Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Fealty

Rolyan felt his skin draw up in prickles. “Marrakai—but I just saw him down there—” He jerked his head back down the passage. “Get help,” he said. “Something’s wrong.” With that he opened the door of the outer office—hurried across it, but silently—and through the open door of the inner rooms saw the back of a man—the wrong height and shape for Marrakai—in Verrakai blue and silver. The blood smell raised the hair on his arms before he quite realized what he saw.

Across from him, by the fire, the Marshal-Judicar sprawled on the floor and the Knight-Commander of the Bells slumped in his chair, a look of horror on his face and blood soaking the front of his robe. The prince and Juris Marrakai both sat still as if carved in stone. A bloody sword hung in the air, moving slowly toward the prince, and the room seemed full of some pressure other than air. Magery! It must be Duke Verrakai …

He wanted to yell, but he could not find breath for that. He had no time to draw his sword; he dropped the tablets and swung the poles as hard as he could, taking Verrakai in the neck even as the tablets clattered to the floor. Verrakai staggered, his hand already grabbing for his sword; Rolyan stepped sideways to brace for a thrust with the poles, slipped on the dropped tablets, stumbled into the wall, and missed. He saw the sword in the air fall; saw Marrakai dive to retrieve it; saw the prince snatch at his own sword and draw it, saw Verrakai, his own sword now in his hand, make some movement with the other that once more stilled them.

“You!” Verrakai said, turning to Rolyan, where he sat sprawled against the wall. Rolyan tried to push himself up, but could not. “You would attack a duke, would you?”

“You would attack a prince, would you?” Rolyan said. He saw the telltale shift of Verrakai’s weight, and parried with the pole as Verrakai’s sword came down. The blade hung momentarily in the linen roll; Roly threw himself forward, over the scattered tablets on the floor, drawing his dagger left-handed, and stabbed at Verrakai’s knee, but the blade didn’t bite. Armor? It didn’t feel like hitting armor.

Before he could yank the pole free of Verrakai’s blade, he heard a thunnnk as someone’s sword—he couldn’t see whose—hit Verrakai in the back. Verrakai whirled, stumbled over Roly’s legs, staggered, and half fell on him. Roly stabbed frantically with his dagger, holding on to one of the man’s legs as Verrakai kicked and struggled to his feet again, but the blade would not go in. More magery? Cold sweat slicked his hands. Magery was evil; he’d heard that all his life. He could hear more sword blows to Verrakai’s body now, and yet the man did not cry out, did not stop fighting, did not bleed.

Someone’s boot and a lot of weight landed on his ribs; he grunted, now blinded by masses of dark blue cloak—Verrakai’s—and he couldn’t get his breath. Pressure eased; blades clashed, he heard thuds and clatters as things fell. He tried to get out from under, swiping at the cloak, but it snugged tighter around him, as if it were alive. Someone kicked his head; something whacked his hand hard enough that he lost the dagger. More yells from outside somewhere, more people rushing in—and a hand slid in, under the cloak, lifting it with a dagger blade. He rolled forward and sank his teeth into the hand.

The cloak whirled away from him, lifting to Verrakai’s shoulders, and he could see again, see that he had his teeth in Verrakai’s heart hand, just as Verrakai dropped the dagger he held. In that moment, arms free at last, Rolyan pulled the saveblade, black as death, from his boot, and surged up, striking at anything he could reach. He had a momentary glimpse of Verrakai’s sword … and then the old blade slid in, like a hot knife into butter.

Over his head, a blade clanged, then screeched, as Verrakai sagged, his weight coming onto the knife blade, hot blood spurting down, soaking Rolyan’s arm.

“Are you hurt, Roly?” Mikeli knocked Verrakai’s blade aside before it fell. Was that a stain near the tip? Was it poison? He looked around the room, now crowded with the men he had asked his friends to summon. Sonder Mahieran, Duke Marrakai, Counts Destvaorn and Kostvan; his friends crowded behind them, near the door, eyes wide.

“N-no. I—I just—I killed him.” Roly was still trembling. Mikeli felt his own hands shaking; he knew what Rolyan was feeling. Neither of them had ever killed a man before; neither of them had ever been so near violent death. He’d been told it was like hunting: it wasn’t. The stench of blood and death in the room sickened him. He wanted to spew; he did not want to shame himself in front of the others; he hoped he did not look as green around the mouth as Rolyan. He swallowed, hardening his jaw against the rush of nausea.

“Gods be praised for that,” Juris said. He, too, was pale. He glanced at his father and Duke Mahieran, now inside the room. “You saved us, Roly. He was going to kill all of us and blame me and my family.”

“Gird’s blood, what a mess!” That was Duke Mahieran, kneeling beside the Knight-Commander’s body. “Beclan … oh, Beclan …” Tears ran down his face into his beard; he kissed his dead brother’s hand. “And the Marshal-Judicar.” He turned and closed Donag’s eyes gently. “It’s hard to believe anyone would kill a Marshal-Judicar, a Knight-Commander—”

“And using magery,” Duke Marrakai said. He looked as dangerous as Verrakai had.

“Don’t remind me,” Mahieran said. “I remember your warnings.”

“I’m sorry to have been proved right,” Marrakai said. Under his beard, his jaw muscles worked. “A sad day for Tsaia.”

“A dangerous night,” Kostvan said. “Pardon, my lord dukes, but Verrakai may have a secret way into the palace, and he has a brother as dangerous as himself. We have no time for mourning now—we must act. Your younger brother, Your Highness—is he safe?”

Mikeli gathered his scattered wits. “You’re right, my lord count. Terrible as this is, worse may be coming. Uncle, will you take command of the palace guard, and Duke Marrakai, will you take command of the Bells, and order them out? Camwyn should be in his chambers, but if he’s not—”

After a piercing glance, his uncle nodded, stood, and shouldered his way out the door. Marrakai paused. “Juris?”

“I need him here,” Mikeli said.

“Very well,” Marrakai said, and went out, his cloak swirling behind him.

Kostvan bowed. “My lord, the messenger who came—where is he? He might have more to say—”

“I sent him with Belin Destvaorn to eat and rest.”

“Verrakai would want him dead,” Kostvan said. “Shall I check, and also alert the household staff?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Mikeli said. Kostvan turned to go, just as a squad of palace guards arrived.

“What is happening?” asked one from outside.

“Treason,” Kostvan said. “The first one’s dead, but there are others. Guard your prince.”

Count Destvaorn beckoned to the guards. “We need to lay out the High Marshal and Knight-Commander with all due respect. In the Knights’ Hall, or the grange, do you think?”

“Knights’ Hall,” Mikeli said. He wanted to sit down; he must not sit down.

The sergeant gulped, then glanced at Verrakai’s body. “And him?”

“He was the traitor. He killed them, and tried to kill the prince. Make sure he’s dead, and search his body for … for anything that might give us a clue what else we might face.”

“What about that one?” He pointed at Rolyan, still sprawled on the floor, looking sick.

“He saved us,” Mikeli said. “If Roly hadn’t come back from the library and hit Verrakai … we’d be dead.” He moved closer, avoiding Verrakai’s blood. “Roly—are you all right?”