Would that Winna were that far away.
Would that she had never found him.
No matter how earnestly he told himself that, it still felt like a lie. Disgusted, he turned his back to the evil-looking moon and returned to the edge of the firelight and Winna’s slow, regular breathing.
11
Widdershins
By the time they had reached the festival grounds, Fastia had filled Neil’s head with the names of so many lords, ladies, retainers, grefts, archgrefts, margrefts, marascalhs, sinescalhs, earls, counts, landfroas, andvats, barons, and knights he feared it would burst. He spent most of his time nodding and making noises to let her know he was listening. Meanwhile, Sir Fail, still speaking with the king, drew farther and farther away. The rest of the royal party outpaced them until only he and Fastia and a few of the deviceless knights were left.
When they reached the hilltop, with its gaudy and bewildering collection of tents, plant growth, and costumed servants Fastia, too, excused herself. “I need to speak to my mother,” she explained. “Details about the celebration. Do try to enjoy yourself.”
“I will, Archgreffess. My deepest thanks for your conversation.”
“It is little enough,” Fastia said stiffly. “It’s rare we get a breath of fresh air in this court, and well worth breathing it when it comes along.” She began to ride away, then paused, turned her horse back, and brought her head quite near his, so that he could smell the cinnamon perfume she wore. “There are others in the court you haven’t met. I pointed out my uncle, Robert? My father’s brother? My father has two sisters, as well. Lesbeth, the duchess of Andemeur, and Elyoner, the duchess of Loiyes. You’ll find the first sweet-tempered and pleasant in conversation. Elyoner I advise you to avoid, at least until you are wiser. She can be dangerous for young men like you.”
Neil bowed in the saddle. “Thank you again, Princess Fastia, for your company and your advice.”
“Again you are welcome.” This time she rode off without looking back.
That left him alone, which gave him time to let it all sink in, to try to understand the seeming chaos around him.
And to struggle with the fact that he had actually met a king. No, not just a king, but the king, the Amrath, the Ardrey— the emperor of Crotheny and the kingdoms that served it, the greatest nation in the world.
He began a brief prayer of thanks to Saint Lier.
“Look how Sir Bumpkin sits his horse,” someone said, behind him. “Praying to stay in the saddle, Sir Bumpkin?” Another man guffawed in response. Neil finished his prayer, then looked about to see who “Sir Bumpkin” might be, and found two of the sable-and-green-clad knights regarding him. The one who had spoken had a hawkish nose and a small black beard. His companion was pox-scarred, with chipped teeth and eyes like blue ice. Nearby, another of the knights started drifting toward them.
“You are wrong on at least one count,” Neil replied. “I am not titled, and thus no ‘sir’ of any sort.”
“It’s just plain Bumpkin, then? A pity,” the knight said, pulling thoughtfully at his goatee. “Seeing how poorly you sit a horse, I had a mind to see how you fall off of one. But I suspect if I watch long enough, that will happen of its own accord.”
“Have I given you offense, sir?”
“Offense is too strong a word. You amuse.”
“Well, I’m happy, I suppose, if I can give such a great lord as yourself amusement,” Neil replied evenly.
“You suppose? You don’t even know who I am, do you?”
“No, sir. You wear no device.”
“This braying island ass doesn’t know who I am, fellows.”
The third knight arrived, a huge, bearlike man with a bristly blond beard. “Sometimes your own mother pretends she don’t know you either, Jemmy,” he ground out in bass tones. “Leave the lad be.”
The man Neil gathered to be Jemmy pursed his lips as if to make retort, then laughed. “I suppose I must,” he said. “And he is, after all, too far beneath me to muck about with. Go along, Bumpkin.” He kneed his mount, turning dismissively away.
“I pray, sir, that you do tell me your name,” Neil called after him.
The fellow turned slowly back. “And why is that, Bumpkin?”
“So when I take the rose and don my spurs I can call on you.”
The knight laughed, and his companions with him. “Very well,” he allowed. “I am Sir James Cathmayl. I will be happy to kill you, just as soon as you wear the rose. But rumor has it that you’re merely a lost puppy, nipping about the heels of Sir Fail, with no house, lands, title, or good name. Is it true?”
Neil drew himself straighter. “All but the last. My father gave me this name, and his father before him, and we have faithfully served the Toute de Liery for three generations. MeqVren is a good name, and he who disputes that is a liar.” He cocked his head. “And if I’m of so little count, why are there rumors about me already?”
Sir James tweaked his mustache. “Because Sir Fail, however eccentric, is one of the most important men in the kingdom. Because you spoke to both His and Her Majesty.”
“And because it’s said you made three squires of that oaf Alareik Fram Wishilm shit themselves,” the blond-bearded giant added.
“That, too,” Sir James admitted. “You’re a curiosity, is what you are.”
“And who are you fellows? What lord do you serve?”
Blond-beard chuckled good-naturedly; the other two sneered. “He is a babe, isn’t he?” Sir James grunted, rolling his eyes. “Who do you think we are, boy?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and rode away. Poxy-face went with him.
Neil blushed, but stood his ground.
“We’re the Craftsmen, lad,” Blond-beard said. “The royal bodyguard.”
“Oh.” Of course, he had heard of the most famous guard in the land. How stupid that he hadn’t known their colors. “My apologies. I should have known, by your very presence around the king.”
The blond man shrugged. “Never mind Jemmy. He’s not a bad sort, when you get to know him.”
“And may I ask your name, sir?”
“Why? So you can call me out, too?”
“Not at all. I’d like to know the name of the man who showed me kindness.”
“Well. Vargus Farre, at your service. I’m pleased to meet you, and I wish you luck. It’s only honest to tell you this, though: I’ve never heard of an ungentle man being knighted, and if by some miracle you are, you’ll know little peace. You’ll be seen as an affront, and every knight in the country will bring challenge against you. Take my advice—stay with Sir Fail as his man-at-arms. It will be a good thing for you.”
“I’ll take what the king gives me, and desire no more,” Neil replied. “My only wish is to serve His Majesty as best I can.”
Sir Vargus smiled. “Those are words I’ve heard often enough to render ’em as meaningless as geese honking. And yet I think you mean them, don’t you?”
“I mean them.”
“Well, then. Saints smile on you. And now I must attend to my duties.”
Neil watched him go, still feeling stupid. He noticed them, now, watching from afar. Even though the king and Sir Fail looked as if they were alone, in fact there was a circle of Craftsmen around them—at a distance, yes, looking almost uninterested. But when someone moved toward the king, so did they.
He looked for the queen and found her near the edge of the hill, talking to two ladies. There, too, vigilant Craftsmen kept both their range and their guard.
It was said these men renounced all lands and property upon entering the royal bodyguard. It was also said that they felt neither pain nor desire, that none could stand against them, that their weapons had been forged by giants.