two men have exhibited true mastery of the knightly arts. Please welcome Sir Althet, second son of the Baron of Hurn. And also Master Matthon Buras.”

  Jaeme’s smile held as his uncle maintained his enthusiasm while introducing both of the competitors. Greghor would be all too aware of the climate in the room, and by pointedly ignoring it, he was setting a tone.

  A tone the rest of the room seemed reluctant to follow. There were a few notable exceptions, though—Stephan was grinning widely, and Hugh, translating dutifully for Perchaya, looked on with seeming approval.

  “Come on,” Jaeme said, guiding Daniella toward the dance floor, where servants were using chalk and string to measure out a fighting space. The crowd parted for Jaeme, letting him to the dais where they stood beside his u
ncle while the others crowded around. Though no one else in the room could know it, that step felt to Jaeme like a final confirmation of the choice he’d been making since the moment his uncle told him the truth.

  He was standing behind Greghor, not behind his country. He was, like his uncle, committing the treason his father was innocent of. He was doing so for the protection of his friends, but also for his uncle, as a way of showing that he understood Greghor’s motives, however misguided.

  If there were ever an investigation into when Jaeme knew what he knew, he would be proclaimed a traitor like his father. And surely, this moment would be the one they would point to, as the occasion on which he publicly showed his allegiance, even knowing the terrible truth. He reached for Daniella’s hand and held it tight. Jaeme beckoned to Perchaya and Hugh, and the two of them stepped up on the dais to join them.

  Hugh, at least, was innocent.

  Buras and Althet stood on opposite sides of the chalk ring as the crowd closed in around the edges of it. Jaeme caught sight of Sayvil and Nikaenor on the far side, Sayvil scowling and Nikaenor stepping up onto a chair to get a better look. He tried to motion for them to step up on the dais as well, but he couldn’t catch their eye.

  Both of the competitors turned to Greghor and executed a ceremonial bow. Jaeme’s uncle responded with a dip of his head and motioned to the squires that the weapons could be brought in. Althet’s squire wore the heraldry of the duchy of Belvon, while Buras’ wore a leather tunic that looked like it might have been the best clothes of a cousin much larger than him. Jaeme was glad they’d allowed Buras a squire at all, as there was no protocol for a commoner bringing an unofficial one. Buras had chosen well; the boy carried Buras’ sword and shield with confidence.

  Jaeme’s stomach turned as he saw the weapon that Althet’s squire produced—a spiked mace with a short pole. Jaeme put a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. There were only two rules in the Champion’s Duel—stay in the ring and fight to first blood.

  You didn’t bring a mace to a fight to first blood. He wasn’t going for the light cut that would win a duel. Althet meant to do real damage.

  “Are you going to allow that?” Jaeme asked.

  Greghor frowned as Althet took the mace in his hands and looked smugly over at Buras, who, to his credit, didn’t seem to react.

  “It’s not against the rules,” Greghor said softly. “If I insist he switch weapons, I could be called out for intervening on Buras’ behalf.”

  That was true, and things being as they were, Greghor wouldn’t want to draw scrutiny to his support of a common army. Perhaps that was why he’d been so quiet about the matter at the banquet. It was then that Jaeme realized what this would look like, him standing here with Daniella, presenting her as his paramour while his uncle consorted with Diamis.

  Yes, if Greghor was stoned for treachery, Jaeme would most certainly die beside him. “But it’s almost impossible to draw blood without injuring someone with that,” Jaeme said. “We’re about to watch a blood bath.”

  “It’s dishonorable,” Hugh said. “Unfitting of a tourney winner.” In his surprise, he’d stopped softly translating for Perchaya, who, by the horrified look on her face, clearly understood what was happening.

  “True,” Greghor said. “Let’s hope Buras is worth his salt.”

  Now it was Daniella who tightened his grip on his hand. “Is there anything you can do about this?” she whispered.

  Jaeme certainly wanted to. The competitors took their places behind the chalk lines that marked their starting positions, each taking their shield.

  “Say the word and I’ll intervene,” Jaeme said.

  But Greghor shook his head slightly. “Let’s see what happens.” Jaeme’s uncle seated himself on the chair in front of the dais, while Jaeme and his friends remained on the raised platform behind him.

  “Begin,” Greghor said, again in the ceremonial Mortichean, and Buras and Althet began to circle each other, Buras with his blade and shield up in a traditional defense, Althet defending with the shield alone, mace at the ready.

  Then Sir Althet struck. He swung his heavy mace and hit Buras’ shield with a loud clatter. The peasant shook at the impact and his shield held, dented badly in the center. Buras dodged back and Althet followed, pounding Buras’ shield. The crowd murmured with excitement, and Jaeme’s fists clenched tighter.

  Clearly unused to fighting with a shield, Buras used it as a crutch, cowering under it as Althet battered him. Althet pushed him back to the edge of the ring, and with nowhere to go, Buras made a desperate decision. As Althet swung back to strike again, Buras released the shield and ducked under it to the side. The mace struck the shield again and the steel slammed to the floor.

  Buras rolled out of the way and clipped Althet with one foot, causing the knight to stumble. Althet quickly regained his equilibrium and he, too, flung his shield away, it having become a hindrance as Buras darted in and out of reach. Buras, for his part, was lightning quick as he lunged low. As he watched, Jaeme’s respect for the man grew. His style reminded Jaeme of the way Kenton fought, quick and light, lacking in technical artistry but skilled at improvisation. Althet swung at Buras’ legs and Buras deftly jumped over the mace, like a child in a rope game.

  Althet’s face was red with exertion and poorly restrained anger as he missed contact with Buras again and again. Buras waited him out, unable to get close to the knight without risking a blow from the mace. Buras feinted right, and as Althet followed with the full force of his rage and training, the peasant lunged and sliced downward. The flat of his blade smacked Althet’s upper thigh at a very slight angle and the crowd gasped as the sharp edge sliced the heavy breeches. A trail of blood oozed through the split leather, and with the burst of a trumpet, all further action stilled.

  The ballroom went silent as the assembled nobility gaped. Jaeme looked smugly around at them. For their part, his friends only looked shocked, and Daniella concerned, with good reason.

  Althet stared down at his leg, and then fixed his eyes on Buras, who was panting lightly, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor as if he himself couldn’t believe he had actually fought his way to tournament champion.

  Jaeme watched in horror as Althet raised his mace. He was about to call out when his uncle beat him to it. “Halt!” Greghor shouted.

  Buras’ head snapped up just in time to see the advancing mace. He ducked out of the way a fraction of a second too late, and the tip of the mace grazed his shoulder, drawing blood without grievously injuring him.

  Several in the crowd shouted their approval, but with a motion of Greghor’s hand, two squires moved forward to restrain Althet. The knight allowed himself to be disarmed, though he looked unhappy that he hadn’t managed to land a better blow.

  Greghor stepped up to the chalk line, ignoring the knight entirely.

  “Well done, Master Buras. You have done what many considered impossible.” Greghor snapped his fingers once, and a nearby servant stepped forward to hand Buras a clean towel and a goblet of wine. A servant bound up his wound, while another tended to Althet’s and the squires steered him off the floor.

  “By our laws and by our noble traditions,” Greghor said to Buras, “you have earned the tournament boon. Three gold battalions or the right to ask the hand of one of the noble maidens. What is your choice?”

  A ripple of protest ran through the crowd. Jaeme wondered briefly if Buras had his eye on some lady, if he’d been carrying on with one in secret and had done all of this for love.

  “Thank you, your grace,” Buras said. “But I fear if I were to claim a lady, my wife would object.”

  Greghor smiled. “The gold, then, is yours.”

  But Buras shook his head. “No, your grace. I have my eyes on a greater prize.”

  The room was deathly silent, all eyes on Buras. Daniella looked to Jaeme, and he shook his head. No, this wasn’
t normal. In fact, Jaeme had never seen it happen before. Across the room, Jaeme met eyes with Stephan. His friend looked concerned, and rightly so.

  “I have bested all of your knights who dared to compete,” Buras said. “I have proven myself more than worthy. Keep your gold, and instead, bestow upon me the knighthood, that your order may continue to represent the best that Mortiche can offer.”

  “Oh gods,” Daniella murmured.

  She had no idea. Knighting a commoner could produce questions about Greghor’s loyalty to the Council. If they were looking to make an example, they might go so far as to strip his title for it.

  The nobles were incensed at his words, and even Greghor’s quelling gaze could not quiet them. Jaeme stepped down from the dais and moved to Greghor’s side, a hand on his sword. Duke Latimer stepped forward as well and yelled above the din, “Calm, everyone. Let us discuss this rationally.”

  “Hear, hear!” agreed Greghor, and Hugh called his approval as well. Stephan moved to Jaeme’s side as the angry shouts quieted to a grumble.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Osgoode shouted. “He’s a peasant. Can he even read?”

  The last thing they needed was for a fight to break out right here on the ballroom floor, with half of the Council already intoxicated. “Can you?” Jaeme called back. “You had your chance to best him. How did that go?”

  Greghor put a hand on Jaeme’s arm, but he didn’t tell him to stop.

  “He should never have been allowed to compete in the first place!” Osgoode replied.

  “Only the opinions of Council members will be considered,” Greghor said. “All others will be pleased to remain quiet.”

  Osgoode didn’t look in the least bit pleased, and Jaeme didn’t miss that, as a lord and not a duke, his own opinion was also silenced.