Elizabeth Moon: Oath of Fealty

Jandelir Arcolin, senior captain of Duke Phelan’s Company, rested his forearms on the top of the stronghold walls, where he had the best view to the south. On one side of the road to Duke’s East, Stammel was putting his own cohort through an intricate marching drill. On the other, the junior sergeant of the recruit cohort supervised a sword drill with wooden blades. Beyond, the trees along the stream showed the first soft golds and oranges of ripening buds, though it would be hands of days yet before the fruit trees bloomed. Old snow still lay knee-deep against the north wall.

He heard steps behind him, and turned. Cracolnya, captain of the mixed cohort, came up onto the walkway with him.

“Are you putting down roots up here?” he asked.

Arcolin shook his head. “Hoping for a courier. We should have heard something by now. At least the weather’s lifted. Though not for long.” He tipped his head to the northwest, where a line of dark clouds just showed over the hills.

“Your worry won’t bring the Duke faster,” Cracolnya said. He turned his back on the view south and leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what we’ll do this year.”

“I don’t know.” Arcolin glanced down at the courtyard below, to be sure their inquisitive visitors, merchant-agents from Vonja, weren’t in earshot. “He said not to take any contracts until he got back; I suggested they go to Vérella and talk to him, but they were afraid of missing him on the way.”

“What are they offering?”

“A one-cohort contract to protect farmlands and roads from brigands. I told them we’d need two for that—”

“At least. Better the whole Company, or you’re without reliable archery. Or were they planning to assign their militia to help?”

“No. From what they said, they disbanded half the militia. Trade’s down. But what do you think the Council will say? With the trouble this past winter, the Duke can’t say it’s entirely safe here. Yet—we have to do something. This land won’t support so many soldiers year-round.”

Cracolnya leaned over the parapet, watching the recruit cohort. “We’ve got to do something with those recruits, too. They signed up to fight, and all we’ve done with them is train … and he’s taken their final oaths: they’ll be due regular pay soon.”

“He’ll think of something.” Arcolin looked again at the line of clouds along the western horizon. Buds or no buds, another winter storm was coming. “He always does. But if he doesn’t come soon, we won’t get the good quarters in Valdaire.” He looked south again, sighing, then stiffened. “Someone’s coming!”

A single horseman, carrying the Company pennant, moving fast on the road from Duke’s East. Not the Duke, who would have an escort.

“Should I announce it, sir?” the sentry asked.

“No. It’s just a messenger.” Unfortunately. They needed the Duke. Arcolin turned and made his way down to the courtyard with Cracolnya at his heels.

“I’ll tell the stable,” Cracolnya said, turning away. Arcolin moved to the gate, where he could watch the messenger approach.

Whatever the message might be, it was urgent enough for the rider to keep his mount at a steady canter, trotting only the last few yards to the gate and then halting his mount to salute the sentry before riding in. Arcolin recognized Sef, a private in Dorrin’s cohort.

“Captain,” Sef said, after he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the recruits on stable duty. “I have urgent news.”

“Into the barracks,” Arcolin said. Through the opening to the Duke’s courtyard, he could see the two merchants hurrying toward them, but merchants were not allowed in the barracks. He led the way, and turned in to the little room where the sergeants kept the cohort records and brewed sib on their own hearth. “What is it? Is the Duke coming? How far behind you is he?”

“No sir, he’s not coming, and you won’t believe—but I should give you this first.” Sef took a message tube from his tunic and handed it over.

Arcolin glanced at the hearth. “See if there’s any sib left, or brew yourself some; you’ve had a long ride. And if I know Stammel, he’s got a roll hidden away somewhere.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sef turned to the hearth, stirred the fire, and dipped a can of water from the barrel, setting it to heat.

Arcolin unrolled the message. A smaller wrapped packet fell out; he put it aside. There, in the Duke’s hand—with a postscript by Dorrin, he saw at a glance—he found what he had never imagined. Kieri Phelan revealed as the rightful king of Lyonya—Paksenarrion had discovered it, come to Tsaia to find him—Tammarion’s sword had been his sword all along, elf-made for him, and it had declared him. Arcolin glanced at Sef, who was stirring roots and herbs into the can. “Did you see this yourself? Were you in Vérella with the Duke?”

“No, Captain. I was with the reserve troop. Captain Selfer come up from Vérella, him and the horse both near knackered, and said the best rider must go fast as could be to the stronghold.” Sef swallowed. “He thought it would be only two days, maybe, but that fog came in. I couldn’t go more than a foot pace, mostly leading the horse. It’s taken me twice as long as it should have, three days and this morning.”

“I’m not surprised,” Arcolin said. “We had thick fog for days, up here; you did well, Sef.” He read on, while Sef stirred the can of sib, struggling to make sense of what had happened. His mind snagged on Paksenarrion—once in his cohort. I must go, and leave her in torment , Kieri had written. Otherwise her torment is meaningless. Yet it is a stain on my honor. You will rule in my stead until the Regency Council confirms a new lord. I recommended you, but do not know what they will do. This letter and my signet ring will prove your identity and authority .

Arcolin unwrapped the smaller packet and found the Duke’s ring. Not one of the copies he lent to his captains on occasion to do business for him, but the original, the one he himself wore.

Dorrin’s postscript was brief. She was going with Kieri, on his orders; her cohort would follow. She feared more attacks on the Duke—scratched out to read King —on the road east. She did not know when she might return; it would depend upon his need.

Arcolin rolled the pages and slid them back into the tube. “Well. You will have traveled ahead of any word of his passage to the east—” He tried to estimate where Kieri might be, where Dorrin might be, seven days on a road he himself had never traveled. Impossible.

“Right, Captain.” Sef stirred the can again, sniffed it. “Want some sib, sir?”

“No thanks. Go ahead.”

Sef took a mug down from the rack and poured one for himself as he talked. “Captain Selfer said Captain Dorrin expected his cohort to catch up with the Duke before the Lyonya border. Wish I was with them—” He took a swallow of hot sib.

“I’m—I must admit I’m shocked … amazed … I don’t know what to think,” Arcolin said. “Our Duke a king—all the rest—” Remembering Paks as a recruit, a novice … the steady, reliable soldier she’d become … why she left, and when … the rumors … and then her return. He squeezed his eyes hard against tears, at the thought of her in Liart’s hands, shook his head, and looked again at Sef. “You’ve done very well, Sef. Go tell the cooks to give you a hot meal, and I’ll get Stammel to find you a place to sleep undisturbed.”

Sef saluted, then carefully rinsed the can and set it to dry before going out. Arcolin followed him, wondering if he’d have to explain to the Vonja agents before he found Stammel. Instead, Stammel met him at the gate. Arcolin smiled.