“If Clare had lived, at least…” Braga began. An awkward pause followed.
Clare had been Amrath’s sister-in-law, the aging second daughter of Llewellyn Ethelred, Duke of Rise. The duke had taken too long finding her a proper husband and at the death of her father she asked to live with her sister Queen Ann in Melengar. Amrath could only guess at the state of the court in Aquesta that a granddaughter of the reigning king would choose to flee her own home for a neighboring kingdom. Amrath and Ann were happy to take her in, as she was a gentle soul. A bit bookish, living in exile, and over the age of thirty, they all expected her to remain unwed. Everyone thought she would grow old as the kindly spinster aunt to the royal children, but then Bishop Saldur introduced her to Percy Braga and everything changed. Clare found the dashing young swordsman charming. For months he and Ann commented at Clare’s brimming smile.
“She loved you very much, and I never saw her happier than the day you took the oath of office. She believed in you, and so do I.” Amrath left the window and clapped his big hand on Braga’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re the only one for the job, Percy. I wouldn’t dare give Simon any more power. And I can’t give it to Leo. Being from Maranon actually has its benefits. Singling out any other noble would cause divisions and launch rumors that could lead to bigger problems than just a bruised ego. You have no ties, no known bias. You’ll be called to pass judgment over all of them in the chancery, to make laws and keep the rolls. And only a man with no affiliation can successfully do that.”
“Yes,” Leo put in, “only a man as equally despised as you can hope to be effective as chancellor of our unruly mob of nobles. In that way you’re Simon’s equal. Being a source of universal hatred, you are free to act as your conscience dictates.”
“Wonderful,” Braga said, but managed a smile.
Amrath clapped him soundly on the back, staggering the smaller man forward a step.
“Is it really true?” Leo asked. “Did you actually apply to be a sentinel?”
Braga nodded.
“Becoming a sentinel is no easy feat.”
“Clearly I failed.” He folded his hands behind his back. “I didn’t have a lot of prospects, you understand. And the church is more dominant in Maranon than here. I felt that since I had won the Silver Shield, the Golden Laurel, as well as the Grand Circuit Tournament of Swords at Wintertide that I would be considered. After all, I had no problem with my induction into the Seret Knights, but…”
“What happened?”
“The Patriarch explained that I did not exhibit the necessary level of devotion to be a sentinel.”
Amrath laughed. “That just means you’re not a lunatic. All of them are insane, you know.” Braga smiled at the king, but it was the same polite look Amrath often got from those unable to disagree because of his position.
“Having failed, having been judged as inferior, I no longer felt comfortable in the black and red. After resigning from the order, I really didn’t know what to do. That’s when Bishop Saldur approached me about coming here. I think he felt I might be of some use to him at Mares Cathedral.”
“Sauly means well,” Amrath said, “but anyone can tell you’re not deacon material.”
“I just hope I’m chancellor material.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the king said. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about how you’ll fare against Leo here in this year’s Wintertide fencing match. I’m going to be in for a treat, aren’t I? I’ll get to see two men dance in public.”
Leo scowled. “Just ignore him.”
Braga raised his eyebrows. “But he’s the king.”
“All the more reason.”
CHAPTER 4
THE GHOST OF THE HIGH TOWER
Reuben placed another log up on its end and, with a single stroke, split it. The trick was to cut the wood clean in one swing but not plant the head of the axe in the chopping block. Sinking the blade added work and chewed up the block. Sometimes the grain and knots made it impossible; then he was stuck with using wedges and the blunt face of the axe. While just brute work, he’d developed a skill that made his swing more likely to succeed on the first try, and he liked to think he was good at something. As if to prove him wrong, his last stroke had too much force and the axe went firmly into the block. He left it there and tossed the splits aside. When done, he reached out once more for the old worn handle and paused. This was the last day he would ever split wood. The thought surprised him. Looking at the chopping block and knowing he would never again swing that axe was the first bit of reality to invade his routine.
Being a soldier would be a step up. Now he would receive a wage that he could spend as he saw fit. Although most of that salary he would never see, as it would go toward paying for his food, uniform, weapons, and living space—something his father’s pay had covered so far. He should have been excited at the impending promotion, at the recognition that he was a man at last, only he didn’t feel like one. The squires had beaten, and a child had bested, him both in the same day. He didn’t feel worthy to take the burgundy and gold. He was only fit to open doors, haul water, and split wood. These were the tasks he was good at, what he was comfortable with, and what was being taken from him.
Hidden from the castle doors, Reuben was splitting wood under the oak on the far side of the woodpile when he heard them. He’d thought the stormy sky would have been enough to keep the squires indoors learning table manners, helping to dress their lords, or listening to the tales of the knights. The sound of the approaching laughter proved him wrong.
“What do we have here?” Ellison rounded the woodpile with the Three Cruelties in tow. “Muckraker, how wonderful. I was looking for you.” Ellison stepped in front of Reuben while the others circled around.
There was no chance to run. The best he could do was yank the axe from the block, but a heavy splitting axe was a slow weapon, and each of the squires wore their swords—metal this time.
“Word has it that you’re to be sworn in as a guard of the castle tomorrow. There are complications with beating a soldier in the king’s service, so this will be my last chance to pay you back for the bruise.”
Reuben only then noticed a small purple mark on Ellison’s cheek.
“The bad news is that you’ll spend your first day of service in the infirmary.”
Ellison punched him in the jaw. The blow stunned him and Reuben staggered back into Horace, who shoved him to the ground. Reuben crouched, dazed for a moment before jumping up and breaking the axe free of the block by slapping the handle. He held it with both hands. Horace seized Reuben from behind in a bear hug. While not skilled with a sword, Reuben knew his way around an axe. He thrust backward with the handle, jamming it hard into Horace’s broad gut. The big arms let go and the squire dropped to his knees. Ellison rushed forward, but Reuben expected that and dodged behind Horace, who was still doubled over. Ellison and Horace both fell.
That’s when Willard and Dills drew their swords. Once he got to his feet, so did Ellison.
Reuben had at least managed to put his back to the woodpile. Now all four were out in front.
“Get his arms and legs. I don’t want him to ever forget us,” Ellison said. “We’ll each carve our initials into him.”
“My name’s short enough to write the whole thing,” Dills declared.
They closed in, jabbing, leering, and grinning.
“Is this a private party or can anyone play?” a familiar voice asked.
Looking over Ellison’s shoulder, Reuben spotted the wild-haired boy who had bested him at the bridge, the one the princess had called Mauvin.