Echoes of Betrayal (58 page)

“Please, sir king,” Mahieran began, but was silenced by Mikeli’s gesture.

“I do not intend to beggar him or drive him naked from the gates, Uncle. He is my cousin and your son; we share blood—but that is the problem. He must not be Mahieran anymore, and he must not attend court anymore.”

“Keep him in my household? As a …”

“No, Uncle. He must not be associated with Mahieran. But he is already associated with another family—and a family with known magery.” Mikeli looked at Dorrin. “You, Dorrin Duke Verrakai, must adopt this former Mahieran: give him your name and—unless some accident befalls him—make him your heir.” Before she could speak, shocked as she was, he went on. “I know you have another heir, a cousin with no magery, who was judged innocent of treason and who now serves in the Royal Guard. But he had not, until last spring, any notion of being an heir to Verrakai; I doubt he will be much put out. Whether he is or not, that is my command, and he as well as you must abide it. Beclan, as your kirgan, would be under your command and would be your responsibility—and all our magelords would be in one basket, so to speak. He will eventually have rank—be a duke in his own right—and by then perhaps opinions will have changed. If I am still king and he has proven himself honorable, he can then come to court as a Verrakaien.”

“I—” Dorrin tried to think what she could say that might convince the king to let Beclan remain in his own family and realized nothing would work. In strategy, the king was right. This—or outright exile to another land. “Sir king, I would be honored to adopt Beclan and name him my kirgan, with the consent of his father.”

“Uncle,” Mikeli said, “you must see this is the only way.”

Mahieran bowed, jaw clenched. Finally he said, “I want to speak to my son before—alone—”

“Yes, of course.”

Mahieran took Beclan aside; Mikeli gave Dorrin a rueful look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is the only way I could think of, and it must be done quickly. It will be hard for both of you. But if we face war with the south, I must have Girdish support, and that means dealing with my own family as the law requires.”

“He may someday be a valuable peer in your realm,” Dorrin said. “And you hold his oath now: I ask that you take care for him as you would for any other who has pledged you fealty.”

“I will do my best,” Mikeli said. “And I think this—what I do now—is my best. For this time, at least.”

Beclan and his father came back to the others, both pale but calm. Beclan moved to stand near Dorrin; Mahieran glanced at the Marshal-Judicar. “Will you be writing up the decree?”

“As the king wishes,” Oktar said.

“Let it be done,” Mikeli said.

In a turn of the glass, Dorrin and Beclan left the palace. The horses they had ridden in were waiting, freshly groomed, saddled again. They mounted in silence, rode in silence to Verrakai House. Dorrin’s house-wards had raised the Duke’s pennon on its staff by the door, and the house-ward opened to them, smiling.

“A fire in the small parlor, my lord, and a meal within a glass—will my lord be staying long?”

“A few days,” Dorrin said. Though the adoption had been signed, other legalities remained, and Beclan would have to have new clothes with Verrakai colors and no hint of a relationship to Mahieran. She hoped they would not need to stay longer in Vérella; the sooner she got Beclan away from here, with all its Mahieran associations, the better. “A pot of sib, perhaps, with honey.”

“At once, my lord.”

In the small parlor, a fire crackled cheerfully enough and two chairs were pulled near it. “Sit down, Beclan,” Dorrin said, and settled into one of the chairs. She glanced at his face: pale, stiff, miserable. “You have lost everything, you think,” she said. “You have lost your whole family … and believe it or not, I do understand. I was not much younger than you when I lost mine—cast out, though by my own will.”

“I c-can’t believe I’ll never … never see them again … never see my home … and I’ve
always
been a Mahieran!” Tears stood in his eyes.

“I had always been a Verrakai—and now I am again. I know it’s hard, Beclan, but you’re young, you have a place to go, and you’ve come through worse.”

“I don’t want—” He shook his head abruptly and turned away from her; his shoulders shook. “It’s not what I want,” he said thickly. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I know that, it’s just—I love them. My brother—my father—my sisters—” And in a lower voice, “My mother.”

“And that makes it harder than it was for me. Yes. But however you feel now, your life is not over. You have shown courage, Beclan, and honor. You have grown much since you became my squire, and though I was surprised—even shocked—by the king’s command, I think you can become a worthy heir of Verrakai. I think you can help me change Verrakai’s reputation, make it into the family it should have been.”

The sib arrived; Dorrin poured for both of them. Beclan finally turned around and took a cup, gulped, nearly choked, and then sipped more quietly.

“My lord, a messenger in Mahieran livery.” Her house-ward handed over a message tube.

Dorrin read the message silently, then spoke to Beclan. “Your father is sending things you might want, he says, and two additional horses, as well as a sum of gold, which I am to put in trust for you until you come of age.” She did not mention the money Mahieran had sent to her for the expenses of Beclan’s new clothes or that he had already spoken to the family’s tailor, who had Beclan’s measurements.

“Why?”

“Why? Because he cares for you. Even your cousin the king cares for you. And—this is surprising—he grants us both leave to attend Kieri Phelan’s wedding in Lyonya if he does not. Have you ever been in Lyonya?”

“No, my lord.”

“Even if we don’t go for the wedding, I’m sure we’ll visit Lyonya on other occasions.” Dorrin glanced at him. Beclan’s shoulders were slumped, his head down, a perfect image of misery. “It will be an adventure,
Beclan. Last summer you told me you wanted adventure—well, you’ve had a taste, and there’s more to come. Now—sit up properly. You have a backbone for a reason. As both squire and kirgan, you have new responsibilities.”

Beclan’s head rose. “You’re serious … my lord.”

“I’m serious. Moping and moaning won’t help—and I won’t tolerate it. You’ve got more breeding than that—on both sides. You know—and I just thought of this—if your mother’s Konhalt relatives intermarried with Verrakai, as many did, you and I may be related, after all.”

“I can’t think of you as my
mother—
”

“Holy Falk and Gird, no! Of course not. Distant cousin at most. But as your duke—as the head of the household—and yourself as heir—
that
you can manage, I daresay. You probably learned from your father and brother what is expected of a duke’s kirgan.”

“Will I—will my magery grow?”

“I have no idea,” Dorrin said. “But implicit in your adoption is the king’s awareness that it might, and it should be trained by someone who knows magery—just as a talent for anything else.” She stood up; Beclan stood out of courtesy. “Come, now: we’ve had a hard day already, and we’ll eat a meal and make our plans.”

T
wo days later, Beclan came down to breakfast in his new clothes, the blue of Verrakai replacing the rose of Mahieran, and the formal knot of Kirgan Verrakai on his shoulder instead of the family colors squires wore. He looked glum again. The last of the legal ceremonies lay before him, in the grange-hall of the Bells, where he would never now be a knight-candidate. Dorrin knew it would be difficult. He had always assumed he’d be a Knight of the Bells someday, wear the silver insignia on his collar as his brother Rothlin and his father both did.

Instead, today the Knight-Commander and two High Marshals would accept the Marshal-Judicar’s report of the adoption the king commanded. His father would once more renounce him; he would have to renounce his father; he would see his name blotted out in the family records.

“We’re starting for the east as soon as the ceremony’s done,” Dorrin said. “So eat a hearty breakfast.”

“Yes, my lord.” He worked his way through half a bowl of porridge as she finished hers and began on the ham. “It’s … it feels so odd to be wearing these clothes—these colors—everyone will know—”

Dorrin put her fork down. “Most people don’t know you, Beclan. They didn’t know you as Mahieran’s younger son … and they don’t know you as my kirgan. Most we pass will see ‘a young Verrakaien’ as they formerly saw ‘a young Mahieran,’ without seeing Beclan-the-person either way.”

“I hope I don’t see anyone I know, then,” Beclan said.

They saw none but servants on their way through to the grange-hall where the Knights of the Bells trained and were tested. Early as it was, Duke Mahieran and Rothlin were there—and to Dorrin’s surprise, the king and his younger brother, Camwyn, as well. The others—Knight-Commander of the Bells, Marshal-Judicar, and High Marshals—began at once, asking Mahieran for the family rolls, which he produced, a ribbon marking the place where Beclan’s name had been recorded.

Dorrin knew that her own family had not bothered with a public ceremony when they blotted out her name; she had never attended any such before. What impressed her most was the care taken to be sure that the parties understood and gave consent. Agonizing as it must be for Beclan to hear his father cast him out three times and to be asked thrice if he himself renounced his allegiance to the family of his birth, if he fully accepted the authority of his adoptive family—impossible as it was for him to protest—the ceremony was still an attempt to be fair, to ensure no coercion. Yet coercion attended in the person of the king.

At the end, when a great blot of black ink covered his name in the Mahieran rolls, when Dorrin had formally acknowledged him her heir and sworn to have a Marshal witness her writing him into the Verrakai rolls, the ceremony ended with acknowledgment of Beclan’s new status. His father, his brother, and the king each embraced him, gave the ritual kisses on each cheek, and greeted him as “Beclan Kirgan Verrakai.” The king’s younger brother stood by, looking slightly alarmed and bewildered.

As they rode east toward Verrakai lands later that day, Beclan looked back only once to the life he had lost. As they passed the fork in the road that led to the Mahieran estates, he turned in the saddle. The road lay empty, just trampled and rutted snow. Dorrin said nothing; the boy needed time to make his own peace with it all, if he could.

On the last day of their journey, she brought up his new status. “I can’t send you to another household as squire, Beclan, yet you need that training like any other lord’s heir. So you will also continue as my squire on the same footing as before. I will explain to Gwenno and Daryan what I feel they need to know. Beyond that—it’s as before, is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You will be learning more about this estate in particular, but you will not have authority as my kirgan until your term as my squire is complete.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As I am commanded to keep you with me for supervision of whatever magery you develop, remember what I told you—I will be taking you with me to Lyonya at the Spring Evener to King Kieri’s wedding.”

His head came up. “But—surely they invited the king. If Mikeli’s coming, I can’t, can I?”

“Your father will represent him; he’s planning to bring Rothlin. It was the king’s decision. You will be introduced to Lyonyans as Kirgan Verrakai, my heir.” She waited a moment for that to sink in. “I’m sure the court in Lyonya will have an abundance of eligible young women.”

“I’m not interested in—” He paused. “I thought I couldn’t marry because no one in Tsaia would want to risk it—but—”

“Lyonya does not have the same attitudes to magery,” Dorrin said. “Falkians don’t. Elves don’t.” She watched that idea seep in, producing a flush of color to his face and then the first genuine smile she’d seen on the journey. “And you’ll need an heir yourself someday.”

Already he sat taller in the saddle.

I
n the days approaching the Spring Evener and their wedding, Arian found time, even with the wedding preparations demanding her attention, to visit the ossuary several times. She no longer feared the place or Kieri’s sister’s spirit. She had walked the perimeter—dry whitewashed stone walls, the stone floor cleaned of the muddy footprints Kieri had made. The Seneschal answered her few questions and left her alone as long as she wanted.