Echoes of Betrayal (51 page)

“Do you feel she was unfair to you, a member of the royal family?”

“At first,” Beclan said. “I did not know how arrogant I had become; Rothlin had tried to tell me, but I thought he was but playing the elder brother. So I thought Duke Verrakai favored Gwennothlin Marrakai most and was determined to set me down. But then she gave me the longer patrols, because I was the eldest and because, she said, she thought the people would respond to me as the king’s cousin.”

“And what escort did she provide?”

“Four hands, one hand of them the most experienced of her former troops. By then I had begun to understand what she had meant earlier, though I still—I still made mistakes. When I argued with Sergeant—”

“We will come to that,” his father said. “But now think: when you left on that last patrol, was any stranger at the Verrakai household?”

“No, sir.”

“No one from Lyonya?”

“No, sir. Gwenno—Gwennothlin Marrakai—was on patrol in the east, due back in a day or two. If anyone had come that way, she should have picked them up. Daryan was on patrol but due back several days later—because of winter weather, we had more leeway, you see.”

“So when you left, had Duke Verrakai spoken to you of the likelihood of war?”

“She was concerned always about the possibility of the Pargunese coming, as they did last winter, but she said she was more worried about that man in Aarenis.”

“Now to your patrol.” Duke Marrakai took a sheaf of papers from
under his tunic. “You told the Royal Guard that it was routine until the blizzard.”

“Yes, sir.” Had he told the Royal Guard commander every detail? He couldn’t remember; he had better tell it all now. “I tried to push on to the next village, though Sergeant Vossik thought we should stop, and we ended up having to stay in a filthy herders’ shelter with a leaky roof that night. It was my fault; I wanted to make the schedule in spite of the weather.”

“And was it the next day you met the Duke’s messenger?”

“Yes … in the next village. He brought word that the Pargunese had invaded Lyonya and might invade Tsaia and orders from the Duke to collect her militia from each village on the way back.”

“And what happened then?”

“We started back. The Duke’s messenger had told each village he came to what his errand was, so some men on the muster rolls were missing. I thought the villages along the track north would not have heard, and it might be easier to muster them.”

Guided by questions, Beclan went on to tell of the more successful muster on this northern track and then his decision to send the main mass of them eastward to link with the improved road north, while he and a handful of the better trained militia went on north to a few more villages.

“That’s when I heard a call for help.”

Telling yet again how his horse had plunged off the ridge and could not climb back up, how the others had come down, how Hadrin had died and he’d forgotten names and all the other mistakes of that miserable day, Beclan saw once more just how stupid he had been.

“I didn’t understand why my sergeant insisted we not go help whoever was calling—I mean, I was taught to help those who asked it—” Silence from the men around him; the wood knob against his cheek did not quiver, but he felt that even it condemned him. The rest came more quickly … realizing that they were not making a straight line, that the dense pines and firs were forcing them into a contracting spiral and they could not turn back.

“Did you realize then what you faced?”

“No,” Beclan said. “Nor did my sergeant, though he expected trouble. By the time he realized it was a Kuakkgani trap, it was too
late. We couldn’t go back. We didn’t know a Kuakgan was anywhere around. Neither did Duke Verrakai; I asked her once, after the first Marshals came last summer, if any of her people were kuakgannir, and she said she didn’t think so, that the Kuakkgani had always been hostile to Verrakai.”

“She never said anything to suggest that she might be in league with one?”

“In league?”

“Setting a trap for you, Beclan. She could have had the Kuakgan set the trap for you and caught the others by accident—or by design, if she placed them there.”

“But the Kuakgan said—you heard him, sir,” Beclan said, looking at the Royal Guard commander.

“I heard him, but I have no reason to trust him,” the commander said. “Kuakkgani are uncanny. I follow Gird, where right and wrong are clear.”

“Beclan.” Beclan looked back at his father, reading the tension in his forehead and jaw. “Pay attention. Answer questions; do not argue.”

“Yes, sir.” He knew mortal danger hovered over him; he thought of Gird and tried to take heart, but he did not feel brave, just scared. He wanted to be home—his real home, not here—safe in his own rooms in his father’s house. He felt cold to the bone: would he ever be safe again?

“Tell me exactly what happened when you came to the opening in the trees.”

Beclan told of the three apparent vagabonds, trapped like them, one wounded. “They asked our help. The sergeant said wait …” And he had waited. He had been obedient in that at least, hand on the hilt of the sword he no longer had. Step by step he told the tale as he recalled it. A sense of pressure, similar—he had thought the same—to the pressure in the Kuakkgani trap. Vossik’s attempt to charge—his jerky movements—his strained voice.

“He said ‘Run,’ ” Beclan said. “And I had promised to run if he told me to, but I couldn’t—if he was helpless like Sergeant Stammel, I couldn’t leave him.” He squeezed his eyes shut; his voice shook, and he couldn’t keep it steady. “I had my sword out—I couldn’t—I didn’t know what would help him—”

“What were the others doing?” the Marshal asked.

“I don’t know—they were behind us. His eyes were bloodshot—it’s what Count Arcolin said about Sergeant Stammel. He said ‘Run’ again, and I couldn’t move.” In his memory, it was still perfectly, horribly clear. Those last minutes and seconds of Vossik’s life as the sergeant tried to fight free of the magery and save the boy, his own disbelief that it was real, that this could happen, his terror. He blinked against the tears that ran down his face, trying his best to tell it all, every detail. “I was still holding my sword out, and he said, ‘Now! Like this!’ and reached out with both hands and pulled, and the blade went in and he died.”

“You did not thrust?”

“No … I mean, maybe I should have, but I didn’t. I couldn’t move … and then when he had finished … died … I could move again.”

“And then,” his father prompted.

“The one who’d first spoken said they still had three bodies. I looked, and the others were walking forward, like—like those dolls on strings at the fairs.” He told the rest of it, how he’d killed his own escort, because they were meant to capture him, bind him, so the injured Verrakai could transfer into his body.

Against his cheek, the wood felt warmer now but not hot, and the Marshal said nothing. It had been true—it had been Beclan’s truth at the time, and he still hoped very hard that there had not been any alternative that anyone could have thought of, not just that
he
had not thought of.

“Sergeant Vossik was right,” Beclan said. “It would have been better to die if that had been possible, but they weren’t going to let me die. I remembered what people said about the attack on the king last winter, how even the Marshal-Judicar and my uncle could not move, how one magelord could hold four people motionless, and … and I was only one. I was scared.” He felt the fear again, the sick tightness in his belly, the weakness of his knees … a fear worse than what he’d felt this day, he realized. Here, if he died, he would be killed by honorable men for an honorable reason, and he could trust that his body would not be used to hurt those he loved.

“Of death?” asked the Marshal.

“No,” Beclan said. “Or … not mostly. I was afraid of being what
they wanted me to be. A traitor. An agent of Liart. Any of that.” He looked at his father. “They wanted me to do blood magery with Sergeant Vossik’s blood and become one of them. They promised me … everything. Even the crown—two crowns, in fact. In my body, they would have killed you, sir, and contrived the deaths of the king, Rothlin, and Camwyn … but Father, I was saved by Gird.”

“Gird.” The Marshal’s voice carried disbelief. “And just what makes you think that?”

“I prayed,” Beclan said. “Their magery had forced me toward Vossik’s blood—but then I saw his Girdish medallion. I touched it. It came away in my hand, and my mind cleared. I could stand up. Then their voices in my head were silent. They knew … somehow … and came at me with swords. They said … things. I fought; I was sure I would die.”

“And you, a mere stripling boy, fought and killed two grown men, no doubt experienced swordsmen, as well as those in your escort?” Still that tone of disbelief.

“Gird helped me,” Beclan said.

“Hmmph,” the Marshal said. “
Something
gave you the power to kill so many and live unscathed. I am not convinced it was Gird, though the relic does not give you the lie. At least
you
think it was Gird.”

“Were you tempted, Beclan, when they offered you the crown?” his father asked.

“I saw what they wanted me to see,” Beclan said. He would die for this, he was now sure. “Visions—dreams—all bowing before me. ‘You are strong,’ the voice said. ‘They are weak.’ But I … but you’re my father, Rothlin’s my brother, Mikeli is my cousin, as well as king.”

“The king,” said the Marshal. “To whom you feel yourself oath-bound?”

“Yes,” Beclan said. “I have not made my formal oath yet; I am not of age. But my father taught me from childhood that we owe the king our fealty, and I would not betray that oath.”

“Um.” That from the Knight of Gird.

“Would you swear that oath if your age were not at issue?” his father asked.

“Yes, sir. I would swear it before you and the High Marshal or before the king himself. But I know you do not wish to risk him.”

“High Marshal?” His father looked past him.

“He has told the truth as far as he perceives it, or Gird’s relic has lost its power. I sense no evil in him, but I wish we had a paladin’s word on that. Can you recite the Ten Fingers, boy?”

“Yes, High Marshal.” Beclan had learned the Ten Fingers as a boy in the family grange, and he rattled them off quickly.

“I would advise it,” the High Marshal said. Beclan’s father nodded, as did the other men.

“Leave him bound,” the Knight of Gird said. “I don’t want any surprises just in case that relic isn’t accurate.”

“Fine,” Mahieran said. He looked past Beclan. “My lord …”

Beclan hardly had time to consider which lord this might be when his cousin the king walked past him and turned to face him. “Sir king,” the High Marshal said, “Gird’s relic reports him telling the truth.”

“Beclan,” the king said. His expression was grim.

“Sir king,” Beclan said. His mouth went dry. He had not seen Mikeli since his brief report to him at the Autumn Evener; Rothlin had told him that Mikeli had changed after the assassination attempt; facing Beclan now was no boyish king but a full-grown man.

“You are below legal age for the full oath of fealty,” the king said. “You would not normally be allowed to swear, and you cannot be required to. But hard decisions have been forced on me, and I cannot let my realm be jeopardized by evil I can prevent. The High Marshal declares that you are telling the truth and are not harboring a renegade Verrakai in your body. But until I personally take your oath, you must stay confined away from me and any other peers. I understand you find this confinement onerous—”

“Yes, sir king,” Beclan said. “But I understand the reasons for it.”

“Well, then.” Mikeli’s smile was more challenging than encouraging. “Do you wish to make your full oath? You will be held to it, I caution you, as if you were of age. Should you breach it, you will be guilty of treason, and will face the same fate as other traitors.”

Beclan wanted to ask if this meant he could go home, back to that familiar, safe place, with his family, but he knew he must not ask, only answer. “I will swear,” he said.

“Free him,” the king said to the others.

“Sir king—” The knight got his protest out first.

“The full oath requires that he kneel and that his hands be free,” the king said. “In a roomful of us, alert and aware, I choose to trust Gird and the High Lord will aid you should anything happen.”

The High Marshal unbound his hands; Beclan’s father unbound his ankles and helped him stand. The Royal Guard commander and the Knight of Gird stood either side of Mikeli while Beclan’s father cleared space with one of the chairs set near the fireplace at the far end of the room; Mikeli sat there.

Beclan took a few awkward steps to get the stiffness out while the men lined up on either side of the open space, as if it were the great hall in Vérella. Mikeli nodded, and Beclan walked forward and knelt, placing his hands in the king’s. Once more Gird’s relic touched his cheek, and a sword tip as well. He did not know whose; he did not look around.

Mikeli led him through the oath phrase by phrase; it was not the time to brag that he knew the whole thing. Mikeli’s hands holding his were more callused than he expected, and he scolded himself for that errant thought. Finally it was done, and he himself, in his own name and person, had pledged hand and heart to the king’s person, to live and die by the king’s command. Beclan was not sure what he felt. “Rise, Beclan Mahieran, cousin and dear to me as a brother,” the king said, standing as he said it. Beclan clambered to his feet. Mikeli pulled him into an embrace and pounded his back. “We can’t afford to lose any of us, cousin. But I have one final test.”

“Yes, sir king,” Beclan said.

“Suppose I bid you stay here, as you were.”

Beclan bit back the protest he would have made a quarter-year ago with little effort. “I would say I am yours to command, sir king.”

“Good. Gentlemen, let us sit down and have a meal. I need to discuss those matters we spoke of with Beclan.”

As the men rearranged chairs, the Royal Guard commander went into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. Duke Mahieran took Beclan aside. Beclan saw tears in his father’s eyes. “I was afraid I’d lose you, boy. I still can’t figure out how you survived as yourself, but—” Mahieran shook his head, saying nothing more as the Royal Guard commander and the cook carried in food and plates and utensils.