While Krohn was presenting his riding-beasts for Keaf to select one or all, news came that an old man who’d been sick for some days had died.
Ganton interrupted Krohn with anxious words. “Master Keaf, this is a serious problem.”
Keaf nodded. He was the only one in the area suited to bury the fellow. “I understand.” He cracked his knuckles and flexed his shoulders. It would be good to do the digging after two big meals in one day.
As he started away, Ganton stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “My Lord. Your disguise is ended, and your mission is far too important. You need only tell us who is to replace you as the gravedigger. I would gladly take the job myself, but my back is not what it used to be.” He reached behind and made a poorly faked grimace of pain.
Keaf stood there stunned. All adoration aside, it had never occurred to him that he would no longer be digging graves. He had assumed that he would simply be the best-treated digger in the land.
But Ganton was serious, whatever mission he thought Keaf was on, and Krohn and Lane and the others looked genuinely worried that he might actually do something besides let them serve him. “N-no,” he stammered. “You shouldn’t do it, Sir Ganton. Get someone younger.” A malicious choice came to him, and he spoke before he considered more. “Let Lane do it.”
Lane stepped forward, looking grim and huge. “I am honored,” he said with total sincerity. “Thank you for thinking of me.” He turned and lumbered off in the direction of the cemetery with a whistled tune on his lips.
Keaf watched him go, and he almost yearned to follow. The irony of casting Lane among the shunned had a second edge. Power took as well as gave, and it had just taken away Keaf’s purpose in life. He would have to work at finding a new one.
By evening, Keaf was growing convinced that his new occupation was to give his followers someone to follow. He was waited on and tended to with unerring devotion, and the village seemed happier than he’d ever seen it. They had purpose as never before. And they used up their small supplies of food and stores as never before.
During the supper feast, travelers arrived seeking room and board for the night. Their leader, Baron Mallorin, was a dashing figure, a young nobleman from the Western Empire. Ganton couldn’t offer them his best room, but he made his second best sound even better. While he and the baron bargained at the serving bar, Dellawynn sat beside Keaf and stared.
“I should see to your new guest,” she said as Mallorin glanced around the tavern hall. Even his smile gleamed. Dellawynn had discovered a silk dress that left her stomach enticingly exposed and did fine justice to the rest of her. A Gypsy dancer had left it at the inn sometime past, departing under hurried circumstances that Ganton did not speak of around his wife.
Keaf was growing impatient with Dellawynn’s roving eye, or maybe there was little else to rouse him, and he let his irritation show. “Wait until the baron comes to greet us,” he said. “Then we’ll see who best captures his interest.”
Dellawynn sat back pouting, but her eyes remained on Mallorin. As Ganton concluded his arrangements, he took the baron’s arm and led him toward Keaf. The villagers had set up two fine chairs on a raised platform of rough planks, and from there Keaf held his meager court. Meager but absolute.
The hall grew quieter. Mallorin’s brow wrinkled, assessing and speculating as he met Keaf’s gaze. When he looked at Dellawynn, his expression turned hungry.
“Lord Keaf,” Ganton said, “may I present Baron Mallorin from the Western Empire.”
Mallorin bowed slightly. Keaf stood and drew his Sword. As the distant cheering rose up, the baron dropped to one knee. “My Lord,” he said. “I did not know that you possessed one of the Twelve Swords. Allow me to pledge my eternal allegiance.” He bowed lower and offered his glove.
“You see,” Keaf said to Dellawynn, loud enough that everyone heard. “He serves me, and none of my followers would ever go behind my back to you.” He took the glove and tossed it beside his chair.
Dellawynn’s pout melted away as she gazed at the Sword. “It was wrong of me to ever think it,” she said. “Serving you is all I ever want.”
Keaf sighed as he put the Sword away. Too easy. Everything was too easy, and everyone was too doggedly obedient. Contemplating bigger challenges, he motioned Mallorin to sit. “You know this Sword?” he asked.
Mallorin nodded. “It is one of the Twelve, forged by the Gods in the mountains north of here. I held the one called Sightblinder for a short time. Anyone who looked upon me saw a different face.”
“And this Sword?” Keaf patted his side but left the blade sheathed. “It seems to work a similar magic.”
“No,” Mallorin said. “The Sword of Obedience was made for you to wield. In another man’s hand it might make him seem great, but that would be delusion. In your hand it only confirms what my heart tells me. Once you throw off this cloak of meager birth, you will be the ultimate ruler, a god among us.”
A shiver ran down Keaf’s back. To hold such power in a single blade? He’d seen practically nothing of the world in his short life, but now it was his for the taking. That was irony beyond measure, that a gravedigger could rule the Earth.
“Thank you, Baron,” he said. “You may attend to your dinner and your duties. We will talk more in the morning.”
“I await your call.” As Mallorin steered himself back to the serving bar, Dellawynn sat quietly, her hand light on Keaf’s arm.
The evening wore into night, and Keaf drank more stout and more wine. Mallorin had put visions in his head, visions that went far and promised much. Visions that made Keaf’s desire for simple friendship seem ridiculously small. As he staggered off to bed, there was a knot in his stomach and a cloud in his head.
“Please, my Lord Keaf, I beg you, wake up.”
Keaf wasn’t sure how many times he heard the whispered words before he understood. He raised his head and lowered it again as drink-inflicted pain thrummed through his skull.
A servant girl stood at the foot of the bed and begged him to rise. “It’s urgent business, the man says.” She pointed to the door. “Your welfare is at stake, he says, and he must see you tonight.”
Keaf reached out to tell Dellawynn that he’d be back, but she wasn’t there. He rubbed at his forehead and felt the ache at his temples. “Get me a drink of water,” he rasped.
The girl slipped out and returned a minute later with a mug. The water was cool and sweet, and it reduced the fire in Keaf’s belly. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head while she worked him into pants and shirt, tied on his boots, and draped a cloak over his shoulders. “Please, my Lord.” She urged him up, guided him down the corridor, and they slipped out the door into the night.
As the cold hit him, Keaf’s head cleared enough to realize his oversight. He’d left the Sword behind, and all of his loyal followers were asleep. He grabbed the girl by the arm. “Damn, girl! Fetch me my Sword!”
She darted away.
“You shouldn’t have dug it up,” a deep voice said from the dark.