The instructor’s mount, a faded roan smaller than his own charger, moved off in a walk with complete equanimity. Camwyn concentrated on his posture, on giving precise signals, and was almost unseated at the first turn when the horse spun in a quarter circle.
“Lightly, lightly,” the instructor called. “You’re yelling at him; try a whisper.”
As the lesson went on, with students changing horses every circuit of the field, until finally pairs were changing horses while trotting together, Camwyn felt better. When he was on the ground, following the instructor, hearing every comment, he began to see things he’d never noticed before. Riding the different horses, having to adjust his seat and his aids to them, he tried to apply those things in a way he hadn’t before.
Finally it was over; once more they stood in a line, and this time the horses were quiet. The instructor looked them over. “Well done,” he said. “You young men—” It was the first time he’d ever called them men. “—are worthy of your fathers. You learned a hard lesson today, one I would not have chosen for you. But I warn you—what happened today may happen again. You, as lords’ sons, are all in danger. From now on, you must go early to the stables, as a group, and as a group inspect every mount, and all the tack, before mounted drill. Of course all the grooms are being questioned, but you’re old enough to take some responsibility yourselves. I have sent to the stables for two horses, for Camwyn and Aris; when they come, we will go back, in proper order, as if nothing had happened. I will report to the prince and Council.”
Four more Royal Guardsmen arrived with the two led horses, a roan and a gray; they carried fresh saddlecloths. With them came a Marshal. The instructor checked the saddlecloths, the saddles, and then drew aside to speak to the Marshal while the two saddled their new mounts.
“You will be knights someday,” the instructor said, when he returned to the group. “Ride like that, through the city, and not like chattering boys.”
Camwyn felt no desire to chatter; Aris rode beside him, grim-faced now, looking ready to kill someone. He was reminded that Aris’s older brother, Juris, was his own older brother’s best friend. Instead of talking, Camwyn sat tall, imagining himself as Camwyn Dragonmaster, for whom he’d been named. Of course, he was Girdish, but the images of Camwyn, sword in hand, confronting the Father of Dragons were far more dramatic than those of Gird with his cudgel. He scolded himself for daydreaming, hoping no one had noticed, and watched the people in the streets as they passed. Was one of them a Verrakai agent? Servant? What would he do if someone rushed at him?
In the royal mews, the stablemaster met them. “My lords—I had no idea—”
“Enough,” the instructor said. “These boys have other lessons now. Let them go, and then we’ll talk.”
Camwyn wanted to stay and listen, but his escort and his tutor were there as well, and Duke Marrakai had already collected Aris.
“To the Council with you all,” Marrakai said. He looked as grim as Aris. “We want it all down before you’ve forgotten or talked each other into something that you didn’t see.”
Camwyn had found Council meetings boring before, the times his brother the crown prince made him sit through one. He’d not been to one since the assassination attempt. This one proved different. He and his friends were held in an anteroom and ordered not to talk, while one by one they went in to tell their stories to the Council. Those who finished were whisked away by tutors, older siblings, parents before they could report on what it had been like.
Camwyn expected he and Aris would be first, since their horses had been poisoned, but instead they were last, and Camwyn went in before Aris. He had to relate the entire morning’s events, from waking up to the instructor killing his horse.
“Are the horses usually saddled and waiting in their stalls?” asked Duke Mahieran.
“No, sir,” Camwyn said. The Duke usually ruffled his hair and called him a young scamp, but today his uncle treated him with cool courtesy. “Since Midwinter, we’ve usually had to groom and saddle them ourselves, but sometimes the grooms do it.”
“So you were not surprised to find the horses ready?”
“Not really. It’s easier that way, anyhow.”
“And did you check the saddle?”
“I tightened the girth before mounting, and looked at the stirrup straps and girth for soundness, but I didn’t feel under the saddlecloth. The horse showed no sign of discomfort; its eyes were bright; its nostrils … everything seemed normal.”
The Duke led him through the rest of it—mounting, riding out to the drill field—step by step. Camwyn described the horse’s behavior. “They were all shifting around—not just mine, who was pawing. It’s spring, and we haven’t been out for days—”
“What was Aris Marrakai’s horse doing?”
“Prancing in place. I heard Aris talking to it—we’re not supposed to, in drill, but he was trying to calm it.” Camwyn went on to tell the rest as clearly as he could.
“What did the lump look like? Part of the horse or something on the horse?”
“On the horse,” Camwyn said. “Like—like one of those mud nests some wasps make, but only this big …” He held his forefinger and thumb apart. “Maybe as thick as my thumb. Dull-colored, flattened some where it was under the saddle.”
“You saw nothing, no lump, under the saddlecloth before you mounted?”
“No, it was under the saddle, right in the middle of the back. I wouldn’t have seen it.”
“Someone put it there,” Duke Serrostin said.
“That’s obvious,” Duke Mahieran said impatiently. “Camwyn, when the instructor knocked it off the horse’s back, did it break apart when it landed? Did you see anything come out of it?”
“No,” Camwyn said. “I was holding his horse here—” He gestured. “—and the lump went that way, where I couldn’t see. Do you know what it was?”
“No,” the Duke said. “I’m sure we’ll find out. You may go now. And this is not a topic for gossip, is that clear?”
Camwyn looked at his brother, but Mikeli’s face was blank as a closed door. No invitation to stay … Camwyn walked out, as Aris was ushered in; their eyes met briefly, Aris’s still angry.
Camwyn’s tutor and guards awaited, and he spent the rest of the time until lunch on the history of the Girdish wars, a period when the Marrakai—allied early with Gird—had gained importance. Camwyn had worked out most of the battles with his collection of miniature soldiers, and tried to impress his tutor with his perfect knowledge of the terrain, opposing forces, and tactical quirks of each, but his tutor concentrated on the unexciting areas of family genealogy, law, finance, and religion.
Lunch came while he was still struggling to untangle the lineages of Mahieran, Serrostin, Verrakai, Marrakai and their vassals during the Girdish wars. Camwyn preferred to consider merely their alliances—Girdish, anti-Girdish, and neutral—but his tutor insisted on his noticing who married whom and which branch of a family chose which.
After lunch in his own quarters, surrounded by palace guards and a hovering taster, Camwyn joined the others again in the Bells training hall for weapons drill. No time to talk there; the armsmaster kept them busy and breathless until all Camwyn wanted to do was fall to the floor and gasp. After that a lesson with the palace Marshal on the Code of Gird, and finally a bath and supper. With his brother and several of his brother’s friends, including Juris Marrakai. And Aris.
“I share your grief,” his brother said to Aris, taking him by the hand. “And yours,” he said to Camwyn, taking his. “By Gird—we could have lost you both today!”
He led them to the table and sat them one to either side of him. Camwyn looked across at Aris. He had not eaten with Mikeli and the men since their father died; he’d still been in the nursery then.