“What happened?”
“The Patriarch explained that I did not exhibit the necessary level of devotion to be a sentinel.”
Amrath laughed. “That just means you’re not a lunatic. All of them are insane, you know.” Braga smiled at the king, but it was the same polite look Amrath often got from those unable to disagree because of his position.
“Having failed, having been judged as inferior, I no longer felt comfortable in the black and red. After resigning from the order, I really didn’t know what to do. That’s when Bishop Saldur approached me about coming here. I think he felt I might be of some use to him at Mares Cathedral.”
“Sauly means well,” Amrath said, “but anyone can tell you’re not deacon material.”
“I just hope I’m chancellor material.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the king said. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about how you’ll fare against Leo here in this year’s Wintertide fencing match. I’m going to be in for a treat, aren’t I? I’ll get to see two men dance in public.”
Leo scowled. “Just ignore him.”
Braga raised his eyebrows. “But he’s the king.”
“All the more reason.”
CHAPTER 4
Reuben placed another log up on its end and, with a single stroke, split it. The trick was to cut the wood clean in one swing but not plant the head of the axe in the chopping block. Sinking the blade added work and chewed up the block. Sometimes the grain and knots made it impossible; then he was stuck with using wedges and the blunt face of the axe. While just brute work, he’d developed a skill that made his swing more likely to succeed on the first try, and he liked to think he was good at something. As if to prove him wrong, his last stroke had too much force and the axe went firmly into the block. He left it there and tossed the splits aside. When done, he reached out once more for the old worn handle and paused. This was the last day he would ever split wood. The thought surprised him. Looking at the chopping block and knowing he would never again swing that axe was the first bit of reality to invade his routine.
Being a soldier would be a step up. Now he would receive a wage that he could spend as he saw fit. Although most of that salary he would never see, as it would go toward paying for his food, uniform, weapons, and living space-something his father’s pay had covered so far. He should have been excited at the impending promotion, at the recognition that he was a man at last, only he didn’t feel like one. The squires had beaten, and a child had bested, him both in the same day. He didn’t feel worthy to take the burgundy and gold. He was only fit to open doors, haul water, and split wood. These were the tasks he was good at, what he was comfortable with, and what was being taken from him.
Hidden from the castle doors, Reuben was splitting wood under the oak on the far side of the woodpile when he heard them. He’d thought the stormy sky would have been enough to keep the squires indoors learning table manners, helping to dress their lords, or listening to the tales of the knights. The sound of the approaching laughter proved him wrong.
“What do we have here?” Ellison rounded the woodpile with the Three Cruelties in tow. “Muckraker, how wonderful. I was looking for you.” Ellison stepped in front of Reuben while the others circled around.
There was no chance to run. The best he could do was yank the axe from the block, but a heavy splitting axe was a slow weapon, and each of the squires wore their swords-metal this time.
“Word has it that you’re to be sworn in as a guard of the castle tomorrow. There are complications with beating a soldier in the king’s service, so this will be my last chance to pay you back for the bruise.”
Reuben only then noticed a small purple mark on Ellison’s cheek.
“The bad news is that you’ll spend your first day of service in the infirmary.”
Ellison punched him in the jaw. The blow stunned him and Reuben staggered back into Horace, who shoved him to the ground. Reuben crouched, dazed for a moment before jumping up and breaking the axe free of the block by slapping the handle. He held it with both hands. Horace seized Reuben from behind in a bear hug. While not skilled with a sword, Reuben knew his way around an axe. He thrust backward with the handle, jamming it hard into Horace’s broad gut. The big arms let go and the squire dropped to his knees. Ellison rushed forward, but Reuben expected that and dodged behind Horace, who was still doubled over. Ellison and Horace both fell.
That’s when Willard and Dills drew their swords. Once he got to his feet, so did Ellison.
Reuben had at least managed to put his back to the woodpile. Now all four were out in front.
“Get his arms and legs. I don’t want him to ever forget us,” Ellison said. “We’ll each carve our initials into him.”
“My name’s short enough to write the whole thing,” Dills declared.
They closed in, jabbing, leering, and grinning.
“Is this a private party or can anyone play?” a familiar voice asked.
Looking over Ellison’s shoulder, Reuben spotted the wild-haired boy who had bested him at the bridge, the one the princess had called Mauvin.
“No one wants you here, Pickering, so go catch your stupid frogs.”
“Hey, Fanen,” the boy shouted over his shoulder and toward the castle keep. “It’s the hero from yesterday, the one who risked himself to save Arista.” He looked at Reuben. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
“None of your business, boy,” Dills snapped.
At the sound of the word boy, Reuben saw Mauvin grin.
His younger brother came around the woodpile a moment later. When he did, Mauvin pointed. “No one at the castle can see a thing.”
This was exactly what Reuben guessed Ellison had realized, only now Ellison and the Three Cruelties looked less pleased.
“Muckraker and I have a score to settle,” Ellison explained. “This has nothing to do with you two.”
“Muckraker? Oh, you’re mistaken. His name is Hilfred and he’s a friend of ours,” Mauvin said, surprising all, but none more than Reuben. “We had great fun sparring a few days ago. Hilfred didn’t do so well, but he was fighting a Pickering.” The boy winked at him. “I’m sure he’ll fare much better against you, even though he only has an axe and all four of you have swords.”
“But still, that’s not very sporting,” Fanen said.
“Downright rude if you ask me.” Mauvin continued to grin. “Hilfred, how dare you hog all of these squires to yourself. I demand that Fanen and I get to play too.”
The Pickering boys drew their swords in unison with elegant ease. As they did, Dills and Willard spun to face them. “Didn’t one of you say something about carving initials?” Mauvin asked. Looking at Dills, he added, “That will be fun. And just to jog your dim-witted memory, I’m the son of Count Leopold Pickering of Galilin, one of the five Lords of the Charter-no one calls me boy.”
“Mauvin? Fanen?” Shouts came from the direction of the castle.
“Here, Alric-we’re on the other side of the woodpile,” Mauvin shouted back, a touch of regret in his voice.
Alric? Reuben thought. It can’t be. A moment later none other than the Prince of Melengar rounded the pile. He was dressed in a lavish three-quarter-length white satin tunic with extensive embroidery, heavy gold piping, and full sleeves and broad triple-folded cuffs. His suede belt, while lacking even a dagger, was ornamented with metallic studs and a buckle that Reuben guessed to be worth more than he and his father could ever hope to earn if both of them lived to be a hundred.
The squires all dropped to one knee. Reuben followed suit an instant later. Neither of the Pickerings so much as bowed.
“What’s going on?” the prince asked.
Mauvin was frowning at him. “Fanen, Hilfred, and I were about to have some fun … then you ruined it. You always ruin it.”