“Well,” said the crown prince into the horrified silence that followed her exit, “if that’s the best witness Verrakai can find against you, Duke Phelan, I think your defense in Council is well assured. That’s her own heart’s poison brewed there, and none of your doing.” An approving murmur followed this. Duke Phelan smiled at the prince.
“I thank you, your highness, for your sentiments. Indeed, I hope nothing I have done has provided food for that—but I will think on it.” Then he turned to Paks. “And you, again, have served me well. Paksenarrion—”
“Lord Duke, in this I am serving my gods, and not you; I am no longer your soldier, though I will always be your veteran. I pray you, remember that: although you have done me the honor to treat me almost as a daughter, I am not. I am Gird’s soldier now.”
Although the trouble had come, and apparently gone, without actual danger to the Duke, Paks was still uneasy that night. When the Duke finally retired to his chamber, she held a quick conference with the King’s Squires. On no account must the Duke go anywhere—anywhere—without their protection. If she was not available, they must all attend him.
“But Paks, what is it you fear?”
“The malice Barra feels, directed with more skill,” said Paks, frowning. “Companions, we have not crowned our king yet; until then trust nothing and no one.” When she returned to her own chamber, with Lieth, she found it hard to sleep, despite her fatigue.
Yet in the morning she found nothing amiss. After breakfast in the Duke’s chambers, they went to the Council meeting together. Paks noticed, as they came in, that Duke Verrakai was present, and his brother absent. The two elves were there, sitting lower down, this time. She wondered what they had thought of last night’s events; they would have to agree that the Duke had kept his temper under trying circumstances.
“I asked for this special session,” began the crown prince, “at the request of Lady Paksenarrion, whom you met yesterday. You are aware that she is on quest, searching for the true king of Lyonya. She believes she has found him, and asked that you witness the elf-blade’s test of his identity.”
“And who is it, your highness?” asked Duke Verrakai.
“I will let the paladin speak for herself.” The crown prince waved for Paks to begin.
“Lords, I will give you my reasons briefly, and then the prince’s name.” She repeated her reasoning, now so familiar, from the elves’ claim that the prince had forgotten his past, to the meaning of the message they sent Aliam Halveric about the sword. “As well, when Aliam Halveric gave the sword to Kieri Phelan, to give his wife, the elves replied that the gift was satisfactory. That seemed, to me, to mean that the prince was someone with whom Kieri Phelan, as well as Aliam Halveric, came into contact. Then Garris, one of the King’s Squires who accompanied me on quest, told me of his own boyhood times with Aliam Halveric, when Kieri Phelan was Halveric’s senior squire.” She saw comprehension dawn on several faces around the table, and turned to Duke Phelan before anyone else could speak.
“Yesterday, lord Duke, I spoke openly to you of this reasoning, and of your past; now, before the King’s Squires of Lyonya, and the Regency Council of Tsaia and heir to the throne, I declare that I believe you are the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne, the only son of King Falkieri, and half-elven by your mother’s blood.” She turned to Lieth, who had carried in the elven blade, and took the sheathed sword from her. “If it is true, then this blade was forged for you by the elves, and sealed to you with tokens sent by your mother. When you draw it, it will declare your heritage. Is it true that you have never laid hands on this sword to draw it?”
“It is true,” said Duke Phelan steadily. “I swore to my wife that I would never draw her blade, when I gave it to her, and until you took it from the wall to kill Achrya’s agent, she alone drew it.”
“I ask you to draw it now,” said Paks, “in the High Lord’s name, and for the test of your birth.”
Duke Phelan’s gray eyes met hers for a long look, then he reached out and took the sword’s grip in his hand. His expression changed at once, and at the same time a subtle hum, complex as music, shook the air. In one smooth move, he drew the sword free of the scabbard. Light flared from it, far brighter than Paks had ever seen, more silver than blue. The blade chimed. Outside, the Bells of Vérella burst into a loud clamor, echoing that chime until the very walls rang with it. Phelan gripped it with both hands, raising it high overhead. Light danced around the chamber, liquid as reflection from water. As Paks watched, the blade seemed to lengthen and widen slightly, fitting itself to the Duke’s reach. Then the light still blazing from the blade condensed, seeming to sink into the blade without fading, and the runes glowed brilliant silver, like liquid fire. The green jewel in the pommel glowed, full of light. Phelan lowered the sword, resting the blade gently in his left palm. When he met Paks’s eyes again, his own were alight with something she had never seen there. When he spoke, his voice held new resonance.
“Lady, you were right. This is my sword, and I daresay no one will dispute it.” A ripple of amusement softened his voice there. “Indeed, I had never thought of such a thing. What an irony this is—so many years it hung on my wall, and I did not know of it.”
“Sir king.” The crown prince had risen; with him, the rest of the Council stood. “This is—” Abruptly his mannered courtesy deserted him, and he looked the boy his years made him. “It’s like one of the old songs, sir, like a harper’s tale—” The prince’s eyes sparkled with delight.
“As yet, your highness, I am not king. But your congratulations are welcome—if it means that you do not object.”
“Object! I am hardly likely to quarrel with the gods about this. It is like a story in a song, that you should be a king without knowing it, and have on your wall for years the sword that would prove you.”
“But—but—he’s just a mercenary—” Clannaeth burst into speech. The High Marshal and the crown prince glared at him.
“Gird’s right arm,” said the prince crisply, “if you’d been stolen away as an infant, how would you have earned your bread? As a pig farmer?”
“I didn’t mean that,” began Clannaeth, but no one listened.
Paks, watching the Duke’s face, was heartened at the transformation. She had feared his lingering doubt, but he obviously had none. Whatever the sword had done for him, it had given him the certainty of his birth. So he listened calmly to the short clutter of sound that followed Clannaeth’s comment, until the High Marshal hushed them. Then he addressed the Council.
“Lords, when our prince’s father first gave me the grant I now hold, I told him I had no plans for independent rulership. That was true. But now I find I have another land, a land which needs me—yet for many years, as you know, I have given my life and work to my steading in Tsaia. I cannot expect that you would allow the king of a neighboring land to hold land from this crown, but I do ask that you let me keep it for a short while, and that you let me have some influence over its bestowing. Your northern border—for so long, my northern border—is still a perilous one. It will need a strong hand, and good management, for many years yet if the rest of Tsaia is to be safe. Now I must travel to Chaya, and relieve the fears of my kingdom, but my senior captains can manage well enough in the north, with your permission.”