The two sergeants looked at each other. Selfer looked at his boots.
“Well, Captain,” Kefer finally said. “It’s like this. Been in the Company nearly as long as you, as you recall, and nearly all of it in your cohort—transferred after Etund died, as you recall—” Dorrin nodded for him to go on. “And it’s not something we talk about, but let’s just say Duke Phelan didn’t hire bad captains. Been your sergeant now for over ten years, and a lot of fighting, and I trust you. And Arcolin, of course, but—he’s not the Duke—the king—begging your pardon.” He glanced at Vossik again, and Vossik took over.
“Speaking for me, Captain, I’d be glad to soldier with you, if I can’t with … with the king. I’d say most of the rest would too. Can’t speak for ’em all, of course. But as for me, if you’re asking, I’m saying my oath to you.”
Here was a new problem. She had not intended to settle any outsiders in Verrakai lands, certainly not nearly a hundred fighting men and women. Yet it would mean having trusted people at her back. She turned to Selfer.
“Well?”
He looked up. “I’m not sure.” Kefer shifted; Dorrin shot him a glance and he went stone-still again. “It’s not any doubt of you, Captain, or your ability. But I’ve been thinking, anyway—of going for knight’s training. I’ve saved my pay, and—and you’re a Knight of Falk, and—I wouldn’t leave you now, in an emergency, but later—”
“I’m not asking a lifelong commitment, Selfer,” Dorrin said. He flushed but she went on. “You’ve got the talent; you’re a born commander, and if things hadn’t changed I’ve no doubt the king would’ve recommended that you take formal knight’s training, either at Vérella or Fin Panir, even if you came back to him as a captain. If you’re willing to spare me a year, it would be helpful—it might not even take that long.”
He nodded. “Of course I can, Captain.”
Dorrin turned to the sergeants. “I do not feel comfortable offering you and the cohort a permanent position without talking to the king and to Jandelir. The king offered me the loan of you, and without his consent I won’t commit for longer than a year. But if he consents, and if it poses no threat to his former holding—which Jandelir can tell me—then that offer is on the table.”
The sergeants nodded, eyes bright. “Thank you, Captain,” Vossik said.
“Yes,” Kefer said. “Thank you—and you, sir, too,” he added, to Selfer. Then, with a brisk nod, Vossik led them both out of the harness room.
Dorrin waited a moment, her mind buzzing with a thousand new details that had just sprung up to encumber what had been a simple plan. Then she turned to Selfer.
“I know,” he said, before she could speak. “Blue saddlecloths and some kind of banner. A pennon. Blue and silver. It may take more than a day; I’ll be as quick as I can.” He paused. “Blue surcoats?”
“No. Not yet. We’re not trying to fool them; we’re just making legitimacy clear.” She thought of something else. “I have the ducal seal. The prince sent it to me, along with the chain of office. If you run into any reluctance to sell to us—”
“Good. I’ll be off, then.”
Dorrin went back inside. Valthan was talking to some of the other Royal Guard, but turned to her immediately.
“Blue saddlecloths,” Dorrin said, before he could speak. “That was a good idea. I’ve sent Selfer to arrange blue saddlecloths and a blue pennant. It may delay us a day or two.”
“I’m sorry I upset you—”
Dorrin waved her hand. “It’s the common view of mercenaries. I should be used to it by now. Come, let’s talk of other things. Why don’t you introduce me to your comrades? Then we’ll visit the Marshal.”
“Introduce you … as the Duke?”
“It’s what I am, by the prince’s own command. Best begin here, in Harway, as we mean to go on.”
He bowed, but did not turn to the others. “My … lady … there is one problem. In living memory, Tsaia has not had a woman duke. How do I style your name and title? Are you my lady duke, my lady duchess? Surely not my lord—?”
“In Phelan’s company, we always used sir, to man or woman commander. And I am displacing a duke’s widow, who is used to the term lady. Let it be ‘my lord,’ odd as it may seem to your ear. It is an odd situation.”
Valthan nodded, and turned to the others. He had all the names, the order of precedence, and presented each with grave courtesy to “my lord, the Duke of Verrakai” and Dorrin acknowledged each bow with a slight one of her own.
Marshal Berris listened as Dorrin explained what she wanted to do to reassure Sir Valthan and gave Valthan a sharp look. “I saw her fight over near Darkon Edge,” he said. “I have no doubt of her loyalty to the Crown. And if the paladin I met there believes she has sufficient magery—and his own note proves she has the prince’s permission to use it—”
“I am responsible for my troop,” Valthan said. He sounded stubborn.
“Dorrin?” Marshal Berris said, using her name as if he considered her a friend. Her heart warmed to him.
“I was reluctant to demonstrate my powers to Sir Valthan alone,” Dorrin said. “I suggested coming here, precisely because it is Gird’s Code that forbids the use of magery, and thus we can assume Gird will be watching to assure that I do not go beyond the barest need. Also I believe that you, Marshal, will be able to discern if I am using any evil source of power. I fully understand why Sir Valthan feels he must know something of what I can do.”
Berris chewed his lip a moment. Finally he nodded. “Come into the grange,” he said. “First we pray, then we see what happens.” He led them inside, then shut and barred the outer door. His yeoman-marshal came out of the back offices, brows raised. “Sarn, I have business I may not speak of this morning. Go to the barton gate, and tell any yeomen who come that I will open the main door when I can. We should be through here by noon, should we not?” He looked at Dorrin.
“Yes,” she said. “I doubt more than a turn of the glass.”
“You don’t know how long my prayers will take,” he said, with a grim smile. “Tell them, Sarn, and do not interrupt or come nearer.”
“Yes, Marshal,” Sarn said, and went out, closing the side door behind him.
Dorrin looked around the big room with its platform at one end, the weapons racked along the walls. High windows let in diffused light.
“Come onto the platform,” Berris said. He himself went to a niche at the end of the room, and withdrew something from it. “This is a relic,” he said. It looked to Dorrin like a roughly hewn knobbly stick. “We believe Gird actually held it. Dorrin, it is a truth-test, and I will not demand you take it—you are a Knight of Falk and I know Falkians to be honorable—but it might reassure Sir Valthan.”
Dorrin took the stick, worn smoother at one end by long handling by many. “I am willing,” she said.
“Do not be surprised,” Berris said, “if something happens. I will ask questions.” Dorrin nodded. “Dorrin Verrakai,” he began. “Do you serve Falk and the High Lord?”
“Yes,” Dorrin said.
“Do you intend your magery to serve good?”
“Yes,” Dorrin said.
“Have you ever, in any way, consented to Liart’s evil?”
Dorrin hesitated; the wood in her hands grew warm, warmer than her grip should make it. “As a child,” she said. “In pain and fear, when I could no longer resist, I did a few times as I was commanded.”
“Have you ever used magery for your own profit, in any way whatsoever?”
“No.”
“By the power of Gird and the High Lord, I ask if truth be proved,” Berris said.
In her hands, the wood glowed as bright as any magic weapon; she could see the bones of her hands through illuminated flesh. Then it faded.