“What happened when she first drew it?” asked Paks.
“It showed a blue light, much as any magic sword may. Not as bright as when you draw it, Paks, but Tamar was not a paladin. Though as one who loved and served Gird to her death, she might well have been.”
“Did anyone else in your household draw it?”
“No. Not that I know of. Tamar was proud of it, and no wonder. Little Estil—our daughter, that was killed—she wanted to, but I remember Tamar saying she’d have to grow into it.”
“And even after her death—”
“No. Someone took it and cleaned it, when they found—found them.” His voice shook an instant, then steadied. “By the time I came north again, she was in the ground, and it was back in its scabbard, lying across her armor, for me to see. I hung it on the wall, where you found it, Paks, and there it stayed until you took it. I don’t think that it would have suffered Venneristimon to mishandle it.”
“No, my lord, I don’t think so.” Paks sighed. She hardly knew what to do; she could feel the stiffness of the squires, waiting for her to do—what? Tell him? Hand him the sword? What? She looked at his face; it was more peaceful than she’d seen it before. Was that peace a kind of defeat? But no—his eyes still held fire enough, and his hands and voice were firm. Now that she knew, she thought she could see the shape of elven blood—not as much as expected, but there. And for a man of fifty, he was remarkably lithe and young. Beside her, Suriya stirred, her cloak rustling a little.
“My lord,” she began again, “What do you remember of your childhood?”
The Duke’s eyes widened. “What!” An instant later he had shoved his chair back, and was standing, pale of face. “You don’t—Paks—no.” He put a hand to the chair; color seeped back into his face. “I understand. You want to help me, do something for me, but—”
“My lord, please.” Paks forced his attention. “Please answer.”
“Nothing good,” he said grimly. “And you cannot be right in what you surmise.”
“I can’t?” Paks surprised herself with the tone of her voice. “My lord, I ask you to listen and think of this: the elves, when they heard from Aliam Halveric that he had the sword, told him to give it to the prince. And when he replied that he was giving it to you, they said it was well enough. They erred in thinking that Aliam knew the sword and its properties. But they knew that he suspected who you were.”
“Aliam?” Now the Duke’s face was white; he clung to the chair with both fists. “He knew? Aliam?”
“He suspected, my lord, and had no proof, nor any way to find some. And your sister was betrothed, soon to be crowned.”
He shook his head, breathing hard. “I trusted him—Aliam—he said—”
“He said that he did not think your parentage could be proven, or your place restored; indeed, that’s what he thought at the time. He was not sure; he had been too young when it happened, and he dared not ask anyone.” Paks had feared his wrath with Aliam more than anything, but he was already nodding his head slowly as she spoke.
“I can understand. A boy with no background—what could he say? And my memories—so few, so far back. But—” He looked at Paks again. “Are you sure, Paks? Are you certain it’s not your regard for an old commander?”
“My lord, it is not my thought only. I have talked to Aliam Halveric, and to elves of high degree—”
“And why didn’t they—?” The Duke stopped in midsentence, his voice chopped off from a rising cry. His hand dropped again to the chair. “Because I was unfit—am unfit—”
“No, my lord. You are not.”
“I am. Paks, you know—you have seen—and Lyonya requires abilities I don’t have—if ever I did.”
“My lord, you are half-elven, with abilities scarce less than the elves, but constrained by a mortal life. I believe you have them still, buried by what you have endured. Why else would the High Lord and Gird have sent me to find you? Would they choose an unfit king?”
“No—”
“And if they can make a paladin out of me, my lord, after all that happened, they can make a good king out of you.”
“Perhaps.” The Duke sat again, pulling his chair to the table so suddenly that its legs scraped loudly on the floor. “So—you are sure, and the elves are sure, that I am a prince born, and the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne. Is anyone else convinced?”
“Aliam Halveric.”
“And any others?”
“We have not used your name, my lord, for fear that evil would come on you before I could reach you. But the lords of Lyonya, gathered together after the king’s death, agreed to accept the sword’s evidence. The elves had admitted that the prince lived, and might be found. I think most of the lords, if not all, will accept you.” She watched him; his eyes had fallen to the table, where he traced some of the silver inlay with his forefinger.
“It would be a matter for laughter, if I could laugh,” said the Duke quietly, “that I am born a prince, and of better birth than those lords who have scorned me as a bastard mercenary. They were so sure of my lack—as was I, most times—and now—” His finger paused; he looked up at Paks. “You assume, Paks, that I want to be king.”
“No, my lord. I only know that you are the rightful king, and must be.”
“Hmmph.” His gaze went past her to meet each of the squires. “Garris—Lieth—Suriya—if Paks is right, then I am your king. But I must say this, however it seems to you. Many years have gone by since I was a lost and lonely boy, tramping the fields of Lyonya looking for work. Aliam Halveric took me in, taught me my trade of war, taught me respect for the gods, and what I know of right and wrong. Garris, you knew me then—you know what sort of boy I was. Did you ever think I might be a prince?”
Garris blushed. “My lord—sir—I thought you were special, then—you know I did.”
“As a younger boy to an elder, yes. But birth?”
“Well, my lord—you acted like a prince—”
The Duke’s mouth curled in a smile. “Did I? I was trying to act like Aliam, as I recall. But what I mean is this. I had nothing when I came to Aliam. He gave me my start—as you all know, I’m sure. But from there, I made it myself. That land in the north—my stronghold—that is mine. My money, yes, but more than that. I built some of that wall myself; barked my own knuckles on that stone; left some of my blood on the hills when we fought off the orcs. Years of my life—dreams—Tamar and I, planning things. My children were born there, in that chamber you saw, Paks, the night we talked with the Marshal-General. I fought in Aarenis, yes—for that’s where the money was, the contracts that let me improve my own lands. The money for that mill came from Aarenis, the food I bought all those years before the fields were large enough. Stock for farmers, fruit-trees for Kolya. But what I cared for—what I gave my heart to—was that land, and those people. My people—my soldiers.” His fist was clenched now, on the table before him. “Now I find I’m a prince, with another land, and other people. But can I leave this, that I have made? Can I leave the hall where Tamar ate, and the courtyard where our children played? Can I leave those who helped me, when they knew nothing of princes or kingdoms, only a young mercenary captain who dreamed of his own lands? Already this year they have endured one upheaval. Those that stayed are mine.” He looked from face to face. “Can you understand this?”
Paks felt the tears stinging her own eyes. When Garris spoke, she heard the emotion there. “My lord, I understand. You were always that way—even at Aliam’s, you would take responsibility. Of course you care for them—”
Suriya had pushed back her chair, and gone around Paks to stand beside the Duke. When he glanced up at her, she spoke. “Sir king, if you were unfit to be our king you could not have spoken so. I am most junior of your squires, but by your leave, I will not leave you until you sit in your own throne.”