"Lordship,"
Durand said. He managed a very shaky bow.
"Yes," said Lamoric. "It has been a long while since I set eyes on Acconel, friend." He knuckled his chin. "I wasn't
even born
in the place. Father was doing the rounds."
No one laughed.
"So you are Durand Col, son of one of my father's lesser barons. You served a knight of my father's household. And I am Lamoric, youngest son of Duke Abravanal. Now you know. Why are you not with Sir Kieren? Why are you not at Acconel."
"Your Lordship." Durand forced his mind back to distant, half-forgotten things. "I was meant to inherit a fief called Gravenholm, but now the heir
...
They thought he was—"
Lamoric looked baffled. "What are you saying?" Then he seemed to realize. 'The shipwreck? Hearnan? They've found him?"
He should be explaining about Alwen, about the man's infant nephew. "Hearnan was the name, yes," said Durand.
"By the King of far Heaven. That was to be yours, then? His father's land. What did you say? Gravenholm?" "Aye," Durand acknowledged. "And now?"
"What?" Lamoric's sister was surely dead. He remembered her face in the high window.
"What now? Without this Gravenholm."
"Nothing, Milord," Durand managed. "My lord father, he will not displace a sworn man."
"God save us from honorable fathers. But who has sent you to this place? Kieren sent no word."
"Kieren?" The Silent King alone knew what Power had thrown him into this man's lap. "He does not know."
"Do you mean to tell me that you just left him?"
"I..."
"I can hardly take on a knight who would abandon his sworn lord. Really, you are—"
Knight "Lordship," said Durand. He would not compound his crimes by pretending. "I'm no knight yet."
"A shield-bearer then? By all the souls below, man, what am I meant to do with you? The heralds would have my ears if I let you fight
.
You know my face, but you're no use to me. By rights, I should flog you skinless and have you dragged back to Acconel. I don't know what I should say. You're no knight, you swore to serve old Kieren', and you left him?"
He had no answer. He could not tell the man what he must.
Lamoric clawed a black forelock from his eyes. "Host of Heaven. I can spare no one to take you as far as Acconel. Not now. The melee begins in the morning." He paused. "And I'm not letting you out of my sight. For now, you work for Guthred. He can always use another hand. Guthred?"
The homely footman stepped forward. "Lordship?"
"I think we've found you some help."
"Durand," said Lamoric, "you're to do what Guthred here tells you and keep quiet about who you've seen here this evening. I am not myself tomorrow. A season's blood and sweat will come to worse than nothing if you forget that
.
Do you understand?"
Durand nodded. Whatever the game they were playing, he understood that he should keep his mouth shut.
"And Guthred," Lamoric said, "remember, the Herald of Errest is out there. We are being watched."
Durand eyed the circle of knights once, then stumbled after the old man. He said nothing about Yrlac or dead sisters.
Outside, the homely
footman, Guthred, rounded on Durand.
"I'm Lamoric's man, right? Though he's pulled together this lot for this season, I've served him ten winters, and I was a soldier with some of these boys before that," he said. "I'm watching you. You'll do nothing against them. Right?"
"I swear, I—"
"Swear to it all you like. I'll
see
to it. Anyone could know old Kieren's name." The man scratched an imposing nose, then made a dry laugh. "But you don't see many who can put a mark on Badan when he's watching for it."
"I had no choice."
"You can have that carved on your slab if you've got a penny for the stonecutter. Old Badan don't forget." The old shield-bearer had stopped laughing. "We sleep over this way."
Where Guthred left him, Durand sank to the rutted ground. His eyes dwelled on the wide ring of blue, red, and yellow tents: more canvas lanterns glowing at the dark pasture's edge. Horses huffed and tossed against their pickets.
He had killed
a woman—though he
had tried to save her. Now, he was in the camp of her brother. The man must know.
Damp oozed through his hip and shoulder as knights and pages across the hill blew out the motley lanterns, one by one.
"You
say some
odd things in your sleep, friend."
A shock of rotten teeth puffed into Durand's face. And, for a heartbeat, he was on the road with Kieren, or starving with Heremund Skald—wherever
he'd
gone—or locked in the keep at Ferangore with Alwen dying in her tower.
But it was Guthred scowling down.
Durand thought of all the wild things he might have muttered in his dreams: murder and treason. Guthred peered close.
"I don't know how you've come here, or what's rattling in that head of yours, but there's a melee to fight. If His Lordship's to get his shield in the Herald's Roll, you've work to do. Come."
Durand pulled himself] up, following the shield-b
earer through a camp now choked
in mist. Hazy shapes were on the move and only coughs and clearing noses assured Durand he really was in Creation. |
Somewhere, if Durand unde
rstood, the silent Herald of Er
rest carried his Roll of Errest with its painted shields under this same blanket of mist. They said the man had served every king since Einred's son arid the Battle of Lost Princes: three hundred winters. What blot would they put on Durand's shield when the world learned his secret?
"Mooncalf! Remember, he's not Lamoric while he's fighting here. They've taken to calling him The Knight in Red.' No name. Forget that, and I'll remember," Guthred warned, and they were off.
It turned out there were nearly a score of shield-bearers trailing Lamoric's retinue. Guthred, though a commoner, seemed to be in charge of the lot of them. He issued orders, sending some down the hill for water and others to look after the fighting men.
"You and I are going to look after Milord Lamoric's armor. I'm keeping my eye on you. And don't worry about breakfast, you ain't serving it."
Durand had not thought.
"I like to make sure of the equipment the morning of," said Guthred. "I leave it to someone else, Host Below knows what'11 happen; I keep track, nothing goes wrong.
"Load everything that's mail into that cask there. I've got it half full of white sand from the mere near the town. And vinegar. Roll it till I stop you." When Durand didn't jump to work quick enough, the shield-bearer spat. "Or stand there shaking the cursed thing if that's your choice. And don't think I won't know if you slack off. I'm watching. Don't go wandering too far. Don't think of running off. And don't think of spilling His Lordship's name."
Durand loaded the barrel with the best mail he'd ever handled: supple rings, forge-hardened. Out beyond the hill and the town below, Silvermere lay like a specter in the predawn twilight. He booted the cask along, but couldn't keep his eyes from the water. In one night, he had skirted the greatest lake in the Atthias. And there was no short way round: on the west shore was cursed Hespe
rand; on the south, haunted Mer
chion; and on the east, the Halls of Silence and its giant lords. The night before, he had bee
n in far Yrlac searching for Al
wen. Now, he stared at peddlers' carts winding their way up from Red Winding. What Power had done this, and what did it mean?
Lamoric appeared—black hair, dark eyes. Across a dozen yards of turf, the lordling had stopped to talk with Guthred, who gestured to Durand without looking his way.
He had everything he needed: the last tournament of the season, and a chance with a tournament lord. But he was stealing a place he had no right to. One that he couldn't possibly keep once he'd done as he must. But this was the chance he had prayed for. How could he throw it away? What Power had brought him to Red Winding?
The next hour
was consumed in preparation, and there was work to be done with a full conroi and all their horses to be armed and ready.
While shield-bearers ran, a fresh wind bowled the mist out over the waves. Mobs of hawkers arrived to cry the virtues of meat pies and beer to fighting men and to the gawkers up from Red Winding. Longshoremen had hammered together a reviewing stand by the lists, and now old men, burghers, and noblewomen jostled on the benches like pigeons in a coop.
At the last, as Durand and another shield-bearer threw one saddle over a dun charger, Durand felt the saddlebow rattle loose. With no time to spare and no thought of secrets or confessions, he went hunting for a saddler with a hammer. The man he found worked for the Duke of Mornaway's son but nailed the thing together without a word.
He could see heralds making ready.
The ranked banners he passed put Durand in mind of the blazons in the depths of Fetch Hollow. How many of these men would ride for Beoran's rebels if it came to war? He imagined sly looks among the highborn. How many waited for Radomor's answer?
Hawkers and beggars worked the crowd. In their midst,
Durand nearly stepped on a blind man who thumbed the wide, stained pages of a
Book of Moons,
somehow reading aloud. Next to him, a pockmarked child was swallowing an entire basketful of adders, somehow coaxing them, live, into the pit of her stomach. A man in a breechcloth sat with something in his hand, purple and sloppy: his own heart pulsing for all to see.
As Durand made to pass, a hand caught his elbow. The adder girl faced him. The blind reader turned his way, saying—reading?—"Second among them was Bruna of the Broad Shoulders. The wrath of the righteous was his vice. Betrayed and betraying. Treachery taught him mercy. Treason taught him understanding. Beware his line when it runs true.
There is little such a man learn
s that does not cause pain."
Durand tugged his sleeve free of the little girl. The saddle was in his arms. He had no money to pay. "What are you saying?" The blind man smiled like a sanctuary icon, and the girl was looking up with adders in her throat. Was he doomed to betray? Did that explain Ferangore? Was that the root of his silence? He broke away.
And stumbled right into Guthred—who squinted from Durand to the girl. "What's going on?" he demanded. After a moment sizing Durand up, he took the saddle. "Give me that and get with the others quick."
Durand took his
place behind the lines of mounted warriors glaring across the hilltop pasture. All told, there were three hundred knights: fighting men of every ancient house. Men and warhorses trembled under their panoply, ready to fly.
For now, these men needed Durand more than wild truths. He snapped up his own coat of mail and fought his way into the mob of serving men at the rear of Lamoric's conroi, hauling the rusting thing over his head.
Guthred stood before the shield-bearers, raising an eyebrow at the mail coat. The old man himself wore only a quilted canvas gambeson. He'd stitched a steel bowl in his skullcap.
"This is His Lordship's very last chance to make this Red Knight game come off. The old Herald's watching, and you'll do your bit. You're each to make sure that none of our lads ends up without a weapon. No one wants for a shield, no one falls because you didn't see. A man drops his lance; you put a new one in his fist before he knows it's gone. He can be in the worst of it, and you'll be there.
"Now, get to your man. Keep him living. You've one last chance to make sure he ain't left something behind, right?" The shield-bearers hesitated. Guthred flapped his arms. "I mean now!"
The others shoved their way through the press. Guthred caught Durand by the arm. "Now, you. Kieren didn't go in much for tournaments. Right?"
"They hold one at Acconel when they drive the bulls. I've watched, but—"
"The old bugger. And he missed the Battle of Hallow Down last summer, too. I'll not leave Lamoric in your hands. Blind seers or no, you'll be with me. We're looking out for Coensar."
"But I thought you were Lamoric's—"
"You don't worry 'bout that. I'll have a man on Lamoric, but you—you'll be looking after Coensar. I see no reason to trust you, and plenty not If you ain't so useful, the captain's got his wits and he's got Keening. High Kingdom blade. There isn't a man here who can-—