I wrapped one of Gileandos’s robes about me; it was genuinely cold in here by now.
“Do you think I am trapped in this shape? That I could not become an adder, a leopard, your coiled friend with the sting in his tail from a few nights back—you remember the night?”
I nodded stupidly, forgetting it was dark.
“A few nights back, you ran up your debt, little boy. And you have only begun to pay it.”
“Would you like the opals back? We could call it even.”
“But ‘even’ it is not, Galen. For I lose my valuable servant in the bargain—the man confined to your cellar dungeon, who can no longer serve me because I chose to play by the rules.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“So I must be returned a servant, little Galen, to make up for the one I have lost. I suppose it is needless to add that you are that servant.”
I was thunderstruck, gaping for words.
“So it is you who will do what I say. You will accompany this Sir Bayard on his trip into southern Solamnia, on the road to the tournament he desires so fiercely to win. You will attend to his weaponry, his wardrobe, his livery—all things a squire attends to.
“And during your journey with Sir Bayard, you will provide me with intelligence on occasion—little things as to his whereabouts, his state of mind, what he intends to do next.
“Above all, you will take your time getting to the tournament. You will see to it that Bayard Brightblade takes his.”
What strange new twisting and turning was this? Why was I so unlucky to be the chosen one?
“You’ll have to okay this with my father, sir,” I replied in relief. “For I’m to be confined here for a while—awaiting punishment. Remember, you saw to it that Father saw my naming ring in the hands of the man in black, and connected me with this whole unsavory business. No, I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t see how I can be of any help. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a qualified cohort, although it grieves me to disappoint you in this fashion.”
“Ah, but I cannot be disappointed, little man. Oh, no, for I carry your freedom in the crook of my claw.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The naming ring. Since we are in the business of returning things desired to one another.” The bird took wing, sailing straight at me. I flinched, covered my face, then felt the soft prickling of claws on my shoulder. I lowered my hand and stared directly into its dull eyes.
“Look to my feet, idiot,” the raven croaked.
“My naming ring! You have it around your ankle! How’d you—”
“Never left my possession,” the bird declared smugly.
“You were sent up the river by spurious goods.”
“And I suppose I just tell Father that and he releases me on the spot?” I walked to the window, raven perched on my shoulder.
“Of course not. But when he sees this ring and compares it with the one already in his possession, he will realize how close he came to losing a son to forgery.”
The bird tucked its head under its wing as the light of the red moon passed over us once more.
“Which is why,” it continued, lifting its head once more, “that it is Bayard who will show him the ring. Bayard will find the ring in his quarters this very night, and in addition to seeking your release will also seek to make amends.”
“How will he make amends?”
The raven spread its wings and crouched. “Oh, you will see. And when he does, you will know what to do.”
With that it lifted off into the night air, gliding over the courtyard until it turned sharply and was lost from sight somewhere in the back of the moat house. * * * * *
I slept fitfully once more, my dreams filled with scorpions and the terrible sounds of beating wings. And I awoke to the same unsettling feeling—that once again I was not alone.
I looked about cautiously and saw a candle bobbing at the library entrance, behind it a tall figure. I reached to my belt in a desperate search for my knife, which I now recalled had been taken from me at the outset of my stay in the dungeon.
“Who is it?” This time a little more steadiness in my voice. I tried for menace and failed. The candle raised, and the one lamp in the library began to glow.
Sir Bayard Brightblade stood beneath it, outlined in the red and yellow and gold of the lamp flame, that now-familiar look of puzzlement and amusement on his face.
“This room is rather sparsely lit for a library,” he observed, turning to face me across a wide vellum-littered table.
“Gileandos’s doing . . .” I started to explain, but the Knight was off and running.
“My business with you is brief or long, Galen, depending on your choice.”
Sir Bayard paused, looked down at the table in front of him, thumbed the page of a manuscript, and read for a moment. His shadow was long, magnified by the slanting light, stretching the length of the table and losing itself in the dark.
“It seems that you are reprieved,” he said softly, and opened his hand.
My naming ring glittered in his palm. I could recognize the engraving from where I stood. It was sensible to be silent now, to hear what he had to say.
“I found it on the mantle in my chambers not an hour ago. Placed there perhaps by someone who knew the thief’s ring to be a forgery and had pity on you, was my first guess. A servant, perhaps?
“Whoever it was did you a good turn. This ring is almost identical to the one in the thief’s possession—I compared them in your father’s chambers—almost identical except that the one in the thief’s possession is now demonstrated to be a fake.”
“Then someone returned the original to show . . . that I hadn’t given it to the thief! I was innocent all along!”
“It appears thusly,” Sir Bayard brooded. “Although it leaves the questions of how your ring was copied by the thief, or where it has been concealed all this time, unanswered. Troubling questions, I should say.”
My heart sank. “Magical means? Or Alfric, perhaps?” I prompted innocently.
“Perhaps. Perhaps,” Bayard replied distractedly, his face impassive. He coughed impressively. “Be that as it may, you are in the clear and I am no closer to filling the position of squire and keeping my appointment in the southlands. Which is why . . .” He paused here and cleared his throat again, nervously, it seemed to me. “I am offering that position to you.”
“But Alfric . . .”
“Had a responsibility, and didn’t do all that well with it. Alfric is still under a cloud here and Sir Andrew will not hear of it. I’ve thought long and hard in the last hour, Galen. You could have lied your way out of the thief’s accusations—made up some story about being intimidated into giving him the ring, or having it taken from you in a struggle. But you did not. You kept the silence, willing to suffer false accusation rather than lie to save yourself.”
I liked his version of the facts.
“That’s the kind of squire a Knight looks for.”
“B-but . . .”
“And if I’m wrong, Galen, time and the road will show it. I’m in need of a squire now, and of all those available you seem most suitable.”
Chapter Four
Being a squire was no glamorous thing, I discovered. There are only so many times a boy can see his face reflected in a polished breastplate and pride himself in how well that breastplate has been polished. My particular limit was once.
I quickly grew to despise this Sir Bayard Brightblade more than any brother or teacher or servant, especially when he set me to buffing his armor.
They had moved me out of the library and into Brithelm’s quarters, chosen because the room had no windows by which I could escape, no standing furniture from which I could fashion weapons. It was barren and bleak in there. The only comfort was a rug and a straw mattress on the floor, the only conveniences a walk-in closet, a fireplace, and a single lamp. I had little to distract me, and armor aplenty to buff and polish. On a dark, chilly morning, several days hence, we made final preparations to set off on whatever harebrained quest Bayard had planned. The weather inclined toward rain—promising the kind of morning I would usually avoid altogether, sleeping in until afternoon. But I was readying to embark in the rain and the early cold, with only four hours of sleep, bound for the gods knew where.