The leader nodded; the others, whey-faced, stared like cattle.
“Here is the oath you will pledge,” Dorrin said. “I—and then your name, all of it—do pledge fealty to Sir Dorrin, Duke of Verrakai, to protect, preserve, and obey, by day and night, in fear, famine, fire, and frost, to the end of my blood and life. To this I pledge my honor.”
“That’s not the same—” Sim began, from the back row; one of his comrades shoved him.
“Haron was a traitor, and he’s dead,” Dorrin said. “His oaths were false. Swear or not; it is your choice.”
“I will,” said the leader. He knelt in the mud before her and said the words in a steady voice, looking her in the eye.
“Rise, then, Mikel Vadrison. I accept your oath.”
One after another they knelt and pledged, even Sim, who stammered his way through with prompting from Mikel and others.
“Now, Sir Valthan, as you have witnessed their oaths to me, I ask you to witness mine to them.” He looked surprised, but nodded. “I pledge to you the protection of my name and my honor, so long as you are loyal—” She named them all, one by one. “You will not hunger, while I have food. You will not freeze, while I have fire. No evil will haunt your homes, while this blade has an edge and I have strength to wield it.” She drew the blade, and it flashed in sudden sunlight. Their eyes widened; surprise, fear, and hope mingled in their expressions.
Dorrin grinned at them. “Now, because you did not know I was your Duke, your earlier rudeness is forgiven you—but so you do not forget, you will march today without your arms. Captain, take charge of these men, and ensure that, as they are unable to defend themselves, they are not put at risk.”
The troop moved on, the Verrakai in the midst of the Phelani. That night they camped in the cold damp, but the Royal Guard had tents for their own comfort. “You can have mine,” Sir Valthan said, “if you have none of your own.”
“No,” Dorrin said. “I made a pledge to those fellows in blue; they need to know I keep promises. I will share their conditions, though not their food.” She sat at the same fire with them and her cohort of Phelani, sword across her knees, and slept well enough. It was no different from campaigning with Kieri.
The next morning, she called the militia group to her, took a report from Vossik and Selfer on their behavior the previous day and night, and the inspection of their weapons. Their behavior had been satisfactory, but their weapons—“I found rust on four blades,” Vossik said, “and one is already cracked from a nick no one bothered to file out. Scabbards oiled, but not really clean. Two belts are old dry leather, ready to give way. The crossbows need to be taken down and reassembled by an arbalest; the bindings on five are rotting. Two, the prod’s loose of the stock. I don’t know who their armsmaster is, but he’s not doing his job. If these were our people, they’d have their pay docked for the damage to weapons.”
Dorrin looked at the militia; the leader had flushed. “I’m disappointed,” she said. “I demand better of my people. Rusty, nicked swords are good for scaring unarmed peasants, but not for real fighting. Crossbows with bad bindings are out of alignment and don’t shoot straight. We haven’t time to test your skills and see if they’re as rusty as your blades, but I can’t depend on you for my protection as you are.”
They all looked downcast. Good. Whatever Haron had done to them—and she suspected he had ensured their weapons and training were inferior, using them mostly for show—they needed pride in their work and their tools. “Mikel, what do you think of the swords the mercenaries carry?”
“My lord Duke, they’re—they’re beautiful.”
Dorrin felt her brows rising. They weren’t beautiful; they were ordinary, workmanlike swords that had seen proper care.
“If you had such swords, would you be willing to learn to care for them and keep them … beautiful?”
“Yes, my lord!” The others nodded.
Dorrin looked over at Selfer. “Captain, I wish to purchase eight of your spare swords, with scabbards, for these men. And—how many belts were bad?”
“Two, my lord Duke.”
“And two belts. You have no crossbows, I think?” She knew perfectly well they did not, but this was too much fun. She could see by the twinkle in Selfer’s eye that he recognized the game.
“No. We carry them only for certain campaigns.”
“Swords, then, and belts. If your people can find any use in their weaponry, fine; otherwise, retain it for the metal. See that these men receive instruction in the proper care of their weapons.”
She saw amazement in the men’s eyes and turned away before she had to laugh. Soon enough they had mounted again, this time with Phelani-designed swords, and they were holding themselves with more confidence. Dorrin continued a slow march; she did not want to miss any traps her relatives might have set.
Midmorning of the third day saw them close enough to Verrakai House that Dorrin could easily feel the magery employed to screen it. She remembered the maze of trails and tracks; the glamours that would have led them astray had no effect on her. When they came out of the trees, there before her was the same stretch of fields, snow striping the furrows of the ploughland. Near the little river thin green showed where magery warmed the soil to ensure an early start to the year’s crops, just as magery kept the stream from freezing over. In blocks of orchard, the buds of fruit trees showed varying shades of red, rose, and gold with the coming of spring.
And there was Verrakai House, the old keep rising grim and dark from its center, the various additions in less weathered stone … outbuildings around it … no wall, because, she’d been told, they needed none. Magery alone would protect the house.
Magery had brought it down—the prince had been clear. If she could not rule Verrakai, the Crown would take over, razing the house, the old keep, everything, and divide it between lords the prince thought loyal.
Dorrin reached inside her doublet and pulled out the ducal chain and medallion again. Valthan nodded approval as she spread it on her shoulders, folding back her cloak so it showed clearly, but it was not for him—or for her family—that she did so. For an instant she had felt again the panic of the child she had been, and fought it down with a soldier’s discipline. The former duke’s ring, large enough to fit her bare thumb, fit snugly on the heart-hand heart-finger over her riding glove; she made sure it was secure, and touched the ducal medallion. She was not that terrified, miserable child, nor yet an errant daughter returning to beg forgiveness; she was the prince’s vassal, the rightful Duke, come to take control of a rebellious province. When she was satisfied, she legged her mount on.
“Do you want the Royal Guard to precede you?” Valthan asked.
Dorrin shook her head. “No. They must see that I am in command, and unafraid.”
“An archer could take you out—”
“Remember my protection,” Dorrin said. “I doubt they’ll try anything that simple, but if they do I have nothing to fear—nor do you. You may announce me when we get there.”
No one rode out to meet the column as it marched nearer. No sentry challenged them; nothing stirred in the empty, snow-patched fields, no cattle or sheep or horses—some should have been grazing the Winterfield—no peasants. Dorrin knew better than to think no one had noticed their arrival.
“Do you want me to send out scouts?” Selfer asked.
Dorrin shook her head. “I know it’s what we would do ordinarily, cut off anyone trying to escape, but I’m not sure how far my protection extends. I think it’s better to stay close, even though some may win free.”
Halfway from the trees to the house, she felt the first tingle of personal magery. It had a flavor she remembered, one of her cousins’. She blocked it without effort, and checked to see if it had touched her troop. No. It had been meant for her alone, and her cousin would recognize her block as readily as she would recognize her cousin’s probe. If they had not known before who was coming, that touch would reveal her.