The words worked like magic. All the muttering, glittering nobles parted and bowed to Tobin and Ki as they strode past in their dusty shoes and scarred leathers. Tobin tried to copy Lord Orun’s haughty nod, but Ki’s smothered snort behind him probably spoiled the effect.
At the palace entrance the page stepped aside and bowed deeply, though not quickly enough to hide his own grin.
“What’s your name?” asked Tobin.
“Baldus, my prince.”
“Well done, Baldus.”
The Companions trained on a broad stretch of open land near the center of the Palatine. There were riding grounds, sword fighting rings, archery lists, stables, and a high stone Temple of the Four, which the boys ran to each morning to make sacrifice to Sakor.
The Companions and their squires were shooting in the archery lists when Tobin and Ki arrived. Even at a distance, Tobin could see that all of them wore fine clothes like Korin’s. There were scores of other people around the field, as well. Tobin recognized some of the guests from the banquet last night, though he could recall few names. Many of the girls were there, too, in bright gowns and light capes of silk that fluttered in the morning breeze like butterfly wings. Some rode their palfreys around the perimeter. Others were shooting at targets or flying their hawks. Ki’s eyes followed them, and Tobin suspected he was looking for auburn-haired Aliya.
Master Porion didn’t seem to mind how they were dressed.
“From the looks of your leathers, you’ve been practicing with bears and wildcats!” he said. “The others are at their shooting, so you may as well begin there.”
Korin might be lord of the mess table, but Porion was master here. At his approach all eighteen boys turned and made him a respectful salute, fist to heart. A few also raised their hands to smother smirks at the sight of Tobin and Ki’s leathers. Someone in the crowd watching the Companions laughed aloud and Tobin thought he caught a glimpse of Moriel’s pale head.
The Companions’ practice jerkins were as ornate as their banquet garb, worked with raised patterns and colors to show hunting or battle scenes. Fancy gold and silver work glittered on scabbards and quivers. Tobin felt dull as a cowbird by comparison. Even the squires were better turned out than he was.
Remember whose son you are, he thought, and squared his shoulders.
“Today you become a Royal Companion in earnest,” Porion told him. “I know I don’t have to teach you of honor; I know whose son you are. Here I charge you to add to it the Companion’s Rule: Stand together. We stand for the Prince Royal, and we stand with him for the king and Skala. We don’t fight among ourselves. If you have a grievance with one of your fellows, you bring it to the circle.” He pointed to the stone outline of the sword fighting ground. “Words are met with words and judged by me. Blows are exchanged only here. To strike another Companion is a serious offense, punishable by flogging on the Temple steps. A Companion who breaks the rule is punished by Korin, a squire by his own lord. Isn’t that so, Arius?”
One of the squires who’d smirked at Tobin’s jerkin gave the arms master a sheepish nod.
“But I don’t imagine that will be a problem with you two. Come on and let’s see how you shoot.”
As Tobin stepped up to the lists, he began to feel a little steadier. After all, these were the same sort of targets he’d trained on at home: bulls and wands and straw-filled sacks for straight shots, and clouts tossed out for arching. Tobin checked his string and the breeze as he’d been taught, then set his feet well apart and nocked one of Koni’s fine new arrows to the string. The king vanes were made from striped owl feathers he’d found in the forest one day.
A puff of wind across the field carried his first shaft wild, but the next four found their marks on the bull, all striking close inside the center ring. He shot five more at the sack, and then managed to hit three of the five wands set in the ground. He’d shot better, but when he was done the others cheered him and clapped him on the shoulders.
Ki took his place and pulled just as well.
They moved on to the sword ground next, and Tobin was paired with plump, sandy-haired Nikides, the lord chancellor’s kinsman. He was older than Lutha, but closer to Tobin in height. His steel helm was burnished like silver and had fancy bronze work around the rim and down the nasal, but there was something unsure in his stance. Tobin clapped on his own plain helmet and stepped into the circle to face him. As they saluted each other with their wooden practice blades, Tobin’s first bout with Ki came back to him. A new opponent wouldn’t catch him off guard this time.
Porion set them no slow drills or forms, just raised his own sword, then dropped it with the cry, “Have at it, boys!”
Tobin lunged forward and got past Nikides’ guard with surprising ease. He expected a swift reprisal, but Nikides proved to be clumsy and slow. Within a few minutes Tobin had driven him to the edge of the circle, knocked his sword from his hand, and scored a killing thrust to the belly.
“Well fought, Prince Tobin,” the boy mumbled, clasping hands with him. Tobin noted again how soft his palm was, compared to the warriors he’d grown up among.
“Let’s try you with someone a bit tougher,” Porion said, and called Quirion into the ring. He was fourteen, a hand taller than Nikides, and leaner built. He was left-handed, too, but Tharin had made Tobin practice with Manies and Aladar back home so this didn’t throw him. He shifted his weight to accommodate the difference and met Quirion’s opening attack solidly. This boy was a better fighter than Nikides and scored a bruising blow on Tobin’s thigh. Tobin quickly recovered and got his blade under Quirion’s, forced it up, then gutted him. Ki hooted triumphantly outside the circle.
This time Porion said nothing, just motioned Lutha into the ring. Lutha was smaller than Tobin, but he was sharp-eyed, quick, and had the advantage of having watched Tobin fight. Tobin soon found himself being pushed, and had to turn to keep from being forced past the stone perimeter. Lutha grinned as he fought, and Tobin could almost hear Tharin’s voice saying a real warrior, this little one.
Tobin rallied and beat him back, raining blows down at his head that Lutha had no choice but to fend off. Tobin was dimly aware of the cheering around them, but all he could see was the bowed figure before him, boldly facing him down. He was sure Lutha was about to fall back when his own blade shattered. Lutha sprang at him and Tobin had to dodge sideways to avoid a killing swing. Using one of the tricks Ki’s sister had shown them, he checked his own rush and took advantage of Lutha’s overbalanced stance to trip him up. Much to his surprise, it worked, and Lutha went sprawling on his belly. Leaping on the boy’s back before he could recover, Tobin got an arm around his neck and pretended to cut his throat with his broken sword.
“You can’t do that!” Caliel protested.
“You can if you know how,” said Porion.
Tobin climbed off Lutha and helped him up.
“Who taught you that move?” the boy asked, dusting himself off.
“Ki’s sister.”
The statement was met with resounding silence. Tobin saw a mix of disbelief and derision in many of the faces of the onlookers outside the circle.
“A girl?” Alben sneered.
“She’s a warrior,” Ki said, but no one seemed to hear him.
Lutha clasped hands with Tobin. “Well, it’s a good one. You’ll have to teach it to me.”
“Who’s next in the ring with our mountain wildcat?” asked Porion. “Come on, he’s whipped three of you. No, not you Zusthra. You know you’re too big for him. Same for you, Caliel. Alben, I haven’t heard much from you yet today.”
Alben was fourteen, tall, and dark, with a sulky mouth and shining blue-black hair that he wore in a long tail down his back. He made a show of knotting this up behind his neck, then ambled into the ring to face Tobin. Many of the girls in the crowd pushed forward to watch, Aliya and her friends among them.
“None of your tricks now, Prince Wildcat,” he murmured, twirling his wooden blade from hand to hand
like a juggler’s stick.
Distrustful of such showy moves, Tobin took a step back and assumed the salute position. With a sly, knowing nod, Alben did the same.
When they fought, all the showiness disappeared. Alben fought like Lutha, hard and skillfully, with more height and strength behind it. Already tired from the previous bouts, Tobin was hard pressed to keep up his guard, much less press an attack. His arms ached and his leg hurt where Quirion had struck him. If he’d been at practice with Tharin, he might have given, or called truce. Instead, he thought of the sneering way this boy had spoken of Ki’s sister and threw himself into the fight.
Alben fought rough, butting him with his shoulders and head whenever he saw an opening. But Tobin was no stranger to this sort of rough-and-tumble, thanks to Ki, and responded in kind. He began to think it might be in fun after all, that he and Alben had found a way to make friends, but the look on the older boy’s face told him otherwise. He didn’t like being matched by a younger boy, or at least not by Tobin. Tobin gave rein to his own anger again. When Alben caught him in the nose with his elbow, the pain only put the strength back into him and he laughed aloud as he felt the shock of his blade against the other boy’s.
Sakor’s luck was still with him, or maybe the gods hated a sneerer that day, for he was able to trip up Alben with the very same trick he’d used on Lutha. Alben went down on his back with the wind knocked out of him. Tobin sprang on him and put his sword to his heart.
“Do you yield?”
Alben glared up at him but saw that he had no choice. “I yield.”
Tobin withdrew and walked out of the circle to where Korin and Ki stood with Porion.
“Our new Companion’s been bloodied,” the arms master observed.
Tobin looked at him, then at the cloth Ki was holding out to him.
“Your nose, Tobin. He scored one hit on you, anyway.”
Tobin took the cloth and wiped at his bloody nose and chin. The sight of the stained cloth brought back the fleeting fragment of a dream.
You see blood, you come here.
He shook his head as Korin and some of the others thumped his back and told him what a fine swordsman he was. This was an honorable bloodying. Why would he go running home for that? It had just been a silly dream.
“Look at you! Scarce half-grown and you’ve already taken down half the Royal Companions,” said Korin. He was clear-eyed today, and Tobin found himself basking in the older boy’s praise. “Who taught you to fight so well, coz? Not Ki’s sister, surely?”
“My father and Sir Tharin were my teachers,” he told him. “And Ki. We practice together.”
“When you’ve rested a bit, would you two fight for us?” asked Porion.
“Certainly, Arms Master.”
Ki fetched him a mug of cider from a barrel nearby, and they watched Korin and Caliel fight a practice match while Tobin rested. Lutha and Nikides joined them with their squires, Barieus and Ruan. The others kept their distance and watched the prince. After the praise from the prince and Porion, it felt awkward to be standing apart.
“Did I do something wrong?” Tobin asked Lutha.
The other boy looked down at his feet and shrugged. “Alben doesn’t like to be beaten.”
“Neither did you two.”
Lutha shrugged again.
“Lutha will beat you next time, now that he knows how you fight,” said Nikides. “Or maybe not, but he’ll have a chance and he’s always good-hearted about it. I won’t, though.”
“You might,” Tobin told him, though he guessed the boy was right.
“No, not against you,” Nikides insisted, apparently unconcerned. “But that’s no matter. Not all of us are here because we’re great warriors, Prince Tobin.”
Before Tobin could ask what Nikides meant, the older boys had finished their match and Porion was calling them into the ring.
“All right, then. Let’s give ’em a proper show,” Ki whispered happily.
Putting aside their wooden swords, they drew steel and fought, no holds barred, using elbows and knees and butting helmets. They yelled their war cries and fought until the dust rolled higher than their heads and sweat soaked through their mail and jerkins. Steel rang on steel as they battered at each other’s guards and Ki came close to smashing Tobin’s sword hand. Tobin caught him a flat-bladed smack on the helmet in return, but neither would give. For the space of the battle nothing else mattered and Tobin lost himself in the familiarity of the fight. They’d done this so often and were so well matched that they eventually fought each other to a standstill and Porion called a draw.
They stepped apart, panting and winded, and found themselves in the center of a crowd of spectators. Many of Alben’s female admirers were watching them now. Ki noticed and nearly tripped over his own feet. Aliya turned and said something to a slender blond girl beside her and they both laughed. Behind them, a brunette closer to Tobin’s age stood watching him with dark, serious eyes. He didn’t remember seeing her before. She caught him looking and disappeared into the surrounding crowd.
“By the Flame!” Korin exclaimed. “You weren’t joking when you said you did nothing else back in your mountains but fight!”
Not even proud Alben could hang back in the face of Korin’s obvious approval. The pair was allowed to rest again, but both were in demand for the rest of the afternoon among the younger Companions and squires.
But not against Prince Korin, Tobin noted. Korin fought only against Caliel and Porion, and defeated both of them most of the time. Tobin was glad not to have been paired against him. Alben had been hard enough to defeat. Of all of them, however, he’d already set Lutha as his main challenger. He was as slippery as Alben, but Tobin liked him a good deal better.
Chapter 41
Ki was glad that there was no great feast on their second night in Ero. Instead, he began his regular duties at table in the Companion’s mess. This meal, eaten in a smaller hall, was conducted like any noble table. A few musicians entertained them, and couriers from the king read out dispatches and descriptions of the latest battles.
Each squire had his appointed role. Tanil served as carver of the meats in each course, and Caliel’s squire Mylirin as panter, with his four knives for the different breads. These were the services of highest distinction.
Garol had the alchemist’s task of butler, mixing the wines and spices with water. It could be a dangerous task; the butler must always “prove by the mouth” to test the wine’s quality and therefore was usually the first to be poisoned if someone meant to kill the host. According to Squire Ruan, Garol was more likely to kill the rest of them by mixing the wine too strong.
Orneus’ squire, a quiet, graceful boy nicknamed Lynx, was the mazer, whose task it was to keep the footed cups filled with the appropriate wines during each course. Ruan served as almoner, in charge of collecting scraps to be sent out to the beggars at the Palatine gates. Ki and the rest were sent off as ushers to carry in food from the kitchens, with Zusthra’s squire, Chylnir, as their captain. Unfortunately, this left Ki at the mercy of his least sympathetic companions in arms.
Even with friendly Squire Barieus to help him, Ki was always one step behind or forgetting something. The other ushers, Mago and Arius, were too busy looking down their long noses at him to give him any help. Chylnir had little patience with any of them.
It hurt Ki’s pride to make such a poor showing for Tobin in front of the others. He managed to upset two sauce basins that first night, and nearly dumped a steaming swan’s-neck pudding on Korin’s head when Mago bumped his elbow. He ended the evening splattered with grease and plum sauce, then had to endure the snickers and smirks of the others during the evening’s hearth entertainments. Korin passed it off graciously with a joke and Tobin was happily oblivious, clearly not feeling dishonored in the least. Ki sat outside the circle of firelight, feeling low-spirited and out of place.
Tobin guessed that something was bothering Ki, but couldn’t guess what it might be. Tobin h
ad been proud of him at table; he’d even gotten praise from Prince Korin.
Ki’s mood didn’t seem to lighten any when Porion and the older boys began telling more tales of the palace ghosts around the hearth that night, elaborating on where the different apparitions were most likely to be found. There were weeping maids and headless lovers at every turn, if all the stories were to be believed, but the most fearsome ghost was that of Mad Agnalain herself.
“Our grandmother wanders these very halls,” Korin said, sitting close beside Tobin as he imparted the tale. “She has a golden crown on her head, and blood runs down from it into her face and over her gown—the blood of all the innocents she sent to the torture chambers and gibbet and crow cages. She has a bloody sword in her hand, and a golden girdle hung with the pricks of all the consorts and lovers she took.”
“How many are there?” asked someone, and it sounded like an old question.
“Hundreds!” everyone chorused.
Judging by the grins being exchanged among the younger boys, Tobin guessed that this was a test to see if the new Companions would show fear. Tobin had been in enough haunted places in his life to know the feel of one; so far he hadn’t sensed anything at all here at the Palace, or even in the royal tombs among the dead.
He stole another glance at Ki, sprawled on the rushes at the edge of the fire-lit circle. He was maintaining a carefully bored expression, but Tobin thought he saw some uneasiness in his friend’s eyes. Perhaps living around Brother for so long hadn’t cured him of his fears, after all.
As the tales went on of floating heads and ghostly hands and unseen lips that blew out lamps in the night, Tobin found he wasn’t feeling all that brave himself. By the time they went back to their huge, shadowy room he was more glad than usual of Ki’s company and for little Baldus on his pallet by their door.
“Have you ever seen a ghost here?” he asked when the other servants had gone away for the night. Molay slept on a pallet outside their door to keep guard.