AS THE SUN ROSE OVER THE BARREN HILLS OF Starkmoor, Grand Master sent for the five most senior candidates. That meant only four would be bound, which was what Stalwart had dreaded.
The Flea Room was a small, bleak chamber that most boys saw only twice in all their years in Ironhall. Each newcomer met Grand Master there, and usually had to listen while whoever had brought him explained what a useless and ungrateful brat he was, and how nobody could do anything with him. Grand Master would hear the story, then talk with the boy in private and test his agility by throwing coins for him to catch. In most cases, he sent the boy and his guardian away and that was the end of it.
But if the boy had spirit and was nimble, Grand Master would accept him as a candidate. He was encouraged to take a new name and make a new person of himself. Whatever he had done in the past was forgotten. He would not see the Flea Room again unless he were set to clean it as a punishment. That was far from the worst that could happen to him, for Ironhall discipline was hard.
Time changed boys into young men. Ironhall’s expert training plus a dash or two of magic turned the unwanted rebel into one of the finest swordsmen in the world. After five years or so, when the transformation was complete, the King would either accept him into the Royal Guard or assign him as bodyguard to someone else. It was back in the Flea Room that he learned his fate and met his future ward.
A companion in the Order was addressed as “Sir,” although that was only a politeness, so tomorrow Sir Orvil, Sir Panther, Sir Dragon, Sir Rufus, but still only Candidate Stalwart…sigh!
At the door, Dreadnought took away their swords, because only a bound Blade could go armed into the King’s presence. He sent them in by seniority: Orvil striding ahead, Panther close on his heels. Dragon and Rufus followed eagerly, like puppies wanting to romp. The reject trailed along behind, keeping his face blank to hide his disappointment.
There was no shame in being young, but why did it have to go on so long?
An icy wind blew off the moor, in one unglazed window and out the other. The five lined up facing Grand Master, who stood hunched in front of the inner door, clutching his cloak around him against the chill. With nine persons present, the room was crowded. The one staying out of sight at their backs would be Commander Bandit. The huge man in the corner was King Ambrose, but they must pretend not to notice him until they were instructed otherwise. He had set his hands on his hips and was grinning like a stuffed shark. His fingers glittered with jewels.
Orvil spoke the traditional words: “You sent for us, Grand Master?” He said them very loudly, so perhaps he was less calm than he was managing to appear.
“I did summon you, Prime. His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?” Grand Master’s beady eyes were set in a craggy, gloomy face. His name, although nobody used it, was Saxon. He was a distant, coldhearted man, inclined to lose his temper and lash out with harsh punishments, even expelling boys without fair warning. Since expulsion meant the culprit walked away over the moors with nothing but the clothes on his back—and usually no home or family to go to—it might easily be a death sentence. Even some of the elderly knights who dawdled away their final years at Ironhall would shake their heads at times and mutter that the Order had known better Grand Masters than Sir Saxon.
“I am ready, Grand Master,” Orvil said quickly.
Grand Master turned and bowed. “Your Majesty, I have the honor of presenting Prime Candidate Orvil.”
Now everyone could take notice of the King. Speed being more important than brawn to a swordsman, Master of Rituals used sorcery to prevent any boy growing too big. That rule did not apply to kings, though, and Ambrose IV, King of Chivial, was tall, wide, and portly. Between the calves bulging in his silk hose and the ostrich plume in his floppy hat, everything he wore seemed to be pleated and padded as if intended to make him appear even larger—knee breeches, doublet, jerkin, and fur-trimmed cloak. He loomed like a cheerful storm cloud and his voice thundered in the little room.
“Welcome to our Guard, Prime! Grand Master speaks highly of your skills.”
Then Grand Master was lying. Stalwart could beat Orvil every time with rapiers and usually with sabers. Orvil would always win at broad-swords, of course, because a broadsword needed more muscle than Stalwart’s body had yet gotten around to providing.
Orvil bowed low, then went forward to kneel before the King and kiss his hand. As he rose to return to his place in line, Grand Master turned to Panther.
“Second, His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
And so on. Panther was a decent man and good with steel. After him it was Dragon’s turn. Dragon was only a month older than Stalwart, but looked at least eighteen. What hurt was that he fenced like a crippled cow. Master of Sabers had told him in public that he needed two more years’ tuition. Deputy Master of Rapiers muttered under his breath that he ought to chop wood for a living. Yet he was going to be bound and Stalwart wasn’t. No justice…!
“Candidate Rufus…”
Rufus was all right. His fencing was competent, although he was horribly predictable. Being predictable would not matter in a real fight against opponents who did not know his quirks. Besides, Rufus was nineteen and sported a beard like a gorse bush. Rufus would look convincing in Guard livery. Even Dragon would. But Stalwart…sigh! That was the trouble—not age, not competence, just looks.
Tonight at midnight there would be sorcery in the Forge. Spirits of all eight elements would be conjured. Each of the four candidates would swear his oath and—unless the magic went wrong, which it almost never did—the sword wound would heal instantly, no harm done. Then he would be a Blade.
Not only would Stalwart have to share the day-long fast and the cold baths that began the ritual, he would also have to assist in the ceremony. That was adding insult to injury. When it was over and the lucky four rode off to court, he would remain behind as Prime, and that was adding injury to injury. Prime’s job was to mother all the other boys and keep them from pestering the masters. Being Prime was always described as an honor, but it was an honor nobody ever wanted, communal nose drying and butt wiping.
“Finally, sire,” Grand Master bleated, “I have the honor of presenting Candidate Stalwart, who will henceforth serve Your Majesty as Prime, here in Ironhall.”
Rejected!
He had been told not to approach; he bowed where he stood.
“Stalwart the musician,” the King said.
Feeling his face flame scarlet, Stalwart stared in dismay at the royal grin. King Ambrose was known to have very strong likes and dislikes. Did he disapprove of swordsmen playing lutes?
“I do play the lute a little, Your Majesty….”
“So do I,” Ambrose said heartily. “Nothing wrong with lute playing. Maybe next time we can make music together.” Chuckling, he swung around in a swirl of velvet and brocade and fur. “Carry on, Grand Master.”
Grand Master hastily opened the inner door and stepped aside as the King swept by him, ignoring all the bows directed at his back. Dreadnought crossed the room to follow him. Orvil led the candidates back the way they had come, although his stupid grin was so broad that it seemed unlikely to pass through the doorway.
Maybe next time, the King had said. That might be a hint that he intended to foist Stalwart off as a private Blade guarding some minister or lord. Bindings were permanent. A man had only one chance at the Guard.
“Stalwart!” said Grand Master. “Wait. I want a word with you.”