“Well,” Berris said. “I believe we may trust whatever comes, Sir Valthan. And now let us all pray.”
They knelt in silence for a time, Dorrin with them. When Berris rose, Dorrin and Valthan did also.
“What proofs would you have?” Berris asked. “We cannot produce a Verrakai lord—other than Dorrin, here—to test her powers on.”
“She has said she wants to shield us from attack—if there is any way to show that—”
“I cannot both shield you and attack you,” Dorrin said. “But I can shield myself and you, or myself and the Marshal, while the other one attacks physically. Will that serve?”
“If that’s the best you can do—” Valthan began.
“Gird’s arm!” Berris said. “I suggest three things. Make light. Hold one of us—or both of us—still so we cannot move. Then as you suggest, protect yourself and one of us against attack. That would convince me, if I were going with you.”
“You’d be welcome to come,” Dorrin said.
“Nay, I spent time enough away this winter. Let’s get to it. Can you make light?”
In answer, Dorrin set her hands alight and—as she had learned—expanded that light, making it brighter until the men squinted against it.
“Well and good,” Berris said briskly. “Now—Sir Valthan, do you and I draw blades, and starting at the main door, walk toward her, and see if she can stop us, and how far her power extends.”
Dorrin, on the platform, let them get to the door and turn, then sent her power out—and they both stopped midway of their first step. Valthan’s eyes widened; Berris scowled. She relaxed the power slightly; they struggled forward, like men walking in deep water. When she increased it again, once more they stopped short; when she released it, they both staggered before walking toward her at their usual pace.
“That must be what happened to the prince,” Valthan said, frowning. “Horrible feeling; I strained every muscle to move and could not.”
“What interests me,” Berris said, “is that I have seen and felt no taint of evil in it at all.” He looked at Valthan. “Do you want to go on with the third test?”
“I—yes. I believe she can do it, but—I would like to see it.”
“Curiosity,” Berris said.
“If the Duke doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t,” Dorrin said. “Come, Valthan: Let the Marshal attack us.”
She was used to making the shield, having practiced that most in Lyonya, and Berris—though a Marshal of Gird in Gird’s grange—could not touch either of them with a weapon.
“And so her powers are proved,” Berris said, putting a pike back in the rack. “And proved in Gird’s own grange—I hope you’re satisfied, Sir Valthan, because I can think of no more tests to perform here.”
“I am,” Valthan said. He bowed to Dorrin. “I’m sorry, my lord, for my doubts.”
Dorrin shook her head. “Sir, no apologies are due. You proved yourself a true Girdsman by your doubts, and honorable by your willingness to accept evidence. I do not consider your wish to protect your troops a discourtesy to me.”
“Good,” Berris said. “And since it was Valthan’s desire to come here, you, sir, owe me an exchange and the grange a gift. Dorrin, you go open the doors and tell Sarn he can come in.” Valthan looked startled, but complied, taking one of the wasters Berris handed him and stepping up on the platform.
By nightfall, all the mounts had blue cloth covers over Phelani saddlepads, and the troops, still in Phelan’s maroon, had blue armbands. Twists of blue yarn marked halters and headstalls. Dorrin’s own saddle now sported a quilted blue suede cover held on with star-shaped silver brads, a large blue saddlecloth trimmed in pale gray, and a drape of silver-gray brocade behind it. More of the silver brads adorned the cheekpieces and browband of her bridle. Dorrin felt her eyebrows going up.
“Leatherworker had some fancy brads,” Selfer said. “He said the former duke always had fancy saddlery, so I thought it’s what they’d expect.”
“I see you put new stirrup leathers—”
“Not taking any chances, Captain.”
“You’ve done well, Selfer. Now—from now on, I’m ‘my lord Duke’ to everyone, and you are Captain.”
“Yes, my lord Duke,” Selfer said promptly, without even a hint of a grin.
“Thank you, Captain,” Dorrin said. “Valthan has introduced me to his men, and swears they’ll be ready to ride on the morn.”
“So will ours, my lord,” Selfer said. “Did you have time to find clothes for yourself?”
“No success,” Dorrin said. “I did ask at one place, but someone had already bought all the blue cloth they had.” When Selfer looked abashed, she grinned. “Don’t apologize, Captain. I have my formal clothes, and Marshal Berris has lent me a blue cloak. It’s Girdish blue, not Verrakai blue, but it will do well enough.” It would also infuriate those of her relatives who still thought, and spoke, of Gird as “that peasant upstart.”
Next morning Dorrin woke more rested than she’d expected. She dressed: undershift, mail shirt, pale gray silk shirt, with her black velvet dress doublet over it, riding leathers, boots. She hesitated over the ducal chain—wear it? Carry it in its case? What would Kieri Phelan have done? She knew; she had been there. She lifted the chain over her head, started to tuck it inside her doublet and then, half-defiantly, left it exposed, gold against the black velvet.
She bundled the rest of her clothes, all the familiar maroon of Phelan’s Company, into a pack, snatched up the Marshal’s long blue cloak, and was downstairs before the first light grayed the sky. The innkeeper’s watch lamp gave only dim light in the common room, but a streak of light from the half-open kitchen door lay across the floor. She heard the rasping scrape of a broom there, the crack of sticks broken for kindling, and low voices.
When she pushed the door wider, a sleepy cook setting out bowls on a work table glared at her, and a boy paused in his sweeping.
“No breakfast yet! The fire’s not even up.”
Dorrin smiled. “I woke early and did not want to go out the main door, lest someone think I was off without paying.”
The cook’s face relaxed. “Ah … you think Bal’s even awake at this hour? Nay—’tis the smell of breakfast cooking that wakes him. If you’re going to the jacks, best take a lantern—it’s blacker than pit out there, and wet; the cobbles might’ve been greased.”
Dorrin walked outside, into a chill drizzle; the drops sparkled in the light of her lantern. Across the yard, she could see a gleam of light; it vanished and returned, vanished and returned. Her sentries, she hoped. At the jacks, she met Selfer coming out.
“My lord Duke,” he said, formally, with a bow. “A wet day for travel, but at least not snowing.”
“Good morning, Captain,” Dorrin said. “I think the weather will shift by midmorning if not before—the wind’s already changed.”
“The kitchen’s awake?”
“Yes, but a half-glass or more from breakfast; they had just woken the main fire when I came through.”
“I’ll tell the sergeants.” He moved off, into the dark yard that now felt, to Dorrin, a little warmer than even a few minutes before.
By the time the cooks had a hot breakfast ready, Selfer had roused the cohort. “And we woke the Royal Guard’s night watch, who were wrathy with us, until we pointed out this gave them an equal chance at breakfast.”
Dorrin laughed. “It’s just as it was in Vérella, leaving with Phelan … remember how we were packed and ready hours before they were?”
“But they’re brave,” Selfer said, more to himself than her.
“Oh, yes, they’re brave, and skilled at their style of warfare,” Dorrin said. “What they’re not, is used to constant travel. Not their fault; they’re not often used for this duty.” She could hear her soldiers in the kitchen now, and yet Selfer was with her. She cocked her head. “So you’re letting Kefer and Vossik run the cohort?”